Published in Wetmore Spectator—Seneca Courier-Tribune—Goff Advance—Topeka DailyCapital—October, 1931
By John T. Bristow
A half century ago England got rid of some of her surplus inhabitants by sending them over to this country to “root hog, or die” as the old saying is. They drifted in here “like lost leaves from the annals of men.” Colonies were planted in numerous sections of Kansas. Nemaha County, with her great sweep of vacant rolling prairies, inviting, snared one of those colonies.
The settlement known as the old English colony was on section twenty-five, in Harrison township, five miles northwest of Wetmore. The section was purchased from the Union Pacific railroad company by the Co-operative Colonization Company, of London, about 1870.
The London Colonization Company had about six hundred members. They drew lots to determine who would be the lucky—or unlucky—ones to come over first, expenses paid.
John Fuller, John Mollineaux, George Dutch, John Radford, Charles McCarthy and John Stowell were the original six to enter upon the duties of conquering this land—virgin wild land it was. Except John Stowell, all these men had families, but they did not all bring their families over at first.
An eight-room house was built in the middle of the section and all managed to live in it for a while. It was called Llewellyn Castle. Later, lean-tos were built on two sides of the big house, and finally, some smaller buildings were erected around the original house. The men were supplied, meagerly, with funds to equip the farm.
The idea of the Company at first was to make a town in the center of the section, and cut the land up into 10-acre tracts. They seemed to think that ten acres would make a respectable sized farm. The town of Goff, a mile and a half away, got started and the Colony town project was abandoned. Also the 10-acre farm plan was changed to forty acres. The lumber for the improvements was unloaded at old Sother, a siding on the railroad a mile and a half south of the Colony section. There was a postoffice at old Sother. Nothing else. Not even a station agent.
Later arrivals of the Colonists included the Wessels, Beebys, Perrys, Coxes, Ashtons, Trents, McConwells, G ates, Morden, Hill, May, Conover, Weston, Helsby, Weeks, Mrs. Terbit, and others. Still later, other members of the Colonization Company come over after the local Company had ceased to exist –gone bankrupt, it was charged, because of the extravagant management of the non-producing misfits sent over here to start operations. At this late date it could not be ascertained just what was the text of the contracts between the parent company and the members sent over here. But the impression is that if all had gone well additional lands would have been acquired to accommodate other members. The members, however, kept on coming regardless of the lack of advance preparation.
They scattered out on other lands, mostly around the Colony—usually 40-acre tracts. They were miserably poor. And the privations were many. Mrs. Terbit, having no mode of conveyance, used to walk all the way in from the Colony and carry home on her shoulder a 50-pound sack of flour.
Isaac May settled on the 40-acre tract one mile south of Wetmore, which is now the home of George W. Gill. May lived in a dug-out. John Stowell settled on the north eighty of a quarter five miles southwest of Wetmore—known as the Joe Board place, and still later owned by Charley Krack.
George Cox settled the south eighty, which is still in the Cox family—now owned by George’s son Fred, of Goff.
The Colony project was a glorious and ignominious failure from the very first, with romance and intrigue ever in the ascendancy. Those poor Englishmen were as green as the verdant prairies of springtime that lay all about them. And the inexorable hand of Fate pressed down on them heavily. They were besieged by droughts, grasshoppers, prairie fires, blizzards, rattlesnakes—and, worst of all, an abiding ignorance of all things American. When Llewellyn Castle was torn down in later years, a den of rattlesnakes—twenty two in number—was found under the house.
Tom Fish told me that the snakes were offer heard flopping against the floor, underneath, while the house was occupied.
Those poor misfits had not a chance. And it was little short of criminal to send them over here so empty handed and so illy equipped for the duties imposed upon them. But they were now all a part of the big, sun-filled Golden West. And they were too poor to go back.
Many are the causes advanced for the downfall of the Colony project, but the one cause on which all seem to be unanimous, more or less, is that “They were a bunch of rascals.” This is probably an error—or partly so, at least.
Internal friction with a very shady but treeless background undoubtedly played its part. But I would rather suspect that the main cause was ignorance, or to put it more kindly, a lack of knowledge. Tom Fish, our faithful mixer of British-American juris-prudence—three times Justice of the Peace backs me up in this contention. Says Tommy, “They just didn’t knower anythink about farmin.” Our Tom attended their meetings back in London at the Newman street-Market street headquarters.
But whatever the facts, and admitting that there were among the Colonists no replicas of the man who walked along the Galilean shores two thousands years ago, still I do not subscribe to the general belief that those Colonists were all rascals.
Had they succeeded, handicapped as they were, it would have been a miracle—and only in ancient history do miracles spring fullblown from questionable beginnings. A condition soon developed among the Colonists on section twenty-five where it was “every fellow for himself and may the devil take the hindmost.” True, there was a lot of poor management and some shady, if not to say crooked, transactions. And it appears one man did rather “Lord” it over the others—took the lion’s share of everything.
George Cox, a carpenter—they were practically all tradesmen was sent over to superintend fencing the Colony lands. And, very much to the merriment of the natives, he did that fencing in the dead of winter, when the ground was frozen. The postholes he and his countrymen dug that winter cost the Company one dollar, each. Such frozen assets were, of course, conducive to the downfall of the Company.
But George Cox was not the fool that his ice-bound fence would indicate. The real fault was on the other side of the big pond. The Company sent Cox over here in midwinter to build a fence. He was without funds. The larder at Llewellyn Castle was low—distressingly low. And his brother Englishmen needed immediate succor. There was money for George Cox only when he worked. And he couldn’t afford to put in all his time that blizzardy, snowbound winter hanging onto the coat-tail of one of his brother countrymen while the bunch of them played ring-round-the-stove in that old Colony house to keep from freezing, as he once told me he was compelled to do. So, then, what was really wrong with George’s congealed fence idea?
Like other Englishmen, after coming here, George Cox had a lot to learn, of course. He was the complainant in a lawsuit involving the ownership of a cow. John J. Ingalls was attorney for Theodore
Wolfley, the defendant. The illustrious John J. queried, “What color was your cow, Mr. Cox?”
“Bay,” said George. The court laughed, and told Cox to try again. “Well,” said George, “I ‘ave a bay ‘orse, and my cow’s the same color as my bay ‘orse.”
Then, from over the seas, came the jovial Mr. Murray, clothed in authority and a superabundance of ego—English to the core. He had been sent over here to make an audit of the Company’s estate. Murray stopped first at Wetmore and partook freely of Johnny Clifton’s “alf-and-alf.” He was a free spender and made friends here readily.
In pursuance of his duties, Mr. Murray said to those Colony delinquents, “Wots the jolly old idea of all this reticence? Hits most happallin! I want to see the books, by-jove.” One of those derelicts exclaimed with a little more mirth than was becoming, “I-si, just listen to ‘im, fellow! Wants to see the books, ‘e does! That’s rich! Si, mister we don’t keep henny books!”
Then in unison they shot words at Mr. Murray which were the same as “You get the hell out of here.” Murray demurred, and not having read the storm signals quite right, he bellowed, “Ave a care! Want that I should report you for this hincolence? Hits very hunwise for you to hact this wy!”
But when the old shotgun was brought out from its hiding place an awful doubt of his own wisdom assailed the jovial Mr. Murray. Those true sons of Briton actually chased the auditor away with a shotgun.
In employing the hit-and-miss English words here I am relaying them to you as best I can from memory as I caught them from one, maybe two, of the original six, many, many years ago. The quoted words are not my own. If you could have known the men and could apply either the Stowell or Radford pronunciation and accent you would improve it a lot. And don’t forget to speed up a little.
There are now few of the old-time typical English with us. And the language of those who came over a long time ago has become Americanized to such extent that the younger generation here have no conception of just how delightfully funny was the talk of a fresh Englishman. However, some of those who came over as children and Even some of the American born who had good tutors retain a percentage Of the pronunciation, but the inflection and speed which characterized their ancestors have been lost.
After the collapse of the Colony enterprise the unallotted part of section twenty-five fell into the hands of Captain Wilson, of London.
He was an officer in the Company. Later, Captain Wilson’s interest was acquired by William Fish, also of London, and a member of the Company. In England William Fish was superintendent of the Great Northern railroad. He came over here in 1881. He was a pensioner, and did not renounce his allegiance to the Crown.
Captain Wilson thought a lot of the Colony scheme. He was to have given his fortune at death to the first male child born on the Colony section. That honor fell to Alfred Wilson Mollineaux, first son of John Mollineaux, born 1874. While conversing with Alfred Mollineaux a few days ago, he said to me, “But since I didn’t get me ‘eritage I’ve dropped the Wilson part of it. Wot would be the good to bother with it now?”
The Mollineaux heirs are the only descendents of the originals holding an interest in section twenty-five in recent years. Alfred now owns the south 80 of the northwest quarter. Harry sold the north 80 two years ago to Otto Krack. Otto paid $6,000 for it, including the growing crop. The old house on the place, built more than a half century ago, is the original John Mollineaux home. The other lands in the section have long since passed to new owners.
There are now only two of the old Colonists living. William Wessel, familiarly called “Teddy,” came over in 1873. He is 89, and lives with his daughter, Mrs. John Chase, in Goff. William Conover lives with his son Edward, on a farm adjacent to the old Colony section. He is 89.
I took a drive about the old Colony section a few days ago seeking to refresh my memory and gather additional data for this article. At Goff I found Teddy Wessel in the Sourk drug store. Still living over the broken dreams of the past, Teddy exploded, first-off, “They were a bunch of damned rascals.”
In course of the interview I asked Teddy if he knew anything about a racy romance at Llewellyn Castle many years ago. “I should say I do,” he said. He had a momentary flash of it. That was all. Then his mind began to fag. Laboriously, tantalizingly, the tired feelers of his mind went fumbling into the dark pool of the past, trying desperately to capture the lost details, but the whole works went under—ebbed away like a fadeout in a movie.
George Sourk, who was sitting by and coaching the old fellow a bit, said, “You’ll have to give daddy a little time, John. He’ll remember it all right.”
Daddy swam up out of it all right and sure enough recollections were upon him with a bang. But the main topic was still submerged and in its place was an ugly memory that should have been dead long ago. “They were damned rascals,” is all he said.
It is assumed that my very fine old friend’s poisoned arrow was aimed only at the shades of the original six, or, at most, only those who had the actual management of the Colony affairs.
Teddy Wessel’s run of hard luck started before he left London. It seems he bought something—or thought he paid for something—he didn’t get. But Teddy can thank his stars that there was at least one crooked countryman in his close circle. Teddy trusted a friend to purchase first-class passagenfor himself and family. The friend bought cheaper tickets on a slower ship, and pocketed the difference. The fast ship passed the slower one in mid-ocean and was lost, together with all on board, when one day out from New York.
A happy—and I believe equitable—solution of the matter would allow the reader who had a friend or relative among them the privilege of exempting such one, and thus still leave Teddy some targets for his arrows. For my own part, I think I should like to exempt that little nineteen-year-old boy, John Stowell. In later years, after he had come to Wetmore and engaged in business, I worked for John Stowell in his lumber yard, and in his brick manufacturing plant, and finally, as type-setter on his newspaper. He was not a crook.
I grew up along with those bally English and I think I knew them pretty well. They were not all rascals. The Colony section was only five miles away from Wetmore as the crow flies. And as the crow flew then so did I gallop my mustang along the prairie grass lane while carrying mail between Wetmore and Seneca, passing Llewellyn Castle on the way.
There were few fences in the way then. Just prairie grass and wild roses and more prairie grass. And lots of prairie chickens. I have seen acres of them at one time on the hillsides in the vicinity of Llewellyn Castle.
There was no blue-grass then. And no timber along the route anywhere until the Nemaha was reached just this side of Seneca, at the old Hazzard place.
And later, in 1887, when I was a compositor on T. J. Wolfley’s Seneca Tribune, and made drives home with Sandy Sterling’s livery team, practically all of the twenty-six miles of road was still only a winding trail.
Willis J. Coburn, the contractor for that Star mail route, went with me on the first trip. He took me to the home of his old friend, John Radford, who had then left the Colony and was living on the old Scrafford place adjoining Seneca on the south. I put up with “Old Radidad”—as we afterwards called him when he came to live in Wetmore—for about a month, and while they treated me kindly, I didn’t like their English ways.
And when I announced my intentions of throwing up my job Willis Coburn said I should then put up at the old Fairchild Hotel, which was on a side street north from the upper end of the main street. It was a stone building. Besides being immaculately clean, the Fairchilds were related to the Jay Powers family in Wetmore and that made a bond between us that held for the duration of my mail carrying activities. There were two stops on the way—one in the Abbey neighborhood, and one at old Lincoln.
As compensation for my services as mail-carrier, I was paid fifty cents each way, up one day and back the next—twice a week. And I was glad to get that. Our mail-carriers here in Wetmore, covering about equal distance, with only two hours on the road, draw about seven dollars a day.
When Willis Coburn offered me the job I was short of the required age, sixteen, and I was wondering how I would get by without swearing to a lie, when our good old postmaster, Alvin McCreery, solved the problem for me. When he swore me in, he said, “Now, don’t tell me your age.” He shook his head, negatively, and repeated, “Don’t tell me your age.”
At the Radford home in Seneca, I learned enough about the old Colony to make a book, but much of it is now shrouded in a fog of haze. On the occasion of our first trip, Mr. Radford and Mr. Coburn discussed Colony matters freely in my presence. It was July, and it was out on the border of the big orchard which came right up to the back door, under the shade of an early harvest apple tree, where they sat and talked.
I have to admit that at the time I was more interested in the golden fruit hanging on the apple tree than I was in the conversation, but I got enough of it to know that there would be a good story in it, if I could but remember more clearly. Mr. Radford’s agile mind ground out astonishing facts as steadily as a grist mill that afternoon. Whatever else may be said of John Radford, he was an educated man. And he had a wonderful sense of humor.
As I remember it, or partly remember it, the high light of the afternoon’s conversation—the thing that tickled the men most—was a racy romance that had budded, bloomed, and died at Llewellyn Castle. The male participants were of course Wetmore men—one artisan, one professional. But somewhere along the time-worn trail between that old apple tree and my present quarters, separated by three and fifty years, the details of that affair are lost. And like the characters who made it, that romance has crumbled into dust—is now a part of the past.
But the phantom of the bally old thing, elusive though as a half-formed thought awakened by a stray wisp of forgotten fragrance, still hovers over section twenty-five. And if memory were but a trifle more elastic I could entertain you with something more than the tattered shreds of Llewellyn Castle’s most charming romance—a jolly old love-spree staged and destroyed by the heartless hand of Fate.
Not Hitherto Published—1947.
By John T. Bristow
The Colony folk, men and women, came to Wetmore to do their trading—and to sip ‘alf-an-’alf, beer and whisky. At that time there was quite a lot of immigration from England, and Britons were scattered about over the prairies in all directions—and in general they were all regarded as Colonists.
William Cawood, with his two sons, Walter and Prince, came direct to Wetmore from Scarborough, England, in the spring of 1870. Other members of the family—George, Charley, Emma, Kate, and their mother—followed in the fall.
William Cawood was a large man—a man of means, a man of dignity, ideas, and mutton-chops. In England he was a contractor and builder—and a good one, too, it was said. Here, he built his meat-market, and his residence, his horse stable, his cow barn, and his pig sty, all under one roof. The structure, founded upon pine studding set in the ground, was on the alley end of four lots north of Third Street and west of Kansas Avenue. The boys at school across the street to the east thought a new telegraph line was coming to town. In later years, wondering if my memory had served me well, I asked Prince Cawood if it were true that those studding were set in the ground? He said, “Every one of them.”
Walter Cawood was a large man like his father. He played an important part in the making of this story—or rather this incident. An outstanding episode of the early days was a free-for-all fight on the main street in Wetmore, with Colonists predominating. It was the year 1870—maybe 1871. Can’t be sure about the exact time. That brawl is recorded in local history as “English Boxing Day”—though in England, the day after Christmas is known as Boxing Day, This one occurred on a muggy summer day.
At this time Wetmore’s main street was flanked with three buildings on the south side, and four on the north side, in blocks one and four—all well toward the west end. Lushprairie grass still grew on the east half of those two blocks. A long hitchrack was in the center of the ungraded street.
I do not recall what it was that started the fight. Perhaps it was the old Colony hatred, refreshed by drink. Those Colonists were continually fussing among themselves. A little fellow with a piping voice—I think it might have been Bilby—led off by striking a brother Englishman on the mug. He yelled, “Tike that, you bloody blighter!” They were on the south side of the street in front of John Clifton’s saloon. The little fellow started to run away. He dodged under the hitchrack and stumbled in the street almost in front of my father’s shoeshop on the north side. The big man who had taken the rap on the face was soon upon the little runt. Then multitudinous inebriated Englishmen, and at least one German—Bill Liebig—fell in without waiting for an invitation.
It was a battle royal—everybody hitting somebody, anybody. Blood and blasphemous epithets, in awkward delivery, flowed freely. When the battle had run its course a dozen men, maybe more, were prone upon the ground. A stocky little woman came out of the saloon and met the bruised and bleeding aggressor. “Hi ‘opes,” she said, “you’re now sart-isfied—my cocky little man. Been spoilin’ for a fight this long time.”
Walter Cawood appeared to be the big shot of that melee. He was young, powerful, and extremely handy with his fists. Those tipsy brawlers went down before his punches as if they were babies. Walter was the big shot in one more unsavory mixup—it really stunk—before going back to his dear old England to stay. Single handed, he captured a whole family of half-grown skunks. He brought them home for pets, with the view of taking them back to England with him. - Walter said, “Aw, blemmy—the bloody little ones, they -ad been eatin’ on summick quite putrid.”
The next best skunk collector of that time also was a Britisher. Teddy Masters, a diminutive Englishman who was farming the Jim Noyes place over on the county line, with a man named Briggs, chanced to be helping with the threshing on the John Thornburrow farm, when it rained and stopped the work. Three of the threshing crew—Irve Hudson, Ice Gentry, and “Zip” Bean—with Teddy, came to town in a spring wagon. On the way in they saw a skunk by the roadside. One of the men told Teddy to jump out and catch it—that skunks made fine pets. He carried the skunk to town in his hat. Someone told Masters that Dr. John W. Graham would pay well for that skunk. “Er, rippin’,” said the diminutive Englishman. “A chawnset to grab a little lunch, rine or shine, eh? Could do myself well wiv a bob now.”
Dr. J. W. Graham owned a drugstore on the south side of the street. He also owned a fine bird-dog named York. They were nearly always together. With the skunk still in his hat, Teddy found Graham’s door locked. Someone across the street told him to throw the skunk in at an open window. He did so. A little later, on entering the store, Dr. John W. sat himself down to work out some materia medica puzzles, sniffing a little on the side, while York was nosing about a bit. When the dog found the object of his search, a rising young physician literally exploded.
Teddy did not wait to collect his bob.
Though John Stowell, the boy member of the original influx of Colonists, did command me—I was in his employ at the time—to go out on a chicken foraging expedition one bright moonlight night, neither he nor I was troubled with conscientious scruples. We were both quite sure that we would never have to answer to God or man for our actions—I hasten to say, in this particular instance.
Also, if Will Gill and Augustus Anderson were here they would tell you that they not only saw me enter a closed but unlocked chicken house and come out with six chickens, two at a time, and that they themselves helped me carry those chickens to the rendezvous where they were to be roasted—innards, feathers and all.
In explanation, John Stowell “burned” the brick for his two-story building across the street from the Worthy lumber office—the present location of the Catholic recreation hall. The brickyard was on Stowell’s land south of the creek just west of the town bridge. Old Hagen, an experienced brick-maker, was brought here to burn brick for the John Spencer building—with Masonic hall above—on the alley south of second street, facing on Kansas Avenue; and the Ed Vilott building on the alley south of the present McDaniel picture show location, also facing on Kansas Avenue. For these two buildings, Hagen burned two kilns of brick on the north side of the creek, west from the mineral spring, on the present Don Cole land.
My brother Sam and I worked on the Hagen brickyard—and learned a few tricks. John Stowell said he believed we could do the brick-making as well as Hagen, and if we were willing to tackle the job he would “chawnsit.” Sam did the moulding, and I did the off-bearing, carried the green brick to the drying yard—the same positions we held on the Hagen yard. Together we set the brick in the kiln for burning. And we plastered the kiln, top and sides, with mud before starting the fires.
The material used in both yards was common top-soil mixed with sand—ground in a horse-propelled mill. Sand for the Hagen yard came from a pit about where Frank White’s barn-lot is, across the street from his residence. Sand for the Stowell yard came from a pit on the north side of the quarter section at the northeast corner of town. It was a treacherous pit. It caved in one time between loads when I was hauling—and it frightened me so badly that I drove back empty. And never again did I go into that pit.
Incidentally, I may say that it was claimed later a good brick-clay was found on the John Thomas farm, a half mile east of town. A promoter made the discovery. He planned to build a brick manufacturing plant at the point of discovery, and have a railroad spur run out from town—provided, however, that the town people foot the bill. Also he wanted to sell his expert knowledge at a ridiculously high figure. When it was pointed out to him that a couple of “greenhorn” boys had made fairly good brick from ordinary dirt, without financial sweetening, he gave up the venture.
At the Stowell yard I had the day shift and Sam headed the night shift during the burning procedure. For fuel we used old fence rails—mostly. And it took a lot of them. Rails fed into the five 16-foot fire tunnels to better advantage than any other wood that could be had. Wherever so many rails came from I do not recall. Likely from farms whose owners were making the change over from the old worm-fence to barbed wire, which came along about that time. Besides the firemen—three to the 12-hour shift—there were always crowds of spectators at the yard, in the early evenings.
Stowell was feeling pretty good over the splendid progress we were making, and he said to me one evening, out loud so that all could hear, “I think we ought to give the boys a chicken roast tonight.” Then, to the crowd, “Wot you say, fellows? ‘Ere two of you boys go along with John and bring back a ‘alf dozen chicks—I command John to go.”
Will Gill and Gus Anderson fell in with me. The boys named a place in the north part of town where they thought we might get the chickens without incurring too much risk of being caught. We were now passing John Stowell’s home on the corner where Cleve Battin lives. I said, “Oh, that’s too far. Why not see what Laura (Stowell’s wife) has in her chicken house here on the alley?” Will Gill said, “Why, this is Stowell’s place. We ought not steal his chickens. He might recognize them—and that would spoil all the fun.”
And, by-golly, those two boys refused to put foot on the Stowell lot—and I had to do all the dirty work. I couldn’t blame them though, because it was bright moonlight and the door of the chicken house faced the Stowell residence only a few rods to the south. But it was, probably, just as well. They wouldn’t have known where to find the choice chicks, anyway. And besides, I knew that, let ‘em squawk, Laura and the children were going to stay put. Back at the yard, the word got around that we had stolen Stowell’s chickens—and the whole gang broke into a “Chessy-cat” grin which didn’t come off during the whole evening. Stowell busied himself with the roasting, without outward signs of recognizing a chick.
John Stowell was very methodical and punctual in the conduct of his newspaper. He was reasonable in his demands of his help—and mighty fine fellow to work for. He often paid me extra when particularly pleased with our accomplishment. He insisted only that the forms be closed by six o’clock on press days. We usually printed the paper after supper, so that Stowell might address the papers for mailing—and then, too, in the winter, we could get a better print while the office was warm.
One time Stowell brought a roving printer upstairs to the composing room, having promised the fellow $5 to show me how to print in two colors from a solid cut. I told John that I thought I knew how it was done. He said, “By-jingo, maybe you can learn something, anyway.” Turning to the two-color man, he said, “Show ‘im, Mister.” But it was I who did the showing.
I looked up a cut of our then new frame school house—a carry over from another ownership—and explained how I had printed the building in brown, the yard in green, and the sky in blue, with a fleecy white cloud overhead in the background, all done with three impressions, from the solid cut. Stowell said, ‘“Ere, Mister, ‘ere’s your five dollars.” The fellow said, “I think you ought to give this to your printer—he’s gone me one better in the matter of colors.” Stowell said, “‘Ere John, I’ll give you $5 too. It’s been worth it to me.” And I said, “I think you ought to give this one to my brother Sam. He engraved the wood cut, showed me how to mix colors, and was helpful in figuring out a way to print it in three colors.” Sam was the artist in our family. Stowell said, “By-jingo, I’ll give ‘im $5 too. ‘Ow’s our supply of boxwood?” He had another three-color print in mind.
At the time of this episode, I had only one helper—Stowell’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Alice. Alex Hamel and John Kenoyer, part time type-setters, were not working that week. Alice was that sort of girl who would do pretty much as she pleased so long as her papa would stay downstairs and attend strictly to his editorial, and his hardware business.
This day Stowell stayed downstairs until the thing happened—then he rushed from the editorial office on the first floor in front, eighty feet back to the rear, then up the stairs to the second floor, and back again eighty feet to the composing room. Alice, who knew her father better than I did, whispered, “Oh, Lordy, he’s mad as a wet hen. Don’t give me away, please!”
John wanted to know, “Oo was it that ‘ad offended little Miss ‘Utch?” Neither of us had the answer. Coral Hutchison, a frequent and I may say most welcome caller—preferably on any day but Thursday—and Alice had put in a couple of hours visiting, as young girls will. And this was Thursday afternoon, our press day. I asked Alice to speed up her work a little so that we might make the deadline before six o’clock. It did no good. I had to speak to Alice a second time, not harshly, however—and Coral, apparently understanding the situation, left. But when she passed the editorial office downstairs, Stowell said she was crying.
After John Stowell had gone downstairs that day, Alice said, “If he asks you again—and I know he will—tell him what you told me about Coral after she had been up here last week. That would tickle him, and he will forget all about her tears.”
Well, John Stowell did ask me again. He really wanted to know. And I told him, shielding Alice as much as I could. He said, “I understand. You did right. Make ‘er pay attention to ‘er work. But I just didn’t like to see a nice girl like little Miss ‘Utch leaving my place of business, crying.”
I squared myself with John by saying—and meaning—that it would be a grievously short-sighted thing for any young fellow to knowingly offend “Little Miss ‘Utch. Besides being “some” girl, she would likely some day be an heiress. But, then, even so, this fact was something less than a comforting thought to one very fine young local merchant who fancied himself well entrenched in her future matrimonial plans. When he began talking about what they could accomplish with her papa’s wealth—she quit him, cold.
“Little Miss ‘Utch” was the daughter of Charley Hutchison, but everybody except Stowell called him “Hutch.” I knew Charley quite intimately for a dozen years before I learned that his name was really Hutchison.
What I had told Alice about Coral that day is not in itself worth repeating here. But it offers a chance to introduce an outstanding success story—a success in the redemption of waning manhood, as well as in a financial way. Also, this injection does not strictly belong in this story—but, in line with my adopted hop, skip, and jump reminiscing technique, I shall try to make it fit.
I told Alice that Coral was the only girl who had ever asked me to come and see her sometime when her papa wasn’t around. And I might say she was in deadly earnest about this. Her papa would not permit her to entertain me in the manner she had in mind. It was not that he disapproved of me. In fact, it was on his invitation that I was in the presence of the girl at the moment. Also, her papa was at the time just outside the hearing of the conspirators.
My brother Charley, Clifford Ashton, and I, were cutting sumac for my father’s tanyard on the Hutchison land south of the big barn. Charley Hutchison had followed his four-year-old daughter out to the barn that day to prevent her from going through her stunt—the thing she wanted me to witness. Charley saw us in the sumac patch, and came out, bringing Coral with him. He said he had a big watermelon patch close to the barn, and invited us to help ourselves to the melons—then, and thereafter whenever working in the vicinity. He also said he had to watch Coral closely—that whenever she would get the chance she’d climb up to the beams in the big barn and jump off into the hay. Hay hands were bringing in the harvest at that time—and of course the barn was opened up.
Bees were buzzing around broken melons in the patch, and the little girl, apparently frightened of them, tried to hide her face against my legs. Charley said that while they—the father, mother, and child—were visiting his people in Ohio, after having attended the Centennial (1876) in Philadelphia, Coral had sat down on a “live” beehive and got stung so badly as to make her very sick; the swelling in her face almost closing her eyes.
Charley Hutchison’s father was a wealthy brewer back in Ohio. Charley acquired the drink habit. When his family thought they had him shut off from the liquor supply, he would sneak into the storage cellar, bore a hole in a whisky barrel, and suck the stuff out through a straw.
Charley was sent out here, in the hope of curing him of the drink habit. He was given a section of land on Wolfley creek, three miles northwest of Wetmore—and supplied with money to improve the land. I think he was then left wholly on his own. I do not recall ever seeing any of his people out here.
Charley Hutchison came here in 1870, and was about 21 years old—a modest, likeable young man. He spent most of his first year here, in town. He lived at the Hugh Fortner Hotel—and while rooming there, lost $500, which he had placed under his pillow. There was no bank here then.
When Charley loafed downtown—which was much of the time that first year—he made my father’s shoeshop his headquarters. The shop was on the north side of the main street, opposite John Clifton’s saloon on the south side. Charley was really trying to taper off in his drinking, and seldom entered the saloon. He tried to avoid the amenities of the drinking gentry. He would sometimes, when alone, take one drink, and then come across to the shoeshop.
Though not a relative of ours, John Clifton was the step-son of my Uncle Nick Bristow, and he often dropped in at the shoeshop. My mother worked with my father in the shop. She asked John Clifton to not encourage Charley in his drinking. Clifton said “Hutch” was really doing fine, and that he would help the boy all that he could.
Then a girl came down from the prairie country in the neighborhood of what is now Goff—”Pucker Brush” it was called then—to work in Peter Shuemaker’s new hotel. Anna Mackey was a nice looking girl—too nice looking, Charley said, to go out with the landlord’s “drunken” son. It really worried Charley. He said one day, “I believe I’ll try to stop it.” He did. He married Anna. And never again did he take a drink. My mother and Clifton both took credit for helping him over the hump. But I suspect it was the girl from the prairie country who had transformed him short off into an abstainer.
Charley Hutchison was the only one of several whom I knew that were sent out here from the east, when this country was new, for a like purpose, that made good. There was no finer man than Charley Hutchison—a conscientious, upright Christian gentleman. Compared to “Jersey” Campbell, a New Jersey drinking boy, located on the best half section of land south of Goff, Charley Hutchison’s performance was phenomenal. But then, maybe there never was an “Anna” in Jersey’s life. Charley Hutchison sold his land to Fred Shumaker, and moved to Wetmore in the early eighties. He built the home now owned by Mrs. James Grubb.
Let me say here that Alice Stowell was an attentive little type-setter when she worked for me after I had bought The Spectator—and that Coral Hutchison still was a frequent and most welcome caller. Also, they had learned that it was important that visitors be seen and not heard on press days. Coral continued her visits to the office long after Alice Stowell had married Marsh Younkman, and moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma—and after Myrtle Mercer had taken Alice’s place in the printing office. Coral seemed to like the smell of printer’s ink—and she continued her regular visits long after she married Charley Locknane.
While still quite young, Coral Hutchison was the town’s top pianist and singer, a distinction she held throughout the years against all comers. She even competed favorably, in song, with the girls from the Colony, whose reputation as singers was widespread. The younger generation of Colonists were superb entertainers, anxious at all times to compete against or team up with the young people from town, at their lyceums held in the Wolfley school house. Wetmore had a “literary” society, which gave entertainments, usually charging twenty-five cents admission—while the Colonists always gave their shows for free.
Then, the time came when they combined in one big show, an epochal achievement, at Wetmore—drawing two of the cast from the Colony. Ted Fish was a specialty man, singing comical songs. His favorite rendition had to do with the loan of a friend’s girl, the refrain running, “Hand ‘e wounted me to tike ‘is plice and do the best I cooud.” I’d heard him sing it several times before at their lyceums. Coral Hutchison was also a specialty singer—on a much higher and more pleasing musical plane, however. John Stowell, long removed from the Colony, blacked his face, rattled the bones—and played the concertina.
Bill Dutch, of the Colony, was leading man—and a mighty good one too. Our own Miss Jane Thomas was leading lady—equally good. The play was a “heavy” drama. I might say the whole cast except myself, was exceptionally good. As to my own part, you shall be the judge. It was not a speaking part. Months before this, I had blundered in a speaking part on the stage—carelessly called a word what, by all the ethics of decency, it should not have been called. It provoked uproarious laughter—at my expense. And on a subsequent appearance upon the literary stage I drew a concerted giggle before I even had time to open my mouth. It completely unnerved me—for all time. I was so “befuddled” that I couldn’t say a word, and I didn’t have the gumption to graciously bow myself off the stage. I bolted off. And that’s how I became a writer. It’s safest, anyhow.
When you blunder, you can always—if smart enough to detect it—scratch it out. But spoken words, once said, can never be recalled.
The director, “Lord” Richard Bingham, was an Englishman—not related, and unknown to the Colonists—who had dropped in here from, nobody knew where, or why. He seemed to have a perpetual thirst for strong drink—and the money with which to provide it. He was a remittance man—which is to say he was a scion of a wealthy old country family, sent over here on a monthly allowance, as riddance of a costly nuisance.
Director Bingham was apparently well educated, did not talk the “Cockney” language of the Colonists—and had some dramatic ability. He directed this home-talent show without pay—and did a pretty good job of it. All he asked was a “little more McBriar,” his favorite brand of whisky. And after he had “steamed up” on a generous quantity of the nameless stuff from the local“speak-easy”—licensed saloons were out here then—anything and everything was “good old McBriar.”
The show went over so well in Wetmore that the management decided to repeat it at Capioma—and maybe go on the road with it. But, in the nick of time, it was recalled that Henry Clinkenbeard, our photographer—or rather our taker of daguerreotypes—had sponsored an all home-talent minstrel show which also had gone over big here, but when tried out on the road, proved a financial failure—and the road idea was written off.
All due to an outburst of alcoholic conviviality, Mr. Bingham saluted Miss Jane on the takeoff for Capioma, assuring her that she would not fail to “knock ‘em cold.” He did not go with the show. The management willed that he remain in Wetmore where he could have ready access to Charley McCarthy’s “blind-tiger” and enjoy to the full “a little more” of his favorite “McBriar.”
The day of our Capioma appearance was cold. There was bright sunshine, with a foot of snow on the ground. The whole cast—including Henry Clinkenbeard and his brass band—went in several lumber wagons, arriving in Capioma in time for supper at the Van Brunt farm home. I believe his name was Jerry. Anyway, he was the father of Tunis and Teeny. The show was held in the hall over the Van Pelt store, in town, diagonally across the road west from the Van Brunt farm home.
I was taken along as assistant property man—and doubled in brass (b-flat cornet)—but the cramped space for stage and dressing rooms in the rather small Van Pelt hall developed a better spot for me. I was made the custodian of the leading lady’s train—carried it in my two hands just so from dressing room around sharp turns to the stage, and paid out its many folds, at entrance, in a manner to avoid entanglement.
The twelve mile ride in open wagon, with bright sunshine bearing down on the reflecting white snow, had done things to the girls’ faces. However, the wise ones had fetched along cosmetics to make themselves presentable—but our leading lady said she never had, and by the eternal bonds of respectability, she never would use make-up. Although conceded to be the privilege of stage-women, nice girls didn’t paint their faces in that period. And although our Jane did eventually make Hollywood, I suspect the day never came when she would use make-up.
Though a native of Wales, with maybe a dozen years in this country at that time, Jane Thomas did not retain, markedly, the old country manner of speech. She was endowed with a delightful little twist, all her own—that is, something apart from that of other members of her family, which was neither Welsh nor pure English. Jane was a pretty girl. Her slight elegant body, draped in silk with something like six feet of the train trailing in the wake as she moved majestically across the stage, gave her a queenly quality. And she still looked lovely despite her shiny nose. She was, or rather had been before his demise, my brother Charley’s girl.