march, 1968 - Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission

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OIL MOON OVER PITHOLE continued from, page 11 Forty thousand empty barrels, returning to the oil fields of northeastern Venango County, bobbled down-river also. Two hundred oil-boats, 80 feet long, 16 wide and 3 deep and acres of coal barges, thousands of timber "sticks" from Tionesta Creek and even teams of horses, bridges and houses passed Oil City on the swift flood. Richards, with other guests of the Moran House and resident of Third Ward, scrambled to the higher ground of Halyday Run and Clark Summit. Lee Morton worried that his printing equipment at the Moran warehouse would get free-freight to Pittsburgh or would end up as a snag on Moran's gravel bar. And he worried about Shadrach Bolden, who in the excitement of the flood had become lost. For a time Morton feared the black boy had drowned. But Shadrach sat out the flood in the loft of the livery and ate raw eggs. Chickens roosted with him. On the third day the highwater subsided. Shadrach reappeared like a Noah with chickens and dogs and house cats with news that the type cases and the press were safe. But the reams of paper were worthless. Oil City now had so much trouble recovering from the flood that it could hardly promise much to another newspaper. Not long after the word came of the oil find at Pithole. Morton then decided it was time for the newspaperman to follow the banker, doctor, teacher, lawyer to Pithole. He talked Richards into joining the venture. The press, type, new stock of paper borrowed from the Weekly Register and Shadrach were loaded on another packet and "horsed" by towline nine miles up the Allegheny River to the Oleopolis boat dock. Here the editor hired three wagons for a rough journey up Pithole Creek. It was a hot, dry July. But the twisting valley was shaded and cool. Rattlesnakes slid from their dens on the high ridges to the moisture and dampness of the creek-side boulders. Black flies were numerous. Between the snakes and the flies and the jarring ride Shadrach had a miserable journey. He dared to get off the wagon only at the Eagle Rock-Plumer Road fording where a Dutchman had set up a tent and offered travelers a stock of whisky which he cooled in a spring. Sarsaparilla was on displaytoo. Teamsters, hauling new barrels strapped with broad, shining hoops —these containers floated 40 miles on rafts from the city of Warren where they were made out of Warren County oaks — cursed and shouted at the slow wagon train hauling the Morton enterprise. "Pithole needs barrels, not printing tramps," shouted one. "And Pithole needs a newspaper to tell you ignorant horse drivers what is happening," shouted Morton and employed his Civil War tactics to maintain his position at every fording. On September 25, 1865, Pithole had its paper. Morton announced that the Pithole Daily Record was born and that "its feeble voice will be heard today for the first time in our streets. It now calls for its natural support and succor upon those to whom it owes its existence . . .the citizens of Pithole." The citizens came quickly with advertisements and subscriptions. Soon The Record made a dependable, daily, to-the-door delivery to 1,500 subscribers. The price for six daily numbers was 30 cents. Morton and Richards alone could not set all the type by hand. They needed more help. Some advertisers got an overabundant amount of white space because the columns could be filled quickly with quadding and spacing material. Frankie Tarr and John Kelly showed up to inspect the excitement and went to work in the composing room. Kelly was a broad-shouldered, stout-legged farm boy who had served an apprenticeship with the "Allegheny Mail" at Warren. Before that he could stand in the tall timber along Tionesta Creek and hack away at the forest giants all day — and never tire. On a hot July day a few years before Kelly entered an Oldtown wheat field and cradled six and one fourth acres of the grain in 10 hours "by the watch, drill measure," he would add. He had set a Forest County record. Older men envied him. There were some days when Publisher Morton wished that Kelly had remained in the pine needles or in the wheat field. But what was done, was done and Kelly's stubby fingers clogged the partitions in the type cases and he stumbled over "fancy words." But he was willing and as easy-going as Shadrach. "My fingers are raw and stiff with cold. Can't pick up thin spaces any more until I warm them up. Can you hear that roof cracking?" asked Richards when he sat down."It's going to be a cold dawn when we get this paper out. Maybe the ink won't spread very good." The proofs were read at a big rolltop desk of which Morton was very proud — Its length could accommodate a sleeper. On it Morton relaxed when thoughts, words and sentences which would be the Record's editorials came with difficulty. And the scamp Shadrach too would curl up on this same length on Sundays — when the Record did not publish — and on those Sundays when the sun had dried the mud and Shadrach was not needed at the Chase House. Near the desk stood a big-bellied stove. Now Shadrach was antagonizing the iron beast with a poker, feeding it scoops of Cranberry coal and then waiting until the black smoke broke into a flame and belched back into the shop. Then he would slam the door, rub his broad hands in front of the warming stove and melt away into the poorly-lit office — to the type cases. The negro could not read. But the big inch-high capital letters fascinated him. He would pick up a stick and then try to match the letters on the sign of the Chase House which he could see from the window. Neither Kelly nor Richards nor Morton bothered this volunteer to the ranks of printer's devils but Frankie Tarr bedeviled the blackie. He accused Shadrach of slipping wrong fonts into the cases. But Frankie had not shown up for work now for three days. Even shorthanded in the first three hours the three printers had set up and made up a full page for the next issue of the Record. It was a page crammed with advertisements. While Publisher Morton boasted to his accounts that every one of his 1,500 subscribers read the advertisements, Richards knew it was a reading which printers did not enjoy. Like it or not the page must be proofread for errors. Most of the announcements were ads one column wide, two inches deep, with body matter set in agate solid. "E. R. Biggs of 75 Holmden Street sold watches and could repair them. Galey and Brown offered hardware and groceries. Leard and Wright manufactured oil well supplies. The Tremont Hotel had a bar with choice liquors and segars . . . meals at all hours . . . The Free Concert Saloon at No. 36 First Street appeals to all ye lovers of music . . . Dr. A. McCoIlough will impart his skills and knowledge of medicine. Visits each $1 to $2. Medicine and advice in office. Ordinary cases $5 to $15. Teeth extracted safely, each 50 cents, without pain. Midwifery cases $10 to $15." As Richards' tired but trained eyes marked typographical errors or omissions, he penciled the proofs with his initials, "J. R." He noted that ten more names were added to a "keep standing" list of persons who had not claimed letters at the Pithole post office. Five of these new names were "ladies," who somewhere in the United States had given the new city as the next address. In some issues The Record printed the names of as many as 80 "ladies" who had not yet picked up their mail. The post office, too, was across the street from the Record. For amusement Frankie Tarr and John Kelly came to The Record early in the afternoon to watch the activities on Holmden Street from the second floor. Whenever any "girls" entered the post office the banter and innuendos ran, "Well there's a couple not too busy to come for the mail today." It was speculated by readers of The Record that the unclaimed mail belonged to girls who were too busy dancing and entertaining at the concert saloons on First Street. Not all the proofreading was dull. Editor Morton specialized occasionally in "Who's Been Here Since I've Been Gone" items ... a gossipy filler of the era . . . "John Mallory of John Street was beat by John Kerr. Kerr returned home unexpected and found Mallory under rather embarrassing circumstances. Whereupon Kerr suspected infidelity and the worst. Kerr, however, might have lost on both counts. He paid for the beating." Another item said: "A free-for-all fight developed at the Free and Easy Concert Saloon on First Street yesterday morning at two o'clock. Anna Holmes and Charlotte Orm quarreled over the attention of a customer. Anna pushed the argument to blows by calling Charlotte bad and doggy names. Charlotte's reply was very unladylike also ... a fist in Anna's eye. A battle ensued and the girls showed more than the tops of the balmorals as they tumbled and rolled among the tobacco spitoons. A royal outburst of fisticuffs followed with men choosing sides. 20 PENNSYLVANIA ANGLER
Anna had a mark under one eye after the disorder. Each paid a five dollar fine and shook hands in front of the burgess. They departed arm in arm." So interested had Richards become in the last paragraph that he did not notice Tom Dunn had climbed the.stairs into the composing room. "Mr. Morton just hired me," he said. "Are you Mr. Richards?" CHAPTER TEN "YOU CAN HAVE Frankie Tarr's case over there on the left . . . near the window . . . when the colored gentleman is through playing with that sack of type." Justin Richards said as he rose to welcome Tom. "The Record might be the only print shop in the country to keep type in a bag. But it's been there since the big flood in Oil City almost a year ago. When the yellow water left the flood had distributed mud and Oil Creek grease and Forest County sawdust into our type cases in the Third Ward. Some type we dumped into a barrel of raw oil and when the fonts were cleaned we redistributed them. But the big wooden sorts . . .we just poured them into a flour sack and took them along. There wasn't very much time to do more. Colonel Morton usually insists on a much tidier shop. Other than that the bag keeps Shadrach busy. However, we hope to justify dragging this bag all the way over the slippery bed of Pithole Creek. Something very important might yet happen in this oil town ... something more important than just finding another heavy-flowing oil well. We are afraid, however, that the big black letters may yet announce a sheriff's sale. "But forgive me .. . Tom is it? I'm talking about us. How far have you come today? You must be new here. We've turned Pithole upside down looking for another printer. You look tired I Have you eaten?" asked Richards. "Not since I ate in Pleasantville in the afternoon," Tom answered. "I'm hungry. But if you men are behind on your news copy or advertisements, I'm willing to grab a stick right now. Perhaps this colored gentleman will get me something to eat from one of the hotels." "Yas suh, Shadrach is at your service," volunteered the sprightly, big-eyed, always-smiling attache, "Soon as I get this bag hung. "What'll you have . . . Mistuh? The Chase House had baked ham, big golden yellow yams and brown beans for supper. Do you want a quick plate? I'll be back in no time. Shadrach doesn't wait in Pithole like the rest of the people. I know the cooks." Tom had hardly replied with an order for two ham sandwiches when the negro added, "and a big pitcher of hot coffee," and scooted down the steps. "And charge it to The Record," shouted Richards after him. In a few minutes Editor Morton came bouncing up the stairs, two at a time, just as quickly as Shadrach had descended. Had the two met in the narrow hallway there certainly would have been a bone-rattling collision. He stopped at the big desk, reached into a cubby-drawer for a long "segar." "Men," he announced dramatically. "It looks like Pithole will live awhile longer yet. We have a new source of oil, a new wealth, a new attraction, a new opportunity. And of all places...the springs and wells on the hill north and west of the last block of Holmden, especially on John Street, are flowing with oil. "Isn't that a wonderful turn of events? Everyone says you must drill six hundred feet into the ground. But tonight you can sink your heel or draw your toe across the mud of Pithole and become a rich oilman." Colonel Morton stopped to regain his breath and to light his tobacco root at a gas jet and then took out folded papers. Studying his notes and enjoying his segar momentarily, he continued with a report of the facts. "It happened right after the fire. The Tremont House and the Sycamore Hotel and the Chatauque Livery burned to the ground. "Tom...you were there when they started to bring on more water and instead of putting out the fire they only brought the blaze up again? "Well, I and a few others went to the wells. John Harris of the Bath House has a very good well. I guess that half of the dirty occupants of this city washed there in the heat of last August. We put a bucket down. And tasted what came up. It sure tasted like oil, smelled like oil with a strong gassy flavor like the wells on the flats along the creek smell. "Then we went to a Mrs. Ricketts next door. She is a widow who does washing for a living. Her well, she said, is 16 feet deep. A stroke of the ricketty pump handle produced a good flow of oil. It too, looked like genuine oil. By the way.. . looks like the widow Ricketts won't have to take in any more dirty shirts and oily pants. Nor look for a husband. She got a bona fide proposal while I was there. "After we left Mrs. Ricketts' place it began to appear that all 18 properties on both sides of John Street, north of Fourth, had oil-flowing wells. People came out in the streets to shout their good fortunes. It's a funny night... in one block we had a tragedy. In the other we find a treasure. L. L. Hill came out of his house and invited everybody .... " 'Come on down into my cellar, all of you that can get in, and I'll show you a real oil well.' "We followed him into his cold, damp hole in the ground. Hill rolled a barrel under the pump spout. " 'Now watch, men. Everybody says you must dig a hole six or seven hundred feet into an oil rock, put in a lot of pipe, hew out walking beam, build a shanty and install a pump engine . . . just you watch my hand-well perform.' "He began to shake the handle. In five minutes by the burgess' watch the spout filled the barrel to the top. That's $42 an hour at today's oil quotation on the Chase Exchange Board. Of course a barrel of oil is pretty heavy. And it has no handles. " 'How are you going to get this oil out of the cellar?,' jibed some of the envious bystanders. " 'I'll tear the house down,' said Hill. And many of us agreed that in a few days he would be able to build a better shack than already stood over his cellar. "I don't know how many more water wells are going to turn into oil wells tonight," said the editor. "I'm not too sure that some bright schemer is not pulling a promotion. And right now it's almost midnight. It's getting late, too late to find out. You fellows get busy on those short news items and those big ads for the oil development on the Holmden Farm. And be sure to give a column to The Chase. We've got to eat and sleep. "I'll write out a ten-line head for the big story. "And you, Tom, if you're not too tired, you might set up tomorrow's menus for The Chase and The Morey. They are to be delivered with the papers. Or else a lot of guests in Pithole will never know either the excellence or the extent of our cuisine." Shadrach, meanwhile, had returned with the food and the news that "a whole bunch of people is running up the street ... ." From time to time residents of Pithole came to order special copies of The Record's next issue. "My people back in Boston won't believe what I've seen here tonight. Send a dozen extra copies to Tom Jordan, Room 46 at The Chase," said one customer. Another came to volunteer that Mr. Dame of the U, S. Laundry started pumping his water well seriously. He filled five barrels quickly and then ran out of containers. He preferred to keep his good news to himself, and he could since his well was in the cellar. But when he went asking about barrels at midnight he disclosed his possession. The Record's work was disrupted periodically during the night with new reports. Editor Morton cautioned some of his more enthusiastic visitors who urged him to print the story "big." "We better be careful this is not a trick." "There was a gentleman, I use the term charitably, in here an hour ago who wanted me to announce that the seeping oil springs were now being found east of Holmden Run.. . Over there where the town has just laid out fourteen new blocks, hoping that we'd grow to that size." "I just didn't like the looks of that man. And until I see the wells myself in the daylight, I won't say a word. He might be trying to sell some property. They've been trying to develop and build up those lots for some time now. Until this •miracle,' if that's what it is, until tonight, people were leaving Pithole. ..." The Record had its edition on the streets on time the morning after The Tremont House burned and the water wells began to run with oil. Fifteen hundred copies were worked off for regular subscribers. In addition 1,500 were sold to cash customers, many of whom waited all night outside the office. Tom Dunn rolled into bed at The Chase at six o'clock in continued on page 22 MARCH—1 968 21
Page 1 and 2: NNSYLVANIA MARCH, 1968 ceA
Page 3 and 4: CALIFORNIA FAN Gentlemen, One of my
Page 5 and 6: LEAKY BOOTS continued from page 1 T
Page 7 and 8: HERE'S a dandy for the pan. SPRING
Page 9 and 10: More Pennsylvania women follow "fat
Page 11 and 12: were geared with 75 or 100 horsepow
Page 13 and 14: OIL BOOM days found wooden derrick
Page 15 and 16: MM\ . ^fi r^f ~ f. ^*"Z T
Page 17 and 18: the basin and the sperm and eggs ar
Page 19 and 20: THE TRAIN used for stocking Muddy C
Page 21: BOATING with ROBERT G. MILLER DIREC
Page 25 and 26: continued front page 7 When I first
Page 27 and 28: the spot because the fish were biti
Page 29 and 30: FALSE SALMON EGG FEAST? by Courtney
Page 31 and 32: "FISHING FATHER" HONORED BY HOUSE T
Page 33 and 34: ANN MICHELE proves the girls can ca
Page 35 and 36: CATCH A TROPHY FISH AND RECEIVE A P

march, 1968 - Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission

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