The material used in both yards was common top-soil mixed with sand—ground in a horse-propelled mill. Sand for the Hagen yard came from a pit about where Frank White’s barn-lot is, across the street from his residence. Sand for the Stowell yard came from a pit on the north side of the quarter section at the northeast corner of town. It was a treacherous pit. It caved in one time between loads when I was hauling—and it frightened me so badly that I drove back empty. And never again did I go into that pit.
Incidentally, I may say that it was claimed later a good brick-clay was found on the John Thomas farm, a half mile east of town. A promoter made the discovery. He planned to build a brick manufacturing plant at the point of discovery, and have a railroad spur run out from town—provided, however, that the town people foot the bill. Also he wanted to sell his expert knowledge at a ridiculously high figure. When it was pointed out to him that a couple of “greenhorn” boys had made fairly good brick from ordinary dirt, without financial sweetening, he gave up the venture.
At the Stowell yard I had the day shift and Sam headed the night shift during the burning procedure. For fuel we used old fence rails—mostly. And it took a lot of them. Rails fed into the five 16-foot fire tunnels to better advantage than any other wood that could be had. Wherever so many rails came from I do not recall. Likely from farms whose owners were making the change over from the old worm-fence to barbed wire, which came along about that time. Besides the firemen—three to the 12-hour shift — there were always crowds of spectators at the yard, in the early evenings.
Stowell was feeling pretty good over the splendid progress we were making, and he said to me one evening, out loud so that all could hear, “I think we ought to give the boys a chicken roast tonight.” Then, to the crowd, “Wot you say, fellows? ‘Ere two of you boys go along with John and bring back a ‘alf dozen chicks—I command John to go.”
Will Gill and Gus Anderson fell in with me. The boys named a place in the north part of town where they thought we might get the chickens without incurring too much risk of being caught. We were now passing John Stowell’s home on the corner where Cleve Battin lives. I said, “Oh, that’s too far. Why not see what Laura (Stowell’s wife) has in her chicken house here on the alley?” Will Gill said, “Why, this is Stowell’s place. We ought not steal his chickens. He might recognize them—and that would spoil all the fun.”
And, by-golly, those two boys refused to put foot on the Stowell lot—and I had to do all the dirty work. I couldn’t blame them though, because it was bright moonlight and the door of the chicken house faced the Stowell residence only a few rods to the south. But it was, probably, just as well. They wouldn’t have known where to find the choice chicks, anyway. And besides, I knew that, let ‘em squawk, Laura and the children were going to stay put. Back at the yard, the word got around that we had stolen Stowell’s chickens — and the whole gang broke into a “Chessy-cat” grin which didn’t come off during the whole evening. Stowell busied himself with the roasting, without outward signs of recognizing a chick.
John Stowell was very methodical and punctual in the conduct of his newspaper. He was reasonable in his demands of his help—and mighty fine fellow to work for. He often paid me extra when particularly pleased with our accomplishment. He insisted only that the forms be closed by six o’clock on press days. We usually printed the paper after supper, so that Stowell might address the papers for mailing—and then, too, in the winter, we could get a better print while the office was warm.
One time Stowell brought a roving printer upstairs to the composing room, having promised the fellow $5 to show me how to print in two colors from a solid cut. I told John that I thought I knew how it was done. He said, “By-jingo, maybe you can learn something, anyway.” Turning to the two-color man, he said, “Show ‘im, Mister.” But it was I who did the showing.
I looked up a cut of our then new frame school house — a carry over from another ownership—and explained how I had printed the building in brown, the yard in green, and the sky in blue, with a fleecy white cloud overhead in the background, all done with three impressions, from the solid cut. Stowell said, ‘“Ere, Mister, ‘ere’s your five dollars.” The fellow said, “I think you ought to give this to your printer—he’s gone me one better in the matter of colors.” Stowell said, “‘Ere John, I’ll give you $5 too. It’s been worth it to me.” And I said, “I think you ought to give this one to my brother Sam. He engraved the wood cut, showed me how to mix colors, and was helpful in figuring out a way to print it in three colors.” Sam was the artist in our family. Stowell said, “By-jingo, I’ll give ‘im $5 too. ‘Ow’s our supply of boxwood?” He had another three-color print in mind.
At the time of this episode, I had only one helper — Stowell’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Alice. Alex Hamel and John Kenoyer, part time type-setters, were not working that week. Alice was that sort of girl who would do pretty much as she pleased so long as her papa would stay downstairs and attend strictly to his editorial, and his hardware business.