J. P. ALBEE.
J. P. ALBEE.
J. P. ALBEE.
J. P. Albee, laborer, painter, carpenter, rig-builder, pumper, pipe-liner, merchant and insurance-agent, was born in Warren county, reared on a farm in the Wisconsin lead-mining regions, enlisted in 1861, served three years gallantly and was discharged because of a wound in the breast by a rifle-ball. He struck Pithole in September of 1865, shared in the ups and downs of the transitory excitement and was one of the founders, if not the full-fledged father, of Cash-Up. The brave veteran was a pioneer in shoving ahead and demonstrating where oil wasnotto be expected. He owned fourteen dry-holes in whole or part, a number sufficient to establish quite a record. Drifting to Butler with the tide of developments, he engaged in various pursuits with varying success. Hosts of friends relish his tales of army-life and of ventures in Oildom, a knapsack of which he has constantly on hand. The years speed quickly, bringing many changes in their wake, and thousands who once waded through the muddy streets of Pithole are now treading the golden pavements of the Celestial City. Those who linger here a while longer love to recall the times that can never be repeated under the blue canopy.
Mud-veins in the third sand on Oil Creek and at Pithole would often stick the tools effectually. On Bull Run three wells in one derrick were abandoned with tools stuck in the third sand. The theory was that the mud vein was a stratum of slate in the sand, which became softened and ran into the well when water came in contact with it. Casing has robbed it of its terrors.
Before casing was introduced it was often difficult to tell if oil was found. Oilmen would examine the sand, look for “soot” on the sand-pumpings and place a lighted match to the sand-pump immediately after it was drawn from the well, as a test for gas. If the driller was sure the drill dropped two or three feet, with “soot” on the sand-pumpings, the show was considered worth testing. A seed-bag was put on the tubing and the well was allowed to stand a day or two to let the seed swell. To exhaust the water sometimes required weeks, but when all hope of a producer was lost and the last shovel of coal was in the boiler the oil might come. There seemed to be a virtue in that last shovel of coal. The shoemaker who could make a good seed-bag was a big man.The man who tied on the seed-bag for a well that proved a good producer was in demand. If, after oil showed itself, flax-seed was seen coming from the pipe the well-owner’s heart could be found in his boots. The bag was burst, the water let in and the operator’s hopes let out.
A young divine preached a sermon at Pithole, on the duty of self-consecration, so effectively that a hearer presented him with a bundle of stock in a company operating on the Hyner farm. The preacher sold his shares for ten-thousand dollars and promptly retired from the pulpit to study law! Rev. S. D. Steadman, while a master of sarcasm that would skewer a hypocrite on the point of irony, was particularly at home in the realm of the affections and of the ideal. In matters of the heart and soul few could with surer touch set aflow the founts of tender pathos. He met his match occasionally. Rallying a friend on his Calvinism, he said, “I believe Christians may fall from grace.” “Brother Steadman,” was the quick rejoinder, “you need not argue that; the flock you’re tending is convincing proof that the doctrine is true of your membership.”
A good deal of fun has been poked at the Georgia railroad which had cow-catchers at the rear, to keep cattle from walking into the cars, and stopped in the woods while the conductor went a mile for milk to replenish a crying baby’s nursing-bottle. On my last trip to Pithole by rail there were no other passengers. The conductor sat beside me to chat of former days and the decadence of the town at the northern end of the line. Four miles from Oleopolis fields of wild strawberries “wasted their sweetness on the desert air.” In reply to my hint that the berries looked very tempting, the conductor pulled the bell-rope and stopped the train. All hands feasted on the luscious fruit until satisfied. Coleridge, who observed that “Doubtless the Almightycouldmake a finer fruit than the wild strawberry, but doubtless He never did,” would have enjoyed the scene. “Don’t hurry too much,” the conductor called after me at Pithole “we can start forty minutes behind time and I’ll wait for you!” The rails were taken up and the road abandoned in the fall, but the strawberry-picking is as fresh as though it happened yesterday.
Long ago teamsters would start from the mines with twenty bushels of fifteen-cent coal. By the time they reached Pithole it would swell to thirty-five bushels of sixty-cent coal. With oil for back-loading the teamsters made more money then than a bond-juggler with a cinch on the United-States treasury.
A farmer’s wife near Dawson Centre, who had washed dishes for forty years, became so tired of the monotony that, the day her husband leased the farm for oil-purposes, she smashed every piece of crockery in the house and went out on the woodpile and laughed a full hour. It was the first vacation of her married life and dish-washing women will know how to sympathize with the poor soul in her drudgery and her emancipation.
Pithole, Shamburg, Red-Hot, Tip-Top, Cash-Up, Balltown and Oleopolis have passed into history and many of their people have gone beyond the vale of this checkered pilgrimage, yet memories of these old times come back freighted with thoughts of joyous days that will return no more forever.
“Better be a young June-bug than an old bird of Paradise.”
“Better be a young June-bug than an old bird of Paradise.”
“Better be a young June-bug than an old bird of Paradise.”
“Better be a young June-bug than an old bird of Paradise.”
PITHOLE REVISITED.
The following lines, first contributed by me to the Oil-CityTimesin 1870, went the rounds twenty-five years ago:
Not a sound was heard, not a shrill whistle’s scream,As our footsteps through Pithole we hurried;Not a well was discharging an unctuous streamWhere the hopes of the oilmen lay buried!We walk’d the dead city till far in the night—Weeds growing where wheels once were turning—While seeking to find by the struggling moonlightSome symptom of gas dimly burning.No useless regret should encumber man’s breast,Though dry-holes and Pitholes may bound him;So we lay like a warrior taking his rest,Each with his big overcoat ’round him.Few and short were the prayers we said,We spoke not a sentence of sorrow,But steadfastly gazed on the place that was deadAnd bitterly long’d for the morrow!We thought, as we lay on our primitive bed,An old sand-pump reel for a pillow,How friends, foes and strangers were heartily bledAnd ruin swept on like a billow!Lightly we slept, for we dreamt of the scamp,And in fancy began to upbraid him,Who swindled us out of our very last stamp—In the grave we could gladly have laid him!We rose half an hour in advance of the sun,But little refreshed for retiring!And, feeling as stiff as a son of a gun,Set off on a hunt for some firing.Slowly and sadly our hard-tack went down,Then we wrote a brief sketch of our storyAnd struck a bee-line for Oil City’s fair town,Leaving Pithole alone in its glory!
Not a sound was heard, not a shrill whistle’s scream,As our footsteps through Pithole we hurried;Not a well was discharging an unctuous streamWhere the hopes of the oilmen lay buried!We walk’d the dead city till far in the night—Weeds growing where wheels once were turning—While seeking to find by the struggling moonlightSome symptom of gas dimly burning.No useless regret should encumber man’s breast,Though dry-holes and Pitholes may bound him;So we lay like a warrior taking his rest,Each with his big overcoat ’round him.Few and short were the prayers we said,We spoke not a sentence of sorrow,But steadfastly gazed on the place that was deadAnd bitterly long’d for the morrow!We thought, as we lay on our primitive bed,An old sand-pump reel for a pillow,How friends, foes and strangers were heartily bledAnd ruin swept on like a billow!Lightly we slept, for we dreamt of the scamp,And in fancy began to upbraid him,Who swindled us out of our very last stamp—In the grave we could gladly have laid him!We rose half an hour in advance of the sun,But little refreshed for retiring!And, feeling as stiff as a son of a gun,Set off on a hunt for some firing.Slowly and sadly our hard-tack went down,Then we wrote a brief sketch of our storyAnd struck a bee-line for Oil City’s fair town,Leaving Pithole alone in its glory!
Not a sound was heard, not a shrill whistle’s scream,As our footsteps through Pithole we hurried;Not a well was discharging an unctuous streamWhere the hopes of the oilmen lay buried!
Not a sound was heard, not a shrill whistle’s scream,
As our footsteps through Pithole we hurried;
Not a well was discharging an unctuous stream
Where the hopes of the oilmen lay buried!
We walk’d the dead city till far in the night—Weeds growing where wheels once were turning—While seeking to find by the struggling moonlightSome symptom of gas dimly burning.
We walk’d the dead city till far in the night—
Weeds growing where wheels once were turning—
While seeking to find by the struggling moonlight
Some symptom of gas dimly burning.
No useless regret should encumber man’s breast,Though dry-holes and Pitholes may bound him;So we lay like a warrior taking his rest,Each with his big overcoat ’round him.
No useless regret should encumber man’s breast,
Though dry-holes and Pitholes may bound him;
So we lay like a warrior taking his rest,
Each with his big overcoat ’round him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,We spoke not a sentence of sorrow,But steadfastly gazed on the place that was deadAnd bitterly long’d for the morrow!
Few and short were the prayers we said,
We spoke not a sentence of sorrow,
But steadfastly gazed on the place that was dead
And bitterly long’d for the morrow!
We thought, as we lay on our primitive bed,An old sand-pump reel for a pillow,How friends, foes and strangers were heartily bledAnd ruin swept on like a billow!
We thought, as we lay on our primitive bed,
An old sand-pump reel for a pillow,
How friends, foes and strangers were heartily bled
And ruin swept on like a billow!
Lightly we slept, for we dreamt of the scamp,And in fancy began to upbraid him,Who swindled us out of our very last stamp—In the grave we could gladly have laid him!
Lightly we slept, for we dreamt of the scamp,
And in fancy began to upbraid him,
Who swindled us out of our very last stamp—
In the grave we could gladly have laid him!
We rose half an hour in advance of the sun,But little refreshed for retiring!And, feeling as stiff as a son of a gun,Set off on a hunt for some firing.
We rose half an hour in advance of the sun,
But little refreshed for retiring!
And, feeling as stiff as a son of a gun,
Set off on a hunt for some firing.
Slowly and sadly our hard-tack went down,Then we wrote a brief sketch of our storyAnd struck a bee-line for Oil City’s fair town,Leaving Pithole alone in its glory!
Slowly and sadly our hard-tack went down,
Then we wrote a brief sketch of our story
And struck a bee-line for Oil City’s fair town,
Leaving Pithole alone in its glory!
PARKER OIL EXCHANGE IN 1874.
PARKER OIL EXCHANGE IN 1874.
PARKER OIL EXCHANGE IN 1874.
Top Row—J. D. EmeryWarren Gray.—— Harris.E. Seldon.C. Seldon.Nelson Cochran.Col. Sellers.Unknown.Milo Marsden.W. A. Pullman.L. W. Waters.Lemuel Young.Chas. Archbold.Unknown.Unknown.Harry Parker.Hugh McKelvy.James Green.James McCutcheon.J. M’Donald.Dr. Thorn.Unknown.Unknown.Middle Row—O J. Greer.Fullerton Parker.Full. Parker, Jr.James Goldsborough.W. C. Henry.Thos. McLaughlin.Col. Brady.Sam. Morrow.Joseph Seep.Charles Hatch.John Barton.R. Moorhead.H. W. Batchelor.—— Gephardt.Shep. Morehead.Lower Row—Capt. J. T. Chalfant.Thos. McConnell.Weston Howland.James Lowe.Chas. Riddell.Richard Conn.Rem Offley.Ren. Kerr.Harry Marlin.H. Beers.Jas. Garrett.Chas. W. Ball.Walter Fleming.Chas. J. Frazer.
Top Row—J. D. EmeryWarren Gray.—— Harris.E. Seldon.C. Seldon.Nelson Cochran.Col. Sellers.Unknown.Milo Marsden.W. A. Pullman.L. W. Waters.Lemuel Young.Chas. Archbold.Unknown.Unknown.Harry Parker.Hugh McKelvy.James Green.James McCutcheon.J. M’Donald.Dr. Thorn.Unknown.Unknown.
Top Row—J. D. EmeryWarren Gray.—— Harris.E. Seldon.C. Seldon.Nelson Cochran.Col. Sellers.Unknown.Milo Marsden.W. A. Pullman.L. W. Waters.Lemuel Young.Chas. Archbold.Unknown.Unknown.Harry Parker.Hugh McKelvy.James Green.James McCutcheon.J. M’Donald.Dr. Thorn.Unknown.Unknown.
Top Row—J. D. EmeryWarren Gray.—— Harris.E. Seldon.C. Seldon.Nelson Cochran.Col. Sellers.Unknown.Milo Marsden.W. A. Pullman.L. W. Waters.Lemuel Young.Chas. Archbold.Unknown.Unknown.Harry Parker.Hugh McKelvy.James Green.James McCutcheon.J. M’Donald.Dr. Thorn.Unknown.Unknown.
Top Row—J. D. EmeryWarren Gray.—— Harris.E. Seldon.C. Seldon.Nelson Cochran.Col. Sellers.Unknown.Milo Marsden.W. A. Pullman.L. W. Waters.Lemuel Young.Chas. Archbold.Unknown.Unknown.Harry Parker.Hugh McKelvy.James Green.James McCutcheon.J. M’Donald.Dr. Thorn.Unknown.Unknown.
Top Row—
J. D. Emery
Warren Gray.
—— Harris.
E. Seldon.
C. Seldon.
Nelson Cochran.
Col. Sellers.
Unknown.
Milo Marsden.
W. A. Pullman.
L. W. Waters.
Lemuel Young.
Chas. Archbold.
Unknown.
Unknown.
Harry Parker.
Hugh McKelvy.
James Green.
James McCutcheon.
J. M’Donald.
Dr. Thorn.
Unknown.
Unknown.
Middle Row—O J. Greer.Fullerton Parker.Full. Parker, Jr.James Goldsborough.W. C. Henry.Thos. McLaughlin.Col. Brady.Sam. Morrow.Joseph Seep.Charles Hatch.John Barton.R. Moorhead.H. W. Batchelor.—— Gephardt.Shep. Morehead.
Middle Row—O J. Greer.Fullerton Parker.Full. Parker, Jr.James Goldsborough.W. C. Henry.Thos. McLaughlin.Col. Brady.Sam. Morrow.Joseph Seep.Charles Hatch.John Barton.R. Moorhead.H. W. Batchelor.—— Gephardt.Shep. Morehead.
Middle Row—O J. Greer.Fullerton Parker.Full. Parker, Jr.James Goldsborough.W. C. Henry.Thos. McLaughlin.Col. Brady.Sam. Morrow.Joseph Seep.Charles Hatch.John Barton.R. Moorhead.H. W. Batchelor.—— Gephardt.Shep. Morehead.
Middle Row—O J. Greer.Fullerton Parker.Full. Parker, Jr.James Goldsborough.W. C. Henry.Thos. McLaughlin.Col. Brady.Sam. Morrow.Joseph Seep.Charles Hatch.John Barton.R. Moorhead.H. W. Batchelor.—— Gephardt.Shep. Morehead.
Middle Row—
O J. Greer.
Fullerton Parker.
Full. Parker, Jr.
James Goldsborough.
W. C. Henry.
Thos. McLaughlin.
Col. Brady.
Sam. Morrow.
Joseph Seep.
Charles Hatch.
John Barton.
R. Moorhead.
H. W. Batchelor.
—— Gephardt.
Shep. Morehead.
Lower Row—Capt. J. T. Chalfant.Thos. McConnell.Weston Howland.James Lowe.Chas. Riddell.Richard Conn.Rem Offley.Ren. Kerr.Harry Marlin.H. Beers.Jas. Garrett.Chas. W. Ball.Walter Fleming.Chas. J. Frazer.
Lower Row—Capt. J. T. Chalfant.Thos. McConnell.Weston Howland.James Lowe.Chas. Riddell.Richard Conn.Rem Offley.Ren. Kerr.Harry Marlin.H. Beers.Jas. Garrett.Chas. W. Ball.Walter Fleming.Chas. J. Frazer.
Lower Row—Capt. J. T. Chalfant.Thos. McConnell.Weston Howland.James Lowe.Chas. Riddell.Richard Conn.Rem Offley.Ren. Kerr.Harry Marlin.H. Beers.Jas. Garrett.Chas. W. Ball.Walter Fleming.Chas. J. Frazer.
Lower Row—Capt. J. T. Chalfant.Thos. McConnell.Weston Howland.James Lowe.Chas. Riddell.Richard Conn.Rem Offley.Ren. Kerr.Harry Marlin.H. Beers.Jas. Garrett.Chas. W. Ball.Walter Fleming.Chas. J. Frazer.
Lower Row—
Capt. J. T. Chalfant.
Thos. McConnell.
Weston Howland.
James Lowe.
Chas. Riddell.
Richard Conn.
Rem Offley.
Ren. Kerr.
Harry Marlin.
H. Beers.
Jas. Garrett.
Chas. W. Ball.
Walter Fleming.
Chas. J. Frazer.