So I climbed to a place upon my watchtower, there to scan the past, took a look at the present, and, adding up the past and the present, make a brief prophesy of the future.  

To scan the past is not difficult, because we have memory. We have written records and we have monuments. We have, here and there, the ruins of our yesterdays as the succeeding years have abandoned the structures built in the long ago. We know that the first World War sowed the seeds of the second. We also know that the second World War left so many divisions, hatreds, and so much confusion that the third great conflict is knocking at the door. Some will say "no" but as the heavy atmosphere foretells the coming storm, so the greed, the ambitions, the sunken morals indicate the coming crisis.  

Before the men and women of New Jersey came, the spot where our village stands was beautiful for situation. The Tuscarawas was a ribbon of clear, pure waters, moving quietly among the towering trees; so clear, fishes could be seen beneath the surface; so pure it could be used to quench the thirst. The location was one great unending forest of oak, poplar and chestnut. No erosion was there for the great forest trees drank up the falling rains. Nor was there any refuse dumped in the river.  

The wild deer roamed at will; the bear was often seen. Where we now live stood an Indian village, the capital of the Delaware nation. It was call Gekelemukpechunk, and was ruled by Chief Netawatowes, later called Chief Newcomer. The village of the Indians contained about 100 log huts. Many of these were abandoned later as the capital was moved to what is now Coshocton. Some of these huts were occupied later by the white men.  

There were white men here early, before the settlement was made. John Mulvane was here as early as 1804. Records were found that showed he dealt with a Mr. Peters, a store keeper at Gnadenhutten at that time. David Jognson was here in 1805. Daniel Harris was here prior to 1809.  

George Bible was here when Nicholas Neighbor came. South of the river the Indians had cleared a tract of land on which they planted their corn.  

From my watchtower I looked back to the beginning of our days, one hundred and fifty years ago. James Madison was President of the United States. He was the fourth, five feet four inches tall and weighing 100 pounds. But he was the father of the Constitution, the champion of the Bill of Rights.  

One hundred and fifty years ago, the British burned the city of Washington, including the government buildings. The President and Dolly Madison were forced to flee the White House and the city. Before leaving, Mrs. Madison grabbed up what she could, including the portrait of Washington, painted by Stuart. It hangs in the White House today.  

One hundred and fifty years ago the War of 1812 had just been won, but before the arrangements could be made, Andrew Jackson had won the great battle of New Orleans against the British, where in less than half an hour, seven hundred British soldiers were killed, fourteen hundred wounded, and seven hundred taken prisoner. Our loss was eight killed and thirteen wounded.  

One hundred and fifty years ago Thomas Worthington was governor of Ohio. A boy, five ears old, tall for his age, and not very attractive, played around a Kentucky cabin. The name of this small lad was Abraham Lincoln. Edgar Allen Poe, also a boy of five, was at play on the eastern seaboard. He, who was destined to live but thirty and five years more, more to leave a name as one of the greatest poets of America. U.S. Grant was not to be born for thirteen years.  

In that hour which has so much meaning for us, a young Baltimore lawyer was standing on deck of the Minden, the flagship of the British battle fleet anchored in Chesapeake Bay.  

He had gone there to seek the release of a prisoner. The great guns of the fleet were sending showers of steel upon Fort McHenry. At the twilight's last gleaming he saw the Star Spangled Banner still flying. The shelling continued throughout the night. At the dawn's early light he saw that the flag was still there, and, taking an envelope from his pocket he wrote on it the immortal words, "Oh say can you see, by the dawn’s early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?" He finished the verse and on the way to the shore he wrote the rest of what has become the National Anthem. He concluded with the words, which should forever be sung, "Then conquer we must, when our cause, it is just, and this be our motto, in God is our trust."  

At ease on my watchtower, I thought that the best way to visualize the past was to take a quiet trip, unknown to anyone, back through the long years and have a talk with Nicholas Neighbor, face to face and heart to heart. I did. I found him to be a fine character, a man worthy to lay down the foundation of our present village. It was he who had heard of this location, who had scanned it and found it beautiful for habitation. It was he who became its first merchant; also a judge who sat as an associate at the trial of John Funston. It was a delight to meet him and get this first hand knowledge. So, I asked him some questions and I give you his answers.  

"Why?" I asked him, ‘Did you and yours leave New Jersey, where you had access to so many markets; where you had so many contacts; where you enjoyed the comforts and necessities of life?"  

He answered, "From beyond the mountains word came to us that there was a spot, in the bend of a beautiful river, called the Tuscarawas, that was like unto the garden of the gods. That the plain was graced by a great forest of oak, the chestnut and the poplar trees. That the soil was rich. The wild deer and the bear roamed at will, and at eventide naught could be heard but the song of the wind through the trees, and the plaintive notes of the whippoorwill. And, sir, we longed for liberty. That liberty which our pilgrim fathers sought, who turned their backs on the oppressions of the old world. The right to be free; to be men; to grow, unfettered and unbossed. To be what God meant his creatures to be. Free to come and go; to plow; to plant; to reap; to plan; to build. To love God with all your hearts and your neighbor as yourself.  

"We came through the pathless woods. Your land today, sir, is covered with great highways. Bands of steel connect your coasts. The whir of motors is heard in your sky. It took us four weeks to come from New Jersey to this spot beside the river. We came in horse drawn wagons. We forded streams of water. We climbed the sides of great mountains. We marched by day and rested by night beside the camp fire. With us we brought all our worldly goods which did not amount to much, but it was ours. We slept at night within the wagons. We had a feeling, like unto the children of Israel, on their way to the land of promise. We were happy.  

"Happiness is a condition. The child may be happy in an environment which would be terrible to an adult. The adult may be happy in an atmosphere where a child would be miserable. Happiness is a condition. Some live in mansions, but are miserable. Some have great wealth and are strangers to happiness. We were poor, but happy. We lived in huts of logs. We had health and the willingness to work. Beneath some roofs there is misery. Beneath our rough hewn roofs we had oneness and peace. We had no labor saving devices. As we saw the sun rise over the forest at morn we were thrilled and when it went to its rest beyond the stately trees we turned to our rest, knowing that the same sun would come again, bringing its light and its warmth."  

"The river still flows just as it did when we came to the west. Towns may rise and fall; people may come and go, but it goes on forever. If it could talk, if it could reflect back, the things reflected in its waters, what a story it could tell. Just east of us there stood, a few years before we came, so few that the ashes could be seen, and the mound is still there, there stood a small Christian Indian village."  

"It was molded and shaped into trusting, believing souls by the great Moravian shepherds who dwelt among them, who, while they were gathering their crops, noticed the coming of a small army of white men. Men who came with the friendly hand and the smooth voice of good will, both of which contained the poisoned dagger. Came, as they said, to befriend them; to, because of the dangerous conditions, take them to Pittsburgh, where they would be cared for.  

Trusting, the Indians surrendered to the white men all their weapons. Then, unarmed and helpless, they were herded into the cabins and told that they were to be destroyed. About ninety-six of them. Sixty-two were grown persons, one-third of whom were women. Thirty-four of them were children; many at the mother's breast. And Doddridge, speaking of them in his memoirs, says, "When their fate was made known to them these devoted people embraced and kissed, bedewing each others faces and bosoms with their tears. Asked pardon each of the other or any offense that might have given them through life. So trusting in the Great Father above, they began to sing the hymns the preachers had taught them. Then they began to pray and commit their souls unto God. And so, while singing and praying, they went out to the happy hunting ground about which they had so often dreamed.  

"Mothers died holding their babes at their breasts. Babes died in mothers’ arms. Children cut to pieces. And so they all died, and the old river, which can’t speak, was witness to it all."  

Now, Nicholas Neighbor, I want to ask you a question. We know, we are ever reminded, that twenty-two-year-old John Funston, son of Nicholas Funston, killed the postboy, who was traveling with the mail on a tail that led from Coshocton eastward. We also know that it was a trader, with gold, who was to pass at that hour that he intended to kill. But the trader was late and, thinking the postboy was the trader, he shot him from ambush. This took place one hundred and forty years ago. But it’s very fresh to us in song and story. Since you, sir, were an associate judge at the trial of young Funston, will you give us your version of the affair?  

"I am glad you asked me that, sir. The father of John Funston, Nicholas Funston, was a squatter. That is, he settled on land that was not his own. In this case, it belonged to the General John Stark and his son, Lt. Archibald Stark, whose names were illustrious in the Revolutionary War. For their great part in the revolution, the government gave them a thousand acres which has ere been called the Stark Patent. Nicholas had a large family. He was a rough character. He lived by the rod and the gun, as did his son, John. What they wanted, the rod and the gun got for them.  

"Remember, sir, there was no church, not until several years later. No ringing of the bells calling to worship. No Sabbath school. No prayers did John hear at his home. No grace at meals. So far as known they never heard a sermon, and as for school, perhaps a few weeks. Money was scarce, not only for them, but for all, and it was precious; a prize worth having if gained honestly.  

"Young Funston gained his by the use of the gun. So, yearning for gold and hearing that traders ever carried gold on their person, and with no appreciation of the value of human life, he set forth with a gun to get his gold.  

"You, sir, have fifteen churches in your village, and each thinks it is just a little bit better than the others; your bells ring out the invitation to worship on every Sabbath morn, but half of your people or more are deaf to the call of the bells, and blind to the keeping of the Sabbath.  

"John Funston killed for gold, having not the benefit of preaching, prayers or Christian home, or Christian associates. He became dangerous in the atmosphere in which he was reared. But you, sir, have all that he didn’t have. You hear the ringing of the welcome bells on the Sabbath day and many of you are busy at work. You have many ministers in the midst of you who would be glad to serve you and yet things are happening in your day far worse than that which happened in our day. You remember ours for one hundred and fifty years. Yours are so many and so common that they happen one day and are forgotten the next."  

Maybe, I say, yes, maybe, the God of mercy who knows all things and knows all contributing causes, will have some mercy on the soul of young John Funston, more than upon some who know better; who spurn the Sabbath; who put no shoulder beneath the burdens of the church; who contribute no oil to keep the lamps in the temple burning; who eat their bread and never look up to say "thank you."  

"Hungry for the church? Ah, yes, but there was none. But as Naomi, traveled to Moab, took her faith with her, and by her faith won the lovely Ruth, so we brought our faith with us from the east and kept it, until at last it expressed itself in a temple built unto God.  

"We were just an ordinary, simple group of people, but we believed that only a great and wise creator could fashion a world so beautiful as we found it here beside the river.