knew that the county seat had been located "on the prairie." But there was no house on the prairie at that time and none of the canvassers knew where "the stake" had been driven. So they met under a burr oak tree near what was afterwards called the " seminary" lotthat being near the center of the prairie-and there they canvassed the votes and declared the ticket given above unanimously elected. They then went to the house of Jonathan Searles and ate dinner, after. spending most of the afternoon in discussing public affairs, the news respecting new comers, etc., and from thence dispersed to their homes. The convention held at Mr. Searles' house was to nominate candidates for the election occurring in November.-Charlotte Republican.

PERSONAL REMINISCENCES.

BY REV. W. B. WILLIAMS.

[The following exceedingly interesting address by Rev. W. B. Williams at the annual meeting of the Eaton County Pioneer Society, we reproduce from the columns of the Charlotte Republican, August, 1885.]

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LADIES AND GENTLEMEN-The annual pioneer meeting has for several years been held at a time when I could not attend, and when I was recently requested to prepare an address for it I was wholly at a loss to know what sort of an address would be expected on such an occasion. On making inquiry I was told that personal reminiscences would be in order. "But," I replied, "such an address would be abominably egotistical." "Never mind, that is what is wanted." "But I am a young man, my experience does not go far back." Well, you are one of the oldest ministers in the county. You have been here nearly a third of a century." Well, I never suffered any hardships, I never had a fight with Indians. The secretary of our society in his circular tells us that "bear, wolf and snake stories and personal adventures by the early settlers are always interesting to listen to and instructive." I must confess I was never treed by a bear or a pack of wolves and obliged to spend the night sitting on a limb, and as to snake stories,

you all know I have always been a total abstinence man and have had no chance to see as many or as large snakes as some of you who have been less careful of what you drank. Then nothing seems to be a hardship to a boy so long as he escapes flogging and has enough to eat, and as for staying in a tree all night with a pack of wolves waiting for him to come down, it would be just fun for a boy. He would enjoy tantalizing them much as he would breaking the shell of a turtle or running a pitchfork through a snake to see him squirm. It is a question, too, how far back to begin these reminiscences, for things have changed east as well as west since I was a boy, and if I should dwell more than others have done upon church affairs, it must be excused upon the score that I am a clergyman.

My earliest recollection of churches runs back to the old Unitarian church in Brooklyn, Conn. The early New England towns were often built upon hills, and if the town was not upon a hill, the church was often set upon one even if it was outside the village. The church of which I speak stood upon the village green. Its sides were shingled instead of being covered with clapboards. The whipping post stood near the church but its only use in my day was as a bulletin board on which notices were posted. The audience room was nearly square, with a gallery on three sides. The singers sat in the gallery in front of the speaker. The pulpit was quite high and completely shut in, having a door with button on to fasten it.

Overhead was a large canopy or sounding board, thought necessary to throw the speaker's voice out into the room. Instead of such slips as we have now, the floor was covered with pews about eight feet square. The sides were of panel work, about three feet high, surmounted by a balustrade, making the whole four feet high, so that the appearance was of a multitude of little sheep pens. The floor of the outside or wall pews was raised a foot higher than the rest of the floor. The outside pews were reached by an aisle that ran all round the house next to them. Two other aisles crossed each other at right angles in the middle of the church. The seats in each pew were on two sides of it and were hung upon hinges, so that they could be turned up during prayer time, and the people stood leaning against the top rail behind them. When the prayer ended you would hear the seats slamming down with a loud report all over the house.

Until about sixty years ago there was no provision made for warming churches, but all the women had foot stoves, which were tin boxes about eight inches square with a door on one side and the top full of holes. These boxes were put in a wooden frame with slats across the

top and a bale or handle with which they could be carried. A small sheet iron cup had ashes put in the bottom with live coals thereon and these were also covered with ashes and the cup and contents were placed in the box. On these footstoves the ladies put their feet and thus equipped managed to keep them from freezing. The villagers always expected to have a fine bed of coals Sunday morning with which to fill the foot stoves. Meetings were always held morning and afternoon with an intermission of an hour in which the people could eat the lunch they brought with them and attend the Sabbath school. There was another household utensil much in use then but out of date now, called the "warming pan." Bed rooms were always cold in winter, and so the beds were warmed for guests by means of a warming pan, which was of brass about the size of a small wash basin. It had a cover full of holes and a long handle. Live coals were put in the basin, the cover dropped, and then it was moved briskly back and forth in the bed until it was thoroughly warmed. I have heard that on one occasion some roguish maidens had a beau come to visit them, and as he came from a distance he spent the night. The ladies did not favor his suit. There were linen sheets on the bed that could be heated almost red hot and that bed was warmed most thoroughly up to the last minute. They stepped out the door as he came in. He undressed quickly and bounced into bed only to hop out again quicker than he got in, much to the amusement of the girls, who listened outside the door.

It is just fifty years ago since my parents caught the western fever. An uncle at Michigan City wrote glowing accounts of the west and urged removal, assuring us that if we came, we should soon have more oxen, sheep, and asses than Job ever dreamed of. Other uncles came to my father's from Massachusetts and Montreal. Their conferences lasted until the small hours of the night and it was finally decided to sell the old homestead that had been in the family for two hundred years and go west. My father was a farmer and was a judge of good soil so he was urged to go and select the land. He declined because he was not accustomed to traveling, and prevailed upon an uncle to go who was in business in Montreal. My father, after examining the maps, advised looking for a location near where Milwaukee now stands. Had that purchase been made my father might have been a millionaire and I a graceless scamp. But the uncle upon a bright morning in June found himself in northern Indiana, upon the low wet prairie through which Hog creek wends its sluggish way. The flowers were in full bloom, he thought he had never seen anything so beautiful,

and there he expended his last dollar. The plan was to build a mill. My father was to buy all farming implements, machinery, tools for carpenters, blacksmiths and shoemakers in New York city, while all mechanics and hired girls were to be brought from Montreal where labor was cheap.

Strange it seemed to my boyish fancy, and as I looked at the state of Indiana upon the map, I wondered if the sun shone there and the clouds looked just as they did in New England. It will be fifty years in May next since our goods were packed, the farewells spoken and we were all aboard the stage for Norwich, thence we took the steamer for New York, and another for Albany. We turned aside to visit friends near Cooperstown, N. Y., and then they brought us in large wagons to Fort Plain, where we took the canal packet for Buffalo. These boats made about six miles an hour day and night. This was the aristocratic mode of traveling in those days. That year there was an immense emigration westward and the boats were crowded. When night came the cabin floor was so covered with sleepers that it was almost impossible to walk across it. The bridges that spanned the canal were low and as the boat approached one the helmsman would call out "bridge," and if one did not stoop he would be knocked over. The saucy street Arabs would sometimes call out, "make your manners," and we had to obey.

At Buffalo we met others of our company and took a steamer for Detroit, which stopped at Dunkirk, Erie, Cleveland and other ports, and it was, I think, four days and nights before we landed in Detroit, which was a town of only about 5,000 inhabitants with few buildings between Jefferson avenue and the river. Here our party, twenty in number, hired teams to take us across the country to Michigan City. The mud in Detroit was so deep that one team mired in the street and the ladies had to be carried to the sidewalk. The road from Detroit was a continuous causeway until you were within three miles of Ypsilanti; an almost unbroken forest was on each side the road. . Nearly all the houses were of logs, and almost all were taverns. It took us two or three days to reach Ypsilanti. The first night, two ladies who had babes, occupied the only bedroom and the rest of the party, numbering twenty with stage drivers and teamsters, slept in the chamber. To the young ladies of our party, fresh from New England, this seemed a little rough. The next night the landlord where we stopped told us that he had not room in the house for the whole party, but if the men would sleep on the hay in the barn he could make room in the house for the women. We agreed to it. In the

night, I, a restless boy, suddenly found myself going somewhere, and when fairly awake found I had rolled off the hay mow into a horse rack. At Ypsilanti the heavy rains had carried away the bridge and we crossed the river in a ferry boat and stayed at the old Hawkins house, which remained standing until about 1880. I think there were at that time only about a dozen houses in Ypsilanti.

In all this county of Eaton at that date, I believe there were not over half a dozen families. From Ypsilanti we went to Clinton, Jonesville and Coldwater. This was the first prairie we saw. There were a half dozen houses there and the prairie was covered with hazel brush. White Pigeon, the next prairie, was in all its beauty on a June morning when we reached it, and a fine sample of prairie.

On the 6th of June we reached our destination on Hog Prairie, sixteen miles south of Michigan City, and about two miles southeast of Haskell, on the Chicago & Grand Trunk railway. A new barn had been built for our accommodation. There were no partitions in it and no fastenings upon the doors. The lumber was unseasoned, the floor was of two-inch oak plank, the boards on the sides had shrunk so you could put a finger through every crack, and the roof instead of being shingled, was made of boards, with the cracks battened with siding. When the first shower came, we found the only dry spot was along under the ridge pole. Our first supper was cooked beside a green oak stump. Dry goods boxes formed our tables and pantries. We fastened the barn doors at night by bracing them with rails on the outside, and spreading our beds on the floor, were soothed to sleep by the croaking of frogs in the distant pond and the howling of wolves. Before another shower came we had the roof shingled and rough board partitions up, and in this we lived for nearly two years. There were three families in the barn and as the partitions were not very tight we often had quite a social time after retiring. In the winter the snow drifted in during the driving storms and occasionally as we got out of bed we stepped into a snow drift an inch or two deep. House cleaning was easy in those days. Six lights in a window were washed in half the time it takes to wash twelve. The unplaned woodwork rebelled against scrubbing, and, if the housekeeper swept across the planks the dirt disappeared down the cracks as she crossed the room. In this barn my youngest sister was born. As I passed the old building some years since and saw the straw sticking out the windows, I thought I would joke her about her humble birthplace when the thought flashed over me as never before, a far greater than she had a humbler birthplace than that.