NEWSLETTER OF THE NORTH MANCHESTER HISTORICAL SOCIETY, INC.
Volume XXVIII, No. 2, May 2011
FRAZIER HUNT REMEMBERS - PART 2
By John Knarr
A.F.
Hunt graduated from the old Central High School in 1903. Hunt became a prominent
wartime correspondent, author, radio and television personality. It is
especially interesting to read his recollections of the events of 1898 and of
other incidents when he was a boy
living in North Manchester (1893-1903). This article is Part 2. The first part
of Hunt’s recollections was printed in the February issue of the Newsletter.
Frazier Hunt’s autobiography was published in 1938 by Simon and Schuster, ONE
AMERICAN AND HIS ATTEMPT AT EDUCATION. Because Hunt at times chose not to use
actual names of persons, some notes of clarification, correction, and commentary
are included. Hunt’s own writings are here italicized.
Hunt remembers “Hoopy Doodle”
and the Main Street loafers.
Hoopy Doodle usually was hanging around either the restaurant or the peanut
wagon on Sunday mornings. Hoopy was harelipped and squint-eyed. Mentally he was
a bit under par. On week days he drove a team of ancient mules hitched to an
even more ancient dray. On Sundays he ate peanuts and smoked “three-fers” [i.e.
cigars] with the boys. He was a wiry, round-shouldered man in his twenties and,
despite his speech handicap, he loved to talk. His specialties were horses and
mules. He had a definite kinship with them. When he couldn’t get anyone else to
listen to him he’d talk to his mules….The loafers on Main Street teased Hoopy a
good deal. They linked his name to that of every old maid or fly girl in town.
If a new milliner or dressmaker or waitress showed up, they soon concocted a
tall tale of how they had seen Hoopy strolling with her along the riverbank near
the dam—the young bloods’ favorite spot for illicit dates. Hoopy would grin and
stoutly deny the allegation. Still, he rather liked to leave an impression of
being quite a lady’s man. Hoopy’s greatest disappointment came when he was
refused by our militia company that was drumming up recruits for a possible war
with Spain. Those were exciting days.
Note: According to a front page article in the North Manchester Journal (March
15, 1901), “Whoopee Doodle” was the nickname of Charles Colpetzer. Whoopee was
once fined in Squire Abbott’s court to the tune of $27 for giving liquor to
minors [the boys of Peter Maurer, Hank Lautzenhiser and M. Shaffer]. Some of the
local folks were apparently sympathetic to Colpetzer, for the editors wrote,
“Owing to the well known easily influenced mental condition of Whoopee the boys
are really more to blame than he and the ends of justice would have been better
served if a good sound spanking had been administered to each and everyone of
them….A collection amounting to about half the fine and cost was taken up and
Mr. Maurer, for whom Whoopee works, stayed the docket for the rest to keep him
from going to jail.” Peter Mowrer was listed in the 1900 Federal Census as a
“drayman”, living on Fourth Street, and a neighbor to Frank Lavey, the jeweler.
From Colpetzer’s World War I Draft Registration Card, we learn that Charley was
ten years older than Hunt.
Hunt remembers the outbreak of the Spanish-American War.
I remember getting the Chicago Inter-Ocean from our mailbox and seeing spread
across its front page the incredible announcement: BATTLESHIP MAINE SUNK! I read
through the triple-deck head, then darted out of the post office, and hit it
down the alley to carry the message to Uncle. In a voice shaking with emotion he
read aloud to Auntie and Jasper and me, with Rettie standing horror-stricken in
the doorway, the full details of the mysterious blowing up of the American
battleship in Havana harbor, and the deadly intimation that Spanish villains had
done it.
Note: The Inter-Ocean was a Chicago-based newspaper with twelve pages of reading
matter. It was billed as “The Greatest Republican Paper of the West” and “better
adapted to the needs of the people west of the Allegheny Mountains than any
other paper.” One could subscribe to it on a daily or weekly basis; a Sunday
edition was also available. And special subscription rates could be obtained if
it was ordered in conjunction with the local North Manchester Journal. The
Weekly Inter Ocean cost $1.00 per year; combined with the Journal it was a
reasonable total of $1.35 (see display ad in North Manchester Journal, June 24,
1897).
Hunt remembers the wartime excitement.
For weeks there was increasing excitement. Early one morning in April I was
awakened by the sound of a fife and drum. I jumped out of bed, hurried to the
window, and looked out on the warm, gray dawn. On the sidewalk stood Asa Foster[sic],
whose father owned the livery stable under the Opera House, and three or four
other men. They were dressed in semimilitary costumes; a single legging, a
military blouse, a webb cartridge belt, and a broad-brimmed army hat. Apparently
they had made two uniforms do for the five of them. They were taking turns
rolling the drum. But Asa was the only one who could play the fife. At each
corner they would stop and sound off their martial music. Then there would be a
thick-tongued order and the squad would march unsteadily to the next corner. Now
and again one of these unofficial representatives of Company E [sic: D] would
shout, “War’s declared! Whee! Whoopee! Remember the Maine!”
Research Note: The Foster name was here fictionalized--no
Foster owned the livery stable under the Opera House. And no Asa Foster
was recruited in the local company. According to the North Manchester Journal
(May 9, 1901), the livery barn of W.O. Jefferson was “Johnson’s old stand.” C.D.
Johnson had come to North Manchester in 1865 and opened a blacksmith shop. When
the railroads arrived in town, Johnson started a dray line which he merged into
the livery stable and bus line business. Jefferson had purchased the livery
stable in November of 1900. (See Brooks and Jefferson, Remembering North
Manchester Indiana.) Cyrus D. Johnson owned the livery in the 1890s. C.J.
Johnson and Elmer Johnson were on
the roster of Company D. Elmer left the unit after being in Indianapolis for one
week. According to the 1880 Federal Census, Charles J. Johnson was the only son
of Cyrus D. Johnson, the livery man. When C.D. Johnson died on May 19, 1898,
Charley was unable to be present at his father’s funeral because he was at
Chickamauga with Co. D, 157th regiment.
(See C.D. Johnson’s obituary in North Manchester Journal, May 26, 1898.)
Hunt remembers the send-off given our soldiers at the depot.
There was a school holiday the afternoon that the company entrained for
Indianapolis. For at least a part of this day the local G.A.R. heroes had to
accept a back seat, although they stood for their rights to the bitter end. Most
of them dressed up in their blue uniforms, with their medals and badges, and
marched in a body to the station for the farewell ceremonies. But they were
merely a part of the decorations; this day was for the new heroes. Mothers,
sweethearts, friends, and relatives—the whole town, in fact—turned out to cheer
them on their way to glory. Asa’s gray-haired mother and his rather pretty young
wife were on hand with a lunch basket and bunches of flowers. A thousand or more
people were at the depot, but most of us boys waited at the armory and marched
down Main Street with the company, while the town’s Silver Cornet Band banged
away with martial music. On the station platform the soldiers broke ranks and
mingled with their families, receiving their final blessings and presents. Then
the special train pulled in, and Captain Browning [sic: Captain B.F. Clemens]
shouted from the car steps for his men to board the two coaches that were
reserved for them.
Note: About midnight on a Monday, April 25, 1898, Co. D of the Indiana National
Guard was called into service for the Spanish-American War.
The townspeople were notified of the order by the blowing of the water
works whistle and the tolling of bells. [North Manchester Journal, April 28,
1898]: “Tuesday morning witnessed one of the greatest patriotic demonstrations
ever seen here. It was perfectly spontaneous. Business was practically suspended
and the people filled the streets waving flags. The occasion is one that will
ever be memorable in the annals of the town….A procession was formed headed by
the band, to escort the company to the railroad. Gen. John A. Logan Grand Army
Post acted as escort of honor and with flags flying, drums beating the
procession moved to the depot followed by the entire population of the town.
Fully 3,000 people were assembled around the depot and when the time came for
the train to leave dry eyes were few in that large crowd.” The company was under
the command of Capt. B.F. Clemens. They marched to the Big Four station to take
the train to Indianapolis. Following the train of Company D was a special one
bearing the companies from Warsaw, Goshen, Elkhart, South Bend and other
northern Indiana towns. These companies arrived in Indianapolis late on Tuesday
afternoon; camp was made at the state fair grounds with the entire force of the
Indiana National Guard.
Hunt remembers the welcome home given to the soldiers.
Five months later our town again turned out to welcome home our returning
heroes. Their war service had been limited to fighting the malarial mosquitoes
of Tampa, the rotten beef of the Quartermaster Corps, and the low-priced mulatto
camp followers. Six or eight had died of fever. Several others were marked
forever by diseases of one kind or another. But it hadn’t been their fault that
they had failed to be in at the kill.
Note: Hunt was really referring to Company D, Third regiment of the Indiana
National Guard, later designated as a unit of the 157th Indiana
Infantry when billeted at St. Petersburg, Florida. Our web site lists the local
recruits and local newspaper coverage for Company D.
See www.nmanchesterhistory.org>military>Spanish-American War.
Hunt remembers Mary Brown.
As a boy of fifteen I had fallen deeply in love with lovely brown-eyed Mary
Brown. I used to walk home from church socials with her, and once or twice I had
taken her to country picnics. Possibly it was because she was frail, and at
times seemed touched with an eery sadness, that I became so sentimentally
interested in her. I was reading Poe’s poems at this time, and I remember to
this day how the death of the beautiful Annabel Lee loomed like a tragic
prophecy.
A winter came when Mary was sent away. I recall taking her a few cuts of
Auntie’s potted flowers and of telling her that in the spring when she came back
from the sanitarium, strong and well again, we would take long drives together
every Saturday afternoon. She smiled and agreed but her starry brown eyes set in
her pale white face, with only the tiny fever spots giving it color, seemed to
say that it was not to be. I stammered out my good-by. At the door when her
mother thanked me for coming, I could say nothing for the lump in my throat.
Mary never took those promised buggy rides. Early that next spring she was
buried in the new cemetery—and life went on for the rest of us.
Research Note: No record for a Mary Brown could be found. An obituary in the
North Manchester Journal (May 29, 1902) was printed for Beatrice Willis, born
August 31, 1885, and died May 25, 1902: “For about two years she has been a
constant sufferer. Yet she never murmured at her lot. She was at all times
patient and kind to those about her. Her fortitude was remarkable to those who
knew the pain she suffered.”
Beatrice was the oldest child of A.C. and Lizzie Willis. Her father was the
longtime foreman at Dunbar & Mathews, manufacturers of butter tubs. Hunt’s
cousin, Lloyd Mathews, had a half-interest in this factory. The North Manchester
Journal applauded (January 14, 1897) the Dunbar-Mathews enterprise: “Without any
desire to disparage North Manchester’s many other important enterprises, it is a
fact that not one of them contributes as much to local interests as does the
factory of Dunbar & Mathews.” This factory suffered a disastrous fire in
September 1897. Briefly in 1897-1898, Frazier Hunt’s father, Jasper N. Hunt, was
owner of several lots in Hymer’s Addition including “an entire interest in all
the buildings, kilns, sheds, and fixtures, boilers, engines and machinery,
tools, appliances and furniture, thereon and being part of and belonging to the
heading factory plant of Dunbar and Mathews; Subject to a mortgage of Six
Thousand dollars now assigned to J.S. Mathews.” [Wabash Co. Deed Book 68, p. 3]
Hunt remembers his Aunt’s fear of the dangers posed by the Eel River.
The river was the bane of Auntie’s life. She was frightened all summer on
account of the swimming, scared all winter on account of the skating, and
worried half sick the rest of the time
because of the hunting and trapping along its banks and brakes. Every few
years the river claimed its toll, and one tragedy was hardly forgotten by
mothers or foster parents before a fresh one would shock the little community.
Hunt vividly recalls the time that his older brother Jasper was falsely thought
to have drowned between Liberty Mills and North Manchester.
Uncle was sure that the worst had happened. For terrifying minutes he searched
up and down the bank for signs of a pair of blue overalls, shirt, and a
wide-brimmed straw hat. Then he led the way back to the barn and turned Nellie
toward home. It was a stifling hot afternoon but Uncle did not spare the mare.
He trotted her hard all the way. She was white with lather when we reached the
brick house on the corner.Auntie could see at first glance that Uncle was
worried. And Uncle could tell without asking that there had been no sight or
word of poor Jasper. There was a moment of tearful consultation. The Uncle
trotted Nellie up Maple Avenue
[sic-Mill Street] to Main Street and we found Newt Eidelberger [i.e.
Lautzenhiser], the town marshal. Uncle quickly explained that he was afraid
that his nephew, Jasper Hunt, had been drowned about two and a half miles up the
river. Like a prairie fire the word spread up and down Main Street. Within five
minutes a half-dozen rigs, filled with volunteers, were heading for the scene of
the tragedy. Others in skiffs and boats, with ropes and grappling hooks, were
rowing upstream to help with the search.
Again Uncle and I trotted poor Nellie at top speed to the farm. She was dripping
with sweat and breathing heavily when we got there. By this time Cousin Lloyd
had become a little worried and had gone to the crossroads settlement of Liberty
Mills for help. Men were down by the ford when we arrive. For a half hour Uncle
directed the awesome search. Then he felt that he ought to go back and
personally report to Auntie, as there was no telephone or telegraph between the
towns. Again Nellie was called upon to contribute her last ounce of strength.
She was never to be the same again. She did not actually make the supreme
sacrifice and drop dead in her tracks, but she almost did.
Back in town we found Auntie sitting on the lawn in a rocking chair, surrounded
by consoling neighbors. Aunt Addie was fanning her, and now and again giving her
a sniff from a bottle of camphor. Auntie was crying softly and muttering
pathetically, “How can I ever tell his father?...What will he say?...It’s all my
fault!...Oh, poor Jasper!”
It was close to four o’clock by this time, and there seemed no chance that we
would ever see Jasper alive again. The whole town knew of the tragedy, and it
was clear that if he had stopped with some neighbor boy it would have been
reported long ago. The immensity of my loss was just beginning to dawn on me
when I glanced toward the house from the little group of mourners gathered on
the lawn under the mulberry tree. For a second my eyes would not believe the
truth of what they saw. From around the corner of the house strode Jasper. He
was alive. He wasn’t even wet!
Hunt remembers tragic drownings in the Eel.
It was on a late May day, shortly before the end of the school year
[sic: June 17, 1897]. The afternoon classes had just been dismissed when word
flashed over the playground that Vern Sherman [sic: Byron Hamm] and Don
Adams [sic: Ernest Ebbinghouse] had been drowned in a
bend of the river near the gravel pit, a half mile north of the town.
[sic-at mouth of Pony Creek] Like leaves driven by a high wind, we boys
scattered through alleys and across fields to the tragic spot. High waters from
the late spring rains swept swiftly by the bend, making little whirlpools that
sucked bits of branches and twigs and driftwood to their doom.
Leaning against a weeping willow, surrounded by several men, was Skeet Rogers
[i.e. Ralph Quivey]. He had played hooky with the two victims when Vern had
doubled up with cramps, and Don, gallantly hurrying to his rescue, had been
pulled down by him. It was Skeet who had run, white-faced and sobbing, the
quarter mile to the nearest house for help.
Men in skiffs, with ropes and grabhooks, were slowly rowing up and down the
river dragging for the bodies. People were speaking in hushed tones. A score of
times the grappling hooks would catch some moving object that could not be
brought to the surface; then a man or one of the older boys would slip off his
clothes and dive into the muddy, treacherous water. Each time he would come up
and shake his head; he had found only a water-logged chunk or a sunken branch.
The sun dropped behind a clump of sycamores and most of the crowd drifted away.
I was two hours late getting home and there would be trouble. But I could tell
Uncle and Auntie what the boys’ fathers had said and how they had looked. I had
the whole picture of the tragedy to give them.
I began with the original crime of playing hooky
[sic] and talked so fast and earnestly that in their own vicarious grief they
practically forgot to say anything about my being late for supper. The next day
there was a strange unreality about school. At noon word was passed that the
bodies of both boys had been recovered and that they were being brought to
Stewart’s furniture and undertaking establishment.
With school out that afternoon most of the boys hurried down town. In the alley
back of the furniture store, we joined the queue that was slowly moving through
the back door to view the bodies. I stepped in line and soon was close to the
screen door. But most of my courage had run out by this time. I wasn’t so sure,
after all, that I wanted to look at poor Vern and Don. They were two years older
than I was and they had teased me several times, but I could hardly gloat over
them now. At last I was at the door. I took one swift glance inside. On long
tables lay the two slender, white bodies, with the faces puffed and swollen. I
turned like a frightened deer and darted down the alley for home.
The rest of that summer was a little difficult for most of the boys of the town.
We could no longer lazy through the whole afternoon at Devil’s Hole, but had to
report home at the end of an hour or two. It seemed to me that about half the
time when we’d return, Auntie would be pacing the lawn and looking in the
direction of the swimming hole. When she’d see us swinging barefoot down the
walk in our overalls and straw hats, she’d wave and then pretend she was working
with her flowers.
Note: According to W.E. Billings (Tales of the Old Days, p.8), the
“Devil’s Hole” was located in the Eel river not too distant from the college’s
athletic fields. “In Indian days it seems that there was sort of spring that
shot forth its waters from the bed of the river…. It was a dangerous place in
the river and after an Indian had lost his life in the whirl of waters in that
hole the tribe named it the Devil’s Hole….” Just to the north, the river by the
Cook home “used to be a great swimming place for the boys from town, but later
it has filled with logs and is not so popular, for it is a bit dangerous, the
water being pretty deep there.”
Frazer Arnold (Town of My Fathers) recounts the tragedy differently.
He recalls the incident as happening at the mouth of Pony Creek where it flows
into the Eel. He remembers Ernest Ebbinghouse saving his own life one day during
“a dangerous moment” when he “had already begun to gurgle and choke”.
Two days later after a heavy rainstorm when the river and creek were
flooding, the Ebbinghouse boy along with Byron Hamm drowned. “A small boy with
them had reported that Byron Hamm was seized with cramps in the chilly stream;
young Ebbinghaus had swum to his rescue, but both had disappeared in the yellow
flood-water. Men searched the bottom with grappling hooks on long poles, and the
body of Byron Hamm was not found till the next day, as I recall. They were fine,
promising boys, and the whole town went into mourning. It was the only drowning
in my time….Speaking for my own time in North Manchester, there was no other
case of someone who lost his life in an attempt to save that of another person.”
(pp. 7-8)
Research Note: According to the N.M. Journal (June 24, 1897), the drownings took
place on the previous Thursday morning, June 17, “at a point opposite where Pony
creek empties into the river, a favorite swimming hole with boys for years.”
Hamm, Ebbinghous and John Snyder had gone swimming in the river, and only the
Snyder boy came out alive. Their friends Ralph Quivey and Kent Gingerick were
non-swimmers and had stayed on the bank of the swollen river. All five boys were
between 14 and 17 years of age. According the newspaper account, a deep hole
existed at the mouth of Pony Creek; the place where the boys went down was 12 or
15 feet deep. The two who lost their lives had become exhausted in the water and
“unable to stem the current of the river.” Both bodies were taken to the Stewart
& Ellwood’s undertaking rooms and prepared for burial. Both funerals were held
at the Methodist Episcopal church; burials were in Oaklawn cemetery. Ernest
Ebbinghous b. April 1, 1882 was the son of Mr. and Mrs. Albert Ebbinghous. Byron
Hamm b. Nov 2, 1881 was the only living child of Mr. and Mrs. M.A. Hamm.
Hunt remembers Miriam Stewart’s influence and imagination.
But the North Manchester girl who was to have a really profound effect on my
early years was Mariam
[sic-Miriam] Stewart. Her father owned the furniture store and undertaking
establishment. The family had traveled extensively over America and were more or
less people about town. In their library I saw my first Navajo rug and Indian
handicraft. Mariam had an older cousin, a Detroit newspaperman, who used to
visit in North Manchester, and it was from him that I first caught a little of
the excitement and adventure of this great profession. He wore yellow gloves,
carried a cane, and was my ideal of a dashing, successful reporter.… Mariam
contributed her own romantic imagination, and on winter evenings in front of her
fireplace, or on summer afternoons as we drove down the country roads, she
assured me that I could do anything I wanted to if I only wanted to do it
enough.
Hunt remembers his “gang”.
I used to repeat a good deal of what Uncle told me to Beany and Butch and Skinny
and the others in the gang. …I went swimming every afternoon with Beany Laidlaw,
half-witted George, and the gang.
Note: Beany Laidlaw was Albert Laidlaw
whose father Walter was the slate roofer who occasionally played comedy
parts at the Hamilton Opera House. In one production he was “Bean” a
correspondent for Leslie’s magazine.
Albert Laidlaw recalled in a
memoir (I Remember North Manchester, 1950) that Miriam Stewart often
starred in school programs based on literary classics.
Hunt remembers Frazer Arnold.
For two or three years Frazer Arnold and I had been under the spell of Richard
Harding Davis. It was a matter of some difficulty for me to decide whether I
wanted to be a Captain Macklin soldier of fortune or a Dick Davis war
correspondent.
Frazer Arnold in his Reminiscences (Town of My Fathers) remembers A.F. Hunt.
The Mathews were great friends of my parents, and I liked to go swimming and
skating with A.F., or “Hunty.” He was in the class ahead of me in school, and
was slim, tall for his age, and full of ideas. We used to trade books of
adventure and were always steering each other into exciting things to read.
These were better literature than my friends and I had been reading for a short
time a couple of years earlier, called dime novels, although the price was 5c,
of which a typical title was, “Frank Merriwell’s Revenge, or Caught in His Own
Trap!”
Hunt remembers Clem Drake.
Note: J.T. Drake was listed in the 1900 census and lived in the vicinity of
Eighth Street in North Manchester.
I was now under the political spell of Clem Drake, our milkman. He reached the
height of his influence during my last year in high school.
Clem had had a year at DePauw University…When the Spanish-American War broke out
he immediately enlisted in Company E. Not only was his own intense patriotism
aroused, but he was stirred deeply by the Cuban cause. In the desperate Tampa
campaign no soldier vice had tempted him. In the breast pocket of his blue
flannel army shirt he carried the little leather Bible that his widowed mother
had given him at the depot when Company E had entrained for the war.…
Clem’s home was two blocks north of our house, and I’d often drop down to his
barn along about eleven o’clock on Saturday mornings when he would be finishing
his morning rounds. At this time milk wagons carried their milk and cream in big
cans and ladled it into the customer’s own small tin bucket. After Clem
unharnessed his horse he had his cans to wash and scald and a few odd chores to
do. He liked to talk while he went automatically about his tasks.
“We got to be doing something pretty soon about this Congress,” he would say
with a serious shake of his head. Then he’d go on in some such vein as this:
“They’re spending too much money. They’ve lost touch with the people….Say, A.F.,
did you know that it cost a million dollars a day to run the Spanish-American
War? Just think of that! And we’re spending over one hundred million dollars on
our navy this year. Of course, I think we should have a good fleet, but it’s
costing us too much.”
Clem would look up at me out of his pale blue eyes and slowly shake his head.
Then from his rich background as soldier, college man, and student of world
affairs, he would go on confidentially: “Pork
barrel! That’s the real trouble with America. Too much graft! Why, all these
fellows do down there in Washington is to trade votes with each other. Just
horse trading: one helps get a new post office for Peoria, and in return he gets
a bridge over the Wabash.”
…he continued to preach against Congress and its waste and extravagances. I’m
not sure how many converts he finally had, but I certainly was one of his most
ardent followers. Much of my faith in him he returned in full measure. He
strongly advised me to go into newspaper work. I could do a lot of good there,
and doing good to your fellow man, he assured me, was all that really counted in
life.
Hunt remembers his 1903 high school graduation.
I used to quote Clem quite a little in our informal high-school debates. And
when it came to my graduation oration I chose the subject of “How to Deal with
Trusts,” and incorporated many of Clem’s ideas into its powerful line of
argument.
This year—1903—the baccalaureate sermon was preached in the First Methodist
Church. After the fond parents and admiring friends took their seats, the seven
boys and seven girls in the graduating class marched in pairs down the middle
aisle to the front row. With the exercises over, the audience gathered on the
sidewalk, while the graduates marched out and were ushered into four double
carriages.Now began the exciting graduation drive given annually by the druggist
who ran the bookstore. Eight miles from town the head carriage turned into the
driveway of a red brick farmhouse. The other drivers followed and duly tied
their teams to a hitching rack. After a few minutes strolling on the lawn we
were called in to one of those country dinners that make your mouth water: crisp
fried chicken, mashed potatoes, brown gravy, golden biscuits, jams, preserves,
pickled watermelon rind, spiced peaches, pickles, pies, home-made ice cream, and
a dozen other good things.
Research Note: A somewhat different, interesting and detailed account was
published by Hopkins and Billings in the North Manchester Journal (June 4,
1903): “One of the important features of baccalaureate Sunday is a trip and a
big country dinner which the classes always enjoy under the direction of George
Burdge. This year he had three carriages at the church ready for the graduates
as soon as the services were over and the trip commenced. Mr. Burdge drove one
of the carriages himself, and the other drivers had sealed instructions, one set
to be opened at the Christian church and the other at the Vandalia station. The
outfit that went to the Christian church was told to go to the home of R.T.
Adams, two miles south of town. Mr. Adams met them with a broad smile, and
saying the plans had been changed, and they should go to the home of Sam Landis.
Arriving there, Mr. Landis made them an impressive speech, and directed them to
the home of Lewis Naber, a mile east of town. The other rig after driving to the
Vandalia station found orders to go to the home of Ed Rittenhouse at Liberty
Mills. Just as they reached the Rittenhouse home, the carriage driven by Mr.
Burdge appeared, and instead of stopping they followed it out into the country,
at last losing it. Then they returned to Mr. Rittenhouse’s for instructions, and
were likewise sent to the home of Mr. Naber. There Mrs. Naber assisted by Mrs.
John Lockwood and Mrs. Henry Ulrey, had a splendid dinner prepared, and with Mr.
Burdge for leader the class forgot all about the work and trials of the year in
enjoying the dinner.”
Hunt remembers his own father, Jasper Hunt Sr., with ambivalent feelings.
Through these Indiana years the vague figure of my father remained always in the
background of my consciousness. He was a strange and lonely man. Upon the death
of my mother he buried himself in his books and writing. A Modern Speller of his
caught on, and soon it was followed by a series of Modern Readers. Shortly after
I left North Manchester he finished work on his Hunt’s Progressive Speller,
which in the end was to sell ten million copies.
A.F. Hunt was mostly known as A.F. in North Manchester. He became known as
“Spike” at the University of Illinois where he graduated in 1908.
The first week of my freshman year I acquired (for the most obvious reasons) the
nickname of “Spike”. It was to become as much a part of me as my arms and legs.
At various times it has been just a little embarrassing to me, but I have had to
make the best of it. More than once I’ve shaken it off, but invariably it trails
me down. In north Russia, far up the Yangtze, in the wilds of Haiti, “down
under” in Australia, I’ve been free of it momentarily. But just as I was about
to secure some little dignity from my rather formal name of Frazier, someone out
of my past would suddenly pop up, and then I would be branded “Spike” again.
Note: Hunt’s height was six feet four inches tall (p. 91).
Frazer Arnold recalls: I can
clear up the question of how A.F. became Frazier Hunt. His mother was Amanda
Frazier, who, as a mere girl, had become a county superintendent of schools in
Illinois and had grown famous along that part of the Mississippi River as an
educator, before she married. She died when A.F. was born. He didn’t like the
first name given him, and no one in Illinois suggested using his middle name of
Frazier, so he decided he would be known simply by initials. He was A.F. or
“Spike” Hunt all through college and until he became a newspaper writer. My
mother had been Nell Frazer from Warsaw, and my father was also named from his
mother’s family of Thomson. Hunt had seen I was apparently thriving with the
first name of Frazer, and so later adopted his mother’s family name for the
by-line of his successful stories and articles in the Chicago Tribune and in New
York papers and magazines, and afterward of his dispatches as a war
correspondent.
EDITOR’S NOTE. Several articles are
uploaded to the North Manchester Historical Society web site which add
considerable more content to some of the local topics covered in this issue.
Read more at nmanchesterhistory.org --
>military>Spanish-American War
>obits>Cyrus D. Johnson/Beatrice Willis
>biographies>Frazier Hunt
>North Manchester>A.F. Hunt (includes excerpts from autobiography)
>Eel River>Tragedy
>Eel River>Devil’s Hole
>businesses>Dunbar-Mathews
>businesses>undertakers (article by Mike McKee)
>more>fires>Dunbar-Mathews
THE CLASS OF 1903 – FOURTEEN GRADUATES
On June 4, 1903 commencement exercises were held Thursday evening at the
Lutheran church at which time the diplomas were presented to the graduating
seniors, seven males and seven females. The baccalaureate services had been held
at the Methodist church on the previous Sunday morning.
According to the local newspaper account, “There was not a vacant seat in
the Methodist church, Sunday morning, and standing room was much in demand for
the baccalaureate services for the class of 1903.” The North Manchester Journal
(June 4, 1903) highlighted the fourteen graduates as follows:
W. Lloyd Finton
is a home grown lad and has attended the city schools in all of its departments.
He is the business man for the class, and will probably enter the Michigan
university next year to study medicine.
Mayme G. Swank
has also spent her life in North Manchester. She is the daughter of Silas Swank,
alderman from the first ward. She will continue her Latin studies in some
college next year.
Asher R. Cottrell
is a boy country bred and raised, coming here from the southern part of Indiana.
He has spent six years in the city schools, and will enter some college to study
English.
Blanche G. Hinkle
spent her early life west of town, but has attended the school eight years.
Music is her specialty, although she expects to teach.
Paul Werner
is a member of the class who has mounted over the worst of difficulties.
Although born blind, his sight was partially secured to him, and he has made
good progress in his studies in the school. Drawing is one of his specialties.
Fern Frame
is a town bred girl, and has gone through the whole program of the city schools.
She will possibly enter some other school for a term of higher education.
Carrie Patterson
is the daughter of the trustee of Jackson township, and will teach, being sure
of her work as she has both license and school.
A.F. Hunt
was born in Illinois, but came to Indiana soon enough to become the class poet,
even if his hair is not long. He will enter college.
Minnie John
and her brother, Albert N. John were both students of the Sidney schools
until two years ago, when they entered the school here. They contemplate
entering a university in the southern part of California.
Coryn B. Wright
is a town boy with an inclination for civil engineering. He will enter the
Purdue university to given this inclination chance to spread.
Lulu Strickler
lives west of town, and plans to enter the state normal with the view of fitting
herself for a teacher.
Edna Gingerick
is a home raised girl, and has been clear through the city schools. Like Miss
Patterson she has a sure thing for she intends to teach, and has a license and a
school in Chester township.
Note: The newspaper omitted Owen Shaffer as one of the fourteen
graduates. Owen was the son of Josiah and Susie Shaffer. Josiah Shaffer was
listed in the 1900 Federal Census as a Farmer in Chester Township. Owen’s
graduation talk was on “David Livingston”.
NORTH MANCHESTER
HISTORICAL SOCIETY MEMBERS
FOR THE YEAR 2011
(as of May 1, 2011)
SUPPORTING MEMBERS
Bob and Cass Amiss
Donald and Sandra Billmaier
Andy Brown and Jan Fahs
Tom and Eloise Brown
Mary Chrastil
Bill and Eloise Eberly
Terri Eckert
Randy and Sharon Fruitt
Jim and Evelyn Garman
Art and Ellen Gilbert
William Hankee
Charles and Jean Koller
Orville and Iona Lauver
Thomas and Suzanne McClure
Ralph and Becky Naragon
Naragon and Purdy
Mary Reahard
Viv Simmons
Ed and Jean Smith
Joanna Smith
Dave and Jo Young Switzer
Howard and Mary Uhrig
Connie Vinton
Joe and Mary Vogel
Wetzel Insurance Agency
SUSTAINING MEMBERS
Steve Batzka
David and Patty Grant
Anne Krause
Carol Miller
Phil and Mary Orpurt
Nancy J. Reed
Manchester Veterinary Clinic
MEMBERS
Jim Adams and Thelma Rohrer
Barb Amiss
Jerry Badsky
David Bagwell
Ferne Baldwin
Jack and Lila Barnhouse
Suzanne Benton
Charles and Dagny Boebel
Robert and Martha Bohn
Judy Boyer
Bradley and Debra Brauneller
Mary Louise Briner-Reist
R. Ned Brooks
Mike and Judi Brown
Mary Lou Brown
Gordon and Darlene Bucher
Dennis and Rosemary Butler
Eunice Butterbaugh
Brad and Terri Camp Family
Dan and Marsha Croner
Murph Damron
Joe Deal
Barry and Arlene Deardorff
Allen and Joan Deeter
Diane Dewey-Norvell
Rick Eisenstein
Carolyn Fedewa
Dave Friermood
James Gable
Anne Garber
Warren and Helen Garner
Judy Glasgow
Betty Hamlin
Ruth Hauser
Jeff and Kathy Hawkins
Stuart and Ruth Hawley
Karen Hewitt
Tim and Roberta Hoffman
Everett and Melba Holmgren
Moselle Humbert
Robert and Stephanie Jones
Dale and Joyce Joy
Grace Kester
Frances Kipp
Charles and Susie Klingler
John and Bea Knarr
Irene Knarr
Avonne Knecht
John and Laurale Kreps
Jeanette Lahman
Carl Lemna
Elaine Leonard
Richard Livingston
Lindy and Norma Lybarger
Diane Maloy
Robert and Mary Martin
Dorothy Frye Mason
Mike McLaughlin
Karl and Bonnie Dee Merritt
Jim and Shirley Mishler
Keith Morris
Bob Nelson
Nancy Nisbet
Don Olinger
Mr. and Mrs. Dave Parker
Dorothy Parsons
Brian and Jennifer Pattison
Walter and Mary Jenet Penrod
Sheryl Poorman
Bruce and Marilyn Pottenger
Russell Reahard
Steve Reiff
Jean Renschler
Doug and Lisa Rice Family
Ron Rice
Todd and Linda Richards
David and Shirley Rogers
Betty Roser
Dee Royer
Esther and Annabel Rupel
Theron Rupley
JoAnn Schall
Al and Ruth Ann Schlitt
Rita Schroll
Barbara Shoemaker
Lorraine Slifer
Jim and Vickie Smith
Conrad Snavely and Bertha Custer
Dewayne and Doris Snell
Doris Spann
Virginia Spencer
Tracy Stewart
Donald and Jean Stone
Nancy Taylor
Tim and Jenny Taylor
Nancy Tiger
Larry Tracy
Susan Trowbridge
Helen Underwood
Doretta Urschel
Grace Voorheis
David and Becky Waas
Helga Walsh
Bob Weimer
Sally Welborn
Dorothy Weldy
Eddie and Janice Wood
Frances Wright
Roland Young and Mona Harley
LIFE MEMBERS
First Financial Bank
Richard Ford
Larry Freels
Gilbert, Naragon and Terrill
David and Jane Grandstaff
HF Group
Jeff Hire
Carol Jennings
Harold and Elizabeth Marks
Mike and Kelly McKee
Mark Metzger
Emerson and Evelyn Niswander
Roger and Marcie Parker
Scott Schmedel
Shepherd Chevrolet
Paul Sites
Strauss, Inc.
Wabash Foundry
Allan White
Dannie and Nancy Wible
For corrections or additions please notify the Center for History. It is never
too late to join the NMHS!
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www.nmanchesterhistory.org