THE FIRST TURNING-LATHE.

     The first turning-lathe in Canton was owned and operated by Deacon Nathan Jones. It was a spring-pole lathe, with the cord wound around the stick to be turned, in such a manner that the stick ran half the time one way and half the time the other. Up­on this lathe the deacon turned his chair-stuff. This lathe was a part of the outfit of the first chairmaker's shop in Canton. It is related of the deacon, while engaged in this shop, that on one occasion he had carried a lot of chair-stuff into the kitchen to season by the kitchen fire. The deacon had neglected to provide Aunt Matilda — his wife — with wood, and this neglect had so excited the old lady's ire that she seized and burnt an armful of chair-rungs. The deacon stood and contemplated the destruction of his chair-rungs in solemn silence for some moments. As the flames began to curl around them, the deacon's lips parted, and his hand was raised, not in anger, but in sadness. He tipped his hat to one side with the uplifted hand, and exclaimed, "Matilda, I wish you were in Heaven!" And this, it is recorded, was the most nearly an oath the good old man had ever allowed to escape his lips.
            N. S. Wright (signature at end of page)

     The first power lathe, operated by horse-power, was put up by Daniel H. Dewey, and began operations in March, 1838, on the ground still occupied by Mr. Dewey, on the southeast corner of White and Jones streets. Mr. Dewey also put into operation the first circular saw in Canton, in 1841. It was eight inches in diameter, and was used in cutting blind-stuff—Mr. Dewey being at that time engaged in the manufacture, of window-blinds.
     About the same time that Mr. Dewey's power lathe was put in operation, his brother Milton C. Dewey had a lathe operated by men turning a large crank, and Peter L. Snyder another operated in the same manner.
     The first kiln of brick ever made here was burnt in 1830, and was made by Deacon Jones. The deacon burnt several kilns during the five or six succeeding years, taking into partnership with him in the business his son-in-law Loving Ames. Jones & Ames furnished the brick for the first brick house that was erected in Canton. This house was built for James Hood, was situated on lot 74, Jones's Addition to the Town of Canton, between Jones and Walnut streets, fronting on Fourth street. The house is still standing. Jones & Ames also furnished the brick for the Canton College. These brick were not equal in quality to brick made here now, as the makers did not thoroughly understand the business or the material they were called upon to work.

THE CORN-HUSKING.

     A pioneer corn-husking was an event of more than ordinary interest, at which would congregate the young and many of the middle-aged of the entire neighborhood. When the farmer's corn was "snapped" from the stalk, in the husk, and the time arrived for it to be "opened" for winter use, a boy would be dispatched to warn the settlers, for miles around, that "We're g'wine to have a schuckin' til our house Wednesday nite, and we want you all to come over." This invitation was more sure to meet an affirmative response than do the perfumed and gilt-edged cards of invitation of this more refined age.
     About three o'clock of the day of the "shuckin'," the young folks would begin to arrive: the beaux dressed in linsey-woolsey ''hunting-shirts," or "wamuses," and the girls in checked linsey, or cotton gowns, with cow-hide brogans. The corn had been divided, when hauled, into two separate piles of equal size; and before these piles the assembly was convened. From among the most expert huskers two captains would now be chosen. These captains, when selected, would toss up for first choice of huskers, and then choose alternately from among those present, male and female, until all the working hands had been selected. Now rails were placed between the piles to prevent the sly kicking of corn from one pile to another, and at a given signal work would begin.
     And now the fun would grow fast and furious, each side striving to outstrip the other, and each side taunting the other with their lack of skill and sloth. Whenever some lucky fellow found a red ear in husking, he was entitled to a kiss from his girl. At some frolics the "red ear" entitled its "shucker" to a kiss from all the girls on his side; of course, the announcement of a "red ear" was the signal for fun, and many a tussel would ensue between some stout and buxom pioneer lass and stalwart beau; he determined to have the kiss to which the "shuckers" law declared him entitled, and which with the maiden coyness and fun she would pretend to refuse. It was noticed, however, that the man in these encounters was always the stronger vessel, and would be sure to obtain his kiss. And such is human nature to this day.
     At frequent intervals, during the evening, the bottle of Monongahela whisky would be passed, and all "took it by word of mouth"; i. e., each would turn the bottle up to their lips, drink from it and pass it to their next neighbor, male or female. The victorious captain would be seized by the party, raised upon the shoulders of a few stout men, and borne from the husking-pile to the house, surrounded by the crowd, cheering and shouting; the bottle-holder marching by his side, furnishing him refreshments by the way.
     After the piles would be husked, loud crowing and shouting would announce the victory; and the winning party enjoyed themselves hugely at the expense of the vanquished. Husking completed, supper was next in order. This meal had been prepared by the more sedate of the matrons, while the young folks were busy "shucking." Boards were spread, borne upon boxes or tables, and a bounteous meal prepared. The choicest pewter and delft dishes from the whole neighborhood had been borrowed for the occasion; and the table fairly groaned under its load of venison, stewed squirrel, squirrel pie, chicken pie, johnny-cake, hominy, honey, and stewed pumpkin. Perhaps, too, if the land­lord was rich, there would be a high dish of fried doughnuts at each end of the table.
     At these frolics many a backwoods youngster would master courage to tell his inamorata, in faltering terms, of his love, and receive her coy pledge of fidelity.
     After supper the tables would be cleared, the furniture removed to the "yard," the dogs driven out, and a dance begin. The fiddler, who was an important personage at these gatherings, with an air of pompous authority, would take his position at one end of the room and announce with professional dignity a four-handed reel, or jig. At these dances there was no standing still; each "hoed it down" with might and main, in a style that would excite the astonishment of a dancing-master of today. The jig was a favorite dance, as it gave the boys an opportunity to cut each other out, and in it each tried to tire out all the rest; so that it would some times continue for hours.
     The bottle passed as frequently during the dance as it had before the "shucking," and we confess, with shame, that our ancesters would some times get just a little uproarious before daylight, for it was not until daylight that any body thought of going home.
     When the dance broke up, bashful swains and coy maidens would trudge off homeward, on foot, hand in hand; or, perhaps, both mounted on one horse, go jogging along together telling of the fun that they had enjoyed. Carriages and sleighs were then unknown; and had they not been, the roads were not in a condition to have made it pleasant traveling over them.

THE SHINGLE WEAVER. THE FIRST FRAME HOUSE IN CANTON.

     One of the earliest steamboats in the Illinois-River trade was the steamer "Exchange," which plied between St. Louis and Peoria. She was familiarly known as "the Shingle Weaver"; so called from the fact of her carrying upon her hurricane deck a machine for cutting shingles, which was operated by the machinery of the boat, cutting whenever the boat was in motion. Shingle timber would be obtained at the wood-yards along the river, and market found for the manufactured goods either at St. Louis or Peoria. This boat was an especial favorite with the people of Canton, many of whom would, when desiring to take a trip by river, wait for her coming, and most of the early stocks of goods were shipped on her; she also carried most of the Canton "beeswax" and other products to their market.
     The first frame house erected on grounds now within the present city limits was built for Deacon Nathan Jones, in the spring of 1830. Isaac Swan was the "boss carpenter," and was aided by the deacon. This building is still standing, on the south side of Jones street, between Wood and Lewistown streets, and is now occupied by Mrs. Dean. It is a two-story frame house. The frame, of the "old-fashioned" variety, was built without any sawed stuff; the joists and studding being split out of heavy timber, the sills and plates hewed, and the weather-boarding split boards, shaved. The weather-boarding was not jointed, but the ends of the clapboards were shaved thin, and lapped. The roof was laid with split and shaved oak shingles. The floor, door­frames, corner-boards and stairs, were alone of sawed lumber. When the carpenters had finished their work, Mrs. Jones took the job of painting, and did quite a respectable job, too, painting it Venetian red. This house was considered to be the most stylish in the country. As Deacon Jones was Postmaster and kept the Post-Office at his house, it became the place of resort for the most intelligent of the pioneers, who would congregate here and discuss educational and religious topics. This building was not on the original town plat, however, being then considered out of town. The first frame erected on the original town site was built in 1831, and was the property of Joel Wright. This building was, in fact, but an addition to an already existing cabin. Isaac Swan was also the builder of this. It was occupied by Mr. Wright as a store-room and was situated on the southeast corner of Wood and Illinois streets. This building is still standing, but has been removed from its original site, and is now standing on First street, between Illinois and Cole streets. It was occupied until recently by David Will, as a wagon-maker's shop.

"SHOW-DAY."

     "Show-day" was an institution twenty years ago. The dead walls and the bar-room walls had been plastered, for weeks preceding, with pictures of all sorts of impossible feats. Animals unheard of in natural history were to be there in abundance. Two clowns, the wittiest that ever were known, had been engaged at an unheard-of expense, expressly for this "great combination show." What excitement these bills produced. On Saturday crowds would stand before them, commenting on the wonders that were to be exhibited.
     "Show-day" here at last. By the first gray streak of early dawn the boys are wide awake, and have gone down to the Lewistown Bridge, to see the show come in. They are small boys at first who wait about the bridge; but by seven or eight o'clock older boys begin to arrive, and by nine o'clock a few gray hairs are sprinkled among the waiting crowd. A few adventurous spirits, not content with waiting at the bridge, have disappeared an hour ago over the hill toward Shepley's, and now their shouts are heard, as they discern in the distance—away out toward Captain Slosson's—the pioneer teams of the coming show. There is a rush now; across the bottom, up the hill, splash, splash, through the mud they go, until the first wagon is reached, and then—but pshaw, it's only a baggage-wagon at last! And now they pause and wait, as one after another of the long train of wagons pass, and all are anxious — they want to see the band­wagon, the actors, the elephants, and camels. The procession stops in the Big Creek bottom, and the forty-horse team is harnessed to the band-wagon, whose body resembles, in a distant and uncertain kind of way, the mythical dragon which no body ever saw. How the boys wonder, and how wisely the gray heads talk of "them ar leaders, and that ar off wheel-hoss." The band are mounted now, and the procession moves. How the excitement boils and bubbles, until every fellow wishes it was always show-day. The band has crossed the bridge, but the elephant refuses to trust his weight upon the frail structure. How anxious the boys grow! Will they ever get him across? What a whopper he is. But the dilemma is overcome; he has forded the narrow stream, and the great tracks in the soft mud will be visited for a month after the show is gone. As the procession reaches the hill by "Bishop" Clark's, there are accessions to the crowd; men, women and children gather and fall into line upon both sides of the road. When the square is reached, it would not be exaggeration to say that there were more people on the square than there was population in the town. As the band moves around the square and through the principal streets, there is a shouting, yelling procession that reminds one of pandemonium let loose.
     And now Grandmother Bridgman has set up her cake-stand, and quarter-sections of gingerbread begin to appear under the arms of hungry fellows from the country, who have started this morning before breakfast, so that no part of the procession or show might be lost. And now comes Captain Haacke with a barrel of cider, and more gingerbread, which he is selling to hungry and thirsty customers. The peripatetic candy-stand has also been opened. The vender of razor-straps and patent soap has opened his mouth, and gathered an admiring crowd. The regular circus bummers, who follow in its train, are named legion, and all are low gamblers, and will have had victims when the tents are folded and show-day is over. Here comes good old Deacon Jones, to hear the music; and there is—but why single out, when, with one excuse or another, all will be sure to see the show; at least stand outside where they can listen to the clown and the music.
     He who was not a boy in a western village on show-day, at least once in his life, knows but little of life, and is to be sincerely pitied for his ignorance. Old men, young men, old women, young women, and children, all are here, and all will see the show. They have been picking blackberries and selling, saving eggs and churning rolls of yellow butter for the occasion. I well recollect when I visited my first show. I had earned the money by cutting "jimpson weeds" around the old church in the public square, and I was richer then—prouder of my success — than I have ever been since, or ever expect to be.

THE WESTERFIELD DEFEAT.

     In the spring of 1832 the Black-Hawk War was a source of great alarm to the citizens of Canton. Major Isaiah Stillman, of Canton, in command of a battalion of volunteer infantry, was in the field, and had under him most of the young men of the community. On the 13th of May, 1832, the force under his command met with a defeat above Dixon, in Lee county, on what has since been known as "Stillman's Run," and the news soon reached Canton, coupled with the fact that Bird Ellis, Tyus Childs and John Walter, from the vicinity of Canton, had been killed, and a number of others from here wounded. This news not only cast a gloom over the community, but created a feeling of insecurity in the bravest of the settlers, and of decided alarm, amounting in many cases to absolute panic, in the more timid.
     The settlers were certainly liable to attack from the red-skins, who were known to be in force and on the war-path to the north. There was no adequate force in reach to prevent any incursion they might feel disposed to make, when the "Westerfield Defeat," as it was called in derision, occurred. Perhaps never in the history of frontier life has there occurred so broad a farce with so many of the elements of tragedy and melodrama combined. The news of Stillman's Defeat had reached Canton, and grief-stricken mothers were in the first anguish of their mourning for slaughtered sons, when rumors reached the settlement of a purpose on the part of Black Hawk and his warriors to move southward for an attack on scattered inhabitants. The excitement was intense. Stories of slaughtered families, of burnt homes, of captive women and children subjected to every fiendish indignity, were the current subjects of conversation at every gathering. Meetings were called in every neighborhood, and preparations for defense or refuge begun. Block-houses and stockade forts were erected, and scouts kept constantly in the prairies to the north­ward to warn the people of the approach of the Indians.
     One of these forts was erected around the store and residence of Joel Wright, on the corner of Wood and Illinois streets, where Mrs. Wilson now resides. This fort consisted of two block­houses and a palisade inclosure of split logs. This was built by standing the logs on end in a deep trench, which was then filled up and the dirt well pounded around the logs.
     In March, 1832, scouts were sent out by the people of Canton to see if any indication of hostile Indians could be discovered. These scouts had been out several days, but had brought in no report of an alarming nature, when one day, toward the last of the month, Peter Westerfield, an old frontiersman, and Charley Shane, a Frenchman, determined to go on a scouting expedition on their own responsibility. They were both well mounted, and, crossing Big Creek north of town in the prairie, rode nearly north until they reached a point nearly in the line between Farmington and Ellisville, on Spoon River.  The morning before they started out a number of mounted white men had crossed the prairie from Peoria toward Quincy, and their trail, of course, was fresh and showed very plainly in the dried prairie grass. They had rode single file, in Indian style, and a better scout than even Peter Westerfield might have been deceived by their trail. When Westerfield and Shane reached this trail, they both dismounted, examined it carefully, and both were satisfied that it had been made by a large party of mounted Indians. They cautiously followed the trail until their suspicion crystalized into comparative certainty, when, remounting, they started back toward Canton to alarm the citizens, and take measures for the safety of themselves and families. As they neared Big Creek— which by the melting of snow had risen until it was out of its banks,—they had a new cause for alarm.
     Jonathan Buffum and Ed. Therman had holed a wolf, and were shooting into the hole. They were in a direct line between where Westerfield and Shane reached Big Creek and Col. Barnes's place —where John Lane now lives. These boys were not only shooting, but indulging in all sorts of unearthly yells, imitating Indians, screaming and hallooing. Another pioneer was squirrel-shooting in the same vicinity, and another party shooting at a mark in the same neighborhood.
     Westerfield and Shane listened to these noises with undisguised fear. That it was Indians there could be no mistake—Indians at bloody work, shooting, tomahawking and scalping the families of Col. Barnes and Henry Therman. They did not stop long to con­sider, but plunged headlong into the turbid waters of the raging Big Creek, and right gallantly did their noble steeds buffet the mad waves, until the angry stream divided them from the dreaded foe. Their saddles were wet and heavy, and would load their beasts too much for the fearful race for life they were entering upon, and, with a coolness never too much to be admired, they dismounted and relieved their gallant steeds of the dripping leathern saddles, which were deposited for safety in a convenient thicket of hazel. This was the work of but a moment, when they remounted upon the hacks of their bare-backed animals and were away over the smooth prairie, across the few ravines, and on, on to the fort at Canton. As they passed the cabin of Wheaton Chase, they shouted "Injins are killing Barnes's folks: flee for your lives!" Soon Coleman's grocery was reached, and the cry of "Injins! Injins!" reiterated. On, on to the fort they rode, and still their cry was "Injins! Injins!" "The Injins have killed every body at Barnes's and Therman's!"
     And now began a scene of the wildest confusion. Men shouted the dreaded alarm; women screamed; small boys, pale with fright, crept into the dense hazel-thickets and fled for their lives. Some of these boys were thus hiding for days and days, subsisting on roots, berries, and elm-bark. "To the fort! To the fort!" was now the cry, and soon the people were gathering, a pale, nervous, affrighted throng, within the little wooden inclosure which was then their only hope of safety. To us, who from the distance of nearly forty years contemplate the scene, it is a broad comedy; but to those affrighted pioneers it was a tragedy, the denoument of which might prove fatal to them and their loved ones. It was known that Keokuk and three thousand warriors were encamped opposite the Yellow Banks, held in check only by his promise of neutrality; and who would believe the word of the treacherous red-skin ? Black Hawk's band, too, were on the war­path. They had defeated Major Stillman, and men from Canton were among the victims, while between here and the scene of that disaster there was no sufficient force for the protection of the infant settlement. All these facts were well known, and had been frequently canvassed among the settlers. Peter Westerfield was a man, too, in whose word the most unbounded confidence was placed. He was a Baptist licensed preacher, a man of undoubted courage, and had had a considerable frontier experience. He believed the trail he had seen, the yells he had heard, the firing he had listened to, the work of Indians, and had no doubt that Col. Barnes's family had been massacred. What wonder the defenseless people were frightened! Preparations for defense, however, were not neglected. The women filled several large kettles with water, and determined to aid all they could in the common defense by using it on the foe. There were incidents of broad comedy intermingled, even then, with the tragedy, that caused grim smiles to illumine even faces white with fear—incidents that have served to enliven many a fireside description of those frightful days.
     Joel Wright was, by common consent, selected as the commander of the fort, and Isaac Swan as his second in command. Joel was dressed in a light suit, with a linen round-about. During the excitement he was every where; assuring frightened women, issuing orders for defensive preparations, and distributing powder and lead to the men.
     Be it understood, the women preserved their courage far better than their lords, as was evidenced by the fact that when no male hand could be found sufficiently steady to pour melted lead into bullet-moulds, a woman volunteered to make the bullets, and made them without spilling a drop of the melted metal. Mrs. Doctor Coykendall was particularly noted for her coolness and courage on this occasion, and did most of the bullet-moulding.
     To recount all the varied phases of this scare would itself require a volume: some were dramatic, most farcical, as viewed through the light of forty years, and by the knowledge that there was absolutely no danger. Among the amusing incidents of the day was the arrival at the fort of Jerry Coleman and 'Squire McKim, who were at Coleman's mill, on Big Creek, when Westerfield's news was communicated to them. Jerry got the word a few seconds in advance of McKim, and, being lame, set out at once. McKim was not long in overtaking him, however. McKim wore an old-fashioned dress or swallow-tailed coat, and as he ran past the slow-paced Jerry, the coat-tails offered so tempting an aid to the boy's flight that he could not refrain from seizing hold of them with both hands. McKim was a large, portly man, who weighed nearly two hundred: at the same time McKim was a frightened man, and fright is ever selfish. He was not willing to be retarded by the weight of Jerry attached, like the weight to the tail of a kite, to his coat-skirts, so he turned on Jerry and tried to disengage his hold; but Jerry's grip was always good, and fear had turned it into a grip of iron; he would not let go.
     "For God's sake, Jerry, let me go, or we will both be killed! Please, Jerry, let me save my own life!"
     But Jerry heeded not his pleadings: like Sinbad's Old Man of the Sea, he could not be shaken off.
     McKim turned to run, but still the weight of the crippled boy would retard his speed, and he would turn again and plead and fight, and pray for deliverance from the tormenter. Jerry loved life and feared Indians too much to be influenced either by prayer, threats, or blows. He hung on, and was still hanging on when McKim dashed into the fort.
     Jerry found his father gone and the store thrown wide open. He took possession and sold out the whole stock of powder and lead in a few moments, not stopping to take an account of sales or settle with customers. It had cost him nothing, and he sold at cost and was satisfied.
     Wm. Hannan, Charles Reeves and William Babbett, boys of perhaps a dozen years old, were so much infected with the contagion of fear that they determined to seek refuge in flight. They accordingly left town and took to the timber. They crossed Big Creek north of Jacob Ellis's mill, and struck down the creek through the timber to a point west of Lewistown, where they hid in a dense thicket. Young Reeves had on a pair of buckskin breeches, and during his flight he had got them completely saturated with water. When the party took to cover he pulled them off and hung them up on some brush to dry. This was a serious error on Charles's part, as the sequel showed. He had not taken into his calculation the peculiar idiosyncrasy of buckskin, and found, to his chagrin, that the pants which had fitted exactly before they were wet, been too large while saturated with the treacherous fluid, were in their dried state infinitely too small— so much so that by no amount of stretching, coaxing or pulling could they be induced to come over his bare limbs. He had to give it up in despair, and made the rest of his trip through brush and briers in a primitive toilet, more simple and convenient than pleasant. They were out all the day of the Westerfield scare, all the succeeding night, and until the next night, subsisting on berries and elm-bark. How long they would have hidden no one can affirm—perhaps they would have been hiding until this day, —had they not been attracted by the sound of an ox-driver's "Wo-haw, Buck," and ventured to "interview" him, thus learning that the danger was over and that they could safely return to their homes.
     At Col. Barnes's the news was tardy in coming that Westerfield brought. The colonel was out serving at the head of his company under Stillman. Stephen Babbett's wife heard the alarm sounded on the east side of Big Creek, and, gathering up one child and calling to her two remaining children to follow, ran at her utmost speed to Barnes's. Henry Andrews, then a boy of perhaps fourteen years old, saw her coming and called to know what was the matter. "Oh," she exclaimed, "the Indians are murdering every body across the creek. The people are running and hallooing Indians! Indians!" Andrews at once sent Col. Barnes's two younger boys over to old Mr. Swegle's to give them alarm, and in a short time they returned, bringing with them the old gentleman—who was far advanced in years — and his old lady and daughter. Mrs. Barnes now took the direction of affairs, and directed the party to seek shelter in a thicket at the head of a neighboring ravine. To reach this thicket the party were instructed to strike the ravine at a point considerably below, and then to follow up the bed of the stream, wading in the stream to hide their trail. The two small boys led the way, and the old gentleman and the women and children followed. There were fourteen persons in all, and only one boy, armed with a trusty rifle to protect them, Henry Andrews, brought up the rear; and as he followed he picked his flint and prepared for the struggle for life and for the lives of the women and children who were confided to his guardianship.
     "Oh, Henry," said Mrs. Barnes, "what can you do with so many of us?"
     "I will do the best I can and kill as many of them as I can," responded Henry.
     On reaching the cover of the dense hazel-thicket, the party took to cover, except Henry, who stood guard for a couple of hours—and they seemed mortal hours to the boy, who looked each moment to have the red-skins pounce upon him. At last, grown tired of waiting, Henry determined to venture to Canton and see what the real condition of affairs might be. He proceeded very cautiously, keeping in the cover of the hazel-brush as much as possible, until he reached the "Morse quarter" adjoining Canton, when he came upon John Huff, who was out on guard. Huff was frightened, and it was with difficulty Henry succeeded in making himself known: he succeeded finally, and proceeded to the fort. Here he found the wildest confusion existing. All crowded around him, believing him the sole survivor from among the settlers on the west side of the creek. Mutual explanations followed, and at once the scare was at an end. This scare was named, in honor of its progenitor, "Westerfield's Defeat," and as such is still known.
     The Westerfield scare was by no means confined to Canton, but spread through all the surrounding townships. In the Mallory settlement—now Putman township—were living quite a number of settlers, among whom were the Mallorys, Fellows, Stricklands and Holcombs. There was an understanding between Isaac Fellows and Joel Coykendall, at Canton, that if any serious alarm was given, Joel should communicate the news to Fellows.
     No sooner had the word brought by Peter Westerfield reached Canton, of proximity of Indians, than Joel mounted a fleet horse and rode at utmost speed to Fellows's, to warn him of danger, according to his promise. The men in the neighborhood had met that afternoon to drill; the place of muster being near old Mr. Holcomb's. Thither Coykendall was directed by Mrs. Fellows, who, terribly alarmed, gathered up her two children, Penella and Stephen, and calling for her sister-in-law, Mrs. Cyrus Fellows, started for the same place.
     The company at drill were terribly excited when Coykendall communicated his news, and at once, by common consent, separated, with the understanding that they would meet and fort at Holcomb's, whose house was the most roomy in the settlement.
     Holcomb's house was a cabin, with two rooms, and situated on the prairie. He had no stable, but on the ground, ready for raising, had the logs for a small log-barn.
     The men were wonderfully expeditious in collecting their little families at Holcomb's; so expeditious, indeed that not a man of them had thought of his arms. When all were assembled, the scene would have beggared the pencil of Hogarth to paint all its serio-comic and tragic effects. Women, with disheveled locks, were praying; men palsied with fear, and children screaming with affright. Some one suggested that a fort must be built about the house. The suggestion was grasped at, as drowning men grasp at straws.
     Old Mr. Holcomb seized a spade, and rushing out before his door to excavate. "What on arth' are you a doin', old man?" shouted his wife.
     "'Diggin' a fort," said he, as he frantically exhumed spadeful after spadeful of the rich, black loam. It was, soon discovered that the supply of barn-logs would not be sufficient for a stockade; so it was decided to build a breast­work. This was soon completed, and was only about three feet in height. Then was discovered a dire calamity. Here was a breast-work, and here were brawny defenders, but there was only one gun that was serviceable.
     Breast-works are a good thing in themselves, but without arms their strong points in defensive warfare could not be brought out to advantage. What was to be done? So much time had been occupied in preparing their fortifications that it was not probable there would be time to return to their homes for arms before the murdering savages would be upon them, and then, the women have since suggested, that their lieges were too much—well, say demoralized,—to venture so far from the fort Some one suggested clubs; and as there happened to be a convenient thicket, the suggestion was at once adopted. Clubs, those primitive weapons of warfare, were cut in such abundance that Mrs. Isaac Fellows persists to this day in saying there were fully four wagon-loads; enough to keep the Holcomb family in wood until long after corn-planting.
     While the young and athletic men were engaged in the club business, old Mr. Strickland, who weighed nearly three hundred pounds, and was too fat to venture so far as the thicket, engaged in improvising for himself a weapon more formidable than the club. Procuring a bayonet with about one-third of the point end broken off, he fastened it to a hoe-handle; then stationing himself before a window in an arm-chair, he poised his blunt spear, and, with an expectant look, pronounced himself ready to send whoever of the red-skins should present himself at that window to his last account. As Strickland sat expectant, waiting, watching, he prayed—for he was a religious man—watched and prayed, determined to die at his post—and no Indian within fifty miles. While Strickland was preparing his formidable weapon, old Mrs. Stewart, who weighed nearly as much as that old hero, was loading and doubly loading the only serviceable gun.
     Still the Indians did not come, and. men and women began to breathe easier. Finally one bold pioneer volunteered to go down the road toward Canton and see if he could discern any signs of the enemy. He soon returned with hair erect, and eyes dilated, and declaring that the "Injins" were coming, marching in solid column, at least a thousand strong.
     And now Pandemonium was a quiet place compared with Fort Holcomb. Men, women, children, all were screaming, all were praying, all were – but why attempt to describe what is indescribable? Had Black Hawk, with any of his braves, been within a mile, the noise then and there would have frightened them out of the country.
     And now came a suspicion, faint at first, but gradually growing stronger until it crystalized into conviction, that the scare was without foundation, and then, all at once, men became brave. Messengers were now found willing to go to Canton to learn the extent and cause of the alarm. They soon returned, bringing the good news that there was not an Indian within, perhaps, one hundred miles of the county line.
     The Westerfield scare was communicated to the Moores's Grove settlement by a runner, who crossed below the Lewistown Bridge and made his way to Harvey Crosswait's. Crosswait communicated the alarm at once to his neighbors, inviting them all to take refuge at his new log-house, which was quite roomy and tolerably well calculated for defense.    Between Crosswait's and Joshua Moores's there was a ravine that, on account of the melting snow, had been converted into a raging torrent. Crosswait went as nearly to Moores's as this torrent would permit, and hallooed across to old Mrs. Moores. The old gentleman was now quite old, and Walters, his son-in-law, had just been killed at Stillman's defeat. Old Mr. Moores gathered up his sick wife in his arms and, followed by his daughter Jennie, her sister, and their four children, they started for the expected place of safety. On arriving at the slough, they waded in across the bottom for some distance to a foot-log across the small stream, Mr. Moores carrying his wife, the two daughters wading, each carrying a child and leading one. When the foot-log was reached, Mrs. Moores expressed her belief that the alarm was false, and insisted on being taken back home; but at length, yielding to the entreaties of her children and the expostulation of her husband, consented to go forward. The whole party crossed over — the old folks by crawling on their hands and knees, and the younger women by wading through the swift current, carrying one child and dragging the other. This was not accomplished without danger, as the water was deep and the current swift.
     When the two young women had reached the shore, they noticed close behind them a neighbor woman — Mrs. Robinson, with two children, wading through the overflowed bottom toward them, and at once determined to wait for and assist her across. When Mrs. Robinson reached the foot-log, Mrs. Walters called to her to know where he was. Mrs. Robinson replied, "I don't know. Him and his brother were with me until we got to the creek, and then disappeared: I don't know what has become of them." It proved that both men, who were young, stout and hearty, had deserted the poor woman to her fate, and in company had started, as fast as their frightened limbs would carry them, for Springfield. They did not return for more than three weeks.
     Mrs. Walters and her sister aided Mrs. Robinson to cross the stream, and accompanied her to Crosswait's, where the company, with many of their neighbors, remained until dark, when another runner arrived from Jacob Ellis's, informing them that there had been no danger.
     John Orendorf, Esq., relates the incidents of the Westerfield scare occurring east and south of Canton.
     Orendorf and Richard Addis had started to Hazael Putnam's place — since known as the " Woods Farm," — to attend the muster of their militia company. On the, way across Canton prairie and when near the mound, they met Richard Tompkins, who informed them that Peter Westerfield had just come home, and brought word that the Indians were killing every body north of Canton — that Barnes's folks had all been killed, and the danger was imminent.
     "Who seen Westerfield?" asked Orendorf.
     "George Anderson," was the reply.
     Orendorf expressing doubt of the truth of Anderson's statement to some extent reassured Tompkins, and he consented to return and go with Orendorf and Addis to Westerfield's house. Westerfield resided on what is now known as the "Capps farm." On arriving at Westerfield's, they found the place deserted— Westerfield having fled to the woods with his family for shelter. They accordingly turned and rode over to Putnam's. Here they found the militia company in consultation as to the course to be pursued. Esquire Orendorf was called upon for his opinion, and, after questioning Anderson, who was the only person present that had seen Westerfield, he expressed himself in favor of sending a messenger at once to Canton to ascertain the facts, and volunteered to go himself on that errand. Addis at once volunteered to accompany him. The company agreed to remain together at Putnam's until their return.
     Orendorf and Addis set out at once on their mission, and had scarcely struck the high prairie before they discovered Peter Westerfield coming from toward his place, and evidently with the intention of joining them. Westerfield was mounted, bare­backed, on a sorrel raw-boned animal; his head was enturbaned with a red bandana handkerchief; he earned his rifle and shot-pouch by his side, and wore a look of grim determination. He was evidently going to war, and his courage would not fail him. Westerfield communicated his news to Orendorf and Addis, said he had hid his family, and was going to the fort at Canton to aid in its defense.
     On arriving at Canton, they found the scare had subsided— Henry Andrews having come in from the Barnes farm with news of their safety, and that no Indians were in that vicinity. When Westerfield heard this, he grasped Orendorf's arm, and exclaimed, "I tell you, Orendorf, it is true, I know. Didn't I hear them and see their trail?" It was no use telling Westerfield that his senses had betrayed him.
     Orendorf and Addis now rode back to Putnam's to notify the company that the danger was imaginary; but on arriving there they found that the valiant militia, taking a new scare, had run to their homes and were hiding out their families.
Thus ended the most exciting day in Canton's pioneer history.

THEODORE SERGEANT

     Was Lieutenant of the Canton militia company daring the Black-Hawk War, and in that capacity for a considerable period had the command of the company. After Stillman's defeat, an order came from the Governor to Sergeant for seven men from the Canton company. Sergeant at once mustered his company in front of Childs & Stillman's store, and read the requisition, calling on those who would go to fall in after the music, which was at the same time ordered to march and countermarch. Up and down tramped the musicians before the company, but not a man fell in behind them. Sergeant was equal to the emergency. Ordering the music to cease, he went into the store and bought two gallons of whisky, which he passed down the ranks, treating every man. "Now, boys," said he, "I've got to have seven men, or I'll draft them. Music! Forward, march! Boys, fall in, you who want to go." Either the whisky, or the threat, or patriotism, proved potent, and nine more than the required number at once fell in.

JAMES SEBREE.

     James Sebree came to Canton on the 27th day of October, 1832. He was from Piqua, Ohio, and was a farmer by occupa­tion. Mr. Sebree brought with him to Illinois seven children, five of whom were boys and two girls—one of the girls, Nancy, being married to Lewis Bidamon, who was also with the family. Mr. Sebree's arrival here was quite an epoch in Canton's history, not only from the impetus given to population by the addition of so large a family, but from the amount of worldly effects Mr. Sebree brought with him. Of his sons, Preston was twenty-two, Robert T. nineteen, Curren—who died here in October, 1837— fourteen, Charles W. twelve, and Howard W. ten years old. Eliza Jane, his single daughter, was also a young lady. She afterward married John C. Parks.
     Mr. Sebree came overland from Ohio, and his moving cavalcade was quite an imposing one, consisting of one six-horse team and one two-horse carriage. Mr. Sebree bought property on the northwest corner of Main and Cole streets, where he soon after opened the "Sebree Tavern," of which mention is made elsewhere. Mr. Sebree was for many years familiarly known as "Old Boon," from a fancied resemblance in person or character to that old pioneer. He was a genial, honest and intelligent man, a hard worker, and in all respects a good citizen.
     Mr. Sebree used to raise honey, and one winter, soon after coming to Canton, a pack of graceless boys conceived the idea of stealing a stand to satisfy the cravings of their "sweet tooth." Accordingly, Duke B. and A. J. Coykendall, the Porter boys, one of the McConnels, and some others, made a descent on the bee-bench of old Boon, and captured one of the heaviest gums. It was taken to McPheeters's oil-mill and stored away in the loft, where it received regular visits from the boys so long as its sweets held out. Old Boon made no complaint, never mentioned his loss to any one, indeed, but kept an eye out for the offenders.
     While the honey lasted, a revival meeting was commenced at the Methodist Church. Old Boon attended, stationing himself near the door. The boys also attended, and were in the habit of visiting their stolen treasure before going to church, and would come in past old Boon licking their fingers, some times, too, with a piece of comb in their hands. Sebree by this means found them all out, but kept his own counsels until spring. In the spring he called on the young gentlemen and informed them that he must have pay for the stand of honey they had stolen, and that they could choose between working for him two days each loading and hauling manure from his stable or being prosecuted. The boys had no alternative but to do the work. Accordingly, Mr. Sebree set a day for the work to commence, and all were on hand, at noon the boys were called in to dinner, and at the table old Boon would pass an empty honey-dish to each, insisting that he should take some of it. All worked their time out but Jack Coykendall, who was discharged by the old gentleman for breaking three forks the first half-day. Of course, the forks had been purposely broken. While the boys were at work, they were visited by nearly the entire population of the town, who enjoyed themselves poking fun at them. Rev. Dr. Perry rode by and, stopping by the fence, inquired of them which they preferred—honey, or manure. The lesson was not soon forgotten by the boys.
     Mr. Sebree continued to reside in Canton until his death, which occurred in 1867—he having reached the ripe old age of eighty-three years. He retained his vigor to the last, and caught his death-cold by wading through the swamps and lakes in the Illinois-River bottom, while hunting, only a few weeks before, his death. He was old Boon to the last.

DEWEY BROTHERS.

     Among the sons of Orville Dewey, who came to Canton from Vermont in 1832, were two—Roswell W. and Carroll C. Dewey —who have since become well-known and highly-respected merchants. Roswell began his business education as a clerk for Joel Wright, in 1836 or '7; and Carroll by clerking for Tracy Doolittle, in 1840. They both continued at clerking until 1849, when they were offered a copartnership with Joel Wright. They accepted, and the new firm began business under the name of Deweys & Wright, and did business in the old Wright store­room, still standing, on the north corner of the Public Square. In 1855 this firm was dissolved by limitation, and the Dewey Brothers established business on their own sole account, under the name of R. W. & C. C. Dewey. They purchased the store­room of Sully & Tracy, who were then closing out business, and from that time until January, 1867, continued to do business in the same stand. At that time their store-room was consumed by fire, and for the succeeding year they transferred their business to the west room of the Maple Block, now occupied by Thornton, Eyerly & Co. They purchased during that year the location at present occupied by C. C. Dewey, and, remodeling the building, made of it a store-room one hundred feet in depth, forming the north wing of Union Block. In 1870 Roswell W. Dewey retired from the firm, selling his interest to C. C. Dewey, who still continues in business.
     The Dewey Brothers have never failed of friends or customers since they commenced business, and have passed, by judicious management, through all the financial revulsions without a failure. Patterns of business integrity, their example is of great value to the younger class of business men.

SAMUEL PORTER.

     In 1834 Samuel Porter came to Canton. He was originally from the City of Boston. Mr. Porter was a painter by trade, but, finding very little business in his line among the log-cabins of the pioneers, with true Yankee adaptability to circumstances, he turned his attention to wagon-making. Porter lived on Main street, on the lot now occupied by Heald's boarding-house. He went into partnership with a man by the name of Davis, in a distillery which was located in Utica, at some tune between 1834 and 1838, but did not long continue in it.
     Mr. Porter was said to have brought the first violin to Canton. When he came he brought with him a well-supplied medicine-chest, and furnished many indispensable articles to Drs. Donaldson and Newton. Mr. Porter also traveled, during his residence here, as a land-agent, in the employ of Timothy Gridley, a. noted land-speculator of that day. He was a Universalist in religious belief. He removed from Canton in 1838.

HENRY CLARK.

     Henry Clark—or, as he was familiarly known, "Brady Clark"—came to Fulton county in 1832, from Ohio. He was born and educated in Connecticut. Mr. Clark settled at first in Totten's Prairie, near the "Tazewell farm," below Cuba, where he commenced business as a hatter. Mr. Clark remained but a short time in the place of this settlement, removing to Canton in the spring of 1833. On his arrival at Canton he purchased three acres of ground from Isaac Swan, giving him twenty-five dollars per acre, which was considered at that time to be an extravagant price. This property is situated on South-First street, south of the Lewistown road, and has been known at different times as the "Bishop Clark place," the "Slosson place," and is now owned by J. S. McCreary, Esq. Mr. Clark established here.

THE FIRST HATTER'S SHOP.

     In Canton, which he operated for perhaps one year, when he sold to Darrow & Rice, who afterward took into partnership with them Irwin Whitaker. The business was continued until about 1840.
     Mr. Clark sold his improvement, soon after making it, to ------Dunn, and made another improvement south of
his first, on the same street. A portion of this new improvement—twelve acres — he sold to Thompson & Watson, on which the Slosson Mill was erected. The house built by Mr. Clark was long known as the Bennett Taylor place, now owned by Pat Rafferty.
     In 1839 Clark purchased a lot on Main street, immediately north of Piper's Woolen Factory, where he still resides. After selling his hatting tools, he began—with true Yankee versatility —carpentering, which he still follows.
     Frank, his only son, is now living in Clarinda, Iowa, where also resides his daughter Mary, the wife of George Burns, late sheriff of Page county, Iowa. G. W. Hardesty married one of his daughters, and still lives in Canton. Jonathan Neece married another, and is now living in Oregon, Holt county, Missouri.

THE STORM.

     There is one night in the history of Canton that will never be forgotten so long as one of its survivors is alive. "The Storm" has been and will long continue to be a household word of fear among the citizens, old and new; for, so vividly have its incidents been described by the old to the new citizen, that he, too, has caught the infection of dread its terrors produced.
     The 18th of June, 1835, had been a showery day, and as night fell, dark clouds were observed looming up in the northwest. As the twilight deepened, from the ominous bank of thick clouds there would blaze out lurid flashes of red lightning, that illuminated and made more ominous the approaching tempest. Nine o'clock came, and the people had either retired to rest or were preparing so to do. Isaac Swan was at family worship: so were several other families in town, when the roar of the thunder, which had grown constant and terrific, was almost lost in the terrors of another roar, so mournful, so dreadful and wild that it will never pass from the memory of one who heard. It was the roar of the tornado; and in a moment it descended upon the doomed village, descended with a devastating force which could not be withstood by any frail tenement of man that opposed its course. In a moment of time the air became filled with the roofs and flying timbers of exposed houses. Rails and timbers of all kinds so filled the air that woe to the luckless animal or person who had no shelter; and in another moment few of the citizens but were shelterless. And now came great hailstones and a rainfall, that it seemed as though the windows of heaven were indeed opened and the rains descending in a solid volume. Over and above all the roar of the tempest, the cries and shrieks of the wounded and dying were heard, and by the constant glare of the lightning it was seen that nearly the whole town was in ruins. As the wind lulled, those who were not too badly injured would venture out to aid the wounded.
     Bryant L. Cook was at Philip Grimm's when the storm struck. Grimm's house was unroofed, the children sleeping up stairs, almost by a miracle, preserved, and no one hurt of the family. Cook at once ran over to Isaac Swan's. He stepped upon a pile of ruins which had been the house, and as he did so, Betsy Swan cried out from under the ruins “Oh, help me!" Cook went to her, and found her kept down under the weight of one of the cabin-log's. On removing it, she cried, "Oh God, my poor baby is dead!" and it was. She had held it in her arms during all the storm, and its brains were knocked out by falling timber. Cook heard a groan. Betsy too heard it, and said "Oh, Bryant, try to get poor Isaac out." Cook lifted one after another of the logs, and soon found Swan's body under the debris; but he was fatally injured. By this time help had arrived, and he was conveyed to the Presbyterian Church, on the Square, which had sustained but slight injury.
     The people now assembled at Joel Wright's, Dr. Donaldson's, and a few other houses that were not seriously injured. At Donaldson's there was a scene of wild confusion: frightened women and children had been collected until the house was crowded, and there too was Betsy Swan's dead baby, while many of those present were suffering from contusions and bruises. Elias Foster was killed — a spoke from out the wheel of a new wagon driven into his groin. His little girl was missing, and was not found until the next morning, when she was found dead, having been blown from Foster's residence on the lot on Elm street, west of Wood, now occupied by Rev. Mr. Wasmuth, to a hazel-thicket near the residence of Hiram Snow, on Illinois street.
     The storm appears to have struck the earth between Fairview and Canton, and, after passing through the timber west of town, destroying, indeed literally mowing a path through it, had swept over the village, leaving but one or two uninjured buildings, and perhaps a dozen that were habitable, but demolishing or seriously injuring every other house in town. It passed a little south of east over the present poor-farm, destroying the residence of Geo. W. Gould in that neighborhood and killing his wife; then on through Duck Creek timber to the bluff, where it appears to have lifted, and for some distance at least did no more damage.
     The scene the next morning was terrible. The earth was literally swept clean of fences, out-buildings, and almost of buildings, but was covered with shingles, boards, rails, and timbers. Franklin P. Offield had just received and opened a large stock of goods in a new building on the corner of Main and Cole streets, opposite Piper's Factory. This house was demolished, and the goods scattered over the prairie clear away to Duck Creek. Cattle were killed and lying about in all directions. Chickens were blown away and killed, and the few standing houses were literally wrecked, moved from their foundations, unroofed, or with gables knocked in. The great wonder is that no more lives were lost. Out of a population approximating five hundred, only four persons were killed in town—Isaac Swan and his infant son, Elias Foster and his daughter. In the country near Mrs. Gould was added to the list, making five victims of the air-fiend's wrath. The destruction of property and life that would ensue were such a storm to sweep over the country now would be absolutely appalling. Then the country was sparsely settled, and of course the destruction was not so great as it would be now. The track of the storm was about one mile in width, extending from the residence of John Coleman on the north to the vicinity of the Central School-House on the south. The marks of the storm were distinctly visible in the timber west of town until in recent years, since the timber affected has been cleared up.

REMARKABLE CHANGE OF TEMPERATURE.

     On the 17th day of December, 1836, there occurred a change of temperature so sudden and so remarkable that it is still spoken of among the old settlers. The day had been wet and sloppy, a previous snow was melting, and a drizzling rain had been falling. Men were moving about, between the intervals of rain, in their shirt-sleeves. Suddenly, at about two o'clock, the wind veered around to the northwest and blew almost a hurricane. In a moment ice began to form, and formed so rapidly that the surface-water was frozen in ripples and waves as the wind left it. Chickens were frozen to death before they could reach shelter. Cattle had their hoofs and horns come off. Men who were out from home suffered terribly, and in many cases were frozen to death. One of the Messrs. Wolf, on his way to Canton, was within two miles of town, when he got into a slough and was wet to the middle. In a few moments the change struck him. He put his horse to its foil speed and rode across the prairie to Isaac Shinn's place, just east of town. On reaching Shinn's he was so nearly frozen that he had to be lifted from his horse and carried into the house. To repeat all the stories current of this change would subject one to the reputation of a Munchausen. That the change was noteworthy to a remarkable degree there can be no doubt.

SEBREE'S TAVERN.

     James Sebree opened the second tavern in Canton, some time in the year 1833. This was located on the northwest corner of Wood and Cole streets, opposite Dr. McDowell's present residence. Sebree—or "Old Boon," as he was familiarly called — catered to the public corporal needs until in 1837, when, tired of hotel-keeping, he rented to Thomas J. Little, who united for one year the practice of law and the business of a Boniface. Little gave place to a Mr. Stephens, who also gave it up after about one year's occupation. A Mr. Gait was the next proprietor, and held possession for three or four years. Gait's successor was James Thompson, who ran the house quite acceptably to the traveling public for some years, and was succeeded by Peter C. who soon gave place to Joseph Hebb; and Joseph, after a occupancy, sold out to James Scott, who continued in possession until the summer of 1862, when he sold the property to Dr. A. Bell, who removed the old building, separating it, and from its various additions making several buildings.
     Sebree's Tavern was at one time the stage-stand, and was well known over the whole Military Tract.

A TRAINING-DAY IN 1830.

     Harrison P. Fellows, Esq., gives the following graphic count of the first training he witnessed in Illinois: This training, or "muster," as our pioneers used to call it, was held on the prairie in front of the cabin of John Holcomb, now known as the Hyatt place, in Putman township. Holcomb had a barrel of whisky, which may have been the reason for the selection of his house as the military headquarters on this occasion. But let Mr. Fellows tell his own story.
     "It was in the summer of 1830—we had just moved to country, and my father, Hiram Fellows, had rented part of Captain Haacke's house. I soon found out, in some way, that Haacke was a captain of a militia company, and as I had some knowledge of militia captains in New York, where we came from, I was filled with an intense awe of the captain. One day I mustered up courage to ask him if I might see them muster some time, and received a kind and cordial invitation to accompany him to the next training. I was in ecstacies, and looked forward with great anxiety to the expected day. It came at last, and the captain notified me to be ready by the time he was. I ran into our part of the house, and, I tell you, it was but a short job for me to change my shirt, comb my hair, and make my appearance in front yard to await the coming of the captain and his regimental. I did not venture to go into Haacke's part of the house; but timidly peeped through a crack in the door to get a sight at the gorgeous trappings with which, I had no doubt, he would be arraying himself. It is said that great men never appear well at their toilet, and I must have verified the observation, as I remember going back to mother and telling her I guessed Captain Haacke was not much of a captain, after all; any how, he did not dress up like one.
     "In due time the captain presented himself in readiness for the parade-ground. Let me try to describe his dress. On his head he wore a hat of home-braided wheat straw, the braid was notched, and the crown round. There was a band around it of red calico, with loose ends several inches in length floating in the breeze. His coat was made of homespun blue jeans, cut long in the skirts—so long, indeed, I fancied that he was in danger of throwing himself, by stepping on his own coat-tails.  This coat was closely buttoned before with old-fashioned brass buttons, placed at intervals of perhaps two inches apart. The collar was short, stiff, and standing, the upper edge resting under his broad, hearty jaws, thus keeping his head proudly erect. His pantaloons were of the same homespun material, cut very wide in the legs, and correspondingly short. He wore no socks, and I noticed that his pantaloons and 'stogas' did not break joints by about six inches. The 'stogas' aforesaid were his crowning glory. They were built of cow-hide, very wide in the heels, very broad in the toes, and of considerable length. They were tied with buckskin whangs, while the huge counters were sewed to the quarters with other whangs, perhaps from the same defunct deer. It had rained the day previous, and the shoes had become covered to a considerable depth with clay; they had then been dried in the sun, until their deep wrinkles were hard as bone. Mrs. Haacke had, that morning, undertaken the task of cleaning and greasing them. I can not say that her efforts had been entirely successful, as particles of yellow clay were interspersed with flakes of unmelted hog's lard, over their broad surface.
     "The captain held in his hand a formidable-looking sword, encased in a leathern scabbard. I noticed hair on the hilt, and, as at that time I was not so familiar with natural history as I have since become, I could not tell whether it was human hair or hog-bristles. The discovery filled me with a due appreciation of the captain's ferocity; so much so, indeed, that I followed him with some misgivings, and at a respectful distance; when he would look back over his shoulder to see if I was keeping up, I would stop and tremble, until his face was turned in a forward direction again.
     "On our arrival at Holcomb's, we found the company waiting for the captain. He strode into the house with all the pomp and circumstance of glorious warfare, and I could see that by his bearing he was making an impression upon his subordinates that must be conducive to good discipline. I ventured to peep into the cabin, to get a glimpse of Captain Haacke's Staff, and noticed that he was the best dressed, and by no means the worst looking, of the party.
     "The captain now ordered Orderly-Sergeant Seth Hilton to muster the company and call the roll. This order was obeyed with due formality, and so reported, when the captain made his appearance before his men. I noticed at the time that he had buckled on his sword. The sword-belt was a strip of raw calf­skin, perhaps two inches in width, with the hair on, hair-side out. The buckle was of iron, of the width of the strap, and had, I had no doubt, been taken off some cow-bell strap; to this belt the sword was attached by a buckskin whang. The scabbard hung loose, and, to prevent its getting tangled among his legs, he had grasped its lower third in his left hand, while the right held the hilt. The captain stood for one moment in front of his company in dignified silence: looking slowly up and down the living line, he raised his voice to a tone of command, and shouted, 'Company, Halt!' This order was obeyed. The next order was given in a lower tone to the Orderly, and was: 'Seth, I reckon the boys are a gittin' dry; you come in with me and we'll see what can be done.' The captain now disappeared into the house, followed by Hilton. They soon reappeared, Hilton bearing in his hands an old-fashioned wooden-handled 'piggin,' which held perhaps a gallon and a half of Holcomb's whisky. Hilton was ordered to commence at the head of the line and pass the 'piggin,' which contained, in addition to the fluid courage, three small gourds as drinking-cups.  'Officers, don't you drink out of the 'piggin," shouted Haacke. 'You come this way: I'll 'tend to you.' The officers seemed to manifest no disposition toward insubordination, but followed their commander to the rear of a corn-crib, when he proceeded to un­button his coat and draw, from an inside pocket, a gourd that would hold perhaps a quart; this gourd was bottle-shaped, with the end of the neck cut off smooth, and a corn-cob stopper. 'Here, boys, don't you see I've got a little something nice for us officers,— Oh, my stomach!' said the captain, as he handed it around, to the evident satisfaction of the heroic band who surrounded him.
     “After this performance had concluded, the serious work of drill commenced, and I soon saw that Captain Haacke was quite proficient in tactics. At one time during the day, the captain’s shoes began to hurt his feet, and he ordered the company to “Hold on, boys, till I get off these c-----d shoes.”
     “During the day, Captain Saunders brought his company on the ground from his house, several miles further down the Lewistown road. He said they had run out of whiskey at his house, and hearing Holcomb had a barrel, had concluded it would be best ‘just to march the boys up, you see,---Oh, my Stomach!'"

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