Boone County, Indiana - Chapter 7: Early Life Early Recollections, Early Trials Hardships Road, 1914

Building Early Gatherings

"Thought like the tide swings within fixed limits, with ages for systole and disastole, ebb and flow, and to know today yon must be a student of all the past."

The story of the early life in Boone county has never been told. It would make volumes of interesting literature. Glimpses of the story have been given in the record of the different settlements, as they have come up in the various settlements in the county but we deem it proper to give a general outline of the life of the white man in the woods.

One hundred years ago there were no white men in this section of country for miles unless it would be now and then an adventurer passing through the land on a discovering expedition, or on a trade with the Indians for some pelts. At an early date there were no dwellers of the white race in the land ; no home builders. There were no roads by which they could come. There was nothing but the Indian trail winding through the dense woods from Indian village to village, or from spring to spring, and now and then over the hunting ground. There was no way by which a horse or vehicle could travel about over the country. It was nothing but one continuous tangle of woods and underbrush all over the county, and during the wet season covered with bogs and morasses, and in many localities with lakes of water with no apparent flow in any direction.

The first highway leading into the county was the Michigan road which ran from Indianapolis to Lake Michigan, entering Boone county at the south- east corner and passing through the eastern part of the county. This was the first thoroughfare leading into the county. It was the first cutting away of the underbrush and hewing down of timber to make way for travel by vehicles. Eighty-six years ago this work was begun. Later came the state road leading from Indianapolis to Lafayette, which entered the county near the southeast corner at Royalton, and passed through the center of the county and out near the northwest corner. One other road leading from Indianapolis to Crawfordsville was constructed in the early day, which cut across the southwest corner of the county.

By these three highways the pushing pioneer was able to find his way into the woods of Boone, by overcoming the greatest of difficulties. We would not call them roads in this age. They were just gaps in the dense woods so you could see daylight. They were full of stumps which the team would have to wind around and now and then an impassable bog that at times became impenetrable. Yet these were the great thoroughfares that led into the wilderness over which swarms of immigrants worried their way in the search of their Eldorado of a home. These roads soon became the stageway into the new country, over which sightseers and home seekers traveled in the lumbering stage coach drawn by four or six prancing steeds. The stage stations where the horses were changed, were of more importance that day than railway stations are in this age; and the merry notes of the bugle, that announced the coming of the stage, and echoed through the woods was vastly more thrilling and exciting than the shrill whistle of the approaching steam train of our day. What a hustle there was at the Ho-tel de Ville at Eagle Village on the approach of the stage. Everybody was on the run. The hostlers ready with fresh horses, prancing in their eagerness to go. The stage was no sooner stopped, the driver winding up his long lash, dismounted, perhaps with some expletives not admissable today. Then the jaded horses were removed and fresh ones in their stead were prancing eager to be off. The driver would remount, cry out all aboard, unfurl his long lash and snap it at the leaders, with such vigor, that they danced to go, and off they went on a fly around the corner with a whirl.

Say, fellow-traveler from the woods of seventy-five years ago, do you remember the old stage coach? Do you remember what aspirations rose in your breast to become a stage driver? There was something fascinating about it that carried a boy off his pegs. He desired above all things to leave the brushy farm and be a stage driver and learn the art of whirling the long whip with such skill as to knock a fly off the tip of the left ear of the off leader, without touching the horse. Do you wonder at the fever that would seize the early Boone boy under such exciting circumstances? You might as well expect a boy to fly over the tall trees as to expect a live boy to have no fever on such occasions.

The first roadways leading into Boone county from the settled sections of the country were the Michigan road, the State road from Indianapolis to Lafayette, and the road leading from Indianapolis to Crawfordsville. It was upon these roads that the white man found his way into this county. Who were the people that came ? They were mostly native-born Americans. Very few foreign people ever found their way to this county, even in its later history. The trend of migration in the central part of Indiana was along about the same parallel following the national road to Indianapolis, thence northwest following the Michigan, Lafayette or Crawfordsville road. Either of these roads would land the traveler within the limits of Boone county. The people that traveled along these lines were generally from Pennsylvania, Ohio and eastern Indiana. Some of our people came from Kentucky, Tennessee, the Carolinas and some from the Old Dominion.

How did they get here you ask ? There were no roads until the people were here to make them, so that the first that came had to make the road as they came. The very first came over the Indian trails. This was nothing but a winding path through the woods for one to tread on foot, or possibly on horseback. The first man that came by wagon had to hew a path wide enough for his team. The next that came could get along easier, and so on, in this way the early settlers pushed their way into the wilderness, the roads growing as the country became settled. It was a long difficult struggle, consuming two generations before the present development was effected. It would be a very difficult matter for those enjoying the comforts of this day to comprehend the hardships that our forbears had to endure. Felling the timber, rolling the logs to the side of the road, removing the stumps, not by dynamite but by main force, and last and hardest, corduroying the bogs and morasses so that they would not mire in the mud of that day. The people -came at first afoot, on horseback, in ox-carts and in great wagons drawn by oxen and horses. Each would make a picture and furnished our own Hoosier poet with his dream of home.

By long struggle and much hard work, the weary pilgrim reached the point where he concluded to drive the stake for his home. He found a high place near a spring of water if possible and cut away the timber for his home. A few neighbors gathered in and helped him raise his round log cabin. It was very crude at first and scarcely sheltered him from the storm and the beasts of the forest. We will not stop here to describe what has so often been told. It served the pioneer family for a home and they were content and as happy and in fact more so, than the dwellers in a palace of later days. As soon as the crude shelter was established, the entire family go to work to enlarge the home. The daily avocation is to cut trees, pick brush, cut and roll logs to widen the clearing around the home. This was the process of developing every pioneer home in the county. By toil the clearing widened into door-yard, garden, orchard and into fields until there was a little farm. It was considered a great blessing when neighbors could begin to see each other's homes in the winter. It was not so lonesome.

While this work was being done schools were provided for the children, very crude at first. Mills were established and churches and roads leading toward them, so comforts began slowly to multiply, and the blessings of civic relations began to develop and the pleasures of life multiply. The early social features among the men were log rollings, cabin raisings, foot races, wrestlings, and for side shows, huntings, shooting matches, bear fights and the like. The youth had their spelling-bees, apple-parings, huskings and the women quiltings, spinning and weaving tests, so that there was joy all around and as much delight and real social enjoyment in that early day as there has ever been since. There have been great changes in seventy-five years but very little improvemnt in the social and real pleasures of social, religious and intellectual life and enjoyment. Oh, the joys of the sugar-camp and the ecstacies of cider and apple butter days. Hundreds of pleasing stories could be recited of real incidents along these pleasure lines, of the life of our fathers, without exhausting the store. By such toil and hardship, homes, roads, schools, churches and beautiful farms were developed, by draining out our swamps and morasses. The chief product of the land is what is known by the race of men that preceded us - by the name of "Mondamin" and by our name of corn. We submit here a little story of each :

You may not know just what is meant by this title word, but the boys and girls that lived here one hundred years ago knew it well. It was their principal food. They raised it just north of Thorntown. It took all summer for it to grow. Our people raise it today. It is our principal crop and has become a great source of revenue. We live in the part of the world that is fitted for the growth of this plant. You can't raise it all over the world like wheat, but there are certain belts where it thrives. It requires rich soil, plenty of moisture and warmth. It is natural for us to feel badly when our goods are damaged by rain or storm or drouth, and the heart often sinks within us at weather disasters. If we would just have faith and trust and work on, things will even up by the time the year will round up. Good old Mondamin is now doing its best to even up matters, and it bids fair to make this a bountiful year. It is pouring in millions every day into our bins. Just watch the great armies of plumed knights lined up in the fields by the roadside, with millions of waving green banners to salute you. If you but listen you can hear the joyous laughter as they are bringing plenteous food for man and beast. Go a little deeper and listen down in the heart, and you can hear the wave offering of blade and plume as it softly sings praises to the bountiful Giver of all good. We ought to bow our faces in shame when we complain of too much or too little rain in this goodly land. God has always fed us bountifully. He knows what is for our good and he knows how to manage the elements much better than man. The Indian that lived here before our fathers came had their patches of Mondamin. They did not raise great fields of it as we do. This country then was a vast forest with only a little clearing here and there. The people thought more of game than they did of grain. Our fathers changed things. They cut down the forest and made fields. They changed the name Mondamin to corn. The women did the work in raising Mondamin while the men hunted ; now men do the work in the fields. Then they produced a little for food for man, now we aim to feed the world bountifully. Less than one hundred years has wrought this wonderful change upon the face of this land. This is the work of culture and refinement. It shows what man can do when he uses his God given powers. A mixture of brain with muscle and heart makes a good compound, a trinity in man that can produce a God-like power to do. This great change has been brought about gradually. Our children scarcely perceive it. They were born in the lap of our luxury and think it always existed. They do not know how to appreciate the present blessings, and yet they have been developed in the life time of our worthy citizen, Mr. Bellis. From Mondamin to corn represents one of civilization's cycles. From a wilderness of pathless swamps to fruitful fields, roads and happy homes, all in less than one hundred years. What will our children do in the next century? Will they uproot the weeds of sin, cut down the Upas tree of licensed wrong and make of this land a very Eden? Will they change corn to manna and fill the land with flowers, fruits and celestial delectables?

There is no plant that is more common or better known to our boys and girls than this cereal. Here we only apply this name to one species of grain, but over the world's history and in books it is the general name of any kind of grain that is used to make bread. The term corn in its broader sense means wheat, barley and other grains, but in our country it only means Maize or Indian corn. If the world knew anything about it before Columbus discovered this country it had lost sight of it, and it is commonly put down as being a native of this country. If it was ever cultivated in the old world it went out of use and was not known in western Europe until the new world was discovered. Columbus introduced it into Spain in 1520 and it spread rapidly over the old world because of its great productiveness. We all know it so well in this country that it is not necessary to describe it here. It might be well for us to learn the names of the different parts and their uses. It is called Zea, a genus of grasses. When full grown the top or tassel, as we call it, is termed the male flower. It is a loose panicle or plume at the top of the culm or stalk. The female flowers are axillary spikes that shoot out from the base of the blades or leaves. The spikes which form the cob are covered with tough husk and from underneath come very long styles or silken tassels. There is one of these silken threads for each grain that is formed. The process of formation and growth is a very interesting study and is becoming more so to the growers of corn. If you will plant a grain of corn and watch its growth from start to finish you will find it very interesting.

I4O Boone County, Indiana

If you only have one stalk or plant by itself you need not expect an ear of corn. It will be well for you to look into the reasons of this failure. Corn is not only the most productive of cereals and the richest as a food for man and beast, but the entire plant is very useful. The study of the uses of corn will help us to appreciate the value of the plant. Every one in this land knows how well all our domestic animals love it as a food, and we all know its fattening qualities. We also know something of its food properties for man. We know the Johnny cake, dodger, pan-cake, pone and muffin. The plain old bowl of mush and milk sticks to our memory and ribs to this day. Then there is hominy cracked and whole grain. And who does not long for roasting ears in mid-summer and corn puddings, succotash and heaps of tasty dishes. Who is there that does not enjoy in mid-winter the pop corn. See the grains dance around, turn inside out with fluffy snowy whiteness. There is no grain on the face of the globe that brings to man more real enjoyment and benefit than our plain common corn. The culinary art is developing daily delicate savory dishes from this bountiful source of food. We have only time to name starch, glucose, sugar, smokeless powder, paper, collodium, lubricating oil, explosive denatured alcohol, mattresses, cellulose, dextrin, cornpith, fodder and ensilage. Every particle is of use and can serve some good purpose. It is a great blessing to man. When perverted it becomes a great curse. Can you tell what it is that men sometimes make out of corn that entails untold misery and distress?

You will note by these stories that corn was the chief cereal food at first. There was wild meat in abundance but no wheat at the start. Corn was the first product for food. They had to fight the squirrels, crows and other enemies or lovers of the grain, to get even a share of it for the family. Often the farmer would have to kill hundreds of them in trying to drive them away from his corn patch. There was no game law then to protect the squirrel, it was a big game for the farmer to protect his corn. After the corn was raised it was a task to get it made into meal. There were no mills at first. Many a pioneer in the very early days made his supper on parched corn and venison. And before the days of the mill they would break the corn in a mortar as the Indian did. Before the first mill in Boone county was built on Eagle creek, the early settlers if they went to mill would have to go back to Decatur county to have their batch of corn ground into meal. This would take them six or eight days, and the brave little woman would have to stay by herself while the defender of the home was off after bread. Note in the story the different processes in farming then, than now and you will have some conception of what our fathers endured in the beginning here. From the reap hook to the binder. From the flail to the separator, from parched corn and the mortar to the roller process of our day. From the Johnny cake and Dutch oven to the kitchen range. From the trails in the dense woods to the trolleys and steam roads. From the hackle and spinningwheel to the myriads of spindles and mystic looms, - what a transition in the life time of one man.

Orchards bloomed around the home and the cabin nestled in the pink and white bring up the fond recollections of the old cider mill with its wooden crushers that would make the juice fly from the rosy cheeked apples while the horses went round and round with the long sweep, the great tank or trough that held the juicy pomace; the wide platform upon which was built cheese upon cheese of the crushed apples until there was a great stack held in place by straw at the edges; then came the thick boards and blocks of wood on top and under the huge beams held in place at the press end and stretchingfar out and worked up and down by a lever. My ! how the cider came running out when the weight of the beam came upon the stack of pomace. Didn't we, boys gather around the flowing stream of sweetness with shining tin cups and fill ourselves up properly? As soon as the first flush was over the levers at the long end of the beam were set to work and they would squeeze and squeeze until every drop was out. Then came the apple butter stir, the boiling down three into one and the filled barrel that was always left out in the orchard with bung out and long rye straws handy. How fond recollection clings around those cider making days and the moonlight plays in the orchard with rye straws and a bungless barrel of sweet cider.

Our fathers planted the fruit trees just as soon as the forest trees were removed. They grew luxuriantly, and in a few years there was abundance of fruit. Apples, peaches, pears, plums and of all sorts common to this clime. Those good old days are yet fresh in the memory and full of halo. When the autumn day closed and the "frost was on the 'pumkin' and the fodder in the shock" after the ingathering of the fruits, the family would gather around the hearth ; glowing with fire and flames creeping between the crooked logs like great red tongues, there was a merry ring with Tom the great cat and the faithful dog counted as much members of the family as any in the bunch. What a delight and ecstacy of joy there was in those evening parties of the family, and much more when neighbors would join in the company, making the cream of the social custom of the youthful country. The basket of apples was always there and the pitcher of cider and nuts with lap stone and hammer. What innocent joy in the circle from grandparents all around, including the youngest and even the cat and dog. How we loved to watch the pictures in the fire come and go, and the flickering shadows and pictures on the walls. How we waited for the apple on the hearth as it sputtered and stewed eager for it to be pronounced done. There we mingled night after night cracking nuts and jokes. We flung the long apple peel around the head to see what letter would be shaped on the floor or heated the great iron shovel and placed the apple seed upon it to see how our hopes and expectations would fly away. Thus night after night our fortunes were told. The very best of all these pleasant evenings in which each member of the family could take part and be happy, mother never complained about us scuffling out the carpets or throwing apple peelings and nut shells on the floor. If they would become too thick for comfort she would take the broom, which was always handy in the corner, and whiff them all into the fire. This was the great social feature of the pioneer days, and we have doubted whether what we call the progress of civilization has added to the pleasures or the moral influences of these good old times of our fathers. They are much more enjoyable than the stiff public social functions of our day that are so full of forms and "just so's" that everybody feels that he is in an iron jacket. It might be a good thing to take up some of the innocent pastimes of past days and incorporate them in our social features of this age. Just imagine that you are around the old family hearthstone and the circle complete, and see if it does not rejuvenate you. Think of the fragrant Rambo as it mellows into fall, and the coming of the golden bellflower or the pale green pippin, the spicy baldwin. Then think of honest Old Ben Davis, the faithful Winesap, Northern Spy, Limber twig, and by all means do not leave out the dusky Golden Russet. Oh, the apples, apples every where and ever the same, great red, ripe, luscious globes, bear- ing in their shining skins the sweetness of spring blossoms and summer's long sunshine. Around these cluster many a fabled song and story. Classic lore gives us Eris vexed because she was not invited to the wedding, threw down the golden apple marked "To the Fairest,'' which provoked a quarrel between Juno, Venus and Minerva. Did not the choice of Paris bring down the vengeance of the Immortals, the Trojan war, and many other horrors? Let Homer tell you about vexed Tantalus, from whom the winds ever blew the apple for which he so longed. It must have been with an apple that Eve got the better of Adam. It was the target at which William Tell shot on the head of his son. It was the one thing above all others that infatuated the erratic "Johny Apple Seed" and moved him to plant everywhere. The English had a good old custom of "Howling" the tree, called "Wassaing the orchard." On Christmas eve they would take a large bowl of cider and sprinkle about the roots of the trees surrounding the best and singing three times round,

The poets have all tried to sing the song about the apple, Bryant, "The Planting of the Apple Tree," Holland, "Celler Full of Rosy Fruit," Whittier, "The Winter Fireside," Alice Carey, "Farm Song," and O, down in your heart have you not sung many a time as you were trying your luck in guessing the number of seeds or twirling the paring,

Say, don't you wish today that you could believe as you did in those good old charming days of the pioneer and have the faith and simplicity of that day?

The great days connected with the apple were cider day, paring festivities, the gathering of the fruit and apple-butter day. At the close of cider day usually came an evening of paring apples for the apple-butter the next day. The choicest apples were reserved for this use, usually sweet ones. They were carefully gathered and brought into the family room in heaping baskets after supper and all hands that were skilled set to work. This was the preparation for the apple-butter festivities of the morrow. Everything must be in readiness for the day so that nothing would hinder the work. Bright and early next morning everybody about the home was astir early in order to get a good start. The great bright copper kettle was brought forth, shining like the sun and to a boy looking about as big. It was hung on a long pole, filled with cider, and a fire kindled under it. The cider was boiled and skimmed until it was clear of all scum and the apples were put in. After they were well cooked and danger of settling to the bottom and burning was over mother would appear on the scene and her vigils began. The stirrer was made of a piece of a board, long enough to reach to the bottom of the kettle. A long handle was inserted in one end of the paddle in a hole at one end, at right angles so the person stirring could sit away from the fire. All day long mother watched over the great shining kettle and stirred and stirred to keep it from scorching.

It was a tedious process in those good old days, but it was good and more than one boy and girl would linger around the outdoor camp waiting and watching for the time when mother would pronounce it done. She would lift the long handled stirrer from the kettle and announce it done. There were always two or three of us with generous slices of bread ready to clean the stirrer. Those were good old luscious times. We never knew which gave us more delight, the stirring off of sugar in the spring or the stirring off of a great kettle of apple butter at the close of a sleepy October day. It generally took the entire day to make the round, but the jolly festival in the evening stirred by the rollicksome play made it the most joyous festival of the year to us youngsters. Modern methods have changed all this. It saves hard work and knocks out all the fun, and the butter does not taste so well as it did when mother made it seventy years or more ago.

They will take a copper coil nowadays instead of the big copper kettle and with steam heat, put in the cider syrup and pared apples and in a short time turn out what they call a clearer, smoother and some say a more delicious product than ever mother could make. We have our doubts. They come from the memories of the past. The modern product does not have the richness of taste or the color. It is pale and too fine spun and made more for looks than taste.

Very early in the history of Boone county, Dan Cupid took up his abode and began business just as he did elsewhere in the land. The first we hear of him was in Eagle township. He is reported as entering the home of David Hoover, our first county clerk. Just how he entered is not recorded, but he got into the cabin in some way and captured the accomplished daughter of the clerk and by some influence caused him to enter upon the records of the county the following as the first in the history. Boone county, Indiana, to-wit :

Greeting: You are hereby authorized to join in the holy bonds of matrimony, Elijah Cross and Polly Hoover, both of said county, according to the laws of the State of Indiana and of the same make due report.

The very same day the following record follows: Be it remembered that on the 13th day of January, 183 1, a marriage license issued to Elijah (10)

Cross and Polly Hoover, both of Boone county and both of lawful age, a certificate of which of whose marriage is endorsed on the back of said license in these words, I, Benjamin Harris, a justice of the peace, in and of the county of Boone do hereby certify that Elijah Cross and Polly Hoover, both of said county were legally joined in marriage by me on the 13th day of January, 1831.

By this record it seems that Mr. Cupid set up shop at Zionsville, fashioned his arrows after the best of the Indians and had them train him in shooting so he became an expert and could bring them down off hand.

The home of David Hoover on the banks of Eagle creek was among the first in the county and became the center of attraction in the county. It was in this house, an unpretentious round log cabin, the first religious meetings were held by Rev. James McKoy, a Baptist minister in 1825. It was in this house that the filrst probate court was held and David Hoover was the first clerk of the court; and be it known that it was in this house that Dan Cupid first took up his abode in Boone county and began business. He was successful at the start and has kept up a brisk business ever since. It chanced that one Elijah Cross was mysteriously drawn by some unseen force to this cabin and pierced to the heart by one of Cupid's arrows. He never recovered. The shot was fatal and resulted as previously stated. The new clerk of court and father of Mary, the fair, had to give up his daughter and give Elijah the papers to lead Mary captive. How was she gowned? We knew that you would ask that question. Everybody will want to know how the first bride of Boone county was arrayed for the nuptials. We can assure you that it was no hobble or wide crinoline. Neither of those styles had come to the county at that early date. She was robed like an angel in pure white, full skirt with embroidery of her own handy work, a handsome pink sash, with neat ruching around the neck and wrist and white silk mitts and hose and tan shoes, looking as neat and handsome as any bride of our day. The groom was a handsome stalwart Tennessee lad of twenty-four, was neatly dressed in store clothes, fresh from the best shop of Cincinnati. He was marrying the first lady of the land, the judge's daughter, and he would have to have some look about him. He looked like he had just come from the band box. Conventional black, swallow tail coat, buckle shoes, white hose and kid gloves.

The wedding tour was on horse back, ending at his own home, where the happy couple began home building at once. It was the first newly wedded home in the county and was happy and successful. It was located where Zionsville now stands and was blessed with ten children : Martha, David H., Rachel A., Levinia E., Jacob A., John G., Louisa C, James L., Columbus W. The parents are at rest in Crown Hill cemetery at Indianapolis.

Right here at home, boys, in old Hoosierdom, "Where strangers alius joke us when they come. And brag of their states and enterprise - Yit settle here; and 'fore they realize, They're "hoosier" as the rest of us, and live Right here at home, boys, with their past forgive.

Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess, Fer me and you and plain old happiness. We hear the world's lots grander - likely so - We take the world's word fer it and not go - We know its ways ain't our ways - so we'll stay Right here at home, boys, where we know the way.

Right here at home, boys' is the place fer us ! Where folks' heart's bigger'n their money pu's ; And where a common feller's jes as good As any other in the neighborhood; The world at large don't worry you and me Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be!

Right here at home, boys- - jes right where we air! Birds don't sing any sweeter anywhere, Grass don't grow any greener'n she grows Across the pastur' where the old path goes - All things in ear-shot's purty, er in sight, Right here at home, boys, if we siz'em right.

A Picture Of The Growth In Eighty-Four Years

There have been such great changes in that time that we can only name a few of them. During our life there has been a complete change in everything that is used to produce food, raiment, homes, transportation and communication. Take bread, the staff of life. The wheat was sowed broadcast, reaped with a sickle by hand, threshed with a flail, winnowed with a sheet, ground by great stones with straight faces, one stationary and the other called the upper millstone running around. The bread, pies and cakes as good as you ever saw, were made by mother and cooked in a big dutch oven out-doors. We remember the first cook stove also, the first heating stove that ever came into the home. After the sickle came the cradle to cut the grain and then the reaper, raked off by hand, next self rakers, next binders which lead up to our bunchers and headers of this date.

After the flail came the threshing floor, then the chaff piles, next the separator, horse-power, then steam, and now the machine to take the sheaf, cut the bank, stack the straw and sack the wheat.

The old flax hackle, the carding machine, the spinning wheel, the reel, the warping beam, the loom and with all these the fond recollections of mother's handy work. The first dress I ever wore mother carded the wool, spun the yarn, wove the cloth, cut and made the garment and it was nice, warm and healthful.

Well do we remember the horse back, the ox cart, the farm wagon, the first carriage, the old dirt roads, mud in winter and dust in summer. We remember the old stage coach and the wickedness of the driver, the fitrst canal, the first turnpike, the first railroad in eastern Indiana. We need make no mention of the cycle, the trolly, the auto, the airship of this day. We have witnessed all these innovations.

There have been equal changes in school life and opportunities, in churches and their privileges, and in our homes with all their modern improvements and appliances. When we take a retrospective view the changes are so marvelous that we can hardly believe our own memory. We wonder if the changes will be so marked in the next fifty years. We feel like saying, on with the world, let it move. It is not subdued yet. All the elements and forces are not yet serving man. The work is not all done. Our young men need not fold their hands and say the work is all done. There is nothing for me to do. There is still need of work of skill and of thought. If all hands are folded, the ship of state and all in it will drift back. It will take effort and much toil to go forward. Up and at it.

Boy Wanted

lie is wanted - wanted now and here; There are towns to build ; there are paths to clear ; There are seas to sail ; there are gulfs to span, In the ever onward march of man.

Wanted - the world wants boys today And it offers them all it has for pay. 'Twill grant them wealth, position, fame, A useful life and honored name. Boys who will guide the plow and pen; Boys who will shape the way for men; Boys who will forward the tasks begun ; For the world's great work is never done.

The world is eager to employ Not just one but, every boy Who, with a purpose stanch and true, Will greet the work he finds to do. Honest, faithful, earnest, kind - To good awake ; to evil blind - A heart of gold without alloy - Wanted - the world wants such a boy.

A True Story

In the "dark and bloody land" in the morning of the past century, as near Independence day as could be and miss it, July 3, 1807, there was a baby boy born in Shelby county, Kentucky, and christened William E. In 181 1, Thomas and Anna Lane, the parents of the hopeful, moved to Indiana territory and settled on the banks of the beautiful river, in what is now known as Harrison county.

In 1828, William E. came to the county of Boone and entered land near the north part of what is now Eagle township. After locating his home and cutting the trees for his cabin, he returned to his father's home to see the eirl that he had left behind. He told her all about his venture into the deep woods and the rich farm that he had entered and of the bright prospects he had for a future home. He doubtless added parenthetically, if she would only go also to share its joys with him. He may not have said anything about its fears, for it was satisfactory to Miss Betsy, the pet name he had given her. In the fall of 1830 they were married and on the thirty-fitrst day of December of that year, they started on their nuptial tour to the north to locate and build a home. In the spring of 1831, he called in a few of his neighbors to erect his cabin, eighteen by twenty-three feet. It was covered with clapboards riven out of red oak, and held to their place on the roof by stiff poles laid across. Into this cabin the young bride was taken and they began home building with high hopes. There was an opening for a door but no shutter.

In that day of Boone there were rattlesnakes, wolves, bears and wild boars infesting the land, the latter most formidable of all. The greatest difficulty of that early period was in going to mill. These were far apart, there were no roads except the blazed way, and it was extremely difficult to follow them. William could not reach a mill without being gone over night. They talked it over. Elizabeth was a brave Kentucky girl. She assured Will that she was not afraid, so the sack of corn was made ready. They had no wheat in those days. Old Doll was brought into service and one bright morning in October, William bade Betsy good bye, and set out for the mill. The last words he said before disappearing in the woods was, "don't be afraid Betsy, be a brave little girl." It was a long, lonesome day, and when the shadows of the night crept early into the great woods Betsy's heart began to flutter and she wondered how she would pass the long, lonesome hours of the night. She had never staid all night by herself before. She had been told of the wild animals that infested the woods and most dreadful of all were the Indians. What could she do if one came to her door? She would rather meet all the animals than one Indian. She could not barricade the door for there was no shutter, only a comfort or homemade coverlet. Barricade it with chairs and tables? Bless your life she did not have any; no stoves, or box, nor anything, and William had taken the gun. It would do no good if she had one, for she was not trained to shoot. She only had one defense, that was old Tige, the faithful dog. He would look at her, read the anxiety in her face, and say as plain as a dog could speak with tail and eyes, "I will take care of you this night." Betsy seemed to understand the dog and after setting the cabin in order, trusting in her faithful guard she sought slumber. Very little came to her. Fearful thoughts drove restful sleep away, she only caught cat-naps.

About midnight Tige became very much excited. He would growl and whine around, look at Betsy and then at the door. Betsy seized a firebrand from the hearth and urged Tige to his duty. She heard the coarse growl of a Bruin and soon Tige got such a blow that he was whirled into the middle of the floor. He soon recovered himself and went for the bear and Betsy vigorously brandished the firebrand to get the singe on him, so that Sir Bruin thought it safe to beat a retreat. The fight over, both Betsy and Tige kept up their vigils till break of day, and on William's return she had a wonderful story to rehearse of the terrors of that lonely night in the cabin in the woods.

The father of this brave pioneer girl who helped to lay the foundations of this county and deliver it from the wilds of the woods to its present happy condition, Thomas Simpson, was the brother of John Simpson, who was the father of U. S. Grant's mother.

Boone'S Oldest Male Resident

Isaac Bellis, of Thorntown, is probably the oldest male resident of the county. He is according to the records in his family Bible, over ninety-nine years of age, having been born February 22, 1815.

Mr. Bellis is a native of Ohio, having been born in Hamilton county, that state, on a farm. He was married to Amanda May in 1834. To this union twelve children were born, six of whom are still living. The three daughters reside in Thorntown and are, Emeline, Mary McCorkle, and Alethia Bee Jaques. The first named is the oldest, her age being seventyfive. She is housekeeping for her father. The sons are : Clark and Theodore, living at Indianapolis and Alva C, residing at Grand Rapids, Michigan.

Mr. Bellis moved to Boone county in 1855 and settled on a farm in Washington township. He lived on that farm until 1909 when he moved to Thorntown, where he still resides.

Reminiscences Talks Of The Old Days

"In the plan of the home-coming of the old boys we have found the biggest reunion combination we have ever met if judged by the real and enduring enjoyment resulting. To my sister and I it means a review of our birthplace, scenes of our childhood, school days, Sunday school and early church life. Uncle Jay McCorkle was superintendent of the Presbyterian Sunday school. Here I visit the scenes of my first efforts at business; from here I went to the war of the rebellion, serving in the Seventy-second and later in the Forty-fourth Indiana Volunteers.

"Thorntown has spread over perhaps twice its size in the time I have resided at Iola, Kansas, my present home. Here people seem to enjoy the good things of life rather than going at the strenuous rush that kills. The tone of morals and the temperance here is indeed refreshing to one who loves humanity.

"Of the old citizens, those who were on the active list from 1854 to 1869, we have met but very few. Isaac Bellis, Thomas Gregory, Robert Laverty and James Davis are still here [now deceased.] I recall a host who have passed to their reward: Uncle Jay, Samuel and Milton McCorkle, E. Kinkaid, several of the Crose family, Johnnie Hughes, six of the Taylor family, Louden and his sons, the Clouds, Mofntts, Browns, Pickets, Whites and in the Dover and Shannondale neighborhoods the elder Caldwells, Corys, Hills, Mounts, Thompsons, Burrises and Irwins.

"Of my old army comrades, many are gone to the other world: D. Laverty, Milt Millikan, L. Garret, George Ewbank, Robert Matthews, Jasper McCorkle, W. Pyke, Coletraine and scores of others; and school mates by the score. But of those who remain and who have greeted us, a number so great I fear you will take it as a Kansas bluff if I would mention at least two hundred individuals with whom we were acquainted in 1869 when I left for Iola, Kansas."

These were some of the men, the braves and stalwarts who hewed down the forests and laid the foundations of the state of Indiana. We owe them a debt of gratitude that we ne'er can pay save in kind and reverent remembrance of their sacrifice and heroic work for us. Whenever and wherever you see a log cabin greet it as an altar, where sacrifice and toil was offered for the upbuilding of the state, that we might have a heritage of peace and happi- ness. It is meet and proper and our bounden duty to so remember those who poured out their lives in toil and suffering for our comfort. They have finished their arduous work and gone to rest. It is our duty to reverence and honor them.

Interesting Information

The price of farm land in Boone county ranged from forty dollars to sixty dollars per acre and now from one hundred and fifty dollars per acre and up.

Lebanon, Thorntown, Zionsville and Elizaville are supplied with natural gas from the region of Sheridan. Local capitalists own the Zionsville plant.

The first resident of Lebanon was Abner H. Longley, who some years ago returned to this city on a visit from his home in Kansas. He settled here in 1832.

Uncle Davy Caldwell, living one-half mile west of town, is the next oldest resident of the county, being born March 21, 1804. He entered four hundred and eighty acres of land where he now resides, November 2, 1833, getting same for one dollar and twenty-five cents an acre. He sold one black walnut tree for enough money to pay for forty acres.

The first child born in this county was Mary Sweeney, in 1827. The first marriage was John Pauley to Emily Sweeney, in 1828, and the first death was Mary Ann Westfall, in 1829.

William Smith was a noted character in the early history of the town. He was the third white settler of the town and cut and rolled the first logs off the square. He says that he had killed three deer with his rifle inside the present boundaries of the court house park. He was the first tavern keeper in the town and was noted as a foot race runner. It is told that he once caught a deer and killed it in a race over what was once an open prairie but now the site of the city of Chicago.

The town of Whitestown was laid out in 1857 by Ambrose Neese. It was originally called New Germantown, but afterwards changed to its present name in honor of Hon. A. S. White, ex-congressman and the first president of the I. C. & L. Railway, now Big Four.

Aris Pauley laid out the town of Dover in 1850, and called the place "Crackaway," afterward called Dover. The postoffke is now designated by the government as Cason in honor of Judge T. J. Cason, who represented the district in congress at the time the change was made.

As a sample of what this county was prior to its redemption and transformation, it is reported that in an early day a man and his team sunk in the mud near where Mrs. Martha Daily's residence on Main street now stands, and passed out of sight and was never heard of again.

The first jail of the county was a one-story log house, about ten by twelve feet, without a window and with but one door. It stood where the gas regulator now stands in the northeast corner of the court house yard. This gave way later to a more modern structure built on the back part of the lot where Castle Hall now stands, at that time in the rear of the court house. This building was two stories high, built of logs and had neither windows nor doors in the lower story. Prisoners were taken up stairs from the outside and let down through a scuttle hole in the floor of the upper story by means of a ladder. The size of this building was about twenty-five feet square and twenty-five feet high. This gave way, in later years, to a little brick jail in front, where the court house had stood, which afterward gave way to the present magnificent jail spoken of in another column.

"Uncle Jimmy" Dye, of Northfield, the venerable father of county recorder, James M. Dye, delights in telling the younger generation of the time when he killed deer and bear on ground now covered by the Boone county court house. He and his brother, Jacob, were solicited to clear the grounds for the public square, because of their superior ability in that line.

The Boone county cottage at the Soldiers' Home at Lafayette, Indiana, has six rooms with bath and all other conveniences sufficient to accommodate twelve persons or in other words six old soldiers and their wives, and is so occupied now. It was completed in 1897, the building of which was authorized by the county commissioners of this county who appropriated one thousand two hundred and fifty dollars for that purpose. It is well located and, while it is not so large as some of the buildings erected by other counties, none are better equipped, or furnishes more conveniences.

The first court house in Lebanon was a log structure fronting on the street, where the Castle Hall building now stands. The second building of this kind was on the site of the present building; this was torn down in 1856 to give place for the new building. During the interval between the tearing down and the building anew, court was held in the various churches of the town, especially the old Methodist church. The county offices were mainly on the west side of the square in the upper story of a frame building, which stood where the Lebanon National Bank building now stands. It was here that a fire destroyed most of the records of the county, entailing for many years no end of trouble in securing titles to real estate.

At Sugar Plain On September Ii, 1883

Being bashful, unassuming and modest, I have little ability to address you as others, yet with your permission and with the assistance of a friend to read for me, I shall present you an essay on this occasion. I do not feel that 1 was really one of the old settlers of this locality. I have not seen three score years and ten, nor shaken hands with Daniel Boone. Neither did I see Dick Johnson kill Tecumseh. I do not claim these honors. Yet I have seen some serious things in ye olden times, the reminiscences of which may not be uninteresting.

I am a North Carolinian by birth and the reason that I did not have the pleasure of the acquaintance of Sir Walter Raleigh, who settled that state, or he the honor of shaking hands with me is, that he died one or two hundred years before I was born. I left my native state at eighteen years of age, and came to Wayne county, Indiana, fifty years ago this fall. Like most other emigrants from the south we had but little money, or fine clothes, but we found the people of Wayne much in the same fix; and as misery likes company, there was very little pity exchanged either way. I worked about by the day much of the time at thirty-seven and one-half cents per day, although for quite a time I got fifty cents per day driving a log team, four or six horses at a lime, a thing the other boys of the neighborhood could not do. I thought I was a little smart for a Carolinian and the neighbors may have thought so too. I cut cord wood for quite a while at twenty-five cents per cord, that was for charcoal for smithing purposes. Thus time moved on for about three years and I found I was old enough to vote and I began to think I was old enough to do some other way than drag around in this style. Although we had our fun, we made sugar and of course we had to have our maple wax and candy pullings, and it seems to me yet, like the girls then were sweeter with a mouth full of maple wax, than the girls of the present day would be with all the sweet things you could give them. So as 1 thought some of them were rather smitten with me, I would take one of them, and as Greeley said, "go west and grow up with the country."

I had saved twenty dollars and by the assistance of a friend I borrowed thirty more and entered forty acres of land, and built a camp of poles and boards. And last July, forty-seven years ago, we went into it. We had a pretty rough time of it generally. I went to mill twenty-four miles on horseback and what would you suppose was in the sack - wheat? Not much, there was not a patch of wheat for miles around. We had on the north the Indians and a few white neighbors on the other side of us. We did not prefer to neighbor with the Indians, but we did not have our way about it. They were great beggars and they would steal our horses and ride them off. My brother had an excellent fine black pony and about the time he needed him worst they took him along. His mettle was up, the neighbors sympathized with him ; and I was tender hearted in that case. So a company of us concluded to pick our flints and go for pony, Indian blood, or anything that crossed our path. Well there was not much path ; they had a dim track part of the way in coming to our settlement and going to Strawtown to buy whiskey. Their headquarters was where Kokomo now stands; we found the village and likewise the pony. They had his mane and tail close shaved and had his fore legs tied together with hickory bark. We did not think any more of them for that. They said, no take him, but we did take him. I will not tell you how, and I will not say I was bad scared, but there was something the matter with me; on reflection it might have been the bump of caution on my head expanding, and to this day I don't like Indians any better than white folks. The pony and his old master went to Iowa and the pony lived about thirty-three years and his master could yet be my witness of this little unpleasantness.

Before leaving the hunting grounds of Madison county, I wish to relate a little of my experience in speculation. After living there five or six years, some of us began to feel a little important; we were the owners of quite a quantity of hogs. They were not Berkshire nor Poland Chinas; they were Elm Peelers, a species of animals that like the mastodon had their day and disappeared. We had a big mast that year and they were in fine fix for ye olden times. We were a little green about prices as we didn't take the papers, and a buyer came along and said if he could get about all in the neighborhood, he would give us a cent a pound for them. Several of us consulted and came to the conclusion that we knew the way to Cincinnati about as well as he did, and that we would drive our own hogs. Then after buying enough to make about five hundred, including what we raised, seven of us fixed for the journey. We hired four hands to help drive, making I think eleven in all. Then there was an old Virginia wagon with the top of the cover about twice as long as the bottom of the bed. We put four horses to it, and as they had learned that I could drive more than one horse and a Carolina cart, they detailed me to drive. I thought if there was any fun I would have my share riding that big saddle horse and looking down on the boys and hogs. Pretty soon a big hog refused to walk, so I found myself trying to lift one side of him into the wagon and if ever I saw stars without looking up it was lifting those muddy hogs.

We had a blue time generally, getting to the city and having them slaughtered and delivered, and what would you suppose we got for them - one dollar and seventy cents net. The next thing was to see how rich we were; we figured one afternoon and nearly all night and concluded next morning to guess it off and go home. We had one very smart man and a great peacemaker with us, and had it not been for him, all the lawyers and friends we had could not have got us out of that scrape. We sent him to the Legislature for his services that long night and other good things he done. The rest of them I believe walked home. I had a load of goods to haul back or I would have been broke. That cured me of speculating in hogs.

It is not worth while for me to say much about the state of Boone; there are a few of the old ones left that can tell it better than I can. It is solemn to think how few are left that were here forty-one years ago. I think nearly nine-tenths of them have disappeared, mostly gone where we are all fast hastening. I will name a few of them and close my remarks : Our old friend Oliver Cravens is perhaps the oldest settler; Isaac Gibson, John Higgins, Allen Kenworthy and perhaps half a dozen others, among them was Doctor Boyd. When I first saw him, down the road with his pill bags going to see a patient, he looked like a beardless boy, but time has wrought many changes and his locks are now silvered with gray. Hoping to meet with you on similar occasions, I bid you all adieu.

In the early fifties far up in the bogs of Boone, where the lazy stream of Wolf creek, crept sluggishly on its way, winding through brush and fallen timber, scarcely knowing which way to go or what direction to take for the Sea, there lived a worthy pioneer family.

It was approaching Thanksgiving, the neighborhood was discussing the preparations for the feast. All nature was out in the spirit to do something for the occasion; she rolled back the dark folds of her curtain and opened the very windows of the heavens and spread upon the earth a deep fluffy carpet of feathery snow. The trees were bending under its weight and stood like so many sheeted ghosts. There was hustle about this home. William, the pater familias, was busy giving orders to the household to see that everything was in line and that each was aiding to right things. He called to Cad a lad of seven or eight summers; can't you go down to the turkey-pen and see if we have a bird?

It is a nice thing if a family has a boy in it to bring up the odd ends of work. Can't have much of a family without a boy; of course girls are nice and sweet, a home would be lonesome and desolate without them; but when there is a turkey game on, and a deep snow and the pen away down in the woods, it takes a live boy to bring things around.

What is a turkey pen? Of course boys of our day do not know. They are smart enough and know heaps of things that a boy three score years ago did not dream of. Well, a turkey pen is a trap in which to catch wild turkeys. That was a game of sport that boys had in those early days that those of our times know nothing about. How was it made? Well, they took small like logs eight or ten feet long - owing to how big they wanted the pen to be - split through the middle from end to end, and then placed them on each other end to end, notched so they would be close together and made four square, using sufficient logs to make the pen high enough so the boy in it catching the turkeys would not bump his head. It was then covered over with rails and brush, so the birds could not get out. How did they get in? Well, that is a joke on the turkey. You see when these great big birds are hunting for food they go about with the head down to the ground, looking closely for bugs and grain or something to eat. They will crawl under logs and brush in search for food. The very moment a turkey is frightened, he pops his head up as high as his long neck will let it go and he has not got sense enough in his bald pate to look down again for an escape.

Our forbears knew all about this trait of their weakness and cunningly took advantage of it. On one side of the pen they dug a trench as big as a turkey could walk in, leading out from the pen two or three yards, and into the pen under the lowest log and towards the center, placing a wide board over the trench just inside, so Mr. Gobbler could get in a bit before popping up his head. In this trench corn is scattered freely, allowing plenty to be visible around outside, so when the pride of the sylvan wilds comes with his following in search of a breakfast for all, he sees the bait and in his wellknown turkey language and with as much gallantry as a cock of the roost in the barnyard, he summons all his mates to take up his trail into the ditch. In they go, picking up the corn as they progress and pressing ever on for more and more until all are enticed into the trap and when once inside, the sudden surprise causes them to lift up their heads in alarm. Seeing no way out they become frightened and try their skill and agility leaping, flopping and peeking their necks between the logs, but they never think once of looking down to the trench for a way of escape. They are caught.

Where is Cad all this while ? Is he standing out there in the cold freezing? Not a bit of it. Do you suppose a boy will stand around when he is asked to see if there are turkeys in the pen? Yonder he goes as fast as his heels will fling him through half-knee deep snow. He is nearly at the trap. The turkeys see him. They are frightened still more. Every one of them sticks his head out between the logs and flops and flies about as if each was a half dozen. Cad sees them, stops, tries to count, one, three, five, seven, eleven, a hundred. He turns on his heels, starts back, looks around to see if he can believe his eyes, runs his best towards home, gets out of breath, stops a minute and then on, until he reaches home out of breath and with great effort between short whiffs stammers out I-it-it's f-fu-full-o-of-t-th-thethe-m. All the male force of the house with horse and sled, guns and dogs start out in post haste for the turkey pen and there they find it just as Cad in broken cadences had reported. If there had only been another turkey in that pen, there would have been one round dozen. It was the biggest catch ever taken in Boone at one haul. The poor unfortunate turkeys paid the price and there were Thanksgiving festivities among neighbors, and even

Doctor Boyd, the family physician, held a feast at his home over one of the unfortunates, and Cad, yes the boy Cad was the hero of the whole bunch for he was the Columbus who discovered a pen full of the American Thanksgiving birds, and got his full share of the feast.

Daniel Boone

As our county is named in honor of Daniel Boone, the frontiersman and Indian fighter of Kentucky, we deem it proper to print a story about his beautiful daughter. Betty.

Betty Boone, Of Kentucky

Betty was in a great hurry. She flitted about the little room like a busy honey bee. When at last it was in shining order the little girl smiled.

"Now I can go to the woods," she cried, "in search of the pink flowers that Isaac Smith found yesterday.'' She clapped her slim brown hands gleefully and scampered out of the low door.

Betty courtesied politely. "Just for a little walk. Mistress Bliss. My mother is at Mrs. Aaron White's, caring for her sick baby and my work is. all done."

Mrs. Bliss shook her head. "I am sure your mother would tell you to keep away from the woods. What if a wild cat should put his sharp claws in you, or worse still, what if the savages should carry you off to Canada?"

Betty tossed her brown curls a little. "Indeed, I am not afraid of wild cats," she said grandly, "and it would be brave Indian who would dare to lay his hands on a daughter of Daniel Boone."

Betty courtesied again and hurried on, half afraid that Mrs. Bliss would stop her. The woods were very cool. Squirrels and birds were everywhere. As the little girl climbed a knoll covered with brown pine needles, she cried out in delight, for there was the pink moccasin flower she was seeking.

breathed. A little further on she came to a place where a crowd of the lovely flowers bloomed together. Down on her knees went the little maid to pick the treasures.

The twigs crackled behind her. She turned and found herself facing an enormous Indian. The child stared fearlessly into his black, beady eyes.

The savage still looked at her without speaking. Betty tossed her curls and went on picking flowers. She really was badly frightened, but she knew better than to let the Indian see it.

"Ugh,'- mumbled the Indian, still pulling her along. Somewhat to his surprise, Betty suddenly yielded and came along obediently. "Good squaw," said the Indian, and let the child have her left wrist free. Very deftly she broke off a twig here or bent down a bush tree. "No, no," said the Indian by and by, as she pulled off a long spray of rhododendron leaves. "No, no," he repeated, fingering his tomahawk.

Betty did not dare to break any more twigs, but she contrived to tear her blue apron on a thorn bush. Then here and there she let fall a shred of blue calico. It seemed to poor little Betty that she had been walking for miles and miles when her captor suddenly brought her into an Indian encampment.

It was a very noisy place. Dogs barked, children shouted, and women chattered. Betty was thrust into a dirty wigwam. She lay there tired and exhausted, fearing that in the evening she would be carried away as Catherine Hatch had been. Then she remembered her father. "Father will find me," she whispered to herself, and flinging herself down upon a pile of skins fell fast asleep.

When Mrs. Boone came home from Mrs. Aaron White's and found her little daughter was gone, she was very much frightened. Worst of all, Daniel Boone himself was away upon an exploring expedition.

Daniel Boone kissed his wife without speaking and strode out of the cabin. Five minutes later he, with two other stern faced men, entered the forest.

"Show us where they grow," commanded her father. Together the men climbed the little knoll. There were Betty's treasures strewn upon the ground.

The men quickly made their way over the ground. Then the trail stopped, but a rod or two further Daniel Boone discovered the little blue shreds of calico apron and at last they came to the Indian village.

Betty opened her eyes and sat up. This time she heard her father's voice as well as Isaac's. She came flying out of the wigwam and threw herself into her father's arms.