|Early History of Rock Port and Atchison County [Missouri], part 3|
|from writings of John Dopf, founder of the Atchison County Journal (now the Atchison County Mail)|
|[part 1] [part 2] [part 4]|
|transcribed and compiled by: Sue Farmer - email@example.com|
One day in
July or August, 1865, Sheriff William M. Blake, stated that Alf Howard, a
notorious outlaw, was supposed to be hiding in
Early the following morning Sheriff Blake, with a posse, of which this writer was one, started out with the purpose of getting Howard and the $1,000.
I was equipped with a compass and tripod and a navy revolver. The surveyor’s instruments were much in evidence and the revolver concealed. The others were armed with shot guns, rifles, and each carried a navy or two, all carefully concealed, the guns of large caliber under blankets in the bottom of a spring wagon, drawn by a span of mules, Wm. Thompson acting as driver. At the rising of the sun the posse had reached the home of Richard Rupe, and while we engaged the Judge in conversation, Thompson went through the stables and the adjacent timber in search of strange horses. The talk with Judge Rupe was mostly concerning the chances of crossing the Big Tarkio at the Gilkinson bridge, which had recently been washed out by high waters. When Thompson returned we drove south half a mile and then eastward along a rail fence enclosing a field of small grain. The fence corners were grown full of brush and wild grape vines, through which we saw five or six men binding the grain which had been cut the day before, and also a man in his shirt sleeves who was not at work, and we decided he was the man we wanted. We drove forward until we reached a gap in the fence and drove out into the field to where a man was hitching four horses to a reaper. Of him I inquired about our being able to cross the Gilkinson bridge. He thought we could cross as men had worked on the bridge the day before and to a late hour in the day. We drove out of the field where we went in and along the road until out of sight of the man at the machine. The team was driven into the brush and hitched and I was sent to guard the road leading from the gap to a cabin two hundred and fifty rods distant from the gap. We took notice while talking with the man at the reaper that the extra man had left the field. When I came to the road I was within one hundred and fifty yards of the cabin and there stood the man talking to a woman standing in the door. She saw me when I parted the hazel brush and looked out. I dropped to the ground quickly and as quickly looked down the road. The woman handed the man a coat and he quickly disappeared behind the cabin. I joined the posse and we search the cabin and the stable and surrounding woods, but found not the man we wanted. The team was driven farther from the road, fed and watered, and we spent the remainder of the day in watching the house, the road and the several paths through the forest. To the south and west of the cabin, and within fifteen feet, was a thick growth of sumach, from one to eight feet in height, where we were in hiding as the sun sank in the western sky.
After supper eight or ten neighbors assembled in front of the cabin and discussed the event of the day. We learned that “the man would have killed us all had he met us in battle,” and he might have killed one or more but not all. The man was Jesse James alias Alf Howard.
later I often met a traveling man on trains in different parts of the country,
and he told me he also had a ranch in northern
sixteen years ago I was returning from
“Why did you not shoot me when you saw me at the cabin door?”
“I would not shoot a man in the back,” was my answer. “But how did you get away so quickly, and where did you go?” I asked.
“I ran to a
stable behind the cabin, where my horse was ready, mounted him and rode through
the woods and came out on the prairie north of Judge Rupe’s stables, then to
Rock Creek, crossing the Sutton bridge and then down the road until I came in
sight of a mill (King’s) and then I crossed the bluffs and down into the
Missouri valley. I avoided the ferry
across the Nishnabotna and swam my horse across that stream. There were few houses between the point where
I crossed the Nishnabotna and the point where I crossed the
had stopped at Langdon as he ended his story, and we parted company. That was the last time I saw Jesse
James. There is a man in
Two of the
posse who went hunting for “Alf Howard” are dead: Wm. M. Blake and Wm. Thompson, two are still
At the time that Bob Ford was reported to have shot Jesse James, there was more than $10,000 offered for the body of Jesse James, dead or alive, and he was aware of the fact that there were many people in St. Joseph who knew him and knew where he lived and he also knew that most of them would gladly give the authorities the needed information for his capture for a small percent of the reward offered.
was not a fool. He was a man of
experience. He was a rapid thinker and
as quick in action. He planned the
shooting and his escape and it is doubtful if a half dozen of his best friends
knew of his plans for leaving
before the “killing” a “floater” was taken from the
The cadaver taken from the river had been clothed in a suit of James clothing, the chicken had been killed and their warm blood liberally used on the head and face of the man’s body which was to play the part of Jesse James at the funeral. There were conflicting stories as to the number of shots fired. Some thought James shot at Ford and missed him, but Jesse James was not that kind of a marksman.
Of course there was a great rush to the house as soon as the news reached down town, and I have met since that day at least a dozen men who were the first to enter the house after the “killing”. One of these men who was a reporter on the News-Press, was on the way to see James with a copy of the last issue of the paper and other dailies, and was there before the smoke had been blown from the room.
The farce of the Coroner’s jury was played, and before the ink was dry on the verdict rendered, Jesse James was safely sailing away to a port of safety, and if I had not seen Jesse James and talked with him since that April morning in 1882, I might agree with the great majority who were made to believe that Bob Ford killed Jesse James that morning.
I believe Jesse James was not killed in 1882 because no other man could tell what happened at the cabin door on the Ben Reynolds farm in 1866, not even any member of the posse who were in search of “Alf Howard!”
Ford was killed in a quarrel over a division of the reward money and not by the friends of Jesse James in revenge for the alleged killing.
Since the day of the alleged killing of Jesse James, no person has ever accused him of an unlawful act, but he has lived and toiled in peace with his friends and neighbors.
In the days when the James boys, the Youngers and their comrades were the terror of the land, great wrongs were committed by roving bands whose political creed was “plunder, from friend or foe, no plunder, no friendship!” And all of those outlaws changed politics as was necessary to carry out their devilish purposes.
Notwithstanding the bad reputation given to Jesse and Frank James and their relatives, they have many good deeds to their credit. Let us be charitable enough to hope the good in all is greater than all of the evil, for who is wise enough to say there were not in a measure justified in the life they led in those days of peril, terror and wrong-doing? Not I.
After reading the following article which appeared no long since in the St. Joseph Observer, I wrote the foregoing story, and am asking a careful reading of both epistles:
Just as an
illustration (this is not a paid ad), if Mr. Reagan will apply to Andy
Sinclair, 1200 South Sixth Street, he could possible secure one, which by the
way is conceded to be the best authenticated of the flock. If he failed there he might apply to Chris L.
Rutt, editor of the News-Press, as he owns a pair of them – all fully
authenticated. Likewise ex-Sheriff Otto
Theisen has the “original”, and Dick Graves, who now resides in
Capt. Enos Craig, who arrested Bo band Charley Ford immediately after the killing of Jesse (which arrest was witnessed by the writer, standing beside the Samuel I. Smith, who had driven him to the scene of the “killing”) has another “original,” which he took from Ford at the time of the arrest. In company with Capt. Sol Broyes, who was then deputy marshal under Marshal Craig, the two puffed up the hill that April day, to where Smith and the writer already were, and the gun was handed by Broyes to Craig, Ford saying it was the gun that killed Jesse. It is now a prized relic of Captain Craig’s.
is also the possessor of an “authentic”, and ex-Sheriff Joe Andriano and Bob
Thomas each have or did have lately, choice samples of the “original”. John Uhlman has another true-t-home,
time-tried, fire-tested of the James “killers”, and down at
If these do not suffice, Mr. Reagan can, on application, be furnished with a further list of “authentic guns” that killed Jesse James.
Twenty-five years ago the pawn shops here were full of the “original guns” and every tenderfoot who strayed in was mysteriously taken to the rear of the pawn shop, where with great secrecy he was shown “the gun that Ford killed James with,” and it was offered to the tenderfoot at a heavy advance in price – which he generally paid, and went home happy – until someone shoed him the gun was made five or six years after the death of James.
The Observer’s observations certainly proves how easily men may be part from their dollars, if not as well as their good judgment in ordinary business affairs.
In conclusion I wish to ask what became of Jesse James’ guns, and what became of the horse he rode away from Convent Hill? Several hundred of each should have found a ready market. I do not hope to live long enough to get an answer to my question, unless Jesse James answers it.
J. D. Dopf
of General G. M. Dodge at his home in
At the close of the Civil War the general government secured the services of Gen. Dodge to continue the survey for the railroad to the Rocky Mountains and beyond, which he completed, and the last spike was drive in 1867.
I think it was in 1864 that I was in St. Joseph, and there met George Francis Train and a German, Herr Van Derdick, an agent of the Rothchilds, bankers, of Berlin and London. Both gentlemen were on business bent, and as the coach was occupied by only half a dozen passengers, Train and the German did about all the talking on the 80 miles drive. The German would affirm and Train would deny. Train would affirm and the German would doubt the accuracy of the statement. I acted as referee and all questions were referred to me and my decision of an editor. As a result of my many decisions rendered before arriving at Rock Port, Train had the Rothchilds’s agent’s agreement that Millions of the Rothchilds money would be used in building the Union Pacific railway and Train had agreed to present the German with many corner lots in the future Greatest City on the continent of North America.
sunrise when we reached
many men still living in
had a contract in the
It took men
of courage, with brawn and brain to conceive and carry out this great
undertaking. The All-wise Father had
them at hand.
The first ledger used in The Journal office, which became my personal book of accounts, was in use for more than twenty years, and bore on its pages the names of several hundred persons whom I have served. Many of these accounts were worthless. I bought a new ledger and transferred the good accounts. I balanced the bad and they read: “Worthless to balance!” Among those thus balanced was that of Joseph Moulton, and it had faced me for 18 or 19 years. The account was for $20.50, and was for sub-dividing a section of land, of which Moulton owned 80 acres. He had an invalid daughter and spent many hundreds of dollars trying to restore her to health and happiness, and finally succeeded. He never came to see me without duning himself and I never spent a penny in sending statements.
One bright summer day I completed the new ledger and went to dinner rejoicing that I had done a good job. After dinner I started down town and the first man I saw was Rev. Dodd, of the Presbyterian church, seated on a chair in the shade of the parsonage, his head bowed as if in meditation. I had never passed him without speaking before that, but on I went until I came to the next street where I turned and looked back and saw that Brother Dodd had changed his attitude. I walked back to the gate, stopped and asked what was troubling him. He said: “I am hungry and have nothing to eat and no money to buy food.” Both of my hands went into my trousers pockets in one of which I found a five dollar bill which I handed to him. He thanked God and then thanked me. I bade him to come to me when in need and went to the office where Joseph Moulton was impatiently awaiting for me.
“Now, how much do I owe you?” said Moulton. “I want to pay you, both principal and interest.”
I had to lie and did. I showed him the new ledger and told him his name was not in it. He remembers the amount of the bill exactly and insisted that I figure the interest at 10 percent. I refused to work any example in interest, either simple or compound, and lied again by telling him I did not know how. We finally compromised and pocketed $20.50, and was just $15.50 to the good, made in less than one hour after dinner, and did not earn it by the sweat of my face either.
I am inclined to be reminiscent today, and will tell another:
There was a rich old farmer in the region of Big Tarkio who had a “grown up” son who was as tough as he was worthless. He had been arrested for a crime just a bit worse than horse stealing; had been bound over to appear at the next session of the Atchison county circuit court and had run away., Forfeiture of bond had been made of record, and the old many must pay $2,000 and then some more attorney fees and costs. It was Saturday forenoon and the court would convene on the following Monday and the money would have to be in the hands of the sheriff before court adjourned. John D. Campbell, the old man’s attorney was circulating a petition which was being signed by many to whom it was presented, and they signed without reading it. Finally he asked me to sign. I took the paper and began to read it, and it was a long article giving many reasons why the Court should set aside the forfeiture of the bond, and among others, that it would work a great hardship on the rich old farmer. I declined to sign, and told Campbell that most of the signers had not read the petition and did not know whether it was a road petition, a subscription to build a church in Jerusalem, or one to have (Campbell) hung.
dinner I drew up a petition stating that John D. Campbell was guilty of many
crimes and misdemeanors and asking the court to have him hung at once. I went on the street and presented the
petition and I lied when I said it was a petition to open and improve a much
needed road leading into
Moral – Never sign a paper without reading it; never sign a note or bond for anybody; never sign a note to obtain money; never lie without your cause is a good one.
George Washington was a liar when he said: “Dad, I can’t tell a lie”. He could tell one just as easily as I did, and perhaps the man who wrote the story about little George, the hatchet and the cherry tree, was a bigger liar than John D. Dopf.
loafing places I visited in
at that date eight mills in
On the Big
Charles Fanning had a mill near where Tarkio now stands, and his farm was at the east of the Home cemetery. However, in those days Charley was more interested in putting down the Rebellion than in making flour, cracking corn and grinding buckwheat. He held the rank of captain, and was a capital fellow, and was “born to command.” He was death on horse thieves and deer, and preferred killing a horse thief or a rebel to killing a deer every day in the year.
William King owned and operated a flour mill on Rock Creek, south of Fox cut, on the farm now owned by Henry King, and made the best flour on Rock Creek. Wm. King was his own worst enemy.
Meek’s mill at Rock Port, was operated by a man by the name of Amen (now, Jim, don’t spell it Amick, ‘cause Jake Amick never run any mill except a sorghum mill) and Amen had a lease on the mill and Meek was in California and had been for several years. William Golden was a patron of the mill and brought many grists. He was suspicious of Amen’s honesty and decided that he would bear watching, and he watched; he took five or six bags of shelled corn to the mill, as full as they could be tied, saw that it was properly tolled by Amen, and then went up town, where he waited until he thought the grist had been half ground, then slipped back into the mill and up to the second floor where the grain taken for toll had been stored. Here he found an auger hole in the floor from which he could see the meal as it poured into his bags from the burrs.
Soon Amen came along with a large scoop with which he took a scoopful from the sack at the spout and transferred it to a chest of meal. Golden took a peck of corn from the toll bin and poured it into the hopper that supplied the burrs below, and watched again. Again, Amen came along with his scoop and took it full from Golden’s meal bag, and Golden threw another peck of corn into the hopper. Amen kept scooping from Golden’s meal till all of the sacks were filled and the corn still came down. Amen dropped his scoop and went up stairs and caught Golden in the act of pouring another peck of corn into the hopper. Amen asked Golden to explain. Golden told him he was trying to get even and wanted to know why he was tolling his meal. Amen promised if he would not tell on him he would do his grinding in the future free of toll, but before Golden visited and mill again Amen had left for parts unknown.
This mill was later purchased by Abraham Penny, then by John Grieve, and was much improved by the latter gentleman, and nobody ever accused either Penny or Grieve of being dishonest, and both were model citizens.
Barlow owned and operated a mill one and one-half miles north of
Linden, on a small branch of Rock Creek, was a carding mill, run by William
Moore. The waters of Rock Creek in those
days, turned many wheels on its way to the
R.V. Muir and Gotleib Steiner owned the only mill on High Creek, near the Baptist church. It was later sold to De Loss Patton but finally went down with high waters and was never re-built.
I think Mr.
Muir is still alive and lives at
strange that the business men of
(A continuation of this article next week will include the old Rundle carding mill.)
The most unique water power ever used in Atchison county or the state of Missouri was the John Rundle carding mill, near the bank of the Nishnabotna river, and about six miles southeast of Rock Port. In the bluffs east of the river, and three or four hundred feet eastward and perhaps one hundred feet above the bed of the river, was a never-failing spring. The waters of this spring were conducted in a ditch along the hillside and within ninety or a hundred feet of the mill building, where it was conducted in wooden troughs hewn from logs and supported by trestles until it reached the roof of the building at its highest peak, where it ended. Directly under the end of the last trough was a wheel ten or twelve inches wide and perhaps two feet in diameter, on which hung an endless leather belt to which was riveted tin buckets which held perhaps half a gallon of water, and were so far apart that as soon as one would fill, its weight would bring another bucket in position to be filled. On the first floor of the mill stood the carding machinery and a set of burrs for grinding corn, and at the bottom the end-less-chain or belt passed around a smaller wheel than the top wheel and the weight of the water in the buckets on the belt was transformed into power to drive the carding machine or the “corn crackers”.
years long before the ”unpleasantness,” John Rundle came to
The Rundle carding mill was known far east in Missouri, up north in Iowa and as far west in Kansas and Nebraska as there were flocks of sheep, and Rundle had become noted for good work and honest dealing.
The first time I visited the mill it was filled with uncarded wool, and Mr. Rundle said he could take no more wool unless he built a warehouse or sold his corn and used the cribs to store the loads of wool that came daily.
I cannot close this article without paying tribute to the character of my old friend, John Rundle. He was a man to love, genial and good of heart; busy with hand and brain; capable to accomplish any good for his family, his neighbor or the stranger at his door. He was a Republican in politics and believed in high tariff, and it is safe to say, no such fool idea free wool ever found lodgement ‘neath his scalp. His religion was, “Love they neighbor as thyself,” and wife and children supremely. He believed in Charity, Truth, Fortitude, Hope and Faith. His legacy to his children and friends was an unsullied name.
William T. Buckham will always be my
friend whether he wants to be or not. He
helped me the first work-day I spent in
D.R. Francis was nominated for governor I was in
business of our convention was completed and I declared my intention of leaving
on the first train. Bain said I must
stay and help nominate David R. Francis and the other
… Francis’s hotel, and that he refused to talk unless some one of his opponents were present. I think the candidate’s name was John W. Glover. He could do nothing but accept the invitation and went to the hotel, where he was greeted by Francis, and by him asked to make the opening speech, which he declined to do, but said he would follow. Mr. Francis again appears and was greeted by the impatient crowd, with great applause. He made a splendid speech, lasting perhaps three-fourths of an hour.
time we reached our abiding place it rained, and continued all night and most
of the following forenoon. All the
trains coming in that night brought delegates. There were no rooms to be had, and the delegates were thirsty and the
saloons were open all night.
to be at
pretty well known in
“I want to see Sam Cook, before I drink”, said I.
The Governor replied: “You can’t miss Sam. He and his will be down in a few moments; stop here.” I asked Mrs. Francis about her children. She called, and two or three bright boys answered the call, and I was introduced to each. I engaged them in conversation until Sam …
… Cook and his wife came down the stairs. As soon as he saw me, he said “Hello, John. I’m glad to …
… the mill-pond at
I asked Mrs. Cook how old Sam claimed to be and she declared, “he must be less than ninety years old.”
compelled to expose Sam in the presence of his wife, the Governor and his wife
and many senators and representatives; that I had never met Sam in
C. Hope and Sam Cook’s father built the Rock Port Hotel about the year
1856. James Buckham had something to do
with the building of the big house. Johnnie
Hope, Sammy Cook and Billy Buckham were the boys who stirred the waters at
Meek’s mill in 1856, and
At that time there was only one house between Needles’ ferry and the Buckham home, which was then half a mile south and three-fourths of a mile west of the present site of Langdon. The farm southeast was that of the late Harmon Cooper, and it is safe to say that between the Missouri and Nishnabotna rivers and south of Buckham’s south line there was 100,000 acres of land which had never been turned by plowshare, and this was mostly covered with bluestem grass, which when, ripe, stood as high as a man’s head, when on horseback.
early friends in
spring of 1866 Mr. Rodney Burnett rented the Cooper farm, then owned by Col.
Durfee, and as I spent most of my time in surveying, Mrs. D. made her home with
her father and family, and I visited there every two or three weeks on Sunday,
or at least part of the day. Rush of
work was over early in September and I had more leisure and generally spent
Saturday down on the farm. I rode from
George Thompson was leader of the cavalcade, and I am sure that no King of England ever looked as well as “Swamp Lily” did as we galloped after him. At the school house he shouted: “Follow me! We’ll take Thompson’s cut-off!” which we soon discovered was nothing more than a narrow path, and which was as straight as the bees fly from the point where it left the wagon road to the Buckham home, and we had to follow in single file. Thompson led, I followed and Mrs. D. followed and each couple came after in the same order, each gentleman followed by his lady. Five or six hundred yards further on, a flock of prairie chickens flew up from the path, and their noise frightened “Swamp’s” mule and he “Bucked!” I did not see where his rider lit. My pony, “Ben” ran south, and I gave him free rein for a half minute, and then I returned by the way I came, where I found Thompson mounted and looking around in all directions. I asked him which way Mrs. D. had gone. He pointed north and I went north as rapidly as Ben could carry me, for one-fourth of a mile, where I found Mrs. D., holding her pony, Miss Lucy, by the bridle rein, in the road within ten feet of the Nishnabotna river, but she had lost her riding hat, which was a wonderful creation. All the king’s retinue were called together and search was made for the lost “head-gear”, and in ten of fifteen minutes the lost was found and restored to its owner.
… and his accomplished wife have been dead for many years, but are held in blessed memory by all who knew them.
When we arrived at the Buckham home we found not only the family, but a large number of other invited guests, and among them I remember George Baird, The Roise family, the Dorts (brother and sister) and perhaps Fanny Arnold and brothers, as well as Dr. Buckham and family.
The supper followed, and no such suppers are served in these degenerate days. There was little silver and no finger bowls and no frills on the many good dishes served, and good old fashioned hospitality and culture surrounded the festal board. There was no champagne, but the drinks were much better and nobody went home drunk.
The hour of ten, struck by the old fashioned clock that set on the mantel warned us that we had better retire. Horses, mules and ponies were saddled, the ladies donned their riding habits, we mounted, bade the host and hostess adieu, waved farewell to the remaining guests and were “homeward” bound in less time than it takes to pencil our departure.
Billy Buckham was there but he was garbed different than he was on the morning I first met him and was almost as handsome as he is today.
I fear that
your readers may tire of the memories that crowd upon me in the pleasant task
you have given me. If there be sure a
person among your readers, if he, she or it will drop me a postal card with the
simple word “Amen!” thereon, and sign their full name and address, I will stop
short never to run again. My address is
satisfied that Journal readers will decide at once that I am certainly indolent
if not lazy. I have just received a
letter from John Little, of
“It is with
pleasure that I take my pencil in hand to answer your letter which I received
some time ago. I sure enjoy your letters
in the grand old Journal. I like to read of the people who started to build up
about that date of the year 1859 that our family loaded our goods in two
covered wagons and left
following fall we moved to another old cabin on the top of the big hill south
Sunday in October or the first Sunday in November of that year a band of Kansas
Jayhawkers crossed the
memory is correct the
“In 1867, and from the time we began keeping the stage station, those coaching days covered stirring days and nights as well, for the coach wheels turned all day and all night, and often there were two or three coaches, with mail, baggage and passengers, in one train. This was the case when the Union Pacific was completed and the rich miners were “homeward bound”. One of the south-bound coaches was ‘held up’ near the crossing of the Little Tarkio, near the present site of Craig.
following drivers were on the route between
fact that my youngest brother lives in Nodaway county,
(… dance, appears to cover a great stretch of the
John D. Dopf,
Dear Sir: Your welcome letter received some time ago but have been too busy to answer it as I should have done. You are the last man in the world I ever expected to get a letter from and when I write to you I know I am writing to an old friend who hearts was always right.
You asked me when we had first met. It was sometime during the summer of 1876, north of Tarkio, near the old Red schoolhouse. You had some one with you, showing them some land, and I had been sent after a pail of water for the school. You asked me for a drink and tossed me a nickel after you had drunk. And I’ve never forgotten the incident as it was the first nickel anyone had ever given me.
You also asked about the old Dutch nine. It was a baseball club, organized some time in the later part of the seventies and re-organized in 1884, with myself, four of the Deel Boys, my brother Edward, Perry Moger, Ed Shipman, John Thomas, George Silence and some others I cannot remember at this date. In a year or so we added such men as Reub. Filson, James A. and D.S. Kime and Chris. Shelby and we stuck together for five or six years without any changes and always got along fine, without any dissentions or wrangling of any kind. We are all scattered out over this wide country and I would give anything to see the old boys once again.
asked me about my parents. My father was
a native of East Prussia and was born near Koenigsberg, in the year 1815;
served nine years with the colors in the Prussian army and was wounded three
times during the uprising of some of the South German states in 1848. He emigrated to this country in 1855 and was
Your old friend,
ANOTHER OLD-TIMER WRITES
While the chief comment which we hear about the interesting things told in the John D. Dopf memoirs, now being published in The Journal, is that by local readers of the paper, it appears our readers away from this county are equally as much interested.
Frequent letters make mention of this fact, the latest of these being one which has just come from Richard Gillet, now living in Omaha. A portion of his letter says:
“I like to
A ONE TIME RESIDENT WRITES
Strange how a newspaper hunts out almost forgotten persons, who at one time or another were well known in a community, but who have moved away from the old home locality and gone out into the world, only to come to notice again, perhaps years afterward, through some little coincidence.
Such is the
case with the writer of the letter below. Years ago a resident of the
This letter should interest all of our readers.
It has been a long time since I saw a copy of your paper – till today a copy came, containing an account of the death of my old friend and teacher, D. A. Quick.
How full of changes are the years! Time brings everything around. How strange and far off seem the years of boyhood. I knew Mr. Quick well. I have known him since I was in my early ‘teens. More than anyone else he induced me to go to college. And I shall always feel grateful for this, for it changed my life. Mr. Quick was one of the noblest, truest men that ever lived.
very few persons in
where they all are now – those beings I used to know there in the blessed years
gone by? I notice the name of Henry
Boettner in your paper. I wonder if that
is the Henry Boettner who used to live back of
I sit here tonight in this great city and think back along the years. Life is so full and so different now – full of teaching, writing and problem solving. But, oh, those precious memories away back there in the morning! The prairies are gone, where we used to gather wild strawberries and tiger lilies, but the old school house still stands, I am told, where the High Bank lifts its formidableness above the singing stream.
Phantoms of the past! Friends and companions of boyhood’s dreamy days! Greetings! across the sands of the fast-flying years.
J. HOWARD MOORE