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13-Nov-1995 Family Group Sheet Husband: Hezekiah BRAKE age: 88 Born: 4-Dec-1814 in: Sherborne, Dorsetshire, ENG Baptized: Jul 1815 in: Sherborne, Dorsetshire, ENG Died: 27-Nov-1903 in: Council Grove, MorrisCo, KS Buried: in: Greenwood Cemetery, MorrisCo, KS Ref: Occupation: farmer/school clerk Father: Bernard BRAKE Mother: Sarah BURROWS Hezekiah BRAKE received U.S. land patent in Kansas on: SE1/4 (160 acres) Section 22, Township 15, Range 8, Morris County in 1867. N1/2 of SW1/4 Section 22, Township 15, Range 8, Morris County in 1884. Living in Neosho Township, Morris County, KS in 1870. Living in Neosho Township, Morris County, KS in 1880. Living in Council Grove, Morris County, KS in 1900. Wife: Charlotte CRANHAM age: 82 Married: 25-Dec-1846 in: London, ENG Born: 29-May-1810 in: Surrey, England Died: 20-Jan-1893 in: Council Grove, MorrisCo, KS Buried: 22-Jan-1893 in: Greenwood Cemetery, MorrisCo, KS Father: Mother: F Child 1 Elizabeth (Lizzie) C. BRAKE Born: 1849 in: Wisconsin Died: AFT 1900 in: Washington Spouse: Newton H. FISHER Married: 15-Mar-1877 in: MorrisCo, KS
HEZEKIAH BRAKE Hezekiah Brake, who was an old settler of Morris County near Council Grove and resided in Council Grove several years, wrote a very interesting story book of pioneer days, titled "On Two Continents" (1896). ENGLISH REMINISCENCES The old town of Sherborne, Dorsetshire County, England, noted for its ancient abbey and cathedral, was my birthplace. I was born December 4, 1814, and was christened Hezekiah Brake in the Congregational church of my native town, in July 1815. I was one of a family of nine children - six boys and three girls. The thought of the expenses attending matrimony made me economical, and for the second time I walked to London. It was poor economy. For in so doing, I wore out a pair of shoes. I was now out of work. Upon reaching the city I bought out a coffee- shop, which I kept by myself until Christmas day, 1846, when I was married to Charlotte Cranham (born on May 29, 1810 in Surrey England). A sailing vessel named the Royal Albert was about to leave for Quebec. In April 1847, we decided to sail by it to Quebec Canada, and go from there to the United States. We hastily arranged concerning our baggage, and set sail (emigrated) from London, England the first day of May 1847. The captain ordered the steward to allow the Germans only one sea biscuit, and each passenger a quart of water daily. Shifted about by contrary winds, we were filled with great anxiety for fear of possible starvation on the high seas. CANADIAN EXPERIENCES We entered Quebec on a Sunday, and found jolly people; as we passed many houses we could hear the sound of music and dancing. Of French descent, Roman Catholics in religion, they had probably attended religious services, made confession, and now, at ease regarding eternity, were devoting themselves to the enjoyment of time. We traveled by boat from Burlington Bay to Rochester, New York. From there we were to go to Albany by way of the Erie canal, to see as much of the country as possible. We had a rough time crossing Lake Ontario. Every person on the steamboat was sick. But after a whole night's travel, we reached the opposite shore in safety, and Tuesday morning in May 1848, we landed on United States soil. EASTERN OBSERVATIONS I had often dreamed of this free country. Englishmen sometimes remarked ironically that it was a land where there was no imprisonment for debt, but where every rascal found a loophole of escape from honest payment; but my heart swelled at the thought of standing upon sacred (to liberty) ground. Forty-eight years have come and gone since that May morning. In all that time, America, (sacred, as Marryatt says, to the eternal principles of right), has been my constant home. But her skies have never looked fairer, her breezes seemed balmier, than on that glad day when she first became my "ain countree." Once in New York, our attention was engrossed with the all- important subject, "Should we go back to England, or remain in America?" To me, besides my mother's wishes, it seemed folly to return to England without having gained either knowledge or experience of a land which thousands boasted to be the best country on earth for a poor man. At this time hundreds of thousands of Europeans were annually coming into this country, and I believed that among them all there was a place for us. Our consultation ended in a mutual decision to remain; for me to visit the South, learn the character of the people, and the prospects there of earning an honest living for our family. Securing a suitable home for my wife during my absence, I obtained a ticket for a boat passage to Philadelphia, and started by way of that city to Richmond. After a two-days visit to Penn's old town, where her old governmental buildings and splendid system of waterworks were duly admired, I left the Middle States for the South. SOUTHERN GLIMPSES On the way to Richmond, I stopped in the old city of Baltimore. It proved a very delightful place to visit, and the Barnum Hotel a scene of homely good cheer. The attention of the waiters, the kindness of the guests and the courtesy of the host quite enamored me with the Southern people. I decided to settle in the South. Before leaving the city I visited its noted places. Of most interest to me were the two monuments of the Battle of 1814, and Washington. The first is fifty-two feet high, of Egyptian architecture, and is surmounted by a female figure-the genius of the city. It was built in honor of the defenders of the city in 1814. The other monument stands on an eminence, is two hundred feet high, and surmounted by a statue of General Washington. The whole design is of pure white marble. It was not long before the evils of drunkenness presented themselves so forcibly to me that, although in England I had always been accustomed to bars in public houses, I began to regret my entrance into hotel-keeping. Business always ran far into the night. My partner continued to drink heavily. Opposition companies of drunken firefighters made the night hideous with false alarms and fighting. After four months of this vexatious experience, I settled my affairs, and moved with my wife (for we had no children) to Bergen, New Jersey. NORTHERN OCCURRENCES My experience in the South had satisfied me that we could not be happy there, and I decided to look for something to do after that in the North. I soon met an Englishman, who told me there was money to be made in the wool business. Accordingly I bought a horse and sent my new acquaintance to buy all the freshly-skinned sheepskins he could secure. The boat by which we traveled was well equipped, furnished excellent fare and polite service. The journey of three hundred miles past the cities of Dubuque and La Crosse, the charming Lake Pepin, the fertile lands that spread out on either side of the noble stream, and the grand forests that formed the hunting- grounds of Sioux and Chippewas, was truly enchanting, and formed a never-to-be-forgotten beautiful experience. On June 24, 1852, our voyage ended, and we stepped ashore at Fort Snelling. MINNESOTA PIONEERING Fort Snelling, near the present important city of Minneapolis, was then the limit of northern civilization. Its commanding officer was captain Steele. The site was on a fine plateau, stretching out to Crystal and Christmas lakes. Magnificent bridges now span the stream over which ferryboats used to pass to St. Anthony's Falls. The rapids are used for running mills which turn the wheat of the surrounding country into flour and the huge logs of the forests into timber. The city of Minneapolis long since included St. Anthony within its limits, and only the Falls preserve the name of the old village. We reached the spot (Purgatory, Minnesota), and to our surprise were presented with the prettiest child (adopted daughter) I have ever seen. The family was poor, and the parents (born in Maine) had several children. As our children had all died in infancy, believing we could support little seven-year-old (Elizabeth) Lizzie (born in Wisconsin) better than they, she was offered to us as a gift. It would be impossible to express our gratitude. And to this day the child, whose father died soon after, has been the crowning blessing of my life. As I passed through Excelsior, Minnesota, I realized however, that my work as a pioneer had not been in vain. When we landed on the lake-shore in 1852, the surrounding region was a wilderness, undisturbed save by the steps and voices of the red men. Wild beasts infested the forests, and civilization seemed afar off. Now the country was being transformed into a fertile farming community. Where I had built the first white man's cabin six years previous, Excelsior, a thriving village now stood. The river was covered with a coating of ice, through which our boat plowed its way. By the time Lake Pepin was reached, the ice was over an inch thick. We reached St. Louis, however, in ten days, and put up at a hotel. MISSOURIAN EXPECTATIONS Boat-fare was much cheaper in those days than are railroad tickets now. Our passage, including board, only cost us fourteen dollars. The trip was a pleasant one. It was with great satisfaction that I listened often to glowing praises of St. Paul, Minneapolis, Stillwater, and Excelsior - all towns of which I was justly proud. Imagine our feelings when the boat, within eighteen miles of our destination, stuck in the ice, and not amount of pressure could budge it an inch farther. There was nothing else to do but disembark. The "passengers" went ashore, secured a farm wagon as a conveyance, a farmer as a driver, and jolted into Independence about midnight. As for myself, I was so cold that I put my small luggage on my back, and walked most of the way. In the morning, we went on to Westport where Mr. A. had a fine span of American mules. The next day we left for Council Grove, Kansas, the rendezvous of freighters and traders who were crossing the plains. Kansas City stands now near the old town of Westport, but, save for the Wyandotte Indians, there were few settlers on this side of the river. A TRIP ACROSS THE PLAINS [on the Santa Fe Trail] We started February 1, 1858, Mr. A. and myself driving his mules to a buggy. We made half the one hundred and forty miles the first day, sleeping at night with a settler named Barricklow. Only a shell of a house, the building was barely inclosed, and I suffered greatly from cold. After an almost sleepless night, I arose and went out to see after the mules. On the way to Council Grove (February 2, 1858), at the present Burlingame, Mr. A. employed a man named Louis Boyse to accompany us across the plains. We reached Council Grove that night, and began our arrangements for the trip to New Mexico. Seth Hayes, so well-known as the first trader in the present county of Morris, Kansas, kept a store and an outfitting station at Council Grove at this time. He had in keeping now six small Mexican mules, a good pony, a large wagon, and various other necessary acquisitions to our outfit. It took us four days to get the animals ready and lay in a supply of everything needful for our journey. An old Negress who worked for Mr. Hays roasted coffee, made cakes, and gave us a keg of pickles and sauerkraut as relishes. On the last night before we started, the prospect seemed especially gloomy to me. Far away from my wife and child, and six hundred miles of constant danger in an uninhabited region was not a pleasant prospect for contemplation. But I laughed with the rest, joked about roasting our bacon with buffalo chips, and the enjoyment we would derive from the company of skeletons that would strew our pathway. We went off in grand style the next morning. The huge prairie-schooner was well filled. We took with us for planting and feeding half a ton of shelled corn. Besides this, we had Hungarian-grass seed, rifles, boxes of crackers, bacon and sugar, robes, blankets, and many other articles-about two tons in all. Louis Boyse (a great fellow bigger than the mule he rode) and I (a small man, armed with a "blacksnake" whip, and riding a small pony) were the attendants. Mr. A. drove the six Mexican mules, and the American mules were tied behind the wagon. On the first day, we only reached Diamond Springs, about twenty miles from Council Grove, and there camped on the first day. We traveled slowly now, for we were all nearly worn out, but we were certain if nothing happened, to reach Fort Union in three or four days. There were plenty of watering-places during the last stages of our journey. Point Rocks, Cold Springs and Wet Stone Basin were all passed with animals that had made better time than the mail. We were only twenty-eight days on the road, including our delays on the Missouri river, at Independence, and Council Grove. We entered Fort Union March 1, 1859. LIFE IN NEW MEXICO The day after our arrival in Fort Union, New Mexico, I was escorted to my new home, which was on a ranch belonging to Don Aleandro, on the Mora road, about eight miles from Fort Union and ten miles from the chief town, Mora. But I was soon consoled for my losses by a letter from my wife, who wrote that I might expect herself and Lizzie in a month, if they were not murdered on the way by Indians. On June 20, 1859, my dear wife and daughter arrived. As I clasped them in my arms and recalled our weary separation, I resolved that only death should ever again keep us apart for any length of time; and I have kept my word. The thunder of Civil War was heard even in this far corner of the Republic, and its cloud was threatening to burst any time upon our devoted country. I decided to return to the States when possible, and began to make preparations accordingly. I intended to stop in Kansas for a short time, and then go on to Minnesota to take possession of my property. I accordingly gathered for the expedition, an outfit consisting of an ambulance, the chief's mare, and old gray mare, and two ponies. After settling with the contractor at the Fort, I found due me on my subcontract four hundred dollars. I did not like to carry it with me, and I intrusted it to Seņor Weber, who freighted goods across the plains each year. He, fearing depredations from so- called "Jayhawkers," did not follow me for two years. To the fact that I stayed in Kansas until I could receive this money, I may attribute my permanent settlement in that State. The first of March 1861, was a gala-day to us. We felt happy at the prospect of returning to civilization, though we had to cross a part of the Great American Desert to reach it. It was a fearfully windy day, and we only reached Fort Union. My faithful dog watched with me all the night. At last the light of dawn shown in the east, the wind fell, and with reviving courage we faced toward our far-off home in Minnesota. THE RETURN TRIP There is something invigorating in the thought of returning to long-absent friends, though hosts of difficulties lie in the way; and, anxious to proceed, before we camped for breakfast that morning, we were fifteen miles on our way toward the Raton Mountains. Here we unloaded, and rested our much-fatigued horses, and then journeyed on to Ockata, where there was a good camping-place. I had decided to return by a different route than that taken by Don Aleandro in our trip to New Mexico. We would go through Colorado into Kansas, and strike the other [Santa Fe] trail at the Arkansas river. We soon passed Lost Springs, and camped in the Diamond valley. The next day, May 6, 1861, brought us to the place of our destination-Council Grove, Kansas. LIFE ON A KANSAS FARM Council Grove, Kansas, in 1861, was a very different place from the same town in 1896. Only a few houses were on the site of the village, although it was growing, and throughout Morris County there was little in the way of improvements. The Kaw Indians owned the land on which the town was located, and while their title was in force it seemed useless to attempt permanent improvements. We had no home. A Reverend William Bradford lent us a claim-house for one week. We started for our new home-a log shanty in the midst of a sea of waving grass. Indians usually select the best locations. I decided that as I must stop somewhere until Seņor Weber brought my four hundred dollars, it might as well be near Council Grove. There were no newspapers to afford information then in Morris County, except a very amusing sheet known as the Kansas Press. This paper was published by Colonel Sam Wood, well known in the early history of Kansas. Although Kansas was settling up rapidly, people came into Morris County more slowly than into the adjacent counties, because of the Indian titles to the land. Morris County had taken her part, however, in the early struggles. A good person named William Owens, wishing to contribute his support as a soldier to the Union cause, was attempting to sell his Morris County land so he could be free to enter the army. He had a half-section of land upon which he had "squatted," a one- roomed log house without a window, and a log foundation for another shanty. I bought both quarter-sections, and as it was not lawful to hold more than one, I gave the other to a neighboring squatter. We then moved into the house; the furniture consisted of one table, one bedstead, and a chair. At length (December 1861), a preacher of the Christian church named Porter Fisher (Newton's father) found us, and came like an angel of mercy to our relief. He brought with him quinine for the ague, articles from which we could make nourishing food, and his team with which he hauled us much wood. He also brought with him men to help cut up the wood, and never left us until we were as comfortable as sickness would allow us to be. The first relief of this time came to us in March (1862). A Mr. William Polk purchased of us eight large walnut trees for a dollar apiece, and began making walnut shingles-about the first of the kind made in Kansas. The eight dollars were a great help to us. A little later, although far from strong, I went to work for Mr. Polk at one dollar per day as a sort of second sawyer in the shingle business. A plan suggested to me by Honorable William Downing, Representative for our district, began to take shape in my mind. It was to the effect that we remove to Topeka, the lately made Capitol of Kansas, and educate our daughter in the College of the Sisters of Bethany. Being Episcopalians, it pleased us to think of sending Lizzie to a school of that denomination. I decided to take Mr. Downing's advice. I went to Topeka and secured a house and twelve acres of land, about a mile northwest of the business part of the town and south of the Kaw River. The house then standing in Topeka was built of brick and stone. The grounds were a small nursery and garden. Our road to Topeka was over the old Santa Fe Trail. There was no railroad, and we went overland with a team, a pony, two cows, and a calf. We made half the journey in one day, and camped at night with the heavens for a canopy and the twinkling stars for companions. We were very tired, and congratulated ourselves on being so near our new home. A hired team had gone forward with our goods and a young calf, whose mother we drove with the other cow. A STAY IN EARLY TOPEKA There were less than eight hundred people in Topeka when I settled there as a resident. Yet Topeka was only a village, but with mighty prospects before it. But even then Topeka had that first accessory to the real Kansas town, an excellent college. The pastor of the Episcopal church, Reverend Preston superintended its work. I took my twelve-year-old daughter to the school, and she became a pupil. We united in the Episcopal church, and remained this way during our stay in Topeka. Reverend Peter McVicar was then the Congregational minister in that little city, and I greatly valued his friendship. August 21, 1863, occurred the terrible guerilla raid upon Lawrence, Kansas. The notorious leader Quantrill led his villainous band into the place. In cold blood, they shot down most of the male citizens, burned the principal part of the town, and left the wailing women and children to mourn their cruel and untimely losses. I received word about this time that my bid on my claim had been granted. Feeling that my interest should center upon my farm, I began, now that I knew it to be my own, to prepare to return to it. The contracts were all filled, my goods packed, and myself and family on our way to our farm in Morris County by October 8, 1863. BACK TO THE FARM What was most singular for that time of the year, it snowed all day; and for twenty miles on our journey there was not a house for shelter. Five miles farther, however, was the mail- house and stables, and here we put up for the night. We found our home the next evening in a very forsaken and dilapidated condition. One of my renters had gone to the war; the other, lazy, disgruntled, or idiotic, had raised nothing, and finally deserted the place. It had only been through the kindness of a friend that my right to the place had been secured. For, although my bid was the highest, another individual came near getting it. As I looked sorrowfully at the forest of sunflowers, some of which were twelve feet high and had to be cut with an axe, and at the dense growth of poisonous weeds that covered every fertile spot, I felt how difficult it was to make a home in Kansas. A school opened about two miles from us, at the place where Kelso now stands. During the school season, Lizzie would saddle her pony, ride to school, and return in the evening as she went. Sometimes, frightened at approaching Indians or suspicious- looking whites, she would ride for her life. Children did not find it easy to get an education in the early Kansas days. In January 1864, having run out of money, I turned my attention to the resources of my claim. I had about forty acres of fine timber, and I took a contract to furnish the sawmill at Council Grove with much cord-wood and posts. This occupied the winter, and the month of March was taken up in hauling the forest products over the eight miles to the Grove. In February, I paid for my claim in Kaw land scrip, and at last felt that again we had a home of our own. Before we left our first home in Kansas, which we sold upon buying the other, a terrible freshet occurred. The creeks and rivers overflowed. The thundering of the waters and the swirl of mighty logs in the rapid currents, for two days and nights, were awful. The water of the Slough Creek (was so named by the early settlers because of the many sloughs and pools along its course) came up around my cabin, and washed the soil away from my corn. It was the first experience of the kind we had suffered. As we were not sure that our ark of refuge could stand the storm, it was with relief we at last watched the waters subside. Although I was given possession of our new estate and the patent was signed by Abraham Lincoln, I did not secure a warranty deed until September 17, 1867. The new house was a good two- story log building having a large fireplace which connected with a capacious rock chimney. In it, we were hardly pioneers any longer. I tried diversified farming in the spring of 1867. Ten acres each of corn, spring wheat, and oats, five of millet, some potatoes, buckwheat, and several smaller crops were planted. Kansas soil and climate were too uncertain to depend upon one kind of product. The season was dry, and crops were considered a failure. But I had the value of irrigation in New Mexico, and there was plenty of water in Munkres Creek (received its name from J. C. Munkres, who settled on it in 1854). So, by some effort, I saved my garden. About this time, the Missouri Kansas & Texas Railroad was built through Morris County. Judge T. S. Huffaker, the former Kaw Indian teacher, had a contract for furnishing part of the ties for this road. The settlers had a reasonable hope of making some money though the crops had failed. Morris County had waited a long time for a railroad, and the prospects now opened were most alluring to the settlers. Bonds were voted, and Judge T. S. Huffaker, who was to furnish the ties from Parkerville to Council Grove, opened a large store for the accommodation of the workers. Our native timber furnished the ties. I was to provide two hundred oak and walnut ones at seventy-five cents apiece. My ties were made, delivered and paid for before spring. A Mr. Parker and a Mr. McKensie were pushing the grading of the road. It was carried forward with so much energy that by the spring of 1868, Council Grove had a good depot, and was a town on the new railroad. On April 24, 1867, an earthquake shock was felt in Kansas. It was accompanied by a deadly roar that sounded like thunder. I had an Irishman named Mike Miller working for me. A great calamity fell upon us during the summer of 1871. My daughter, while climbing into a wagon, twisted her right limb and slipped her kneecap. It was some time before her quick steps flitted through the house and over the farm as usual, and fretting made her anxious and unhappy. A physician came and put the bone in place, but, a terrible storm coming up, he had to remain over night with us. When his bill came, it included the item of detention, and reckoned up to twelve dollars and thirty cents for one visit. It was the only time I ever was charged for entertaining a man, and I insisted to Mrs. Brake that the character of her famous cooking was at stake, and that her hospitality must have been fearful in the extreme. I had decided to try another experiment in wintering (1871- 1872) stock; so I took for a man named Frank Mecker, ten head of cattle to feed until spring. [Editor: Mr. Brake had an English boy named Percy Ebbutt working for him.] It was a wet winter. Toward spring the cattle tramped mud-holes near the creek, and would sometimes get into places from which it took much effort to extricate them. I lost three head of stock, and Mr. Mecker one, in this way. Mr. Mecker insisted that his stock was registered. Despite the work I had done, to bring his cattle safely through the winter, the loss of this one was my fault. I had to lose the pay for all of them. Thus, Kansas cattle involved me as deeply as did those from Texas. A sad tragedy occurred on the night of May 14, 1872, at the selfsame spot where I came near being drowned. We allude to the drowning of Annis Baker Somers (was the widow of Judge Baker, who was murdered on Rock Creek in 1862. She remained here and made her home in the family of Judge T. S. Huffaker. In the Spring of 1872, she had but recently - but one short month - married), J. B. Somers (a rising young lawyer of our place, and at the time of his death Morris County Attorney.), a good person named Philip B. Roberts (was one of our most estimable citizens, a man of strict integrity and beloved by all who knew him. He was a brother of Porter S. Roberts of Council Grove), and Miss Susie Huffaker (was a young lady of amiability and accomplishments, a general favorite, and of a happy, joyous nature. She was born within a hundred yards of where she met her sad fate, in the Mission building which had once been used as a school for Indians when her father was teacher. The Kaw Indians testified their esteem for the family by turning out to the funeral to the number of about two hundred. Susie Huffaker was the oldest daughter of Judge T. S. Huffaker). Somers, his wife and Susie Huffaker had been attending the anniversary exercises of the Methodist Church South Sabbath School, held at Huffaker's Hall, now R. M. Rigdon's store. About nine o'clock in the evening, and not long before the exercises were to close, Mr. Somers goes to P. B. Roberts, who kept a livery stable and employed him to take a two-seated buggy and convey the party to the home of Judge T. S. Huffaker, where Somers and his wife were temporarily staying. The night was rainy and stormy, and the Neosho River raising very rapidly. Somers directed Roberts to cross at the "Mission Ford," a crossing place near the old Kaw Mission building above town. W. F. Shamleffer and the writer (John Maloy) saw the party getting into the vehicle and heard Somers' directions about crossing at the ford. We immediately represented the danger of such an attempt, and begged him to cross the river on the main street bridge. Somers, who was stubborn and unyielding when he once decided, persisted in carrying out his original intention, and the entire party were driven into the swollen stream at headlong speed, the approach to the water being a rapid descent. The Neosho river was very high and the water was running like a mill- race. When the buggy struck and overturned with the current a shriek of despair went up, and every soul in the party went down under the carriage and horses, and drowned to be seen no more alive. A man who was living in the mission building hurriedly ran downtown and spread the news. The horses had kicked loose from the buggy and swam out. Soon the banks were lined with an anxious crowd, but nothing could be done but construct boats and rafts and go to work and search for the drowned. It was a wild, dark and stormy night, but little sleep came to our people; watching, searching, praying, was the avocation of this community on that ever to be remembered night. Day came but not a body was found, though the subsidence of the waters during the day enabled the searchers (citizens with the aid of Indians) to recover all four of the bodies before night, and restore them to their friends. Judge T. S. Huffaker was so well known as the friend of the Indian and the representative of good government. Not only Morris County, but the State of Kansas, sympathized with him in his sad affliction. People for miles around Council Grove gathered and dropped tears of regret. The funeral took place on May 16, 1872. It was the largest attended funeral that ever took place in Morris County. The main streams of Kansas were then bridged, but the smaller ones were often dangerous. The pioneers of Kansas incurred much danger and hardship in crossing these narrow, deep creeks and rivers. These filled so rapidly one could hardly tell whether it was safe to enter them. I had always been greatly interested in the education of the youth of the State. At this time and for several subsequent years I served as clerk of our school district in Neosho Township, Morris County, Kansas. Some pleasant memories of my life cluster around the educational work. I well remember Isaac T. Goodnow, the State Superintendent from the year 1861 until 1864. During the first year of his work, he traveled over the sparsely-settled State by team, visiting its every settled county. Doctor McVicar, another Superintendent, was also a valued friend, and one to whom the youth of Kansas owe much gratitude for the splendid work he did for the schools of the State. An event of interest to the entire State and to Morris County in particular, occurred in 1873. The Kaw or Kansas Indians, our native tribe, were removed from the State. The Government of the United States had long promised to send them to a reservation in the Indian Territory, but so far had failed to do so. There was only about two hundred of this once large tribe left. There was very little sentiment wasted upon them when they bade their longtime home farewell, and left Kansas for good. In October 1876, our daughter, who had been visiting friends in the East for ten months, returned to her Kansas home. She had made the journey alone with true Kansas pluck, and on the return trip had stopped in Philadelphia, and visited the great Centennial exhibition. We were so overjoyed to have her with us after her long absence. The labors of harvest seemed wonderfully lightened by the thought that any time we could look into her pleasant face, and listen to her cheery voice. January 1877, was a snowy, hard time, but February was a most delightful month a Kansas winter had produced. On March 15, 1877, occurred the wedding of our only child, Lizzie C. Brake - 28, in the log cabin where she had passed her happy youth. A Christian minister named Reverend T. Hutton joined her hand with that of Newton H. Fisher - 36 (who owned land on Munkers Creek near Council Grove), and pronounced the sacred words that made them husband and wife. When the supper her loving mother had prepared was over, we bade our darling farewell. She would not be far from us, but to say that we missed this person who had been the crowning blessing of our lives, would feebly express our feelings. Although happily and prosperously married to the son of our early benefactor, Porter Fisher, we vaguely felt she could never be quite the same to us as before her marriage. Ah! We cannot see into the future. The time came afterwards when I was a stricken, widowed, childless mourner. Lizzie, then a widow (Newton Fisher died December 9, 1883, six years nine months after their marriage) with two lovely children (Charlie & Laura), came back to me the stay of my declining years. I cannot even think what life would be without the happy faces and merry voices of my daughter's children. After long years of toil at farming, I decided to rent my land out during the year 1878 and fill a contract I had taken to supply a brick manufacturer with a hundred cords of wood. Accordingly, I rented my farm on the shares to two brothers named Johnson, who, by delaying their corn-planting for rain until too late, raised nothing. The next year (1879) I rented my farm to a widow who expected to buy it when she received a pension for her dead husband's service as a soldier. She gave up the place in a short time. I leased it for three years to a man named Simmonds, for half the peach and one-third of all other crops. Mr. Simmonds soon sold out to a Mr. Dent. Peaches were of a great size that year, and were very plentiful. My orchard yielded over five hundred bushels. For the year 1881, I let the farm to an enterprising bachelor named Crowley, who kept bachelor's hall in the old log house. Excellent results followed his efforts at farming. I gave him possession of my new home and moved with my wife to the house on the Kaw land. A well was dug, a pasture fenced, trees set out, and a garden was planted with vegetables and flowers. We soon found ourselves at home on the sunny hillside, and greatly relieved by having the responsibility of the larger farm off our hands. About this time, a man named Collier bought one of my eighties for fifteen hundred dollars. There was a mortgage on the quarter-section, and he agreed to pay it off as part of the price paid for the land. So at last we were practically free from debt, and could enjoy life without adversity constantly staring us in the face. But we were aging, and I decided now to give up farming and remove to Council Grove, where I had built us a house. So, when Providence seemed to favor our wishes and a man offered three thousand five hundred dollars for the farm, I accepted his offer. The crops did not pass with the land. I did not have to give possession until March 1, 1885, when I was to receive my Kaw land patent. There were no mortgages, taxes or other debts to settle, and we had plenty of leisure to get ready for our new home. Looking forward to this time, I had built two houses in Council Grove, and as one of them was unoccupied, in November 1884, I built a kitchen to it, had it cleaned and papered, and on November 25, 1884 we moved into the house, where today I am writing the simple story of my life. OUR EXPERIENCE IN COUNCIL GROVE As my principal and interest came in, I laid the money out in improvements in Council Grove. The long years spent in Morris County, the many warm friends about us, and our unwillingness to form new ties at our ages, would have made it impossible for us to invest in property in any other Kansas town but Council Grove. In 1886, I built a third house. My now widowed daughter left her large farm to tenants, and came with her children (Charlie & Laura) to reside in the new cottage. Grief came to me in her saddest form in the year 1891. For I could not blind my eyes to the fact that the time when I must be separated from my lifelong companion was nearby. She was taken down with la grippe, and from this time rapidly failed in health and spirits. On January 18, 1893, I carried her into the dining-room for the last time. After hours of unconsciousness, she recovered, and spoke in her old sweet tones, asking for Charlie - her grandson. On the morning of January 20, 1893, in the arms of her loving daughter, with her eyes fixed upon my face, a purest of mortal spirits passed from the earth to be with the one Lord and His Father in whom she implicitly trusted. January 22, 1893, Charlotte Cranham Brake's dear remains were laid to rest in Greenwood Cemetery, Morris County, Council Grove, Kansas. An oldest and fairest of Kansas towns, Council Grove has before her a future whose prosperity can only exceed the interest of her history in the past.