THE OLD HOME WEEK BOOK
History of the Village of Prospect, PA

Transcribed and Donated by Robert A. Stumpf

Chapter IV

Sports

The young people had their fun; in summer the boys went swimming and fishing and played ball and took the girls on excursions to various places of interest, such as Muddycreek Falls, the Slippery Rock Mills, and to the picnics and social functions of the vicinity. In the winter there were sleighing parties, spellings, school exhibitions, singing, taffy-pullings and house parties where charades and games were played and sometimes dances -- which the rude fellows of the baser sort called "sprees" -- which filled the evening with enjoyment. But the autumn was the season most congenial; for then were the corn-huskings and the log-rollings, the quiltings and appleparing-bees, Hallowe'en and Thanksgiving Days, and for the boys, above all, the hunting time of Indian summer, nutting, cider making, butchering and shooting matches. Dame Nature then had filled the measure of her summer's work, the labor was accomplished on the part of earth and her children, and the enjoyment of the fruits of that labor was entered into. The bins and barns and cellars were filled with ample store of corn and various kinds of grain, with hay of timothy and clover and the fodder from the corn, potatoes and apples, turnips and all the garden vegetables -- the lordly pumpkin -- of all vegetables most kingly in color, form and dimensions, good for man and beast, with the squash its more sophisticated congener, -- lord and master of the store. Of all these more extended notice is required.

There was not much water in or near Prospect. Wells, yes, and springs and good ones, in it and around it, plenty of them, but no large stream or reservoir of any kind. The nearest was Long Run, half a mile to the north and the Mile Run on which Sarver's mill was built, the dam for which made a skating place; and Muddycreek, three miles away. But boys find water to swim in if it is to be found within a day's journey. And the Prospect boys found water enough in which to learn to swim. They built a dam in the latter years where the ruins of the sawmill dam of Michael Lepley stood, down the Stony Batter road, and there they paddled and played and learned to swim, but swimming was the least part of their fun. A troop of six, eight or ten would start for their diversion on a summer afternoon. When they came to the woods through which the road wound down past the mill, they stripped themselves and made their scant rainment into a bundle which henceforth was an encumbrance. Mother-naked, they were little savages, close to mother nature and far from their own solicitous mothers proper. Then, dodging among the trees, scratching themselves betimes on the briers they encountered, jumping from rock to rock, they came to the bed of iron ore through which the road extended, and then the high ceremonies of their revelry began. The dark earth, umber colored with the oxide of iron, was smeared with liberal hands on the white skin of their bodies. Frightful caricatures of bleeding scalps and death's heads and cross-bones, spotted and criss-crossed chests and backs and staring ribs, the boys painted on themselves and each other making, with their yells and laughter, a pandemonium of innocent indecency. And when, perchance, a man, or worse, a woman came along the little-travelled road, they skulked and hid like quail among the rocks and trees until the danger was past --no one not knowing would have suspected there was a boy within sight or hearing. And then they opened up their lungs and went whooping to the dam. Cold water, all from springs not a mile away, clear when they got ito it and soon not clear, they plunged in and scuffled and dived and struck out learning to swim, and pelted each other with turfs and clods of the fire-clay which veined the banks of their swimming hole, shivered on the bank if the wind blew cool, prowled around below the old dam with its massive masonry, hunting the wild raspberries and blackberries which grew there, came back and after a final dip, dressed themselves and went back home, cleaner, hungrier and tired enough for a full meal and a good sleep.

Their fishing was not much to speak of when it comes to telling fish stories, but they had their fun out of it. They dug their fishing worms -- enough apiece for seven boys -- and anointed them with the juice of Cumfrey from their mothers' gardens -- of course they had to spit on the bait for luck, too, before they threw in -- asked, begged, plead to go fishing and when permission was given, started with high hope and a small luncheon, for the same brook lower down. Rarely one penetrated the unknown region as low as the junction of Long Run with Muddycreek. But that is neither here nor there. Water is water wherever it is. and wherever there is enough water there may be fish; and maybe big ones. The hope and the expectation was the chief asset of the boy. Who knew what he might catch? Yes, who knew? As soon as the woods were reached the important business of cutting a pole was taken up. A long, straight, slender dogwoood was esteemed the best, a piece of wood, by the way, which never grew, any more than a clear white cow with a black face. So one pole was cut and carried awhile, then discarded and another selected, maybe half-a-dozen before the brook was reached, and then possibly, the fisherman was forced to use a clumsy, treacherous black alder, the last he cut, one that would bend but not spring. And then the fishing began. No noise, boys. One of the rules was, no noise. Noise scared the fish. The lines got tangled in the bushes. Some fellow scared the fish. The bait got too dry. There was too much wind. All manner of excuses were forthcoming to account for why, why, why they couldn't catch more fish. A shiner, a minnow, a little dace four inches long, with now and then a chub, a "horny" chub, he was called because he had protuberances on his front, ten, fifteen or twenty of them, made a good day's fishing for the boys. But hope springs eternal in the youthful breast and no amount of poor luck could dampen the ardor with which the boys dug their bait and pounded their cumfrey and cut their poles and started on their next fishing expedition. After all it was not the fish -- which cost more than they were worth in the lard to fry them -- it was not the fish, it was the change, the novelty, the hope, the coming into close contact with Nature, the shining of the sun, the smell of the wild-flowers, the shade of the forest trees, the singing of the wild birds, the rippling of the clear water over the stones of the brook and the mystery of the deep pools and the dark woods -- these were the unappreciated factors in the premises, which, if they could have been continued indefinitely would have made life for the Prospect boys one long, sweet holiday.

But there was better fishing for them on occasion. When the suckers began to "run" that is, come up as far as they could come, for spawning; then, sometimes, the boys got fish. If the nets set lower down did not stop them, they came up in shoals and shoals multitudinous. Sometimes they were a foot long and even longer. Then it was that the boys were filled with excitement. Away they went, rolled up their trousers or took them off -- and their other clothing, and went into the water. They reached under the overhanging banks, felt under the stones, ransacked the tree roots by the stream and wherever an unlucky sucker was hidden grasped him and grasped him hard, pulled him out and threw him shining, flapping and wriggling on the bank, to be gathered up later -- when the shoal had reached deep water --and strung on a forked twig with his companions many or few and carried through the village and home in triumph. All the big codfish ever caught on the Newfoundland Banks or the coast of Labrador never gave more solid pleasure to the fishermen than these big strings of suckers gave to the boys who caught them.

The ball playing with which the boys and younger men amused themselves was of various kinds. There was sock-ball and paddle-ball, alley-ball, "shinney" and "Antony-over" and maybe other knds. Sock ball was a game in which each player dug a little round hole in the ground with his heel. The fellow who was "It" would drop the ball into one of these holes. The proprietor of the hole would pick it out and "sock" one of the other players with it. He in turn, would drop it into another fellow's hole who would "sock" another and so on.

Paddle-ball was the game of base-ball in a rudimentary form. Two sides would be chosen. Four corners established. One fellow would "give ball" and one of the opposing side strike. When the fellow at the bat -- which was a flat paddle -- had hit or "tipped" the ball, three times he had to run. If, when he ran to first base or to any other corner, the opposing side could hit him or throw the ball between him and the corner to which he was running, he was "out". It was a good game. Lots of action, lots of exercise, lots of fun in it.

Alley-ball was played against the blank wall of a building, the players on each side, after the ball was thrown against the wall matching themselves to keep the ball, with their hands, as it came down or at the first bounce, from falling to the ground. The back wall of the "little school house", and the south end of the Allen tavern were two favorite places for the playing of this game.

"Antony-over" was played by sides chosen as in the others. One side would go to one side and the other to the other side of a building, then the man or boy with the ball would throw it over the building crying "Antony, Antony over". If the ball were caught on the other side, he who caught it would run around and throw it to hit an opposing player. If he hit him the opponent had to go with him to his own side. If he missed he must stay on the side he opposed.

Then there was another ball game which was presumably, unique and peculiar to Prospect. When the plank-road was built the boys and young men originated a game that was their own and nobody's else. They had a wooden ball made, divided into sides and from the Diamond started to see which side could drive the other. The ball was thrown and rolled along the plank as far as the thrower could send it; the opposing side stopping it as soon as possible and in turn sending it as far as possible on the territory of the other side. This was a great game. With shinney-sticks, boards and great planks lifted from the road, the ball was stopped -- and sometimes it came like a cannon-ball. And when the shades of evening fell a ball of candle-wick, soaked in turpentine and set on fire, was used instead of the wooden ball. Sometimes the one side chased the other clear down to Sullivan's on the way to Whitestown and again the conflict raged in the other direction beyond the outskirts of the village.

But the girls were not forgotten in the amusements of the day. What function it may have been is no matter; when the time came to participate, the boys hooked up their best roadster and with a long buggy-whip and clean lap-spread or buffalo-robe, the buggy washed and shining, went for their best girls and took them for their holiday. Sometime half a dozen clubbed together, rigged up a double team and a big carry-all and gathered the girls into it for an excursion and picnic. A description of one of these excursions, written at the time, may serve as an indication of what, in general, many others were like. The excursion was to Muddycreek Falls; the falls then were in their original beauty. No axe or woodman or pick of digger had disturbed them, nor railroad bridge had desecrated them. They were beautiful. Now they are --well --they are not.

With the party we follow the rugged and narrow but well-trodden path, down the declivity until we find in its devious course, the mossy rock upon which we have been accustomed to hold our wild-wood carnivals. The sun is high in the heavens and an aching void where dinner ought to be admonishes us that the noontide now is at hand. Baskets are ransacked and rifled of their contents which, spread in profusion and orderly confusion, equalled only by the surrounding rocks __ though on a different scale -- are soon brought by busy hands into a picture of well-regulated disorder, charming to the sight and taste of a connoisseur in such matters, and perfectly enchanting to a party of hungry boys and girls.

Above flows from the rock, through a little trough of bark, such a fountain as Horace loved to celebrate in song such an one as graced his dear Campana the lene caput sacrae aquae, cold as ice, clear as crystal, pure as a snowflake still trembling in the air, sweet to the thirsty soul as nectar to the gods, murmuring and fretting and dashing along to join the mad eddies of the creek below. Drinking from the "pure perennial stream" we also drank in the wild grandeur of our surroundings. And here we sat and feasted. We gathered the fragments and stowed them beneath a huge shelving rock to await our return and then the fun began.

There may be those who cannot appreciate or enjoy a ramble where Nature reigns supreme, and in her merriest moods throws rules and levels far away, to hold high carnival in scattering broadcast the magnificence of disorder, the grandeur of confusion and the wild beauty of her pristine wealth. If there be such persons we pity them. To those who delight in scenes like these around us we say, "Come, look ! listen ! think ! Here we all stand at the foot of the cataract. Why are we all so silent? Lost in admiration, carried away by the unheard harmonies which arise from chords in the spirit touched by the hands of invisible water-nymphs.

All silent. Why! Might it not be that now, as in the beginning, the Spirit of God moving upon the face of the waters, brings with it a new revelation of His power and majesty which impresses our senses and elevates us with feelings above the power of language?

But why should anyone speak? Here is a temple which needs neither priest nor preacher. The ministering spirit of the spot, the tutelar divinity of this shrine is ever present, and here man's only province is to worship and adore.

Exclamations make up the sum and substance of conversation. "I have never seen anything so beautiful! I wish I could live here. I would like to be buried here!" And with such a beginning away it goes until the ancient custom of hewing sepulchres from the living rock was endorsed as a wise and beautiful custom, provided the rocks and their surroundings were half so beautiful as these. Any one of them, old and moss-grown, with lichens and ferns and even huge trees upon it, would form a grander monument than ever was carved by the hand of man.

Some one sees a seemingly inaccessible spot, and true to human nature, longs to gain access to it. Away we go, some to reach it, some to find caves and holes or rocks more interesting by the way, and others to gain it only to leave it for some higher point. Far and wide we are scattered now, each little group seeking the wildest spots and each doubtless discovering places never yet explored by mortal man.

But a rumbling roar rising above the hoarse voice of the falling waters blends its deep bass to swell louder the anthem that rolls along the precipitous declivities. So occupied with sight-seeing we have been that we had not observed what now our startled senses tell us. Looking up we find the little bit of sky visible to us overcast with dark, angry clouds across which sharp gleams of lightning shoot, followed by a long reverberating peal of thunder, warning us to seek shelter from the threatening storm. Here is nature in another mood. And away we go to a place we know where the rain cannot come in, and are hardly there until we are joined by others fleeing from the storm. A thousand men might hide among these rocks at once so that the rain could not reach them, or like the Scottish clansmen of Roderick Dhu, appear and disappear at a bugle blast before the astonished gaze of the Saxon prince.

Our shelter was a massive boulder, many tons in weight, which by some strange convulsion of nature had been torn from the adjacent, mother rock. It was a seat, a footstool and a roof in one, covered like its fellows with evergreens, pines and laurels, ferns and mosses, and surrounded by giant masses, square-cut as though by the hand of a master mechanic. Here we sat and rested and told stories, cracked jokes, sang songs, smoked mild Havanas and listened betimes in silence to the storm rolling up the valley of the Slippery Rock, spending its fury, as it were, for our entertainment, in much thunder and very little rain. We thought the rain fell long after it ceased to fall because the sound we supposed to be caused by the falling drops we finally discovered to be the ceaseless roar of the waterall; and then our explorations began anew.

For a while the clouds hung darkly overhead, and then, suddenly the sun burst through and mingling his golden shafts with the greenery of the forest, lit up the scenery with the glory of an enchanted world, while the raindrops clinging to the leaves and twigs glittered in all the varied colors of the rainbow. A halo of glory was thrown over the scene replendent as the palace of Alcinous and added a charm to what just previously we all had considered perfect in its beauty. Where it had been beautiful it was now glorious.

Another extended ramble made us all hungry and tired. Here and there little groups formed around an open basket or hamper seated on the rocks, busily discussing, from the vanishing point, the view and the eatables the basket afforded.

After luncheon away we went again roving about until the sun was low. Then all to the right bank, to the highest point, for a look up at the sunshine on the falls, and a final gaze into the depths of the abyss below. It was hard for us to go away from the beautiful scene which we could not take with us. But with weary feet we went back over the meadow and to the farm-house and soon were whirling on our homeward way. Every one of that party has a day of unalloyed pleasure to remember, each one has a picture to recall of wild, magnificent scenery, and each one looking back in the years to come, will dwell upon the homeward moonlight drive, as a fitting finale to a most pleasant episode.

Muddycreek Falls, as a place of natural beauty, has been ruined by the railroad cuttings. What has been said of it in the past is not true of it now. We must go further from Prospect to find such wild and charming spots now as it was formerly. But the Falls in bygone days were often visited by the boys and girls of the village. And the Slippery Rock at Kennedy's -- now McConnell's -- Mills, was also a favorite spot for such excursions. Sunday schools sometime held their picnics there. Well does the writer remember the grumbled comment of one of the pillars of the church when the Sunday school assembled at the spring under the big rock at the Crescent Falls: "We might have found a far smoother place to eat nearer home."

A game which ought to be introduced, established and kept up in all villages, was invented and played in Prospect. Nowhere else, probably, was it ever heard of. We claim it as a Prospect game and glory in the remembrance of the delights of it. It has nothing whatever in common with excursions to Muddycreek Falls, the girls, or anything else. It was a boy's game. It was called "Naho". Who ever outside of boys of Prospect, heard of the game of "Naho"? Nobody. It was played on this wise. One boy was counted "It" by the well-known rigmarole of:

"Inty, minty, enty, corn,
Apple-seed and brier thorn,
Here we go, keep off the track,
Harker, barker, wee, wack."

Or,

"Ones all, twos all, zigs-all zam,
Bob-tail, bob-tail, tickle-um, tam,
Harum, scarum, uji-aram-Turk."

Or,

"One-ery, twoery, dickery, davery,
Hallibo, Crackibo, woolery, wackibo,
Tillery, ten.

Then the fellow who was "It" had to shut his eyes -- promising beforehand, "honor bright" that he would not peep, and count a number agreed upon, fifty or a hundred or two hndred or a thousand, in tens, which number always required an immnse amount vociferation to settle upon; and then, while he was counting, the boys would hide. When the given number was counted the boy who was "It" had to cry out, not regarding the rules of grammer, "All that isn't hid, holler 'Naho', all that isn't hid, holler 'Naho'." And if one boy was not hidden, he answered "Naho","Naho". And then, when there was no return cry from any boy who had not yet found a hiding place, the boy who was "It", cried "Naho's done", and started out to find the boys in hiding. When he found one he ran to a previously established base, clapped it three times and cried "Clap, clap three times for John Douglass, Hope Bailey" or whoever it might be, "in the cellar window" or "in the box by the hitching post" or, "behind the maple tree" or wherever it might be. The first one found was "It" the next game, if all the hidden boys could slip in and clap the base the fellow who was "It" had to be "It" again, and so the sport went on. One of the most delightful recollections of the writer is that of the clear voices of the boys with whom he played this game in his youth, rising on the quiet of the evening in the still air of the peaceful village. What game in vogue today compares with "Naho"? There may be many but we do not know them.

With sufficient humility the writer now must acknowledge that, as he has been informed, a game similar to "Naho" is played by boys elsewhere, which game is called "Hi-spy" but the Prospect boys never knew it by that name.

THE OLD HOME WEEK BOOK
History of the Village of Prospect, PA

Transcribed and Donated by Robert A. Stumpf

Chapter V

Spellings And School Exhibitions

The old-time spellings and school exhibitions were occasions of much interest and where properly conducted of great educational value. From an article published in one of the county papers some time ago by our co-worker, we quote: "Orthography, which includes the exact spelling of words, is an elementary branch of an English Education, which, if defective, in a certain measure vitiates the whole course of after study embraced in the curriculum of our grammer and high schools."

"The first superintendent of public schools of Butler county, Isaac Black, who has been sleeping for many a year in the cemetery of Bloomington, Neb. --peace to the sleeper -- in 1854-7, was very rigid in his examination of teachers in the matter of spelling. both orthographically and phonetically. His strict requirement along the line of correct spelling creating a laudable emulation among the pupils of the whole county, which bore fruitage in a crop of excellent spellers of the day.

I remember a spelling contest that took place in ante bellum days, at the close of a term of the Connoquenessing Academy, in the town of Zelienople. The Rev.W.A. Passavant, D.D., of blessed memory, and of Orphans School fame, offered a Webster's Unabridged Dictionary as a contest-prize to the best speller. Three eminent physicians were the judges: Joseph Lusk, M.D., O.D. Palmer, M.D., and Dr. Schmidt. It was an oral spelling match, and Prof. Josiah R. Titzel, Principal of the Academy, pronounced the words. No second trial was granted.

When the contestant mispelled a word, Mr. Titzel said, in a low tone of voice,"missed", and the speller rose from his seat and walked to the rear, or crestfallen left the hall. More than one hundred entered the contest. All the words in Cobb's spelling-book were exhausted. Another spelling book was handed to the pronouncer -- Townsend's, I think it was. The contestants at last were reduced to two -- Albert Metz, afterward Dr. Metz, and myself. The excitement was intense especially to Al and me. At last I missed the first syllable of a word. The quiet Professor was quick to announce it, and Metz won the dictionary.,BR>

Dr. Metz died many years ago at Sharpsburg, where he was practicing his profession. Dr. Passavant, the Judges, Prof. Titzel and nine-tenths of the contestants on that occasion have fallen asleep.

More than fifty years ago I had the honor and the pleasure of teaching the Mile Run school, north of Prospect, and I had boys and girls in my classes there who could spell every word in Osgood's spelling book. So thoroughly did they prepare their spelling lessons that many times all the words in the lesson were spelled by the uplifted hand method before the books were opened for training in the Phonetic spelling of words.

Quoting from a letter: "The little, easy word that 'downed' me was p-o-l-t-r-o-o-n. It was 'mixed in' with other dissyllables --'paltry','palfrey', 'palsey', etc., and automatically, I spelled the first syllable --'pal' --immediately correcting it, before spelling the last syllable, but --it was "too late" -- 'no second trial permitted' -- shut me out and I lost the Dictionary. It was a sore disappointment to me, and one that I could not get out of my mind for a long time after. I never 'missed' the word before and I am sure that I shall never miss it again -- unless I lose my memory."

The little boy recalls a similar experience when, in the school in Prospect he stood spelling against a dear school companion -- Clara Reed -- after all the others were spelled down. The word he was caught on was an easy one --"bodily" -- and he too -- through the automatic habit, put an "o" in the middle where the "i" is, and lost the premiership of the occasion, to have the proper spelling of the word so deeply impressed on his mind that he shall never forget it, even if he lose his memory.

About once a week, commonly the last half day, a match was arranged in which all the pupils were contestants. Two of the best spellers were appointed captains and an understanding was arrived at as to which should have first choice, and then they began to call out the names of the boys an girls they chose, takng choice about, until all were chosen. As their names were called the children ranged themselves in line on the side of their captain. And then the teacher gave out the words and the spellers spelled, or missed spelling, them correctly, and whoever missed had to sit down -- "spelled down", we termed it; and so it went until all were down or the proud victor stood alone, who had "spelled down the whole school".

But what is to be said about such a contest in thse days of so called "simplified spelling? It could not be held. The crude spelling of Josh Billings and Artemas Ward was a sort of cheap wit that made us children laugh in those days of higher ideals of order and respect for authority. Now, every ignoramus who knows not how to spell according to the rules by which the identity of words in their respective root-meanings is preserved, spells to suit his taste, and a fine mess he makes of it. He breaks the continuity of the chain by which the language is held together, destroys the means by which the derivation of words can be ascertained and their sense and exact shades of meaning established, and by so doing not only darkens counsel by words without wisdom but also destroys the history and the poetry bound up in the words themselves. The building of language has its architectural style just as the building of a house has. The words that come into the English language are derived from nearly all the known languages of the civilized world, living and dead, and they preserve in their correct forms, the marks and traces of the rock whence they were hewn. But while an archeologist will recognize the beauty and know something of the history and value of a pillar or tablet, transported to a new locality and builded into a modern structure and becharmed and edified by what he sees and knows, the untaught eye sees nothing and the untrained mind receives no more enlightenment than from a comman stone. And it is quite so that the arrogant advocates of the new way of spelling the words of the English language are missing the precious associations of the words they are trying to change. The movement began with half-educated scribblers, often editors of little country newspapers, who never could spell correctly and then covered up their ignorance by laughing at their errors.

At a house party one evening the young folk were playing some sort of game in which each letter in a word was represented of some object brought into the room, the name of which was to begin with the first letter of the object. One girl had to bring in an article the name of which began with the letter "c" -- and the girl brought in a saucer. That was in the days when correct spelling, according to long, established and universally recognized rules, was rated at a higher value than it is now. Who can describe the feelings of her friends and the mortification of the poor girl when the situation dawned upon them. She was so ashamed that she cried. She had at least the saving grace of humility to save her ignorance from condemnation and had the sympathy of the writer when others laughed at her, but the blatant advocates of the so-called "improved spelling" of the present day exhibit no such emotion. When their errors are pointed out to them they swell with indignation and defend their mistakes by quoting Andrew Carnegie and Col. Roosevelt as authority for their spelling.

Mr. Carnegie and Mr. Roosevelt are great in their respective fields. Mr. Carnegie has control over much money and Mr. Roosevelt has great political influence; but what right this gives either of them to meddle with the foundations of the English language does not appear. It is as much mine as it is theirs. They have no right above the right of any other individual to tamper with the common property of the English-speaking world. It is presumption gone mad to do or attempt such a thing. Who does it lays hands on the inheritance of the whole people.

The dignity of the mother-tongue of millions is assailed and it is for the interested millions to resent and check the attempted spoliation. The simplified spellers have no more right to change the spelling of our words than they have tto change the spelling of our names.

It will be observed that I spell my collaborator's name (with his approval), McCulloch -- that means something, "a son of the lake"; the name is commonly spelled with the final syllable "lough". What does that mean?

My mother's maiden name was Buechle, or in the original German Buchle, the "u" with the umlaut, the nearest approach to which in English is "ue"; and the name means a little book". It has been changed by many who bear it into Beighley. What does that mean?

Stick to the right spelling just as firmly as to other things right, if you can. Be thorough, not "thoro:. What does "thoro" mean? Thorough is allied to through, the whole way. What does "thro" mean? Good night! Gud nite!

But there were school exhibitions at the close of the term usually, or sometimes contests between rival schools, which were very entertaining to the pupils and their friends, as well as the general public. One of the notable occasions of this kind was a contest held in the little, old school-house in the times of James B. Matthews. He was then teacher of a school which was located in a building known as the "Steam school-house". It was somewhere in the Frazier neighborhood between Portersville and Prospect. The meeting between the "Steam" school and the Prospect school was in the winter and half a dozen or more sleds, driven by James Frazier, Sr., some of the McClymonds, Wallaces and others, came loaded with the pupils and their friends. The Townsend spelling book was used. Mr. Matthews wore a blue suit, the coat of which buttoned up to the neck and had several rows of large, bright buttons in front. He ranged his largest boys, about a dozen of them -- and they were big fellows -- in a line that reached nearly the length of the room, and then, standing before them, pronounced the words, which they first spelled in concert and then chanted the meaning of the word and its antithesis: as for example,"Helpful, full of help, helpless, without help, artful, full of art, artless, without art, needful, full of need, needless, without need, merciful, full of mercy, merciless, without mercy;" and so forth for a long time, to the awe and amazement of the little boy beside his sister in the audience. What other performances they went through he does not remember, but they must have been nearly perfect, for the boys said, afterward, that Mr. Matthews had a secret code which he worked by touching certain buttons on his coat so that the school knew what answers to give.

Mr. Matthews was an industrious but self-taught teacher of "ye olden time":. He was ambitious in the Profession of Teaching and labored up until he became the Principal of the Butler Schools and Superintendent of the common schools of the county. He deserves credit for that for he did it against disadvantages and without help from others. He never had the privilege of attending any select school, academy, or institution of higher education. But he was merciless in his use of the rod when he taught the Prospect school. He terrified every one in the house at times, when he thrashed a fellow in earnest.

Another occasion which left its impress for life on the memory of the little boy, was the "School Convention" held in the Lutheran church in the spring of 1853 or 54, in which one of the schools taking part in the exercises was the same "Steam School", from the Frazier district, taught by James B. Matthws. Of it Mr. McCulloch writes: "I think that Isaac Black was teacher at Prospect that term. Declamation was one of the principal contests between the schools. Your brother George had printed for you in large letters:

"You'd scarce expect one of my age
To speak in public on the stage,
And if I chance to fall below
Demosthenes or Cicero,
Don't view me with a critics' eye
But pass my imperfections by."
"Great oaks from little acorns grow,
Great streams from little fountains flow." etc., etc.

You were a litte fellow and "brought down" the house with great hand-clapping applause. Then came the "Steam School" turn and it put up on the stage a little fellow, but about two sizes larger than you -- one, Milt McClymonds -- now Professor in the State Normal School at Slippery Rock. He acquitted himself with credit -- but when it was over all the Prospect boys shouted: "Luther beat! Luther beat!

Speaking of this recalls the unique comment of a woman: "There", said she, "There up come the little whiffet and spoke up just like a puppet!" and what she meant is a mystery unto this day, but doubtless it was intended to be something compimentary.

"Then later," quoting again, "we had an exhibition in the same church given by Prof. McMillan school, 1854 or 55, when Warren, representing Parson Somebody, (I have forgotten the name) delivered a lecture on Temperance, taking as his subject the word M.A.L.T., with Jim Marshall, Aaron McGowan, Charley Sullivan, your George, myself and a lot of other boys. Warren mounted a box and we stood in a semi-circle around him. Ah Me! those were glorious days to us boys. We always got the Lutheran church for our exhibitions. Your father was so kind to the boys."

One more quotation, from the same authority, which has already been in print, shall conclude the chapter: it is in the form of a letter to G.P. Weigle, teacher of Whitestown school, who calls the writer of it, justly and appropriately, "The Ridpath of Butler County." "Your report of the Whitestown school brought to mind a term of school which I attended in that ancient hamlet, in the summer of 1847. It was a subscription school and John B.Campbell wielded the birch." His motto was, 'Spare the rod and spoil the child', and he was a conscientious pedagogue -- as all teachers should be -- he saw that none of the children under his sway were spoiled to save the bark from being knocked off the aforesaid 'birch', which was either a hazel or a willow switch. He was known far and wide as a most competent man to subjugate a refractory school and his services were much in demand along that line. But aside form his unquestioned ability to administer corporal punishment to the queen's taste, he was successful in teaching the young idea how to shoot. He was, indeed, a terror to evil doers in the school-room, but notwithstanding the severity of the flagellations which disobedient pupils received for not minding their books, those who obeyed him made good progress in their studies under his teaching. Many a boy that Mr. Campbell flogged in the school-room, resolved in his mind, that when he grew up he would lick him to within an inch of his life; but when he reached the years of maturity his animosity toward the old teacher had died out, and if he were standing by his grave today, instead of the resentment of boyhood days in his heart, he would say, in subdued voice: "I forgive him. Peace to his ashes!"

The frame-work of Joseph Shearer's house in Whitestown is that of the old school-house in which Mr. Campbell taught.

During the term I attended school in Whitestown, a doe came to school from Uncle Billy Martin's, along with Mary Jane, Satiah Ann and Marion. It came in the mornings and would browse around the school-house during the day and go home with them in the evenings, as regularly as they came and went. Harvest hands at Mr. Martin's had caught the fawn in a wheat field. While it was tame, yet it was not so docile as the little lamb that another Mary, somewhere else took with her to school. This little deer had a way of resenting the attentions of the boys and girls, which gave notice to them not to waste undue familiarity upon her. From that time to this I have not seen a domesticated deer. Robert White of Whitestown taught the Whitestown school in 1857. Robert McLure, lawyer and poet, who died in Butler several years ago and now sleeps in Mt. Nebo graveyard, was the largest boy in school the term I attended in Whitestown.

Prospect Schools Seventy Years Ago

By the Rev. H.W. Roth, D.D.

My brother, the Rev. D. Luther Roth, D.D., and the Hon. A.W. McCullough have asked me to tell something of the schools in dear old Prospect during the 40's of the last century. By reason of Mr. McCullough's painstaking and efficient effort to bring before us the historical past in his most interesting address, and by reason of the untiring interest and energy of my brother in projecting and urging the Old Home Week celebration and in carrying it to its very successful completion. I can not find it in my heart to do otherwise than make an attempt to comply with their desire in this matter.

Unfortunately after so many years memory grows hazy and things come wildering along somewhat indistinctly. One may forget what might be of interest, and possibly mistakes may be made in trying to set out in correct order the things of long, long ago. So it may be in making record of incidents pertaining to the schools of that period.

In Prospect there were no buildings erected for school purposes only. Subscription schools were then in vogue. Some one would offer to teach, and the parents would agee to pay so much per month for the instruction of each of their children. For two or tthree months of the winter the larger youth attended school. The small children had their turn in the summer.

The first school which I faintly recall was held in the Union church of which note is elsewhere made in this volume. The teacher was G.P. Robinson who occpied the residence where Dr. L.M. Roth now lives. The pupils came up in classes, and the crack in the floor where two boards joined, constituted the line at which those who made recitations had to "toe the mark."

Several pillars sustained the ceiling, and at recitation some of the well-grown boys surreptitiously attempted to climb the pillars. When dismissing the class one day Mr. Robinson asked one of these boys whether he would like to "toe it up" the pillar. He said that he would and proceeded to mount toward the ceiling. When he was fairly up, Mr. Robinson called his "Cat o'nine tails" into play and the lad came down a good deal faster than he had gone up. That must have been quite early in the 40's.

"Aunt Polly Craig", as she was universally known, kept school in the same Union church. She was a dear old lady, gentle, refined and patient beyond expression. With her afflicted sister Jane, she occupied a little cabin which stood near where Mrs. Jones now resides.

One of her classes was learning the "letters". We stood around her knee on which lay a page which contained the alphabet in both large and small letters from "a" to "zed" or "izzard". She pointed to a letter, gave its name and the whole class in unison repeated after her the name of the letter. Eventually we learned our letters.

One day a "church mouse" came out from under the base-board and diligently nibbled at the crumbs which the children had let fall from their dinners. Willie Brower stood next to myself. The mouse caught my eye, I nudged Willie and he some one else until presently the entire class was faithfully saying "A", "B", etc., as "Aunt Polly" announced but the eyes of all saw only the mouse as it wandered about looking up its dinner.

At Christmas "Aunt Polly" gave the school a treat. Mr. John Jones who lived where the Lutheran Pastor's Home now stands, brought in a sled the baskets of rosy cheeked apples which constituted the "treat." I can yet hear the merry jingle of the sleigh bells as Mr. Jones drove into the church yard. The larger pupils were served first, so many apples each. The remaining apples were thrown from the basket into a corner of the church and the little folks had a scramble for what they received. All had a treat but some got more apples than did others on that occasion.

The next place where school was held was a hewed-log building located not far from where in later years the "Town Scales" were placed. The seats were rude. There was not an overplus of light, but being summer, the open door let in a fair supply. It had a "puncheon" floor. In its center several of these puncheons were loose and underneath its former owner stored his winter supply of potatoes.

Mr. Thomas Forester was the teacher. He boarded at the "Phipps Hotel". On the hot summer days after dinner Mr. Forester betimes grew quite drowsy and wearily stretched himself upon a bench to rest. As the sound of his breathing rose and fell in regular cadence, we little ones would steal tip-toe out-doors and have a bit of play until the rap at the window again called us to "books".

If a mischievous lad grew too "frisky" and tried the patience of the teacher beyond endurance, a couple of puncheons were lifted and by the "nape of the neck" the culprit was consigned until penitent to this seemingly worse than the "Black Hole of Calcutta."

One of the Cumberland boys, possibly Arthur, could make chestnut or willow whistles, and his talent was in frequent call, since all of us plead each for a whistle.

In 1846, upon a parcel of ground bought from Mr. James McGowan, the town built its first school house. It was brick and of one story. At the south end was a large black-board. High desks on opposite sides stood next the wall, one side for the big girls and the other for the big boys. Nearer the stove, seats were placed for the little children. For that day, it was a comfortable building and showed the interest which the citizens of Prospect then took, and for that matter, have always taken in the education of their children.

Mr.James Cummings who moved from Mifflin, Pa., ws a teacher whom I recall with special affection. Among other things he taught some of us to make drawings from outlines which himself furnished.

He was a good citizen and deeply interested in fruit growing, apples particularly. To this day many of the trees of his planting are to found in and near Prospect. A little dog was the enevitable companion of Mr. Cummings when about out-door duties. The dog's name was "Tyro." In his pockets there seemed an exhaustless supply of dried fruit of which he was always eating. Peace to the memory of this gentleman.

Mr.Ford S. Dodds also taught in the brick school house. He loved music and taught the school many songs: "The Bell Doth Toll", "A Southerly Wind from a Cloudy Sky," etc. Alvin C. Daniels was another teacher there. His forte was "Runninghand." Even at this time his formation of the capital "D" comes quite clearly before my eyes.

Sometimes we were allowed to "study out loud." Then every follow went to work at the top of his voice. The noise was "great". At a distance the school house must have seemed like a huge "bum-bees" nest, recently stirred up, and every bee uniting in strong and vigorous protest against the invasion of their home.

"Readin, Riten and "Rithmetic", the three "R's" were the principal studies. "No licken, no larnen" was an acceptable maxim, and generally of daily application. Sometimes our bare feet were strapped as we danced to music of our own making. Sometimes the ruler well laid on upon the open palm evoked heart-breaking yells. Sometimes the old fashioned rod played the prominent part in teaching the young "idea how to shoot."

Spelling took up much of the time. Once a week "sides" were chosen and that was a proud pupil who, at these contests stood alone, having "spelled down" the rest of the school. Betimes neighboring schools were challenged and at night the combatants met. Leaders or captains were chosen who selected the "sides" and with breathless interest the "spelling out" of the contestants was matched until one side or the other had been vanquished. Not then as in these days was spelling a "lost art."

Mr.Miller also was one of my teachers. At Christmas the "big boys" contumaciously agreed that he must either treat the school or be "barred out." Coming quite early, they closed and fastened the door and the windows and when the teacher arrived he was presented with a written instrument which set forth their demands. Vainly he pounded the door and tried the windows. The "big girls" and the little folks inside were trembling with terror. Climbing upon the roof and covering the chimney did not smoke the doughty warriors out or drive them from their purpose. Some of us lads were let out as Paul "by a window", and had fine coasting in McGowns's meadow, west of the Franklin road.

Eventually the teacher agreed to the conditions imposed and myself with a couple of other lads were sent to Mr. William Dick's and dragged a sack of apples on a sled from his farm east of Prospect to the school house, being almost frozen in the expedition. Candies and apples constituted the treat and peace was restored, though it sems to me some of the leaders in the "barring out" had their jackets dusted by the irate teacher before the matter became a "closed issue."

Cobbs' Speller, the English Reader, McGuffy's Readers, the Western Calculator, Kirkham's Grammer, Pelton's Outline Maps were some of the later text books. Goose quills were made into pens by the teache. Thes were used in the earliest days, and to make a good pen was no mean attainment. Later, steel pens came into use. On slips of paper copy was set by the teacher. Among these were, "Evil communications corrupt good manners". "Birds of a feather flock together", etc., which the young writers tried to imitate after their full and weary course in straight lines and "pot hooks".

The Outline maps contained no names. Those were supplied from a separate book in which the names of capitals, rivers, mountains, seas, oceans, etc., were brought together so that they might be sung. For instance, -- "State of Maine, Augusta, on the Kennebeck River", "Pennsylvania, Harrisburg, on the Susquehanna". The teacher or some apt pupil pointed to the places and the "jography" class sang the proper context. It fixed the map with its names and places in the memory and was lots of fun to the singers.

We played "Circus", "Anthony Over", "Paddle Ball", "Sock Ball", Corner Ball", "Gable Ball", etc., and had plenty of sport and exercise, to say nothing of the old apple tree in the corner of the school yard whose branches were crowded with youngsters eating the fruit as it barely showed from the blossoms and sadly affected our "tummies" and distressed our good mothers, beside the gathering of hickory nuts and chestnuts in their season, wth chasing after "grinnies" and stoning hornet and "bum bees nests.

After the 40ties, among those teachers were Cyrus H. Dunlap and Jared B. Wallace; the former became a prominent clergyman in the Presbyterian Church, his last pastorate being at Bellevue, near Pittsburgh, and the latter, for a time a preacher in the Methodist Church and later for many years an elder of the Presbyterian Church. Mr. Wallace was a delighted visitor at Old Home Week. They were fine teachers, noble men, and left a marked impess upon their scholars. In 1911 both of them were called to their reward in the better world. Mr. Isaac Black was the first County School Superintendent after that office was instituted by the laws of the State of Pennsylvania.

Compared with the complete equipments and the palatial school buildings of today the furniture was rude and the facilities few and of inferior character. Yet the teachers were generally conscientious in the discharge of their duties and their pupils secured substantial education. The terms seldom exceeded three months in the year. Wages were small, the teachers often "boarding around" among their patrons and thus securing part of the pay for their services. "Fads" there were none. The essentials were brought to the minds of the pupils and they were forced to not a little thinking of their own in order to master the study to which their time was devoted. We do not say "The former days were better than these days" but all things considered, the things attained by the children in those days were not inferior for the purposes of actual life to the things attained by the children enjoying the facilities of these days.

THE OLD HOME WEEK BOOK
History of the Village of Prospect, PA

Transcribed and Donated by Robert A. Stumpf

Chapter VI

Hunting

On the 25th of October,1847, my brother Warren was returning from putting the cows out to pasture. He was coming along the Franklin Road north of Prospect just beyond the edge of the village when a bear and two cubs crossed the road in front of him. He stopped, watched them go over the fence into the field and then hurried home to report. When he arrived the house was in confusion. A man child had been born. I am the man who was that child. The town was aroused by the intelligence about the bears and pursuit was made to no effect. The bears escaped. I remained.

But who, born at such a time, October, with bears about, could escape the natural inclination to hunt? Not I. The country still abounded with game: deer, racoons, oposums, squirrels, woodchucks, rabbits, foxes, and an occasional bear, wild turkeys, pheasants, quail, woodcock and other birds and beasts were to be found. But nothing of the hunter's joys did I know until, when I was fourteen, my father sold his store and property in the village and, with his family, took up his residence on the farm which had been his father's and then the inherited inclination for the chase was developed in his son.

The opportunities for indulging in the sport were not many nor were they furnished by connivance on the part of my parents. They worked industriously and so did the boy. What time he spent in hunting was by the way, off days, and never for long at a time. His gun was at first a rifle borrowed from his uncle and then a long, smooth-bore, flint-lock musket which probably had seen service in the War of 1812.

But the game was plentiful and the inadequacy of weapons was compensated by the frequent opportunities for using them. A fine string was often brought in from a half day's hunt. One morning I went from the farm house down to the first brook and as I walked from there to the road, less then an eighth of a mile, I saw 17 squirrels, red, gray or black, beside game birds, not counted. Of course I had no gun then.

My first trophy was a black squirrel. He ran up a leaning tree, and stopped midway on the trunk. I had the little rifle and with some boy companions was strolling about not looking for game, shooting mark and only playing. But when the squirrel stopped and cocked his ears and tail, the gun was laid carefully on a stump, deliberate aim taken, first at his head and then -- from lack of confidence in the hope of hitting so small a mark so far away -- shifted to his heart, fired; and the squirrel fell. That opened for me the hitherto unknown and unsuspected world of the enjoyment of hunting.

Previous to that time I had gone through an experience in hunting which was not calculated to inspire any one with a desire to pursue it farther. That was on this wise. A "ring hunt" had been arranged and the young men of the village were all interested in it. The boy of twelve or thirteen became excited also and, for reasons unknown, was permitted to take prt in it. Hunting is sport, exciting, fatiguing, sometimes dangerous, with many vicissitudes and now-a-days without any pecuniary profit -- always less -- nevertheless those who become infatuated with it generally retain their fondness for it as long as they live. It is surpriising that my first experience did not forever disenthrall me from the love of it. But a ring hunt is no more like a still hunt than a circus is like a Sunday school. My experience began when the news came that a grand hunt was to take place on a certain day. What time in the year -- only that it was when the cold was piercing -- I do not know. It was to be a "ring hunt" and the lines were drawn from Camp Run on the west to the Semi Conon, and from the Little Connoquenessing to Muddy Creek. The meeting place to be in a big meadow on the Finley farm, south east of the village.

I was furnished with a long tin dinner horn and with several companions all older than myself, whose names it would be pleasant to remember -- for they were good and kind to me -- started out eary in the morning, very early, before the break of day. Our destination was the farm of Samuel Shannon and from there we set out at a certain pre-arranged hour -- probably nine of the clock, toward the common center -- the Finley meadow. At first we were not in sight of each other, but as we moved forward blowing our horns, ringing our bells tramping the brush and thrashing through the thickets, we were always within hearing. When we came in sight of each other we appeared to be marching in a sort ot military order. Bye and bye we heard an occasional gun-shot and began shouting to each other and hurrying forward with renewed activity. But the cold, excitement and hunger were too much for the lad, who left the ranks when he came to the outskirs of the village and hurried home, where he was glad to relinquish the long, cold, tin horn, get something warm to eat and thaw out his benumbed hands and frozen toes.

The result of the hunt he never knew further than that in Joe Henshaw's shoe-maker shop, he heard it declared to be a failure and that the one fox killed in the surround cost so and so many hundeds of dollars. All of which, being his first and only experience in hunting gave him a very poor opinion of the business. This was the last ring hunt in that vicinity. It was about 1850 or '60.

But there were occasional "match hunts". The writer remembers hearing his father relate that he was chosen captain of one side and that he shot fifty-seven gray or black squirrels on the day of the hunt, making the highest score (whatever other game he does not recollect), and was feasted with all the men on his side, at the expense of the losers, at the leading hotel of the village.

But those brave days have passed away. The game is gone. The fellow who bags a half dozen grays and a pheasant or two is now esteemed lucky. Rabbits, of course, are still to be had in season, sometimes plenty of them, but rabbits are tame game and scarcely worthy the name of "game". They are more like chickens strayed from the barn yard, only a little more lively.

My brother and I shot a whole fifty pound flour-sack full of rabbits, squirrels, wood-cpck and pheasants one day on the Stine farm. How the family started up from the table at father's, when, in the evening as they sat at supper, we came in and began to pull out our trophies. And then again, how another family rejoiced when a box, sent by Oscar Shafer and Joe Warren to the writer, was opened and the contents for preservation and exhibition, were strung on a line reaching clear across the cellar; rabbits, wood-cock, squirrels, quail and pheasants! It is good to remember such happenings.

And how many a day of enjoyment the chase has put into the life of the boys of Prospect, no one can tell. One such day in the writer's experience may serve as a poor sample of many. It was not a lucky day -- and luck as every hunter knows -- has much to do with success. But nobody is more lenient or generous than the true hunter: and therefore the day is set forth just as it was because it is understood that when the luck is poor the boys are not critical.

Here we are, in the big woods, Charlie Johnson, the Swede, whom the boys call "Potter", a good true boy, is our partner for the day. We are after squirrel. We agree on a few preliminaries and separate the distance of a gun-shot, so far apart that we do not shoot one another if we shoot low. The hickory cuttings are on the ground and the still air vibrant with the small voices of the insect singers of the Indian Summer time. It is seven in the morning and we have walked three miles to get here. How delicious the shade of the forest trees and how comfortable the seat on a mossy rock. Now sit low: because the ground and the tops of the lofty trees can be seen as well from a lowly position and one is not so conspicuous. How welcome the rest, the dolce far niente of a vacation day!

All about us we see the fresh cuttings made by the squirrels: acorns, chestnuts, hickory nuts, strewed on the ground. These must be from the grays; there are no blacks now in this section and the red squirrels do not come into this kind of timber. We locate on the side of a slope among the big oaks, chestnut-oaks, hickory and chestnut trees. Half the luck if not all of it in a still hunt, depends on choosing the right pace to locate. So we sit down by a big stump, a decayed cut of the trunk to our right and away yonder the dead limbs moldering with the decaying leaves lodged among them. Now listen!

The sounds which strike the ear are: 'caw', 'caw', 'caw' of the insistent crow in the distance, then the distant thunder of a train and the shreiking of an engine on the B. & L. E. Road and -- Hold! What was that? A gray. Look! away up on that tree hung with the scarlet festoons of the Virginia creeper. There he goes. Lost! Now go down softly and sit there. Sit low. Ten minutes. Aha! a rattle in the leaves behind. Turn slowly, gun cocked, finger on trigger. There he goes, a flashing streak of gray, along that log. Fire! Overshot him. Do not be discouraged. Be silent. Sit down. Sit low. Wait ten minutes more. There he is, coming down that leaning tree out of range. Now he is on the ground coming toward you.Raise your gun slowly, slowly, make no abrupt movement to startle him. Half a minute more and he will be within range. Wait.

Confound the luck! There is your partner breaking through the brush. The squirrel is gone. Move on. Here you have another chance: plenty of cuttings down and two leaf-nests on the trees in sight. Now sit down. Half hide yourself in the bushes. Every wild creature within hearing is watching you. The little citizens of the woods are full of curiosity. They must find out who and what the man creature is. Sit still. Sit low. Wait.

Now take note of the surroundings: the detail is varied and beautiful. There is a butterfly glittering in that shaft of golden sunshine. It is a work of art, a choice specimen of the handiwork of Nature's Artist. And that web on the bush: it is a mechanical and geometrical marvel. Given so much glutinous matter, so much space in which to weave it between the connecting branches, and who can lay out the material to better advantage than the spider that spun it? There is a big chestnut tree, decayed at the top, holes in two limbs; may be there is a family of squrrels in it. Surely it looks like a den tree. Hold on! Quiet! There is a gray. Out he goes to the point of the dead limb. Watch him. He squats on his hauches, cocks his tail and begins to bark -- Che-raw! Kee-waw! Kee-waw! Every yelp, emphasized by shake of his long tail. What music! Now he spies the man animal and changes his tune -- Chirr-r-r-r! But no one can reproduce on paper the scolding of a gray squirrel. Nothing equals it in virulence or energy but the brazen vituperation of an angry piney. He is realy insulting. Let him have it. Bang! Down he comes. A fine trophy, big, solid body, fat and furry, long bushy tail. Put him in your hunting-coat and go on.

Hark! Your partner's gun cracks. Get up. Whistle. The answering whistle sounds. Did you get him? Yes. You break through the bushes. Whistle again. Now you have your course. Go ahead. You reach him and he pulls out from his hunting-coat a fine gray, then shows you the tree on which he shot him. You tell him of yours, show it and report the den tree on which you got him.

Now let us go over the ridge and locate again, a good gun-shot apart. Here at the foot of this old oak you turn up a nice flat stone for a seat. An impudent yellow-jacket buzzes up to you - Pfouff! Blow him away. Sit down and wait. What happens? The report of guns in the distance. It is the first day of the open season and all the boys are out. All right! They all have equal chances. Good luck to every one of them.

But what a Paradise this is! The big, silent woods, silent but for the small voices of the breeze whispering through the trees. The trees waiting, fulfilling their mission, mysterious, hiding secrets in their silent depths. The benignant sun beaming over them, caressing, blessing, shining a benediction. The little insects piping, chirping, so cheeriy so tinily. And you -- your gun with shells in both barrels, standing against the tree that supports your back, ready to your hand -- how incongruous! Fill your pipe. Light up and wait.

Here comes a black fly settling on your left wrist. Crook the thumb and finger of your right hand and shoot him off. There! Sit still. Sit low and watch, upward and all around. Those rattle weeds directly in front incommode you. Break them down. Now watch. Ah! There comes "Potter". He says, I think it is time to eat". "Oh no". You look at your watch -- ten minutes of twelve. Already! "All right, we'll eat." And out of your hunting-coat you produce buns, a slab of cheese, a can of potted ham and a can of baked beans. Get your knife, open the can, eat and be satisfied. And wash the dinner down with a drink of clear, cold water from the spring bubbling from under the rocks to the left. Now you feel refreshed. "Richard is himself again". You feel no fatigue. You can tramp the woods until evening; "everything tastes good in the woods, "Potter", and don't you forget it." No body who ever knew is likely to forget.

A fellow could laugh to himself when he thinks of the situation, just for happiness. All alone in the big woods, his partner gone to get the dog, his gun lying ready, across his knees, his dinner eaten, his pipe going, the blue sky gleaming above the trees, the green leaves shaking over and all around him and the sweet sunshine pouring in at every opening, silence vocal with small musical voices, cuttings strewing the ground, the expectation of game appearing at any instant, from any quarter, holding him all the time at a mild tension -- who has been there and does not long to go again?

We light a match and burn all the papers left from luncheon -- carefully extinguish every spark, for fire in the woods is dangerous at this season, and then move on. Our next resting place is by a fallen tree near an old fence, where we wait for a gray to run along as they like to run on old fences; a spider and a daddy-long-legs, crawl about our feet; an occasional fly buzzes round -- otherwise all is still. The Scripture speaks of the time when "There was silence in heaven for the space of an half hour." That is what we find in the woods in the golden October, silence, blessed silence, to the dweller in cities, a foretaste of heaven.

But here comes "Potter" with the dog. "Whoop --e!" Here he is. But although Potter love his dog, for which we give him credit, yet that dog was not worth a continental. He ran rabbits, barking like a motor-boat, never noticing the whirr of a pheasant, and was no good whatever for squirrels. Confusion to him! Now he is gone with his master down the hill and the woods are ours again without him. Small timber here, some dog-wood among it on the berrie of which the squirrels have been working. Looks like pinies. Well, we shall see what we shall see. The balmy aid, laden with the ozone gathered from wide spaces and the spicey fragrance of the woods in October, the sweet sunlight checkered through the openings among the leaves, the shrill piping of a locust or cicada -- this is Elysium.

Hark! Your partner's gun cracks far away. You give him the preconcerted signal -- for you have agreed, not to separate. Sit still and puff your pipe. Look! What is that" A spider web flashing in the sunlight? No. It is a gray flicking his tail, on that log under the crossed trees, where the sunlight strikes through. Steady now. There he jumps out in the open. Let him have it. Good. Another trophy for your bag. He is a good one. Pouch him and go on to join your comrade. We should have been here at the first peep of day, when all these cuttings were being gnawed off. That is the lucky hour: when the gentlemen of the tree tops are taking their breakfast.

Now the hunt is closing,but do not grow careless. Keep your shells in the gun: nobody can tell what can turn up before we get out of the woods. Here we take a path down this ravine, chicken --grape vines cover the low trees, -- not much chance to shoot -- Whirr! Boom! Whirr! Out they break like the explosion of a shell. Bang! Bang! "Potter" got one. Did that long shot down the gully land another? Hurry down and see. Good enough! Hurrah for the blind luck that gave us each a pheasant when we were trying to console ourselves with the hope of better luck next time!

We could tell of 'coon hunts and rabbit hunts, and of some good fun with the quail and pheasants -- but the least said about them the better for they are nearly all gone. Unless the game laws are enforced and the timber preserved the boys of the next generation will have neither game in the woods nor any woods in which to hunt.