Thomas was nearly three years old, and June 22d, 1847, another dear little boy came. We named him George Burnham. He was named for his uncle, his Father’s youngest brother; the Burnham was for his step-grandma O’Bannon. Her maiden name was Mary Oliver Burnham. George was a very sweet child. We all loved him very much.
We thoroughly enjoyed our new home. We had nice neighbors.
When winter came they began a protracted meeting. I remember a preacher by name of Sylvester Southard and another one by the name of Benjamin Green were to hold the meeting at our little church. Sylvester Southard called to see us. He was the first preacher that had ever called at our home since we had been married. The circuit preachers always came to my father’s for their dinner on Sunday, and then went on to their next appointment. We were very much pleased to have the preacher call at our own home. He talked and prayed with us and invited us to come to the meetings. We accepted the invitation, of course, and were very much interested, and I joined the church, giving my name to Benjamin Green in a few days, after going to the mourner’s bench a few times. I was converted, but it took place at my own home when I was all alone in my room.
I remember as well as if it were only yesterday how I sent the girl with my little children down to my mother’s, telling them they could stay and visit their grandma for an hour or two. I was feeling very miserable, and thought if I only could be alone so I could tell the Lord all about it, He would help me; and He did, for in a very few minutes I felt and knew that my sins, which were many, were all forgiven, and I felt a sweet quiet peace come over me and the blessed assurance that my God was reconciled and all was well. The people of those days used to shout and make a great deal of noise and great demonstrations when they got happy, but I could not feel that way, and often I would fear that I did not possess the real genuine kind of religion that others did, and doubts and fears would arise and I would get discouraged. The class-leader would come around and lead the class, and call on everyone to speak; and often he would say to me, “Now, Sister Ellen, tell us how you feel. If you have religion, it will show itself some way,” and so I generally went to church feeling happy, but would go home feeling sad and cast-down. I never could understand it all as they did. I often think if we could have had the teaching we have now that religion does not consist in feeling altogether, but of faith in our Lord Jesus Christ and a knowledge of what he has done for us, and a heart full of love and gratitude to him, we would not have walked in darkness so much of the time. Some people cry out for the old-time religion that our fathers had in years gone by; but I think the teaching and preaching and everything we have now is very much better than it was fifty years ago, and I am very thankful that I have lived to see this day.
I have been a long time writing this sketch of my life. If I live until the 23d of this month (“March, A. D. 1905), I shall be eighty-one years old. I cannot remember many things that I should like to write here, but I will continue my story as best I can.
The next winter, 1848, the Rev. S. D. Shaeffer came to Bowling Green to hold a meeting in our church, and William, my husband, joined the church; also, Zane Seymour and Clark Montgomery and quite a number of others. Rev. Schaeffer was a man of great power, and we had a wonderful revival. He was rough in his manners, but was so very spiritual and earnest that I never had a doubt that he was called of God to work for Him and be the means of saving the hardest sinners. He preached fire and brimstone; told the people they would go to hell if they did not repent and turn to God.
We used to burn candles in those days. There were no electric lights, or even coal-oil lamps that I remember, but there was a candlestick on each side of the preacher’s desk which had to be snuffed every now and then, and when Brother Shaeffer would get greatly in earnest, he would often knock off the candlestick, and some brother would go and pick it up and set it to going all right. The mourner’s bench would be crowded every night with sinners crying aloud for mercy; and the people would be praying aloud all over the house for the power of God to come down and convert sinners, and they would be converted, too. I have often been there when some would be praying, others singing, while others would be shouting; and they often kept it up until eleven and twelve o’clock at night. They usually kept the meeting going continuously for four weeks, services being held both night and day. Many of those people are in heaven now; and the preacher is there, too, wearing a crown all covered with stars. How he used to sing! I have one of his song books now, and keep it in memory of Stephen D. Shaeffer and of the good old times on Bowling Green. O, how I enjoyed living in that place! How I loved Bowling Green. We lived there three short years. It was such a lovely neighborhood! I used to hurry to get my work done in the forenoon then after dinner I would wash and fix up my three dear little children—put on their clean aprons and sunbonnets, and away we would go down to my mother’s. It was such a short distance away, and the children always loved to go to see their grandparents, who petted them, and were always ready to do anything for them, or give them anything they wished for. My mother was so kind and gentle and good everyone loved her who knew her and my auntie was a lovely lady-like woman. She was always kind and good to all of us. When she sold out her shop in London she had some very pretty things in one of the windows, some of which I wanted very much. Among these things was a very handsome little clock which she packed in a large round basket with a cover to it. She put as many of the nice things in with it as could be carried safely. We were all very careful with this basket, and got it safely across the ocean, but when we left the canal-boat, alas! we all forgot the basket. We were all so excited and filled with wonder at the new scenes about us that we did not miss it for some days, so we never recovered it. I feel sorry over it to this day, and can never forget it. Our china dishes and some other things we brought from England with us were very much admired. I remember when I went to live in the log cabin auntie gave me some lovely cups and saucers. They were a clear white china, decorated with very small blue sprigs. I did not know the value of them, and so used them every day, and they were soon all broken. My mother was especially fond of little Margaret, and sometimes when she would go their mother would stand her on a chair in front of the china cupboard, which had glass doors, and let her look in to see the pretty dishes and tell her she could have anyone she wanted; then she would select one and bring it home with her.
My father seemed to set his heart on Thomas. He had never had a son of his own; and since Thomas had been named for him, it made him feel very proud of the boy, and he petted him and made a great deal of him. He was taken to church when he was only a few months old, and baptized by Rev. David Lewis, who was a favorite preacher of my father’s. After the baptism we all went to his home for dinner. In England they always prepared something extra fine, and invited their relatives to eat with them and, of course, to attend the christening, as they called it there.
It was a great privilege to live so near the church, and be able to attend all the services, and I delighted in it. It also gave me great pleasure to be so near my home where I could see my mother everyday. In those days we expected to attend most of the quarterly meetings. We thought nothing of riding eight or ten miles to a meeting, remaining all night, and going to every service. These meetings began on Saturday, with an afternoon service, then in the evening at early candle light; then Sunday morning at eight the love feast, with closed doors, of course. I well remember standing outside, with many others waiting for the doors to be opened so everybody could go in. After preaching the sacrament was administered, but probationers and children were not permitted to partake as they do now. I remember I was taught when a child that it was a very solemn thing to partake of the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper; and no one who was unconverted would have thought of such a thing as approaching the Lord’s table.
I well remember Brother Seward at Elizabethtown. His home was always open for all who would come. How often my husband and I have stopped with them and were kindly entertained. All the preachers had a home with them, and were made welcome. They were a very kind good family. Some of their children are living here in Newark Now—Judge Charles Seward, Mrs. Mary Baugher, Mrs. Legg, Miss Orpha Seward, Mrs. Belle Holman, and some other sons. Mrs. Seward and her sister were lovely Christian women.
At the Saturday evening early candle light meeting we burned candles on the pulpit in candlesticks and around the walls put in tin candlesticks tacked to the wall. Every once in a while some men who sat near would jump up and snuff the candles with his fingers.
While we lived on Bowling Green, Mrs. Zane Seymour’s sister, Priscilla Jones, came from Pittsburgh to visit her. She remained some time; and before long she became acquainted with Clark Montgomery, and finally they were to be married. Her sister, Martha Seymour, helped her to get ready, and my husband and I were invited to the wedding. The ceremony was performed by Rev. James Hooper. After the wedding they were to go to Pittsburg—Priscilla’s Home—in a buggy. Rev. S. D. Shaeffer and wife, whose home was in Zanesville, were present at the wedding, also James A. Traylor, Margaret Cliver and Emily Montgomery—Clark’s sister. It was settled that we all go as far as Zanesville, as the bride and groom were to remain there that night; so James Taylor and Emily, his sister-in-law, and Margaret Cliver rode in his buggy: Mrs. Shaeffer and I in our buggy. Mr. Shaeffer rode on horseback, and jogged along beside the buggies, and so the bridal party started off. It was night when we reached the city. Mr. Shaeffer and his wife and I went directly to their home. The rest all went to the hotel. After supper Mr. and Mrs. Shaeffer and I went to the hotel and spent the evening. We had a lively time. The next day the bride and groom resumed their journey to Pittsburgh. It took them three days to go. We also started for our homes at the same time, Emily riding with me and Margaret Cliver and James Taylor. That was before the time of railroads and cars. We thought we were highly favored to have a buggy to ride in. We enjoyed the ride home very much, and Clark and Priscilla had a very nice visit with her parents at Pittsburgh. She had a lovely mother. She visited her daughters after that sometimes, and always came to see me. I loved Mrs. Jones very much. She was full of wit and humor—always had something funny to say. She was not of a gloomy nature, but wherever she went she livened things up and made everyone happy. She was always ready to do a kindness wherever it was needed. She died at her home in Pittsburgh at a good old age. Her daughter, Martha Seymour, also died a year or two ago. She was a very sweet woman, a true friend, one in whom you could confide. She never proved false. She bad no children to leave behind. I remember how we used to attend church together—also her sister Priscilla. We three were always present at the protracted meetings. We always sat together. Oh, how we used to sing—with all our might! When the protracted meetings would commence, the preacher always asked first all the members to come around the altar, and then he would invite sinners to come and seek the pardon of their sins. It was always hard to get them to start. There was a boy who lived with old Mrs. Stadden, by the name of George Phillips. When he saw that no one started to go forward he would go and kneel down. This he did every winter, so we named him, “The Little Black Cloud.” (1 Kings 18-44th verse). We had good faithful preachers there, and there were many great revivals at Bowling Green. Some good true-hearted people still live there and attend church now. Emmit Patterson married one of Stuart Wilson’s daughters. He and his family are still good faithful members of that church. Stuart Wilson and wife were good kind people; they had nine children; their home was always open to their neighbors and friends—everyone was made welcome. I fancy yet I can hear him saying, “Come and see us; come and break bread with us.” It was delightful to live in Bowling Green, but I had my sorrows as well as joys in that place. After we had lived there a little over two years my father-in-law insisted that we go back to our farm across the Licking Creek. He thought my husband could not look after his land over there as he ought and live away from it. Then there was a small farm of one hundred and four acres adjoining it for sale, which could be bought cheap, and he wanted us to sell the one we then lived on and buy the one adjoining the land across the creek, but my father said it should never be done, unless I gave my consent. I refused for some time, and grieved over it. My husband and his father gave me no peace; they persuaded me and urged me until at last I gave up for it to be done. The new farm was to be mine, and I have it yet. They said it had a new farm house on it in a lovely place on a hill, where we could stand and see all over the country for miles around. They took me over to see the place. My mother-in-law went with me, and pointed out the lovely scenery, as she called it; but to me it all looked hateful, and I cared nothing for it. One would have thought by looking at the house—much more so after having lived in it—that the man who planned and built that house had never seen one in all his life before. It was a most inconvenient house to work in, and worst of all, it was not plastered at all, but sealed with nice boards and painted blue. It was about a quarter of a mile from the public road. It had one large room, with a partition right through the center, making two long narrow rooms—also, two bedrooms opening off from it; a porch in front with a bedroom at one end. These were all sealed and painted blue. My mother-in-law did her best to make me think it was all very nice. She wanted me to like it, but how could I ? We were not to have possession of it until fall, so I comforted myself with the thought that I would have one more summer of bliss and happiness; but no, it was not to be that way. In a short time my dear father was taken sick at my house and could not be taken home, and in two weeks he died. It was very sad, and it cast a gloom over my once happy home as well as the home of my mother; but trouble did not end here, for in a short time my little George was taken very sick with congestion of the brain. We employed the two best doctors to be found, as we believed— Dr. Dickinson and Dr. Roe—and everything was done to save his life that we knew to do. I used to sit by his little crib and cry most of the time; but God took him to Himself, and on the first day of September, 1849, he died, aged 2 years 2 months and 9 days. We had a small stone to mark the place where we laid him, and I remember two little verses which were inscribed on it, and will give one of them:
“There, mother, in the Savior’s arms,
Forever undefiled,
Amid the little cherub band,
Is thy beloved child.”
He was buried in the family graveyard on his grandfather’s farm. The days that followed were sad, indeed. We missed him everywhere. He was just at an interesting age. I remember coming from church the Sabbath after he was buried. I felt sad and full of sorrow. I thought I could never be happy again. It seemed to me that everything was buried in that little grave. After dinner the girl, Senie Ann, took the two children and went over to my mother’s. My husband started out to take a walk, and I was left alone to nurse my sorrow and bear it as best I could. It seemed I must give vent to my feelings in some way, and so I wrote what I felt in these little verses which I will give here. It was the first time in my life that I ever tried to compose a verse. I did not have to try very hard. Every word came to me as fast as I could write it.
When I call to remembrance my
Former happy days—
My time was spent so pleasantly,
My heart knew naught of pain.
But now, alas it’s changed;
Those happy days have fled.
There’s none can cheer or comfort me—
Since my sweet boy is dead.
My sorrows they are great;
My trials come so fast—
They sink deep in my heart,
And I cannot forget the past.
My father was just called away,
And left us all to mourn;
But now, alas! my dearest boy
Is from my bosom torn.
This home, this place I love so well,
Where I have been so glad
I very soon will have to leave,
How can I but be sad?
But this trouble I could banish—
This sorrow all have fled,
If I could find it but a dream
That my sweet boy is dead.
Could I but see his shining face,
And see him smile again,
And hear his little voice, so sweet,
I could be happy then.
But, Oh! this cannot be,
And it fills my heart with pain,
When I think of the many joyous times
That I never can see again.
I have friends here I love,
And some that I have loved long,
But there’s none on earth can fill the place
Of the dear one that is gone.
I forgot to say that while he was sick Mr. Godden, of Newark, came down and took a sketch of his face, and after he was dead he came and took a likeness with something like plaster of paris. Then we sent his little dress, shoes, stockings, and his little cup that he liked to play with so well, and his little chair to Mr. Godden, and he made an oil-painting of him. It looks like him, only it has a sad expression on his face, which is not natural to him, as he had a smile for everyone when he was well, and looked very much like his father.
It was well that my children and the cares of my home kept me busy. I went about my work with a sad heavy heart; but after awhile I began to see God’s hand in it all, and to realize I had much to be thankful for. I tried to be submissive and to feel sure that my kind Heavenly Father would do only the things that were for my good, and now as I look back I feel thankful that little George is safely housed in heaven. It occurred more than fifty-eight years ago, but it is just as fresh in my memory as if it were yesterday. I wish that all my children who are living were as sure of heaven as that little innocent child was.
In the same fall, not long after the death of George, my dear Auntie Baker was taken sick and died. It seemed as if the death angel could not be satisfied. She had been such a comfort to my poor mother; she sympathized with her in all her troubles, and now she was taken just when she seemed most needed. She was buried by my father in the graveyard back of Bowling Green church, as we did not have the Cedar Hill cemetery then.
As long as we lived in that place it was a home for the preachers. Brother James Gilruth and James Hooper stopped with us when they came to preach at Bowling Green. They were good men, but not as social and pleasant as the preachers of later date. They rode on horseback, and carried their books, papers, and whatever they had to carry, in saddlebags across the horse. They wore jeans clothes, and dressed very plain. They always wore woolen leggings, tied with a string around below the knee; also, pinned together, top and bottom. I remember Brother Gilruth was writing a book of some kind, and he carried it with him, putting in every spare moment he had writing it. One day as he sat writing I came in and said that dinner was ready. He laid down his pen and came right out and sat down to the table. As we were eating I missed little George, and said to the girl, “Go see what he is doing; he is so very still I fear he is in mischief.” Brother Gilruth thought of his book, and he got up and followed Senie Ann to the sitting room. There was George; he had poured some of the ink on to the paper, and was rubbing it all over the leaf with his hand. We all ran in to see what the trouble was. I was awfully scared and sorry for poor Brother Gilruth. He turned to me, and said, “You ought to make your children behave and not give them everything they cry for.” He seemed very much displeased, of course, as it spoiled all his day’s work, and wasted his ink and paper; but he went back and finished his dinner and remained all night, and I cleaned up the muss and did all I could to help repair the accident. I never knew just how much damage it did to his book.
I will just say here, while we lived in the log cabin, William Seymour and his wife moved from the farm adjoining my father’s, to another farm farther up the road, and as my father-in-law owned the place from which they moved, his son Thomas, who had married Mary Jane Maholm, came there to live; so the three years we lived on Bowling Green we were near each other. They had one son, named James, born while they lived there. She was a good, kind sister-in-law to me. They afterwards moved to the farm north of what is now the Children’s Home, that his father bought for them. Three other sons were born to them—Harry, Charles and George—the latter of whom died when a little lad. Mary Jane was a good wife and a loving mother. She passed away a number of years ago, also Thomas and their son James; and now there are only the two sons remaining—Harry, whose home is in California, and Charles, who still lives at the old home north of the Children’s Home.
But now the time had come for us to move over on the other farm. This place had been sold some weeks before, but the man did not keep it, having sold it to Clark Montgomery, and the arrangements were all made for him and his wife Priscilla, to move in as soon as we vacated it, and we began to get ready to leave. I was almost heart-broken to go from the home I loved so much, and that had been endeared to me by the sorrows as well as the joys I had experienced in it. I packed my things in sadness, but just before leaving for good I wrote two verses on the chimney-wall with a pencil. I had composed them to give expression to my feelings, and to impress on my mind the fact that all earthly happiness is fleeting, uncertain, and of short duration. Here are the lines which I gave with the rest. You need not call it poetry:
This home so much delighted in
I now must leave,
And give it into other hands
Which fills my soul with grief.
But in my heart and memory still
This home shall have a spot,
And what has passed within these walls
Shall never be forgot.
We moved on the 5th day of November, 1849, and on that day Mortimer Seymour was buried. He was the husband of Aunt Emily. We got fixed up, and made the house as comfortable as possible. My husband had tried to fix the house some and make it more homelike by taking out the partition, and making one large square room, instead of two long narrow ones. It did look better and was more convenient. A month after we moved, on the 1st day of December, another little boy came, as if he, wanted to fill the place that little George had left vacant. But no! he could never do that. No one ever did. However, we were glad to have him. He was a large, healthy babe, and everyone about the house seemed pleased with the little fellow. The next day it turned awfully cold. It snowed, and the wind blew through every crack. We soon realized that this house was a very poor protection against the cold winter just before us, but nothing could be done but to endure it. We could not plaster now. There was a large open fireplace, and they piled on the logs and wood, but it seemed to take very little effect. We all suffered with the cold, and I took cold, of course, and was sick in bed all winter. I suffered untold agonies, and for ten weeks was never out of the room but once when I took cold, and did not get well until the weather was warm in the spring. All the family suffered with the cold. It was a winter long to be remembered.
In the fall, just before we moved over to the new place, the new preacher came. He was an unmarried man, Rev. James Mitchell; also, Rev. John F. Longman, and Rev. Charles C. Lybrand. I did not see any of them until spring. Brother Mitchell went back to Delaware, and took with him Miss Emily Montgomery and James Taylor to attend his wedding, and on the morning of the 22d of November, 1849, he was married to Miss Mary Allen. The next day, the 23d, they came back to Bowling Green, and went to James Taylor’s father’s, where they found a regular English dinner waiting for them. Also, some of the church people were there to welcome them and eat dinner with them. Brother Mitchell and wife went to Zane Seymour’s to stay. Brother Longman and family, of about six children, moved into a vacant house belonging to James Taylor, and Mr. Lybrand went to Irville to live. There were three preachers sent to Irville circuit that year, and Rev. Jacob Young was the presiding elder.
James Taylor had married Margaret Montgomery, who lived a short time and died of consumption: James went back and lived with his parents, and so let Brother Longman have his house, which was close to his father’s. This was the same James Taylor who attended my wedding, and stood up with us, but he was a young man then. He afterwards married Mary Moore. They had two sons and two daughters. James and his wife are both dead; also, both of the daughters. The eldest son, George, married Miss Eunice Channell, a granddaughter of John Channell, whom I spoke of before as one of the first settlers of Bowling Green. She was a daughter of Alpheus and Julia Channell. They lived near to us, and we brought up our children together. They had six girls and two sons. They were almost like my own. Their first-born was a son. He was drowned in Licking Creek when small. The girls’ names were Virginia, Clarin, Bettie, Olive, Rebecca and Eunice. The two eldest girls were married, but died when quite young. Virgie left several children; Clarin left none. Bettie and Olive married brothers, William and Charles Pritchard, of Granville, Ohio, both of whom died in the same week. Bettie and her children live in Seattle, Wash. Mrs. Channell had a little son who died when quite young. Olive and part of her children live here in East Newark. Her family are scattered, but all are doing well. Rebecca married Hamline Montgomery, and they live north of Hanover. He has two sons by a former marriage. Bunice and George Taylor live in Bowling Green. They were all very dear to us. Their mother, Julia Channell, died in the prime of life, and just when children most need a mother’s care. She was greatly missed by all. Her children were well cared for by two aunts, sisters of their mother who remained with them. We all called them Aunt Eliza and Aunt Emily. They were good Christian women and did their duty by the orphan children. Eliza Williams was a maiden lady. Emily was the widow of Mortimer Seymour, who was buried the day we moved.
Aunt Katy, who stood up with Jas. Taylor at my wedding, did not remain single always, but married a very nice man—Mr. Hersey, by name—and went to Virginia to live, but she died years ago. Rev. James Mitchell remained only one year on our circuit, but during that time we became very much attached to him and his wife. In the spring when my health was better, and as we thought I was able to go out some, I was invited over to Zane Seymour’s, where Brother and Sister Mitchell boarded, to stay a day or two, also to get acquainted with them. Mr. and Mrs. Seymour had been intimate friends of our family for some time, and we had a lovely time together; but I took cold and became very sick—had a hard nervous chill, and was so bad that I could not wash and dress my babe. Mrs. Mitchell took him and said she could do it, she thought, so she took the little fellow and began. He was soon crying very hard. I looked up and she had soaped the rag, and was rubbing the poor child so hard that his little head and face were red as they could be. I called out to her, she said, “O, you must not rub the babe so hard—his little flesh is very tender,” so she slacked up a little and got him washed and dressed, but he cried most of the time. Brother Mitchell took him and walked the floor and sang to him until he was asleep. I was soon afterwards taken up to my father-in-law’s for a few days, as they said I should not go back to that cold house again until I was well. My mother-in-law sent for Dr. John Wilson, of Newark, and he seemed to understand my condition, and helped me at once. I was then taken home. Dr. T. H. Roe had attended me all winter. Brother Mitchell and wife then came to our home quite often and remained with us a part of the time, and we enjoyed having them very much. One day, in the spring, while they were boarding at Seymour’s, Rev. John Dillon came there early in the day, and Mr. J. L. Preston and Henry Wilson were to come to supper. They lived in Newark, and for some reason were very late in starting, and fearing supper might be over, Mr. Preston put some cakes in his pocket in case they should be hungry. The folks were eating supper when they arrived. It was their first introduction to Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell. They were seated at the table and Mr. Preston had occasion to use his handkerchief, and put his hand in his pocket to get it when out came the cakes with it and rolled all over the floor. He was much embarrassed, but a hearty laugh and an explanation set all to rights.
When the weather got warm we had our house plastered and made more comfortable. My husband had built two small rooms on the back porch before we moved. We used one as a bedroom for work-hands, the other for a kitchen. We had no cellar; no cistern; there was a good spring quite a distance down under the hill and a spring-house there where we kept our milk and butter. We carried all the water we used for everything from this spring. It was very hard water, and this together with the distance made our living in this place very inconvenient for some years. Of course, after awhile they dug a cellar, and walled it up very good, which was a great help. Then they made a cistern, and this made life easier for us; but there was never a pump put in it, and we always drew the water with a bucket and a rope tied to it, and it was that way as long as we lived there. They had also built a dining-room and kitchen some years before; but all that could be done to that place did not make it convenient or nice. It was a hard house to work in always; but I must go back to my story.
After a time I put my boy into short clothes; bought him some red shoes and stockings, and dressed him up nicely and took him to church to be baptized. We named him Oliver Burnham, for his step-grandmother O’Bannon. There were several other children to be baptized, and the parents all stood around the altar with their babies. Mine was first, and as the presiding elder, Rev. James M. Jameson, took him in his arms, in some way he knocked off one of his shoes. I remember how mortified I was to have him baptized with one shoe off and one on. In the fall of 1850, Brother Mitchell was sent to Rehoboth circuit, along with Brother Bing. It was very hard to part with Brother and Sister Mitchell, but preachers could only remain two years in a place in that early day, and were often moved at the end of one year. However, Mrs. Mitchell and I, in that short time, formed a friendship that has lasted all the rest of our lives.
I remember one time there was to be a quarterly meeting held at Bowling Green church. I could not get the preachers on Saturday, but engaged them for Sunday dinner. We made our preparations all on Saturday—baked bread, pies and cake; also, killed a nice large turkey—had it just ready for the oven. It was in the spring and getting rather warm, and as we then did not have a cellar, we carried everything down to the spring-house. I had a good long swinging-shelf there, and we set our pies on it and put the bread in a large jar. Of course, the cream and butter were there. When we arose in the morning the girl went to the spring-house to get bread, butter, etc., and to her great surprise everything was gone—every bit of bread, butter, pies, turkey, and all. We did not have one bite of anything for breakfast. We scraped around and made some biscuit, and got along for ourselves, but what to do with the preachers I did not know. After awhile I thought of a plan, so we went to church early, and I went to Mrs. Clark Montgomery and told her my trouble, and said to her, “Now, you invite the presiding elder and preacher to your house to dinner, and you insist on their coming, and also invite us, and then I will let them off and we will all go with you.” So it was all fixed, and the preachers did not know any better until dinner was over, then we told them the joke and we had a good laugh over it. They thought the joke was on me, and so it was. I was sorry to lose all the good things after I had prepared them, especially the turkey. We had plenty more running around, but they were not killed and dressed, and even if they were the presiding elder would not be there to enjoy them. I was sorry to miss having him and the preacher on that quarterly meeting occasion. It did not usually put a person out any to have a number come to dinner at a quarterly meeting, for everybody prepared for it and expected a crowd.
I remember, one time, when Rev. John White was presiding elder, he held a quarterly meeting at Madison chapel. We made great preparation, knowing we should likely have a good many for dinner, and when the service was ended we invited quite a good number who had come from a distance. Then Brother White stood in the pulpit and called out to the people and said, “All who have no place to go for dinner, just drive into Brother O’Bannon’s. I am sure you will be welcome.” We drove home as fast as possible, and got ahead of the people, and when we reached home it was a sight to see the buggies drive through our gate and up to the house. We had a long table set the length of the dining room and had baked a whole lot of bread, but we did not have enough. The girl made biscuits and baked one pan full after another. Some of the women rolled up their sleeves and helped us. Some washed dishes and re-set the table; others made coffee and tea, and after they had eaten all the meat we had cooked we fried ham and eggs, and finally, we got them all fixed up. There were fifty who took dinner with us that Sunday. These people were all from a distance—had started early in the morning and were real hungry. They did not mince, but ate heartily. It kept our boys and the work-hands busy putting the horses in the barn and feeding them. When one lot was through eating they would tie them to the fence and put in a lot more. It was a job to feed and water them all. The elder did not come to our house for dinner—he went to the Barrick home, but after dinner he came to see if we had anybody, he said. When he saw the string of horses tied along the fence and the men sitting under the trees, he said “Well Sister Ellen, why didn’t you ask somebody to come home with you for dinner ?” I told him I did not want him ever to do that again. It was a little too much hard work for Sunday; but he just laughed and I did, too, after it was all over, but I did have a few more than I expected.
One great disadvantage in living over on that place was the Licking Creek. There was no bridge those days, and we had to ride or drive through the creek at Stadden’s Ford, and just as sure as there was a special meeting at Bowling Green, or anything going on that we particularly wished to attend, it seemed almost invariably to rain and raise the water so we could not cross. We often rode through it when it was mid-side to the horse and when the water would be up to the seat in the buggy. I could not be induced to take such risks now as I often did in those days. One time Mr. O’Bannon, Margaret and I started to town, and found on coming to the creek the water was up a little. We rode our horses over to the other side and borrowed a buggy, to take us to town and back, hitching one of our horses to it and leaving the other there until we came back, I had left my little child at home. While in town my husband’s brother Presley, came to him and said he must go with him on some important business, and Margaret and I had to go home alone. When we reached the place where we had left our horses they told us the creek had risen and was past fording. I said that I must go home to my baby; I felt obliged to go home. We mounted our horses and rode to the creek, but it was booming. Lee Dunning had come with us. We rode in as far as we dared to venture, but could not cross over. We then went down to Mr. Clark Montgomery’s and got him to go with us down to Channell’s—there we left our horses. It was now nearly dark, and I was nearly frantic about the baby and felt I could do anything to get home to my little one. We got a lantern and walked down the railroad track to Dewese Mill—Clay Lick, it is called now; and then we walked the railroad bridge across the hateful old creek, and from there we walked home—going through the woods and fields. When we were near the house I could hear the child crying at the top of its voice. The girl and the other children were all crying, and such a time as they were having. I was just about tired out, but very soon after we got in the door all was calm and quiet. Mr. Montgomery had to go back home that night. A number of years after that they built a bridge across the creek, and O! what a time of rejoicing there was when that was completed. But this is only one small sample of the inconveniences we and all the other people who lived there had to endure all the time from having no bridge across that awful stream of water.
Ellen S. O’Bannon 