Houston County Researchers: For the past 3 years, I have been compiling a book entitled: EYEWITNESS ACCOUNTS OF HOUSTON COUNTY, GEORGIA 1821-1871: Copyright 2000 by William A. Mills. I thought I had this book finished last year, but I keep finding more interesting items to include in it. By the time that I actually print this book, it may be too large to contain in one volume. But, there is no need to keep all of this good info hidden away. I stumbled across an original story written by a man who was born in 1826, and resided in Perry, GA for several decades. This story was supposed to be published right after the Civil War, but I cannot find any evidence that it ever was. I've checked everywhere that I can, and no one has ever heard of it before. ================>>> Portions from Chapter 15: I can never forget the first boy-drunk in town, and the excitement caused by it; poor. He was persuaded by the enemy that he wasn't a boy any longer, and forgot that he had just entered his teens. Would it benefit any one for me to tell what spiritous liquors did for others of my early associates? If so, I would here and now endure most willingly the pain of recording it all with the lamentable results to each of them; but alas!, alas! the past and present strewn with slain husbands, fathers, brothers and friends is an old song, and the voice of warning is too faintly heard amid the increasing din and rage of the deadly onslaught upon those who are to possess and rule when we are gone, and why? Why? Let those of us who have children, ponder the question, and allow the only truthful answer to urge and nerve us on to open hostility and never-ceasing combat against this formidable and insatiate slaver of our best hopes. Another of my schoolmates was about being arrested by the sheriff with a warrant for misconduct in the Methodist church during Divine service. He hastily hunted up the trustee who procured the warrant, acknowledged his error, and promised never to be guilty of it again; whereupon, an estopal was ordered, and there was no disturbance in either of the churches for a long time afterwards. Query: how many boys and girls now know that there is a punative civil law against growing evil? And if they are all ignorant of the fact, who is to blame for it? A humble mound in our [Evergreen] Cemetery marks the resting place of Nancy Gray. She was a cripple and died when young. We missed her from school. She often led us in our plays and romps, and very many hours of high glee and joyous, merry pastime are remembered as we ran and skipped to keep ever with her. Another, whose name I cannot recall now, was homely until pretty. All of us loved her because she was good and contributed so much to our enjoyment, often calling us up and reading or relating to us a pleasing story. From her, I first heard the story of "Little Red Riding Hood" and "Cock Robin". I have never seen or heard from her since she left school, and hope she is, if in life, happy as when I knew her. Julia, Jennie and myself composed a grammar class. Jennie was head, my gallantry placed me foot, and just that one time, I wished there was no such word, or that I could ignore it then. But it wouldn't, and I had to endure the "cut off" (as we would say then) as best I could. I wanted to stand by the side of Jennie, you see. Well, Julia was not dull, but deliberate, and Jennie was quick. We were reciting the variations of irregular verbs. "Think" came to Julia. Jennie whispered in her ear, "present think, imperfect thunk, perfect participle thunked", responded Julia with emphasis. "Why, Julia!" said the teacher, looking over his spectacles. "Well, Mr. H., Jennie told me that was it". Jennie confessed, and the risibles of the master were so affected by the sell, that he administered only a mild rebuke, and "think, thunk, thunked" passed into frequent use at times and on occasions, whether apropos or not. There were two Matildas, two Harriets, two Susans, two Julias, two Lizzies, half a dozen Sallies, a dozen Marys, Rebecca, Caroline, Flora, Martha, Margaret, Ann, Jennie and others. Years afterward, I passed a bevy of beautiful girls on the side walk, and remarked to my old bachelor friend H., who was with me, "that was the prettiest bouquet of flowers I had ever seen", but was mistaken. These school girls, who were nearly all my class-mates, especially the two blue-eyed Lizzies, one Sallie, and beautiful, brown-eyed Jennie, all in home-spun and calico dresses, blue checked aprons, split bonnets, home-knit gloves, with their flowing, natural dresses and fairy forms, with whom we romped, roamed the wild, wild woods for angelico and flowers, gathered around Fanny Gresham. We went to see old Mrs. McLean to have our fortunes told, angled in the Big Indian and Fanny Gresham, fished for love, played and sung "old sister Phoeba", "Thimble", etc., the nectar of whose ruby lips we sometimes tasted, and were as particular about and thankful for as was the Scotch preacher who, after his intended agreed to a kiss, asked a blessing, and after taking it, returned thanks. These charmed me most, and the memory of them will continue a perpetual momento to the end of life. I never attended any but a mixed school, and while I endorse separate schools for the sexes now, and believe they should be continued, as a rule. Yet, if we could get back to those "good old days", be what our fathers and mothers were in theory and practice, and children could be kept children until they were grown, "mixed schools and no others" would be our motto. Alas, that a mistaken policy, the evils of which cannot now be corrected, forces us to adhere to an objectionable system by which the proper training of our children is to be attained. Male and female schools are not, by far, the only objectionable facts in the long catalogue of modern improvement and progress, so-called. The circles around the maelstrom which threatens the destruction of the present rising generation, have thickened and increased until warnings given is seldom heeded, and our faithful pastors even may not rebuke without the risk of exposing, calling to ridicule, and their master's servants to open contempt and insult. There is no discount upon my first recollections of Fort Valley and her first citizens, among whom were: Rev. Enos Young, Rev. George W. Persons, Allen Wiggins, Dr. Hollingshead, Reuben H. Slappey, the Andersons and Kendricks, and others whose names I cannot now recall. When a boy, I thought I could tell a Fort Valleyan by looking at him; mainly because they were temperate, seemed well to do, and best of all pious, carrying with them on all occasions, the distinctive characteristics of the Methodists of that time. They had a manual labor school, of which a great deal was said. Knowing very little about it, I can give no satisfactory account of it origin, workings and failure, if failure it was. Over thirty years ago [1830s], there was a grand Fourth of July celebration there, all of the particulars of which I have forgotten except that the programme was announced by Reuben Slappey, Marshal of the day, from the portico, the forming of the procession in front of the Planter's Hotel, and a dangerous fall from my horse, which scared worse than it hurt me. From quite a village, Fort Valley has risen to the importance of a thriving, growing railroad town, has a bank, and 'ere long, will be a city. Perry is to have a railroad also, and it will cost time, money and vim to catch up and keep even with her younger sister, especially if the latter becomes the capital of a "new county that has no bridges in it". We want Fort Valley, and also Henderson, Hayneville and Wellborn's Mills, all to remain with us and have railroads too, so that "dear old Houston" may rise from her now humiliated and impoverished condition [prior to the Reconstruction Period after the Civil War], to her former self. And we hope soon to know that "Ephraim ceases to envy Judah, and that Judah does not vex Ephraim", that we are blessed with peace and prosperity in all our borders. So mote it be. In conclusion: any errors in the compilation of these reminiscences are attributable to my inexperience in writing, and other difficulties beyond my control. Very many things are purposely omitted; others from necessity. While there are also others I would forget, I cannot say with the poet: "I never plucked a fragrant rose, Whose colors glowed with crimson fire; But to increase my many woes, I took with it the pointed briar." And wish that the realities of the present and to come, would allow me to linger where memory leads, where heart memories, sweet jewels of the soul, are thick as early dew drops, which, although now tinged with the golden mellow line of life's declining sunbeams, throw their beauties beyond into the silvery morning sheen of a better, brighter day. ~~ END OF SERIES ~~ _______________________________________ William A. Mills Perry, GA [email protected] ________________________________________________________________ YOU'RE PAYING TOO MUCH FOR THE INTERNET! Juno now offers FREE Internet Access! Try it today - there's no risk! For your FREE software, visit: http://dl.www.juno.com/get/tagj.