FIRST COMMERCIAL SIGN — THE NEXT BEER STORY — A BOOZE STORY — ANOTHER ONE — JUST A STORY — CELEBRATION — SOME THINGS — A MURDER — WHEN TIMES WERE YOUNG, BY FRANCES E. MOONEY — IN SOCIETY — THE OLD HOTEL — ANOTHER TIME.

In telling a story the personality of the narrator enters into it to a greater or less extent. Each person has his own peculiarity in relating an incident, giving it an inflection here, emphasis there, and a grin, ha ha, or imitation where needed, in order to give it the flavor or pep necessary to have it properly appreciated. In attempting to put the same story or incident in print, is to loose or omit all those things and thereby the subject becomes more or less "English."

THE FIRST COMMERCIAL SIGN.

In the spring of 1870, the firm of Smith & Bishop was engaged in selling goods, both dry and wet, in the town of Chelsea. As we drove into the little village and past their place of business, the following sign, painted on the lid of a cracker box and, nailed to one corner of the shack, attracted my attention: "BERE FO SAIL HER." If their "bere" was no better than their spelling, they would have to go to a prohibition county in order to find a "sail" for it.

THE NEXT BEER STORY.

In an early day, one J. W. Tucker, who was then dispensing the ardent in a limited way at Towanda, sent to Wichita by three fellows, who were going there on other business, for a keg of beer. (How many people in Butler county under 35 years of age, have ever seen a keg of beer?) On their return with the beer in the wagon along with some tinware they were taking to Towanda, they met three other fellows on their way to Wichita; after talking a while they all concluded to sample Tucker's beer. After considerable trouble the bung of the keg was out, and some of the tinware filled with the fluid and foam. The party removing the bung and replacing it was so saturated with the contents of the keg, it being a hot day and the beer escaping as fast and furious

as possible, that the ordor[sic] of the brewery was with him as long as that suit of clothes remained. In speaking of his business afterward, Mr. Tucker remarked: "Boys, you can't sell beer in this town for five cents a glass. I kept an account of every glass out of that keg you fellows brought me from Wichita and I didn't make a cent on it. After this, beer is ten cents a glass, or three glasses for a quarter."

A BOOZE STORY.
(The origin of two per cent alcohol.)

During the summer of 1870, one Jim Files came into Butler county and "took a claim," the one now owned by J. J. Edmiston, north of Towanda; returned to Illinois, settled up his affairs, reduced his property to cash and returned to his claim in the fall in time to build a shack before winter; coming by railroad to Emporia. At Emporia he fell in with a couple of teamsters from Towanda who were there after merchandise for the Towanda store, with whom he returned to Butler county, and thereby hangs this tale:

On their way to Emporia the teamsters were stopped by a man living near the then town of Chelsea, who handed them a two gallon jug, with the price thereof, and asked them to go to the wholesale liquor house of Helwig & Lane at Emporia and buy and bring him two gallons of "firewater," stating that he wanted to use some of it for rheumatism, and some for snake medicine. The trip was made, the Red Eye purchased and the wagons loaded for the return trip, when they were approached by the aforesaid Jim Files, who requested, and was granted, the privilege of walking behind their wagons, riding part of the time, and accompanying them on their return trip. They left Emporia, drove about three miles and camped for the night on the banks of the Cottonwood river. Supper was prepared, horses fed and picketed. Everything lovely and quiet as a mid-summer night's dream, when, upon the stillness came a cry of agony from Files—that is the word that describes it. "Boys, I have lost my pocket book. It had in it not only every cent but everything I have in the world except my claim" (between $100 and $200, which was quite a sum of money for those days.) Of course, the usual questions were asked, where he lost it, when did he see it last, where did he keep it, and so on. He finally concluded that he had used it last at a saloon in Emporia and thought he had left it on the bar, so one of us agreed to walk back to Emporia with him and endeavor to recover it, if possible. The trip was made and needless to say, was unsuccessful. A more dejected, downcast man on the return to camp, I have never witnessed. After arriving in camp and spending some time in bemoaning his fate, he said: "Well, I have my old pipe left, so I guess I will smoke, anyway." He went to a tree where he had hung his coat, just before starting back to Emporia, put his hand in his outside

pocket for his pipe and brought forth—his pocketbook and all its contents. You, gentle reader, may have seen, at some time, a man leaving the lowest depths of despair and climbing to the mountain top of relief and joy; but you have never seen anything that could hold a candle to the change in Jim. From the valley of despair to the height of rejoicing, is a long road but it was taken at a bound, and when the top had been reached, he looked down from his lofty heighth and said, "Fellows, I want a drink. I want to celebrate." And out came the two gallon jug. The next morning, after crossing the Cottonwood river, the old jug was just as heavy and just as full as when it left Emporia; from there on, after crossing each stream, the result was the same. When it was finally delivered at Chelsea, the original two per cent. had been established.

Moral: If you must smoke, use a pipe.

ANOTHER ONE.

The above reminds me. One day in June, 1870, the driver of a team on the road to Emporia from Towanda, for freight, stopped at Sycamore Springs, under the old Sycamore tree, (from whence came its name,) filled his half gallon jug with water and started over the divide to Mercer Springs. In going down the slope towards Mercer Springs, he met a man traveling in the opposite direction, driving a span of small ponies and quite heavily loaded. The roads were heavy, man and team worn to a frazzle, scarcely able to get along. Upon meeting the team from the south, said: "Pardner, haven't you anything to drink? I am plumb played out and I hain't had a drop since I left Emporee." The driver of the team from the south said: "You bet I have, some of the finest you ever tasted. "Well, for land's sake give me some. I was never so dry in my life." As the jug was lifted from under the wagon seat and held before him, a look of anticipation and of satisfaction came over his face, which like has never been seen before or since. He took the little brown jug, stroked it tenderly, smacked his lips and smiled with glee, turned up the jug, took one swallow and with a look of disgust and derision seldom equaled, and never excelled, said "Gawd, it's water."

JUST A STORY.

In the early days, an old gentleman came into the Whitewater valley driving a pair of white mules and a span of horses, locating near Towanda. He was very eccentric but seemingly got a good deal out of life, a deservable friend, neighbor and citizen. He was met one day by a German who stopped him and said: "I hear you have a horse what had bots." "Yep," replied the old gentleman. "What did you do for him?" "I give him a pint of turpentine." "All right, much oblige. Yep. Giddap," and each drove on. The next day they met again. Said the old German to the old gentleman, "Veil. I gife my horse pint turpentine for bots and it kill him," said the old German. "Yep, it did mine too, giddap."

CELEBRATION.

The largest celebration ever held in Butler county up to that time, and I do not think it has been surpassed since, was held in Dan Cupps Grove at Towanda, July 4, 1873. Arrangements had been made for a large crowd and it was there. Practically all of the north half of the county, and many from other places. The procession leaving Towanda for the grove going across the then unbroken valley in a diagonal direction reached from the town to the grove, about one and a quarter miles. T. N. Sedgwick, of Emporia, a lawyer friend of the late Dr. R. S. Miller, was invited to make the address and was on hand for that purpose. A. L. Redden of El Dorado also had been invited to make a talk after the address of Sedgwick. When the time came for speaking, Mr. Redden said he would be unable to remain until after the speaking of Mr. Sedgwick and that if he spoke at all he would have to speak first. This was finally consented to. Mr. Redden spoke. When it came time for Mr. Sedgwick to talk, night was approaching and the people starting home. Mr. Sedgwick made a few remarks and returned to Emporia a sadder but wiser man. In justice to Mr. Redden, it is only fair to say that he simply became enthused with his subject and failed to notice that tempus was "fugitin.'"

SOME THINGS.

While it is true, perhaps, that human nature is and always has been the same, yet it is also true that conditions and environment have a great deal to do with life in certain communities. In the early settlement of the county the people came as near having everything in common as the most radical believer in that doctrine could expect or even wish for. This was the case, especially among the farmers. What one neighbor had the other was welcome to use, loan and borrow; always ready to swap work, get together, assist each other in every way possible. All short of money but long in all those things that money will not buy; clothed with garments coarse and cheap; but covering hearts that beat in unison one with another; each doing the best he could for himself, at the same time promoting the welfare of his neighbor; living most of the time upon the barest necessities, but never refusing a meal to one that was hungry. Endeavoring to make a living and accumulate property but not to the extent or exclusion of all else. Sometimes in buying supplies for the table, groceries and provisions, things were purchased that would look out of proportion to some people. I have personally sold, not to one man only, but to different men and at different times, fifty cents' worth of sugar, fifty cents' worth of coffee and a dollar's worth of tobacco. And the caller at the old log house or homestead shanty was as welcome to the one as the other. In those primitive abodes, neighbors envying no one and no one envying them, visited back and forth, and friendships were formed, lasting as time itself. "God help

the man that has no friends. I'd rather be a dog and bay the moon, than such a man; I'd rather wear the wreath that friendship gives than crowns of gold."

And because of the friendships thus formed, the troubles and discouragements, the privations and wants that were bound to come upon all were made lighter; the road smoother. The clouds disappeared, and all things resumed in time their normal condition.

A MURDER.

The most malicious, premeditated, willful, cold-blooded burder[sic] that ever transpired in the county, I presume, happened in the little village of Towanda in the fall of 1872, during the time the agricultural and horticultural fair was being held near there, and, as often happens, booze was at the bottom or cause of it. Two men, Tom Griffith and John Bradshaw, were enjoying(?) themselves, having a hilarious, rollicking old time by partaking of that which cheers, and in sufficient quantities, also inebriates. They had each overloaded, Bradshaw to a greater extent than Griffith. Bradshaw became morose, sullen and wanted to be let alone. Griffith was joyful, merry, noisy and, in his own estimation, a little the best man physically that ever roped a broncho or branded a maverick. They were in the drug and hardware store of the late Dr. R. S. Miller and his partner, J. H. Dickey, Griffith boasting of his prowess and Bradshaw sulking. Griffith went up to Bradshaw and said, "John, I can put you on your back in less time than a minute." John replied, "Go way and lem me alone." Griffith turned and walked back to the rear of the store, wanting someone to test his strength, and again approached Bradshaw and said, "John, I can throw you over my head with one hand. I am a trantler from Bitter Creek, the further up you go, the worse they get. I am from right at the head waters. I am a coyote and it's my night to howl. Look at me. Look me in the eye!" All this time dancing and capering around him in the best of humor and endeavoring to and thinking he was having a high old time. This time Bradshaw did not reply, but went out in front of the store, mounted his pony, rode more than a mile north, procured a revolver, an old style navy, returned to the store, threw the bridle reins over his pony's head, dismounted, walked into the store where Griffith was and commenced shooting. After firing four shots, hitting him each time, he went out, remounted his pony, rode north and, so far as has ever been ascertained, is still going. Griffith lived about six months. A reward was offered for Bradshaw, but he was never apprehended.

I was only fourteen when my father in Indiana decided to "go west." but even from that young age, the remembrance of that decision and its portending significance remains in detail. Or perhaps because of youth's

intensity and eager absorption the memories are cut deeper and deeper and may be recalled more easily than the happenings of later years.

It was in the dusk of an autumn twilight, we drove up to the place on the West Branch of the Whitewater, which my father had purchased on a previous trip to Kansas, and which my mother still owns. The house was somewhat indistinguishable in the growing darkness and I started on a tour of inspection while the family was still busy at the wagon. With a heart filled with the excitement of actual arrival and beating with hints of the possibilities to come, I opened the front door on the west. A large new room, some sixteen feet square, opened before me. I gave a look around and crossed over to the door on the east to continue my explorations. Opening it I was brought up standing. That door led out into the night again. My feelings here I have never been able to satisfactorily express. Maybe somebody knows. There may be in somebody's heart an understanding. I was without resource. Then the situation bore down upon me. From the big brick house in Indiana to this; from the big, thick woods, where we followed a blazed trail to school, to these bare, treeless plains. Homesickness ran riot. I sat down on a box and cried.

But how soon it all changed. My father began building on to our house, as soon as possible, but even that had ceased to matter. The freedom and happiness of life in the early days in Kansas, I think, may not be equalled by anything that these days have to offer.

Women and girls were not many on the frontier and my father, arriving with a family of girls, ours was a popular place. Of course, we were too young to count, but we had to count.

IN SOCIETY.

One of my earliest advents into society was a dance given some miles north of us, at the home of the Messrs. William Spencer and Barney Doyle. And well I remember my wandering search for the hostesses; and remembered even better is the amusement that followed upon my asking, "But where are Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Doyle. Spencer and Doyle were two unattached bachelors keeping house on the prairies and the proprieties of the occasion were unquestioned.

THE OLD HOTEL.

'Tis always around the big hotel in Towanda that memory clings deepest and longest. This hotel, built of native timber by Rev. Isaac Mooney, a kinsman of my father, and who afterward became my father-in-law, was the mecca for travellers and the seat of adventure through the pioneer years of Butler. The house was constantly filled with the merry makings of the young people of the family and the permanent boarders, with, from day o[sic] day, the added excitement of the transient.

It was, for me, so full of attraction and interest that often my father had to come to remind me that it was time to go home. These were not the days of the telephone and easy messages; when a message was to be, it was in person. And not only was my home two miles and a half distance away from the hotel, but a river without bridges ran between.

Unforgotten forever will be one formidable mid-winter afternoon. A party was to be given and I was invited to stay. Never had prospect seemed so alluring nor temptation pressed so heavily, but more effectual than these would be my father's appearance at the hotel that evening. My heart sank. I confided my fears to her who is now Mrs. A. Swiggett and my sister-in-law. "Ciele, I dare not stay," I said. "If he comes, I'll have to go." Now this sister has always been noted for ability to meet distress with brilliant suggestions. This one was that we walk over to my home and get permission to stay, and that we could cross the river on the ice. Now, the river was not solid ice, but floating ice; and except that we both fell in, the flaws in this suggestion might never have been discovered. And just as we waded out on the other side, we met my father coming into town with a load of grain. We had managed to keep our outside skirts dry and my father did not notice our condition. Permission to stay for the party was given as we climbed into the wagon, and we sat on the grain sacks and let the water run off our shoes. Serious? We laughed, and tried to smother it, and laughed again, until my father asked what we two simpletons found so funny. Back at the hotel, we walked gingerly and with care. But we were not noticed. Another sister, Margaret, had fallen from her horse on the way home from school and had gotten her feet wet. Hot blankets and hot drinks were being prepared and Ciele and I joined the forces to help to keep Mag from taking cold. A glance toward each other would send us both from the room. And to the party we gaily went. Now this was not a season of satin slippered parties; we wore our same wet shoes of the afternoon and either sat on our feet or kept them covered with our skirts.

Another adventure of this same class was on an occasion of a flood on the Whitewater. In company with him who is now my husband, we attempted to cross the swollen river by swimming our ponies. This was no unusual feat—many times I had done it alone. But two traveling men were trying to make the crossing in a single buggy and one of these asked me to take his place and let him ride the pony. We all effected a highly successful crossing except the polite young man. He, with my pony blundering and floundering, reached the bank, drenched and shivering.

We stopped to dry him out, at the home of the Ralston boys, kept by their two precise sisters. As we sat by the fire the water began to trickle from him and run around the room in a little rivulet. It was too much for me. I was young and things always were funny. Laugh, I had to and did, much to the disapproval of the precise ladies. The unfortunate young man had also lost his hat. Therefore my gallant escort

galloped up to Towanda, called out his friend, Jim Clark, took Jim's hat off Jim's head without explanation and returned in triumph.

So many funny things happened in that hotel. One afternoon the two sisters, Margaret and Ciele, were chasing one another through the house. Mag made a disappearance and Ciele, following into a bed room, jumped on the outlined form under the bedclothes and pounded vigorously. Then she turned back the bed clothes and discovered—a hotel guest, who, being indisposed, had retired. Poor sister Ciele! not for all the days that that man remained would she once enter the dining room.

ANOTHER TIME.

Horse-back riding was not only an amusement but a means of travel. In this accomplishment I proclaimed proficiency, it having been my youthful pastime in Indiana.

My boasting was met up with, while I was yet a tenderfoot. One evening in Towanda I was persuaded upon a pony also named Towanda and which, I was informed, was a fine rider. We made a fine start and stopped; and nothing I could do would effect another start.

Happening to look back, I discovered a group of heads at various angles, taking note of my plight. Then I knew there was something unusual about the circumstance. Vaguely a remark came to mind that Towanda would not go without spurs. Very hard I thought for a minute. That audience behind me must not get the satisfaction it was expecting. Pride was the mother of my resource. Twisting the pony over to a sunflower, (which was always near), I pulled a flower and filled it with as many pins as I could find about me; with this I gave the pony such a cut that he did not stop again until I reached my father's door. And just now I recall that again, I was going to ask if I might "stay over a little while longer."

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