THE VICTORY OF HALF A CENTURY — A PIONEER — STORY OF EARLY DAYS — PIONEER DAYS — A PIONEER OF 1808.

Running from northeast to southwest across the northwestern corner of Butler county in an early day was an Indian trail worn a foot deep by the countless hordes of savages passing to and fro either on the war path or to hunt the buffalo in the short grass country. It crossed the Whitewater just above the timber on the head of that stream.

In the summer of 1861 a team drawing a covered wagon was laboriously wending its way northeastward along this trail. It belonged to Horace H. Wilcox, and with him was his wife and five children, two daughters and three sons. Formerly from Illinois, where he still had some interests, he had some years prior to the war moved to Southern Texas and engaged in the cattle business. He was a strong Union man, plain, blunt and outspoken, and on the breaking out of the war was given twenty-four hours to hunt a more hospitable clime. He did not use it all, but started north on horseback and a few days later the good wife and the children followed in the wagon, meeting him beyond the Texas line in the then Indian Territory.

When they reached the crest of the ridge west of the Whitewater, in northwest Butler county, they were entranced with the beautiful sweep of valley and timber; before them lay one of the gems of the prairie. Turning to his wife he said, "Mother, this is the prettiest spot I ever saw. Let's go settle our business in Illinois, return here and make it our home." Being a good wife with pioneer blood in her veins, she consented. In 1866 they came to the head of the timber on the Whitewater, built an eight-room stone house and stone barn, long marvels for size and elegance in the community. Neighbors there were none. This stately solitude was the beginning of a splendid empire.

Five decades of activity led by hope, crowded with activity, privation and toil, won with energy, and crowned with golden success have marshalled with the past since the first entrancing glance on the

valley from the hilltop beside the Indian trail. The log cabins and sod houses of the early day have given way to modern homes with all conveniences and elegant appointments. The prairie is a vast, well tilled field. Stock by the thousands are turning the grass and golden grain into a richer stream of golden wealth, an Arcadia where the church, the school house, and a development of a nobler citizenship are the hand-maidens of the nature of the valley, and wealth is not sought for wealth's sake, but for the blessings it may confer.

Uncle Horace and his good wife have long since been called to the golden shore. Those who followed the blazed way and settled in the valley grasped the horn of plenty and are now the embodiment of prosperous contentment, and if perchance the call of the wanderlust should for a time lead them away, ever returning as they come to the crest of the hill they involuntarily exclaim, "Mother, this is the prettiest spot I ever saw."

Such is the victory of a half century.

Tired nature has again yielded and mother earth has again taken her toll. This time a pioneer, an old friend and neighbor. The realities of the early days are fast becoming the legends and romance of the present time. What a flood of memories the crisis of the passing of a pioneer and neighbor brings, and how the heart grows tender as one after another of the kind acts of the deceased pass in review. No one can measure the loss this and the coming generations have and will suffer because the vicissitudes of the early days have not been written and preserved.

In the first days of March, 1872, as a boy of ten, and a few days after arriving in Kansas, my brother and I saw a man working near the corner of our homestead, and boy like went went[sic] to where he was. After the greeting we asked him what he was doing and he said he was setting out some "cottons." He was sticking cottonwood slips in the ground around where he intended to move his house, and afterwards they grew to be the largest cottonwoods in the whole neighborhood. This man was I. A. Shriver, who a few days ago was called and laid away in the silent city of the dead, at the age of eighty-three.

He was born in Greene county, Pennsylvania, where he grew to manhood, married and entered in the stock business. Afterwards he moved to Oskaloosa, Iowa, and in July, 1871, with his wife, daughter and son, moved to Clifford township, Butler county, Kansas. They came in a spring wagon drawn by a mule team, and camped on the bluff on the east side of the Whitewater on section 17. A few days later he bought the farm of Walt Gilman, who was the second settler

in what is now Clifford township. The first settler in that township was Horace H. Wilcox, who settled there in 1866. Then came Walt Gilman, who was a blacksmith and who established the first blacksmith shop in northwest Butler. Then came W. D. Show, who was afterwards sheriff of the county, and T. L. Ferrier. Mr. Shriver at first built a small box house on the north side of his farm, and shortly after we first saw him setting out the cottonwood slips, his son, Jacob, rode down to our house with a note stating that as we were now in balmy Kansas and among strangers we were invited to his house on a certain evening to meet the neighbors and get acquainted, and in this way was established a neighborly intercourse and friendship that had lasted through all these years, and the many acts of kindness on the part of himself and family have from that day to this maintained a lively sense of gratitude, which I know was fully reciprocated by his kindly greetings during this long acquaintance.

Mr. Shriver was by nature endowed with a strong, quick mentality, with a natural tendency toward the law, and his father desired that he become a lawyer, but the lure of the stock business and the more open physical opportunities and activities controlled, much to the regret of his father, as I well remember his father on a visit he made to his son in the eighties say, "that he wanted Ingram to be a lawyer, and if he had followed his advice he would now be Chief Justice of the State of Pennsylvania. He was a man of great courage, energy, confidence and decided convictions, which not only made him a leader, but occasionally led to strife.

In that early day, before the era of the herd law, Mr. Wilcox had about one thousand head of cattle grazing on the range where they pleased, running over the homesteads of the settlers and among the cattle were some two dozen young buffalo that he had captured as calves on the range west of the Arkansas, and the homesteaders resenting the trespass of these cattle, shot many of them and especially the young buffalo, which Wilcox prized highly. One morning in the winter of 1871 and 1872, a couple of dead buffalo were found by Wilcox's men in the timber on Shriver's land, the killing of which Mr. Shriver was in no way responsible. Wilcox got his shot gun, saddled up Blackbird, the mare he rode out of Texas at the beginning of the war, pursued by a mob because he was an outspoken Union man, and rode over to where Shriver was loading a wagon with hay from the stack, pulled the gun down on him and said: "Shriver, you killed my buffalo, and I am going to kill you." With a mental quickness and diplomacy, Shriver replied: "All right, Mr. Wilcox, but what good would that do? It would not give life to your buffalo and would cause your family lots of trouble." Wilcox hesitated a while and then said: "I will let you go this time," turned and rode off. Out of this incident grew a feud that more or less embroiled the entire neighborhood for the next ten years, resulting in much vexatious and petty litigation.

Happily, however, one day they met on the road and with a word or two said, "Let bygones be bygones," and thereafter both stood as pillars for peace and neighborhood good will until their end, Mr. Wilcox being the first to go, passing away in August, 1888.

Mr. Shriver took great interest in the educational affairs of the community, and largely through his efforts District No. 73 was formed and the school house built in 1872, being for many years the largest and best built school house in northern Butler, and doing yeoman and efficient service to this day. Mr. Shriver was a very successful farmer, stockman and feeder, and in 1883 moved to Peabody and for many years was general live stock agent for the Rock Island Railroad Company in Kansas, and also served as councilman and mayor of the city of Peabody. The gentle spirit of the wife of his early manhood took its flight in June, 1886. What a noble woman and mother she was. No home in the neighborhood but had been the recipient of her kindly ministrations, and of such mothers has been molded the stalwart and incomparable character of Kansans. Some years later he was united in marriage with Miss Jennie Moore, of Kansas City, Missouri, who survives him.

A strong, rugged character, great mentality, quick perception, born to rule and to fight, with his face to the front he sank to rest within a few minutes of the first premonition, and every day of his life from that July day in 1871, has left its impress upon the annals of the community where he lived. It is with pleasure that I recall his cheerful greeting and pleasant smile, with the hope that he has that peace which passeth understanding.

Under the caption, "A Happy Early Comer," Mrs. Adams wrote an article which appeared in the Woman's Edition of the "Times," March 13, 1896, in which she described some of the experiences of early days in Butler county. This edition was compiled by the late Alvah Sheldon, a life-long friend and admirer of Mr. and Mrs. Adams. The article follows:

Ed. "Times:" Mr. Adams and myself came to Kansas in October, 1866, and took a homestead at the confluence of Diamond creek and the Whitewater river. Here we have lived continuously ever since—a long time in one place. We made the journey to Kansas in a "covered wagon" and not without hardship. Mr. Adams had just returned from his service in the Union army the spring before and his army life induced a love of adventure which probably turned his hopes westward; so we came thither.

We were both young and full of hope and our dream was of a home, surrounded by the comforts and conveniences of life. Our dream, I am

glad to say, has been realized, even in its coloring. Out of Kansas soil and under the beneficence of Kansas sky we have builded such a home ad[sic] in it we are happy.

Our oldest child, now living, was not born until seven years after we landed on the Whitewater. Into that seven years are crowded my experiences with pioneer life, it was a period of hardships, privations and dangers, not without even the sweetest pleasures.

Our first home was a rude log cabin, hurriedly built, without any traces of skill or art. During the rainy season there were only two dry places under the roof—under the bed and the table! Many a night of the sweetest slumber was passed under the bed instead of on it. I recall one night in particular. We were entertaining a cow boy. The rain was pouring in through the defective roof. Raising the table leaves, Mr. Adams and the cow-boy found shelter there, while my couch was laid under the bed among the trunks and boxes contining[sic] our clothing. No clothing was removed and Mr. Adams had gone to bed with an egg in his coat pocket which he had found in the evening while doing the chores. When he arose in the morning, strange to say, the egg was not broken. At this discovery the cowboy's laughter became ungovernable.

During this time my household duties were few and simple and quickly performed. My chief occupation was herding cattle in company with Mr. Adams. We soon had a large number of cattle which ran at large, grazing all over Northwest Butler county. I soon learned to use the side saddle and never had any hesitancy about mounting the wildest Texas broncho. I have battled in rain with many a stampede and rounded up the herd in a snow storm. Colored in memory, they seem happier days than they really were.

In the spring of 1868, I became a school teacher. I passed the examination under Dr. Kellogg, then county superintendent, and taught a three months' term in district No. 9. It was the first term of school ever taught there and was all the school teaching I ever cared to do. My wages were $15 per month. Among my immediate successors was C. R. Noe, now editor of the Leon "Indicator" and Regent of the State Agricultural College.

The sparsely settled condition of the county made visiting difficult. Our neighbors were few up to 1870, when immigration began to come in. Prior to that time we thought nothing of going ten or twelve miles on a visit. One time, I remember, we started for West Branch, a distance of ten miles, to visit neighbors. The start was made right away after dinner. The day was very dark. A dense fog hung over the hills and prairie and settled in the valley. It was impossible to see any great distance and the only roads were cattle trails. Striking out over the prairies west of Whitewater, we took a southwesterly course and supposed we were keeping it. Up hill, down hill, over ridges, through ravines of blue stem grass, taller than the corn now grows, and across the prairie we pursued the journey in a gallop, but no West Branch and no

cabins. Nothing but fog, blue stem and prairie. We soon knew we were lost but went ahead. The fog partially clearing away we rode up just at sun down to the hills west of the Whitewater, opposite to and not a mile from our own cabin. Just where we had been we shall never know, but we had ridden in a gallop for six hours and the ponies were jaded. We had evidently made a great circuit over the broad prairies to the northwest. Not discouraged we started anew and reached our neighbors after dark.

One of the sensations of pioneer life was the "Indian scares." Reports of Indians on the war path were frequently brought in and caused great consternation. Fire arms were abundant in every cabin. The Indian was the great terror of the plains, but the fear in which he was held proved groundless in every instance. No depredations were ever committeed[sic] in these parts after we came, and none of a very serious nature that I ever heard of before. The Indian's chief offense against his white brother was the stealing of ponies. During the Indian scare of 1868, most of the people congregated in El Dorado and prepared for a united resistance. Not wishing to abandon our cattle we remained and, joined by a neighbor, fortified the cabin, cleaned, polished and loaded all the fire-arms and were determined to make the Upper Whitewater famous for a historic battle with the Red Man. A few Indians passed through, but were peaceable.

My experience is that the Indian is highly appreciative of kindness. When a friend he is usually a true friend. His treachery was not so natural as it was necessary. The law of self-preservation drove him to it. The injustice of the grasping white man pushed him to desperation and made treachery his resort. One of our neighbors, whose name I have seen in print, was an Indian. He had settled with his family at the junction of Four Mile and the Whitewater, about five miles south of here, and was trying to take on some of the ways of civilization. He visited us frequently, and would bring us game that he had killed. Hunting was his cheif[sic] occupation, although he farmed a little, kept ponies, had dogs and played the "fiddle." His name was "Shawnee Jim." He was kind, honest and truthful. He was a lover of justice, a believer in peace, and had an eye for the beautiful. He was grateful and would repay the slightest act of kindness two-fold. He had learned to speak a little broken English and liked to visit with us and talk about God and the many wonderful things that the white man could do. He would ask about various articles in the house and how they were made. When told he would shake his head thoughtfully, sigh for his own benighted race, and say: "Oh! white man, he know heap." There was a store above us on the Whitewater where "Jim" did his trading. When he first came, instead of following the road which passed our cabin, he would go around through the timber on his way to the store. When asked why he did this, he said it was because he was afraid of scaring "white man's squaw." When assured that I was not afraid of him and would treat

good Indians kindly, he would come to the house, and soon became our fast friend. In his transactions at the store he was frequently cheated and always knew it. He had a system of measures of his own and his method of calculation was astonishingly accurate. When he failed to receive full weight, he could always discover it on his return home. He often complained to us of the injustice done him and would shake his head and apparently get consolation by looking up to Heaven and saying, "White man's God know it."

In 1868 he moved to the territory. The ruins of his little cabin may yet be seen. Although an Indian, born in a wigwam, cradled in a deer skin and schooled in the ways of his nature, a Christian spirit, a kindness, gentleness, honesty and love of justice that would do a credit to a white Christian, were his.

In the years that we have lived in Kansas we have never had a desire to abondon[sic] our adopted State. The hardships undergone in pioneer life makes the State all the dearer to us. I love the State and its history, its soil and sky and sunshine, its prairies and their products. All my children are Kansans and I have taught them to love their native and my adopted State, to know its history and admire its distinguished sons. My four daughters are proud of their Kansas birthplace and birthright, and my son will always have the courage, I sincerely hope, to defend the fair name of the "Sunflower State."

In January, 1870. we—my wife and three-months' old baby boy—left the old home in Williamson, Wayne county, New York, where we were born and reared, to join my brother, Joseph, in Southern Butler county, Kansas, on the Walnut river, where he had settled in 1868 and started the town of Douglass. We were unloaded at Kansas City on a platform depot, transferred to the A. T. & S. F. R. R., which was then building westward, and were landed at Burlingame, its terminus at that time. In our company was young Alfred Pratt and his girl wife, all going west to find the gold at the end of the rainbow.

At Burlingame we engaged a man with a little team of mules—jackrabbits we called them—and a covered wagon to take us to our destination. On the route we saw but few houses, a great waste of blackened prairie with once in a while brush and light scraggy timber, scattered along a few small streams. Passing through the then small hamlet of Emporia, over the Cottonwood, up the bluffs and hills on the south, then to ycamore[sic] Springs with one shack for a town, and we were on the head waters of the Walnut river and the soil of Butler county. Convoyed by a blizzard, with fine snow drifting into every crevice, still on we traveled down to the city of Chelsea, on and still on until we reached El

Dorado, the capital of Butler county with its one stone hotel and a few box buildings. Then on down the Walnut Valley with its fine bottom land and timber to the city of Augusta, at the junction of the Whitewater and Walnut rivers. A few small box buildings made up this new city. On again we went across the river, up over the bluff and on down the beautiful valley till we reached the Cease Ridge, when we saw before us what appeared to be a little huddle of buildings on a hill, and were told it was the wonderful city of Douglass. Still on we went, very cheerfully now, and were soon landed, on the fifth of February, 1870, at our brother Joe's little home, were all taken in, warmed and fed.

We were pleased with the beautiful town site, though it had only a few buildings mostly of the box form, a hotel run by Henry Lamb and wife, and a store or two. We were cordially welcomed by the settlers, among them the Longs, Stanleys, Kirkpatrick, Prindle, Olmstead, Shaff, Graves, and many others.

In a short time we dug a little cellar on the claim close to the town—regardless of the threats and revolvers of claim jumpers—built over it a shack 12x16, of native lumber of all thicknesses and widths and moved in with cracker boxes for chairs, rough boards for a table, a home made bedstead, tick filled with prairie hay to sleep on, and love for dessert. Now we are proud citizens of Butler county, Kansas, for we had spent four of the best years of our life in the great struggle that resulted in Kansas being made a free State.

New people came daily, in covered wagons, with their few goods, mother, father and children, coming from every direction and almost all States; all looking for a home. Soon came my wife's sisters with their families—the Algers—my sister and her husband, Dr. W. M Lamb, Chester Lamb, Neil Wilkie, A. J. Uhl, Dewit Blood, and so many that I've not room to mention names, but all were full of ambition and determination to make of Butler county a model county and home.

In all directions you could see the plows turning the sod, cabins being built, gardens made and corn planted as the sod was turned. Everything was instinct with life, the prairie covered with its verdure of green and blossoming with flowers.

Like all new countries the citizens were mostly from different localities and States, consequently were strangers to each other in name, as well as in habits and customs, therefore the forming of social intimacies was slow. Into our community at this time appeared the lawless element that acted upon the theory of the right of possession. One by one and sometimes, two by two, the horses of the settlers were taken by night, leaving the owner with nothing with which to put in and tend his crop. In most instances this took their all and leaving them destitute and desolate. Slowly the people began to get nearer together until at last they merged into a bond of unity and drove from their midst those who had been foraging on their property. It was over eight years after this before a horse was stolen in that section of the country.

The summer of 1871 had passed to its close and fall was with us, whn[sic] my loved broher[sic] Joseph, who in company with Mr. Kirkpatrick, while arresting a thief, was shot and after four days of intense suffering, died. He loved the country and town, using all his endeavors for what he thought was for its upbuilding and at last gave it his life. The murderer escaped but was captured by the citizens, who in harmony with my brother's dying request, saw that no harm came to him except such as due process of law should prescribe, thus showing that the people of Douglass and vicinity were law-abiding when law could be enforced.

Time passed fast. The cities of Douglass, Augusta and El Dorado were rapidly growing. Good buildings and school houses were erected. The country was fast becoming settled. Cabins being built and crops growing in all directions. All felt happy and prosperous. Party lines in politics were not known. All met together and elected or appointed the ones to serve as township and county officers, regardless of whether he wore the Grey or the Blue, whether he had been a Whig, Democrat, Know-nothing or Republican. Almost everyone felt happy and enjoyed their homes.

The summer of 1874 gave us promise of good crops. Many had—for that time—large crops of wheat and corn which promised a good yield. The corn was in the thick dough or partly glazed, when on a beautiful, sunshiny day, a vast cloud appeared in the northwest, which almost instantly deposited its hordes of millions upon millions of grasshoppers. They cleared the cornfields, wheat in the field or shock and every green thing, even eating harness leather, making a clean sweep or[sic] all things open to their attack. Through all this disaster the majority of those brave citizens looked boldly at the trials confronting them in the coming winter, put their shoulders to the wheel, drew their belts tighter and went to work, to, in some way. procure food and clothing for the wife and little ones, believing in the justice and love of the Great Creator and His promise to care for His children.

Another season came and went with good crops and the summer of 1876 came with more good crops, large fields for wheat had been prepared and many sown and up, when on August 31, another cloud of grasshoppers deluged u,[sic] destroying all crops and remaining, thereby preventing seeding again till late fall, but when the spring opened all grasshoppers died so the people were not again despoiled by them.

Very little now transpired, but rapid growth and development of the country and county seat contests which often brought out humorous incidents. During the first years the A. T. & S. F. R. R. had extended its road on west through Florence and its officers affirmed to build a branch to El Dorado for a certain bonus, but the people of the county rejected the proposition because it was to stop temporarily at El Dorado, thus giving it an advantage. Then the road accepted a much larger bonus from Wichita and built down from Newton, thereby giving Wich-

ita and Sedgwick county the advantage of all railroad immigration—which was immense—up to the time the road was built from Florence down. This action built a city at Wichita and peopled that county with many well-to-do farmers, while we of the best county were comparatively standing still. This is the only instance that I recall where the people of the county worked against its interest. I wish I had the time and space to tell of the many noble instances of unselfish work for the good and upbuilding of the county that come to my memory, but I have not, for it would include nearly all of the then inhabitants.

The months and years moved rapidly on like a panorama. Cowley county on the south was opened for settlement. The new city of Winfield was building and many of the ceaseless tide of covered wagons, coming down the Walnut with their loads of goods and humanity, passed on down the river to the new El Dorado.

Still our county was marching on. New towns had budded and blossomed in many localities, substantial buildings were being erected and general prosperity enjoyed. In the fall of 1879 the people conferred on me the honor of electing me sheriff of the county and I assumed its duties on January 12, 1880, holding the office until January, 1884. As I traveled the many miles that covered the territory of this great county and viewed its good, commodious buildings and vast improvements, it seemed almost impossible that this could be the same blackened, burned-over waste that we came over only ten years previous, and that these people now inhabiting these cities and broad prairies could have come here, borne the burdens and wrought these great changes in the ten years that, as I looked back over them, seemed but yesterday. It was brought home to me that this could only have been accomplished by the aid and sanction of Him who giveth and taketh the life, the great "I am."

Events transpired rapidly during these passing years. The Santa Fe R. R. built its road from Florence down through the county to Douglass. The Frisco R. R. built through Augusta to Wichita and the Mo. Pac. built through El Dorado to Wichita, both from the east, thereby giving the county competing as well as connecting lines. All things moved rapidly now. Enterprises seemed to spring up in a night. New people appeared on the streets of our cities every day, and how proud the "Old Guard" felt who had borne the burden and struggle of the strife. Among them I can see Gen'l Ellet, Senator Murdock, Dr. White, Dr. Gordon, Dr. McKenzie, C. N. James, Betts, Frazier, Brown, and oh, so many more in town and country who had helped fight and win the battle. But now a new feature confronted us; the new blood of the age was coming to the front, taking up their share of the burdens, infusing new life and new methods into the strife. Among them appeared Stratford, Gardner, Kramer, Mooney, Leydig, Alger and many more.

But now I hear that old Butler county has fully come to its own and it fair surface is dotted over with oil and gas wells, and that the children

of the "new blood" are grasping the reins of State. It is time, for as I look about for the "Old Guard" I see none. They have all passed over the river and I am left alone. But Butler county has come through the trial triumphant, the banner county of the banner State of this great Union, the dominant nation of the world.

A PIONEER OF 1868.

Forty-eight years ago John S. Friend bought 160 acres of land on the Walnut river one mile east of town. John Jones was the pioneer that sold it to Mr. Friend. The log cabin built in 1851 in which Mr. Jones lived, and in which Mr. Friend lived for twenty-one years afterwards, is still standing and could be fixed up comfortably yet with a little work. It is of hewn logs and was much better constructed than most of the early cabins. It has a window in the loft upstairs. Some style for that day. It stands just north of his present residence. Mr. Friend had just come from Travis county, Texas, where he went in 1851 from Ohio, his native State. He had followed the cattle business there.

Mr. Friend married Tennessee Dancer in 1856. They had two children, Lee Temple, a son, and Florence, now Mrs. Florence Fisher, living in California. Mrs. Friend died in 1860 and in 1866 he married Matilda Jones, of Llano, Texas. Two years later when he was away from home the Kiowa and Comanche Indians made a raid on the Friend home and killed and scalped three of the women and two children. Mrs. Friend was also shot and scalped but survived the tragedy. Lee Temple, aged 8, and a little girl belonging to one of the neighbors were carried into captivity. The girl was rescued a year later and Lee Temple, Mr. Friend's son, five years afterwards. He lived but a year and a half after returning home.

Mr. Friend has had a claim of $7,500.00 against the Government for the past forty-four years but has never received his money.

March 1, 1889, Mr. Friend was appointed manager of the county farm, a position to be held for five years. He went to California in 1907, remaining for over six years, and in 1914 returned to El Dorado. Now he is back on the farm where he started in 1868. His wife died several years ago and his two daughters, Alice and Carrie, are with him. He will be eighty years old March 19 and he says he is going to fix things up around the place as the buildings are in bad repair. He has fitted up a carpenter shop in the cabin and started at his job. His present residence was built in 1894. The farm is one of the richest along the Walnut Valley.

RECOLLECTIONS OF JERRY CONNOR.

In the summer of 1859, says Jerry Connor, there was to be a Republican convention held at Emporia in which all these southwestern counties were entitled to representation. It was deemed advisable that the Walnut valley be represented there, but the question was, who would be a suitable person who could be induced to make the trip, as the journey was a tedious one. It had to be made either horse-back or with oxen as there was not a horse team at that time in the valley. Finally Judge J. C. Lambdin solved the problem. I was alone in my cabin, had retired for the night to my buffalo robe on the floor, when I heard the sound of horses' feet and a loud knocking. On reaching the door, which was open, there in the summer moonlight, sitting on their horses, were Judge Lambdin and Dr. J. C. Weibley. The judge apologized for the disturbance and stated that the doctor was going to start for Emporia for provisions in the morning and would act as delegate to the convention and it was important that he go properly accredited. Now the doctor was from Virginia and the most rabid pro-slavery man in the whole settlement, and I said in a mild way that the doctor was no Republican. "We've fixed that," said the judge, "they don't know him up there and he agrees to be a Republican for this trip!" So the meeting was organized, Connor (rather scantily clad), chairman, Weibley, secretary, and Lambdin the body of the convention. The doctor was unanimously elected and received his credentials, and made a ringing Republican speech in the Emporia convention—in fact, was the hero of the occasion—but he spoiled it all before he left.

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