My Hometown
Gekelemukpechunk
(Newcomerstown , Ohio)

by David Burress 'D.B.' Moore, circa 1963

Credit is due my sister, Mrs. Anne Zimmer, for a couple of the stories, also for the genealogical history of our grandparents; also to Miss Melba Steffen, who proofread the stories and made the necessary corrections in punctuation, spelling, and the like - no doubt there were plenty of corrections necessary.

Dedication

This book is lovingly dedicated to the memory of my father, David Burress Moore and to my mother, Maria Pilling Moore, without whose great sacrifices and hard toil on the farm, it would not have been possible for me to have completed my high school education, graduating in a class of ten in 1901.

Newcomerstown's Aristocracy in the Early 1870's

Back in the early 1870's, the aristocracy (so called) of the village of Newcomerstown were preparing for a grand ball. It was by invitation only. Naturally, some of the young bucks here did not measure up to the social standards, and were not invited. These few arrived at a reprisal, which I think was the filthiest trick ever perpetrated.

The dance was held on the second floor of a building which had only all outside stairway with a protecting balustrade extending from the second floor to the ground level. When the dance was in full swing, these young miscreants took a bucket of filth and a brush and smeared the railing from top to bottom. They then proceeded to sound the fire alarm, which consisted of banging a wagon tire suspended from a tree limb with a piece of an iron rod.

When the alarm was heard in the dance hall, all activity stopped; and all rushed outside to the balcony and down the stairs, naturally supporting themselves on the balustrade. Imagine their consternation and dismay when they reached the ground to discover that the ladies' dresses as well as the gentlemen's clothing were ruined, indescribably filthy, and stinking to high heaven!

It goes without saying that the miscreants were never discovered; and it was probably a good thing for them, for tempers ran high for several weeks afterwards.

Bob Mardis, the Town Bully

In the early seventies, practically every small town had a so-called bully, and Newcomerstown was no exception. In our case, it was a man named Bob Mardis, a man better than six feet tall and weighing better than two hundred pounds, a stone mason by profession, and strong as a bull. When he was drinking, people would cross to the other side of the street to avoid meeting him.

Mardis's favorite sport was to walk into a saloon and demand a drink. If he did not get it; he would go behind the bar, get his drink, and walk out without paying for it.

Father and Mother had moved to town and had purchased a hotel which stood where the Reeves Bank now is located. Father called his hotel The Lone Star, probably named after the Lone Star Masonic Lodge of which he was a member.

There was a saloon near by, and on the evening in question Bob Mardis was drunk again. He walked into the saloon and demanded a drink; the bartender refused him, telling him he had had enough. Mardis started around the end of the bar to help himself. He never did make it; as the bartender swung the butt end of a billiard cue about two-and-a-half feet long. Bob went down like he had been shot, with his head-or rather his scalp-laid open from his forehead back to the crown of his head.

Some of the loafers dragged Mardis across the street to Dr. A.M. Beers' office. The good doctor was a Civil War veteran having served as an army surgeon. His long list of profanity he must have acquired when in service. I do not think that there ever was another man who could swear for a full five minutes without using the same "cuss word" twice.

After so long, the Doctor went to work and sewed up the wound. Mardis was still unconscious and it took about twenty stitches. Later on in the evening after he was conscious again, some cronies walked him home. He wasn't drunk any more, but he had a mighty sore head!

Later in the evening, Dr. Beers came into the office of the hotel and said to my father, "David, I just blame that bartender for one thing;" to which my father replied, "What was that, Doctor?" The doctor's reply very terse and to the point, "I should have killed the son-of-a-bitch."

Mardis tried the same stunt several years later at Porter Mitchell's saloon at the Crescent Hotel down near the depot. The result was the same, with this exception: Porter used a ball bat and hit Bob in practically the same spot where he had been hit before, with the same result - his head again laid open. This took all the fight out of Mardis and he was a very peaceful man to the time he passed away.

A Railroad Runs Through It
(with the Help of Irish Laborers)

In the 1870's Newcomerstown had but one railroad which is now known as the Pennsylvania, running from east to west.

Colonel A. J. Warner of Marietta decided that a railroad from Cleveland to Marietta would be a paying investment. After a great amount of difficulty had been overcome in the financing of the road, work was finally started in about 1872.

Construction in those days was by hand labor with a few teams of horses and spans of oxen dragging scrapers. For the most part, the work was performed by immigrants from (the Oud Sod) Ireland; they were a hard-working, hard-drinking and hard-fighting crew.

These men built two tunnels, one north of town between here and Stone Creek the other one just a mile south of town. These are still used by the Cleveland and Marietta Railroad; however, repairs have been made from time to time.

In later years, I recall when there were three passenger trains each day each way, plus long trains of coal north and empties south, all of this being accomplished on a single-track road.

Sad to say that due to the inroads of trucks and passenger buses this has all changed. Now there is only one local freight train each day with the exception of Sunday both ways between Cambridge and Dover.

But, to get back to my story about the Irish laborers. During the winter of 1872 there were probably one hundred of them quartered here in very poor shelter. About the middle of the winter, one of their number took sick with pneumonia and died. However, before his passing on, he made his friends promise that they would bury him in the highest cemetery there was around here; for, as the poor devil put it, "I want to be as near Heaven, as I can get."

After much deliberation, his friends decided on Bethel Cemetery, which is about five miles north of Newcomerstown and is on top of a hill. With this preliminary out of the way, the nearest priest (who was located in Steubenville) was called and the wake was started in earnest and continued for two days.

It was bitterly cold and there was a fine sleighing snow. The services were soon over, the casket, which consisted of a few rough boards hastily nailed together, was placed in the first sled with the eight pall bearers sitting on it; the remaining mourners were loaded into eight more sleds and the procession started for Bethel.

By the time the procession reached Wolf Station, about four miles from the starting point, trouble broke out among the pall bearers; some one had stolen their whiskey! The procession stopped; the pall bearers lifted the casket out of the sled and stood it upright in the fence corner, so poor Timmy could see the fight. A real Donnybrook ensued, mourners and pall bearers all taking part in it. The scrap was finally stopped when some good Samaritan in one of the other sleds produced a jug of whiskey for the pall bearers; poor Timmy’s' casket was loaded back in the sled; the pall bearers took their seats upon the casket with their jug of whiskey, and the poor devil was buried without any further trouble.

Another little story of the Irish while they were located here: At this time there was no fire protection, with the exception of a dozen volunteers armed with leather buckets. If a fire broke out a couple of hundred feet from the canal, the chances were about ninety-nine to one that the building would burn. The only method of fighting the fire was by what was called the Bucket Brigade, the men passing the full buckets of water from the canal to the blaze, while the women in the other line passed back the empty buckets to be refilled. I might also add that when the men and women turned out to fight the flame, they generally brought their own buckets; so there was no scarcity of them.

On this night, a shack probably one hundred feet from the canal was on fire. The bucket brigade was busy passing water to the blaze; when two of the Irish aroused by the noise, come running up to the fire and wanted to help. They were told to go to the end of the line and fill buckets at the canal. They both started on the run, and one of them yelled, "Where in hell is your damn old canal?" Just then both stepped off the bank into waist deep icy water; one of them yelled out, "Whoost, I've found it," and they climbed out and went to work.

Bill Mayberry, His Hotel, His Wife, and His Parrot

Bill Mayberry had a hotel and saloon on the corner of Bridge and Canal Streets, which is now a vacant lot.

At the fire which I have just mentioned; Bill did not offer any assistance, saying that he did not own the building, and it made no difference to him whether it burned or not.

Retribution generally follows an act such as this, and a few months later Bill had a fire in his hotel kitchen. Not many people turned out to fight the blaze. Luckily, it was subdued without much damage.

Bill had a pet parrot in the bar room who was a good talker. Bill's wife, Kate, liked a drink of whiskey better than a cat liked milk, but Bill was a very stingy man, and the only way Kate could get a drink was whenever Bill went to the store for groceries. On this occasion, Bill had stepped out for a few minutes; so Kate slipped into the bar and took a couple of man-sized drinks and hurried back to the kitchen. Soon after, Bill came back to the hotel; and when he entered the bar room, the parrot let out a squawk, "Bill, Bill, Kate's been at the whiskey." I never heard how Bill and Kate settled this affair.

Ern Crater and Porter Mitchell: Practical Jokers

In a small town the size of ours, there were always practical jokers. The two best known were Ern Crater, who had a jewelry store on Main Street where our newspaper, The Newcomerstown News, is now located; and Porter Mitchell (whom I mentioned before). Porter had sold his saloon and hotel and was presently running a saloon on West Main Street, about where a second-hand store is now located.

Now, I can remember the following episodes which happened in the early nineties; so you can see that I am no spring chicken:

The beginning of these jokes began when Porter heard Ern say that he would like to get about a peck of turnips. Shortly after, Porter saw Brock Couts, a farmer out in the hills; and told him that Ern wanted five bushels of turnips and just to take them down to Ern's house and clump them on the front porch. This the old man did, but I do not think that he ever got paid for the turnips. Ern decided to get even, and this is how he accomplished it. The morning of the Fourth of July dawned hot and dry. Big doings were expected in town that day - a ball game, foot races, sack races, catching a greased pig, tub races on the canal, and (in the evening) a grand display of fireworks. By mid-morning there were plenty of visitors, and all the twelve saloons were doing a rushing business. Ern Crater came down Main Street carrying an enormous firecracker en route to Porter's saloon. The firecracker later on was found to be a two-foot length of stovepipe covered with red paper with both ends sealed and a short fuse protruding from one end.

To describe Porter's bar, it was a long, low building extending from the sidewalk back to the berm of the canal. It had a front and back door, the back door being within three feet of the canal; so that if a person was not too drunk he could step out of the back door make a sharp right run, and go down along the canal to River Street. This I think sets the stage for what happened.

Ern stopped at the front end of the bar next to the front door and laid the giant cracker down very gingerly. Porter, knowing what Ern desired for a drink in the morning, set out the whiskey bottle and a glass and said, "Ern, what in the world are you going to do with that big fire cracker?" Meanwhile, most of the customers came up to look at the giant cracker and, after making a few remarks about what a noise it would make, returned to their places at the bar.

"Well," said Ern, "You know that this is the Fourth of July, and I'm going to set her off out at the ball park before the game this afternoon. I'll guarantee she will make a noise; there are three pounds of black powder in it!"

Very nonchalantly, Ern finished his drink, poured another for good measure, lighted his cigar, and at the same time ignited the fuse to the cracker. Someone yelled, "My God, he's set fire to it!" and the exodus started through the back door; as all were afraid to go out the front door, as the cracker was up there. The first two or three made the sharp turn and escaped the canal. By this time the pressure was too great and the poor devils landed in the canal; Porter, being next to the last, also took his bath.

Ern picked up his cracker, hurried up the street, and went into seclusion for the rest of the day. He knew full well that should be he found, most any thing might happen. Porter was the most angry of the bunch and swore that he would kill Ern on sight. However, by the next morning, tempers had cooled; the whole town was laughing about the joke, and Porter and Ern renewed their friendship.

Another little story about Porter Mitchell: In the late 1890's telephones were installed in Newcomerstown. I know, because the grocery store of M. Yingling was given Number One, while ours at home was Number Two. Anyhow, one of Porter's customers forgot his umbrella and left it at the saloon. When the gentleman arrived at home without the umbrella, his wife wanted to know what had become of it, because it was hers. Very crestfallen, the gentleman told her he must have left it at Porter's saloon. She got on the phone and called Porter to find out if the umbrella was there. Porter answered and said that he would look. In a short time he was back holding the umbrella in front of the phone and asking, "Is this it?"

Newcomerstown's Fall Street Fair

The Fall Street Fair in Newcomerstown was three wonderful days - not only for the small fry, because school would be dismissed - but for their elders. Prizes were offered for the best farm products-namely: wheat, oats, barley, corn, potatoes, turnips, cabbage, etc.; also for the best apples, peaches, pears - in fact everything that grew on a farm. The women were not overlooked either; they competed for the best canned fruit, as well as the best jellies and jams, not to overlook their finest quilts, bed spreads, embroidery and such, also for the best cakes, pies, etc. How we kids use to envy the ladies who were appointed judges of the ladies' culinary arts! They would go around sampling this cake or that pie, as well as tasting the various jellies or jams, while we kids stood around with our tongues practically hanging out.

There was always free entertainment of some kind and, of course, band concerts. One bit of entertainment which I remember was announcement that a local boy Bob Bassett, would walk a tight wire stretched from a building on the corner of Bridge and Main Streets to a building on the opposite side of Main Street. (Bob was the son of Garry Bassett, the postmaster, a deep-dyed Democrat who had no use for any one who did not vote the straight ticket.) A large crowd gathered to see the performance, and soon Bob appeared at the window, attired in what he hoped people would believe were tights, but which I have always claimed was a suit of red flannel underwear with the barn-door flap on the rear sewed up.

After a selection by the band, Bob started across, using a long balancing pole. He made it over and back, for which he deserved great credit, but the funny part at which every one laughed was the sight of his father, a little old man walking along under Bob with his arms outstretched, looking up at his son, ready to catch him if he fell. The wire was twenty feet above the ground, and had Bob fallen and hit the old gentleman, there would not have been too much left of Garry!

This year there was a grand parade, and I recall one of the floats vividly - a cage built on a wagon. In this cage was a large stone lion, weighing probably four hundred pounds, the product of a local stone mason. It did not look too much like a lion, but it sufficed. In the cage with the lion was a local character named Fuller, attired in a suit of red underwear, wearing a "plug" hat and carrying a pitchfork for protection.

Before the parade, some of Fuller's many friends had been plying him with whiskey, so he would not be afraid of the beast. When the parade started, I think that it was one of the funniest sights that I ever saw The street was rough; and the lion would slide a little on the floor, whereupon Jim would take a jab at the lion with his fork, and utter yells (some of them a trifle risqué) which could be heard a half mile away.

The Ohio Canal

The Ohio Canal was of great help in the settling of this valley. The boats going north were loaded with various grains, also coal; while on the return trip the load would consist of various kinds of merchandise, especially whiskey. In those days, a license was not required to dispense the fiery liquid; so many of the stores along the canal had a keg of whiskey on the counter with a tin cup chained to it. For a three-cent piece, you were entitled to fill the cup with liquor.

There were two grain storage elevators that I recall. One stood on the corner of Bridge and Main Streets; the other, on River Street where the Eureka Hardware store is located. By the way, this is the same building from which I saw boats loaded with wheat. At that time the building was owned by G. W. Miskimen.

It was not too much of a task to load a boat; because you just ran a spout from either the second or third story of the building to the boat, and in a few hours it would be loaded, ready to start the journey north. It was more trouble elevating the grain. To accomplish this, on the first floor was a horse hooked to a merry-go-round contraption. The horse walked 'round and 'round, turning a shaft, which in turn transmitted power to a gear box, which in turn moved an endless belt with small leather buckets on it. In this manner the grain was moved to the upper two stories.

A canal-boat crew generally consisted of four persons: first, the captain, then the cook (generally his wife or some other woman), the bowsman, and the driver (commonly known as the mule skinner).

All duties are easily understood, with the exception of the bowsman, whose duty it was to be located in the bow of the boat and look out for floating debris which might punch a hole in the boat. His next task was the hard one, for it was up to him to jump off the boat when they were about a mile from the lock and hurry there and get the lock ready for the boat. For instance if his boat was going north, he would have to close the large gates at the upper end of the lock, then open the small weir gates in the large gates at the lower end of the lock and drain the lock. After this was accomplished, he would open the large gates at the lower end of the lock; and it would be ready for his boat. As soon as the boat was in the lock, he would have to close the large gates, as well as the small weir gates, open the weir gates at the other end of the lock; and soon the boat would be raised to the upper level so it could proceed.

To be a good bowsman, you had of necessity to be a good fighter; for quite often the bowsman on a boat coming in the opposite direction would decide to take the lock for his own boat. When this occurred, a fight would always ensue, with no holds barred - biting, gouging the eyes, jumping on a man when down, and kicking in the ribs with their heavy boots. Anything went, and to the victor belonged the lock.

Superintendent John Duff and Annie, the "Gentle Cow"

In my early days at school we had a superintendent named John T. Duff, a disciplinarian of the old school, who firmly believed in the old adage of "Spare the rod and spoil the child." I can assure you that he did not spare the rod, as many of the boys could testify. After you had been whipped, you generally ate your meals standing up; as you were too sore to sit down.

Mr. Duff was naturally left handed, but he had learned to write with either hand, and very beautifully too. I have seen him walk up to the blackboard with a piece of chalk in each hand, and write two different sentences at the same time.

In those days, many people in town kept their own cows; and the superintendent was no exception. However, he decided to get rid of his cow, so he placed an advertisement in our local newspaper called The Index. It read as follows: "For sale, gentle cow Annie, (named after his daughter Annie), with calf by her side."

A few days after the notice had appeared in the paper, Mr. Duff came to school with a beautiful "shiner." Not only was his eye swollen shut, but it was the most beautiful black and purple that I ever saw. We in school did not know what had happened until later in the day when the story got out. The evening before, he was milking "Gentle cow Annie," when she kicked over the bucket of milk, also kicking him. You may be sure that no one laughed about it to his face; but there were plenty of smiles behind his back, both pupils and scholars alike.

Watch Repairman Ern Crater Did Not Like to Work

Another little story about Ern Crater. He was a watch repairman - and a good one - but he did not like to work. Not that he was afraid of work; he could lie down and go to sleep by it.

His jewelry store was located on Main Street where The Newcomerstown News Publishing Company now is. His father, "Butch" Crater, had a hardware store just across the street, where the Marlowe store is located.

Anyhow, a farmer had brought his old turnip of a watch into Ern to have it put in running order about a month previous. The old gentleman came in every Saturday to get his watch, but Ern would have the same excuse ready - that he was so busy that he would surely have it ready by the following Saturday. The fact of the matter was that Ern had never looked at the watch. The old gentleman was exasperated, and said, "Ern, you are the damnedest biggest liar in Newcomerstown." Ern replied, "Oh, no I'm not. The biggest liar in town is my father, "Butch," who runs the hardware store across the street."

The next Saturday when the old gentleman came in looking for his watch, Ern had it ready, lying on the showcase, with two or three small gear wheels beside it. Said Ern, "Here's your watch. I could not find a place for these other gears, but it seems to run all right. If it doesn't keep good time, bring it back and maybe I can find where these other gears go." The old gentleman was really angry. He grabbed up his watch, gave Ern fifty cents, and went out swearing that he never would come back. After he was gone, Ern picked up the gears (which belonged to another watch) and had a good laugh.

Newcomerstown Saloons and a Visit by Carrie Nation

In the early eighteen nineties; Newcomerstown (still a small village) had a surplus of saloons. As I recall it, there were twelve - give or take one or two and there was no occasion for a man to go without a drink providing of course that he had the money.

In those days there was plenty of lumber being sawed and hauled into Newcomerstown to be carried and shipped out on the railroad. Hauling was, of course done with wagons; and quite often a driver would have a few drinks before he started his homeward journey. One such man I saw one day heading back home, evidently having had more than one drink. He had also bought himself a sack of bananas. He was sitting on the rear hounds, or axle, of his wagon with the lines wrapped around the brake handle, busily eating bananas, while the horses plodded along the dusty road. However, he did not take the time to take the rind off the bananas, but was eating them rind and all. I'll bet he was a sick boy when he got home!

Sam Douglas had a saloon on Main Street, where Joe Visintainer now has a meat market. Sam ran an orderly place - no swearing, no loud talk; and if you had too much to drink when you came in Sam would refuse to sell you anything and politely escort you out of the front door.

Sam's saloon was the only place visited by Carrie Nation of hatchet-wielding fame. She was notorious for walking into a saloon, berating the saloon keeper, and with a few swipes of her trusty hatchet (aided and abetted by some of her zealous followers) destroy any thing in sight - bottles, glasses, etc. - and always taking a few lusty swipes at the large glass mirror behind the back bar. Following the singing of a hymn, giving the bartender a thorough dressing down, and warning him to repent, she and her satellites would depart, leaving behind plenty of wreckage.

During this performance, Sam stood at the far end of the bar and never, never said a word. After the female wreckers had departed, he proceeded to clean the debris up. No doubt he thought aplenty.

This was the only saloon raided; as the word had got around, and the rest of the saloon keepers had very prudently locked the front doors to their establishments and departed.

While on the subject of saloons, I cannot help but recall one run by Hanson Crater on Canal Street, where the Ortt Radio store is now located.

Hans was a large man, very pompous, dressed in the height of fashion in those days: a swallow tail coat white vest, string tie and a "plug" hat. I think that Hans wore the first bifocal eyeglasses that I ever saw - if you could call two pair of glasses that. He wore one pair which hooked over his ears; while the other pair which were called "nose pincers," were down on the end of his nose. When he wanted to see the person to whom he was talking, it would be necessary to tilt his head back; so he could bring the object in proper focus in both pairs of glasses.

Hans' living quarters were over the saloon. Whether he was a widower or a bachelor, I never knew. However, he had a big voluptuous blonde who was his housekeeper.

Hans decided that he wanted her picture painted, so he hired an artist to come out from Pittsburgh to make the picture. In four or five weeks, the picture was completed. It was about three feet wide and six feet long, long enough to cover the back bar. On the day the painting was completed, Hans very carefully carried the painting downstairs to the bar room, and he and his bartender fastened it on the back bar glass, then stood back to look at it. It was a full length picture of his housekeeper, clad in her bare skin, reclining on a tiger-skin rug. Business boomed in that saloon; many came to see the painting, and of course would buy a drink or two.

9.

One Saturday night there was a fire in a livery stable belonging to Jim Sondles, located on the corner of Minden Court and Bridge Street, just south of the present Oxford Township Building. Most of the horses were saved; although there were six which would have to be shot, as they were burned so badly.

As soon as Sunday School was dismissed the following morning, I hurried down to see what was left of the barn. The six horses which were burned so badly were hardly able to walk. Every one was wondering who would shoot the poor beasts and put them out of their misery. No one volunteered to do the shooting, until Hans Crater said that he would, so he hurried home and got his squirrel rifle and announced that he was ready. This was a gruesome procession and I'll never forget it to my dying day. There was Hans, dressed fit to kill with his plug hat, white vest (a trifle stained by tobacco juice), a cut-away coat, string tie, etc., walking ahead with his rifle over his shoulder; behind him strung out the poor horses hardly able to walk.

Finally the burial spot was reached, and the horses put out of their misery.

10.

In the early days of Newcomerstown, the post office was located on Goodrich Street, somewhere between Canal and Church Streets, (I have never found the exact location).

When the stage coach would arrive in town carrying the mail, the driver would give several lusty toots on his horn, signaling his arrival.

The postmaster would meet the coach at the curb, and the small package of letters and papers would be handed him. Quite often the postmaster would dispense with the formality of taking the mail into the office, and would open the pouch to hand out the various pieces of mail to the persons gathered there, without bothering to stamp the pieces as being received at Newcomerstown.

This is a far cry from the way the mail is now handled.

11.

With the coming of the Cleveland and Marietta Railroad through Newcomerstown, it was necessary for the company to establish a drawbridge over the Ohio Canal to permit passage of the canal boats. The bridge at best was a crude affair as compared to the present-day bridges, but it answered the purpose. It was hinged on the north end, and was raised and lowered by one man's operating the ponderous gears.

There was a bridge tender on duty during daylight hours only, as canal boats did not operate during the night. The bridge tender I remember was a gentleman named Benjamin Burdette, a gentleman getting up in years and with very poor vision. The lenses in his glasses appeared to be a quarter of an inch thick, and without them Benny could not identify anything, even at close range.

There were plenty of days when there was no traffic on the canal, and the time hung heavy on Benny (twelve hours a day and seven days a week)- so he became an avid fisherman, sometimes catching a carp or a catfish. Before he would leave for home in the evening he would bait two or three hooks and set the poles in the bank, hoping that he might have an unwary fish on the hook when he returned in the morning.

One evening after he had headed for home, some boys fashioned a dummy out of a pair of overalls and jacket, stuffed it with straw, fastened a slouch hat where the head should have been, weighted it a little so that it would sink below the surface, and fastened it on one of the lines. Then they anxiously awaited the next morning to see what Benny would do. When the old gentleman arrived on the scene, he noticed that one of his lines was acting like he had a fish on it. Hastily setting down his dinner bucket, he grabbed the pole and commenced to pull. Imagine his surprise when the dummy came into view!

The old man threw the pole into the canal, crying, "My God I've caught a dead man!" The boys who were in hiding, watching the fun, commenced to laugh. One of them pulled the pole to the bank, with the dummy attached; and Benny saw that someone had played a joke on him.

In no uncertain words the old man declared himself, telling what he would do to the person or persons who had played such a joke on him!

12.

Captain Ad Miller was a veteran "Canaller." His wife had been dead many years; and he had for a housekeeper and cook, Mag Simpkins, who also would take her turn at the tiller whenever the captain had to leave his post.  

The captain had one son, Warren, who in early childhood was unfortunate in that he swallowed a piece of egg shell which lodged in his wind pipe. Surgery was necessary, and in those days it was quite crude. The operation consisted of cutting his windpipe to remove the shell. The operation was a success, but it left Warren with a very husky voice, its being hard sometimes to understand him.

Warren did not like canal life; but he did like horses which was very understandable, as his father was a lover of fast horses all his life. The captain bought Warren a few old plugs of horses and Warren started training and driving them at the county fairs. Once in a while he would finish in the money, and I tell you it was exciting to see Warren driving a race. The sulkeys in those days were five-foot-high wooden-wheel affairs - very cumbersome and heavy compared to the present "Bikes," which weigh only thirty-five pounds. When Warren would be coming down the home stretch, yelling at his horse with that lion's roar voice and using the whip copiously, it really was something!

On one of the captain's trips north, he heard of an ungainly colt called "Sorrel Billy." He looked the colt over, purchased him for almost nothing, and turned him over to Warren to train. From almost the beginning, the colt proved that he would be a good racer, and soon was recognized as one of the fastest racers in Ohio. Soon Warren was winning plenty of purses.

The captain thought so much of this horse, that when he (the captain) died in 1901, he made a provision in his will that there should be a bronze statue of "Sorrel Billy" made and placed on top of his tombstone. This was done; and today, if you visit the cemetery on West Street, you will see the statue of "Sorrel Billy," a bronze figure about twenty inches long by a foot high standing proudly on the monument.

Tom Watkins, a colored man, had a barbershop on Main Street about where the Egler Bakery is located. In those days, there were no screen doors; and Main Street was lined with hitching racks for the horses, so you can imagine how bad the flies were in the summertime.

Tom had arranged a contrivance in the shop, both to keep the flies away from his customers and to provide a little air circulation. It consisted of a two-bladed fan fastened to the ceiling, with a belt running to the back room, where his son Dallas sat astride of a frame similar to our bicycle frames of today. The belt from the fan ran around a wheel probably two feet in diameter. The more Dallas sat there and pumped, the faster the fan went; but it was not a very pleasant job on a hot day.

Tom was also a practical joker I remember my father going to the shop one hot afternoon to get shaved Tom had father all lathered ready to shave; however; before he started, he dipped the razor in some ice water and drew the back of the razor across father's throat. Dad was sure that his throat was cut, and he yelled. Tom thought it was a good joke, but father was not so sure.

The barber was a great fisherman, and on Sunday mornings you would see him going to the river with a long cane pole and a can of worms. However, his fishing backfired on him one morning. He came down the road past our house with his pole over his shoulder, the other hand very carefully holding the hook, which had gone entirely through his lower lip. He was on his way to get the hook cut out. I'll bet that was the biggest thing he ever caught, and why he did not cut the line loose from the hook I'll never know.

Smith and Dickenson had a general store on the corner of Bridge and Main Streets (where the Baltimore Clothing store is now located), the first floor being devoted to the store, while the second floor was a grain elevator from which they loaded canal boats with grain. There was a small basin just back of the store, where the boats would tie up to take on their loads. The store had a full supply of goods, from needles and pins to dress goods; also, a full line of groceries.

One morning, an eccentric old gentleman whose name was "Jockey" Thompson came in and purchased a half-dozen eggs from Mr. Dickenson. His eccentricity was that whatever small purchase he made, he would put it in his "plug hat" and put it back on his head. He disposed of his eggs in this manner and went back to join the customary crowd of loafers gathered around the big pot-bellied stove. The men were mostly tobacco-chewers; so, rather than have them spit on the stove, a few small boxes filled with sawdust were placed strategically for their use. The management had also put up a sign saying, "IF YOU EXPECT TO RATE AS A GENTLEMAN, YOU WILL NOT EXPECTORATE ON THE STOVE OR FLOOR." Some of the old boys could score a bull's-eye at a distance of six feet.

Mr. Smith, also a practical joker, had noticed where the old man had stowed his eggs. After "Jockey" had got comfortably settled, he walked back and hit him a good wallop on top of this hat, driving it down over his ears and breaking all the eggs. The poor old man must have been a funny sight with the eggs running down over his face into his beard!

All the old fellow did was to look up pathetically at Mr. Smith and say, "Garrett, I'll never forgive you for this."

A few years later Mr. Smith retired from the store; and he and his wife, Elmira, lived in the home which had originally belonged to her father, Colonel Nugent. The home (located at the corner of what is now Pilling and State Streets) and about a hundred acres of land had been left to her in her father's will. In fact, part of the original home has been moved onto State Street and serves as a filling station operated by Mr. Bliss. The original home was a large one, having many rooms and porches, sitting back quite away from either street.

It's a good thing that the house was large; as there was a large family, consisting of six children, Robert, Howard, Jennie, Sarah, Christine and Jessie.  

Mr. Smith kept a few cows, and it was his duty to drive them to and from the pasture fields across the canal morning and evening. It was also my task to drive our cows along the same road to the fields.

One hot summer morning our cows happened to meet at the crossroads intersection, and the usual hooking and bumping ensued. Mr. Smith, disgusted, ran up and took a mighty kick at a cow. Unluckily, he missed her; his other foot went out from under him and he sat down in the dusty road. The dust rose around him in a cloud and I laughed. I knew that I should not, but it was funny and I really laughed, long and loud. My laughing did not particularly please the old gentleman; so he got to his feet, jumped up in the air, cracked his heels together and said, "By Gad, sir, I can do it again!" He ran up and kicked a poor old cow in the ribs who was not even in the fighting. His vanity satisfied, we drove the cows on the pasture field without any more trouble.

Mr. Smith was an excellent story teller. Many a winter evening he would come up to our house and spend the evening, sitting in his favorite chair (a straight-backed one which I believe in these modern days is called a "Captain's chair"), with my mother and father my sister Anne, and I all gathered around in front of the large open fireplace enjoying his tales of the early days in Newcomerstown.

One which he told was in regard to the early horse races. Practically every Saturday, young fellows would race their horses from Wolf Station to the Globe Hotel in Newcomerstown, a distance of about four miles. On this particular Saturday, a young man came riding up to the hotel, the winner. When he dismounted he said, "There has been a bad accident up the road! Was anybody killed but me?"

His favorite story, however, was the killing of the postboy, so-called because he carried the mail from Cadiz to Coshocton on horseback, having the mail in two saddle pouches.

The killing occurred on what was then known as the Cadiz Pike, a road leading from Cadiz to Coshocton south of Newcomerstown about four miles. On this morning, the postboy was shot from ambush, killing him instantly.

The sheriff, after a thorough search, arrested on suspicion a man from that neighborhood, who admitted that he had been hunting in that vicinity on the morning of the murder, but who denied the shooting. His story was that he had heard the shot and then saw a man emerge from the underbrush, and approach the dead man; also, that he could identify the killer if he saw him.

The sheriff, half-believing the accused's story, ordered that all able-bodied men from Newcomerstown and the vicinity of the murder appear at the Tuscarawas County jail and pass in single file before the accused man's cell, thus giving him an opportunity to identify the killer. It was winter, and the only means of transportation was by sled. Many had passed the poor man's cell, but he had been unable to identify the killer.

The last load of men were preparing to leave for the jail. There was room for one more, and someone asked a man by the name of James Funston to go along. Funston swore that he had no business at the jail; but, after a few drinks and with the insistence of some of the men, he decided to go. Upon reaching the jail, the men filed one by one past the accused man's cell. Funston was the last in line; and when he got opposite the cell the accused man cried out, "There is the man!" Funston very profanely denied the accusation; but the prisoner said to the sheriff, "Seize that man, and pull back his right coat sleeve. See if there is not a long scar extending from the back of his hand to his wrist."

The sheriff and his deputies did as requested; and, sure enough, there was the scar. The prisoner then explained that when Funston came out of the underbrush he had his rifle on his right shoulder; and that his coat sleeve was pulled back, exposing the scar.

The innocent man was freed and Funston placed in jail. He confessed the murder, was tried for murder in the first degree, was convicted and hung in the courthouse yard. This was the only execution in Tuscarawas County. His body was claimed by his relatives and was buried about three miles east of Newcomerstown in a hollow, just north of U.S. 36 and 16. After the body was placed in the grave, the grave was filled with heavy stones; and two large trees were felled across it. This was done to keep grave robbers from exhuming the body and selling it to some medical school for dissection.

The Funston family lived in what was known as Stark Patent, one of several squatter families living there. When my grandfather Pilling would run short of logs for his sawmill, he would shoulder a three-gallon keg of whiskey and go up and make a deal for so many logs for the whiskey. The logs would be cut and floated down the Tuscarawas River to the saw mill.

Stark Patent was a large tract of land about three miles east of Newcomerstown, named for General Stark of Revolutionary War fame, who was given this tract of land as payment for his services in that war.

One more little story about Mr. Smith: He did not like to work. One day he was leaning against a fence, talking to my father who was cutting corn. Mr. Smith said to my father, "David, you know that I have the knack of cutting corn as well as any man, but I can- not set it up worth a damn." That was where a lot of the hard labor was.

13.

Many of the streets in Newcomerstown were named for early residents; for instance, Mulvane Street named for the Mulvanes, Neighbor Street named for the Neighbors, West Street named for Thomas West, Nugent Street named for Col. Nugent, Smith Street named for G. B. Smith, (a son-in-law of Col. Nugent), and Pilling Street named for my grandfather, James Pilling. Did you know that at one time Main Street was called Basin Street, due to its proximity to the canal basin back of the Smith and Dickenson store?

14.

In my early childhood days, I can recall many things that happened to me. Once when I was about five years old, I followed my Father into the barnyard where he was putting out feed for the cattle. Father owned a span of oxen, Buck and Berry. Buck was a quiet old fellow, but Berry was a devil. He spied me standing against the side of the barn and started at me. Both oxen had exceptionally long horns tipped with brass knobs. A horn passed on either side of me, and his horns were so long that he could not butt me. I yelled; Father came running, and with a few jabs of his pitchfork drove old Berry off. He picked me up, set me over the fence, and made it plain that I never was to come in that barnyard again; and you can bet that I never did!

That afternoon, Father was going to town with the big wagon, driving the oxen. I coaxed so hard that he finally agreed to take me along. I was sitting flat in the wagon bed, and everything was going fine until we reached the corner of Canal and River Streets. Old Berry was loafing and Father raised his ox-goad to hit him. The old rascal saw it coming and lunged forward, throwing Father off balance, and he sat down on me. I passed out, and did not come to until father had carried me into J. Peck's shoe store and had me lying on the counter. In a few minutes I recovered; just had the breath knocked out of me. Father was worried about what Mother would say; so he bribed me with a nickel bag of candy not to tell, and I never did until Father had passed on.

15.

Father was an even tempered man, not at all hard to get along with; but when it became necessary, he could take his own part.

Father and I were walking to town one morning. A few days previously, a man by the name of Rankin Frame had got into an argument with Dad, at which time Frame said, "You are too big a man for me to whip, but I'll get someone to help me, and we'll beat the hell out of you;" to which my Father replied, "Any time," and let it go at that.

We were almost to the railroad crossing on Maple Street, when two men in an open-topped buggy came toward us. They stopped and jumped out of the buggy; we saw it was Frame and a friend of his, Porter Mitchell. Frame yelled, "Now we are going to beat you up!" Father said to me, "Get over to the side of the road and stay there," which I did very willingly.

As the two men advanced, Father got out his pocket knife; and it was a big one-the blade was almost three inches long and sharp as a razor. He opened it and said, "Now come on, but someone is going to get carved up!" The two men stopped, and Father said, "Come on; if you don't, I'm coming for you."

Discretion was the better part of valor; for both men ran and jumped into their buggy, hit the old horse with the whip, and went galloping up the road. Father closed his penknife, put it in his pocket and said, "Come on, let's go to town," and that was that.

16.

The only time I ever saw my father really angry was at our Fair. (I call it our Fair; as the grounds were just west of Newcomerstown, on what is now owned by the Kistler heirs.) The Fair Association consisted of three counties - Guernsey, Coshocton, and Tuscarawas. It was known as the Central Ohio District Fair, commonly called by many people the C.O.D. Fair. There is one of the buildings still standing; I believe it was the Agricultural Hall.

I was about eight years old, and this was to be a big day for me. As soon as Father had his chores finished we started to walk the two miles from our home to the grounds. Mother had given me a quarter to spend, and that was a lot of money; The first thing I saw after we had entered was a queer contraption with a sign saying, "Pay ten cents and hear Thomas Edison's Phonograph play real music." It was oddly made, consisting of a large coil spring which, when wound tightly, provided the power for turning the shaft on which the wax cylinder was placed. There were six sets of earphones on either side of the machine, and for a dime you were permitted to plug the phones in your ears and listen to a selection. I spent a dime of my money, and that was the first canned music that I had ever heard.

After that we made the rounds of the various barns, looking at the fat cattle, sheep and hogs; also the horse barn (Father was a great lover of horses), not forgetting to stop at Warren Miller's stable to look over some of the horses he would race that afternoon.

It was time for dinner, and we went to the dining hall to eat. As I recall the dinner, it was roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy with plenty of side dishes. Everything was lovely until Father forked into his mashed potatoes and came up with a piece of dishcloth. That spoiled our dinner.

After an exciting afternoon of watching the races Father and I started to the wagon gate on our way home, where there were several so-called "hacks" carrying passengers to town. To describe a hack - it was commonly a spring wagon with seats along each side. The drivers were always in a hurry at this time in the evening, anxious to get to town, unload their passengers, and hurry back for another load.

Somehow I got lost from my father, and the first thing I knew a drunken hack driver had hit me with the pole of his wagon, knocking me down. Luckily, the team and wagon passed over me and I was not hurt only frightened. I got up crying, holding on to my sack of ice-cream candy I was taking home to Mother and sister Anne, and started looking for my Father. Seeing the hack stopped a short distance ahead and a crowd gathering, I went there looking for Father. I got there just in time to see Father pull the driver from his seat to the ground and give him a real good thrashing. It was soon over; the driver climbed back to his seat and drove on at a much more sedate gait. That was the only time I ever saw my Dad really angry. We started on home, but were soon hailed by a neighboring farmer who invited us to ride home with his family in his road wagon, which we gladly did.

17.

I mentioned J. Peck's shoe store previously. In those days, each store had a shoe repairman, commonly called a "cobbler". Mr. Peck's cobbler was Matty Sultzer, whose shop was in the back of the shoe store. Father and I went to Matty's shop one cold winter day to have my boots half-soled. Father and I were sitting around the stove while Matty was putting a patch on a shoe with a new process called cementing, and I might say that the cement smelled to high heaven.

Tim Morris, a farmer, came in accompanied by his shepherd dog. Tim sat down, and the dog curled up close to the stove. Soon Matty uncorked his bottle of cement. Tim sniffed the air and looked at his dog. Soon he got up and, walking over to the door, opened it and called the dog. As the dog approached the door, Tim gave it a mighty kick in the rear; and the dog landed in the street. Tim closed the door, walked back and sat down. Matty said to him, "Tim, what in the world made you kick that dog?" Tim replied, "My God, couldn't you smell him?"

18.

Doctor Beers' son George had a drugstore where the Gray electric store is now located. George was very proficient at profanity, having no doubt learned much from his father, the old doctor.

George did not care to have a practical joke played on him, but I recall this one especially: A few miles south of Newcomerstown lived an eccentric character named Joe Hall. He was not so dumb either, as he got by without working. He generally wore two or three suits of clothes, with a cane fastened to a long chain around his neck. For a nickel or dime, he would do a song or dance for you. He carried what little change he collected in a woman's long stocking, keeping the stocking rolled up and put away in one of his many pockets. On this occasion he came into Jake Barnhouse's Barber shop early in the morning, while I was getting shaved. I gave him a dime to go across the street to Beers' Drugstore to stand in the open doorway and sing his song and do a dance. Joe proceeded across the street, took his stand in the doorway, and started his song. George Beers must have been in the back of the store, because he did not realize what was going on for a couple of minutes, but when he did, he really came charging out of the door, swearing at the top of his voice. Poor Joe was scared and started to run toward Main Street, with George after him; we in the barber shop had reserved seats and saw the whole show.

Another little story which was related to me by George had to do with his experience with a tramp. As George told it, he and his wife, Lula, were sitting at the breakfast table one morning when a tramp knocked on the kitchen door and asked for a handout. George told him that he and his wife were having toast and jelly and coffee and would be glad to give him some; however, the tramp told George that he wanted some meat sandwiches. George said, "That made me mad, and I jerked open the screen door and started after him. On my way across the porch, I picked up a ball bat which one of the children had left lying there. The bum started to run; so I threw the bat at him, shouting, 'Come back you Son of a bitch, and I'll have my wife kill a chicken for you!"

Grandfather Pilling was as English as any one could possible be. He never wore a necktie, but, rather, a scarf wrapped around his neck, with a bell-crowned beaver "plug hat." He had never lost his taste for mutton, insisting on having it served at least once a week, and sometimes twice.

For the above reason, he kept a small flock of sheep, among which was a cross old buck. One cold morning, Grandfather - plug hat and all - was out in the feed lot putting shelled corn in the trough for the sheep. When Grandfather was stooped over, pouring out the grain, the old buck came up behind him and hit him a wallop, knocking him across the trough to the other side. Grandfather picked himself up, put his hat back on his head, and proceeded to scatter what grain was left. All of a sudden, the old buck also changed sides and hit him again, knocking him back on the side of the trough from which he had originally started.

Enough was enough; so Grandfather gathered up his empty bucket and his beloved beaver hat and went home. He was not given much to profanity, but I can imagine that he said plenty as he walked out of the field!

Grandfather learned the trade of a weaver, having served his apprenticeship of four years in a large woolen mill. At the age of eighteen, he decided to emigrate to the United States. Not having sufficient money to pay his passage, he worked as a common sailor before the mast. The trip across the ocean consumed sixty-eight days, due to heavy storms blowing them off course; also, too many days that the ship laid becalmed due to the absence of wind. Finally, he reached Philadelphia, where he had some friends from England.

After living in Pennsylvania several years, he married Sarah Conard, daughter of Anthony and Anne Wheatley Conard, on October 20, 1831. To this union, there were four daughters born while they lived in Pennsylvania: Anne, born in 1833; Rebecca, born in 1835; Ellen, born in 1837; and Sabina, born in 1840. 

In 1838, Grandfather made a trip to Ohio and purchased the farm, part of which is still in the family, belonging to my sister, Mrs. Anne Zimmer. In 1840, when their youngest child, Sabina, was a mere baby Grandfather decided to emigrate to Ohio. Loading all their belongings in a two-horse wagon they set forth. The three oldest little girls, together with their mother and father, walked most of the way; as there was no room for them on the wagon. They came by the National Pike through Brownsville, Pennsylvania, then to Wheeling, West Virginia; then across country to their new home at Newcomerstown.

Their new home wasn't very prepossessing. It was a log cabin of two rooms with a lean-to shed, not very big for six persons, quite different from the home in which they had previously lived in Pennsylvania; but it was their own, and they were happy.

In a few years, Grandfather had his woolen mill built and in operation. He bought the fleeces of wool, washed and carded it, spun it on spinning wheels into woolen thread, dyed it and then wove it into cloth, either for wearing apparel or for blankets.

Soon he got a sawmill, and both the woolen mill and the sawmill were operated by water power. He had dammed the waste-way from the Ohio Canal, which ran through his field, making a pond of two or three acres. The sawmill was vastly different from the present day mills, in that he did not have a circular saw, but what was known then as an up-and-down saw, a straight blade which operated up and down.

In the meanwhile, Mother had been born in 1847 and her brother Benton in 1850 in the log cabin.

Grandmother died in 1853, and I well remember Mother telling me that a neighbor took her and her brother Benton home with her until the funeral. The art of embalming was not in practice then. Two of the neighbor women wrapped Grandmother in a winding sheet; all that was visible was her face. On the day of the funeral, Mother said that Grandmother was laid out on two or three planks supported by two wooden trestles.

Soon Grandfather decided that the cabin was not large enough for his family; so he sawed all the material for the new home, building the house in which my sister, Mrs. Zimmer, now lives. Quite a few years ago the house was modernized; but the original floor beams, rafters, and joists are still there. Some of the rooms are finished in the black walnut which Grandfather sawed.

Later on in life, Grandfather was married the second time to a widow, Zelinda Thompson. They had one son, Richard - or "Uncle Dick," as we called him.

Grandfather met an untimely death. He was very hard of hearing, and was walking down the railroad track to town, when a train came up behind him knocking him off the track and killing him. He died May 11, 1879.

A few years previous, his son Benton was also killed on the railroad. He had been on an excursion trip and was standing between two of the coaches. He leaned out to see if he could see the engine, and was hit in the head by a high switch-stand, killing him instantly.

19.

A quick run down of my aunts and to whom they were married:

Anne married Conrad Stocker. Their children were Benjamin, Ella, Gussie and Virgil.

Rebecca married Frank Little, one of the meanest men I ever knew. I was only about three years old when Mother would take me with her when she went to visit them out on what was known as "Irish Ridge." The old devil had a nasty habit of tripping me with his cane, and he really seemed to enjoy seeing me cry.

Ellen married George Graham. Their children were Rebecca and Ada.

Sabina married George Reneker; and their children were James, Lilly, and Milly, who died shortly after graduating from High School.

The dates when each of my aunts and uncles were born: Anne, 1833; Rebecca, 1835; Ellen, 1837; Sabina, 1840; Maria (Mother), 1847; Benton, 1850; and Uncle Dick, 1858.

Grandfather Alexander Moore was born in New Jersey, November 19, 1802, emigrated to Ohio and died in 1882. He married Jane Martin, of Eldersville, Pennsylvania, who was born May 20, 1817, and who died at my father and mother's home in 1888. They were married July 29, 1841.

To this union were born the following children, with the year of their birth: David (my father), born 1842; Elizabeth, 1844; Melissa, 1846; Roland, 1848; Margaret, 1851; Caroline, 1854; Catherine, 1856, Ruhama, 1859; and William, 1861.

Father and Mother were married April 19, 1868. Father died in 1904, and Mother in 1929.

Judging from the number of children born to my grandparents, there was no danger of race suicide!

As to the present generation; my sister Carlesta married Alvin Eckfeld, an engineer on the Pennsylvania Railroad, (both deceased).

Of their children, Lesta (deceased) married Frank Hanst. Their children, Richard and David, are both captains for the Capital Air Lines and live near Washington, DC. Jane married and has three children, lives in the West. Patricia Anne, married with three children is living in Pennsylvania; and Jimmy, the baby, is married and living in Pittsburgh.

George, married twice, with a daughter who is married, lives in the East. Dorothy, married to Walter Ebner, lives on a farm near Bulger, Pennsylvania. Mary, married to Denny Hayes, lives in Petersburg, Michigan; and Grace and Josephine live in the old home in Dennison, Ohio.

My sister Anne, married to Albert Zimmer (deceased) has four children. Frederic, superintendent of a division of the Ohio Power Company at New Philadelphia, married Olive Kinsey, his childhood sweetheart. They have three daughters: Jane is married to Harold Barnett and living in Canton with their two daughters, Betsy and Judy, who will soon be young ladies. Lily Anne is married to Dr. Charles Howarth, an eye specialist, and lives in Boise, Idaho. They have two children, Matthew and Melissa Anne (Missy). Alberta, married to Rev. Robert Menter, lives in Littleton, Colorado. They have two children, Mark and Paul.

Lois, married to Dr. Craig (deceased), lives in Cambridge, Ohio.

David, a ceramic engineer, married Christine Laughlin. They live in Roseville, Ohio. They have two sons. David, Jr., a lieutenant in the Air Force, and his wife, the former Rosemary Beckett, live in Anchorage, Alaska, with their infant daughter, Celeste Michelle. The other son, Albert, is studying for his doctorate degree in education at the Ohio State University. However he has enlisted in the Air Force, and will be called after January 1, 1964.

Marian, married to Russell Craig, lives on a large stock farm, situated east of Senecaville, Ohio, specializing in Hereford cattle.

As for me, I was married to Nina Jim Creel (deceased) in 1913.

20.

When I was in the eighth grade at school, my teacher, Miss Neva J. Tidrick, assigned me the task of committing to memory the poem "Evangeline", and reciting it before the class in two weeks. Believe me, that was a task; but I did it, and got by with a few mistakes. That was many years ago, but two of the verses have stuck in my mind.

This is the first one:

"Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels."

This is the second one:

"Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted, That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain."

Yours,

"D. B."
(David Burress Mo