Information from Second Souvenirs, by Francis C. Waid, 1890, pp. 165-188 Extracts from his diary 1886. THANKSGIVING DAY NOVEMBER 25, 1886. "To be good is to be happy." Yesterday, after a faithful day's work plowing on the farm, I came in thinking to myself, "To-morrow will be Thanksgiving Day; how shall I spend it? No meeting or public addresses near home, and roads too bad to permit of going abroad." I was glad an opportunity had presented itself for me to invite my old neighbors, some of the oldest in our community, who are not blessed with much of this world's goods. I have known my, father do similar acts, and that was example enough for me. The three oldest women in our midst referred to were Mrs. Mary Reiser and Mrs. Handley, each in her eighty-fifth year, and Mrs. Maria Long, probably over ninety years old. With these and relatives and other friends in our neighborhood I spent a happy day. I drove to Mrs. Long's in order to get" Aunt" Maria (I call her "aunt" on account of her age), and when I invited her to the dinner she greeted me with a hearty "God bless you!" Then the willingness and pleasure with which the other two ladies tendered their acceptance of the invitation, and the expressions of gratitude they poured out as I took them home, brought me true happiness. It is the active part we take in those things, says St. James, not for doing but in doing, that brings us blessing. I also called to invite Mr. and Mrs. Norris, but found Mrs. Norris quite ill and unable to come; however I had the pleasure of presenting them with a copy of my SOUVENIR, which they seemed to like very much (* These four aged mothers are yet living (December 25,1889), and it is a pleasure to greet them ocoasionally.--F. C. Waid). My only brother, George N., also dined with us. This is one of the many ways to do good and bring happiness, and peace will ever abide with us if we keep the right way. TRUTH, which so often gladdens our hearts, will avail us nothing unless it abide in us. TRUTH will not unite with error; it is ever on the search for more truth, and when found forms a union complete in itself, drawn together as if by some magnetic influence. So if happiness does not dwell with us, it is because we are strangers to it. It would enjoy our company were we only in a condition to enjoy it. The reader may wish to know how a farmer, who has so much to do as Francis C. Waid, can find time, not only to travel, but also to write on his return home, such exhaustive accounts of his several excursions. Some time ago I began writing an account of a trip to Cincinnati and Dayton, jotting down only a little each evening, and the reader will see that I have stopped to sketch down what occurred on November 25, 1886. Yet the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but to them that persevere to the end. November 30, 1880--Another funeral today, that of Anson Chipman, a young man of about twenty-seven years, who died on the 27th instant, near Conneant Lake, in Sadsbury Township, this county, whither he had moved last spring. The funeral services were held at the Methodist Episcopal Church, Blooming Valley. He was an only child, and was reared and lived in this community, his father, Edward Chipman, who died March 25, 1868, and lies buried in Blooming Valley Cemetery, having been not only an old school-mate of mine, but also one of my scholars. The early cutting off of this young man, in the flush of youth and in the bloom of health, is food for reflection. As the pastor said in his remarks at the funeral service: "God speaks to us" in the melancholy event, and we are led to consider the language of inspiration, when the Master said: What I do now thou knowest not: but thou shalt know hereafter. Only a few weeks ago Rev. Mr. Sprague, of Meadville, delivered a discourse at the funeral of an aged man who had reached the three score and ten (or more); but here was a young man, whose general health was good, stricken down after a few days' illness. How changed the scene! It is the Lord's doirg, and it is marvelous in our eyes! "There is a Providence in the fall of a sparrow." This is another lesson to us all, especially to the young man or youth who may think to himself that as he is in good health to-day, he bids fair to live to a good age. But, young man, for aught you or I know, the aged grandfather and grandmother, who were present at Anson Chipman's funeral, may attend ours. The man has never been born who could tell what a day may bring forth. In speaking on the subject of death years ago, with my aged aunt, Temperance Fergerson, I remember making the query: "Is not our chances for life, one as good as another?" "The young may live, the old must die," was her reply. So it is well for all of us, young or old, to ponder on these firings, and be ready when the Master calls us for an account of our stewardship. "Man, like a shadow, vainly walks With fruitless cares oppress'd; He heaps up wealth but can not tell By whom 'twill be possess'd." December 10, 1886--On the 8th of this month Mr. and Mrs. Pember Phillips, of Townville, Crawford County, paid us a pleasant visit. James McCullough died today (10th), in his eighty-fifth year, his wife having preceded him to the grave within two days of exactly two years ago. Both rest in Blooming Valley Cemetery. In this book I make mention of the deaths that occur in our own neighborhood and community, for the reason that we seem to be so often reminded of our final departure. I do not wonder at the inspired writer perpetuating his thoughts in those words: It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting, for the living will lay it to heart. Enjoyment is not all we were placed in this world for; we are frequently called to that place where we are to be taught the greatest lessons of life. Mrs. Melissa G. Scott and her youngest son, from Wentworth, Lake Co., Dak., who are on a visit to kindred and friends here, and were staying with us a short time, left this morning for Meadville. We had the pleasure of a visit from Mrs. Scott about four years ago. She is a sister of my honored and distinguished friend, J. Y. Gilmore, and is an old school-mate of mine. A few days after her visit I presented her with a copy of the SOUVENIR and a photograph of the family, as a memento from her friend, for which she expressed her thanks. More to follow, David