In a few years our second little daughter was born. She was a sweet little girl. We were all pleased with her; as Margaret had been the only girl for so long, it was nice to have a baby sister. If I remember rightly, Rev. Levi Cunningham and George West were the preachers for Irville circuit that year, and Rev. Jacob Young, the presiding elder. Rev. Cunningham baptized the little girl babe. We called her Emily Clarin, for Aunt Emily Seymour, Emily Montgomery, and Clarin Channell. Brother West was a very earnest Christian man, but he was rather peculiar in his views as to the way ladies ought to dress. He thought it wrong to wear jewelry, flowers, etc. I liked to wear ear-rings, and had just bought some new round ones. Brother West came to our house for dinner on Sunday, and when he was ready to go he shook hands with me, and said. “Sister Ellen, do you know that earrings are the devil’s stirrups?” It made such an impression on me that I never enjoyed wearing them afterwards, and after a long time I took them out, and never put any in my ears afterwards. It was very hard for me to give them up, as I did not care for any jewelry so much as ear-rings.
Sometime after that Brother Mitchell was sent to Newark. I happened to be there one day when he was going to have a wedding at the parsonage. I was invited to remain to see it. In due time the party drove up to the door in a spring-wagon. They came in carrying a band-box. The lady asked if she could have a room in which to dress. She had on a calico dress and a sun-bonnet, but when she was ready to be married she was dressed in a black silk dress, trimmed in narrow white lace, and a bonnet all trimmed in white ribbon and flowers. Mrs. Mitchell’s, sister Olive, was visiting there at the time, and we were both very much amused at the performance. They marched out and stood in front, of Brother Mitchell while he said the words that made them one for life. Then when he made the little prayer they both dropped on their knees before him. When it was over the man asked how much he charged, and was told from two dollars upward. He had only one little gold dollar wrapped in the corner of his vest pocket, and he gave it. Then the bride went into the bedroom and changed her dress and put on her sunbonnet, putting her nice bonnet back into the band-box. They went out then and climbed into the spring-wagon, and off they went. I have often thought of them and wondered what became of them.
Some years after that, Miss Olive Allen was married to Mr. Henry Chamberlain, of Delaware, Ohio, where she and also Mrs. Mitchell still reside, as Brother Mitchell and Mr. Chamberlain have both gone to the glory-world, and are with the dear Savior whom they loved and served so faithfully while here on earth. They both brought up nice families of children, who rise up and call them blessed. They are all amongst my dearest, truest and best friends whom I shall love and cherish while life lasts.
In 1852 Rev. John Dillon was sent to Newark. There were two churches there at that time, called the Eastern and Western charges. Brother Dillon was sent to the Eastern charge. In the fall of this year I went to Newark with my friend, Martha Seymour to attend the county fair, which was then held on the lot in front of Mr. Hezekiah Spraque’s house, now owned by Mr. Fulton. The fair was very small at that time. I made the acquaintance of Mrs. J. L. Preston on that day. They lived on the corner of Locust and Fifth streets, and owned the lots all the way down to the lumber-yard. Mr. Preston kept a shoe store for many years in Newark. His store was then on the west side of the square. It was not long until Mrs. Preston and I became quite intimate friends. She and her husband enjoyed a visit in the country, and I enjoyed a visit in town very much. After a few years Mr. Preston and some others joined together and build the large hotel, called the Preston House—afterwards, the Lansing House. He sold his property on Fifth and Locust streets, and put the proceeds into the hotel building. He then moved his store into one of the new store-rooms under the hotel. He also, with his family, took a suite of rooms there and lived and boarded there the rest of the time while they lived in Newark, which I think, was about twelve years. They had then two daughters—Frank and Mary. They were well-known by all the young people of Newark. Mary, the younger Frank G. McCune, who, for many years, was in the hardware store on the corner where The Newark Trust Company’s building is now located. Frank, the elder sister, afterwards married Mr. W. W. Johnson, of Albert Lea, Minn. Mary died many years ago, and her husband, with Mr. and Mrs. Preston, moved over to Columbus, and went in business there. We spent many pleasant times together visiting each other. We were very close friends for more than fifty years. Frank McCune died twelve years ago, very suddenly, and in a short time Mr. Preston died suddenly also, and Mrs. Preston went to spend the rest of her days with here daughter, Frank Johnson, in Minnesota. Her she died more than a year ago, aged ninety-one. She was brought to Newark to be buried with the rest of her family in the beautiful Cedar Hill cemetery. She was buried from my home in Newark. She was a handsome woman, and was beautiful in death.
But I must go back to the old house on the farm where I lived for thirty years, where there was always plenty of hard work to be done. I always had plenty of help. We cooked for work-hands, and every spring I made two large barrels of soft soap, and every fall and spring dipped about twelve dozen candles. We had no coal-oil lamps or gas at that time, and we thought it was very nice to have plenty of candles. I well remember when a child, and we lived in England, how we used to burn candles to sew by and for general use. These were not home-made, but bought in the grocer’s shop. Mother used to have to strike a light with a flint and steel into a tinder-box, and we used matched that were long and pointed at the end and dipped in brimstone. The sparks from the steel would fall on the tinder, and, by holding the match on the spark and blowing it gently the brimstone would catch fire. The beggars used to go around the streets and sell the matches for an ha-penny per bunch. The rush lights were made of tallow, but were not so large around as the candles we made, and they had a rush-wish instead of the cotton candle-wick, and they made a very dim light. I never have seen any of them in this country. When we first married, I think we had candle moulds, but I know I used grease in a saucer with a rag in it some of the time. Some people have a craze for old-fashioned things and ways, but I never hanker after any of them: I like the improvements of the present much better. I call to mind how we used to sit up at night to make garments for my children. We used even to light two candles so we could see to sew. I used to hire a girl to help me—we could get the best for two dollars per week. I always made all my husband’s shirts-stitched the fronts too. All this had to be done by hand. He never wore a store-shirt in his life He did not like the way they were made. I made all their everyday pants, too, of course. It was all cloth, made from the wool of our own sheep at Ben Wilson’s factory.
I often think of the first time I tried to sew on cloth; that was when we lived in the log cabin. Mr. O’Bannon asked me if I could make him an everyday vest. I said, “Yes, I think I can.” So he got a piece of cloth and I cut it out by an old vest which I had ripped apart, but I made the cloth upside Down—the nap ran up, and when he put his bands on it, it would make him cringe all over. “Oh!” he would say, “Sis, you made this wrong-side up.” But I never made that mistake again. I soon learned better, and really came to be quite an expert at making pants. I remember I bought a new black silk dress, and had a woman come from town to make it. She was quite a refined-looking lady of middle age. One day, as we were all sitting at the supper table, she was talking about sewing, and she looked up at me and said, “I tell you, Mrs. O’Bannon when I am in Newark I do not sew for the poor Methodists—I sew for the ‘upper tens.’ “I did not know which class she thought I belonged To; but I soon told her I thought it a great honor to belong to the Methodists—whether they were rich or poor–that I had no desire to belong to any of the “upper tens.” However, she spoiled my dress. It was when they first began to line the skirts all through, and she made it so the silk pulled one way and the lining the other—such a squabbled thing I never saw. I had to get some one else to make it all over; but we named her the “upper tens,” and always after that when speaking of her, we called her by that name. I never hired her again—I could not have anyone in my home that would throw out slurs about the people I loved above all others, and who had done so much for me. I loved the dear old Bowling Green church. I wish I could remember the names of all the preachers who labored there. They were faithful and true. Dear Brother Samuel Harvey—what a saint he was! How often he has eaten at our table and remained with us all night. His prayers around the family altar, and his good Godly counsel and Godly example were a great blessing—more precious than gold and silver. I have his picture that he gave me himself— also, a dear good letter that I have kept all these years, and will keep it as long as I live. When we first moved over on this farm there was a small log meeting-house upon the hill, near Mr. Calvin’s. It was called, “Sodom.” After a time Brothers Hooper and Benjamin Green came to hold a meeting there. Brother Hooper came around first to preach, but he forgot what they called the little log church, and he stopped at several places and inquired for “Gomorrah,” but no one knew of such a place so he came to our house to remain all night, then he asked where there was a church called, “Gomorrah.” I thought at once he had made a mistake, and told him it must be “Sodom.” He and Uncle Benjamin Green worked together there. They gave a considerable sum themselves, then went around and solicited more money, and built what is called “Madison Chapel.” It was on our side of the Licking Creek, and our house was about half way between it and Bowling Green church. It was put on Irville Circuit, and the ministers preached at Bowling Green in the morning and then came across the creek to our house for dinner and then went on to Madison chapel, and preached in the afternoon. I have seen some of the greatest revivals in that little chapel I have ever attended. It was there that our beloved Brother Samuel Harvey had such a wonderful meeting. He was filled with the power of the Holy Spirit. I have seen the mourner’s bench crowded and all the seats around the altar filled with penitents crying aloud for mercy, and all over the house the people were praying; sinners trembled with fear. They could not stand it; they had to yield or run. It was at this meeting that John Parr, who was an unbeliever, came and scoffed at the preaching and praying; but one night, I can never forget it, the Holy Spirit took hold of him and he was deeply convicted. He came forward and knelt at the altar. Oh how he prayed and agonized, and wept! I do not remember how many nights this continued, but after a time I saw him most powerfully converted, and ever after wherever he went, he always stood up for Christ. He exhorted some and was a very useful man. He had a dear, good wife, who encouraged and helped him. They have both died and gone to their reward.
It was not long until my half-sister and her family moved out West, leaving mother and Jimmie alone; so she had the log house torn down and had a small frame house built by Samuel Dewese of Clay Lick. I believe this house still stands there. Mother and Jimmie lived there for awhile and seemed to enjoy the little house, but she was not able to do the work and did not seem well, so we brought them over to live with us. We tried to make her comfortable, and while she appeared perfectly satisfied, yet I could see she was failing; and the girl whom I had brought up was married to a man that was not the kind we would have liked her to have. He was lazy and shiftless, and we knew he would never make a good living for Senie Ann. She was a very good girl and deserved the best. We did all we could to prevent her marrying him, but it did no good. They were married by Rev. James Mitchell. They lived with us over a year after they were married. She could not bear the thought of leaving us, and we wanted her to stay with us, as he had no home to take her to.
Sometime after that my third little daughter was born. We named her, Martha Ellen—Martha for my mother and Martha Seymour, and Ellen for myself. I remember the Sunday she was christened by our presiding elder, Rev. Joseph Trimble, Mrs. Mitchell and her sister Olive, were present, and they and Brother Trimble sang, “I Think When I Read That Sweet Story of Old.” There were a number of other babies baptized that day. It was a beautiful service all through. I can never forget it. Then in the winter my dear mother died. She was only seventy-three years old. I can only think of her as the most patient, self-sacrificing, uncomplaining woman I ever knew, and one of the kindest and best of mothers. I cannot remember the time when she was not a devout Christian. I expect through the merits of Christ Jesus to meet her in heaven.
In March, Senie Ann and her husband moved into the log cabin that we had lived in when we were first married. We not only gave her a bed and a cow as the law required, but set her up in housekeeping, with everything she needed. In April a little boy was born. She seemed to get along all right, but when he was three weeks old she walked out in the yard. Her nurse, who was Mahala Bird, told her she had better not go out as it was damp and chilly, but she thought it would not hurt her and she went and took cold from it. Then the next day she insisted on coming up home. We had been cleaning house and white-washing, and we told her not to come for a few days, but she felt hurt and thought we did not want her; so Mr. O’Bannon went down with the closed carriage and brought her up home to spend the day. When evening came she did not want to go home, but insisted on remaining all night. We all told he she ought not to change her bed; but she stayed and took more cold. The next day we took her home to the log cabin, which was much warmer than our house but her cold grew worse and settled on her lungs, and in seven weeks from the time her babe was born, she died. Rev. James Mitchell visited her while she was sick. He had married her, and now he preached her funeral. O, how sad it all was! I believe she was a good Christian girl. Her own mother had died in the same way. Her husband’s mother Mrs. Edington, came and was there when she died: After the funeral they took the babe and all the household goods to her home—a place called, Fleatown, not far from Jacktown. Her husband and the babe were there the last I heard of them. His name was Isaac Edington.
In a little while after my father-in-law—Judge William O’Bannon, died. He was well-known in Newark, and in all the country around. He had lived in that same farm, two miles east from Newark, ever since he came from Virginia to Ohio. All his children were born and brought up there. His second wife had died some years before, leaving him alone. He had a woman to keep house for him. His death was very sudden and unexpected, as he was only sick a few days, and did not keep his bed all the time. He was buried in the family graveyard on the farm, where he had lived so long, but after a time he and all the family were removed to a lot they had bought in the Cedar Hill cemetery, and many of his children are laid to rest there. Mr. J. L. Preston and my husband bought a lot together, and we moved our little George there. On August 25th, my last child was born. She was a very dear, sweet little girl. We named her for Mrs. Preston; we gave her the full name—Mary Preston. She was baptized at Bowling Green church by Rev. John W. White, the presiding elder, a man beloved by everyone. He had a lovely wife. They spent their last years in Delaware, Ohio. Aunt Ann, as I always called her, when I went to Delaware to visit Rev. James Mitchell and wife and Mrs. Olive Chamberlain. Rev. John White used to stop with us very often, and nearly always brought his wife along. But they have gone to heaven long ago, and are with the blood-washed in the glory-world.
My children were pretty well grown. Margaret, the eldest, at seventeen, went to Worthington to school at the Methodist Episcopal Seminary, conducted by Rev. Samuel Bright and wife. While Margaret was there at school dear little Mary was taken sick with congestion of the brain, caused by a hard fall. Dr. Tuller and his partner attended her. We sent for Margaret to come home, as the doctors said there was no-hope for her. Everything that could be done to save her was done. It was a great trial, as all the family loved and petted her. She was the baby, and it was hard to give her up. She was twenty months old when God took her to Himself. She went to join her little brother, George; and there they play together beside the beautiful River, and hand-in-hand they walk the golden streets of the New Jerusalem, and now I would not call them back. They are safe in the arms of Jesus. I remember the doctor who was partner of Dr. Tuller was present when little Mary breathed her last. He was a good Christian man, and he said, “Let us pray.” We all knelt around the dear little child’s bed, and he offered up the sweetest prayer to our Heavenly Father in our behalf.
Margaret afterwards went back to Worthington to school. In course of time the school was moved to Delaware, Ohio, and my son, Thomas, went there to attend the college; also, Jimmie, who still lived with us after my mother’s death. I remember while Thomas was there, Mrs. Preston and I went in our carriage to Delaware to make him a little visit, as he used to get homesick sometimes. We carried with us a nice cake, some nuts, popcorn, candy, and other things we thought he would like. We also took a good dinner of chicken and other good things to eat on the way. We stopped at noon and fed our horse some corn, and we sat down under a tree and at our dinner. We drove slowly, and only went as far as Johnstown the first day, stopped all night with Mrs. Isaac Hill, deceased, late of Washington. D. C. We had a nice visit with them, and next day resumed our journey to Delaware. We had all our things packed in a little black trunk strapped on the back of the carriage. We drove up and down the streets trying to find Mrs. Nevis’ home, where Tom boarded. We finally found it, and he was very much pleased to see us. We remained two or three days, as our friend, Mrs. Olive Chamberlain, lived there and we made her a visit. Altogether, we had a delightful time. Then we started home, stopping all night with Mrs. Hill. I think we were gone about a week, by the time we reached home.
Sometime after this, in the year 1863, my daughter, Margaret, was married to Mr. L. M. Bennett, of Frazeysburgh, Ohio. They remained at home that winter until March, then went to Brooklyn, Iowa. Mr. Bennett owned a farm close to the little town. My son Thomas and Virginia Channell, who was first cousin to Mr. Bennett, went along with them. Their purpose was to see them get started in housekeeping, also, to enjoy seeing the country. Mr. Bennett was a farmer, and they expected to live on the farm, but they lived in town at first until they could get a house ready on the farm. I remember after they were married we planned to have a party for all their old friends, so they could enjoy a visit with Margaret and her husband before they left for Iowa. It was to be on New Year’s Day. So we made our preparations for it and decided to have a tree. It turned very cold, and has always been called, “That cold New Year’s of 1864.” We had invited a number of our friends in the country, and they came, too. We also invited a number of our friends who lived in town—Mr. and Mrs. Preston and their daughter Frank and Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Haughey. Mrs. Haughey came. She drove the horse herself, with her little girl on her lap. Mr. Haughey thought he could not endure the cold. He did not have the grit that his wife had. Mr. and Mrs. Preston came, and Charley Wilson, son of General Thomas Wilson, brought Frank, and cold as it was we had a room full of guests. They all brought presents for each other, and we hung them on the tree until it was full. We had dinner of roasted turkey, English plum pudding, and all the good things we could think of. After dinner, Mr. Preston and Zane Seymour took the presents off the tree, and called out the names. Everybody got something, and we had a good time and lots of fun; but when the time came to go home it was not so funny, for the cold was intense. I do not know whether they thought it paid or not.
It was a great trial to have my daughter go away from home so far. I could never be reconciled to it and am not yet. Tom only remained in Iowa a few months, and we were glad to have him back. However, we were not separated from Margaret very long at a time, for we kept the road warm going and coming. She would come home about every three years, and we would go there between times, and this helped to heal the wound some. I can never forget the first time Margaret came home. She took us by surprise. She went to Mrs. Preston’s, and Mary bought her down in a buggy. We were all so overjoyed we laughed and we cried. Some of the boys ran and killed some chickens and the girls tried to get dinner, but every now and then we would be all huddled up together talking and forget all about the dinner. I really thought we never would get it cooked and on the table. I remember how in my joy I would run and throw my arms around Mary Preston scarcely knowing what I was doing. I wonder sometimes if meeting our dear ones in heaven will not be something like that. Oh, how I hope and pray that all my dear children will meet me there! How anxiously I shall watch and wait for their coming! If one should be missing, how dreadful it would be.
I believe Jimmie was married to Martha Ellen Elliott one year before Margaret was married, as he was married in 1862. Martha Ellen was a little girl who lived with me a long time. I had her come at first to play with my children. She was such a nice girl—we all became attached to her and she grew up to be a smart, good, young woman. Jimmie was not strong, and we thought he ought not to marry, but he did; and, as my father had left him one thousand dollars, and it had been kept on interest for him, he took it and his wife and went out to Ashley, Ill. They were there about one year when Cora Belle was born. He could not do much so they lived on their money until it was gone, and we sent for them to come home, which they did. Cora was eleven months old when they came. She was a very dear, sweet child, and we all loved her very much. In the winter, February 10th, 1866, Jimmie died. His wife and little Cora remained with us. In the fall when Cora was four years old one Sunday, Martha and I went to Bowling Green church. After we came home she complained of her throat. She at once went to see the doctor. He gave her something to take—said it was nothing serious; but it became worse, and we had Dr. Black come down to see her. He said the trouble was caused by a deranged stomach. He came every day to see her, assuring us there was no cause for alarm, but when he came on Friday he said that nothing could be done for her. She could not swallow even a drop of water. We did all that could be done, but on Monday she was dying. Her mother and all her brothers and sisters were present. I wanted to take Cora as my child, but wished her to say whom she preferred to have her. As she could not speak Mr. Adair went to her and said, “Now, Martha, we wish to know whom you want to take Cora so I will take your hand and as I name over all your friends when I speak the right name, you press my hand.” And so he named over her mother and all her family, leaving me until the last, and when he spoke my name she pressed his hand. Then I took the dear child and went to the bedside, and she reached out her hand and took Cora’s hand and laid it on my hand and pressed them together, then looked up into my face and smiled; and then and there I claimed her as my own, and she has always been just the same to me. Of course, she does not remember her own mother. She knows no other mother but myself, and she is just the same to me as my own daughters and they love her just the same, and she is loved by everyone who makes her acquaintance.
Many years ago, while we lived on the farm, a preacher was sent to us by the name of Taylor. He with his wife and two daughters, lived in Newark: They were in some way related to old Dr. Hood and wife. He used to come to our house always on Sabbath for his dinner, on his way to Madison chapel. He preached at Bowling Green in the forenoon and led class. The leaders in those days each had a class-book. They called the names as they were on the roll, each one rising and testifying as to their state of mind. This Brother Taylor would sit in the pulpit and call the names, and when one would say that he did not enjoy himself of late as well as formerly, he was sure to strike up and sing:
“I wandered from Jerusalem
Down into Jericho;
I fell among the robbers,
I’m filled with grief and woe.
“I am wounded, I am bruised,
My garments they are stained,
But come, back-sliding sinner,
For you may come again.
“Like Jonah, I have fled
From the presence of the Lord
Like Peter, I’ve denied Him
And trampled on His Word;
“Like Judas, I’ve sold Him
For little worldly gain,
Yet come, back-sliding sinner,
For you may come again.”
I wish I could write the tune he used to sing it to. I can sing it like he did, but I cannot write it. We used to say it went just like sawing boards. I do not remember just the year he was there, but it must have been about fifty-six or seven. He was a real good man, and we all liked him, and he had a nice family. We always had good preachers. I remember dear, old Brother McClintock—how good and kind he was. We made him a log-cabin quilt, which greatly pleased him; and he made me a chair and a churn-disher. Then there was W. C. Holliday, Henry Ferris, and Samuel Manley. Brother Manley was greatly beloved, especially by the young people. He went West many years ago.
I remember a rather romantic love-story that was told to me by the sister-in-law of one of our circuit preachers many years ago. She was a maiden lady, quite along in years, and lived at that time on Bowling Green. The preacher and wife often came to our house to spend the day and Polly, for that was her name, always came along, as she made her home with her sister who was in poor health. We very much enjoyed having them come, and we all loved to hear Polly talk, especially if we could get her by herself away from the preacher. She was so original and full of wit. I asked her one time, why she never married. She then told me some of her love affairs, which I will give as she told them to me. She said, “When I was a young girl a young man waited on me by the name of John Smith. We loved each other, and he wanted me to be his wife, and I wanted so to be; but he was a poor man—had only what he worked for and earned from day to day. He was steady and industrious, and I was quite willing to share my lot with him; but my parents objected so strongly and were so displeased about it at last I gave up and refused to marry him. He went out West and left me miserable, indeed. After he had gone sometime, I determined in my mind that if ever John Smith came back and asked me to have him I would marry him, and if I starved it would be my own lookout, as I felt sure I never could love anyone else. So, after a time, he came back and came to see me, and asked me again to be his wife. He said, “Now, Polly, have you ever seen anyone that you liked better than me? Has any young man waited on you while I have been away ?” “No, John; I have never loved any other man but you; no one has waited on me; but, now John, have you been going with any young lady since you went away from here?” “Yes, Polly, I have.” “Well, John, are you engaged?” “Yes, I am; but I do not love that girl as I love you. I could not marry her until I would come back and ask you once more to be married to me.” “John Smith, if you are promised to that girl, go back and marry her, as you ought to do. You are not engaged to me, and I will never marry you, if you are promised to another! So John Smith went back and married the girl, and I gave up all thought of ever getting married then.” When she told me this she said to me, “I have never loved any other man but John Smith, and I never can, and now I have to pray to God every day to keep me from loving John Smith, as I do not want to be loving another woman’s husband.”
Soon after that they left our circuit, and he was sent to, some other place to preach, and I used to visit them whenever they lived sufficiently close to our circuit. I cannot remember just how long my daughter Margaret had been married, but it must have been some years, as I knew my husband and I had visited her together before this time, but we had made our arrangements to take another trip to Iowa, and had come to Newark to take the train. Some of our children had come along to see us off, and we had all gotten on the cars, and they were bidding us good-bye when someone came up behind me and caught me around the neck and gave me a hug and a kiss. I looked around to see who it could be, and sure enough it was Polly. I was delighted to see her. She said, “Come back and sit with me and see John Smith; we are married.” I went with her and was introduced to him, and he gave me his seat by Polly. John Smith, the man of whom I had heard so much, was a nice-looking little man, with pale face, blue eyes and gray hair, and the only man Polly had ever loved. She then told, me how it all came about. She said, “I took a notion I wanted to go to visit our two brothers, who lived some distance away; so I said to my sister Ann one day, I want a new bonnet and a new dress. I am going to visit brothers George and Jonathan. I want to be gone two weeks. Ann said, ‘Polly, you shall have them, and do not come back a day before the two weeks are up; and when you do come be sure to bring Jonathan back with you.’ I went to my older brother’s first, and when I had been there a few days I said to brother George, ‘I want you to take me over to see brother Jonathan tomorrow.’ He said he was very busy but he would go; so in the evening as we were all sitting there, some one rapped at the door, and when it was opened in walked John Smith. My brother was glad to see him, as it has been many years since they had met; and George said to him, ‘And here is Polly, too.’ We shook hands and he sat down, and then we talked all together quite a while, but I was sorry he had come, and soon I went out of the room. While I was gone, John said, ‘Now, I want to get your horse and buggy tomorrow and drive over to see Jonathan. ‘Well,’ brother said, ‘you shall have it, and, by the way, Polly wants to go, why can’t she go along?’ He said, “all right.” When they told me, I felt awful bad, but I could not refuse to go, so in the morning we started, and we had not gone far until he began to sort of make-love to me; he told me how he had wanted to see me—how he had thought of me all these years, and so on. I said, ‘John Smith, how dare you talk that way to me, when you have a wife! I’ll hear no more of it!’ But he said, ‘Polly, I have no wife—my wife has been dead over a year, and I have come back here on purpose to find you and ask you once more if you will be my wife. I have a nice large farm, and a good home. I have twelve children, but they are all married and doing well but one, and I want to marry you now and take you back with me as my wife.’ Well, I was so astonished and confounded I did not know what to do, but I said, ‘I will think about it and see what my brothers say to it.’ So, when we reached my brother Jonathan’s I talked it over with him and asked him what he thought of it. He said, ‘Why, Polly; of course, marry him. You have never wanted anybody else but John Smith, now take him. You can be happy together for several years yet.’ So the next day we went back to brother George’s, and I told him, and I asked him what we ought to do. He said, ‘You always wanted John Smith, and you never had a home of your own, now take him—it will be all right.’ And so the next day we were married. Then we went back to my sister’s. When we arrived there she was in the kitchen getting dinner. I opened the door and walked in. Ann was surprised to see me, and said, ‘Why, Polly; you did not stay two weeks. What brought you back so soon ? Did brother Jonathan come with you?’ I said, ‘No, he did not. ‘She then asked, ‘Who did ?’ I said, ‘John Smith came with me.’ She said, ‘John Smith! Is he a widowed’ I said, ‘No, he is not a widower—we are married;’ and I told her after I had promised him “I never slept one wink, and I haven’t slept one bit since—it all came so suddenly and was all so unexpected. Now, you come and go out to the buggy and invite him in. She went out, but she acted like one in a dream. However, she took him in and gave him a seat and came out to finish getting dinner. I said, ‘Now, Ann; you did not kiss him or treat him right; go right in and put your arms around him and kiss him and treat him like a brother.’ After we had made them all a visit I went with him to his home out West, and we are happy together.” I asked her how his twelve children received her. She said, “O, very kindly! They met me and put their arms around me and kissed me (and she threw her arms around me and kissed me to show me how it was done, much to the amazement of a man who sat behind us, who must have heard the whole story).” She said, “I told John it had all worked together for good. It was much better for him to have married that girl when he was young, for I never could have worked as she had done, and helped him to get along in the world, much less to have brought up twelve children; and now we could spend our last days together.” Just then the cars stopped and the conductor called out the station at which they wanted to get off, so I bade them farewell, and have never seen or heard of them since, but I think they have gone to their heavenly home ere this, as Polly was much older than I; but I often think of them and wish I could hear something more about them. Her brother-in-law was a good preacher and a very good Christian man. His whole soul was in his work, but he and his good wife died years ago. As I look back, I find but very few preachers or people who used to be my dearest friends in those days. Nearly all have passed away and gone to their reward, and I feel sure that the dear Savior met them at the portal and took them by the hand, and gave them the welcome, “Come, ye blessed of my Father, enter into the joy of your Lord.”
I believe that Mrs. Clark Montgomery and Mrs. Charles Montgomery and Emmet Patterson and wife and myself are the only ones living of the old members of the Bowling Green church. Some of their children have grown up and married, and a few of them still attend there. Mr. Charles Montgomery was a prominent member there for many years. He died a few years ago. His wife and daughter, Minnie, a dear, sweet girl, still live at the old home and are faithful to the old church. Their youngest daughter, Mabel, married Mr. Harry Swisher, of this place. She is one of the dearest, sweetest ladies in this town. Mr. John Montgomery was another good man. He was converted when a small boy and was a Christian throughout a long life. He died years ago. His wife also died some years ago. Their oldest daughter, Etta, married John Kreig, and they have charge of the Children’s Home. Bertha married I. M. Phillips. They are both good Christians, and are prominent members of the Methodist Episcopal church here in Newark. The son married Mattie Montgomery, daughter of Clark and Priscilla Montgomery. They still go to the old church and are very nice people. Mattie was always a very quiet unassuming good girl. She had two brothers—William and Harvey. William died sometime ago. Harvey married Lucy Cross, a bright, pretty girl. They live a little east of town.
Along in the sixties, after Margaret was married and gone to her own home, the sewing machines came around. Aunt Emily Seymour, got the first one. She did not live on our side of the creek, so I went over to see it. I very soon bought one. It was considered a wonderful thing. I believe it cost fifty-five dollars. It was a Singer, with a narrow iron table. The people for miles around heard I had bought it, and they brought lots of sewing for me to do on the machine. They always brought a spool of real coarse thread, which I could never use, so I had to furnish thread suitable for the machine. One morning a woman and her daughter-in-law came to spend the day with us. They brought six fine pillow-slips along for me to make and a spool of thirty-six thread, so, of course, I had to find thread. Then dinner had to be gotten ready for them and I had rather a hard day of it. This state of things went on for awhile, when one day a woman came bringing two cloth cloaks. She had brought them and had them cut in town. She brought a large spool of linen thread. She wanted them made so her girls could have them for Sunday. That was the last straw. I determined to stop the business at once; so told her I did not take in sewing, and could not spare time to do everybody’s work. She became very angry, and insisted on my doing it, but I stood firm, and from that on refused everyone who came. They never offered any pay, and I should not have taken it if they had. As machines came to be more generally used the people soon learned better. I could now do my sewing with much less trouble, and enjoyed the novelty of it very much.
There were many nice things we could have by living on the farm, and now as there was a bridge across the creek, and I had a good horse and buggy, and could go when I pleased, it did not seem so bad after all. I forgot to say that when the railroad was made my mother received some money for the right-of-way through her farm, and she gave me two hundred dollars to buy a nice two-seated carriage. It was very nice as all the family could ride in it and I could not help thinking that I did have things much more to my mind than formerly; and I am sure that things have changed for the better in many ways. The telephone, free delivery of the mail on the rural routes and many other things are advantages that we never thought of many years ago. There is one other thing that I must mention here, and that is the blackberry patch. We had an abundance of the very finest ones I ever saw—they were so large and sweet. I remember one summer I put up sixty half-gallon jugs of blackberries. The tenants on the place used to pick them on the shares. One day a man and his boys brought me in a washing-tub full for my share, and we put them up while they were fresh, right off the bushes. The people used to come from town in a spring-wagon and pick berries to their heart’s content. They would all come up to our house and get their dinner, then go at it again all afternoon. One day Henry -Wilson came down with a spring-wagon and brought several with him, and they picked berries all day. We got up a dinner for them, and they all seemed to enjoy it. Henry Wilson had a saddle and harness-shop next door to Mr. Thomas Eddy’s tin store, on South Third street, along where the Adams Express office now is. These people have nearly all passed away. I think Mrs. Eddy is still living in Chicago. But times have changed, and Newark has changed. It is now one of the prettiest and best towns in America, and better people cannot be found anywhere.
Ellen S. O’Bannon 