MY RELATION

MY RELATIONWe camped over Sunday near the home of a distant relative of mine, who had come out west many years before and had been prosperous. He was a great big generous farmer of about seventy-five years, who enjoyed our stories and songs hugely, while he supplied our camp with eggs, ham, chicken, cream and vegetables. One of his neighbors told me a secret about the old man's narrow escape from death, which I have not forgotten.It appears that after his first wife's death, the old chap married a young woman of the neighborhood, who made him an excellent wife, although there was a slight blemish of character on the family from which she came. It seems that before the marriage he had agreed never to twit her about her relation, but had broken over several times, for which she had warned him to desist if he valued his life.One day, as the story went, she was making pies and he was in the kitchen tormenting her, for which she gave him tit for tat until he remarked, "Well, thank the Lord I was reared in a family of God-fearing and law-abiding citizens." She uttered an unprintable phrase, and drew a butcher knife from the table drawer. It was the one which the old gent had often used to slay pigs and calves, but he had never dreamed it would one day be used to wind up his own earthly career.A glance at the keen, ugly blade caused him to unceremoniously discontinue the argument and rush outthe back door crying, "Help! Help!" Knowing the unscrupulous character of the family to which his sweetheart belonged, and the heat to which he had fired her passion, he, without stopping to either pray or swear, lit out for the orchard, hoping to distance his fair pursuer and climb a tree.In this horrid dilemma of running while looking, both before and behind, he forgot about the old unused well without a curb, and just as she was about to plunge the awful knife, he dropped into the well just deep enough to save himself from decapitation."I was one," said the relator, "to help old John out of the well and patch up an armistice, which I think he has held sacred, and twitted his wife no more about her relation."i163OUR EVERYDAY TRANSACTIONS, EXCEPT SUNDAY.HORSE JOCKIESWe had now abandoned our tin peddling business except as a means of settling expense bills, and had become successful horse dealers.Our fine horses gave us a sort of prestige and welcome in traveling over the country. Our lookout for bargains was always in unmanageable young horses, which usually became docile through kind treatment. Of the three brothers, Collins was the best judge of a horse, while Gordon and I were close buyers. Our method was to trade for or buy unmanageable young sound horses and put them on the wheel of a four-horse team. After they had fought and tired themselves out they would come along and soon be working all right. In this way we could tame the ugliest animals and never whip them. Then they were for sale and would please the buyer. Sometimes we had more than one hundred horses, which gave a good selection for the buyer.A few of our men were on good salary, but many were hangers on.Frank Button, from Vermont, was always on hand in the time of trouble. He was kind-hearted, but when on a lark was always looking for the bully of the town. The Aurora papers came out one morning with large headlines, stating that Ben Grim, the "Terror or Terrier" of Aurora, had tackled one of Richardson's horse jockies, named Button, who although appearing like acommon cloth-bound wooden-button, proved to have been brass inside, but it was hoped that Grim would live.At Davenport we camped over Sunday on the river just north of the town, where the Methodist minister (a jolly good fellow) thought to invite us to come and hear him preach. In coming up through the teams he chanced to climb the six-horse van to see how things looked inside. Tiger, the one-eyed brindle pup, could not stand for that, and when we all rushed to see what the stranger was yelling about, we found the minister swinging from the top bar of the Broad Gauge by both hands, while Tiger was swinging from the seat of the minister's pants by his teeth. Our liberal donation for his new pants virtually healed the breach, but that evening, when in his sermon he lauded us for our Christian benevolence and sympathy, he said nothing about the seat of his pants, nor even mentioned the faithfulness of our beloved Tiger.At Evansville I boarded an Ohio River steamer for Louisville, on which there were four colored men, accustomed to singing old plantation melodies at each landing. I took them with us through the hills of old Kentucky for several weeks and we all learned to sing their songs. I am wishing now I could be in that old camp once more, and hear those voices again:"Oh, Dearest May, You're Lovelier Than the Day," "Down on the Old P. D.," "My Old Kentucky Home Far Away," "Darling Nelly Gray," and the like.Prosperity and joy were with us in every way, and never in all our travels did we have a man get severely hurt. We three brothers were strong, athletic and humorous and always made companions of our men.Our foot and horse racing was often exciting. Our last foot race was in Cleveland, Ohio, where after wethree brothers had outdone all the men we ran it off between ourselves on the Lake Shore, where Collins won, but I told him it was just by the length of his nose.Some of us were good marksmen, but when we run on to a backwoodsman in Missouri, who had about a dozen squirrels he had killed that morning, all shot in the eye except one, which was hit in the ear, for which he apologized, as he declared that in the tallest tree he was able to hit ninety-nine out of one hundred in the eye, we boasted no more about our marksmanship.If Frank and Jesse James, the notorious outlaws of the Wild West, ever visited our camp, we did not know it. I visited their old home twice while in Missouri, and listened to their mother's story about her boys she loved so well. At that time the State of Missouri had out rewards, in the aggregate of more than $50,000 for their capture, dead or alive.LANDED IN CHICAGOIn the fall, Collins and Gordon returned to Connecticut, while I, having spent much time in the South, laid up in Cleveland for the winter. They returned to Cleveland in the spring, when at the solicitation of our dear wives we decided to dispose of as many of our teams as possible during the summer and locate permanently in some large city, which we did, and in the fall of 1868, with about 100 horses and seventy-five men, we landed in Chicago.We purchased the northwest corner of Canal and Lake Streets, running to the alley each way. Besides some little stores on Lake Street, there was an immense ice house and a large wooden structure occupied by Garland, Downs & Holmes, as sales station of a carriage manufacturer in Boston. These gave us ample room for all our teams, but before our titles were perfected the city condemned most of the property in opening Dutch Broadway (Milwaukee Avenue) into Lake Street, and although we never came into legal possession of the property the city's appraisement was such that our purchase left us a good bonus besides our occupation of the building for over a year. We then lived over stores on Canal Street, where the Chicago & Northwestern Depot now stands.In 1869 we bought property on both sides of Lake Street, in the second block west of Western Avenue, where we built homes on the south and a factory onthe north side of the street. We then sold our teams, mostly to our men on the installment plan, holding the property in our name until paid for. Then we started manufacturing tinware, working about fifty tinners, selling the ware to those who bought the teams. It was a success. Soon all the teams were off our hands, and the once prolific and romantic business and escapades of the three Richardson brothers had entirely disappeared.In 1872 Collins sold out to Gordon and me, he returning to Connecticut and settling down on a farm.In 1874 we sold out the tin factory, and Gordon, who had always been a lover of fast horses, began dealing in them again.I, who had all the time been exhorting and writing books, entered the Evanston Theological Seminary, preparing for the ministry, but when Dr. H. W. Thomas experienced his troubles with Rock River Conference, I abandoned that course, but kept up, through private instructors, the languages and scientific studies for five years, including one year of experimental astronomy on the great telescope then at Cottage Grove.DR. THOMASThomas' ideas moulded my thoughts into lines of truth. He was a good man, a profound scholar and deep thinker, but lived before his time. The following I copy from his thoughts:THE ORIGIN AND DESTINY OF MANBY H. W. THOMAS, D.D.We say that this is the 12th day of December. We say that this is the year 1870. We say that it is the Sabbath evening, and that we are gathered here in the house of worship. We say that we look into each other's faces, and that you hear my words. But is this a dream, or is it reality? For in the night-time we have often dreamed that we have seen large assemblages; we have heard music and singing; we have listened to sermon or lecture; we have loved, we have hoped, we have wept, we have been glad—and in the morning we have found it was only a dream. There have not been wanting, in our world's history, those who have held that all our day-life is only another kind of a day-dream. And, when we come to think of it, it is not the easiest thing to disprove this. I do not know how to prove that I am here better than just to say so. I do not know how I can be much more certain of the fact than I am of certain facts in my dreams. Yet somehow we feel that there is something more in this life than simply an illusion, and I guess that our senses do not deceive us. The revolving earth is beneath our feet; the heavens are above our heads. But if this be so, how came we here? How and whence did we come? Are we the results of some process of material nature, the fortuitous concurrence of innumerable atoms, or are we the creatures of a living God? Is there an order and a plan about our being? Shall our days end with the autumn and the snow, or will there be a spring time? and shall we wake in the long tomorrow and be forever? Now we may ask, "Is this that we call death the end of our being?" It seems to me, if we get a correct view of death, that it is only another form of birth. Personally, I think that one coming down to a point of dying may find it something like the setting of the sun. Had we never seen the going down of our sun, we would dread the thought of darkness coming on. Men would gather in the deepest alarm as the great orb began to descend in the west. They would gaze anxiously at the last lingering rays on the tree-tops and hilltops. But as the sun gradually disappeared, and darkness began to settle over them, they would see in the distance a twinkling star; and as they looked at this, another would appear, and another, and another, till, as they stood gazing, the whole starry heavens would shine out before them. Instead of the going down of the sun being an eclipse, it only makes visible the splendor of the heavens. So we should go down to dying, thinking of the change as only revealing to us the vaster universe beyond.i170H. W. THOMAS, D. D."I AM GLAD THAT IMMORTALITY IS NOT ONLY A FAITH BUT A GREAT FACT. I AM GLAD THAT WHILE THE SNOWS OF WINTER MAY LIE OVER THE GRAVES OF LOVED ONES, THEIR SPIRITS ARE UP WITH GOD."Socrates, before he died, said he expected soon to be with Homer, and Hesiod, and Orpheus, and Musaius. Cicero apostrophized his departed daughter, and said he would meet her in the realms of the blest. Dante thought to find his Beatrice in the spirit-life.As I stand here, it seems like a dream that I am talking to you in the light of this beautiful room; that the time will soon come when others shall be here and we shall be gone. Yes, my friends, the strange mystery lies before us.EARLY CHICAGOChicago, then about 300,000 inhabitants, was virtually in the hands of the gang. The heelers from the assessors' office boldly reduced the valuation on property to those who stood their assessments for what they called electioneering purposes, while raising the assessment on those who refused to bribe, until the burden on the honest taxpayer became griveous to bear.Cases are said to be on record where two vacant lots lying side by side were assessed, one five times as much as the other, and that not one of our aldermen paid personal property tax, while families whose income was less than $400.00 per year, were heavily assessed on their household effects.John Wentworth ("Long John"), one of Chicago's early mayors, who had fought the Indians at Fort Dearborn, with several other large land holders, refused to pay their taxes until the court of last resort decided they must pay as assessed, but the effect of the attempt was good, for the following year the valuation on real estate was cut down nearly one-half.This so diminished the income of the Cook County wolves that a panic ensued, which incensed the ever-irritable element and finally swelled into anarchy, consummating in the Haymarket Riot, in 1886, in which several officers were maimed or killed, and for which a few of the chief conspiring anarchists were executed, and thus civilization was restored.Good men were then selected for responsible positions, while the dirty constables and rotten, self-elected magistrates, who held courts in extreme corners of the county, where victims were summoned to appear, only to find that judgment had been rendered against them, were at last stamped under the heels of decency.Mr. Story, editor of the Chicago Times, who had amassed a large fortune, as the story ran, became infatuated with a feminine spiritual medium, who acted both as advisor and architect in the construction of a marble mansion on Grand Boulevard, whose apparent cost would have been four times his capital. The warmth of the medium did not offset the chill of old age, and becoming weary, he laid down the burden of life and the mansion was never completed.Philip Hoyne was perhaps then the most noted criminal lawyer in Chicago, and this was the story of how he first became famous.A man had been arrested for horse stealing who had no lawyer and the judge appointed Hoyne, then a young man, to defend him."What shall I do for him?" inquired Hoyne."Clear him if you can," said the judge.Hoyne took the prisoner into the ante-room, used for counsel, and said to him:"Mr. O'Flerity, did you steal the horse?""I did, your honor.""Do you expect to go to the penitentiary?""I do, sir.""Do you want me to clear you?""If you can do it. I swear by the Holy Virgin Mary that I will come to your wake and bring all me relations."Hoyne raised the window and said, "Do you see those woods yonder?""Indade, I do, sir.""Now, I will hold my watch and see how long it takes you to run there."When Hoyne returned to court the judge inquired where his client was."I do not know.""Did I not place him in your charge?""Yes, but you said, 'Clear him if you can,' and the last I saw of him he was entering the woods about two miles away."HORSE RACING IN CHICAGOMr. Billings, the original West Side gas monopolist, had a pacer which could go on the street 2:40 or better, and my brother Gordon drove Tom, the silver-tailed trotter, who could crowd 2:30 very close. Billings lived on Lake Street, near Union Park, while we lived farther west, and we used to race horses nearly every day.One noon, on going home to lunch, Billings tackled us on Washington Street for a race. Tom drawing us two was a little handicapped, so it made the race about an even thing. Billings became so excited that he did not turn off at Sheldon Street, to his home, but kept on through Union Park. When at Robey Street we encountered a fat colored woman and her dog crossing the street. A policeman saw us coming and tried to get her out of the way, but we ran over the whole bunch.We turned right back to the policeman, who knew Billings had been instrumental in getting him his job. He said he was not much hurt, only his shins ached terribly where we had run over them with both wheels. The woman had been rolled over and over in the mud, but she said she did not care, only for her dog.We decided on the officer's advise that it was better to settle the case out of court, so we gave the woman a dollar for her dog. The next noon we had the race over again, and really it was rich to hear Billings and my brother both tell how easily they would have won had not their horses gone into the air.We West Siders had what we called the gentlemen's race track, on the south wing of Central Park (Garfield Park). Every Saturday afternoon many of the prominent men with their wives and fast horses assembled there, one to show the other how easy his horse could do the other fellow's nag up.Mr. Eighmy, a man past 75 years, usually had a fine stepper and he was a good driver. One day in a race of five or six, we could see from the grandstand that on turning into the back stretch they had purposely enclosed the old gent in a pocket, allowing Wrigley with Fly-Away and my brother Gordon with Tom to pass on the outside. Soon we saw the sulky in front and the one at the old gent's side, together with his own, all in a mixup and turning flipflops. When we reached the spot we found them all bruised and bleeding, with their horses loose on the prairie, but the old man was game, and this is what he said:"I ran between them purposely. I knew it would top us all over, but I said to myself, 'Old Eighmy, you haven't long to live at the best, and if you must die you might as well kill a couple of these damn mean cusses for the good of the community, after you're gone.'"Isaac Waxwell and Jim Rawley were forever wrangling. Jim was usually on the judge's stand and Isaac claimed that Jim did not give him a fair show. He certainly should have had a fair show, for it was rich to see him drive in the dead heat; he had a peculiar way of leaning forward and sticking out his elbows so it looked as though he was pushing on the reins.John Brennock, a pioneer packer from the stockyards, was a unique character. He was a big man with a large head, and his mouth was very large in proportion to hishead. Everyone liked Brennock and knew he was rich, for he had told them so. His last resort, in a dead heat, was to bawl so loud as to frighten the other drivers' horses off their feet.HOPEFUL AND RARUSOn the sportsman's track, adjoining ours on the west, national events took place. The race between Hopeful and Rarus was the most exciting of anything which ever took place in those days. About 60,000 people gathered to see the race.The blooded Rarus was a tall six-year-old bay trotter of national fame, from Beldom Brothers' stock farm in California. Hopeful was a chubby little white pacer, from a farm on the New England hills. He was twenty-two years old, and had never been on a race track until that season.Neither horse had ever lost a race, and while the press, from the Atlantic to the Rockies, leaned hopefully towards Hopeful, yet they seemed to think that he was overmatched.The match was really a strife between the people and the sporting fraternity, for horse racing throughout the country had become demoralized to the extent that the gamblers seldom allowed the best horse to win. Therefore, all the people wanted to see the old farmer, with his handsome pet, win the race.It was a delightful October day and not only did the whole city turn out, but thousands came in from the country, to witness the great national race which had long been advertised.Rarus came out first, stepping lively around the mile course and speeding down past the grandstand, whichbrought forth applause, for all admired the Pacific Ranger, who had come to Chicago to win the laurels of the day.When Hopeful came out and paced slowly up past the grandstand he looked one way and the other to those who applauded him with a sort of confident grin, but when he turned at the north end of the home stretch and let loose, the people just yelled and roared, while the women acted as though they would like to hug him in their arms.When lots were chosen and Hopeful won the pole, there was another shout, but it was soon followed by a row in the judge's stand, as there seemed to be a misunderstanding as to who should call time, or give the word to go, but it was finally settled, and the horses appeared for probably the most exciting race ever pulled off on the American continent.At the word "go" they were off and we all craned our necks as they shot around the south bend, Hopeful hugging the pole and Rarus laying on the wheel of his sulky. On the back stretch, Rarus pulled out endeavoring to pass, and our hearts were in our mouths, while the little mountaineer elevated his head a trifle and steadily held the big ranger on the hub until they came under the wire, Hopeful winner, first in three.We were still uneasy, for the impression was prevalent that the blooded animal was a stayer, while Hopeful could not make the second mile as fast as the first, but he still held the pole, and we argued that if Rarus had done his best we were all right.When they came out for the second heat we soon discovered that we were being jockeyed, for several times they came under the wire, neck and neck, and yet werecalled back by the starter, whose neck we wanted to wring, for we knew he was doing it to fuss, worry and tire our Hopeful.The last time they were called back, Rarus turned sooner than usual, and before Hopeful could turn he was at full speed and came under the wire far ahead and got the word "go," which gave him time to swing in and take the pole.A murmur seemed to stifle the friends of Hopeful as the horses swung into the back stretch, where we hoped to see the pacer try to pass, but he steadily hung on the hub, as he had done around the south bend, and continued this all the way around the north bend, when suddenly his driver pulled him out into the center of the home stretch, and the great race was on in dead earnest.We had taken some ladies from the ground into our carriage, so they could see, while I stepped onto the tire of one wheel with my wife, Mary's hand on my neck to keep me from falling. In the excitement she gripped me so hard I can almost feel her hand now.Our position near the judge's stand gave us a full view of the horses as they were coming, with Hopeful's head high and his knees far apart. For a few seconds the silence which seemed to reign was only broken by the seemingly far away sound of the horses' feet on the soft dirt, but soon those at the north started a cheer, which wildly broke along the throng like a wave, as Hopeful steadily poked his nose farther to the front until Rarus flew up into the air, when the news began flashing over the wires into the country that Hopeful had won.Amid the cheers and yells, a ridiculous scene occurredwhich the reader should have witnessed to appreciate. Suddenly in the crowd nearby a gruff voice seemed uttering smothered oaths, while a woman shouted shrieks of terror, as she suddenly appeared above the throng sitting on the top of a man's head, he pawing with both hands to try to get her off, while she was struggling for release.The cause of this strange episode took place something like this: He was a burly, cross-eyed Wolverine, from the tall pine tree country, who came down to bet his hard-earned money on the famous Pacific Coast trotter. During the excitement someone knocked his glasses off, and in order for the cross-eyed man to see to find them he had to put his face near to the ground. She, Mrs. Durgan, a little woman, it seems, when awfully tickled, was accustomed to spat her hands on her knees and run backwards while laughing. When she heard Hopeful had won, forgetting where she was, she indulged in her old habit of running backwards until she sat on his head.When he felt her alight he sprang erect and, of course, not being able to see out or know what was happening, uttered a few excusable oaths. After the good-natured man had found his spectacles he looked pitifully at the woman, who was deluged in a flood of tears, and then turning to me smiled, as he said, "Didn't that beat hell?"That was long, long ago. Should the recording angel call the roll today of those who were there that day, not one in ten would answer, and in a few years all will be silent. Where have they gone, and will they come again?CHICAGO PIETYJim Sackley, an Irishman of merited renown, was living in the neighborhood of Lake Street and Western Avenue, when we arrived in Chicago. He had been a sort of self-appointed constable of the town of Cicero, which he said included all the territory west of Western Avenue.Thompson Brothers at the time were running a general store on Lake Street and, as they were politically inclined, their store seemed to be a gathering place for the worthy aspirants of the neighborhood.One evening Gordon and I were in the store when Tony McGuel, a gentleman from Cork, came in to announce the death of his wife. We all huddled around him in sympathy, for we had not even heard that she was sick. The surroundings of the scene were made all the more pitiful, as it had taken place just before pay day at the car barns, and he needed a little assistance financially, so Hiram and Harvey Thompson headed the subscription list, and soon we had raised quite a respectable sum.Jim Sackley was there and in just the frame of mind to shed sympathy copiously, for it was said that one of his near relatives had recently passed away and he was in communication, at intervals, with the priest, who was still praying her out of purgatory. Not only this, but Jim, although not an Irishman himself, for as he had said his children were all born in this country, yet he had seen the auld sod and, like Joseph and his kinsmen inEgypt, with a five dollar bill in his hand he fell on Tony's neck and they kissed and hugged like mother and babe.Of course, they had both been drinking slightly, which made the tears flow more freely, which so affected us all that we pulled out our linen and wiped away the surplus moisture.After Tony had gone with about $13.00, which Sackley said would only buy the cheapest coffin, Sackley and Harvey Thompson shaved, put on clean shirts, and called at the home to view the corpse and, if necessary, offer prayer, when to their surprise the corpse met them at the door, and said she did not know where Tony was; the last she heard of him he was trying to borrow money to attend a wake down on Canal Street.i186EARLY CHICAGO.PUBLIC CONVEYANCEDuring those days the Chicago Street Railway Company suffered much through what might be called growing pain. The Randolph Street cars turned at Union Park over onto Lake Street, as far as Robey, and there they stopped during the busy hours of morning and evening, only running to their barns on Western Avenue, when they were not in a hurry.Their excuse for not running all their cars to Western Avenue was that they could not afford to carry passengers so far for five cents, as hay was $5.00 a ton and oats twenty-seven cents per bushel, besides the public demanded such extravagant service.The patrons continually murmured about the cars being cold in winter, so the company filled into each car about a foot of loose straw to keep feet warm. This did not work, for the ladies' skirts dragged in the mud and tobacco spittle, and as a result our common council rashly passed an ordinance requiring the company to heat their cars.The company's first impression was that it could be done with hot water bags, which the wise city fathers rejected, so the company turned to red hot iron. They made receptacles at intervals under the seats, where they carried hot iron, which they exchanged, the cold for the hot, at the return of each trip. This could hardly be considered a success, for if one set over where there was no heat the chills would creep up his spinal column,while if he sat over a fresh hot slab he was in danger of being blistered, but the ordinance had been obeyed, and the company was proud of their West Side horse car line until the cruel hand of competition disturbed their sweet repose.A wide awake German by the name of Kolbe bought up the old North Shore buss line and furnished it with much better horses than the railroad company were using and started in to carry passengers over the same route for four-cent fare.At first the railroad company ignored Mr. Kolbe, but soon reduced their fare to four cents, and even at that the busses got all the passengers, for they were driven faster.Now the fun began. The company ordered their drivers to make the trip as fast as the omnibusses, or they would be discharged, while Kolbe gave orders to his drivers to outdo the company. This gave the passengers, whose destination was State Street, regular joy rides, but those who attempted to get on or off along the route, took their lives in their hands. During the heat of excitement, Kolbe dropped the fare to three cents, which the company followed. Even at this, the more frisky passengers continued to patronize the buss line, leaving only a few grandfathers and gentle dames to ride in the cars. This dropped the fare to two cents, when the company bought Kolbe out, paying him a fabulous price for his old bus line, in railroad stock, which now advanced rapidly, and thus the wide awake German made a handsome fortune.In 1877 Gordon and I opened up a factory just east of the river, on Lake Street. In 1882 we sold our homes on West Lake Street, and built on Washington Boulevard, he at the southwest corner of Albany Avenue, and I at the southeast corner of Francisco Street.i190BOULEVARD HOME OF MY BROTHER G. M.RIGHT TO LEFT. G. M., ELMER, PERRIN, ELLA, LAWRANCE, GERTIE, MERRICK, GEORGE, AMANDA.We continued partners until 1885, when we dissolved, he remaining at the old stand and I starting in the same line on Lake Street, just west of State Street, where through damage by water from an adjacent fire, I lost heavily and made a bad failure. Soon I picked up again and in 1890 bought the northwest corner of Washington Boulevard and Curtis Street, and erected a six-story factory and began manufacturing on a more extensive scale.MY ATHLETIC EXPLOITSI mention with pride the physical strength and agility with which I was born, and which sustains me still. Equestrianship came into vogue in western cities in about 1885, and was kept up until bicycles came out. At one period I kept four saddle horses for the use of my family. Like other horse fanciers, I carried it to the extreme. For over two years, summer and winter, wet or dry, I mounted my pet horse, Deacon, at four o'clock in the morning, and rode ten to thirty miles before breakfast. I also had a vicious horse—Blackhawk—who objected to the saddle, which I took out occasionally, just for the fun. Often with me in the saddle he would rear up and come over on his back, which, when I felt him going, I would swing around and land on my feet, then mount him again when he was springing up. When I gave him the spurs he would kick, only to get the spurs again when his heels came down, and sometimes we both went over the sidewalk into the ditch, which I enjoyed, for I never got hurt.In 1895 the bicycle craze came on, and we all left our horses and mounted wheels. I objected to the wheel at first, but when my son, Arthur, brought me a wheel to the factory and insisted that I should try it. I did, and made lots of sport for the hands who were watching me trying to mount, for whenever I lost my balance I would throw the wheel against the curbstone.That evening Arthur and Walton Aborn gave me alesson in the dark, and the next day I could ride—that was if all the gates were closed—but when I saw one open I somehow seemed to start right for it, often to the disgust of some dignified old gentleman or frowning lady, who were scrambling for their lives to get out of my way and wondering what I was trying to do.About the third day I started before daybreak for my brother's summer cottage at Twin Lakes, Wis., about sixty-five miles northwest of Chicago. I arrived about noon, but, oh, the summersaults I did take. Honestly, when I got there, there was scarcely an inch on the wheel where the varnish was not scratched, or any very large patches on my legs where the skin was presentable, for when I took a heels over head into the wayside, the bark usually got scraped off of either the saplings or me. The next day I took a 100-mile circuitous route home, and then for a day was under the care of Dr. Chamberlain, my son-in-law, who was bound to have my picture taken, which I stubbornly declined, but now I wish I had it.MY FIRST HUNDRED MILE RUNMy son, Arthur, then famous as one of the long distance riders of the west, got up a party of about twenty aspirants to take over the 100-mile Elgin and Aurora course at a breakneck speed. I was not fitted for such a run, but I fell in and we were all off at about five o'clock in the morning.The wind blew almost a gale in our faces and before we reached Elgin all had dropped out but Walton Aborn, Jim Carroll, Billy Push, Arthur and myself.Down the Fox River Arthur increased the pace to that extent that Billy threw himself into the shade of a barn and refused to budge, so we left him there.On the home run from Aurora, Jim Carroll declared his intention not to alight, as was customary at the S. Hill, but ride his wheel down, a feat which Arthur told him no fatigued rider should attempt.We fell back and let him lead, and held our breath as he shot out of sight around the first corner at a thirty-mile pace.When we turned the corner hoping to see Jim far away across the Skunkamunk Valley, we discovered a swath in the roadside down through the underbrush, briers and brambles nearly to the foot of the hill. At the end of the swath under an immense heap of rubbish we found Jim and his wheel, he blinking like a toad under a harrow.i196OUR WASHINGTON BOULEVARD HOME IN THE DAYS WHEN THE SADDLE HORSE CRAZE WAS ON.LEFT TO RIGHT. ALBERTA, MERRICK, BARNEY, MARY, MINNIE, ARTHUR, ARTHUR ASTRIDE THE DEACON, MY FAVORITE.Jim groaned and grunted and finally told us he did not think he was dead, but his back was probably broken. We soon had him on his feet with his wheel righted and was pleased to learn that, with the exception of the few tufts of hair and chunks of hide left in the trail where he had slidden down, he was the same man, only his eyes were so full of gravel that he could not see.He now proposed to take a bath in the creek in order to find out just how much skin he had left on his body. For this purpose he attempted to crawl under the barbed wire fence, into which his clothes got caught in such a way that he could neither raise up nor let down, back out or push forward, work his pants off, or keep his shirt on.When we began to laugh and roar, Jim began to swear and cry, and said if we would go on about our own business he would get out and come home when he got good and ready.Now there were only three of us, and Arthur lit out, leaving Walton and myself to come as fast as we could. We got into a mixup and both took headers over our wheels, when we sung out to Arthur to come back and help us.When he returned I showed deep regret that my wheel was broken, for, of course, I was not much tired, but when he pronounced both wheels in good running order, I felt awfully, for I would have given most anything for an excuse to go no farther.Arthur now encouraged us by saying he would run on a while and then wait for us, so we took it steady, and in some way got past him. Then we sat down in the shade and waited, for we did not want to report at the club house that we had left him in the country, for fear they would blame us. We finally started on and came slowly, stopping in every shade, waiting for Arthur, untilwe reached Garfield Park, where we met Minnie, my eldest daughter, with Dr. Chamberlain, her husband, and Alberta, my next, with her husband, George Carlson, together with several other neighbors, all riding their wheels, who laughed at us and said Arthur arrived home about three hours before.i200CYCLING RUN TO SOUTH PARK. THE LOWER LEFT-HAND LADIES AN INTERESTING TRIO. LEFT TO RIGHT, LOTTIE SOPER, ALLIE OLIVER AND LUCY NEWELL. TWO TALLEST MEN IN BACK, CHARLIE SOPER AND CHARLIE NEWELL.ARTHUR'S AND WALTON'S LONG RUNThe next summer Arthur and Walton made their famous ride through to Crystal Lake, Conn. Here is an outline of their exploit, which was considered a great achievement, considering the rainy weather and the rough roads they encountered between Chicago and Toledo and between Silver Creek and Memphis, N. Y.Here I reproduce the letters which Arthur sent back while on the road:Perrysburg, Ohio, June 17, 1896.Dear Father:—Walton and I were very much surprised at the end of our first day's ride at Mishawaka, Ind., to read in the Tribune so much about your winning the 100-mile race over all the crack Illinois bicycle riders. The paper was shown us by our friends at Mishawaka, and at first we thought there was a mistake that father had won the closely contested race, but Walton said: "No use talking, Uncle Merrick is fast—but it is not all in his legs; it is his indomitable will power that wins." Then we pictured to ourselves the occasion and "he 55 years old," said I. "Well, God gave him a strong constitution, and he has taken care of it."Batavia, N. Y., June 19, 1896.Dear Folks at Home:—This letter is especially for mother, Minnie and Bertie, while the ones about bicycle riding go to father.We are stopping here at Uncle John's at Batavia, and the rest is very welcome. We were mighty tired and this is the first day we have had a chance to rest since we left home.I tell you, mother, I have a couple of fine cousins in Carrie and Ida. I don't think Walton will ever forget Ida's kindness. He was so sore from riding his wheel that when he got here he couldn't sit down. He had to sleep standing, but Ida made him the dandiest pillow and sewed it on to his bicycle saddle, so poor Walton is all right now.We are going to see Grandmother Hoyt at Elba tomorrow. You know it is only six miles north. Well, mother, the Hoyts are all in good standing around here, and I feel mighty proud of you all. Aunt Alida seems young as ever, and the bloom of youth is on her cheek. But, say, you would think I was writing a novel, wouldn't you?Uncle John and I sat up nearly all night, and he certainly told me some very interesting things about the Hoyts and Deweys, and many incidents of you in your childhood days, when you lived in Rochester, before you came to Pine Hill. He says the childhood home of Grandfather Hoyt was at Hudson, on the Hudson River, and that his family came from Danbury, Connecticut. Grandmother Hoyt was a Dewey from Ohio, and her father was from Watertown, N. Y., whose ancestors sprang from the Herkimer County Mohawk Dutch.Now, why can't we claim a connecting link, for we all know that my great grandfather, John Richardson's brother, Gershom, moved from Stafford, Connecticut, to Watertown, N. Y., and I have heard father say that he, Warren Richardson, my grandfather, with some other men, walked up to Watertown one winter, over 300 miles, and staid a month or so with their cousins. They were a large family.i204NORTH SHORE, LOON LAKE, WINONA GROVE.I wish Uncle John lived where I could see him often. He is so full of information on all subjects, that I just love to talk with him. It made me laugh when he told me about how you, Ellen Wilder, Mary Robe and Mary Raymond, actually carried old Pine Hill by storm several winters.Then he got to talking about the war and I really cried when he described the battle of Cold Harbor, June 3, 1864. Just think of it, four brothers—John, Sylvester, and the twins, Edwin and Edward—standing there at daylight waiting for the order to charge the enemy's breast works. Uncle John said that they all thought it meant death. Colonel Porter must have been a brave man; he stood in front and said, "Boys, this is our last charge, but we are going to obey orders." He unwisely wore his uniform in leading; Uncle John said that he hadn't gone thirty feet before he was pierced with seven or eight bullets.Uncle John was captured and sent to Salisbury prison for nearly two years. When he came out his mother said he looked like a monkey. He only weighed seventy-nine pounds. Sylvester was shot in the thigh, Edwin was shot through the lungs, and poor Edward; we have never heard from him. Wasn't that an awful price for your family to pay for the Union? Uncle said "that from 1,900 of us boys of that 22d New York Heavy Artillery, over 600 were killed in half an hour, and at the next roll call at Reams Station, only nineteen men of the regiment answered the call."Well, I can't write any more. Walton has alreadygone to bed and we have got to start at four o'clock tomorrow morning. We expect to visit Uncle Sherman at Rochester tomorrow. We are in the best of spirits, and the way we have been going so far we ought to make Connecticut in about twelve or thirteen days from Chicago.Walton and I are awfully proud of father for winning the Century from all the fast boys of the Cycling Club, but we don't pride ourselves on these short spurts. Our specialty is thousand-mile affairs, and if he wants to race us he has got to race the whole thousand. Good night.Your loving son,————Arthur.Rochester, N. Y., June 21, 1896.Dear Father:—We called on our Uncle Sherman Richardson, and he was very proud of us, introducing us to many of his friends, saying that the blood in our veins was the same as ran in his, and that showed the kind of stuff his family was made of. I received your letter at Cleveland, telling us about your century run, and advising us to reserve our strength until we reached your time of life. It naturally stiffened our backbone for the remaining part of our ride.Memphis, N. Y., June 24, 1896.Dear Father:—I must write just a word, for Walton has had a lucky escape. We were pushing along sleepily today when a big Newfoundland dog came near killing Walton. I looked around just in time to see Walton plunge over an embankment into a snarl of milkweeds, briars and rocks, head down, with his wheel on top of him. He saidthe dog barked so fiercely that when he made the plunge he actually thought he felt the ugly beast's breath on the seat of his pants. We soon discovered that the dog was tied to a tree, so we went about to repair his wheel. The front wheel must have been caught between two rocks, when Walton's weight on it (for a frightened man weighs heavy) doubled up the forks like a jack knife. We got a blacksmith to heat and hammer it out and now both Walton and the wheel are in a good ridable condition, and we shall light out again early in the morning. Are you getting my postals, which I am sending back from every town? This is to prove to the club boys that we rode to Connecticut on our wheels and not on the train.Crystal Lake, Conn., June 28, 1896.Dear Father:—We arrived here this evening, having made the run, 1,017 miles, in thirteen days and this is our record:Mishawaka, Ind.,110milesEdgerton, Ohio,90"Perrysburg, Ohio,68"Wakeman, Ohio,70"Willoughby, Ohio,69"Erie, Pa.,82"Silver Creek, N. Y.,61"Batavia, N. Y.,70"Palmyra, N. Y.,63"Memphis, N. Y.,50"Little Falls, N. Y.,89"Nassau, N. Y.,88"Crystal Lake, Conn.,107"——1,017milesOur last day was the most severe we experienced. There was a drizzling rain all day, in which we rode from Nassau, and, of course, you know we had to zigzag over the Green Mountains.We stopped a few moments to see Uncle Epaphro and Aunt Adelia and she gave us the first free lunch we had had since we left Batavia. When we arrived here Uncle Lucius and Aunt Caroline were surprised to see us looking so well. Then to prove to them that we were well as we looked Walton and I turned hand-springs on the grass in the front yard, and now we are going to bed. Good-night, remember me to the boys, and kiss all the girls for me that are worth kissing.Affectionately, your son,Arthur.P. S.—Uncle Collins says the mountains, wildwoods, brooks, lakes and meadows around your old home are still teeming with fruit, flowers, song birds, wild game, and shy fish. He says to tell you to come down and take a good rest.

MY RELATIONWe camped over Sunday near the home of a distant relative of mine, who had come out west many years before and had been prosperous. He was a great big generous farmer of about seventy-five years, who enjoyed our stories and songs hugely, while he supplied our camp with eggs, ham, chicken, cream and vegetables. One of his neighbors told me a secret about the old man's narrow escape from death, which I have not forgotten.It appears that after his first wife's death, the old chap married a young woman of the neighborhood, who made him an excellent wife, although there was a slight blemish of character on the family from which she came. It seems that before the marriage he had agreed never to twit her about her relation, but had broken over several times, for which she had warned him to desist if he valued his life.One day, as the story went, she was making pies and he was in the kitchen tormenting her, for which she gave him tit for tat until he remarked, "Well, thank the Lord I was reared in a family of God-fearing and law-abiding citizens." She uttered an unprintable phrase, and drew a butcher knife from the table drawer. It was the one which the old gent had often used to slay pigs and calves, but he had never dreamed it would one day be used to wind up his own earthly career.A glance at the keen, ugly blade caused him to unceremoniously discontinue the argument and rush outthe back door crying, "Help! Help!" Knowing the unscrupulous character of the family to which his sweetheart belonged, and the heat to which he had fired her passion, he, without stopping to either pray or swear, lit out for the orchard, hoping to distance his fair pursuer and climb a tree.In this horrid dilemma of running while looking, both before and behind, he forgot about the old unused well without a curb, and just as she was about to plunge the awful knife, he dropped into the well just deep enough to save himself from decapitation."I was one," said the relator, "to help old John out of the well and patch up an armistice, which I think he has held sacred, and twitted his wife no more about her relation."i163OUR EVERYDAY TRANSACTIONS, EXCEPT SUNDAY.

We camped over Sunday near the home of a distant relative of mine, who had come out west many years before and had been prosperous. He was a great big generous farmer of about seventy-five years, who enjoyed our stories and songs hugely, while he supplied our camp with eggs, ham, chicken, cream and vegetables. One of his neighbors told me a secret about the old man's narrow escape from death, which I have not forgotten.

It appears that after his first wife's death, the old chap married a young woman of the neighborhood, who made him an excellent wife, although there was a slight blemish of character on the family from which she came. It seems that before the marriage he had agreed never to twit her about her relation, but had broken over several times, for which she had warned him to desist if he valued his life.

One day, as the story went, she was making pies and he was in the kitchen tormenting her, for which she gave him tit for tat until he remarked, "Well, thank the Lord I was reared in a family of God-fearing and law-abiding citizens." She uttered an unprintable phrase, and drew a butcher knife from the table drawer. It was the one which the old gent had often used to slay pigs and calves, but he had never dreamed it would one day be used to wind up his own earthly career.

A glance at the keen, ugly blade caused him to unceremoniously discontinue the argument and rush outthe back door crying, "Help! Help!" Knowing the unscrupulous character of the family to which his sweetheart belonged, and the heat to which he had fired her passion, he, without stopping to either pray or swear, lit out for the orchard, hoping to distance his fair pursuer and climb a tree.

In this horrid dilemma of running while looking, both before and behind, he forgot about the old unused well without a curb, and just as she was about to plunge the awful knife, he dropped into the well just deep enough to save himself from decapitation.

"I was one," said the relator, "to help old John out of the well and patch up an armistice, which I think he has held sacred, and twitted his wife no more about her relation."

i163

OUR EVERYDAY TRANSACTIONS, EXCEPT SUNDAY.

OUR EVERYDAY TRANSACTIONS, EXCEPT SUNDAY.

OUR EVERYDAY TRANSACTIONS, EXCEPT SUNDAY.

HORSE JOCKIESWe had now abandoned our tin peddling business except as a means of settling expense bills, and had become successful horse dealers.Our fine horses gave us a sort of prestige and welcome in traveling over the country. Our lookout for bargains was always in unmanageable young horses, which usually became docile through kind treatment. Of the three brothers, Collins was the best judge of a horse, while Gordon and I were close buyers. Our method was to trade for or buy unmanageable young sound horses and put them on the wheel of a four-horse team. After they had fought and tired themselves out they would come along and soon be working all right. In this way we could tame the ugliest animals and never whip them. Then they were for sale and would please the buyer. Sometimes we had more than one hundred horses, which gave a good selection for the buyer.A few of our men were on good salary, but many were hangers on.Frank Button, from Vermont, was always on hand in the time of trouble. He was kind-hearted, but when on a lark was always looking for the bully of the town. The Aurora papers came out one morning with large headlines, stating that Ben Grim, the "Terror or Terrier" of Aurora, had tackled one of Richardson's horse jockies, named Button, who although appearing like acommon cloth-bound wooden-button, proved to have been brass inside, but it was hoped that Grim would live.At Davenport we camped over Sunday on the river just north of the town, where the Methodist minister (a jolly good fellow) thought to invite us to come and hear him preach. In coming up through the teams he chanced to climb the six-horse van to see how things looked inside. Tiger, the one-eyed brindle pup, could not stand for that, and when we all rushed to see what the stranger was yelling about, we found the minister swinging from the top bar of the Broad Gauge by both hands, while Tiger was swinging from the seat of the minister's pants by his teeth. Our liberal donation for his new pants virtually healed the breach, but that evening, when in his sermon he lauded us for our Christian benevolence and sympathy, he said nothing about the seat of his pants, nor even mentioned the faithfulness of our beloved Tiger.At Evansville I boarded an Ohio River steamer for Louisville, on which there were four colored men, accustomed to singing old plantation melodies at each landing. I took them with us through the hills of old Kentucky for several weeks and we all learned to sing their songs. I am wishing now I could be in that old camp once more, and hear those voices again:"Oh, Dearest May, You're Lovelier Than the Day," "Down on the Old P. D.," "My Old Kentucky Home Far Away," "Darling Nelly Gray," and the like.Prosperity and joy were with us in every way, and never in all our travels did we have a man get severely hurt. We three brothers were strong, athletic and humorous and always made companions of our men.Our foot and horse racing was often exciting. Our last foot race was in Cleveland, Ohio, where after wethree brothers had outdone all the men we ran it off between ourselves on the Lake Shore, where Collins won, but I told him it was just by the length of his nose.Some of us were good marksmen, but when we run on to a backwoodsman in Missouri, who had about a dozen squirrels he had killed that morning, all shot in the eye except one, which was hit in the ear, for which he apologized, as he declared that in the tallest tree he was able to hit ninety-nine out of one hundred in the eye, we boasted no more about our marksmanship.If Frank and Jesse James, the notorious outlaws of the Wild West, ever visited our camp, we did not know it. I visited their old home twice while in Missouri, and listened to their mother's story about her boys she loved so well. At that time the State of Missouri had out rewards, in the aggregate of more than $50,000 for their capture, dead or alive.

We had now abandoned our tin peddling business except as a means of settling expense bills, and had become successful horse dealers.

Our fine horses gave us a sort of prestige and welcome in traveling over the country. Our lookout for bargains was always in unmanageable young horses, which usually became docile through kind treatment. Of the three brothers, Collins was the best judge of a horse, while Gordon and I were close buyers. Our method was to trade for or buy unmanageable young sound horses and put them on the wheel of a four-horse team. After they had fought and tired themselves out they would come along and soon be working all right. In this way we could tame the ugliest animals and never whip them. Then they were for sale and would please the buyer. Sometimes we had more than one hundred horses, which gave a good selection for the buyer.

A few of our men were on good salary, but many were hangers on.

Frank Button, from Vermont, was always on hand in the time of trouble. He was kind-hearted, but when on a lark was always looking for the bully of the town. The Aurora papers came out one morning with large headlines, stating that Ben Grim, the "Terror or Terrier" of Aurora, had tackled one of Richardson's horse jockies, named Button, who although appearing like acommon cloth-bound wooden-button, proved to have been brass inside, but it was hoped that Grim would live.

At Davenport we camped over Sunday on the river just north of the town, where the Methodist minister (a jolly good fellow) thought to invite us to come and hear him preach. In coming up through the teams he chanced to climb the six-horse van to see how things looked inside. Tiger, the one-eyed brindle pup, could not stand for that, and when we all rushed to see what the stranger was yelling about, we found the minister swinging from the top bar of the Broad Gauge by both hands, while Tiger was swinging from the seat of the minister's pants by his teeth. Our liberal donation for his new pants virtually healed the breach, but that evening, when in his sermon he lauded us for our Christian benevolence and sympathy, he said nothing about the seat of his pants, nor even mentioned the faithfulness of our beloved Tiger.

At Evansville I boarded an Ohio River steamer for Louisville, on which there were four colored men, accustomed to singing old plantation melodies at each landing. I took them with us through the hills of old Kentucky for several weeks and we all learned to sing their songs. I am wishing now I could be in that old camp once more, and hear those voices again:

"Oh, Dearest May, You're Lovelier Than the Day," "Down on the Old P. D.," "My Old Kentucky Home Far Away," "Darling Nelly Gray," and the like.

Prosperity and joy were with us in every way, and never in all our travels did we have a man get severely hurt. We three brothers were strong, athletic and humorous and always made companions of our men.

Our foot and horse racing was often exciting. Our last foot race was in Cleveland, Ohio, where after wethree brothers had outdone all the men we ran it off between ourselves on the Lake Shore, where Collins won, but I told him it was just by the length of his nose.

Some of us were good marksmen, but when we run on to a backwoodsman in Missouri, who had about a dozen squirrels he had killed that morning, all shot in the eye except one, which was hit in the ear, for which he apologized, as he declared that in the tallest tree he was able to hit ninety-nine out of one hundred in the eye, we boasted no more about our marksmanship.

If Frank and Jesse James, the notorious outlaws of the Wild West, ever visited our camp, we did not know it. I visited their old home twice while in Missouri, and listened to their mother's story about her boys she loved so well. At that time the State of Missouri had out rewards, in the aggregate of more than $50,000 for their capture, dead or alive.

LANDED IN CHICAGOIn the fall, Collins and Gordon returned to Connecticut, while I, having spent much time in the South, laid up in Cleveland for the winter. They returned to Cleveland in the spring, when at the solicitation of our dear wives we decided to dispose of as many of our teams as possible during the summer and locate permanently in some large city, which we did, and in the fall of 1868, with about 100 horses and seventy-five men, we landed in Chicago.We purchased the northwest corner of Canal and Lake Streets, running to the alley each way. Besides some little stores on Lake Street, there was an immense ice house and a large wooden structure occupied by Garland, Downs & Holmes, as sales station of a carriage manufacturer in Boston. These gave us ample room for all our teams, but before our titles were perfected the city condemned most of the property in opening Dutch Broadway (Milwaukee Avenue) into Lake Street, and although we never came into legal possession of the property the city's appraisement was such that our purchase left us a good bonus besides our occupation of the building for over a year. We then lived over stores on Canal Street, where the Chicago & Northwestern Depot now stands.In 1869 we bought property on both sides of Lake Street, in the second block west of Western Avenue, where we built homes on the south and a factory onthe north side of the street. We then sold our teams, mostly to our men on the installment plan, holding the property in our name until paid for. Then we started manufacturing tinware, working about fifty tinners, selling the ware to those who bought the teams. It was a success. Soon all the teams were off our hands, and the once prolific and romantic business and escapades of the three Richardson brothers had entirely disappeared.In 1872 Collins sold out to Gordon and me, he returning to Connecticut and settling down on a farm.In 1874 we sold out the tin factory, and Gordon, who had always been a lover of fast horses, began dealing in them again.I, who had all the time been exhorting and writing books, entered the Evanston Theological Seminary, preparing for the ministry, but when Dr. H. W. Thomas experienced his troubles with Rock River Conference, I abandoned that course, but kept up, through private instructors, the languages and scientific studies for five years, including one year of experimental astronomy on the great telescope then at Cottage Grove.

In the fall, Collins and Gordon returned to Connecticut, while I, having spent much time in the South, laid up in Cleveland for the winter. They returned to Cleveland in the spring, when at the solicitation of our dear wives we decided to dispose of as many of our teams as possible during the summer and locate permanently in some large city, which we did, and in the fall of 1868, with about 100 horses and seventy-five men, we landed in Chicago.

We purchased the northwest corner of Canal and Lake Streets, running to the alley each way. Besides some little stores on Lake Street, there was an immense ice house and a large wooden structure occupied by Garland, Downs & Holmes, as sales station of a carriage manufacturer in Boston. These gave us ample room for all our teams, but before our titles were perfected the city condemned most of the property in opening Dutch Broadway (Milwaukee Avenue) into Lake Street, and although we never came into legal possession of the property the city's appraisement was such that our purchase left us a good bonus besides our occupation of the building for over a year. We then lived over stores on Canal Street, where the Chicago & Northwestern Depot now stands.

In 1869 we bought property on both sides of Lake Street, in the second block west of Western Avenue, where we built homes on the south and a factory onthe north side of the street. We then sold our teams, mostly to our men on the installment plan, holding the property in our name until paid for. Then we started manufacturing tinware, working about fifty tinners, selling the ware to those who bought the teams. It was a success. Soon all the teams were off our hands, and the once prolific and romantic business and escapades of the three Richardson brothers had entirely disappeared.

In 1872 Collins sold out to Gordon and me, he returning to Connecticut and settling down on a farm.

In 1874 we sold out the tin factory, and Gordon, who had always been a lover of fast horses, began dealing in them again.

I, who had all the time been exhorting and writing books, entered the Evanston Theological Seminary, preparing for the ministry, but when Dr. H. W. Thomas experienced his troubles with Rock River Conference, I abandoned that course, but kept up, through private instructors, the languages and scientific studies for five years, including one year of experimental astronomy on the great telescope then at Cottage Grove.

DR. THOMASThomas' ideas moulded my thoughts into lines of truth. He was a good man, a profound scholar and deep thinker, but lived before his time. The following I copy from his thoughts:THE ORIGIN AND DESTINY OF MANBY H. W. THOMAS, D.D.We say that this is the 12th day of December. We say that this is the year 1870. We say that it is the Sabbath evening, and that we are gathered here in the house of worship. We say that we look into each other's faces, and that you hear my words. But is this a dream, or is it reality? For in the night-time we have often dreamed that we have seen large assemblages; we have heard music and singing; we have listened to sermon or lecture; we have loved, we have hoped, we have wept, we have been glad—and in the morning we have found it was only a dream. There have not been wanting, in our world's history, those who have held that all our day-life is only another kind of a day-dream. And, when we come to think of it, it is not the easiest thing to disprove this. I do not know how to prove that I am here better than just to say so. I do not know how I can be much more certain of the fact than I am of certain facts in my dreams. Yet somehow we feel that there is something more in this life than simply an illusion, and I guess that our senses do not deceive us. The revolving earth is beneath our feet; the heavens are above our heads. But if this be so, how came we here? How and whence did we come? Are we the results of some process of material nature, the fortuitous concurrence of innumerable atoms, or are we the creatures of a living God? Is there an order and a plan about our being? Shall our days end with the autumn and the snow, or will there be a spring time? and shall we wake in the long tomorrow and be forever? Now we may ask, "Is this that we call death the end of our being?" It seems to me, if we get a correct view of death, that it is only another form of birth. Personally, I think that one coming down to a point of dying may find it something like the setting of the sun. Had we never seen the going down of our sun, we would dread the thought of darkness coming on. Men would gather in the deepest alarm as the great orb began to descend in the west. They would gaze anxiously at the last lingering rays on the tree-tops and hilltops. But as the sun gradually disappeared, and darkness began to settle over them, they would see in the distance a twinkling star; and as they looked at this, another would appear, and another, and another, till, as they stood gazing, the whole starry heavens would shine out before them. Instead of the going down of the sun being an eclipse, it only makes visible the splendor of the heavens. So we should go down to dying, thinking of the change as only revealing to us the vaster universe beyond.i170H. W. THOMAS, D. D."I AM GLAD THAT IMMORTALITY IS NOT ONLY A FAITH BUT A GREAT FACT. I AM GLAD THAT WHILE THE SNOWS OF WINTER MAY LIE OVER THE GRAVES OF LOVED ONES, THEIR SPIRITS ARE UP WITH GOD."Socrates, before he died, said he expected soon to be with Homer, and Hesiod, and Orpheus, and Musaius. Cicero apostrophized his departed daughter, and said he would meet her in the realms of the blest. Dante thought to find his Beatrice in the spirit-life.As I stand here, it seems like a dream that I am talking to you in the light of this beautiful room; that the time will soon come when others shall be here and we shall be gone. Yes, my friends, the strange mystery lies before us.

Thomas' ideas moulded my thoughts into lines of truth. He was a good man, a profound scholar and deep thinker, but lived before his time. The following I copy from his thoughts:

THE ORIGIN AND DESTINY OF MAN

BY H. W. THOMAS, D.D.

We say that this is the 12th day of December. We say that this is the year 1870. We say that it is the Sabbath evening, and that we are gathered here in the house of worship. We say that we look into each other's faces, and that you hear my words. But is this a dream, or is it reality? For in the night-time we have often dreamed that we have seen large assemblages; we have heard music and singing; we have listened to sermon or lecture; we have loved, we have hoped, we have wept, we have been glad—and in the morning we have found it was only a dream. There have not been wanting, in our world's history, those who have held that all our day-life is only another kind of a day-dream. And, when we come to think of it, it is not the easiest thing to disprove this. I do not know how to prove that I am here better than just to say so. I do not know how I can be much more certain of the fact than I am of certain facts in my dreams. Yet somehow we feel that there is something more in this life than simply an illusion, and I guess that our senses do not deceive us. The revolving earth is beneath our feet; the heavens are above our heads. But if this be so, how came we here? How and whence did we come? Are we the results of some process of material nature, the fortuitous concurrence of innumerable atoms, or are we the creatures of a living God? Is there an order and a plan about our being? Shall our days end with the autumn and the snow, or will there be a spring time? and shall we wake in the long tomorrow and be forever? Now we may ask, "Is this that we call death the end of our being?" It seems to me, if we get a correct view of death, that it is only another form of birth. Personally, I think that one coming down to a point of dying may find it something like the setting of the sun. Had we never seen the going down of our sun, we would dread the thought of darkness coming on. Men would gather in the deepest alarm as the great orb began to descend in the west. They would gaze anxiously at the last lingering rays on the tree-tops and hilltops. But as the sun gradually disappeared, and darkness began to settle over them, they would see in the distance a twinkling star; and as they looked at this, another would appear, and another, and another, till, as they stood gazing, the whole starry heavens would shine out before them. Instead of the going down of the sun being an eclipse, it only makes visible the splendor of the heavens. So we should go down to dying, thinking of the change as only revealing to us the vaster universe beyond.

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H. W. THOMAS, D. D."I AM GLAD THAT IMMORTALITY IS NOT ONLY A FAITH BUT A GREAT FACT. I AM GLAD THAT WHILE THE SNOWS OF WINTER MAY LIE OVER THE GRAVES OF LOVED ONES, THEIR SPIRITS ARE UP WITH GOD."

H. W. THOMAS, D. D."I AM GLAD THAT IMMORTALITY IS NOT ONLY A FAITH BUT A GREAT FACT. I AM GLAD THAT WHILE THE SNOWS OF WINTER MAY LIE OVER THE GRAVES OF LOVED ONES, THEIR SPIRITS ARE UP WITH GOD."

H. W. THOMAS, D. D."I AM GLAD THAT IMMORTALITY IS NOT ONLY A FAITH BUT A GREAT FACT. I AM GLAD THAT WHILE THE SNOWS OF WINTER MAY LIE OVER THE GRAVES OF LOVED ONES, THEIR SPIRITS ARE UP WITH GOD."

Socrates, before he died, said he expected soon to be with Homer, and Hesiod, and Orpheus, and Musaius. Cicero apostrophized his departed daughter, and said he would meet her in the realms of the blest. Dante thought to find his Beatrice in the spirit-life.

As I stand here, it seems like a dream that I am talking to you in the light of this beautiful room; that the time will soon come when others shall be here and we shall be gone. Yes, my friends, the strange mystery lies before us.

EARLY CHICAGOChicago, then about 300,000 inhabitants, was virtually in the hands of the gang. The heelers from the assessors' office boldly reduced the valuation on property to those who stood their assessments for what they called electioneering purposes, while raising the assessment on those who refused to bribe, until the burden on the honest taxpayer became griveous to bear.Cases are said to be on record where two vacant lots lying side by side were assessed, one five times as much as the other, and that not one of our aldermen paid personal property tax, while families whose income was less than $400.00 per year, were heavily assessed on their household effects.John Wentworth ("Long John"), one of Chicago's early mayors, who had fought the Indians at Fort Dearborn, with several other large land holders, refused to pay their taxes until the court of last resort decided they must pay as assessed, but the effect of the attempt was good, for the following year the valuation on real estate was cut down nearly one-half.This so diminished the income of the Cook County wolves that a panic ensued, which incensed the ever-irritable element and finally swelled into anarchy, consummating in the Haymarket Riot, in 1886, in which several officers were maimed or killed, and for which a few of the chief conspiring anarchists were executed, and thus civilization was restored.Good men were then selected for responsible positions, while the dirty constables and rotten, self-elected magistrates, who held courts in extreme corners of the county, where victims were summoned to appear, only to find that judgment had been rendered against them, were at last stamped under the heels of decency.Mr. Story, editor of the Chicago Times, who had amassed a large fortune, as the story ran, became infatuated with a feminine spiritual medium, who acted both as advisor and architect in the construction of a marble mansion on Grand Boulevard, whose apparent cost would have been four times his capital. The warmth of the medium did not offset the chill of old age, and becoming weary, he laid down the burden of life and the mansion was never completed.Philip Hoyne was perhaps then the most noted criminal lawyer in Chicago, and this was the story of how he first became famous.A man had been arrested for horse stealing who had no lawyer and the judge appointed Hoyne, then a young man, to defend him."What shall I do for him?" inquired Hoyne."Clear him if you can," said the judge.Hoyne took the prisoner into the ante-room, used for counsel, and said to him:"Mr. O'Flerity, did you steal the horse?""I did, your honor.""Do you expect to go to the penitentiary?""I do, sir.""Do you want me to clear you?""If you can do it. I swear by the Holy Virgin Mary that I will come to your wake and bring all me relations."Hoyne raised the window and said, "Do you see those woods yonder?""Indade, I do, sir.""Now, I will hold my watch and see how long it takes you to run there."When Hoyne returned to court the judge inquired where his client was."I do not know.""Did I not place him in your charge?""Yes, but you said, 'Clear him if you can,' and the last I saw of him he was entering the woods about two miles away."

Chicago, then about 300,000 inhabitants, was virtually in the hands of the gang. The heelers from the assessors' office boldly reduced the valuation on property to those who stood their assessments for what they called electioneering purposes, while raising the assessment on those who refused to bribe, until the burden on the honest taxpayer became griveous to bear.

Cases are said to be on record where two vacant lots lying side by side were assessed, one five times as much as the other, and that not one of our aldermen paid personal property tax, while families whose income was less than $400.00 per year, were heavily assessed on their household effects.

John Wentworth ("Long John"), one of Chicago's early mayors, who had fought the Indians at Fort Dearborn, with several other large land holders, refused to pay their taxes until the court of last resort decided they must pay as assessed, but the effect of the attempt was good, for the following year the valuation on real estate was cut down nearly one-half.

This so diminished the income of the Cook County wolves that a panic ensued, which incensed the ever-irritable element and finally swelled into anarchy, consummating in the Haymarket Riot, in 1886, in which several officers were maimed or killed, and for which a few of the chief conspiring anarchists were executed, and thus civilization was restored.

Good men were then selected for responsible positions, while the dirty constables and rotten, self-elected magistrates, who held courts in extreme corners of the county, where victims were summoned to appear, only to find that judgment had been rendered against them, were at last stamped under the heels of decency.

Mr. Story, editor of the Chicago Times, who had amassed a large fortune, as the story ran, became infatuated with a feminine spiritual medium, who acted both as advisor and architect in the construction of a marble mansion on Grand Boulevard, whose apparent cost would have been four times his capital. The warmth of the medium did not offset the chill of old age, and becoming weary, he laid down the burden of life and the mansion was never completed.

Philip Hoyne was perhaps then the most noted criminal lawyer in Chicago, and this was the story of how he first became famous.

A man had been arrested for horse stealing who had no lawyer and the judge appointed Hoyne, then a young man, to defend him.

"What shall I do for him?" inquired Hoyne.

"Clear him if you can," said the judge.

Hoyne took the prisoner into the ante-room, used for counsel, and said to him:

"Mr. O'Flerity, did you steal the horse?"

"I did, your honor."

"Do you expect to go to the penitentiary?"

"I do, sir."

"Do you want me to clear you?"

"If you can do it. I swear by the Holy Virgin Mary that I will come to your wake and bring all me relations."

Hoyne raised the window and said, "Do you see those woods yonder?"

"Indade, I do, sir."

"Now, I will hold my watch and see how long it takes you to run there."

When Hoyne returned to court the judge inquired where his client was.

"I do not know."

"Did I not place him in your charge?"

"Yes, but you said, 'Clear him if you can,' and the last I saw of him he was entering the woods about two miles away."

HORSE RACING IN CHICAGOMr. Billings, the original West Side gas monopolist, had a pacer which could go on the street 2:40 or better, and my brother Gordon drove Tom, the silver-tailed trotter, who could crowd 2:30 very close. Billings lived on Lake Street, near Union Park, while we lived farther west, and we used to race horses nearly every day.One noon, on going home to lunch, Billings tackled us on Washington Street for a race. Tom drawing us two was a little handicapped, so it made the race about an even thing. Billings became so excited that he did not turn off at Sheldon Street, to his home, but kept on through Union Park. When at Robey Street we encountered a fat colored woman and her dog crossing the street. A policeman saw us coming and tried to get her out of the way, but we ran over the whole bunch.We turned right back to the policeman, who knew Billings had been instrumental in getting him his job. He said he was not much hurt, only his shins ached terribly where we had run over them with both wheels. The woman had been rolled over and over in the mud, but she said she did not care, only for her dog.We decided on the officer's advise that it was better to settle the case out of court, so we gave the woman a dollar for her dog. The next noon we had the race over again, and really it was rich to hear Billings and my brother both tell how easily they would have won had not their horses gone into the air.We West Siders had what we called the gentlemen's race track, on the south wing of Central Park (Garfield Park). Every Saturday afternoon many of the prominent men with their wives and fast horses assembled there, one to show the other how easy his horse could do the other fellow's nag up.Mr. Eighmy, a man past 75 years, usually had a fine stepper and he was a good driver. One day in a race of five or six, we could see from the grandstand that on turning into the back stretch they had purposely enclosed the old gent in a pocket, allowing Wrigley with Fly-Away and my brother Gordon with Tom to pass on the outside. Soon we saw the sulky in front and the one at the old gent's side, together with his own, all in a mixup and turning flipflops. When we reached the spot we found them all bruised and bleeding, with their horses loose on the prairie, but the old man was game, and this is what he said:"I ran between them purposely. I knew it would top us all over, but I said to myself, 'Old Eighmy, you haven't long to live at the best, and if you must die you might as well kill a couple of these damn mean cusses for the good of the community, after you're gone.'"Isaac Waxwell and Jim Rawley were forever wrangling. Jim was usually on the judge's stand and Isaac claimed that Jim did not give him a fair show. He certainly should have had a fair show, for it was rich to see him drive in the dead heat; he had a peculiar way of leaning forward and sticking out his elbows so it looked as though he was pushing on the reins.John Brennock, a pioneer packer from the stockyards, was a unique character. He was a big man with a large head, and his mouth was very large in proportion to hishead. Everyone liked Brennock and knew he was rich, for he had told them so. His last resort, in a dead heat, was to bawl so loud as to frighten the other drivers' horses off their feet.

Mr. Billings, the original West Side gas monopolist, had a pacer which could go on the street 2:40 or better, and my brother Gordon drove Tom, the silver-tailed trotter, who could crowd 2:30 very close. Billings lived on Lake Street, near Union Park, while we lived farther west, and we used to race horses nearly every day.

One noon, on going home to lunch, Billings tackled us on Washington Street for a race. Tom drawing us two was a little handicapped, so it made the race about an even thing. Billings became so excited that he did not turn off at Sheldon Street, to his home, but kept on through Union Park. When at Robey Street we encountered a fat colored woman and her dog crossing the street. A policeman saw us coming and tried to get her out of the way, but we ran over the whole bunch.

We turned right back to the policeman, who knew Billings had been instrumental in getting him his job. He said he was not much hurt, only his shins ached terribly where we had run over them with both wheels. The woman had been rolled over and over in the mud, but she said she did not care, only for her dog.

We decided on the officer's advise that it was better to settle the case out of court, so we gave the woman a dollar for her dog. The next noon we had the race over again, and really it was rich to hear Billings and my brother both tell how easily they would have won had not their horses gone into the air.

We West Siders had what we called the gentlemen's race track, on the south wing of Central Park (Garfield Park). Every Saturday afternoon many of the prominent men with their wives and fast horses assembled there, one to show the other how easy his horse could do the other fellow's nag up.

Mr. Eighmy, a man past 75 years, usually had a fine stepper and he was a good driver. One day in a race of five or six, we could see from the grandstand that on turning into the back stretch they had purposely enclosed the old gent in a pocket, allowing Wrigley with Fly-Away and my brother Gordon with Tom to pass on the outside. Soon we saw the sulky in front and the one at the old gent's side, together with his own, all in a mixup and turning flipflops. When we reached the spot we found them all bruised and bleeding, with their horses loose on the prairie, but the old man was game, and this is what he said:

"I ran between them purposely. I knew it would top us all over, but I said to myself, 'Old Eighmy, you haven't long to live at the best, and if you must die you might as well kill a couple of these damn mean cusses for the good of the community, after you're gone.'"

Isaac Waxwell and Jim Rawley were forever wrangling. Jim was usually on the judge's stand and Isaac claimed that Jim did not give him a fair show. He certainly should have had a fair show, for it was rich to see him drive in the dead heat; he had a peculiar way of leaning forward and sticking out his elbows so it looked as though he was pushing on the reins.

John Brennock, a pioneer packer from the stockyards, was a unique character. He was a big man with a large head, and his mouth was very large in proportion to hishead. Everyone liked Brennock and knew he was rich, for he had told them so. His last resort, in a dead heat, was to bawl so loud as to frighten the other drivers' horses off their feet.

HOPEFUL AND RARUSOn the sportsman's track, adjoining ours on the west, national events took place. The race between Hopeful and Rarus was the most exciting of anything which ever took place in those days. About 60,000 people gathered to see the race.The blooded Rarus was a tall six-year-old bay trotter of national fame, from Beldom Brothers' stock farm in California. Hopeful was a chubby little white pacer, from a farm on the New England hills. He was twenty-two years old, and had never been on a race track until that season.Neither horse had ever lost a race, and while the press, from the Atlantic to the Rockies, leaned hopefully towards Hopeful, yet they seemed to think that he was overmatched.The match was really a strife between the people and the sporting fraternity, for horse racing throughout the country had become demoralized to the extent that the gamblers seldom allowed the best horse to win. Therefore, all the people wanted to see the old farmer, with his handsome pet, win the race.It was a delightful October day and not only did the whole city turn out, but thousands came in from the country, to witness the great national race which had long been advertised.Rarus came out first, stepping lively around the mile course and speeding down past the grandstand, whichbrought forth applause, for all admired the Pacific Ranger, who had come to Chicago to win the laurels of the day.When Hopeful came out and paced slowly up past the grandstand he looked one way and the other to those who applauded him with a sort of confident grin, but when he turned at the north end of the home stretch and let loose, the people just yelled and roared, while the women acted as though they would like to hug him in their arms.When lots were chosen and Hopeful won the pole, there was another shout, but it was soon followed by a row in the judge's stand, as there seemed to be a misunderstanding as to who should call time, or give the word to go, but it was finally settled, and the horses appeared for probably the most exciting race ever pulled off on the American continent.At the word "go" they were off and we all craned our necks as they shot around the south bend, Hopeful hugging the pole and Rarus laying on the wheel of his sulky. On the back stretch, Rarus pulled out endeavoring to pass, and our hearts were in our mouths, while the little mountaineer elevated his head a trifle and steadily held the big ranger on the hub until they came under the wire, Hopeful winner, first in three.We were still uneasy, for the impression was prevalent that the blooded animal was a stayer, while Hopeful could not make the second mile as fast as the first, but he still held the pole, and we argued that if Rarus had done his best we were all right.When they came out for the second heat we soon discovered that we were being jockeyed, for several times they came under the wire, neck and neck, and yet werecalled back by the starter, whose neck we wanted to wring, for we knew he was doing it to fuss, worry and tire our Hopeful.The last time they were called back, Rarus turned sooner than usual, and before Hopeful could turn he was at full speed and came under the wire far ahead and got the word "go," which gave him time to swing in and take the pole.A murmur seemed to stifle the friends of Hopeful as the horses swung into the back stretch, where we hoped to see the pacer try to pass, but he steadily hung on the hub, as he had done around the south bend, and continued this all the way around the north bend, when suddenly his driver pulled him out into the center of the home stretch, and the great race was on in dead earnest.We had taken some ladies from the ground into our carriage, so they could see, while I stepped onto the tire of one wheel with my wife, Mary's hand on my neck to keep me from falling. In the excitement she gripped me so hard I can almost feel her hand now.Our position near the judge's stand gave us a full view of the horses as they were coming, with Hopeful's head high and his knees far apart. For a few seconds the silence which seemed to reign was only broken by the seemingly far away sound of the horses' feet on the soft dirt, but soon those at the north started a cheer, which wildly broke along the throng like a wave, as Hopeful steadily poked his nose farther to the front until Rarus flew up into the air, when the news began flashing over the wires into the country that Hopeful had won.Amid the cheers and yells, a ridiculous scene occurredwhich the reader should have witnessed to appreciate. Suddenly in the crowd nearby a gruff voice seemed uttering smothered oaths, while a woman shouted shrieks of terror, as she suddenly appeared above the throng sitting on the top of a man's head, he pawing with both hands to try to get her off, while she was struggling for release.The cause of this strange episode took place something like this: He was a burly, cross-eyed Wolverine, from the tall pine tree country, who came down to bet his hard-earned money on the famous Pacific Coast trotter. During the excitement someone knocked his glasses off, and in order for the cross-eyed man to see to find them he had to put his face near to the ground. She, Mrs. Durgan, a little woman, it seems, when awfully tickled, was accustomed to spat her hands on her knees and run backwards while laughing. When she heard Hopeful had won, forgetting where she was, she indulged in her old habit of running backwards until she sat on his head.When he felt her alight he sprang erect and, of course, not being able to see out or know what was happening, uttered a few excusable oaths. After the good-natured man had found his spectacles he looked pitifully at the woman, who was deluged in a flood of tears, and then turning to me smiled, as he said, "Didn't that beat hell?"That was long, long ago. Should the recording angel call the roll today of those who were there that day, not one in ten would answer, and in a few years all will be silent. Where have they gone, and will they come again?

On the sportsman's track, adjoining ours on the west, national events took place. The race between Hopeful and Rarus was the most exciting of anything which ever took place in those days. About 60,000 people gathered to see the race.

The blooded Rarus was a tall six-year-old bay trotter of national fame, from Beldom Brothers' stock farm in California. Hopeful was a chubby little white pacer, from a farm on the New England hills. He was twenty-two years old, and had never been on a race track until that season.

Neither horse had ever lost a race, and while the press, from the Atlantic to the Rockies, leaned hopefully towards Hopeful, yet they seemed to think that he was overmatched.

The match was really a strife between the people and the sporting fraternity, for horse racing throughout the country had become demoralized to the extent that the gamblers seldom allowed the best horse to win. Therefore, all the people wanted to see the old farmer, with his handsome pet, win the race.

It was a delightful October day and not only did the whole city turn out, but thousands came in from the country, to witness the great national race which had long been advertised.

Rarus came out first, stepping lively around the mile course and speeding down past the grandstand, whichbrought forth applause, for all admired the Pacific Ranger, who had come to Chicago to win the laurels of the day.

When Hopeful came out and paced slowly up past the grandstand he looked one way and the other to those who applauded him with a sort of confident grin, but when he turned at the north end of the home stretch and let loose, the people just yelled and roared, while the women acted as though they would like to hug him in their arms.

When lots were chosen and Hopeful won the pole, there was another shout, but it was soon followed by a row in the judge's stand, as there seemed to be a misunderstanding as to who should call time, or give the word to go, but it was finally settled, and the horses appeared for probably the most exciting race ever pulled off on the American continent.

At the word "go" they were off and we all craned our necks as they shot around the south bend, Hopeful hugging the pole and Rarus laying on the wheel of his sulky. On the back stretch, Rarus pulled out endeavoring to pass, and our hearts were in our mouths, while the little mountaineer elevated his head a trifle and steadily held the big ranger on the hub until they came under the wire, Hopeful winner, first in three.

We were still uneasy, for the impression was prevalent that the blooded animal was a stayer, while Hopeful could not make the second mile as fast as the first, but he still held the pole, and we argued that if Rarus had done his best we were all right.

When they came out for the second heat we soon discovered that we were being jockeyed, for several times they came under the wire, neck and neck, and yet werecalled back by the starter, whose neck we wanted to wring, for we knew he was doing it to fuss, worry and tire our Hopeful.

The last time they were called back, Rarus turned sooner than usual, and before Hopeful could turn he was at full speed and came under the wire far ahead and got the word "go," which gave him time to swing in and take the pole.

A murmur seemed to stifle the friends of Hopeful as the horses swung into the back stretch, where we hoped to see the pacer try to pass, but he steadily hung on the hub, as he had done around the south bend, and continued this all the way around the north bend, when suddenly his driver pulled him out into the center of the home stretch, and the great race was on in dead earnest.

We had taken some ladies from the ground into our carriage, so they could see, while I stepped onto the tire of one wheel with my wife, Mary's hand on my neck to keep me from falling. In the excitement she gripped me so hard I can almost feel her hand now.

Our position near the judge's stand gave us a full view of the horses as they were coming, with Hopeful's head high and his knees far apart. For a few seconds the silence which seemed to reign was only broken by the seemingly far away sound of the horses' feet on the soft dirt, but soon those at the north started a cheer, which wildly broke along the throng like a wave, as Hopeful steadily poked his nose farther to the front until Rarus flew up into the air, when the news began flashing over the wires into the country that Hopeful had won.

Amid the cheers and yells, a ridiculous scene occurredwhich the reader should have witnessed to appreciate. Suddenly in the crowd nearby a gruff voice seemed uttering smothered oaths, while a woman shouted shrieks of terror, as she suddenly appeared above the throng sitting on the top of a man's head, he pawing with both hands to try to get her off, while she was struggling for release.

The cause of this strange episode took place something like this: He was a burly, cross-eyed Wolverine, from the tall pine tree country, who came down to bet his hard-earned money on the famous Pacific Coast trotter. During the excitement someone knocked his glasses off, and in order for the cross-eyed man to see to find them he had to put his face near to the ground. She, Mrs. Durgan, a little woman, it seems, when awfully tickled, was accustomed to spat her hands on her knees and run backwards while laughing. When she heard Hopeful had won, forgetting where she was, she indulged in her old habit of running backwards until she sat on his head.

When he felt her alight he sprang erect and, of course, not being able to see out or know what was happening, uttered a few excusable oaths. After the good-natured man had found his spectacles he looked pitifully at the woman, who was deluged in a flood of tears, and then turning to me smiled, as he said, "Didn't that beat hell?"

That was long, long ago. Should the recording angel call the roll today of those who were there that day, not one in ten would answer, and in a few years all will be silent. Where have they gone, and will they come again?

CHICAGO PIETYJim Sackley, an Irishman of merited renown, was living in the neighborhood of Lake Street and Western Avenue, when we arrived in Chicago. He had been a sort of self-appointed constable of the town of Cicero, which he said included all the territory west of Western Avenue.Thompson Brothers at the time were running a general store on Lake Street and, as they were politically inclined, their store seemed to be a gathering place for the worthy aspirants of the neighborhood.One evening Gordon and I were in the store when Tony McGuel, a gentleman from Cork, came in to announce the death of his wife. We all huddled around him in sympathy, for we had not even heard that she was sick. The surroundings of the scene were made all the more pitiful, as it had taken place just before pay day at the car barns, and he needed a little assistance financially, so Hiram and Harvey Thompson headed the subscription list, and soon we had raised quite a respectable sum.Jim Sackley was there and in just the frame of mind to shed sympathy copiously, for it was said that one of his near relatives had recently passed away and he was in communication, at intervals, with the priest, who was still praying her out of purgatory. Not only this, but Jim, although not an Irishman himself, for as he had said his children were all born in this country, yet he had seen the auld sod and, like Joseph and his kinsmen inEgypt, with a five dollar bill in his hand he fell on Tony's neck and they kissed and hugged like mother and babe.Of course, they had both been drinking slightly, which made the tears flow more freely, which so affected us all that we pulled out our linen and wiped away the surplus moisture.After Tony had gone with about $13.00, which Sackley said would only buy the cheapest coffin, Sackley and Harvey Thompson shaved, put on clean shirts, and called at the home to view the corpse and, if necessary, offer prayer, when to their surprise the corpse met them at the door, and said she did not know where Tony was; the last she heard of him he was trying to borrow money to attend a wake down on Canal Street.i186EARLY CHICAGO.

Jim Sackley, an Irishman of merited renown, was living in the neighborhood of Lake Street and Western Avenue, when we arrived in Chicago. He had been a sort of self-appointed constable of the town of Cicero, which he said included all the territory west of Western Avenue.

Thompson Brothers at the time were running a general store on Lake Street and, as they were politically inclined, their store seemed to be a gathering place for the worthy aspirants of the neighborhood.

One evening Gordon and I were in the store when Tony McGuel, a gentleman from Cork, came in to announce the death of his wife. We all huddled around him in sympathy, for we had not even heard that she was sick. The surroundings of the scene were made all the more pitiful, as it had taken place just before pay day at the car barns, and he needed a little assistance financially, so Hiram and Harvey Thompson headed the subscription list, and soon we had raised quite a respectable sum.

Jim Sackley was there and in just the frame of mind to shed sympathy copiously, for it was said that one of his near relatives had recently passed away and he was in communication, at intervals, with the priest, who was still praying her out of purgatory. Not only this, but Jim, although not an Irishman himself, for as he had said his children were all born in this country, yet he had seen the auld sod and, like Joseph and his kinsmen inEgypt, with a five dollar bill in his hand he fell on Tony's neck and they kissed and hugged like mother and babe.

Of course, they had both been drinking slightly, which made the tears flow more freely, which so affected us all that we pulled out our linen and wiped away the surplus moisture.

After Tony had gone with about $13.00, which Sackley said would only buy the cheapest coffin, Sackley and Harvey Thompson shaved, put on clean shirts, and called at the home to view the corpse and, if necessary, offer prayer, when to their surprise the corpse met them at the door, and said she did not know where Tony was; the last she heard of him he was trying to borrow money to attend a wake down on Canal Street.

i186

EARLY CHICAGO.

EARLY CHICAGO.

EARLY CHICAGO.

PUBLIC CONVEYANCEDuring those days the Chicago Street Railway Company suffered much through what might be called growing pain. The Randolph Street cars turned at Union Park over onto Lake Street, as far as Robey, and there they stopped during the busy hours of morning and evening, only running to their barns on Western Avenue, when they were not in a hurry.Their excuse for not running all their cars to Western Avenue was that they could not afford to carry passengers so far for five cents, as hay was $5.00 a ton and oats twenty-seven cents per bushel, besides the public demanded such extravagant service.The patrons continually murmured about the cars being cold in winter, so the company filled into each car about a foot of loose straw to keep feet warm. This did not work, for the ladies' skirts dragged in the mud and tobacco spittle, and as a result our common council rashly passed an ordinance requiring the company to heat their cars.The company's first impression was that it could be done with hot water bags, which the wise city fathers rejected, so the company turned to red hot iron. They made receptacles at intervals under the seats, where they carried hot iron, which they exchanged, the cold for the hot, at the return of each trip. This could hardly be considered a success, for if one set over where there was no heat the chills would creep up his spinal column,while if he sat over a fresh hot slab he was in danger of being blistered, but the ordinance had been obeyed, and the company was proud of their West Side horse car line until the cruel hand of competition disturbed their sweet repose.A wide awake German by the name of Kolbe bought up the old North Shore buss line and furnished it with much better horses than the railroad company were using and started in to carry passengers over the same route for four-cent fare.At first the railroad company ignored Mr. Kolbe, but soon reduced their fare to four cents, and even at that the busses got all the passengers, for they were driven faster.Now the fun began. The company ordered their drivers to make the trip as fast as the omnibusses, or they would be discharged, while Kolbe gave orders to his drivers to outdo the company. This gave the passengers, whose destination was State Street, regular joy rides, but those who attempted to get on or off along the route, took their lives in their hands. During the heat of excitement, Kolbe dropped the fare to three cents, which the company followed. Even at this, the more frisky passengers continued to patronize the buss line, leaving only a few grandfathers and gentle dames to ride in the cars. This dropped the fare to two cents, when the company bought Kolbe out, paying him a fabulous price for his old bus line, in railroad stock, which now advanced rapidly, and thus the wide awake German made a handsome fortune.In 1877 Gordon and I opened up a factory just east of the river, on Lake Street. In 1882 we sold our homes on West Lake Street, and built on Washington Boulevard, he at the southwest corner of Albany Avenue, and I at the southeast corner of Francisco Street.i190BOULEVARD HOME OF MY BROTHER G. M.RIGHT TO LEFT. G. M., ELMER, PERRIN, ELLA, LAWRANCE, GERTIE, MERRICK, GEORGE, AMANDA.We continued partners until 1885, when we dissolved, he remaining at the old stand and I starting in the same line on Lake Street, just west of State Street, where through damage by water from an adjacent fire, I lost heavily and made a bad failure. Soon I picked up again and in 1890 bought the northwest corner of Washington Boulevard and Curtis Street, and erected a six-story factory and began manufacturing on a more extensive scale.

During those days the Chicago Street Railway Company suffered much through what might be called growing pain. The Randolph Street cars turned at Union Park over onto Lake Street, as far as Robey, and there they stopped during the busy hours of morning and evening, only running to their barns on Western Avenue, when they were not in a hurry.

Their excuse for not running all their cars to Western Avenue was that they could not afford to carry passengers so far for five cents, as hay was $5.00 a ton and oats twenty-seven cents per bushel, besides the public demanded such extravagant service.

The patrons continually murmured about the cars being cold in winter, so the company filled into each car about a foot of loose straw to keep feet warm. This did not work, for the ladies' skirts dragged in the mud and tobacco spittle, and as a result our common council rashly passed an ordinance requiring the company to heat their cars.

The company's first impression was that it could be done with hot water bags, which the wise city fathers rejected, so the company turned to red hot iron. They made receptacles at intervals under the seats, where they carried hot iron, which they exchanged, the cold for the hot, at the return of each trip. This could hardly be considered a success, for if one set over where there was no heat the chills would creep up his spinal column,while if he sat over a fresh hot slab he was in danger of being blistered, but the ordinance had been obeyed, and the company was proud of their West Side horse car line until the cruel hand of competition disturbed their sweet repose.

A wide awake German by the name of Kolbe bought up the old North Shore buss line and furnished it with much better horses than the railroad company were using and started in to carry passengers over the same route for four-cent fare.

At first the railroad company ignored Mr. Kolbe, but soon reduced their fare to four cents, and even at that the busses got all the passengers, for they were driven faster.

Now the fun began. The company ordered their drivers to make the trip as fast as the omnibusses, or they would be discharged, while Kolbe gave orders to his drivers to outdo the company. This gave the passengers, whose destination was State Street, regular joy rides, but those who attempted to get on or off along the route, took their lives in their hands. During the heat of excitement, Kolbe dropped the fare to three cents, which the company followed. Even at this, the more frisky passengers continued to patronize the buss line, leaving only a few grandfathers and gentle dames to ride in the cars. This dropped the fare to two cents, when the company bought Kolbe out, paying him a fabulous price for his old bus line, in railroad stock, which now advanced rapidly, and thus the wide awake German made a handsome fortune.

In 1877 Gordon and I opened up a factory just east of the river, on Lake Street. In 1882 we sold our homes on West Lake Street, and built on Washington Boulevard, he at the southwest corner of Albany Avenue, and I at the southeast corner of Francisco Street.

i190

BOULEVARD HOME OF MY BROTHER G. M.RIGHT TO LEFT. G. M., ELMER, PERRIN, ELLA, LAWRANCE, GERTIE, MERRICK, GEORGE, AMANDA.

BOULEVARD HOME OF MY BROTHER G. M.RIGHT TO LEFT. G. M., ELMER, PERRIN, ELLA, LAWRANCE, GERTIE, MERRICK, GEORGE, AMANDA.

BOULEVARD HOME OF MY BROTHER G. M.RIGHT TO LEFT. G. M., ELMER, PERRIN, ELLA, LAWRANCE, GERTIE, MERRICK, GEORGE, AMANDA.

We continued partners until 1885, when we dissolved, he remaining at the old stand and I starting in the same line on Lake Street, just west of State Street, where through damage by water from an adjacent fire, I lost heavily and made a bad failure. Soon I picked up again and in 1890 bought the northwest corner of Washington Boulevard and Curtis Street, and erected a six-story factory and began manufacturing on a more extensive scale.

MY ATHLETIC EXPLOITSI mention with pride the physical strength and agility with which I was born, and which sustains me still. Equestrianship came into vogue in western cities in about 1885, and was kept up until bicycles came out. At one period I kept four saddle horses for the use of my family. Like other horse fanciers, I carried it to the extreme. For over two years, summer and winter, wet or dry, I mounted my pet horse, Deacon, at four o'clock in the morning, and rode ten to thirty miles before breakfast. I also had a vicious horse—Blackhawk—who objected to the saddle, which I took out occasionally, just for the fun. Often with me in the saddle he would rear up and come over on his back, which, when I felt him going, I would swing around and land on my feet, then mount him again when he was springing up. When I gave him the spurs he would kick, only to get the spurs again when his heels came down, and sometimes we both went over the sidewalk into the ditch, which I enjoyed, for I never got hurt.In 1895 the bicycle craze came on, and we all left our horses and mounted wheels. I objected to the wheel at first, but when my son, Arthur, brought me a wheel to the factory and insisted that I should try it. I did, and made lots of sport for the hands who were watching me trying to mount, for whenever I lost my balance I would throw the wheel against the curbstone.That evening Arthur and Walton Aborn gave me alesson in the dark, and the next day I could ride—that was if all the gates were closed—but when I saw one open I somehow seemed to start right for it, often to the disgust of some dignified old gentleman or frowning lady, who were scrambling for their lives to get out of my way and wondering what I was trying to do.About the third day I started before daybreak for my brother's summer cottage at Twin Lakes, Wis., about sixty-five miles northwest of Chicago. I arrived about noon, but, oh, the summersaults I did take. Honestly, when I got there, there was scarcely an inch on the wheel where the varnish was not scratched, or any very large patches on my legs where the skin was presentable, for when I took a heels over head into the wayside, the bark usually got scraped off of either the saplings or me. The next day I took a 100-mile circuitous route home, and then for a day was under the care of Dr. Chamberlain, my son-in-law, who was bound to have my picture taken, which I stubbornly declined, but now I wish I had it.

I mention with pride the physical strength and agility with which I was born, and which sustains me still. Equestrianship came into vogue in western cities in about 1885, and was kept up until bicycles came out. At one period I kept four saddle horses for the use of my family. Like other horse fanciers, I carried it to the extreme. For over two years, summer and winter, wet or dry, I mounted my pet horse, Deacon, at four o'clock in the morning, and rode ten to thirty miles before breakfast. I also had a vicious horse—Blackhawk—who objected to the saddle, which I took out occasionally, just for the fun. Often with me in the saddle he would rear up and come over on his back, which, when I felt him going, I would swing around and land on my feet, then mount him again when he was springing up. When I gave him the spurs he would kick, only to get the spurs again when his heels came down, and sometimes we both went over the sidewalk into the ditch, which I enjoyed, for I never got hurt.

In 1895 the bicycle craze came on, and we all left our horses and mounted wheels. I objected to the wheel at first, but when my son, Arthur, brought me a wheel to the factory and insisted that I should try it. I did, and made lots of sport for the hands who were watching me trying to mount, for whenever I lost my balance I would throw the wheel against the curbstone.

That evening Arthur and Walton Aborn gave me alesson in the dark, and the next day I could ride—that was if all the gates were closed—but when I saw one open I somehow seemed to start right for it, often to the disgust of some dignified old gentleman or frowning lady, who were scrambling for their lives to get out of my way and wondering what I was trying to do.

About the third day I started before daybreak for my brother's summer cottage at Twin Lakes, Wis., about sixty-five miles northwest of Chicago. I arrived about noon, but, oh, the summersaults I did take. Honestly, when I got there, there was scarcely an inch on the wheel where the varnish was not scratched, or any very large patches on my legs where the skin was presentable, for when I took a heels over head into the wayside, the bark usually got scraped off of either the saplings or me. The next day I took a 100-mile circuitous route home, and then for a day was under the care of Dr. Chamberlain, my son-in-law, who was bound to have my picture taken, which I stubbornly declined, but now I wish I had it.

MY FIRST HUNDRED MILE RUNMy son, Arthur, then famous as one of the long distance riders of the west, got up a party of about twenty aspirants to take over the 100-mile Elgin and Aurora course at a breakneck speed. I was not fitted for such a run, but I fell in and we were all off at about five o'clock in the morning.The wind blew almost a gale in our faces and before we reached Elgin all had dropped out but Walton Aborn, Jim Carroll, Billy Push, Arthur and myself.Down the Fox River Arthur increased the pace to that extent that Billy threw himself into the shade of a barn and refused to budge, so we left him there.On the home run from Aurora, Jim Carroll declared his intention not to alight, as was customary at the S. Hill, but ride his wheel down, a feat which Arthur told him no fatigued rider should attempt.We fell back and let him lead, and held our breath as he shot out of sight around the first corner at a thirty-mile pace.When we turned the corner hoping to see Jim far away across the Skunkamunk Valley, we discovered a swath in the roadside down through the underbrush, briers and brambles nearly to the foot of the hill. At the end of the swath under an immense heap of rubbish we found Jim and his wheel, he blinking like a toad under a harrow.i196OUR WASHINGTON BOULEVARD HOME IN THE DAYS WHEN THE SADDLE HORSE CRAZE WAS ON.LEFT TO RIGHT. ALBERTA, MERRICK, BARNEY, MARY, MINNIE, ARTHUR, ARTHUR ASTRIDE THE DEACON, MY FAVORITE.Jim groaned and grunted and finally told us he did not think he was dead, but his back was probably broken. We soon had him on his feet with his wheel righted and was pleased to learn that, with the exception of the few tufts of hair and chunks of hide left in the trail where he had slidden down, he was the same man, only his eyes were so full of gravel that he could not see.He now proposed to take a bath in the creek in order to find out just how much skin he had left on his body. For this purpose he attempted to crawl under the barbed wire fence, into which his clothes got caught in such a way that he could neither raise up nor let down, back out or push forward, work his pants off, or keep his shirt on.When we began to laugh and roar, Jim began to swear and cry, and said if we would go on about our own business he would get out and come home when he got good and ready.Now there were only three of us, and Arthur lit out, leaving Walton and myself to come as fast as we could. We got into a mixup and both took headers over our wheels, when we sung out to Arthur to come back and help us.When he returned I showed deep regret that my wheel was broken, for, of course, I was not much tired, but when he pronounced both wheels in good running order, I felt awfully, for I would have given most anything for an excuse to go no farther.Arthur now encouraged us by saying he would run on a while and then wait for us, so we took it steady, and in some way got past him. Then we sat down in the shade and waited, for we did not want to report at the club house that we had left him in the country, for fear they would blame us. We finally started on and came slowly, stopping in every shade, waiting for Arthur, untilwe reached Garfield Park, where we met Minnie, my eldest daughter, with Dr. Chamberlain, her husband, and Alberta, my next, with her husband, George Carlson, together with several other neighbors, all riding their wheels, who laughed at us and said Arthur arrived home about three hours before.i200CYCLING RUN TO SOUTH PARK. THE LOWER LEFT-HAND LADIES AN INTERESTING TRIO. LEFT TO RIGHT, LOTTIE SOPER, ALLIE OLIVER AND LUCY NEWELL. TWO TALLEST MEN IN BACK, CHARLIE SOPER AND CHARLIE NEWELL.

My son, Arthur, then famous as one of the long distance riders of the west, got up a party of about twenty aspirants to take over the 100-mile Elgin and Aurora course at a breakneck speed. I was not fitted for such a run, but I fell in and we were all off at about five o'clock in the morning.

The wind blew almost a gale in our faces and before we reached Elgin all had dropped out but Walton Aborn, Jim Carroll, Billy Push, Arthur and myself.

Down the Fox River Arthur increased the pace to that extent that Billy threw himself into the shade of a barn and refused to budge, so we left him there.

On the home run from Aurora, Jim Carroll declared his intention not to alight, as was customary at the S. Hill, but ride his wheel down, a feat which Arthur told him no fatigued rider should attempt.

We fell back and let him lead, and held our breath as he shot out of sight around the first corner at a thirty-mile pace.

When we turned the corner hoping to see Jim far away across the Skunkamunk Valley, we discovered a swath in the roadside down through the underbrush, briers and brambles nearly to the foot of the hill. At the end of the swath under an immense heap of rubbish we found Jim and his wheel, he blinking like a toad under a harrow.

i196

OUR WASHINGTON BOULEVARD HOME IN THE DAYS WHEN THE SADDLE HORSE CRAZE WAS ON.LEFT TO RIGHT. ALBERTA, MERRICK, BARNEY, MARY, MINNIE, ARTHUR, ARTHUR ASTRIDE THE DEACON, MY FAVORITE.

OUR WASHINGTON BOULEVARD HOME IN THE DAYS WHEN THE SADDLE HORSE CRAZE WAS ON.LEFT TO RIGHT. ALBERTA, MERRICK, BARNEY, MARY, MINNIE, ARTHUR, ARTHUR ASTRIDE THE DEACON, MY FAVORITE.

OUR WASHINGTON BOULEVARD HOME IN THE DAYS WHEN THE SADDLE HORSE CRAZE WAS ON.LEFT TO RIGHT. ALBERTA, MERRICK, BARNEY, MARY, MINNIE, ARTHUR, ARTHUR ASTRIDE THE DEACON, MY FAVORITE.

Jim groaned and grunted and finally told us he did not think he was dead, but his back was probably broken. We soon had him on his feet with his wheel righted and was pleased to learn that, with the exception of the few tufts of hair and chunks of hide left in the trail where he had slidden down, he was the same man, only his eyes were so full of gravel that he could not see.

He now proposed to take a bath in the creek in order to find out just how much skin he had left on his body. For this purpose he attempted to crawl under the barbed wire fence, into which his clothes got caught in such a way that he could neither raise up nor let down, back out or push forward, work his pants off, or keep his shirt on.

When we began to laugh and roar, Jim began to swear and cry, and said if we would go on about our own business he would get out and come home when he got good and ready.

Now there were only three of us, and Arthur lit out, leaving Walton and myself to come as fast as we could. We got into a mixup and both took headers over our wheels, when we sung out to Arthur to come back and help us.

When he returned I showed deep regret that my wheel was broken, for, of course, I was not much tired, but when he pronounced both wheels in good running order, I felt awfully, for I would have given most anything for an excuse to go no farther.

Arthur now encouraged us by saying he would run on a while and then wait for us, so we took it steady, and in some way got past him. Then we sat down in the shade and waited, for we did not want to report at the club house that we had left him in the country, for fear they would blame us. We finally started on and came slowly, stopping in every shade, waiting for Arthur, untilwe reached Garfield Park, where we met Minnie, my eldest daughter, with Dr. Chamberlain, her husband, and Alberta, my next, with her husband, George Carlson, together with several other neighbors, all riding their wheels, who laughed at us and said Arthur arrived home about three hours before.

i200

CYCLING RUN TO SOUTH PARK. THE LOWER LEFT-HAND LADIES AN INTERESTING TRIO. LEFT TO RIGHT, LOTTIE SOPER, ALLIE OLIVER AND LUCY NEWELL. TWO TALLEST MEN IN BACK, CHARLIE SOPER AND CHARLIE NEWELL.

CYCLING RUN TO SOUTH PARK. THE LOWER LEFT-HAND LADIES AN INTERESTING TRIO. LEFT TO RIGHT, LOTTIE SOPER, ALLIE OLIVER AND LUCY NEWELL. TWO TALLEST MEN IN BACK, CHARLIE SOPER AND CHARLIE NEWELL.

CYCLING RUN TO SOUTH PARK. THE LOWER LEFT-HAND LADIES AN INTERESTING TRIO. LEFT TO RIGHT, LOTTIE SOPER, ALLIE OLIVER AND LUCY NEWELL. TWO TALLEST MEN IN BACK, CHARLIE SOPER AND CHARLIE NEWELL.

ARTHUR'S AND WALTON'S LONG RUNThe next summer Arthur and Walton made their famous ride through to Crystal Lake, Conn. Here is an outline of their exploit, which was considered a great achievement, considering the rainy weather and the rough roads they encountered between Chicago and Toledo and between Silver Creek and Memphis, N. Y.Here I reproduce the letters which Arthur sent back while on the road:Perrysburg, Ohio, June 17, 1896.Dear Father:—Walton and I were very much surprised at the end of our first day's ride at Mishawaka, Ind., to read in the Tribune so much about your winning the 100-mile race over all the crack Illinois bicycle riders. The paper was shown us by our friends at Mishawaka, and at first we thought there was a mistake that father had won the closely contested race, but Walton said: "No use talking, Uncle Merrick is fast—but it is not all in his legs; it is his indomitable will power that wins." Then we pictured to ourselves the occasion and "he 55 years old," said I. "Well, God gave him a strong constitution, and he has taken care of it."Batavia, N. Y., June 19, 1896.Dear Folks at Home:—This letter is especially for mother, Minnie and Bertie, while the ones about bicycle riding go to father.We are stopping here at Uncle John's at Batavia, and the rest is very welcome. We were mighty tired and this is the first day we have had a chance to rest since we left home.I tell you, mother, I have a couple of fine cousins in Carrie and Ida. I don't think Walton will ever forget Ida's kindness. He was so sore from riding his wheel that when he got here he couldn't sit down. He had to sleep standing, but Ida made him the dandiest pillow and sewed it on to his bicycle saddle, so poor Walton is all right now.We are going to see Grandmother Hoyt at Elba tomorrow. You know it is only six miles north. Well, mother, the Hoyts are all in good standing around here, and I feel mighty proud of you all. Aunt Alida seems young as ever, and the bloom of youth is on her cheek. But, say, you would think I was writing a novel, wouldn't you?Uncle John and I sat up nearly all night, and he certainly told me some very interesting things about the Hoyts and Deweys, and many incidents of you in your childhood days, when you lived in Rochester, before you came to Pine Hill. He says the childhood home of Grandfather Hoyt was at Hudson, on the Hudson River, and that his family came from Danbury, Connecticut. Grandmother Hoyt was a Dewey from Ohio, and her father was from Watertown, N. Y., whose ancestors sprang from the Herkimer County Mohawk Dutch.Now, why can't we claim a connecting link, for we all know that my great grandfather, John Richardson's brother, Gershom, moved from Stafford, Connecticut, to Watertown, N. Y., and I have heard father say that he, Warren Richardson, my grandfather, with some other men, walked up to Watertown one winter, over 300 miles, and staid a month or so with their cousins. They were a large family.i204NORTH SHORE, LOON LAKE, WINONA GROVE.I wish Uncle John lived where I could see him often. He is so full of information on all subjects, that I just love to talk with him. It made me laugh when he told me about how you, Ellen Wilder, Mary Robe and Mary Raymond, actually carried old Pine Hill by storm several winters.Then he got to talking about the war and I really cried when he described the battle of Cold Harbor, June 3, 1864. Just think of it, four brothers—John, Sylvester, and the twins, Edwin and Edward—standing there at daylight waiting for the order to charge the enemy's breast works. Uncle John said that they all thought it meant death. Colonel Porter must have been a brave man; he stood in front and said, "Boys, this is our last charge, but we are going to obey orders." He unwisely wore his uniform in leading; Uncle John said that he hadn't gone thirty feet before he was pierced with seven or eight bullets.Uncle John was captured and sent to Salisbury prison for nearly two years. When he came out his mother said he looked like a monkey. He only weighed seventy-nine pounds. Sylvester was shot in the thigh, Edwin was shot through the lungs, and poor Edward; we have never heard from him. Wasn't that an awful price for your family to pay for the Union? Uncle said "that from 1,900 of us boys of that 22d New York Heavy Artillery, over 600 were killed in half an hour, and at the next roll call at Reams Station, only nineteen men of the regiment answered the call."Well, I can't write any more. Walton has alreadygone to bed and we have got to start at four o'clock tomorrow morning. We expect to visit Uncle Sherman at Rochester tomorrow. We are in the best of spirits, and the way we have been going so far we ought to make Connecticut in about twelve or thirteen days from Chicago.Walton and I are awfully proud of father for winning the Century from all the fast boys of the Cycling Club, but we don't pride ourselves on these short spurts. Our specialty is thousand-mile affairs, and if he wants to race us he has got to race the whole thousand. Good night.Your loving son,————Arthur.Rochester, N. Y., June 21, 1896.Dear Father:—We called on our Uncle Sherman Richardson, and he was very proud of us, introducing us to many of his friends, saying that the blood in our veins was the same as ran in his, and that showed the kind of stuff his family was made of. I received your letter at Cleveland, telling us about your century run, and advising us to reserve our strength until we reached your time of life. It naturally stiffened our backbone for the remaining part of our ride.Memphis, N. Y., June 24, 1896.Dear Father:—I must write just a word, for Walton has had a lucky escape. We were pushing along sleepily today when a big Newfoundland dog came near killing Walton. I looked around just in time to see Walton plunge over an embankment into a snarl of milkweeds, briars and rocks, head down, with his wheel on top of him. He saidthe dog barked so fiercely that when he made the plunge he actually thought he felt the ugly beast's breath on the seat of his pants. We soon discovered that the dog was tied to a tree, so we went about to repair his wheel. The front wheel must have been caught between two rocks, when Walton's weight on it (for a frightened man weighs heavy) doubled up the forks like a jack knife. We got a blacksmith to heat and hammer it out and now both Walton and the wheel are in a good ridable condition, and we shall light out again early in the morning. Are you getting my postals, which I am sending back from every town? This is to prove to the club boys that we rode to Connecticut on our wheels and not on the train.Crystal Lake, Conn., June 28, 1896.Dear Father:—We arrived here this evening, having made the run, 1,017 miles, in thirteen days and this is our record:Mishawaka, Ind.,110milesEdgerton, Ohio,90"Perrysburg, Ohio,68"Wakeman, Ohio,70"Willoughby, Ohio,69"Erie, Pa.,82"Silver Creek, N. Y.,61"Batavia, N. Y.,70"Palmyra, N. Y.,63"Memphis, N. Y.,50"Little Falls, N. Y.,89"Nassau, N. Y.,88"Crystal Lake, Conn.,107"——1,017milesOur last day was the most severe we experienced. There was a drizzling rain all day, in which we rode from Nassau, and, of course, you know we had to zigzag over the Green Mountains.We stopped a few moments to see Uncle Epaphro and Aunt Adelia and she gave us the first free lunch we had had since we left Batavia. When we arrived here Uncle Lucius and Aunt Caroline were surprised to see us looking so well. Then to prove to them that we were well as we looked Walton and I turned hand-springs on the grass in the front yard, and now we are going to bed. Good-night, remember me to the boys, and kiss all the girls for me that are worth kissing.Affectionately, your son,Arthur.P. S.—Uncle Collins says the mountains, wildwoods, brooks, lakes and meadows around your old home are still teeming with fruit, flowers, song birds, wild game, and shy fish. He says to tell you to come down and take a good rest.

The next summer Arthur and Walton made their famous ride through to Crystal Lake, Conn. Here is an outline of their exploit, which was considered a great achievement, considering the rainy weather and the rough roads they encountered between Chicago and Toledo and between Silver Creek and Memphis, N. Y.

Here I reproduce the letters which Arthur sent back while on the road:

Perrysburg, Ohio, June 17, 1896.

Dear Father:—

Walton and I were very much surprised at the end of our first day's ride at Mishawaka, Ind., to read in the Tribune so much about your winning the 100-mile race over all the crack Illinois bicycle riders. The paper was shown us by our friends at Mishawaka, and at first we thought there was a mistake that father had won the closely contested race, but Walton said: "No use talking, Uncle Merrick is fast—but it is not all in his legs; it is his indomitable will power that wins." Then we pictured to ourselves the occasion and "he 55 years old," said I. "Well, God gave him a strong constitution, and he has taken care of it."

Batavia, N. Y., June 19, 1896.

Dear Folks at Home:—

This letter is especially for mother, Minnie and Bertie, while the ones about bicycle riding go to father.

We are stopping here at Uncle John's at Batavia, and the rest is very welcome. We were mighty tired and this is the first day we have had a chance to rest since we left home.

I tell you, mother, I have a couple of fine cousins in Carrie and Ida. I don't think Walton will ever forget Ida's kindness. He was so sore from riding his wheel that when he got here he couldn't sit down. He had to sleep standing, but Ida made him the dandiest pillow and sewed it on to his bicycle saddle, so poor Walton is all right now.

We are going to see Grandmother Hoyt at Elba tomorrow. You know it is only six miles north. Well, mother, the Hoyts are all in good standing around here, and I feel mighty proud of you all. Aunt Alida seems young as ever, and the bloom of youth is on her cheek. But, say, you would think I was writing a novel, wouldn't you?

Uncle John and I sat up nearly all night, and he certainly told me some very interesting things about the Hoyts and Deweys, and many incidents of you in your childhood days, when you lived in Rochester, before you came to Pine Hill. He says the childhood home of Grandfather Hoyt was at Hudson, on the Hudson River, and that his family came from Danbury, Connecticut. Grandmother Hoyt was a Dewey from Ohio, and her father was from Watertown, N. Y., whose ancestors sprang from the Herkimer County Mohawk Dutch.

Now, why can't we claim a connecting link, for we all know that my great grandfather, John Richardson's brother, Gershom, moved from Stafford, Connecticut, to Watertown, N. Y., and I have heard father say that he, Warren Richardson, my grandfather, with some other men, walked up to Watertown one winter, over 300 miles, and staid a month or so with their cousins. They were a large family.

i204

NORTH SHORE, LOON LAKE, WINONA GROVE.

NORTH SHORE, LOON LAKE, WINONA GROVE.

NORTH SHORE, LOON LAKE, WINONA GROVE.

I wish Uncle John lived where I could see him often. He is so full of information on all subjects, that I just love to talk with him. It made me laugh when he told me about how you, Ellen Wilder, Mary Robe and Mary Raymond, actually carried old Pine Hill by storm several winters.

Then he got to talking about the war and I really cried when he described the battle of Cold Harbor, June 3, 1864. Just think of it, four brothers—John, Sylvester, and the twins, Edwin and Edward—standing there at daylight waiting for the order to charge the enemy's breast works. Uncle John said that they all thought it meant death. Colonel Porter must have been a brave man; he stood in front and said, "Boys, this is our last charge, but we are going to obey orders." He unwisely wore his uniform in leading; Uncle John said that he hadn't gone thirty feet before he was pierced with seven or eight bullets.

Uncle John was captured and sent to Salisbury prison for nearly two years. When he came out his mother said he looked like a monkey. He only weighed seventy-nine pounds. Sylvester was shot in the thigh, Edwin was shot through the lungs, and poor Edward; we have never heard from him. Wasn't that an awful price for your family to pay for the Union? Uncle said "that from 1,900 of us boys of that 22d New York Heavy Artillery, over 600 were killed in half an hour, and at the next roll call at Reams Station, only nineteen men of the regiment answered the call."

Well, I can't write any more. Walton has alreadygone to bed and we have got to start at four o'clock tomorrow morning. We expect to visit Uncle Sherman at Rochester tomorrow. We are in the best of spirits, and the way we have been going so far we ought to make Connecticut in about twelve or thirteen days from Chicago.

Walton and I are awfully proud of father for winning the Century from all the fast boys of the Cycling Club, but we don't pride ourselves on these short spurts. Our specialty is thousand-mile affairs, and if he wants to race us he has got to race the whole thousand. Good night.

Your loving son,————Arthur.

Rochester, N. Y., June 21, 1896.

Dear Father:—

We called on our Uncle Sherman Richardson, and he was very proud of us, introducing us to many of his friends, saying that the blood in our veins was the same as ran in his, and that showed the kind of stuff his family was made of. I received your letter at Cleveland, telling us about your century run, and advising us to reserve our strength until we reached your time of life. It naturally stiffened our backbone for the remaining part of our ride.

Memphis, N. Y., June 24, 1896.

Dear Father:—

I must write just a word, for Walton has had a lucky escape. We were pushing along sleepily today when a big Newfoundland dog came near killing Walton. I looked around just in time to see Walton plunge over an embankment into a snarl of milkweeds, briars and rocks, head down, with his wheel on top of him. He saidthe dog barked so fiercely that when he made the plunge he actually thought he felt the ugly beast's breath on the seat of his pants. We soon discovered that the dog was tied to a tree, so we went about to repair his wheel. The front wheel must have been caught between two rocks, when Walton's weight on it (for a frightened man weighs heavy) doubled up the forks like a jack knife. We got a blacksmith to heat and hammer it out and now both Walton and the wheel are in a good ridable condition, and we shall light out again early in the morning. Are you getting my postals, which I am sending back from every town? This is to prove to the club boys that we rode to Connecticut on our wheels and not on the train.

Crystal Lake, Conn., June 28, 1896.

Dear Father:—

We arrived here this evening, having made the run, 1,017 miles, in thirteen days and this is our record:

Our last day was the most severe we experienced. There was a drizzling rain all day, in which we rode from Nassau, and, of course, you know we had to zigzag over the Green Mountains.

We stopped a few moments to see Uncle Epaphro and Aunt Adelia and she gave us the first free lunch we had had since we left Batavia. When we arrived here Uncle Lucius and Aunt Caroline were surprised to see us looking so well. Then to prove to them that we were well as we looked Walton and I turned hand-springs on the grass in the front yard, and now we are going to bed. Good-night, remember me to the boys, and kiss all the girls for me that are worth kissing.

Affectionately, your son,

Arthur.

P. S.—Uncle Collins says the mountains, wildwoods, brooks, lakes and meadows around your old home are still teeming with fruit, flowers, song birds, wild game, and shy fish. He says to tell you to come down and take a good rest.

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