This book is written that the descendants of these four people, through their ten children who reached maturity, may know that the men were brave and sensible and strong and honest, and that the women were fair and gentle and loyal and cheerful. These men and women helped make the United States great and powerful. They were always lifters and pushers. They were givers—they helped others from their own abundant strength and resources. They enjoyed life. They lived fully. They paid always 100 cents on the dollar, though they were frequently unpaid or partly paid or swindled and cheated. For now well over a century none of this family ever repudiated a debt or a contract or an obligation. If there was any shortage of money because of hard times or financial panics, their creditors were paid in full, and they went without luxuries or necessities if that was the only way to settle. In five generations of Nesbits none has ever been indicted for a crime or a felony, so none could have been convicted, and the descendants of Amos Wright show an equally clean record.

None have been drunkards, nor dope-takers, nor liars, nor scoundrels, so far as any record has yet become public. Of this record I am proud. I want the younger and coming generations to feel a pride in the record, and to emulate and follow their ancestors.

They were not "middle class." They were top-notch. They were as good as the best—none better.

Anyone who inquires into the methods used in making and founding the very great fortunes of the country will find much to the discredit of men whose names are familiar all over the land and the world. Selfishness, if not greed, and roughshod and ofttimes illegal and immoral methods marked their foundation. Even today the highest type of democratic citizenship does not usually amass the greatest fortunes. Our forefathers had enough and considered it good as a feast. They were helpful to others, often to their own hurt. They believed human brotherhood something real—not a mere word or a sentiment. They represented, along with thousands of like-minded people, the best and highest type of Americans. Therefore I want to leave a picture of them as I knew them.

The families of all four of my grandparents are traced to England and Scotland and Wales, even to the Middle Ages. But so far as I am concerned, the pedigree may start with these four persons in the United States in the early years of last century.

Mark Twain said it was "better to be the butt end of a short pedigree than the fine point of a long one," which sentiment seems to mc a good one for every American to adopt. But centuries of good breeding and clean living behind one is certainly no disadvantage, but rather a heritage to cherish and be thankful ~for. My boyhood and youth were spent in the consciousness of belonging to a home—to a family.

The Nesbits were a tribe out in Missouri. They were spoken of in the community and throughout the country, not individually, but always as "The Nesbits." They were really one big family, and, in the time of my memory, a family consisting of three generations, namely:

Grandfather and Grandmother Nesbit, who followed their sons West after about one year. Frank, Charles, and Scott, their three sons, with their wives, Ellen (Wright), Elizabeth (Craig), and Annetta (Johnson), and their children, numbering eleven (11).

My father’s children: Charles F., and Walter W.

Uncle Scott’s children were: Grace, Harrison, Donald, and Edith.

These three men were unusually devoted and congenial brothers. Their motto was, like that of the Three Musketeers:

This big family was a democracy. Grandfather Nesbit was an advisor—never a dictator. Grandmother, however, was by common consent, our queen.

One of my chief delights, as I grew older, was to be allowed to sit up late when a family gathering brought all about an open fire in one room, at the home of one or the other. The stories and reminiscences were exceedingly interesting to us youngsters. Such family talks often lasted until 12 or 1 o’clock at night. Popcorn, apples, cider, and doughnuts came along as refreshments after supper was digested.

I will record a sample conversation, which was about as follows:

"Charles," asked my father, "do you remember the time we were coming back from Arkansas with a lot of cattle, and put them in Dan Kidd’s corral—and Kidd charged us $10.00 for it?"

"Yes," replied Charles, "I remember it very well."

My grandfather asked what it was that happened. Father explained that they had gone South into Arkansas to buy a lot of young cattle. They had been away from home for weeks, getting no mail, and there was, of course, no telegraph. They had to drive the cattle back very slowly to keep them from getting sore feet. it was a long, tedious drive, fording rivers, passing through the woods, over the hills from northern Arkansas to the prairies of Missouri.

They had counted, of course, day after day the days until they would get back home, as they were anxious to know if everybody was well and how things were going on the farm. Finally, they got to Dan Kidd’s place, about five miles from home one afternoon, but found that their cattle were too tired to go on that night. So one of them rode up to Kidd’s house and asked him if they coáld put their cattle in his pens overnight. He said they could, and they rode on home.

The next morning they sent three of the hired men back to get the cattle, but Kidd told them he must have $10.00 rent for use of the pens overnight. This was a very unneighborly and unexpected act, for his pens were vacant and unused at the time. One of the men had to ride back the five miles and get the $10.00 and return with it to Kidd. Later that day they came in with the cattle.

"I remembered it also," my father continued, "two or three weeks ago, when I was handling a lawsuit for Kidd. I just happened to think of that incident, when I was making up my bill, and I put an extra $100.00 on it.

When the laugh at that subsided, my Uncle Scott spoke up and said:

It occurred to me then that Kidd had not fared very well because of this unneighborly conduct and extortion. It was always this way with anyone who played what they considered a dirty trick, or did an unfair thing to any member of the family. Charging rent for his yards would not seem unneighborly in these days, perhaps, but in those days everybody tried to help everyone else in matters like these.

I recall two instances which made quite an impression on my mind as a boy. One Sunday morning as we came out of church, which was held in the public school house, we saw the smoke of a fire rising in the northwest. One look showed us that it was the barn or the house of a Mr. Craig. Samuel Craig was his name, a brother of my Aunt Lizzie. He had left his horses and mules in the barn to rest, as it was spring plowing time and they were very tired. He and his family had walked the two miles to church to save the horses.

There was a rush for the wagons, and soon all the men were racing toward the burning buildings. When we got there we found the stables had been entirely burned up, and all the horses and mules, except one, had been burned to death. To get new stock in that section at that time of the year was quite impossible. The neighbors all got together and in one day plowed his field of over 100 acres which had not yet been plowed. They also planted his crop of corn. This was all done without any expense to him and was simply an expression of the neighborly feeling prevailing in the community.

Another case was that of a tenant farmer of my father’s. He was taken sick with typhoid fever in the middle of the summer. The word was passed around at church one Sunday and a large number of farmers volunteered to help him. Each sent over a team with a corn cultivator and plowed or cultivated, as we called it, his entire cornfield. When the corn got ripe in the Fall, he was still sick and had not made a very good recovery, so a great corn-cutting "bee" was staged. The neighbors drove over one evening after their own work was done. It was a bright, moonlight night, as the moon was just full. They cut his entire field of corn and shocked ‘it before they quit that night. This was done without any expense for a poor, practically unknown tenant farmer, who had come into the community the year before. All he could do was sit in a rocking chair on the porch, the tears running down his face, and say, "You all are jest too kind."

With such a community feeling as this, it can readily be seen that Kidd’s action in charging rent for the use of some vacant cattle yards for only one night was an exceedingly unusual thing for that place and time.

Grandmother Nesbit was, to all the Nesbit grandchildren at least, most wonderful. My mature judgment is that she was the finest character of the four grandparents—not better, but she had an unusually clear mind, and wisdom came to her early in life. She lived longer in New England and had more of its flavor than the others. She was a credit in every way to that section.

It has been claimed that physical environment has a marked effect on character. If so, Essex County, Massachusetts, is a splendid place to be born. Grandmother Nesbit was born in Newburyport, Essex County, Massachusetts, where it still lies, as Whittier described it:

Essex County, stretching from New Hampshire to below Lynn, along the east shore of Massachusetts, comprises the famous North Shore of that Commonwealth, including such historic names as Newburyport, Ipswich, Great Neck, Annisquanl, Cape Ann, Gloucester, Magnolia, Beverly, Salem, Marblehead, and Swampscott. It is a choice portion of New England. It is a section of unusual scenic variety and charm. To Gloucester, Bass Rocks, Beverly, Magnolia, Marblehead, and Swampscott, the cream of American social life repair now for their summer’s rest and recreation.

In 1790, twenty years before Grandmother’s birth, the most populous towns of Massachusetts, excepting Boston, were Salem, Newburyport, Marblehead, and Gloucester. The smell of tar and oakum mingled with pine and spruce, and the fra

grance of the spices of the Islands of the sea were freshened by the tang of the salt air and pervaded their busy wharves.

The great ships were always building on the ways. It was a time of great enterprise and activity. Ships from Essex ports sailed all the seven seas. The ample streets of Newburyport, when Grandmother was born, were being lined by solid buildings speaking the prosperity of the shippers and merchants of this section.

• The poet might well have had Grandmother in mind when he wrote:

for, while practical and hardheaded, she had about her a something which can only be described as angelic.

"Timothy Pickering, John Adams Austin, an uncompromising Secretary of State, Nathaniel Hawthorne, the ‘rebellious Puritan,’ who so subtly portrayed the evanescent melancholy of colonial times, and Robert Rantoul, Jr., the aristocrat who espoused the cause of the people, Samuel Ogden, first Postmaster General of the United States, and a long array of Phillipses, founders and benefactors of important schools, and that true interpreter of New England countryside, John Greenleaf Whittier, who wrote of Essex County as a lover wrote of his sweetheart, and Rufus Choate, the least explicable, and with the exception of Hawthorne, the rarest spirit of them all.

These were some of the human products of Essex County all of the time Grandmother was a girl. Few sections of the country can rival this partial list of quality.

The influence of climate and physical environment on the characters of people is an interesting study. Could the hot, semi-tropical South sustain the mental and physical energy so characteristic of New England? Scotland has for centuries produced a hardy, shrewd, canny race. As one Scotchman said to me: "They must be bright to live—otherwise nature quickly eliminates them. The cold and frost and meager fertility of the land sharpens the wits as no schooling can do.’

New England bred for two hundred years a simply marvelous race of men and women, whose younger generations ever pushing West made America what it is. Our ancestors were part and parcel of that enterprise and migration. They played their part honestly and intently. They improved every piece of land they ever owned, reclaiming many from wild forest and prairie. They built many houses and bought some, always leaving a better house than they bought. They did their duty as citizens. They were workers and producers. They were strong for education and culture and the refinements of life, for law and order.

Grandmother Nesbit’s maiden name was Harriet Newell Coffin. She was a descendant of Tristram Coffin, who was a part owner of Nantucket Island and the founder of one of the most numerous and intellectually powerful families in America. Jethro Coffin’s house still stands on Nantucket. The "Long Tom" Coffins, as they were called, were as hardy settlers as the world ever saw. They were whalers and masters of clipper ships. My Grandmother Nesbit used to tell us how interested she was as a girl when, while she would be doing knitting or fancy work after supper, she heard the Captains, as they sat about the fire in the great living room, discuss the growing scarcity of whales.

Years later when I spoke in Nantucket I told of Grandmother in my address, and several of the old people came up who knew her family, where they had lived, etc., although they did not remember her personally, she having left Nantucket when a young woman.

One of her brothers, Charles, was a prominent railroad attorney of Cincinnati, and another a merchant and banker in Pittsburgh, who later came to St. Clair County, and afterwards went to Des Moines, Iowa, and founded the Iowa Loan and Trust Company in that city.

And she loved her grandchildren and was always so cheery. She made very delicious cookies and other good things to eat. To our ideas there was no such bread and jelly in the world as she would give us between meals. When our parents punished us we fled to her ever-open arms for comfort and consolation. She would quote entire many cantos of Scott’s "Lady of the Lake," and many other poems. We all knew, and still remember, her names for our thumbs and fingers, which were as follows:

Thumb "Tom Thumbleman"
First finger "John Gognego"
Second finger "Long Jericho"
Third finger "Jinkeperedom"
Fourth finger "Little Pillowally"

This never fails to interest children. They generally get their tongues tied up trying to pronounce the names, which adds to the fun. Our parents told us: "This little pig went to market; this little pig stayed home," etc., on our bare toes. That did very well for babies, but when we could talk she taught us "Tom Thumbleman," and that showed us how much smarter grandmother was than our parents. She had a marvelous poem or jingle about all the animals, in part as follows:

The dog will come when he is called,

Often, when a woodpecker would come tapping at one of our yard trees, she would say:

She would point out to us the high fleecy clouds and recite and old sailor’s saying:

"Mackerel scales and grey mare’s tails make high ships carry low sails."

Sends the traveller on his way;

Then, too, Grandmother Nesbit taught us the first counting out rhymes we used:

"Eeney, Meeny, Miny, Mo’,

Catch a nig**r by the toe—

If he hollers, let him go!

Eeney, Meeny, Miny Mo’;

O-U-T spells OUT."

There were enough of us grandchildren that we could play all kinds of games without assistance from the neighbors’ children. That was fortunate, for there were no neighbors within a mile or so that had any children. We therefore played a great deal among ourselves, and it gave us, more and more, a sense of unity as we grew up.

She had no concern outside the realm of her three stalwart, splendid sons and their wives and her eleven grandchildren. Her life was serene and happy—a queen of love—a queen in the home. Here she reigned. Life gave her rough, raw material and little of luxury or leisure, but by her character and genius she made of it a royal robe of shimmering glory.

Her great lore regarding wounds and diseases and her exceptional skill in applying remedies were, I fancy, a part of her early education among the seafaring Coffin family. To captains of clipper ships or of whalers, whether their voyages were only six months or extended to three years, a considerable knowledge of remedies for diseases and wounds was an absolute essential. Life or death waited on a quick and correct decision. There were no doctors on these ships, which were often thousands of miles away from home or medical service.

Grandmother had one great endowment—brains; and one great accomplish-ment—she knew how to use them. So she must have gathered much when yet a girl, of the knowledge which later was of such benefit to many, many people in dire distress. In her home there were not many books, but one very big book—I thought it the biggest book I ever saw—was Doctor Gunn’s Family Doctor or Doctor Gunn’s Family Medicine. Many and many a time have I seen some anxious neighbor or a new settler in our section stand nervously fingering his hat while Gradmother Nesbit turned the pages of Doctor Gunn to find what disease gave the symptoms the father had described. Sometimes they brought the sick or hurt, and on rare occasions she went to them. Travel was hard for her.

She must have been a fine, healthy girl, for her constitution, though in a frail body in later years, was an iron one. But disease and hard work had wracked her. One disease, inflammatory rheumatism, had left her much crippled. She had an attack when Uncle Charles was about four years old and when Uncle Scott was a wee baby. At the same time Charles was ill. Grandmother’s brother, Dr. John Coffin, left his large practice, came to her house and nursed and cared for them until they were all well.

She was a wonder with the sick. When we children were sick, she made us some "panada," or some jellied rice or some jellied chicken broth, and no one was ever sick enough to refuse them as they were made in her own dainty fashion. Panada was slices of browned toast covered with hot rich milk and then sprinkled over with rum and a little sugar.

How she must have longed for the fresh green grass of the North Shore and for the salt tang of cool sea breezes on the long, parching days in Missouri in summer! But to have spoken of such a longing would have seemed to her disloyal and complaining. I do recall, however, that on these days when it was too hot for even the men to work, she told us more stories of the sea, the ships, the ocean.

Her children—our parents—endured the heat with a kind of wilted, perspiring joy, for "it was so good for the corn. But the hot, humid nights when literally you could, if near a big cornfield, hear the green corn "pop," it was growing so fast, when sleep was almost impossible because of the heat, must have often made her long to hear the ocean waves breaking on the rocks or sandy beaches of Massachusetts. Yet never a word did she utter of such a longing.

It might have seemed to those who loved her, and whom she loved, that she was not entirely satisfied, yet she was. If the sunfish and catfish from the warm ponds of Missouri tasted flat, she never once said any word but praise, and never compared them with the salt water fresh mackerel or bluefish, the Essex clams or the Newburyport lobster she had known as a girl and young woman. In fact, not once in the over twenty years I knew my grandparents did I ever hear one of them complain about anything. Grandmother Nesbit was fond of Essex County. It had built and its men had manned the first vessel commissioned in the United States Navy. On its ways Essex County shipwrights built the famous clipper ship "Dreadnought," which crossed the ocean in a few hours over nine days and held the world’s record.

When President Lincoln’s call for volunteers went forth it reached Essex County about 9 o’clock in the morning. That afternoon at 3:30 o’clock a full company of militia, completely equipped, boarded the train at Marblehead for Washington, and helped put down the Baltimore riot en route.

These things Grandmother told us of, with a gleam of pride in her eyes. She always clapped her hands when, in a story about the "Whalers," she came to the call: "There she blows— man the boats!"

A local ballad gives the spirit of the sea which was so fully a part of her that even in the dry prairies of the West she in some way made us as children feel and understand it.

THE OLD CLIPPER DAYS

By JULIAN S. CUTLEO

The old clipper days were jolly, when we sailed the seven seas,

And the house flags of our merchant ships were whipped by every breeze;

It was goodbye to your mother and the pretty girls on shore,

For we’re off around the howling Horn, bound down to Singapore.

We romped the rushing trade winds and we raced the big monsoon;

We carried reefing royals from Manila to Rangoon;

We were chased by Malay pirates from Natura to Penang,

And we drove her scuppers under to outsail the cut-throat gang.

We went rolling in "The Doldrum" till the tar oozed from our seams;

We went pushing through the ice pack till its pressure cracked our beams;

And Old Mary Carey’s chickens wheeled around us o’er the brine,

While we entertained old Neptune when he hailed us on the line.

Those were days to be remembered, when our good ship sailed away,
From the old home port behind us to Calcutta and Bombay;
When we sold the heathen nations rum and opium in rolls,
And the missionaries went along to save their sinful souls.
It was "Bundle out, my bullies, and we’ll give the sheets a pull";
It was "Ease her off a little, till the topsails stand rap full";
It was "Scrub the decks, my Jackies, and we’ll take the sun at noon";
It was "Sou-sou-West half-South, my boys," beneath the Southern moon.

We raced across to Africa with "dicker" in the hold;

We traded beads and calico for ivory and gold;

We raised the Northern Dipper as we lost the Southern Cross—

And when we figured up the run the owners felt no loss.

Then ‘twas "Home again, my bullies," with our bows knee

To the mother that was waiting and the happy ones at home;

It was home from old Calcutta or Hongkong or Bombay,

To a land we loved to think of when our hearts were far away.

Oh, again to bear the Lascars rousing "chanty" in the morn,

Horn!

Oh, to see the white sails pulling, feel the lift beneath the keel,

With the trade-winds push behind her and the roll that made

------------------------

My grandfather, John Clark Nesbit, was born in Mt. Jackson, Pennsylvania, in 1811. His father’s name was John Nesbit. He was Judge John Nesbit, and he was an elder in the large Presbyterian Church near Mt. Jackson, known as Westfield Presbyterian Church. When a church was finally built in the Ohio neighborhood of St. Clair County, Missouri, Grandfather Nesbit gave the five acres of land on which it was built, and it was also named Westfield Presbyterian Church.

My Grandfather Nesbit was apprenticed when a boy as a hatmaker and he learned to make hats. He later learned to be a shoemaker, and that was his trade. There was a great deal of building in his section, however, and he took up building later, more as a contractor, and was quite successful at it. He kept a hotel or tavern and ran a store.

He was appointed Postmaster, though of the opposite party, because of his well-known integrity and his promptness. The Government of the United States had not yet been invaded by efficiency experts, by systems and checks and accounting schemes and inspectors and spies. It depended on the honesty of its people, and well it was so. In the days when he was postmaster, there was no general use of postage stamps. He collected the postage in cash, which was 25 cents for letters, and he wrote on the envelope that the postage had been paid, and signed. Sometimes letters were sent collect. He told of a letter which came to his office with the address, name and all, in rhyme. I have forgotten all but the last two lines, which read—

I am sure the postage will be paid."

Grandfather, himself, was a very capable carpenter. As a boy, I remember he still had on the farm in Missouri his kit of tools for shoemaking and he half-soled and patched the shoes of all the grandchildren and for all his children, and he frequently did work for the neighbors but would never charge for it. He really enjoyed, as an old man, getting a few pairs of shoes and setting to work on them. He also took great pride in fixing up the gates or making new gates for the farms of his three sons. Making a new gate of sufficient size to let a two-horse wagon through was a job which would take him several days, as he would not work hard or steady.

When they first went to Missouri he bought 160 acres of land, my Grandmother Nesbit bought 40 acres, Charles bought 160 acres, my’ father 160 acres, and Scott 160 acres. It cost them about $8.00 an acre. They also bought a woodlot.

Grandfather Nesbit, when they went to Missouri, had more money than any of his boys. I do not have the figures or any access to them, but my recollection is that he had about $15,000, or perhaps $20,000. Grandmother - had $6,000 or $8,000 of her own money. They lived well within their incomes, having all they wanted and still saving something each year. They loaned their money on first mortgages, the rate being 10 per cent at least, sometimes more.

There was little to buy. The farm and garden furnished all the food; only tea, coffee, sugar, salt, pepper, and delicacies such as tapioca, rice, chocolate, and cheese had to be bought. The can opener was not, in those days, the most indispensable article in the kitchen. I never saw a can opener until I came to Washington in 1886.

Bank interest was from 1 per cent to 2 1/₂ per cent a month. When Uncle Scott was the leading banker in St. Clair and even later when Uncle Charles was head of the Lowry City Bank, I have heard a borrower say, "What will the interest be?" The answer would be, "Oh, 1 1/2 or 2 per cent," but that meant per month.

As America’s greatest economic philosopher, Henry George, later pointed out, in new countries interest and wages are high and rent low. After a country becomes thickly populated the rent for land takes a larger and larger share, and capital and labor get less and less proportionately in interest and wages. The only one of grandfather’s generation I ever saw was his brother Francis, who, when nearly 75, came to spend almost a year with Grandfather Nesbit. Prairie chickens were very plentiful that season. He enjoyed the hunting and they killed a great many. He dried or cured the breasts of about 100 of them as he said they used to cure deer meat in Pennsylvania, and shipped them back to his home.

He was very fond of all us grandchildren but could not vie with grandmother in telling stories, nor did he have the patience to talk with us hour after hour as she did. He had some rare stories, however, which he would tell us when we had been particularly good. One was about his Uncle Jimmy during the War of 1812. He was a trusted Lieutenant of Commodore Perry, and one of the tales he used to tell us was how he first became intimately acquainted with Perry.

James Nesbit, or "Uncle Jimmy," as he was always called, was stationed with some other guards out on the ice of. Lake Erie, the winter before Perry’s famous fight, when his forces were in winter camp and were preparing the ships he was to command the next year. This winter was a very severe one and the lake was frozen over, and they felt that the English might attack them by crossing on the ice. One night, when on guard about a mile or so from the shore, Uncle Jimmy was walking up and down on his beat and saw a fox trotting along the ice toward a water hole. Without thinking what would happen, he fired at it. He had no sooner pulled the trigger than he realized what would then happen. The next guard fired and then the next, and several shots rang out, it being about 12 o’clock at night. The next thing he heard was the long roll of the drums. He could see the lights in the camp increasing in number and hear the shouted orders, "Fall in!" He stayed out until morning and when relieved came in to find out that the camp had been in the greatest excitement. Some of the guards had rushed in and declared they had seen the British coming across the ice. At any rate, the whole camp was under arms and were kept under arms until daylight, when, no enemy being visible, they were set at liberty.

He managed to get in without anyone getting his story, and later in the day Commodore Perry, who knew him well, sent for him and said, "Nesbit, why didn’t you come in last night when the other guards did?" He told him, frankly, the whole story. Perry laughed and said, "Well, keep it to yourself, but don’t shoot any foxes again when you are on guard duty."

Grandfather Nesbit said little as a rule, but when he spoke it was to the point. He would sit and listen, his pipe in his mouth, and now and again remove it to make some remark. He used a lot of proverbs or aphorisms, and to us as children they seemed like the wisdom of Solomon.

A tenant farmer, who easily got excited and frequently got angry, came to our house one day about some small complaint. He talked loudly and excitedly, and soon worked himself up into a rage. After he had gone, grandfather’s only remark was: "Small pot, soon hot."

My uncles were discussing the plight of a neighbor who had great energy and was always embarking in new enterprises. He had then a lot of cattle for which he had paid too much and was buying corn at a steadily increasing price. The result looked to my uncles disastrous. Grandfather, removing his pipe, said: "Sort of like a blue jay in a blizzard, isn’t he, flying north but going south."

I recall one expression when some deal or sale or enterprise turned out a profit, but a smaller one than expected, he would say: "Oh, well, it’s better than a peck on the head with a sharp stone."

A frequently-used joke of his, when the last load of corn was hauled in, or the last piece of work on some job done, or the last basket of apples picked from the orchard, was: "Well, that is what the shoemaker threw at his wife"—the last.

As a young man he was a famous drummer in the militia and on "training days." Once when visiting us in Osceola some neighbor’s boy who had been given a very big, and to us, wonderful drum, was in our yard, beating away in a boyish fashion. Grandfather asked to see it. He took it, put the strap over his shoulder, examined the sticks, and then he did some drum-beating which made us open our eyes. He gave us the "long roll," the "advance to battle," and a series of fancy thumping. We then understood what he had meant when he often said: "Give him what Paddy gave the drum,"—a beating.

I used to see him often standing with a partly-opened door against his breast, with one hand on each side, fingers and palm beating out one tune after another.

He was a very powerful man physically, 40 inches about the chest, a famous swimmer as a young man. He was a firm believer in the principles of Thomas Jefferson and Andrew Jackson. He took a great dislike to Kansas. Why, I do not know. I think he felt too many people drove on West past the land in Missouri.

One day a covered wagon—’ ‘prairie schooners" we called them—pulled up in front of our house where grandfather was, and the man called out "Hello!" and again "Hello!"

Now, the etiquette of the situation was for the stranger to get out and start for our door. Then it was the thing for the man of the house to go out and meet him, and ask what he wished. But it nettled grandfather that he should call out and then sit still expecting him to come out to the wagon. After a few more calls, grandfather walked out, puffing at his pipe. The man asked if that was the right road to Kansas.

"Yes, sir. You are going the right direction—due west."

"How fur is it?" asked the man.

"I don’t know," said grandfather, "less than a hundred miles. You keep on west until you feel like you wanted to steal something, and you will be in Kansas,"

Grandfather was often called to Jefferson City as a juryman in the United States Court. He was a man of wide expertise and sound judgment and enjoyed these trips which kept him there three weeks at a time.

He wore a high, white winged collar and a black stock. His black suits were of the best broadcloth, and he was one of the few men in St. Clair County who wore a high hat or "beaver hat", as he called it. The common name was "stovepipe hat." He was a man of great dignity of appearance and manner. He had been, as a young man, quite as powerful physically us Grandfather Wright, but he lost his vigor sooner. He smoked incessantly. Grandfather Wright did not smoke at all, thinking smoking harmful. He thought wines, brandy, and whiskey useful in many instances and prescribed them as a doctor but was himself extremely temperate.

Grandfather Nesbit was of a highly nervous type and had a temper capable of great heights, but he controlled it perfectly except on rare occasions. Harrison gives one incident regarding grandfather’s temper and manner, finely illustrative

Some cattle rustlers, as cattle thieves like to Call themselves, had driven off some of our folks’ cattle and some of Llewellyn’s, a family of three brothers, also, who lived five or six miles South. The cattle were stolen about sundown. A parley or conference was had that night, the Llewellyns coming up to Uncle Charles’ house. There were four of the thieves, and they were evidently going to try to get into Kansas and sell the cattle. Our people knew they couldn’t get to Kansas before they could catch up with them. It was decided that a party of six should leave Uncle Charles’ house at sun-up the next morning.

I fancy grandfather awoke early. He was in a rage, doubtless. To occupy himself, as well as to show a proper appreciation of the occasion, he shaved himself by lamplight, and dressed up in a broadcloth suit, white stiff shirt, black stock and high silk hat. As the Llewellyns came up with their shotguns and pistols and their saddle bags filled with grub, our people were out in the road waiting, all armed and ready also. Grandfather carried his gold-headed cane and was smoking furiously. The men were all in frontier dress, ready for business.

Not a word did grandfather say. He was bitterly resenting that age would not let him join the party, but as they turned to wave the women and children goodbye, Grandfather, taking his pipe from his mouth, issued a command:

"Slather the shot into them, boys! Slather the shot into them!"

But the second day the boys came back with all their cattle, and a few of some neighbors’, which they returned before the neighbors knew they were gone. The thieves, when they saw the armed band of owners bearing down on them, put spurs to their horses and made for Kansas, leaving the cattle.

While "Grandmother’s house," as we children always called it, was a haven of refuge for all of us grandchildren and a palace of delight and pleasure, I have no doubt we also gave our grandparents much joy, comfort and entertainment.

Their own sons were busy, driven men. They were making farms, raising cattle, building fences, and barns and cribs. Their wives were busy with the mending, housework and farm work, making clothes and bedding, putting up jelly and preserves and such occupations "while they were resting." But grandfather and grandmother had much time. They were always glad to see us.

One frequently-recurring event was pulling a loose first tooth for one or the other of the grandchildren. When it was noticed the child would be sent to Grandfather. He would make quite a ceremony of it—would examine it and set the next morning as the time the tooth would "come out" without hurting a bit. We would all troop over next day to see the tooth pulled. Grandfather generally had a stout shoe thread tied to a door knob. He would talk a great deal and seem to be very busy. The kid would be placed at the right distance and then told to "shut your eyes now while I get ready." The rest of us would stand, wide-eyed, about the room, looking on. A slip knot quickly tightened about the tooth—bang I—the door was slammed shut, and the tiny white tooth would be dangling at the end of the string. Then a shout, and the victim stoutly declaring, "I didn’t feel it at all." Then grandfather would say, "Now, an old Indian squaw back in Pennsylvania said that if you would not put your tongue in the hollow place, a gold tooth would grow in." But none of us were ever able to keep the tongue out of the hollow places, so none of us ever grew a gold tooth.

Grandfather used to tell us that he had heard we could cure a toothache by going out into the orchard and walking three times around a sour apple tree, without thinking once of a red fox’s tail. But none of us ever succeeded in doing that any better than we succeeded in catching a bird by putting salt on his tail.

We no doubt furnished much entertainment to them. For they both studied us and were teaching us all the while.

The measuring of the growth of the eleven grandchildren was quite an interesting event to all of us.

Some day during the Christmas holidays each year we were all lined up in "Grandfather’s house," as we spoke of it, to be measured, and to see how much each one had increased in height during the year.

On the inside of a white door and on the side posts a record was made. It began when we were three years old. Grandfather carefully measured each one and made, with a carpenter’s square, and a good carpenter’s pencil, a neat black mark over the name of each one, and the date was put down. Thus year by year a permanent record of how many inches each one had grown during the year was made and kept. It was a ceremony of great interest to us, and to our parents.

I wish the family had that old door now, but it has gone.

The weight was also put down yearly, and this continued as long as Grandfather and Grandmother Nesbit lived on the farm with Uncle Charles.

Grandmother was passionately fond of poetry. She could quote long passages from her favorite authors. And she imparted much to us while small, as did grandfather. One of his sayings to his Sons was "Keep interest coming your way. Always keep it coming your way. If it goes against you and you begin paying out interest, it will drown you."

We were, like our own parents, products of a home—Scotch-English homes. Are there better on earth, or were there ever? They gave the modern world the meaning of the word "home"—"Home, Sweet Home." The homes have ever been the great schools. There the great lessons are learned, there the character is formed. A Scotchman of distinction, on a great occasion, said, "Scotland has three great universities—Edinburg, Glasgow, and the homes of Scotland." It will not be so fortunate for America when the old fashion of training children in the home goes out of style.

Grandfather had many sayings and jingles. Among so many children as evening came on some wanted to go to bed, some to stay up and. play. He used often to repeat:

Let’s wait a while, said slow;

Let’s sup before we go."

Grandfather had led a very busy life and was a hard working man until he went West. He then retired. He and grandmother had plenty, all they needed. He had improved two farms back in Pennsylvania. "Delaware Grove" was the name of one of them. I guess it was a favorite with both of them, for they mentioned it often.

Tressie saw both of these farms when she was back with her parents on a visit they made to the Mt. Jackson neighborhood. And she said they both were splendid farms.

He loaned his money on mortgages and had an ample income. But as an old man I recall his pleasure in piling up brush or twigs and burning them when the hedgerows or orchards were trimmed up, and I fancy he spent many days burning brush back in Pennsylvania as a young man.

Grandmother was serene and wise. She often quieted or comforted her own sons when things seemed to be going all wrong. One verse she repeated was about the worry cow. "Oh, well, Charles," or "Scott" or "Frank," she would say, "don’t fret. Remember the worry cow." It ran thus—

Grandmother seldom went to town, but she was a great patron of the peddlers who came that way. She bought the best they had, and often gave them commissions for fine linen tablecloths or silk for a dress, which they would bring when next they came that way. They were often Yankee peddlers from her own New England, and she gave them a warm and hospitable welcome.

The Nesbit family was the one I knew daily, but I was also a member of the Wright family. Its home was Tallmadge, Ohio, five miles then from Akron.

My mother and I were both born in the typical New England style of Colonial house, white with green blinds, behind the wonderful old elm tree on the Square or "Center" in Tallmadge.

Grandfather Amos Wright was a descendant of Captain John Wright of the Revolutionary Army. The family were originally from Wales. The first Wright we know of spelled his name Iahn Whright.

Amos Wright was born in a log cabin in Tallmadge, Ohio, in 1808, and was the first white boy born in Summit County, Ohio. Not the first white child though, as a girl was born before him. He was one of the first white boys born in the western reserve. Akron now, with its environs and vast factories, occupies a considerable part of the county. Grandfather Amos Wright was by far the best schooled of my four grandparents. He had as good an education as the country then afforded. He attended school in Cincinnati, Ohio, first, and later studied medicine at Harvard. He was a geologist, also, and always greatly interested in that science. He had from boyhood a natural inclination to study medicine. The fact that he had no knowledge of the germ theory of diseases, because no school then taught it, reveals how rapid the world’s progress in the medical science in the past hundred years has been. He was an able physician. He had a wise head and a large experience, and he understood much about the human being as a living organism which sometimes I fear the specialists of today fail to understand.

In 1831 he married Clemence Comfort Fenn, who was born March 23, 1810, in Milford, Connecticut. Her ancestry was pure English and can be traced through the American Revolutionary War back to the Middle Ages in England, when the family name was spelled "Ffenne," though the first letter then was a little "f" and not a capital "F."

There were ten successive generations of Fenns in which the eldest son was named Benjamin Fenn. Two of them fought in the Revolutionary War.

Grandmother Wright lived to be 85 years of age. She bore nine children, every third one being a son. Seven of them reached maturity. She had as cheerful a disposition as anyone I ever knew. The lines of her face in old age were lines of great joy, yet she had a lifetime of hard work and very little money. She was a devoted Christian, and she seemed to be living proof of Jesus’ saying, "My peace I give unto you." A peace the world cannot give and the world cannot take away.

If Grandmother Wright had ever heard of Women’s Rights, which she had not, and if she had thought half as often about her "rights" as about her duties, she could have made out, I doubt not, a good case for separation.

Grandfather Wright was a country doctor in a frontier country. His mission was to relieve sickness, pain and distress. To this he devoted himself with the enthusiasm of a religious devotee. His own comfort and his family came second. He was a poor collector. He had too big a heart. He knew the poverty and distress of his patients and sent no bills or very small ones. This was hard on his wife, as was his going at all hours, day or night, to return home at any time or at no time. The wife of a radical reformer, a revolutionist or enthusiast never has an easy time, and unless she understands and sympathizes with the husband’s ideals, it is often a life of hardship. The poet sings, "Oh, Palissy with eyes of fire," but the wife of the "crazy man" that Palissy was thought to be, dreaming of discovering the way to make porcelain, burning up his scanty household furniture to keep his oven going, unless she had a deep sympathy with him did not relish his ways much, and even if she did, to her life was not "all skittles and beer" by a long shot.

But any opportunity to serve others was eagerly welcomed by grandmother. Still, grandfather’s devotion to his patients imposed a great deal of burdensome work on a woman who would seem to have enough to do, with so many children and her own housework to do.

When grandfather had a patient who was not doing well and needed a change, he did not order him to Europe or Florida. Such benefits as these might offer were simply impossibilities. The next best thing was to get some relative or friend within easy distance who would take the patient in for a change of environment and a rest from the worry of his own home, or for better diet and care. He often brought convalescents to his own home. Especially was this the case when the patient was subject to misuse or abuse. But no matter how full her house or how many her cares, Grandmother Wright was never known to lose her equanimity.

Once a girl in the community, betrayed by the son of one of the wealthiest men in it (who went off to Europe), was turned out of her parents’ home when her condition became evident. She came in her distress to Grandfather Wright. He brought her home and she lived there until her child was born and she was able to go to work and support it. Not a cent did he charge.

Numerous like cases meant additional burdensome work for grandmother, but she had a loving heart, a sunny, cheerful disposition, thought of her duty always, and so lived a busy, happy, useful life, loving her children and being adored by them.

All seven of their children were intelligent, well-educated, virtuous, and useful. They were:

Stella, who married Dr. Dwight Sayles.

Celia, who married Henry M. Camp, a mill owner in Saginaw, Mich.

Darwin, one-time Director of Public Works of Cleveland, Ohio, and a large manufacturer of fire-brick.

Ellen, my mother, married to Frank C. Nesbit.

Isabel, married to Geo. C. Berry, a prominent merchant of Akron, Ohio.

Alice, who gave promise of being one of the great singers of the country, but who died at 24.

Samuel, a physician, the only one still living, now 79 years old, and still practicing medicine in Akron.

The fact that so large a family were all well-educated and grew into strong men and attractive women shows that grandfather, in spite of his generosity, was at least a fair provider.

The following is a copy of an article which appeared in the largest paper in Akron when Grandmother Wright died:

"A SUMMIT COUNTY PIONEER

"The Death of One of Tallmadge’s Most Estimable and Loved

Residents.

"In the death of Mrs. Dr. Amos Wright, which occurred March 28, 1895, another link connecting this generation with that of the hardy pioneers who first settled this country is broken. She commenced her life in the town of Milford, Conn., March 23, 1810, as Clemence Comfort Fenn. Her ancestry was unmixed English, that has been traced through active service in the Revolutionary War, back to the days of knight errantry in merrie England, when the family name was spelled ‘fenne" without a capital.

"When seven years of age, her father, Benjamin Fenn, and his wife, Comfort Fowler, with the nine children remaining of their family of 12, migrated from Connecticut to the then almost unexplored wilds of the far western state of Ohio and settled in Tallmadge. Six weeks were consumed in the journey, much of which the little traveler accomplished on foot, refreshing herself, when weariness overtook her, by a ride in the big wagon, which was drawn by six oxen.

"She has recounted to groups of round-eyed, dimple-faced children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, many stories of those early years. The storm that raged in the clouds below them, while crossing the mountains—the big bear that was trapped and shot after having killed and dragged over an eight-rail fence a porker weighing 85 pounds—the Indian who, crossing the portage from the river to the lake, suddenly appeared at the open window and made mute appeals for food, etc., etc.

"School days and girlhood passed, and on March 31, 1831, she was united in marriage to Dr. Amos Wright, with whom she lived until his death in September of 1892. To their home and hearts nine children were welcomed. Two died in infancy and one in more mature years, Alice L., well known to residents, members of the old Apollo Club of this city. Six children survive: Stella 7E., wife of the late Dr. Dwight Sayles, of Tallmadge; Celia C., wife of H. M. Camp, of Saginaw, Mich.; Ellen, wife of the late F. C. Nesbit, of Washington, D. C.; Isabel, wife of G. C. Berry, of this city; Darwin E. Wright, of Cleveland, and Dr. S. St. J. Wright, of Tallmadge.

"Possessed of an affectionate and sunshiny disposition, her ability to see the best there was in the characters of those with whom she mingled, made her a friend to everybody and a general favorite. Her friendship proved no idle sentimentality. A friend once, she was a friend still, through adversity and affliction. What else could be looked for in such a well-rounded Christian character as was hers, but just such an interest in every active effort for the betterment of the human family as she showed.

"Even the infirmities of age did not quench her zeal, nor her labors. Last summer, while in her 85th year, she gathered and sent three barrels of material for a missionary station among the lumbermen and miners of the Northwest.

"The Mighty Friend whom she so lovingly and faithfully served, did not forsake her in the hours of her mortal weakness and her passage through the Valley of Shadows. Without a doubt or fear, she greeted the Angel of Death as a welcome messenger, come to open the door of life to a larger and more glorious existence, where she will never more be distressed with the sight, or knowledge of suffering which she is unable to relieve, and where the infirmities of age are never known."

One of the stories my grandmother used to tell me was how when she was a little girl she created a great deal of excitement. Being sleepy, she had gone to her mother and asked to lie on her bed. The mother, who was expecting company, was busy in the kitchen and gave her unheeding permission. The day progressed; the guests arrived, and in the course of the afternoon one of them asked, "Where is Clemence ?"

"Clemence ?—she is here, somewhere," replied the mother, and then tried to recall where she had last seen her. She could not do so clearly, but realized that some few hours had passed since the child had been noticed. She became alarmed and started a search. Benjamin was sent in one direction, Fowler, Jonathan and Lucinda in others. And the guests united in the quest. The mother thought with terror of the old-fashioned well, with its wide mouth and square curb, and with fear and trembling took a book from the great fireplace, fastened it securely on a long pole, and thrust it down into the well. After giving it some motions she tried to withdraw it, but it had caught on a stone. The almost frenzied mother called out:"I’ve got her! I’ve got her!"

One of the boys was immediately dispatched to the neighbors, half a mile away. They responded to the appeal for help, and one young man threw off his coat and boots and descended the well, announcing from its depths that no child was there.

The search was resumed. The orchards, barns, gardens, and houses were all visited. One of the brothers ran down cellar and called out, "Clemence! Clemence I" The child, who was directly above him, wakened by the noise, answered, "Here I be." And rushing upstairs he found her under the coverlet at the foot of her mother’s bed. He told her to lie still. Then he brought on the crowd to see the lost child. In her fear of disturbing the rounded symmetry of her mother’s bed or the party, she had crept under the covers, leaving no token of her presence there.

She was married to my grandfather, Amos Wright, 61 years when his death occurred.

The letters of Grandfather and Grandmother Wright and their own conversations show that the people about them had a high sense of honor and an appreciation of kindness rendered such as made the opportunity to render such service a joyful occasion. This brought them together with house-raisings, barn-raisings, and many other cooperative enterprises alone made the progress of those frontier days possible. Rogues were scarce. Confidence in humanity was the rule. Housebreakers were unknown. In many houses the doors were never bolted. I have heard my Uncle Henry Camp, who married Celia Wright, my mother’s older sister, and who lived near Tallmadge, Ohio, say that more than once he had returned from spending an evening out and entered the house in which Grandfather and Grandmother Wright lived without opening or shutting a door. There was no hotel in the little town of Tallmadge and those who had homes on the center knew they must share the responsibility of filling this lack, and strangers often asked for accommodations.

Grandmother Wright, having been reared in common with others of her day, when there were few books or periodicals, had a reverence that amounted to almost more than that word implies for the printed page. If a package was brought to the house wrapped in newspaper, she would preserve it from destruction until she could look it over and see whether it contained anything of value. This appreciation led to many literary gems finding their way into her scrap book. She kept many scrap books, filling one after another. She had many pictures in them from magazines or publications, and they were always a delight to us children when it was rainy and we had to stay indoors.

The home of Grandfather Wright in Tallmadge, or on the "center, was a splendid example of Colonial homestead. Twenty-three acres of land lay back of it, with a good orchard, a splendid garden, and plenty of room for flowers and shrubbery in the yards. The old elm tree, just in front of the gate, whose topmost branches reached 100 feet into the sky, was one of the most notable trees of that section of Ohio. Camp Brook ran through the back of the place, and here was always sport for the grandchildren, who waded in it and often tried to fish there, for nearly 60 years.

Thanksgiving always brought a happy throng together under the shelter of this roof, after devotions at church. After dinner there were games, songs and music on the piano, violin and double bass, with reminiscences of the past, which filled the glad hours; and then there was Christmas. Before that day, commands were laid on the household not to investigate certain corners or cupboards or shelves; and then the morning of Christmas itself!

Grandmother Wright never forgot the birthdays of her children or her grandchildren.

Close by this old house was Grandfather Wright’s office. The house was built by him and his wife for themselves. In it seven of the nine children and three grandchildren first saw the light. I was born in the old house behind the elm on June 23, 1867.

It was always a great treat to me when my mother took me back with her to the old home for a visit, which she frequently did. The first visit was made when I was seven years old; and after that we visited Grandfather and Grandmother Wright every three years, at least, and after we moved to Washington, almost every year until 1891.

This house was the scene of many delightful companies and guests; and in it many a sad heart has been comforted. There was a little English widow with a baby, left stranded and bereft in an alien land, who found comfort and a home here for months. There were many such instances. Two sons brought to the old home their brides, and four girls brought their mates. But the old house, after Grandmother Wright’s death in 1895, was by common consent of the family torn down. I think my Aunt Isabel Berry was the author of this little verse on that occasion:

Is safely sheltered in the home above—

With Mother gone there is no need of you

The town of Tallmadge was laid out like a "three-man morris board"—a square in the center, with roads running north, south, east, and west, and northeast, northwest, southeast, and southwest; then a larger square made by a road one-half mile back of and paralleling the small town square, and half a mile beyond this another square made by a road paralleling the others. I never saw any other place so laid out or with roads so arranged.

One day a newly-arrived Irish emigrant, trudging west, stopped there, and looking at the roads radiating in eight directions, exclaimed: "Bedad! I’ve found the center of the world!" Another Irishman was working with a gang on the railroad tracks when grandfather, who was going to Mogadore to play in a local orchestra and had his big double bass viol strapped on the back of the carriage, crossed. The Irishman exclaimed, "Look, byes! Look! There is the daddy of every fiddle in America, I’ll bet ye!"

Grandfather Wright’s greatest diversion and pleasures were music and hunting. He and all his children were good musicians. Sunday afternoons and evenings were times of refreshment. They had singing by the hour. He had a fine, deep bass. Uncle Darwin sang bass, Uncle Samuel tenor, Bell, Alice and my mother soprano, and Aunt Celia and Aunt Stella alto. They sang beautifully and often in concerts. He played the double bass in a local orchestra which he helped organize and for some thirty years or more it played regularly.

The Nesbits were a great family for talking and visiting. They would sit up when together till one or two in the morning discussing all kinds of questions. The Wrights, when together, mostly sang. Music was a pure delight to all the Wright family, but the Wrights were a famous family for letter writing. After the children of Grandfather and Grandmother Wright were married and scattered, they invented something new—a circulating letter. It was first suggested by Uncle Darwin. It went from one to another, a regular prescribed route, each one adding a letter to those already written, and when it came to the last station the letter first written was taken out. In this way every station or family read all the letters but did not see a second time their own. This letter has gone steadily on for over forty years. For several years now it has traveled from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific, to Lake Erie and Lake Michigan, to Texas, Missouri, Montana, and Colorado. The original correspondents have all passed on to the Great Hereafter, save Dr. Samuel Wright, but the children and grandchildren and great grandchildren keep it circulating. The present route and stations are as follows at the beginning of 1932:

The circulating letter of the Wright family in its latest round, after 45 years of constant travel, visits these stations:

Dr. Samuel J. Wright, Akron, Ohio., the only survivor of the generation by which it was originated.

Mrs. W. E. Wheeler, Akron, Ohio.

Mrs. Ralph Templeton, Long Island, N. Y.

R.A. Camp, Bayonne, N. J.

H.A. Camp, Plainfield, N.J.

C.F. Nesbit, Washington, D. C.

Miss Helen Beach, Detroit, Mich.

E.D. Sayles, Clinton, Mo.

Mrs. Irene Wright, Lowry City, Mo.

Mrs. Logan Armstrong, Hawk Point, Mo.

Mrs. Virginia Nesbit, San Antonio, Texas.

W.L. Sayles, Corning, Calif.

Mrs. A. G. Sly, San Diego, Calif.

After coming to Washington, D. C., my mother and I spent a month at the old home where we were both born, in midsummer of 1886 or 1887. I took long rides, day after day, with grandfather as he went to see his old patients who wanted him. Doctor Samuel, his son, had taken over most of the practice, but grandfather went out daily behind old Dolly, his very intelligent horse, then well past twenty years old. He had some sugar or apples in his pocket and would, now and again, after coming out from some home, give her a bite. I do not think Dolly could read, but she was almost smart enough to. Grandfather had grown quite deaf in his good car. He lost the hearing in one ear when a student because a practical joker, telling his companions "he would make Wright jump," fired a big pistol just beside his head, bursting the ear drum. When she came to a railroad crossing, Dolly would always "stop, look and listen," as the sign directed. If she heard a train she would wait until it passed. If she didn’t hear one, she would dash across, and you needed to hold on when she started over, too.

I had seen many of the big men of the Nation in Washington, and I more fully appreciated grandfather. I felt for him a great admiration and enjoyed the weeks with him very greatly. He was educated at Harvard but knew nothing of the germ theory of disease, or about bacteria. These things were unknown and not taught in the schools when he was a student. His first reputation as a physician came early from an epidemic of typhoid fever soon after he began to practice in Ohio.

When in Harvard there were no hospitals as every city has now, but students were used as nurses by the leading doctors. He was on a typhus case in Boston. The treatment then was to allow little or no water to a typhoid patient. He told me how the sick man begged for water at night. One day the doctor said to him the man would not live but a day or two, that he was sure to die. That night grandfather could not resist the man’s pleading for a drink of water. He said he thought so long as he was going to die anyway he would give him the little comfort of some water. Next day the doctor said the patient was better. The next night grandfather gave him some more water. The day following he was still better. The man got well, but grandfather never dared tell the doctor he had given him water to drink, but it convinced grandfather that the "no water" treatment was not so good.

The first few taken with typhoid soon after he had started to practice sent for the old resident physician, but most of them died. Then some sent for the young doctor. They got along nicely. Out of 23 patients that fall and winter he did not lose one. This, he said, might have been good luck, but he had his system of treatment which he always used. Plenty of boiled and cooled water. When better, and the fever had broken, he gave them fresh pressed cider. He depended on chicken or beef broth and baked potatoes for nourishment and was careful not to permit a relapse, which he said was most apt to be fatal.

He spoke to me of health and habits. Always get up from the table a little hungry. "So many people dig their graves with their teeth," he said. Take some good, vigorous, outdoor exercises every day. Chopping wood is one of the best.

He, until a very old man, always cradled wheat during harvest half a day or a half of two days, as he said, "to get his circulation in good condition and his blood warmed up." Anyone who has tried to handle a wheat cradle for even half an hour knows what strength he had. He was one of the famous wheat cradlers of that section.

His chest measure was 42 inches and he was a very powerful man physically. He was quite a geologist and loved to prospect for coal, several mines of which he located.

Grandfather’s steady, iron nerves were proverbial. Once he had an aching back tooth, and as he was busy and as it was decayed, he determined to pull it himself. He broke off a root, and had to gouge and jam the forceps into this torn and bleeding gum to get it, but he got it out. He came back into the kitchen to wash his hands and face, and grandmother said, "Why, Amos, what’s the matter? You are all over blood." "Oh, I pulled a tooth and didn’t make a very good job of it," he said, as he went on out on his daily round of calls.

He disliked surgery, but had to do some when accidents occurred. Once a railroad accident all but severed a leg of a young woman. They ran for him and he ran out to meet the sleigh on which they were bringing her to his office, with a bottle of chloroform and a cloth. A Dr. Sperry amputated the leg and she recovered.

Teeth he pulled but never knew of any anesthetic or pain killer. A good stiff drink of whiskey was sometimes given before and after a bad tooth came out.

Grandfather Wright was a staunch Republican but came out for Grover Cleveland and was elated at his election. He was one of those who helped operate the "Grape vine telegraph" and "Underground railway" previous to the Civil War, helping escaped slaves to get to Canada. Coming out squarely for Grover Cleveland took no little courage. Tallmadge was solid Republican. It had been an Abolitionist stronghold. Everyone was a Congregationalist and all went to the big white church which looked as if it might have been transported from New England and set down amid the elms of the square. And when they went to church it was always in their "Sunday best." Just as all were church members, so they were all also Republicans. A political speaker who failed to speak of the Republican party as "the party of God and the Constitution" would have been considered ignorant or unsound.

When he came out for Cleveland, therefore, his family and his neighbors were genuinely shocked. They told him only saloon-keepers and scalawags were Democrats and the Irish Catholics. He kept his good humor, however, and had two retorts, which left him undisturbed for a time when delivered. To the family he said: "Ellen married a Democrat. Do you think Frank Nesbit is not a fine man?" Well, the family all admired my father, so that was unanswered.

To the neighbors, who were orthodox to the utmost limit, he would say: "You are going to vote for Blame, I suppose, in spite of the fact that he was nominated by Bob Ingersoll." The name of Bob Ingersoll, who was then at the height of his power as an orator, and who was going from end to end of the country, blasting orthodoxy with intellectual dynamite, was held second in detestation only to the name of the Devil himself. It was a telling shot. In fact, Ingersoll’s famous speech, when he called Blame "the plumed knight," did hurt. Nast’s cartoons all that campaign of Blame as a Knight with three bedraggled plumes hurt him almost as much as Burchard’s "Rum, Romanism and Rebellion."

Grandfather was greatly elated when Cleveland was elected. He remained a Democrat all the rest of his life. He was intellectually the outstanding one of my four grandparents, because he had a broad education and was a great reader. But for fine quality of mind I think Grandmother Nesbit was his superior. She had a certain shrewdness and wisdom he did not possess.

But as a physician he was the equal of any. He cared little or nothing about pay. His family, I think, felt he was not thoughtful of them, but he simply would not make the poor pay, or even try to make them pay.

In his later years he became more worldly-wise, slightly. I recall one fussy, funny old maid who came to see him very often.

She was not very sick, but she was rich for those days and in that locality. He laughingly called her "his paying patient." She enjoyed paying. One day she said to him: "Doctor, do you take medicine? You are always giving it to people." "No," said he, "I get it by inhalation, sitting here in the office so many hours." There were few drug stores then, and his office had shelves stocked with drugs and medicines and smelt more of drugs than the largest drugstore of today.

"Yes," said she, "I guess you do get a lot of most every kind of medicine breathing this air. I guess that’s why you are so strong and well."

Grandfather Wright was a pioneer in medicine. He laughed at the doses and prescriptions given in the medical books. He gave little medicine. He once said to me that digitalis, morphine, quinine, arsenic, mercury, bicarbonate of soda, iodine and castor oil are about all the drugs and medicines that are much use. In this conclusion he was ahead of his time. "Nature is the great healer; we only assist," grandfather used to say.

He felt venereal diseases the world’s greatest curse, and he said they could be stamped out in 50 years but for secrecy and failure to make every case register. He felt every young couple getting married should have as a part of the marriage license a certificate of freedom from any venereal disease.

He was in advance of his time as a physician in many ways, and in his later years was in great demand for consultations. What seemed an uncanny ability to diagnose obscure ailments was the result of years of dose, careful observation and study. He felt the greatest menace to the human race was venereal diseases, and he felt they could be stamped out in three generations if the country were once awakened to their real menace.

He doubted the correctness or the good of the confidential relations which prevented a physician from telling the fact that a certain man or woman was infected to others who might be deeply interested.

One day when driving with grandfather he told me this story:

"One morning I was called when at breakfast by someone in my office. One of the girls told the caller I would soon be in. When I entered, a young man of the town, whose family was prominent, arose and passed behind me and locked the office door. He was evidently greatly excited. Then he drew a pistol from his pocket and said: "Dr. Wright, if you ever tell anyone what I am going to tell you, I will kill you.

"‘You do not have to tell me anything,’ said I, unlocking the door, ‘and you may go on out of here.’

"He then broke down and began to cry, and said he was in great trouble. I soon learned the story. Away at school in Cleveland, he had gone out with some boys on a lark; they had gone to a house of prostitution, and he had contracted syphilis. He had tried quack remedies bought by mail and was in a very bad condition. I said to him:

‘My boy, I will treat you and do the best I can for you if you make me one promise.’

"He was eager to promise anything. I exacted his solemn promise not to marry any nice girl. He improved rapidly, got in a better mental state and was before long in apparent good health. The treatment I gave him was of a stimulating character. In about a year I noticed him keeping company with one of the sweetest girls in the town. I called him to my office after I had made some inquiries, and reminded him of his promise; told him that he was an attractive young man, his father well fixed, and that he should not trifje with Lucy. He laughed at me and said he was entirely well. ‘No, you’re not,’ said I. ‘You never will be or can be.’

"I saw the courtship progress, and at length it was generally understood they were engaged to be married.

"Now I had delivered both children. I was the physician of both families, and I lay awake many hours wondering what I should do.

"At length I talked it over with a doctor friend of mine. He reminded me that the boy had come to me understanding that I would tell no one. I replied that he had promised not to marry any fine girl, and here he was about to marry one of the nicest girls of our town. He said her family wouldn’t believe me if I did tell them, and that my reputation as a physician would be ruined if I disclosed what should be held sacredly as a professional secret.

"Well, the result was I saw the matter go to its conclusion. A year or so after they were married I was called in and found the young wife was bearing a child. When it came I laid it in her arms, a pretty little baby, but within a few days it broke out in sores and died. She mourned it greatly, but didn’t know why it died, and I did not tell her.

"After some time she had a second child. She was anxious about it. The baby seemed sound and strong, but she lived only a few days after its birth. The poison was in her. The man suffered locomotor ataxia at any unusually early age. The child grew up an imbecile."

When my four grandparents were just born, Beethoven was writing his greatest music. Napoleon was upsetting the thrones of Europe and startling the entire world. Andrew Jackson was not even thought of for President. There was not a steam railroad in the land, and electricity not only still unknown and unused for lights or power, but gas even and matches were yet to be adopted.

In Grandfather Wright’s office was a small clipping from some book or paper, pasted on the wall. It read as follows:

Grandfather Wright lived all the years of his long life, over 80, in Tallmadge, where he was born. His father, John Wright, was a pioneer and pathfinder, and one of the few old family writings I possess is an account of his trip West, just about the beginning of the last (19th) century. The following, written by David Wright, is in a fine, old flowing script:

"Tradition says that during the persecution of the Huguenots about the year 1630 or 1635 three brothers of the name of Wright, one of them named John, left Wales and landed in Massachusetts. One of these brothers settled in Massachusetts, one in Virginia and John the son of John (spelled with an I instead of J) from Wales settled in the Valley of the Connecticut about 1675 or 1680 where his son John was born June 4, 1710.

"He married Prudence, daughter of Benjamin Demming. After his marriage they moved to Goshen, Litchfield Co., Ct., and afterward to Winstead, Ct., where he died Nov. 1784. His wife died Feb. 1, 1799. Capt. John Wright, the 5th son of his father (he being the fourth of the name of John born after the landing of his progenitors in Mass.), was born Jan. 22, 1743, married Lydia Mason Case died without children. His second wife was Sarah Case, daughter of Ashabel Case, of Norfolk, Ct. He was a soldier of the Revolution, served at New York, was a captain of militia as early as 1768. His farm lay on the border of a beautiful pond one-half mile south of Colebrook line, which he exchanged with Luke Hayden (a member of the Tomingford Land Company) for land in New Conn. (now Western Reserve Ohio) and left June 1, 1802, with his family, consisting of himself, wife, four sons and one daughter (his oldest daughter having previously married Mr. Luman Beech, was living in the Genessee County). When it was decided the day to go, our minister, the Reverend Aaron Kinney was invited in, with our neighbors and friends and a farewell sermon was preached, adieus, good wishes and greetings were exchanged and he started with his family consisting of himself and wife and four sons and one daughter, in a heavy wagon drawn by two yoke of sturdy oxen (his eldest daughter previously married, was living in Genesee County). He had a cow and two extra oxen in the train. His way led through Albany, Utica, and Buffalo, N. Y., where he put his wagon, its contents, himself, wife daughter and one son on board the "Good Intent," of Presque Isle (now Erie), bound up the lake, while the other three sons drove the oxen, cow, and horses through the woods along the beach for sixty miles, without a road, or house—sleeping on the ground in the woods when night overtook them. On the 4th of July the family met at Presque Isle, left the next day and arrived at the settlement in Austinburg July 8. He selected 200 acres of land in Morgan and moved onto it July 20. There were then but four acres cleared in the township. He erected his barn in the spring of 1804, it being the first frame building in that township. He built a sawmill on Rock Creek the next fall. In 1809 he moved to Tallmadge, where he died at the house of his youngest son, Alpha Wright, July 29, 1825. His own and his wife’s names were enrolled as members of the Congregational Church in Winstead at its first organization and were transferred to the Congl. Church in Austinburg and Morgan, and thence to the Congregational Church in Tallmadge where they died.

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It is interesting to note the effects of home education in the two families. One developed a great love of poetry, the other a passionate devotion to music. Grandmother Nesbit read her favorite poets by the hour. She could quote long poems. Grandfather Nesbit was negative to poetry. But all the sons grew up lovers of poetry. Grandfather Wright, true to his Welsh descent, was fond of music—his wife was negative to music. Yet all the seven children sang and sang well. Several of them played musical instruments, as did Grandfather himself, and all derived from music all their lives great pleasure and refreshment.

My mother and Aunt Isabel were also very fond of poetry. What poetry was to one family, music was to the other.

Grandfather Wright had a very fine musical ear. He told once of a friend who went to a German saengerfest. One German society after the other sang. After it was over he said to my grandfather, "Wasn’t their music very much alike?" "Why," said my grandfather, "they all sang the same piece. It was a competition." "By George, I knew I had an ear for music," said the friend to grandfather. This seemed a most amusing incident to grandfather.