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The original copy of the manuscript was obtained by Doug Engle in 2021 from the family of James Stahr, who died in summer of 2019, he either acquired it from Emmaus, or they bound it for him. The original contains a faded photocopied print, and is in a black hardcover binding. It is presently unknown how many copies were made, or survive.
Within the original text, Anna's "mother" and "father" were decapitalized throughout, and I added possessive adjectives, and/or added capitalization where it was thought improvement on the sentence flow. Minor typos in the original are also corrected. Data in italics or otherwise set apart are added historical notes from Ancestry.com and other independent research. Underlining is the author's.
==My Father and Paternal Grandfather==
The motherless lad of eight years who went to live in this family of Mr. John Hamlin was sturdy and active, and quite unspoiled by luxury. On a farm there is plenty of work and chores for every day in the year; and a capable and willing boy is not likely to have many idle hours. There were several children in the family: one, a boy named Adam, was a year younger than Leander.
I have heard my father say he never had more than three months consecutive schooling. Schools were not then as now. There were two terms a year; one in summer, for girls and children of the abc ABC and primer classes, and another in winter, of which the big boys availed themselves until time for spring work to begin. One day, when I began to "do sums", my father gave me the only slate he ever possessed.
I enjoyed greatly the incredulous look on the faces of my schoolmates when I told them, "this was my father's slate when he was a little boy". Slates were usually short-lived. Lead pencils and paper in school-room were unknown at that time. It would have been thought shocking waste to make a few figures or write a few lines on paper, then to crumple it up and throw it in the wastebasket.
When the big brothers wished to tease Aunt Bess, they used to say: "Bess remembers things that happened before she was born." I think this came about from her habit of saying, "I remember" when relating things she had heard so many times that she actually thought she remembered them. So I will not say I remember the things I am about to relate.
My father continued, for some years after his marriage to work int he in the shop of Mr. Platner. My brother Emory, three years and a half my senior, and I were born in Westford. Very small must have been the beginning, very simple the furnishing of the little home, compared to the way young people begin married life now. Both husband and wife were industrious and frugal. I have heard my father say, from the time he earned his first wages he was never without money in his pocket. If he earned only a dollar, he spent less than a dollar. If he earned only a few cents, he spent still less; if indeed, he must spend at all. To spend all he had, or to contract a debt, was not to be so much as thought of.
I remember a very few things that belonged to that first housekeeping. I wish I might have now some of the dark blue plates, with their wonderful pictures, that fascinated me as a child, and held their charm until I was a big girl. Then there were knives with bone handles, fastened on by steel rivets. The forks had two slender tines, that father declared were "just the handiest things in the world to pick a chicken's neck with." I remember the operation. One tine was inserted in the passage of the cord, held firmly, and joint after joint dislocated, and removed. How I wished <u>I</u> could do it!
The old clock that stood so many years on the mantle of the sewing-room at 1215 Putnam Avenue was perhaps their proudest possession. It is now in Aunt Elizabeth's garret, waiting to have its case "done over" and its honest old face made more attractive. I am sure I feel sorry for it. I fancy I hear it saying to itself: "How dull it is after ticking away for nearly seventy years, to stand here idle, with only the memories of past years to comfort me! And I don't see why, indeed! I've heard my mistress say while winding me up at night: 'Good old clock; you the the best timekeeper in the house.' I was never lonesome before in my life. So many babies were held up to my face, with eyes big with wonder, while I was made to strike over and over again. I wonder, will I ever hear children's voices again? And I remember the distress of my old mistress, after my master died, because she had lost my key, and she feared she would never hear my voice again. She could not sleep that night, but wept bitterly, and said softly, 'Dear Old Clock!" All the above is true, and I sigh with the old clock as I think of it.
After a few years the little family moved to [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schenevus,_New_York Schenevus], a pretty, stirring little town at the foot of South Mountain, and my father had a carriage shop of his own. But, after not very long, my father, having a boy and girl of his own, concluded that the town was not the best place in which to "bring them up." Thereupon he bought a small farm on South Hill. Not until it because the fashion to go to the mountains for a vacation, was the grand old hill dignified by the name of "mountain".
==South Hill Farm==
==Removal to Ohio==
The time came to go to [[Ohio]], a sad time for our parents, but a joyful time for Emory and me. We had never seen a [[Railroad|railroad]] train, and were quite excited by the thought of riding on the cars. A week at a hotel before our household goods arrived was a great experience. Then we settled in a small house, not half so nice as my grandmother's. In [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Logan,_Ohio Logan], I attended for the first time a <u>graded</u> school. From the progress made in two years, I think it was an excellent school. It had one feature I never saw in any other school. <u>Monday's</u> lessons were a review of the lessons of the preceding week. Having a good memory and liking to recite by <u>topic</u>, Monday was my favorite school day. I do not wish to linger over our Ohio experiences. Just a few incidents, and then, Westward ho!
==Dress and Peaches==
It happened, the next Sunday, that Uncle William came in just as I got my bonnet to go to Sunday School. I took off the cover of the band-box, and could I believe my eyes? Yes, there was a wreath of pink rose-buds in MY bonnet. Clapping my hands, I exclaimed, "Oh, glory, hallelujah!" Then I felt frightened. I had not meant to say that. Uncle William laughed and said, "Mercy's a Methodist, all right, Fanny; flowers won't hurt her." But it did not end there. I felt that my mother was grieved, and, somehow, I didn't enjoy the wreath. Before the week was over I asked her to take it out and put back the ruche, and she did.
Now about the peaches. I had missed the drive int he in the country with my uncle, but I was to enjoy one with my father. Peaches were ripe, and the crop was so large that bushels and bushels were left to rot on the ground. It did not pay to take them to market, and the process of canning was not yet known. A farmer had said, "Come out and help yourself to peaches." So into the country we went, enjoying everything: the blue skies and fleecy clouds overhead; the soft summer breezes, the fields and the thrifty overladen orchards. We went home with several bushels of peaches in the back of the wagon: beauties, white and yellow, as large as oranges. Newspapers were spread on the floor of a vacant chamber and the peaches carefully spread out upon them. For many days we FEASTED <u>feasted</u> on peaches.
==Chills and Fever==
At some seasons of the year, Ague Fever was very prevalent. This was attributed to the canal that ran along the outskirts of the city. We lived not very far from the canal. Mother's heart was touched by the sufferings of the poor, and, quite often, taken me with her, we went from house to house with a basket of food - soup, broth, custards, jelly and bread. Sometimes we found the whole family prostrated; some shaking with a chill; others, the chill over, were burning with fever; and no one was able to help the others.
But the ague was not confined to the poor; few escaped it altogether. My father had it severely for a long time. During our stay in Ohio, he took so much quinine that his hearing was permanently dulled. Mother and Emory, after some time, had chills every other day. I escaped so long that I boasted that I was NEVER <u>never</u> going to have the ague. Then, one day, every bone in my body ached; I felt a suspicious sensation along my spine. Could it be a CHILL<u>chill</u>?
I spread a comforter under the "spare bed", an old-fashioned four poster, with a cretonne valance; took a pillow and crawled out of sight, like a wounded creature. No one should know that I had a chill. There I shook BRAVELY<u>bravely</u>, until the chill had passed. When the fever came, I wanted my MOTHER<u>mother</u>. Oh! How good were her applications of cold water to my burning head! And how BITTER <u>bitter</u> were the quinine powers!
==Protracted Meetings==
Nightly, after the preaching, opportunity was given to any who desired to be prayed for, to come forward and kneel at the "altar". Godly persons went through the congregation, speaking to those who seemed seriously inclined, urging them to seek the Lord, and accept His salvation. Meanwhile the congregation stood, singing hymns of invitation, many lifting up their hearts in silent prayer.
Here is a hymn I loved. It had SEVEN <u>seven</u> verses. I will give you only three.
"Come, ye sinners, poor and needy, weak and wounded, sick and sore;
The second winter of our stay in Ohio, meetings were held, for many weeks, every night except Saturday. I do not think I missed one of them. A large number "joined the church", and I trust many were truly converted. It was then I became a member of the Methodist Church, which relationship continued until about a year before my marriage.
I desire not to criticize, but must say from many years of experience, that the FINISHED WORK OF CHRIST<u>finished</u> <u>work</u> <u>of</u> <u>Christ</u>, as the GROUND OF PEACE<u>ground</u> <u>of</u> <u>peace</u>, was not preached; at least not as the ONLY <u>only</u> ground, so there was no SETTLED <u>settled</u> peace; how could there be? The prominence given to EXPERIENCE led <u>experience</u> led to self-occupation, which is fatal to true peace. Methodists believed one truly converted might "fall from grace" and be lost.
Happy was the day when I first heard the eternal security of the believer in Christ, plainly preached from the WORD OF GOD<u>Word</u> <u>of</u> <u>God</u>, by your dear uncle Paul.
But I have a very tender memory of some godly Methodists. There was "old father Vandeburgh", as everybody called him. He was quite aged and feeble, but was always at the prayer meeting, and among the first to pray. He often sang his favorite hymn, with the chorus: "Only MERCY will do for ME." It seems to me I never met him that he did not speak to me of the Lord Jesus.
A thaw, a freeze, followed by a light snow, made the walks dangerous. Coming home from meeting one night, my mother slipped on the unseen ice and fell, hurting her limb. It did not seem serious; the doctor said a little rest would make it all right, but inflammatory rheumatism set in, and my mother could not leave her bed. We had never had hired help in the house, and it was for a moment to be thought of. I could sweep, make beds, set the table and wash dishes. Father said he would do the cooking. The washing and ironing must be sent out.
Well, those were weary days. I soon learned to cook meat and vegetables. Father always made the bread. If there were bakeries then, as now, we did not avail ourselves of them. Once, when we had company, I thought to surprise everybody by a beautiful cake for tea. All went well for a time. When I thought that the cake must be nearly done, I opened the oven door softly, to find the most discouraged looking cake I ever saw! What could be the matter? I confided to my mother. "Did you put soda and cream of tartar in your cake?" she asked. "Oh! I did NOT<u>not</u>." Well, never mind, Mercy, you have enough without cake.
Our guest saw me take the cake out of the oven. Seeing, she understood, and with ready sympathy, insisted that we should have the cake for tea. It tasted better than it looked, and all assured me that it would have been a BEAUTIFUL cake <u>beautiful</u> cake if soda and cream of tartar had not been forgotten. I have no doubt that my pride needed just that "wet blanket".
Mother was always cheerful. Whatever she suffered, she did not complain; whatever she feared, she kept it to herself, or, I doubt not, told it to the Lord. The summer was passing and she could walk only a little, and with the help of crutches.
Father was hard at work in his little shop, making a light lumber wagon, which was in some ways peculiar and attracted considerable attention. But he was not his usual, cheerful self. I often heard my father and mother talking after I was in bed. Sometimes in the night, I heard my father groan and toss about. What did it mean? Was it only worry about my mother? I MUST KNOW<u>must</u> <u>know</u>; so I asked. "Mother, what is the matter with Father? He doesn't seem happy, as he used to be?" She hesitated, but seeing my earnestness, replied: "Your father is in great trouble; he scarcely sleeps at night, and I am sick and cannot help him." She cease, the sound of tears trembled in her voice.
"Tell me, Mother, I can help." "You do help, my child, but you cannot understand. Father's money is gone. The business has failed, and all is lost, Father's money and Uncle William's. When the wagon is done, and I am well enough, we will go West and begin over again, your father a poor man." I'm afraid I felt like asking: "It that all?" for I knew nothing of the importance of money. We had never had much money, and we had been comfortable and happy.
When the South Hill farm and all its belongings were sold, the $7,000 was not mentioned before the children. I do not think I knew how much money Uncle William had invested for my Father, nor that it was practically all he had. Mother's lameness seemed to me the only thing that really mattered. Going West sounded like a promise of good things, and, being young, I could not long be unhappy.
When my Father discovered that I knew, I think it comforted him to talk to me. He explained all about the wagon he was making. The "Prairie Schooner", the canvas-covered mover's wagon, was often seen dotting the prairies, on the westward trail in those days; but THIS <u>this</u> wagon was to be of an improved type, hence the curious lookers-on around the shop.
The body of the wagon was light, but strong, and the springs were of the best. The box jutted out over the wheels to give extra room. Behind the spring-seat, wide enough for three, there was a floor level with the top of the box, for my mother's bed, for she was not able to sit up. Trunks and all sorts of things could be stowed away underneath. Over all was a square frame, instead of the usual hoops. This was covered with canvas, and then with black oilcloth to exclude rain. The sides had curtains that could be rolled up, or tightly buttoned down. Overhead were pockets for things needed on the way. At the back of the wagon was my father's toolchest, and a feed trough, ingeniously arranged; underneath, I can't begin to tell what! No doubt many of my father's sleepless hours had been spent puzzling over the arrangement of OUR <u>our</u> Prairie Schooner. Those who saw it talked about it, and others came to see.
At last the wagon was finished, painted and striped with the skill that my father had acquired during his apprenticeship. The doctor said if anything could help mother to recovery, it would be out-door air, entire change and diversion of mind. It was decided that we would go to [[Illinois]] in October. Meanwhile preparations went on SURELY on <u>surely</u> if slowly.
Uncle William, almost crushed by his misfortune, and grieved more for my father than for himself, sold all his personal property, including a silver-mounted harness and handsome buggy. He gave his fine span of grey horses, his gold watch, and what money he could spare, to my father. Then he bade us a sorrowful good-bye, and went to South America or Australia, I cannot be sure which. I believe he was only once heard from afterward.
Father had also a young and valuable horse which he decided to take with us. It would be useful to ride on the way, and afterwards on the farm which my father intended to purchase. Our household goods were crated to be shipped a part of the way by canal; then by rail to our destination.
For some time I had felt dissatisfied with my name, not to my praise, surely, but with some reason. Among schoolchildren, and with some persons, the word "mercy" was a common ejaculation: "O mercy!" or "Mercy on us!" and I had come to wish my name was not Mercy. Now that we were going far away to live among strangers, why not change my name? Father and my mother gave a willing consent. After making several lists of girls' names, and "trying them on", I found that none of them FITTED <u>fitted</u> me. So I concluded to write my name "Anna M.", instead of Mercy Ann, and when asked what "M." stood for, to say Mabel. And so I write it to this day; but in the old Family Bible it is still, "Mercy Ann".
==The Journey==
A few hours ahead of us were three mover's wagons, that had stopped overnight in the town. We overtook them at noon; were pleasantly greeted, and questioned as to our destination. We continued in company for three days, when our ways diverged. There were young children that ran about whenever the wagons halted. The women looked tired but patient. They came to see "the sick lady", and talked about the new homes they hoped to make in the far West. We liked it better, however, when we were left to journey quite by ourselves.
The early mornings and evenings were so beautiful! The joyful bird-songs in the morning; the sleeping twitterings at nightfall; a few late flowers, golden rod and asters bloomed by the wayside; autumn leaves were red and bronze and gold. We did NOT <u>not</u> sing: "The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year."
At night, my father liked to camp near a house or barn, perhaps for the sense of security it gave. At no time did we meet with other than a friendly greeting. Of one such occasion, I have a happy remembrance. The farmer opened the big orchard gate, saying: "Drive inside, and help yourselves to apples and cider", for in one corner of the orchard a cider mill was at work. When the good man's wife heard about our mother, she came to see her, bringing something for her comfort. If we were POOR<u>poor</u>, it was a pleasant and friendly world we were traveling in. When we were ready to start the next morning, the farmer brought a bag of apples and a jug of cider, for which we "must find room somehow". How kindness refreshes the heart of the giver, not less than that of the recipient.
Indiana was a beautiful state, full of fine orchards. I regret that I cannot give you important details and descriptions of the country, but only my pleasant recollections.
Our journey occupied three weeks, and only once did it rain, more than a shower to lay the dust. ONe One day in the last week, as the sun was going down, black clouds rolled up quickly from the horizon. Peal after peal of thunder shook the air. So rapidly did the storm approach, that my father began to think of seeking shelter. Just as the storm broke on us, he drove in among a group of grain-stacks, near the roadside. The horses were drenched, but we, safely buttoned up in the wagon, were quite dry.
Darkness had fallen and the rain had ceased, when the glimmer of a lantern revealed a man coming from a house a little way across the road. It was a kind-hearted old Dutchman, who at once helped my father to get the horses into the barn, and then insisted that we should all go up to the house: "The old woman had said so." We entered a large kitchen, full of the smoke of baking pancakes; a long table was laid where we sat down to a feast of buckwheat cakes and syrup and black coffee. Later, my father and Emory went to sleep in the wagon, while my mother and I were made comfortable at the house. I have no words to express the kindliness of the farmer-folk in those early days.
==Shady Hill==
The farm which was for some years our happy home, consisted of eighty acres of rich soil, already under cultivation. It lay on the main road to [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sycamore,_Illinois Sycamore], a thriving railroad town, sixty miles west of Chicago. On it was a large barn and a log house. Although most farmers in that vicinity had outgrown their log houses and built frame houses, it seemed quite the proper thing to begin our life "out West" in a log house. I will describe ours as well as I can.
It was long and not very high, with one window and a door in the front, and two windows in the back. Originally it had one room below and one above; but a partition across one end, divided in the middle, made two small bedrooms, each with a little square window. These were just large enough for a bed, a little stand under the window, and a small chair, leaving a narrow space at the foot of the bed. Here, hooks or nails on the partition served as a wardrobe. Fortunately, the old fashioned bedsteads were high enough to admit of a trunk or boxes under the bed. A valance was tacked at the front and at the foot of the bed. Do you ask: "How was it possible to make the bed nicely?" Well, many things can be done under difficulties. I remember my mother shaking up the featherbed thoroughly, putting sheets and covers on carefully, arranging the pillows nicely, then smoothing the top with the broom handle, and patting the corners into shape, until they suited her. Housewives were proud of their featherbeds in those days. On Uncle Leon's first visit to us in Plainfield, he made fun of our mattresses and told his people, on going back: "You should see their <u>beds</u>! Why, one can roll all over them without making a <u>dent</u>." The logs, rough outside with bark, were inside smooth and clean looking, with chinks of mortar showing between them. The furnishing of the living room was, of necessity, a very simple matter. Clean straw was scattered thickly over half of the floor, and a striped rag carpet carefully tacked down. Between the two windows stood a table with two leaves, closed when not in use. In one corner stood the melodion, in the other a bureau with bookshelves above it. A few pictures hung on the wall, and on a tiny shelf was the dear old clock. Snowy curtains at the windows; two rockers and a few straight chairs completed the arrangement of our sitting room. The side was full and certainly looked cosey (sic). We had only to step off the carpet to be in the kitchen. A kitchen stove stood near the door leading upstairs; a low bench was under the window for wash-basin and water-pail, and a roller towel was on the door nearby. At the other end was a cupboard and a kitchen table. Father built a snug little shed outside for wood, which served as kitchen in the summer.
==Teaching==