ASA 
 
 ULL 
 
 Ethel Harshbargcr Wed die 
 
"L I B RAHY 
 
 OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 £86.5 
 vHlp 
 
 flfloois Historical Jyrv*v 
 
/ ' » 
 
 1" 
 
Pleasant Hill 
 
Pleasant Hill 
 
 Ethel Harshbarger Weddle 
 
 BRETHREN PUBLISHING HOUSE 
 Elgin, Illinois 
 
Copyright 1956 by the 
 House of the Church of the Brethren 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
22b ■£ 
 
 This boo\ 
 
 is 
 
 dedicated 
 
 to its characters. 
 
 Their virtues I extol. 
 
 Their mistakes I leave to 
 
 the Father of all. 
 
 I salute them 
 
 and 
 
 as\ the reader 
 
 to do 
 
 the same. 
 
 ^s> 
 
 ? 
 
 V5- 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/pleasanthillOOwedd 
 
gar Creek N> 
 
 * 9 wile Lane to Stirrup Grove 
 
 fW. Daniel 
 Vaniman ■ 
 
 David 
 
 V/animdn 
 
 John 
 Crist 
 
 Gco»1ge 
 Vd.ni> id.n 
 
 ' Snell 
 
 /875 / 
 
 PLEASANT HILL 
 S. 
 
 ■■ ROADS 
 ♦W+ R.R. 
 
To the Reader — 
 
 In this book it has been my purpose to tell the story of the 
 old Pleasant Hill Church of the Brethren, located between 
 Girard and Virden, Illinois. After three years of research I 
 present to you the picture contained herein. The difficulties 
 have been numerous and I ask your leniency if I have erred 
 in reconstructing these events so nearly lost to posterity. 
 
 As many interesting details have been omitted as have 
 been used. I ask your pardon if your story has not been 
 included. All names, dates, and events are facts. No doubt 
 inaccuracies have crept in, but little of the book is pure 
 conjecture. 
 
 Special acknowledgments are hereby extended to: Elder 
 John Heckman of Polo, Illinois, for his constructive criticism 
 and guidance on the religious theme and for access to his 
 unpublished memoirs, without which I could not have written 
 much of the first twenty years; Miss Ollie Snell and the late 
 Mrs. Lizzie Stowe of Girard, Illinois; Mrs. Martha Brubaker, 
 Pacific Palisades, California; Ezra Frantz, Weatherford, Texas; 
 Mrs. Clara Shull, North Manchester, Indiana; Mrs. Melvin 
 Wrightsman, Virden, Illinois; Elder A. O. Brubaker, Pomona, 
 California; A. S. Harshbarger, La Verne, California; the 
 unpublished memoirs of the late Elder I. J. Harshbarger of 
 Girard, Illinois, and those of Elder E. H. Brubaker of Long 
 Beach, California; Mrs. Modena Minnich Studebaker of La 
 Grange, Indiana, and the Gospel Messenger for permission to 
 reprint the poem, "Portrait of Mother, Eighty-one Years Old." 
 
 Grateful acknowledgment is also extended to Mrs. Hobart 
 Blair of Virden, Illinois, for her splendid co-operation in 
 loaning published and unpublished family papers, including 
 
the diary of Louisa Vaniman and the adventurous life of 
 C. M. Vaniman; to Gene Twitchell of Virden, Illinois, for 
 the use of his valuable collection on the life and work of 
 C. M. Vaniman; to Mrs. Nora Vaniman of Urbana, Illinois, for 
 her encouragement and the sharing of her press clippings; 
 to Miss Annabel Goode, co-editor of the Girard Gazette and the 
 Virden Recorder, who so graciously opened the early files of 
 these newspapers for research; to Attorney S. O. Smith for 
 information from land abstracts; to Mrs. G. O. Stutsman of 
 La Verne, California, for sharing the diary of Amanda Snell; 
 to Mr. and Mrs. E. E. Brubaker of Virden for their loan of 
 the diary of S. S. Brubaker; and to many others who were 
 willing to answer questionnaires, share family stories, and 
 render critical reading. 
 
 Other sources of information have been: Walker's History 
 of Macoupin County; Church of the Brethren in Southern 
 Illinois, edited by Minnie Buckingham; A History of the 
 Brethren, by M. G. Brumbaugh; Some Who Led, by D. L. 
 Miller and Galen B. Royer; the written minutes of the Pleasant 
 Hill congregation; the article by Elder D. P. Saylor in the 
 Brethren Family Almanac, issue of December 1908. 
 
 I believe that the Pleasant Hill story is a great story in 
 Christian living. It is true Americana and I am happy to 
 preserve it to the best of my ability. 
 
 —Ethel Harshbarger Wed die 
 Girard, Illinois 
 September 1, 1956 
 
In the Beginning 
 
 According to the calendar there was once a period of years 
 enumerated as those from A.D. 1863 to 1912. But according 
 to God it was one moment in His eons of time which was to 
 make an important contribution to the growth of Christian 
 civilization. 
 
 According to geography the place was a garden spot of 
 alluvial soil known as Pleasant Hill, lying in central Illinois 
 on the north edge of Macoupin County. But according to God 
 it was a fertile place for the birth and growth of a consecrated 
 group of people whose deep and sincere way of life was to 
 become an influence that would reach around the world. 
 
 These people were first known as the German Baptist 
 Brethren, commonly called Dunkers, but later were to be known 
 as the Church of the Brethren. 
 
 As white settlers broke into this rich section of Black Hawk's 
 hunting ground, each man came with wagon and oxen, axe 
 and plow, horse and saddle, wife and children, and faith in 
 God. The first men at Pleasant Hill had little gold. But they 
 had the will to work and brought hard hands and stout backs 
 to the task of conquering the rolling prairie sections which cost 
 them three dollars per acre in 1834. 
 
 These first settlers were not of the Brethren faith, but they 
 were good men. It was Moses Smith, Absolom Kent, Preston 
 Wright, and John Virden who won from the land at Pleasant 
 Hill its first wild wealth. 
 
 As early as 1844 these men first met the Brethren 
 "horseback preacher" as a neighbor. For fifteen years Elder 
 Isham Gibson had guided his horse over the primitive trails of 
 Morgan, Cass, Sangamon, and Macoupin counties. Always, he 
 
rode to expound the gospel according to the German Baptist 
 Brethren interpretation, and this he did in exactly the same 
 years that Peter Cartwright conducted his "warfare" for the 
 Methodist faith. Indeed, these men shook hands as earthly 
 friends, but in heavenly things they agreed not to give up 
 one jot or tittle of the doctrines to which they were devoting 
 their lives. Certainly, between them, they must have kept the 
 devil on the run. 
 
 Isham Gibson had organized the first Brethren congregation 
 in central Illinois on Sugar Creek in Sangamon County in 1830. 
 Then the elder made a purchase of land on Otter Creek, a 
 few miles west of Pleasant Hill. 
 
 Through the years there were converts and there were also 
 migrations of groups of Brethren from the eastern states. Then 
 at last came the plunder of the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. 
 The people of Pennsylvania faced Gettysburg and Cemetery 
 Ridge. In 1863 all of these movements joined hands and the 
 Brethren began moving into the Pleasant Hill area. At this 
 point our story begins. 
 
 1863-1864: The Dun\ers Come to Pleasant Hill 
 It is in the year 1863, in the summer that holds Chickamauga 
 and Chattanooga in its hands, that the first of the Brethren, 
 young David Vaniman of Ohio, arrives at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 In the prime of his thirty-six years he comes, driving a 
 good team to a stout covered wagon. Riding on the seat beside 
 him are his wife, Betsy, and three-year-old Danny. The only 
 daughter, Suzannah, and John, eleven years old, and Jake, 
 Charley, Ira, and Levi are riding by tucking themselves among 
 the tools and the personal possessions loaded in the wagon box. 
 
 Bound for Missouri, David Vaniman has come following 
 the Indianapolis-Danville stage road. He has picked up the 
 Alton stage line at Springfield, and now, arriving at Virden, 
 he stops to ask of the blacksmith whose shop stands near the 
 roadside, "Are there any Dunkers living around here?" 
 
 10 
 
"Yes," says Isaac Davidson, the smith, "I know a Dunker 
 preacher by the name of Gibson. Lives yonder to the west 
 somewhere. Inquire as you go. He's right well known and 
 you'll find him." 
 
 A mile south of the village of Virden, David guides his 
 team around the first corner leading west and decides to stop 
 at the first farmhouse and inquire the way to Preacher Gibson's. 
 Betsy and the children are weary. The team is tired. There is 
 no time to waste in an effort to reach the destination he has 
 in mind. The sun has dropped behind the horizon, leaving 
 a flame of red and gold burning in its trail. Night will soon 
 fold them into its soft darkness, and David always plans to 
 make camp before dark. 
 
 It is Mr. Preston Wright, the homesteader, who lives at 
 the first house. 
 
 Says friendly Mr. Wright, "Yes, I know where the Dunker 
 preacher lives, though I'm not of that faith myself. But it's 
 quite a piece yet. You'd better stop here for the night, Mr. 
 Vaniman. 
 
 "Mary," he calls to a tall girl of thirteen years who is 
 lingering in the dooryard. "Mary, tell your mother to bake 
 plenty of corn bread for supper. These folks are staying tonight." 
 
 David Vaniman stays that night, and he stays at Pleasant 
 Hill the remainder of his life. There is peace here at Pleasant 
 Hill. Why drive on to Missouri? In Missouri race riots are 
 continuing to occur under the instigation of the angry guerrilla 
 leader, Quantrill, who has recently burned Lawrence, Kansas. 
 
 Peace is one of the great principles for which the Brethren 
 have emigrated from Europe to America, the first group having 
 arrived in 1719 led by Peter Becker. And Alexander Mack, the 
 founder, had come in 1729, eager to live in this new land that 
 had promised freedom from military service and freedom to 
 worship God as he believed right. 
 
 David Vaniman, too, wishes to promote this peace of the 
 Brethren and he wishes for economic opportunities as well. 
 Now he makes his purchase of a large acreage and sets about 
 to build the finest farm home in the countryside, a home that 
 
 11 
 
is to stand nearly a hundred years. Only the Lord knows how 
 much longer. 
 
 Betsy Vaniman bends her shoulders to the task of caring 
 for her family and cooking for the builders. And out of the 
 clutter of bricks and lumber the walls of a twenty-two-room 
 house rise to hold the beauty of cherry-wood cupboards and 
 deep walnut window casements and the convenience of a 
 cool brick dairy and great brick ovens. It is a mansion on the 
 prairie that costs twelve thousand dollars. 
 
 Jacob Brubaker, forty-three years of age, comes from Ohio 
 this same year, arriving in a covered wagon on August 30. 
 Shivering in a sudden blow of unseasonable cold, his children 
 are bundled into shawls as they drive into the site of their new 
 home. They awake the next morning to see a sun-flooded land 
 white with frost. 
 
 Jacob shakes his head and allows that he has doubts about 
 such a country, where early frost will nip the unripened corn. 
 "But this is unusual," he is told. 
 
 Jacob looks at his three boys, John H., eleven, Samuel S., 
 eight, and the two-year-old, Ezra J., on Mother Anna's lap. 
 There are the daughters: Elizabeth, who is seventeen, and Nancy 
 and Catherine. He knows that he desires the best for these 
 children. 
 
 He looks out over the acres of land. Rich. Black. And for 
 sale. In his mind's eye he sees sleek horses and fat cattle 
 and thriving porkers. And although he cannot fathom its reach 
 he believes in the prosperity of the coming years, when a 
 wealth of money and a wealth of happiness and an unmeasurable 
 service to mankind will flow through the hearts and hands of 
 a people who are to make this Pleasant Hill into a special and 
 precious thing in that period of American history to be known 
 as the "golden years." 
 
 So it is that Jacob Brubaker makes his purchase from 
 Perron Kent, who had been born on this homestead in 1835. 
 Here a sturdy square house has been erected, built of solid oak 
 lumber, braced like a barn, from local timber seasoned eight 
 years. It is a house that will not shake in a hundred years. 
 Indeed, from the day that Jacob makes this a Brethren 
 
 12 
 
home it is to remain so, passing from Jacob to his son, John H., 
 and from John H. to his son, Irvin— the only home at Pleasant 
 Hill to remain with a line of Brethren sons into the middle 
 of the twentieth century, when Midwest history will begin to 
 come of age. 
 
 On September 3, Elder John Crist of Ohio drives his 
 covered wagon into the Pleasant Hill community. He builds 
 a modest two-story brick house, and the children — eleven-year- 
 old Isaac, followed by John, Phoebe, Henry, and Dan— find 
 that tasks shoot up faster than wishes. Yet with plenty of 
 mush and milk in their stomachs, the boys shoot up in stature 
 and by and by it becomes the regular task of Henry and Dan 
 to turn the crank of the churn until the butter comes. 
 
 Taking turns, each boy seeks to have the honor of bringing 
 the butter, yet little Dan tires and begs for help before his turn 
 is done. 
 
 "All right," declares Henry, seizing the handle and turning 
 the churn backwards, "I'm going to unchurn all that you have 
 churned." 
 
 This idea overwhelms the little boy and he rushes to his 
 mother for sympathy. Yet, when they are grown, these four 
 Crist boys will each become a Brethren minister and elder 
 and each one will live to a very great age. And each one will 
 know that truly life itself will often bring experiences that 
 seem to unchurn all that's been churned. 
 
 As the months march into the year 1864 and the intensity 
 of the war increases, more and more Brethren in the East 
 are transferring their possessions into movable wealth. 
 
 They may have been driven from their burning homes. 
 They may not believe in slavery and are persecuted for being 
 "nigger lovers." They may have refused, as Brethren, to bear 
 arms. Whatever the reason, the Brethren movement now gains 
 the impetus that is to make Pleasant Hill a community of 
 their own. 
 
 Now three Virginia brothers arrive, by train, with their 
 families— Noah, John, and Moses Brubaker— and their cousin, 
 Jonathan Brubaker, comes in a covered wagon from Ohio. 
 
 Also from Ohio there are Joseph Filbrun and wife with 
 
 13 
 
Vaniman, the brother of David Y ' * ° aniel 
 
 and tLlo^nt^X: £= ft *"" ^ *" 
 they are completely independent" ' ^ "^ «* 
 
 Daniel Vaniman is following the nU™ k« 1 
 
 earn a living for his family. ButYe s a Tchol Th ""S 
 
 the outreaches of h: if He t S^*"* ^'^ * aU ° f 
 but his visions wi,l shit th?Broth n el a od y ° UnS ^ °' *** 
 
 a nephewtf mJer £/ 'S,*" *"** ^ Gib -' 
 £ h d gone f S a aS brf d :. reCal \ the "* ** ^ * "2 
 
 -03 w ft 35,-S^ she - h - 
 
 one's A famd; y t r b a e *£ ? no^ ■ ^ ^ » ** 
 convinced tLt strLTc^lLl / XsSf Sa" 6 " * » 
 » to make each one w,se and strong d ^ family 
 
 Nancy knows that she H^r^ r^f 
 
 thread or a garment that £ hoVTLT ThT" ? 
 shoes sit in a solemn r™, i warmth. The family 
 
 exm„ t | y cod w™he L bv I T,°, ™? ? ChU " h - " '» 
 
sometimes walks the ten miles to the meetinghouse at Otter 
 Creek carrying the shoes until he reaches the churchyard. 
 
 Neither is a crumb of food wasted in the Gibson household. 
 If Cullen's blue eyes flash around the table and spy a portion 
 of food on a plate when the meal is finished he asks the 
 question, "What's the matter with your food?" 
 
 "I can't eat it, Father" or "I don't like it, Father" is no 
 excuse. 
 
 "Mother," Cullen orders, "set that plate in the pantry and 
 place it on the table for this child's next meal." 
 
 The names of this Gibson family will be prominent in 
 the community for many a year. There is now Serilda, the 
 oldest, already married to the young soldier, Frank Gates, 
 away at war. And the youngest, Lizzie, will be born in 1870. 
 Between them will be James, John, Charles, Hannah, George, 
 Sarah, Rinda, Isaac, Henry, and Cullen. And all of these 
 children are taught "I was glad when they said unto me, 
 Let us go unto the house of the Lord." 
 
 1865: Good Friday, April 14 
 
 "It is Good Friday, the day to plant potatoes," says David Mayer. 
 And he calls to his four boys, who stairstep in size down to 
 nine-year-old John, to come and help. 
 
 As the Mayers drop potatoes in the soil of their garden 
 there is no sign of the all-important meeting of two great 
 generals in a farmhouse at Appomattox, Virginia, on just last 
 Sunday. Nor would anyone think, living here in the quiet 
 lanes, that other roads in the nation are already crowded with 
 soldiers hurrying home. 
 
 Even now, as they plant potatoes, no one is thinking of 
 the doings of the President of the United States or knows the 
 fact that Mr. Lincoln is planning to attend Ford's Theatre in 
 Washington, D. C. Yet they do admire the wonderful words he 
 had so recently spoken: "With malice toward none, with 
 charity for all." 
 
 15 
 
No one is ready for the message which creeps into every 
 corner of the land by Sunday morning: "President Lincoln 
 is dead." 
 
 The Mayer family are not yet Brethren members but on 
 this morning they drive to the meetinghouse at Stirrup Grove. 
 There a curtain of grief drops around the service, and Elder 
 Isham Gibson preaches in hushed tones, adding to his resur- 
 rection sermon on this Easter Sunday morning words that 
 will encourage a people who have lost their national leader. 
 
 Elder Gibson remembers well the tall, angular man who 
 as a young lawyer had traveled on horseback over the same 
 trails that he had traveled. The young man who had 
 conscientiously studied and practiced the law while Isham 
 Gibson had conscientiously expounded the gospel according to 
 the Brethren of the West. The young man who had once sat 
 in his service as well as in other services held by the pioneer 
 Dunker preacher, George Wolfe, or by the Methodist preacher, 
 Peter Cartwright. The man to whom destiny has now spoken 
 and said, "Give me your life." 
 
 Elder Gibson prays in hushed tones, "O Lord, our God! 
 Have mercy on this nation." 
 
 Somehow John Mayer, even in the tenderness of his nine 
 years, catches the sense of horror and grief that settles over 
 Illinois. And when it is announced that the body of Abraham 
 Lincoln will be returned to Illinois for burial, John hears his 
 father saying, "I am going to Springfield to the funeral and 
 I'm going to take the boys with me." 
 
 Little John Mayer is to live to be ninety-one years old, 
 with more than half of these years to be spent with the 
 Brethren at Pleasant Hill. But never will he forget that 
 Wednesday of May 3, 1865, when he stands on tiptoe and looks 
 upon the face of the martyred President, the man who has 
 come home to his neighbors and cannot speak to them. 
 
 Never will John Mayer forget the scent of lilacs blooming 
 in every dooryard on this sad day. Nor will he ever forget the 
 continual tolling of the bells throughout these long, long hours 
 when thousands of people line the streets, waiting to pass by 
 the bier of Abraham Lincoln. 
 
 16 
 
Never will John forget the kind white face of the man 
 lying there in his casket, wearing his best black broadcloth and 
 his correct Dunker beard, the secret locked forever in his 
 breast if he is or is not a baptized Christian. 
 
 It will become a well-known fact to the Brethren that the 
 Maryland Dunker bishop, Daniel P. Sayler, became a personal 
 friend of Abraham Lincoln at the White House and that there 
 this bishop administered to the humble servant of the people, 
 time and again, the Holy Communion. 
 
 And why should a Brethren bishop administer to President 
 Lincoln the Sacred Communion if the President is not a baptized 
 Christian? Thus there are to be those who will rise up and 
 declare that Abraham Lincoln was baptized in the Sangamon 
 River one secret, sacred night by the Dunker elder, Isaac 
 Billheimer of Rossville, Indiana, shortly before the first 
 inauguration. 
 
 It will be said that Elder Billheimer solemnly gave his word 
 to keep the rite a secret through the years in which Abraham 
 Lincoln was to be in the White House. Also it will be 
 maintained that Mr. Lincoln as solemnly promised to practice 
 and observe all of the plain and peaceful teachings of the 
 Brethren when he had finished his work at Washington. 
 
 It may be that Elder Isaac Billheimer will not feel released 
 from his promise even by the death of Abraham Lincoln, and 
 thus he will not tell the story in time to meet the authentic 
 demands of historical researchers, who will require a witness, 
 and there will be none. Perhaps none but the facts of the 
 two men taking the Holy Communion together there in the 
 White House and the unfashionable Dunker beard on that 
 face there in the casket, which little John Mayer will never 
 forget. 
 
 When wars are over there are great emotions of joy and 
 sorrow that tear the hearts of the people, for there are those 
 who return and there are those who do not; and only the 
 Lord knows which it will be. 
 
 Now Frank Gates comes marching home, proud to have 
 fought in blue for the cause of "one nation under God, 
 indivisible, with liberty and justice for all." His stern but 
 
 17 
 
handsome countenance melts into smiles for his young wife, 
 Serilda. Happy, they plunge into the activities of farm life 
 which will make Frank a wealthy man. Soon their happiness 
 is interrupted by a visit from the Brethren. 
 
 "Frank," they say, "you have turned against the teaching 
 of the New Testament and your church. You have engaged in 
 the practice of war and we have withdrawn your membership. 
 If you are sorry for your error and make your confession we 
 will be glad to take you back into the fellowship." 
 
 "Serilda's father warned me," says Frank. "But I will never 
 be sorry for my part in preserving the Union. I have experienced 
 the presence of God through four years of danger. He has not 
 turned me away. If you cannot accept me as a brother in the 
 church, then, through my wife, I will be your brother-in-law." 
 And, true to his word, Frank Gates worships through all his 
 long years with the Brethren, but never does he return to the 
 membership of their church. 
 
 1866: Spring 
 
 The train comes clattering into Virden on the Chicago and 
 Alton tracks, the first north-and-south railroad in the state and 
 complete now twelve years. The engine puffs up like a very 
 important person, and, with a great hissing of steam, jerks the 
 coaches to a stop. 
 
 David Vaniman is waiting and sees his brother George, 
 and George's young wife, Louisa Decker Vaniman, coming 
 down the steps. 
 
 "Welcome to Illinois," David shouts as he greets his 
 brother. "It's a great country, George, and you'll like it. Illinois 
 can do a lot for all of us." 
 
 "And I hope," says George, "that we can do something 
 good for Illinois." 
 
 David greets Louisa too. Not having met this sister-in-law 
 before today, he is surprised at her tiny build. His eyes sweep 
 
 18 
 
from the dainty hat tilted fashionably over her eyes to her tiny 
 feet peeping from the hem of her crinoline skirt. 
 
 "Well, well," he says. "You're a mighty little slip of a 
 woman. I reckon the work on these prairies is likely to tucker 
 you out." 
 
 Louisa laughs. "If you think I am little now you should 
 have seen me when I was born. They could put me in a quart 
 cup and lay a hand over the top." And Louisa's eyes twinkle 
 at her brother-in-law's incredulity. 
 
 They pick up the baggage and walk past the station to the 
 wagon where the boy Charley is waiting— little Charley 
 Vaniman, seven years old, blue eyed, ruddy, and chubby, and 
 as stout as a hickory sapling. 
 
 "Charley," says David, "here's your Uncle George and Aunt 
 Louisa. Speak to them and we'll be getting on home." 
 
 Driving southwest out of Virden, David says, "This was 
 the old stage road. On down about two miles was John Virden's 
 old stage stop." 
 
 "No doubt," says George, "it was an Indian trail before it 
 was a stage road." 
 
 "Yes, no doubt," agrees David. 
 
 But although David and George can see, in the mind's eye, 
 the footprints of the Indians that once trotted over this trail, 
 they cannot visualize the slabs of cement or the endless rubbered 
 tread of the motor age on Illinois State Route 4 that within the 
 lives of their sons will become a part of the Pleasant Hill 
 landscape. 
 
 In this same year the Jacob Stutsman family arrive from 
 Ohio and settle at Pleasant Hill. Jacob is a community-minded 
 man. His family is an energetic, jolly group, all of whom 
 realize the importance of hard work and frugality; but the 
 burden of living rests on their shoulders with good cheer and 
 they intend to have plenty of fun as the days go by. Henry is 
 already a young man of twenty, and Valentine is only ten. 
 
 "I'm glad the school is near," says Henry. "But where will 
 we go to church, Father?" 
 
 "At Otter Creek, near Stirrup Grove," Jacob answers. "And 
 
 19 
 
they say it's nearly ten miles. I reckon we need a meetinghouse 
 at Pleasant Hill." 
 
 George Vaniman also buys land within the Pleasant Hill 
 district. "The house isn't much," he says to Louisa. "But it's 
 a home." He goes out to look at the land. 
 
 The dirt is black. George crumbles a moist clod in his 
 hand and it sifts through his fingers to the ground. Here is 
 the wealth of eons of time, a living potential of hay and grain 
 and livestock. He will build a big barn first and then, in 
 another year or two, a new home for Louisa. 
 
 He takes off his hat and stands bareheaded before the 
 Giver and the gift. The breeze blows his brown hair, trained 
 straight back from his square brow, and he combs his thick 
 brown chin whiskers with strong fingers. 
 
 Youth and vigor, vision and ambition are his. Only thirty 
 years stand behind him, but those years have brought him to 
 this fulfillment. How does a young man express his happiness? 
 
 When David, the shepherd of old, found himself over- 
 whelmed with indescribable emotion, he composed a psalm. 
 When the Apostle Paul felt great things stirring within him, 
 he wrote an ode to charity. 
 
 What, then, does a young farmer of today do? Sing as 
 he beholds the glory of the land? Store within his heart the 
 things that he feels and sees and hopes, pondering them well? 
 
 George goes to the house to supper. Louisa is flying around 
 with the quick, light steps of her twenty-one years. She is 
 neat in calico, and her hair is neat too, arranged in a chignon. 
 She informs George, "I've finally unpacked everything and I've 
 baked a cake for tomorrow." 
 
 "Good," says George, laughter wrinkles creasing the skin 
 around his deep-set blue eyes. "And tomorrow being Sunday, 
 I think we'll go to church." 
 
 "Where will we go, George?" asks Louisa. "To Virden?" 
 
 "No," answers George, taking his place at the supper 
 table. "We'll attend church with the Dunkers. They are my 
 people. We'll drive to David's early in the morning and follow 
 them to the place they call Stirrup Grove on Otter Creek. The 
 
 20 
 
sooner we go to church, you know, the sooner we'll get 
 acquainted." 
 
 Going toward the church, the road runs like a drawn thread 
 across the prairie, which at last gives way to the great groves 
 of hickory, walnut, and oak that grace the curves of Otter 
 Creek. 
 
 The Brethren are justly proud of their spacious meeting- 
 house here, built two years ago after many years of worshiping 
 in schoolhouses or barns. 
 
 It is yet early for the hour of worship, but the people are 
 coming, the men driving their wagons up to the stiles where 
 the families unload, then driving away to the hitching racks. 
 
 Louisa goes with Betsy into the meetinghouse, following 
 down the aisle to a seat on the women's side. 
 
 As the men stand in the churchyard, David introduces his 
 brother George to many, and George likes the men he meets. 
 There are the Gibson brothers, Javan and Daniel B., Elder 
 Isham's sons, tall, strong young men, thirty-one and thirty-two 
 years of age, sandy haired, quick minded, keen eyed, pleasant, 
 and friendly. Each is wearing a plain homemade suit. Their 
 hair, too, is worn in the Brethren pattern, combed straight 
 back, cut just above the collar and accompanied by the beard 
 only, and otherwise a smooth-shaven face. 
 
 They shake hands with George in a hearty fashion, but 
 they do not give him the salutation of the holy kiss, for their 
 eyes have taken in his fashionable coat and cravat and gold 
 chain. 
 
 George smiles and informs them in quiet tones, "No, I've 
 never come into the membership yet, though I reckon I should." 
 
 "Why not now?" says Javan. "Someday you'll put it off 
 too long. But I'm not a preacher." He laughs with a gentle 
 chuckle. "Brother Dan and I are both deacons, though, and 
 preaching might come natural too." 
 
 George listens with interest then to Javan's story of his 
 father, Isham. 
 
 "Father has preached all over these Illinois counties," says 
 Javan. "He's worn out three or four horses and a couple of 
 saddles. Back in '33 he was over at Decatur and debated in the 
 
 21 
 
log cabin where Abe Lincoln held court. A Mr. Hostetler was 
 his opponent, and Father baptized eight after the debate. Back 
 in '40 he won a debate in Morgan County with the famous 
 infidel, Mr. Morgan, and after that debate Father baptized Mr. 
 Morgan himself." 
 
 Javan is not boasting of his father's activities. He is 
 really urging his new-found friend, George Vaniman, to become 
 a member of the church. George listens with interest as Javan 
 talks on and on. 
 
 Now Javan concludes, "So, as I said, Mr. Vaniman, you'd 
 better be baptized into the church before my father gets to 
 arguing with you." 
 
 George smiles with an opinion of his own hidden behind 
 his quietness, and turns to shake hands with Elder Gibson 
 himself, who now steps up to greet the newcomer. 
 
 "So you've located near Virden," says the elder in his 
 clear, beautiful voice. George admires the fine physique of this 
 leader of men and listens respectfully as Isham Gibson continues : 
 
 "Well, we've decided to build a meetinghouse over there 
 near the Pleasant Hill school. When I came to Illinois in 
 1829 there were eight members of the Brethren in this area. 
 Now we're crowding three hundred and some have twenty 
 miles to drive. We've got to build more meetinghouses." 
 
 "I've heard a little of your plans to build at Pleasant Hill," 
 says George. "I'll be glad to lend a hand and give of my 
 money too." 
 
 1866: Entry in Louisa Vaniman s Diary, November 3 
 Our baby boy was born Oct., 30. Named him Chester 
 Melvin. George is hauling rock for the new church. 
 
 To Louisa Vaniman this first summer in Illinois has been added 
 
 into a sum of profitable days. Now she is proud to become 
 
 a mother. 
 
 "It's a corn-shucker," the doctor announces. "And a fine 
 
 22 
 
husky fellow he is. Take good care of him. He might become 
 great someday." 
 
 "He suits me just the way he is," says Louisa. She smiles 
 down at little Chester Melvin and does not seek to measure her 
 joy. Now he is tiny and helpless and she is the guardian of his 
 every need. She cannot know that one day she will be the one 
 to feel small and helpless in the powers that surround her. 
 
 George is helping to haul foundation rock for the new 
 Dunker meetinghouse which will be built next summer. Farm 
 after farm has been sold to the Dunkers and now the Pleasant 
 Hill community virtually belongs to these religious people. They 
 have paid as high as thirty-five dollars per acre for the land, 
 making a windfall of profit for the early landowners. 
 
 The site for the church has been purchased from Mr. Adam 
 Fetter. It is one-half mile north of the schoolhouse on a plot 
 which measures three and one-half acres. This will allow for 
 the huge building being planned and spacious yards and ade- 
 quate hitching grounds. 
 
 Also, there is a tiny fenced plot in Jacob Brubaker's field 
 just across the road where there are already mounds of sod 
 indicating the last resting places of the first Brethren people 
 who have died since coming to Pleasant Hill. 
 
 Now the Brethren drive to the Sugar Creek stone quarry 
 and load their wagons with stone cut into eighteen-inch blocks. 
 The corner of Mr. Fetter's field takes on the appearance of the 
 first steps in the fulfillment of the Brethren's decision, "We 
 will build a house unto the Lord." 
 
 There are various strong young fellows at this arduous task, 
 and among them is James Gibson, twenty-six years old and, 
 as yet, unmarried. As James leaves Virden behind, he walks 
 beside his creaking wagon, singing a favorite ballad. But as 
 he passes Preston Wright's home he drops the tune. If that 
 attractive daughter, Mary, is working in the yard he will 
 certainly rest his team while he hangs over the fence and talks 
 with her a spell. 
 
 Mary is just seventeen, but this is the day when a bride 
 is young and a girl is an old maid if, at twenty, she remains 
 as an unmarried daughter in her father's house. 
 
 23 
 
So now Mary herself has contrived to be sweeping the 
 yard of its thick peppering of cast-off leaves just as the wagons 
 pass. And James stops, and, while his team heaves great 
 restful sighs, the sweet nothings of the centuries are murmured 
 over Mr. Wright's fence. 
 
 1867: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, March 29 
 
 To-day George went to the funeral of a preacher 
 named John Heckman. 
 
 Just last year Elder John Heckman, Senior, a man three times 
 married and yet again a widower, came to Illinois bringing with 
 him Johnny, Junior, a wide-awake little fellow of three. 
 
 This man treasures a rich heritage of German Baptist 
 Brethren teachings. His first ancestor in America was John 
 Peter Heckman, who came from Germany to Philadelphia in 
 1748, becoming a pupil of the founders of the church and 
 then an exhorter of this new-found faith. 
 
 Now this John Heckman lives east of the village of Girard, 
 and he needs a housekeeper and a mother for the little fellow. 
 There is Widow Cassandra Powers, alone too, and a man 
 in his situation thinks of the convenience of a home, complete 
 with a mother and housekeeper that he can respect, and 
 does not count the times he has experienced this loss. Elder 
 Heckman marries Cassandra and little Johnny has a step- 
 mother. 
 
 This father, himself, now lies dead. The neighbors come. 
 The menfolks lay out the corpse in its homespun suit and 
 fold its hands, then shake an ironed sheet from its folds and 
 respectfully cover the still form. The women tie white aprons 
 over their Sunday dresses and prepare food for the family 
 and for those who will sit through the wake. 
 
 Those who keep this night watch may spend some time 
 in singing hymns together, or they may read from the shelves 
 of books which are indeed a rarity in these days. Truly, this 
 
 24 
 
Elder Heckman must have been quite an educated man, and it 
 is a treat to leaf through these books until morning comes. 
 
 A four-horse team is hitched to a wagon and someone 
 drives into Girard, struggling through gumbo mud, and 
 finally back to the farm again with a man-sized coffin made of 
 seasoned walnut, solid and smooth and hand rubbed. The 
 man who let them have it will receive seven dollars for it 
 when the affairs of the deceased are settled. 
 
 It is a desperately muddy journey to Pleasant Hill. The 
 iron traces are taut as the wheels roll up great slugs of mud, 
 and the horses strain from one step to another. The day being 
 warm, the team pants and sweat rises into a white lather that 
 rims the harness bands. The hair of the animals' shedding 
 coats blows back onto the riders in the wagons and covers their 
 clothes. 
 
 Since the meetinghouse at Pleasant Hill is not yet finished, 
 the little procession stops at the schoolhouse. Elder Isham 
 Gibson and Elder John Crist are there. They come forward, 
 sharing the giving of consoling scriptures and prayers. The 
 bier with its coffin is again picked up by its poles and set in 
 the wagon and the journey is resumed to the cemetery. 
 
 Four-year-old Johnny holds his stepmother's hand and 
 looks on in silent wonder, frightened at the weeping women. 
 The coffin is lowered into the grave which the Brethren have 
 dug, and, resting there in the clay subsoil, it is covered with 
 a few rough planks. Men with shovels slowly turn the clods 
 back into the place from which they came. 
 
 Hymns are led by Jacob Brubaker as the Brethren stand 
 around the grave holding their black hats against their breasts. 
 Drowning out the gayer notes of the early songbirds, the 
 funereal words flow over the spring air: 
 
 Hark from the tomb a doleful sound, 
 
 Mine ears attend the cry; 
 
 Ye living men, come view the ground, 
 
 Where you must shortly lie. 
 As it turns out, the little boy, John Heckman, Junior, is 
 soon an orphan, but the Brethren take care of their own. And 
 in one way or another, at one place or another, John will 
 
 25 
 
always have a home, and he will always be on hand to watch 
 the doings of the church folks. His eyes will be sharp, his ears 
 will be keen, and he will know many a thing that the members 
 will not know that he knows. 
 
 Now there is the value of the dead man's possessions to 
 be appraised; Mr. Jim Tietsort, Preacher Cullen Gibson, and 
 Deacon John Brubaker receive the appointment to make the 
 appraisal. 
 
 John Brubaker hitches his driving mare to his square-top 
 buggy and is thankful that the mud is drying. He calls to his 
 wife, Mary, and outlines the tasks for Riley, the oldest boy. 
 Riley listens too, his brown hair curled into tight kinks, his 
 brown eyes filled with the shine of his great good nature. 
 
 Mary has just combed her own hair. The twentieth century 
 has not yet coined the word platinum to fit Mary's lovely blond 
 glory or invented the marcelling that Mary will never need. 
 She ties her prayer cap over her hair, which will never, never 
 comb out straight and plain, as is becoming to a Dunker 
 sister; then she covers both cap and hair with a black kerchief 
 tied under her chin. 
 
 "John," she says, "I wish you wouldn't give Riley so much 
 hard work to do. He ought to go to school more." She sighs 
 as she turns to the children, and she hopes the day will come 
 when twelve-year-old boys will not be loaded with hard work 
 fit only for the shoulders of older people. 
 
 1867: Entry in Amanda Snell's Diary, November 30 
 
 The meeting house at Pleasant Hill will soon be 
 finished. 
 
 Summer work has now been laid by and the Brethren are at 
 last free to work on the new meetinghouse. Deacon Jacob 
 Brubaker is the architect, and the blueprint is a vivid picture 
 in his mind. Little direction from a paper and pencil is needed 
 to build the plain structure for these plain people who will 
 worship within the plain walls. 
 
 26 
 
Levi Ganger, thirty years old, a rising young carpenter, is 
 hired to work with "Bill Redeye," the head builder. And from 
 the day when the first shovel of dirt is moved to the day when 
 the last bench is pegged together and the last lock put on the 
 door, all of the members at Pleasant Hill will have helped in 
 one way or another. Members bearing new names such as Shull, 
 Neher, Cripe, and Otewalt now move among the workers. 
 
 The length of the building is to be eighty-two feet, and 
 the width forty-four feet. Space for a full basement is opened 
 on the steep bank where the house will stand, and the foundation 
 is laid. The walls rise and a rare design of a rafter-slung roof 
 is pinned together. Now the great meeting room will not need 
 to be marred by pillars for ceiling supports. 
 
 The building of this house of the Lord is as great a thing 
 in the life of the community as the purchase of Alaska in this 
 year by the United States from Russia is to be to the nation. 
 That, however, is out of the sphere of the Brethren. 
 
 But as they work they are concerned about what is going 
 on at the county seat, Carlinville. Many a man is knotting his 
 brow in worry. 
 
 "They do say," says Jacob Stutsman, "that the new court- 
 house is going to cost far more than the fifty-thousand dollars 
 first planned." 
 
 "Fifty thousand dollars won't be a drop in the bucket" 
 says Cullen Gibson. "We've been assessed fifty cents on every 
 one hundred dollars' evaluation for this year alone." 
 
 "The place is covered with vast heaps of stone and iron," 
 says George Vaniman. "I saw it." 
 
 Elder John Crist looks thoughtful. "Perhaps the movers 
 
 who pass through here heading for the West are wise," he says. 
 
 Nebraska was admitted to the Union last March, and Kansas 
 
 sounds good. There a man can buy all of the land he wants for 
 
 twenty-five cents an acre." 
 
 "Well," says George, "I'll allow that twenty-five cents is 
 all it's worth. I've pulled stakes once and I'm staying here. 
 This land is rich and we'll make out." 
 
 Most of the men go home mulling over in their minds this 
 
 27 
 
strange affair by which Governor Palmer's home town is to 
 have a fine new courthouse, but at what cost no one knows. 
 
 George Vaniman decides to attend the laying of the corner- 
 stone on October 22. He sees, among other things, both an 
 English and a German Bible being sealed in the hollow stone. 
 The Bible is certainly in strange company. Strife and contention, 
 dishonesty and bribery are apparently its bedfellows. 
 
 The crowd is a hodgepodge of those who are proud and 
 those who are bitter. Anyone can see with his own eyes that 
 the materials on hand are destined to become more than a 
 fifty-thousand-dollar building. Before the ceremony is over 
 there are those who are arguing to the point of vigorous fist 
 
 g George Vaniman rides back to Pleasant Hill, his kind 
 and sensible heart loaded with a sadness. There is a good and 
 honest way of life. Why do people in power fall from that way 
 
 so easily? 
 
 His steed, eager for its stall and supper oats, breaks into 
 a brisk canter north of Girard. He rides past the large 
 Brubaker acreage and, looking eastward beyond the railroad he 
 reflects that Joseph Filbrun and his boys are making fine 
 progress on their huge, new bank barn. 
 
 He rides past the farm of Robert Stewart, whose white 
 cottage and well-kept fields reflect meticulous living. The 
 Stewarts are good Christian folk too although they are not 
 Dunkers. The next farm belongs to Mr. George Post, and here 
 too are good Christian neighbors, but also not Dunkers. 
 
 George Vaniman entertains the thought, as he rides, that 
 there is entirely too much division among religious people. It 
 seems plain to him that all men are children of the same Father 
 and Creator. He cannot approve of all the debating that goes 
 on over forms of baptism, and this and that and the other 
 theology as well. He reflects that the Bible speaks very clearly 
 on the fact that it is the baptism of the Holy Spirit that Jesus 
 gives, and that this is the one baptism, a baptism that is to be 
 revealed by one's very life. 
 
 He passes the old John Virden Inn, quiet now and used 
 as a dwelling. The slap-dash adventure of a lurching coach 
 
 28 
 
rolling into the barnyard will never happen again. And the 
 clatter of the four-horse teams is, even in fourteen years, only 
 a memory of echoes. 
 
 Progress is as certain as life. There can be no standing 
 still. There must be growth or death. Nothing can ever be 
 the end in itself. Every accomplishment must be a steppingstone 
 to another and higher achievement in thought or action. 
 
 George reaches home in a philosophical frame of mind and 
 is not too uncomfortable in his own soul for not making a 
 personal decision to be baptized into church membership. 
 
 1868: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, September 1 
 
 Big crowds have been attending the meetings at the 
 new meeting house. 
 
 The new meetinghouse is completed in due time at a cost of 
 over six thousand dollars. Its presence on the face of the 
 countryside speaks of faith and joy and love. Its gleam of white 
 paint can be seen for miles across the rolling prairie and the 
 sunset will strike reflections of fire from the glass of its six 
 tall west windows for almost a century. Only the Lord knows 
 how much longer. 
 
 Chimneys at the north and south ends of the great meeting 
 room accommodate serviceable wood heaters for the comfort 
 of the congregation. A wide aisle has been left between the 
 stoves, and back and forth along this aisle the caretaker tiptoes 
 in solemn mien to plunk new sticks of wood into the heaters. 
 And sometimes the caretaker is one who will learn just how 
 many sticks long the sermon will be, depending on the one 
 who will be invited to preach. 
 
 Four tiers of benches face the west wall, and along that 
 west wall are two long tables. At the north table sit the deacons, 
 while the preachers occupy the space at the south one, all 
 facing the audience. 
 
 In the basement a huge fireplace is inviting the copper 
 
 29 
 
cooking kettles and the boiling coffee pots of scores of feasts 
 of Christian love and fellowship. 
 
 When the rigs have unloaded the families at the stiles, the 
 men turn their teams toward the long rows of hitching posts, 
 while the women with babies and little children enter the 
 house quickly at the first of the three doors on the east side 
 of the meetinghouse. Here is the "little kitchen," handy and 
 snug, with a small wood heater all its own, where wraps may 
 be hung and the little ones quieted. Here, too, is the place 
 where the babies may be made comfortable in dry "didies" and 
 nursed at their mothers' breasts in the private decorum of 
 Christian modesty. 
 
 Then when all of the necessities are cared for, the mothers 
 slip into the big meeting room and sit in their places in the 
 north tier of benches, where the crying of the babies or the 
 whimper of a child will not be so likely to disturb the main 
 body of worshipers. 
 
 The sisters whose children no longer need the accommoda- 
 tions of the little kitchen enter the building at the center door, 
 this entrance having been designated by the church officials as 
 the proper door for the women only. They take their places 
 in the middle tier of seats on the north side of the middle 
 aisle, that irrevocable dividing line of the sexes. 
 
 The men come in from the hitching racks, striding in high 
 leather boots the full length of the brick walk and entering 
 through the last door on the south. Most of the Brethren are 
 wearing the bearded jaw line and chin, but the upper lip 
 is usually clean shaven. Their hair is combed straight back 
 and cut straight across the collar line. Some of the men are 
 wearing home-tailored suits of homespun made with long tails, 
 and they wear no cravats with their homemade shirts. 
 
 The preachers, deacons, and elders arrive one by one. Before 
 the singing of the hymns these leaders are shaking hands in 
 hearty fashion and saluting one another with the salutation of 
 the holy kiss. Their joy and their brotherly love are sincere and 
 true, and, when sealed by this kiss of the New Testament, are 
 a peace bond, killing many a quarrel before it starts, forgiving 
 
 30 
 
many a hasty word unwisely spoken, and gracing many a 
 lifelong friendship. 
 
 There may be the curious who come. They may consider 
 the holy kiss, the kneeling in prayer, the lining of the hymns, 
 the trine immersion, the absence of a creed, the plain garb, the 
 prayer caps, and the feet-washing service as customs of the 
 eccentric. But however they consider these Dunker practices, 
 they maintain a respectful silence throughout the service. 
 
 The neighbors and friends who come to Pleasant Hill as 
 "outsiders" somehow understand that they should sit more or 
 less away from the group of members. Thus it is that they 
 usually sit to the rear. Or perhaps the menfolk follow George 
 Vaniman, or Levi Ganger, or David Mayer to their regular, 
 chosen places in the south tier of seats beside the stove. 
 
 There are hooks on the east wall, convenient for the men's 
 great coats or the shawls of the sisters. But the men's wide- 
 brimmed black hats are costly and deserve the best of care. 
 For these and for the women's bonnets too, a dozen small 
 wires are threaded through smooth sticks and stretched neat 
 and taut over the aisles from wall to wall. They make a handy 
 rack just over the heads of the people. 
 
 After coming into the meetinghouse the sisters remove their 
 black scoop bonnets and their fringed shawls. They tuck every 
 stray lock of hair into the confines of their crisp white prayer 
 caps, which cover their heads completely and are tied under 
 their chins with fine-hemmed strings of the same sheer linen. 
 
 They smooth their aprons over their full skirts, and only 
 the toes of their shoes are to show. They glance modestly at 
 their pointed capes hanging in correct fastidiousness over their 
 bosoms. Two points of the cape hang free to an inch below 
 the belt on each side of the front row of the buttons which 
 crowd the full length of the tight basque from the high throat 
 to the waist. The third corner of the cape is pinned to the 
 belt line in the back. 
 
 When each sister is satisfied in that swift moment of getting 
 settled into her proper appearance of neatness and order, she 
 lifts her eyes in modest readiness to receive the lining of the 
 opening hymn. 
 
 31 
 
The Brethren are democratic in policy, and although the 
 sisters do, according to the customs of the times, keep their 
 proper places, yet they are instructed for voting in the church 
 body and are expected to lift their voices in the singing. 
 
 Little John Heckman, living this winter at Jonathan 
 Brubaker's, watches Deacon Jacob Brubaker take his place at 
 the head of the deacons' table and fold his hands on the table in 
 front of him. 
 
 Johnny cannot understand why any man should merit the 
 privilege of sitting on what is otherwise the women's side of the 
 house. But the other deacons sit there as well — John Brubaker, 
 David Vaniman, John Neher, and David Blocker. 
 
 Now Deacon Jacob Brubaker is not only the senior deacon, 
 but he is also a fine singer. When the hour of worship arrives, 
 he announces the hymn and reads the stanzas of the song from 
 the only hymnbook in the church — a book without the musical 
 notes but with each tune designated. The tune sung may be 
 Laban, S. M. (short meter), Old Hundred, L. M. (long meter), 
 Fairfield, C. M. (common meter), or one of two hundred more 
 tunes, the "long" and "short" and "common" tunes being carried 
 within the memory of the singers. 
 
 Now Jacob reads aloud the first stanza of a hymn to be 
 sung in the short meter. 
 
 Come sound His praise abroad, 
 And hymns of glory sing! 
 Jehovah is the sovereign God, 
 The Universal King. 
 
 He looks up from the book and states, "Sing without further 
 lining." 
 
 When the stanza has been sung Jacob again reads: 
 
 He formed the deep unknown, 
 
 He gave the seas their bound; 
 
 The watery worlds are all His own 
 
 And all the solid ground. 
 And again he says, "Sing without further lining." 
 
 From the very first, wherever there have been Dunkers 
 there has been good singing. And now Pleasant Hill is no 
 exception. The Dunkers do not drink the social drink. They 
 
 32 
 
do not dance the social dance. But they do feel the joy, the 
 rhythm, and the exuberance that are received through the 
 medium of singing. 
 
 No instruments of music are needed. An instrument would 
 be a luxury unheard of, and even unthought of, for the use of 
 the German Baptist Brethren in America. Since immigrating 
 from Europe, even more so since the American Revolution, 
 the Brethren have been a pioneer people, and for many years 
 were of very modest financial circumstances. From Pennsylvania 
 they had migrated south into the Valley of Virginia. Some had 
 followed Daniel Boone through the Cumberland Gap. Others 
 had followed the Conestoga wagons on the overland trail into 
 the Northwest Territory. A few had floated down the Ohio 
 River. 
 
 In such years the only musical strings needed by the Brethren 
 were those strung by the hands of the Creator in their own 
 throats. Now, the idea of a man-made instrument seems worldly, 
 not needed or desired by the Brethren. 
 
 Elder Isham Gibson remains elder-in-charge of the new 
 congregation at Pleasant Hill but he assigns to Elder John Crist 
 the local assistantship. All elders and preachers present sit 
 at the table to the right of the sacred stand. 
 
 The elder invites one to preach, who in turn may invite the 
 preacher seated at his side. The brother who finally accepts 
 the invitation to be free will follow his favorite trend of thinking 
 and give his message from the Lord without benefit of notes. It 
 is not considered worthy of a minister of the gospel to need 
 more than the Bible before him. 
 
 When the meeting is over and the congregation is dismissed, 
 "in the fear of the Lord," there is immediately a rising and 
 falling of voices. 
 
 "Howdy, Sister Shull. How are you?" 
 
 "Oh, just tolerable. How are you, Sister Otewalt?" 
 
 "Well, I can't complain." 
 
 Once these good people reach the yard there is plenty of 
 laughter and merriment. The Brethren have the virtue of 
 hospitality. 
 
 There are now, by 1868, several girls in these Dunker 
 
 33 
 
families who find that it is the natural thing to allow their 
 personalities to be invaded by love. They make the decision to 
 marry, to face the rearing of children, to wrap themselves in 
 the cloak of loving devotion to a husband. It is doubtful that 
 they count the costs or the rewards. It is life and it is God's plan 
 to be a part of this life. 
 
 Suzannah Vaniman is being courted by Henry Frantz, an 
 Ohio boy who has marched in the ranks of the Blue. Now he 
 says to David, her father, "I'd like to marry your daughter, sir." 
 
 "Well," says David, "she's only sixteen. But she can cook 
 and she can sew. I reckon I can give my consent." 
 
 Then there is the courtship of Mary Wright and James 
 Gibson, which leads to their marriage, and Jacob Brubaker's 
 daughter Elizabeth is married to George Shull. 
 
 Joy and feasting accompany these weddings, but sorrow also 
 comes among the Brethren often. Now Moses Brubaker's wife 
 dies and, as do a thousand men like himself in these days, he 
 will bury a second and marry a third. The little cemetery in 
 Jacob Brubaker's pasture will be lined with the graves of first, 
 second, and third wives, for in this day wives truly go down 
 into the "valley of the shadow" at childbirth, and everywhere 
 women wait with hopeless sorrow for that which science shall 
 reveal in the future that will bring release from fear, and save 
 them from the terrible uncertainties of their sex. 
 
 Tiny stones engraved with little white lambs are also taking 
 their places in this cemetery, fulfilling the fear of many a 
 mother in her child's second summer. They will yet be seen in 
 four score and ten years. 
 
 The knoll across from the new church will indeed be a 
 last long resting place, a knoll whose white fences will be 
 enlarged again and again, remaining a place of rest and beauty 
 and being watched over with loving care very surely for a 
 hundred years. How much longer, it is only the Lord who 
 knows. 
 
 34 
 
1869: Entry in Louisa Vanimaris Diary, June 16 
 
 There was a large crowd at church Sunday. Went to 
 David's to dinner. 
 
 On a certain Sunday there is a full house at Pleasant Hill. The 
 preachers' table is lined with many brethren in attendance. 
 John Crist and Cullen Gibson sit there beside old Nicholas 
 Brubaker and Daniel Vaniman. Isaac Naff is there from 
 Sangamon County, Isham Gibson and D. R. C. Nead from 
 Stirrup Grove, and Abraham Lear, the youngest elder in the 
 area, from Christian County. 
 
 An invitation must be extended to one of this group to give 
 the sermon; and, although he realizes he is speaking out of 
 turn, Cullen Gibson springs to his feet and invites his Uncle 
 Isham Gibson to preach. In Cullen's opinion, Uncle Isham must 
 preach today, whether it is or is not a wise thing to do. 
 
 For some months now, the arguments within the member- 
 ship have been arduous, and sometimes almost odorous, and 
 they have been tossed back and forth for and against certain 
 practices of the Western Brethren. 
 
 Some who have come from the East to Pleasant Hill so 
 recently have no appreciation of the wilderness life which has 
 been the experience of the Western Brethren. They have small 
 patience with the fact that these frontier Brethren have not had 
 the privilege of attending the Annual Meeting and have allowed 
 certain details of the ceremonial practices to fall into a pattern 
 of their own. 
 
 Those who are of the West feel that they have the Bible. 
 They are followers of Alexander Mack. This should give them 
 a voice in the church. 
 
 The chief point of dissension is the ordinance of feet-washing. 
 Shall it be observed after the supper, as is practiced by the 
 Western group, or before the supper, as the Eastern Brethren 
 declare? Shall it be practiced in the single mode, by which one 
 person shall both wash and wipe the feet of a number of 
 Brethren, and then another take up the task of love, and so 
 on, until all are washed, as the Western Brethren practice? Or 
 shall they observe the double mode, by which two persons 
 
 35 
 
rise, one taking the basin and washing the feet of two or more, 
 the other following with the towel, drying the feet of those who 
 have been washed, as the Eastern Brethren declare is correct? 
 
 Shall the breaking of the communion bread accompany the 
 supper, as the Western Brethren practice? Or shall there be 
 a delay of that sacred ceremony as the Brethren proceed to an 
 intermission of preaching, as is the Eastern custom? 
 
 Truly, this ordinance, which should be a symbol of humble 
 service from a loving heart, is being lost in the letter of the 
 law. 
 
 The East now outnumbers the West two to one here at 
 Pleasant Hill, and the tension is often strained and sharp, and 
 there is verbal and mental conflict. The majority reminds the 
 minority that the Annual Meeting of 1854 left the method of 
 feet-washing open to the decision of each congregation. And 
 is not the whole fabric of the Brotherhood tested and approved 
 by the Annual Meeting? 
 
 Thus it is that the pressure has come to be concentrated on 
 Elder Isham Gibson, the leader of the Western teachings. 
 
 Sixty-six years are resting on Elder Gibson's shoulders. 
 Preaching and teaching over hundreds of miles of horseback 
 trails, he has always been a leader, not a contender, in enlarging 
 the church. He has now decided that the United States is a 
 large land. He will therefore remove himself from Illinois 
 and take up residence in Missouri. His son, Dan B. Gibson, 
 has recently moved there, and, although Isham does not know 
 that Dan will stay but a very short time, Isham now decides 
 to follow. 
 
 Elder Isham is not afraid of such conditions as those being 
 stirred up by Frank and Jesse James. He isn't alarmed because 
 these two notorious criminals have slept in Dan's house one 
 night, escaping with their identities unknown by Dan until 
 he was informed by the arrival of a posse. 
 
 No, this is not the type of trouble of which Isham is afraid. 
 He is afraid of division in the church, and he will not be a part 
 of such a possible instigation. 
 
 In conversation with Elder John Crist he has said, "I must 
 continue to preach the gospel as I see it, and the church doctrines 
 
 36 
 
as I have received them from the pupils of Alexander Mack. 
 This I will do to my dying day, and I hope the Annual Meeting 
 will do as well." 
 
 So today Preacher Cullen Gibson is determined that the 
 Brethren shall listen for this last time to the words of Isham 
 Gibson. 
 
 Elder Gibson lays his Bible on the plain box with the 
 slanted top, the plain preacher's stand, smoothly covered with 
 fine black cambric and resting on the center end of the long 
 preachers' table. 
 
 Although the precious Book is open, the elder gives his 
 chosen text and context from memory. He expounds the 
 teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ mightily. Today his message 
 is not argumentative, but it is one of love: "Love one another." 
 
 As the oratory flows, the Brethren from the East secretly 
 wish they had not said some things which they have said and 
 are stirred with an uneasy consciousness that perhaps the 
 precepts of the church are being pressed into too narrow a 
 gauge. They will certainly breathe a bit more easily when 
 Brother Gibson is gone. 
 
 The discourse goes on for an hour, and at long last Brother 
 Gibson concludes with a smile and some such words as these, 
 "Now when at last, dear brethren and sisters, we are in heaven, 
 and you being there first see me arrive, you will be glad and 
 will say, 'See! there comes our dear Brother Gibson.' With 
 Brother Lear leading us, let us pray!" 
 
 The members of the congregation go down on their knees 
 while Abraham Lear leads a wonderful prayer, closed by the 
 Lord's Prayer. 
 
 The announcements are made by Brother Crist, the new 
 elder-in-charge. After dismissal there are hearty handshaking 
 and the observance, as always, of the holy kiss between the 
 members, brother to brother, sister to sister. But of course 
 there is only handshaking for outsiders like Louisa and George 
 Vaniman. 
 
 George and Louisa and Chester Melvin go to David 
 Vaniman's to dinner and in the afternoon they walk across the 
 fields to inspect the splendid big barn Elder Daniel Vaniman is 
 
 37 
 
building on the land he has recently purchased next to David's. 
 The children race through the barn with merry shouts. They 
 do not know that within a few years they will be enjoying 
 Sunday school in this great barn, which, barring fire or storm, 
 will stand a hundred years. Only the Lord knows how much 
 longer. 
 
 1869: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, July 22 
 
 We have a new baby. He was born July 17, and we 
 named him Elmer E. 
 
 Time glides swiftly for Louisa in her routine as a farm wife 
 and mother, and she finds contentment. 
 
 George is busy too, plowing, planting, building — increasing 
 his security each week, alert to the value of a mutual under- 
 standing and trust with every man he meets. 
 
 He rides to Girard to the mill and brings home a piece 
 of news; and he rides to Virden and does the same. 
 
 In February a mass meeting at Carlinville passes a resolution 
 against this piling of a mighty debt onto the people of the 
 county for the sake of a fine courthouse. 
 
 Governor Palmer has now approved the sum of five hundred 
 thousand dollars, and has supported his action by the floating 
 of the bonds. He pledges to the people that he will never stamp 
 his approval on any higher sum, and time will prove that he 
 keeps his word. 
 
 But the State Legislature is reported to be ready to approve 
 up to one million dollars. The people are terrified. Bitter and 
 open threats are being voiced against the unknown men who 
 are urging this expenditure. 
 
 It turns out that the resolution passed at the mass meeting 
 is of no effect, and the building continues. Cullen Gibson 
 declares that Macoupin County certainly has a Rehoboam in 
 its midst. Every man in the county is either courthouse or 
 anti-courthouse in sentiment and will be reminded each year 
 
 38 
 
for forty years, at each tax-paying time, that he is paying for 
 the finest courthouse in the United States of America. 
 
 In this summer a coal shaft is being sunk in Virden. Down 
 three hundred forty feet the machinery settles, foot by foot. 
 There the rich coal lodes are to be found, nine feet thick, 
 and for years to come the Brethren will sell coal rights. This 
 will be a wealth they had not anticipated, and for eighty-five years 
 into the future the Brethren's ears will be tuned to the deep 
 tones of the mine whistle as it echoes each morning and 
 afternoon over the Pleasant Hill countryside. 
 
 It is a fact that the sinking of the coal mine will be as 
 important to the Pleasant Hill community as has been to 
 the nation the completion of the Union Pacific and the Kansas 
 Pacific railways at Ogden, Utah, by the driving of the golden 
 spike on May 10. 
 
 George Vaniman now moves constantly on the edge of the 
 interests of the Dunker people. There he belongs by birth, but 
 there he cannot bring himself by baptism. He reflects on the 
 various teachings of the church, and to him some of the 
 resulting practices miss the mark. 
 
 There is his own brother, Daniel, called by the church to 
 preach. George is aware that Daniel is an eloquent, forceful, 
 logical leader, with great visions of Christian activities, and 
 that he should be a preacher. But George knows that Daniel's 
 work for the church will occupy far more time than a farmer 
 has at his command to spare. 
 
 Already Daniel Vaniman is both the treasurer and the 
 clerk of the District of Southern Illinois, and now he has been 
 advanced to the office of elder. 
 
 George reflects on the fact that Dan B. Gibson, brilliant 
 and fluent, has also now been called by the church to preach. 
 George realizes that Dan Gibson, too, will be obliged to make 
 a living for his family. This is a combination of callings which, 
 in George Vaniman's judgment, should go out of practice at 
 once. He believes that the preacher should be paid. 
 
 Riding past the schoolhouse at the noon hour, he stops 
 to pass the time of day with Charles Gibson, the nineteen-year- 
 old son of Cullen, who is now teaching at Pleasant Hill. Charles 
 
 39 
 
agrees that if a man preaches much and farms little he will be 
 poor in finances all of his life. And if he farms much and 
 preaches little he may not be filling the full importance of 
 his call. 
 
 As they discuss this particular problem, they speak truths 
 that are not yet realized by the Dunker congregation, who will 
 long and zealously guard their practice of the free ministry. 
 
 But their prediction that young Dan B. Gibson will put in 
 a great amount of time for the church is correct. Dan has long 
 been fired with the vision of preaching, and now that he is 
 a preacher he will preach for forty-five years. He will preach in 
 thirty-five counties of the State of Illinois. He will preach in 
 eleven states of the Union. He will baptize over one thousand 
 people. He will write religious books and magazine articles, 
 and he will be interested in little else than the preaching of 
 the gospel. 
 
 He will acquire a good tract of land through inheritance, 
 but he will seldom be found at home. He will spend much of 
 his own money in traveling to fill the various church requests 
 that come his way. Often he will not receive remuneration. 
 His wife and children may wish many times for a better financial 
 situation than the family enjoys. They may even wish, at times, 
 that the husband and father were not a preacher at all. But a 
 man is what he is, and certain things must be. Sometimes it 
 is easier to please the Lord than it is to please the woman to 
 whom one is joined by holy matrimony. Why not, then, put 
 the Lord's work first? And this is what Elder Dan B. Gibson 
 does throughout the years of his long life, as he resides within 
 the bounds of the Pleasant Hill congregation. 
 
 Now that Mary and James Gibson are married and settled 
 down, they realize that the decision to be baptized must be 
 acted upon. The preaching on Brethren doctrine is strong and 
 convincing. The sermons do not hesitate to emphasize that, 
 to be saved, Christians must be a separate people. Mary Gibson 
 is religious by nature, and she is also a born leader. 
 
 As she attends the services here at Pleasant Hill each 
 second, fourth, and fifth Sunday of the month, she becomes 
 
 40 
 
convinced that trine immersion is the correct form of baptism, 
 and that the New Testament itself is the only creed. 
 
 It is easy to believe that Jesus was the Son of God and 
 that He brought from heaven the saving gospel, but it is not 
 quite so easy to lay away her stylish hat for the plain, engulfing 
 black bonnet, or to give up her pretty dresses with their puffed 
 silk trimmings and draped overskirts for the three-cornered 
 cape and the plain dress and apron, and only the plain shawl 
 for a wrap. Yet she does make this sacrifice of her pride and 
 is baptized a Dunker, and she does find happiness in accepting 
 this restricting faith of the plain dress for a time. 
 
 This restriction of the plain dress has only recently been 
 imposed by the Annual Meeting upon these German Baptist 
 Brethren, as a required formula of a member in good standing. 
 
 These people have failed to remember that Alexander Mack, 
 when founding this religious body in Europe, would actually 
 never have dared to adopt a distinguishing type of costume. It 
 would have meant persecution or perhaps death. But now, 
 because of the association of the Dunkers with the Mennonites 
 and the Quakers, and their practice of the plain dress as well 
 as that of peace and the simple life, the Dunkers are insisting 
 upon thrusting plain dress into the foreground as an important 
 religious belief. 
 
 The advice of Saint Paul in Romans 12:2, ". . . be not 
 conformed to this world . . . ," has been seized upon without 
 its context and it is indeed being interpreted in a peculiar way. 
 The teaching of Saint Paul in Titus 2:14, "... a peculiar people 
 . . . ," is also being quoted more and more, and perhaps because 
 of the lack of the splendid education which belonged to 
 Alexander Mack and his early pupils the majority of the 
 Brethren have now come to believe that the exclusive and 
 distinguishing mark of the Christian must be a physical one 
 which may well threaten to overshadow the spiritual mark so 
 earnestly sought by Saint Paul himself. 
 
 It will be many years before Mary Gibson will, by untiring 
 patience and never-ending efforts toward the "greater light," 
 and through long hours of prayer and teaching, be gratified to 
 
 41 
 
see the Brethren rise above the level of this petty material 
 tangent of a dress question in their religious faith. 
 
 "As long as I have breath," Mary will declare through the 
 years of the struggle, "I know that I can find more important 
 points in religion to talk about and to work for than the 
 garments with which we clothe our bodies." 
 
 Although Mary does not yet know of the teaching of Martin 
 Urner, one of Alexander Mack's contemporaries in Pennsylvania, 
 her words agree with those which he once spoke to silence a 
 narrow questioner. 
 
 These are, indeed, the days when religion is something to 
 be talked about. The writings bound into this book called 
 the Bible are taken as literal and final. 
 
 There has been no opportunity to study the history of the 
 ages. There is no knowledge of the background of Biblical 
 days to increase the scope of the Bible's message. There is 
 even less knowledge of scientific or historical research. 
 
 The do's and the dont's of the Bible loom large in the 
 thinking of the people, and the talking and preaching and 
 debating will go on for many a year. Yet, through all of these 
 years, there will shine the true questing spirit of the Brethren, 
 and their sincerity and their thinking will always lead, perhaps 
 too slowly but very surely, to worthy achievements in the 
 Kingdom of God. 
 
 Whatever happens, the Dunkers at Pleasant Hill go on 
 about their business in their own calm way. As the year 1870 
 paints its patterns into the framework of the century, the 
 Brethren are reminded in a very real way to "render unto 
 Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things 
 that are God's." 
 
 The new courthouse is completed, and if they drive to 
 Carlinville they can see the beautiful Corinthian structure 
 topped by a great dome. They see the three-thousand-dollar 
 chandelier and the judge's exquisitely carved chair, cushioned in 
 crimson plush, this chair alone having cost fifteen hundred 
 dollars. 
 
 The cost of one million, three hundred eighty thousand 
 dollars is a weight that certainly makes the world wobble for 
 
 42 
 
all citizens of the county; and especially is this true when the 
 accounts are published and two fifths of the money remains 
 unaccounted for. The county clerk, revered as an honorable 
 man, maintains his innocence of any criminal knowledge, yet 
 he boards the train one night and is never to be heard from 
 again. 
 
 "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay," quotes 
 Cullen Gibson. "We'll work the harder. The Lord will bless 
 us if we are honest in His sight." 
 
 Now Charles Gibson and Susan Neher are married and 
 young Susan, skilled with her needle, thrifty and home loving, 
 does not bother to wonder about doing great things. She is 
 convinced that anything worth doing is worth doing well, and 
 from her humble faith will come the guidance that will give 
 the church teachers, preachers, and missionaries. 
 
 In 1870 Deacon Joseph W. Harshbarger and his wife, 
 formerly Catherine Flory, arrive from Virginia. A jolly, polite, 
 and deeply Christian family with seven daughters, some of 
 them marriageable, and two little boys, Isaac and Abram, they 
 are welcomed into the family of the church. Brother Harshbarger 
 is a tall, soft-spoken man of forty-three years, already graying, 
 with stern blue eyes, yet kindly in manner. He has the bearing 
 of a leader and the church needs leaders. 
 
 Deacon Daniel Miller comes too, driving all the way from 
 Tennessee in an odd wagon with wide-tired wheels and a stiff 
 tongue. The harness on the team is an assortment of leather 
 bands and the tugs are only trace chains. Thirteen people are 
 with the wagon as they drive into the churchyard at Pleasant 
 Hill one Sunday morning. Destitute from the war, they have 
 come to the Brethren in a prosperous land, hoping for a new 
 chance. Guiding his team by a jerk line, Brother Miller stops 
 his wagon and the boys at Pleasant Hill stare in astonishment 
 at a team that will stand all through the services without being 
 tied. 
 
 George Vaniman approves of the type of Christian action 
 needed to help such people as these. He loans Brother Miller 
 a team from the many head of horses on his own farm. He 
 says nothing to others about the loan. It comes from his truly 
 
 43 
 
compassionate heart and is one of countless deeds of goodwill 
 to be accorded to his unseen record, but of which he himself 
 will keep no record. 
 
 It is interesting to George, as he reads in his Bible, to 
 consider Jesus' own description of the Judgment. According to 
 Jesus, the questions to be asked are not those being argued by 
 the Dunkers, or the Methodists, or the agnostics. The questions 
 are to be: "Did you visit the sick? Feed the hungry? Clothe 
 the naked? Encourage the imprisoned?" 
 
 George reads this passage over and over. It is so simple. 
 Is it possible that men are depending too much on the illusions 
 of the intellect and not giving enough consideration to the 
 direction of the heart ? It is, indeed, something to wonder about. 
 
 1871: Entry in Amanda Snell's Diary, October 7 
 
 Elder John Crist died yesterday. We will miss him. 
 
 It is now at the age of forty-two that the elder of the Dunker 
 congregation dies. Who will succeed him? It is a question so 
 delicate that it is certain to bring dissension. As they are meeting 
 at the various meetinghouses, Elder Isaac Naff does his best 
 to keep the Brethren within the bounds of "forebearing one 
 another in brotherly love" until agreement comes. 
 
 The plain fact is that Cullen Gibson is in the line of 
 seniority for the eldership. But some of the Eastern Brethren 
 cannot overlook the fact that Cullen is completely Western. 
 This Western position Joseph Filbrun cannot and will not 
 tolerate without raising his voice in determined dissent. 
 
 Brother Filbrun is a strong man of an iron will. He longs 
 with all his heart to be a leader in the church, but somehow 
 he has placed his feet in the path of dictation rather than 
 teaching. He has also slammed the door of opportunity in 
 his own face by refusing to acknowledge the value of education. 
 A tireless worker on the farm, a fine financier, he is bending 
 each of his children, while they are yet young, into his own 
 dictated pattern. 
 
 44 
 
His daughters need no education. Girls are for marriage 
 and will have little need of reading, writing, or spelling. But 
 they must be second to none in the dairy, in the kitchen, and in 
 sewing. The boys need only to read, write, and cipher as much 
 as can be learned in perhaps four years. Then they, too, must 
 turn every ounce of their strength to the skills of the all-around 
 farmer, to the land and the livestock. 
 
 Now, standing in the Pleasant Hill congregation, in his 
 clean homemade clothes which, in his opinion, are of the only 
 proper plainness for the Brethren, Brother Filbrun lifts his 
 voice against Cullen Gibson. He claims that Brother Gibson 
 is not in favor of following the decisions of the Annual Meeting 
 as faithful leaders should do. That Brother Gibson desires to 
 order the practice of the feet-washing and the Lord's supper and 
 this and that and the other done to his own notions. 
 
 Again the arguments rise and fall, but at long last the 
 congregation is led to a brotherly agreement by accepting Isaac 
 Naff as elder-in-charge. 
 
 The Pleasant Hill congregation now decides to call another 
 preacher. The members come to the council, bringing some 
 small children with them, but the doors are closed to outsiders. 
 
 Often a council will last all day, and the wise mothers will 
 tuck cookies and generous slices of butter-bread into their satchels 
 to tide the little folks over the noon hour. The adults will fast, 
 and willingly, to carry on the business of the church. 
 
 Johnny Heckman is now living with young Moses Plunkett, 
 whose bride is Joseph Filbrun's daughter Sarah. No meeting is 
 held at Pleasant Hill without their attendance and now Johnny 
 is taken along to the church council— and nearly starves before 
 the meeting is over. 
 
 It is a hardship to be too old for a handout from the 
 satchel but not old enough to be left at home to work, but 
 Johnny is greatly interested in this meeting. Haven't the 
 Plunketts been talking for days about the calling of a preacher? 
 Haven't they discussed time and again whom the call might 
 "hit"? 
 
 John is eager to see this call with his own eyes. Will there 
 be a voice from heaven? Will it be like a dove descending on 
 
 45 
 
the head of the one who is called? In his childish mind he 
 is certain that a wonderful thing will happen. 
 
 When at last the elder presents the name of Joseph W. 
 Harshbarger to the church, all of the members are asked to 
 stand. Then the elder and the clerk start down the aisle, and 
 the elder points at each person and takes the vote — yes or no. 
 Thereupon that member sits down. When everyone is seated 
 the vote is complete. 
 
 Fascinated, John Heckman watches the sisters and the 
 brethren drop to the benches one by one, as if they were being 
 knocked down by a bat. 
 
 When the votes are counted Brother Joseph W. Harshbarger 
 has been elected. And although no dove has appeared and no 
 voice has been heard, and the call has fallen flat in the opinion 
 of this boy who does not yet know that he too will someday 
 be called, yet the membership is happy about the new preacher. 
 
 Later they are to discover that although Joseph Harshbarger 
 is an extraordinarily kind and pious man, that quality does not 
 make him a good speaker. His preaching ministry will not 
 prove interesting, but his administrative ability will be of 
 definite quality, and for many years Brother Harshbarger will 
 be the elder of the congregation. 
 
 The Plunketts return home happy over the election of an 
 Eastern brother who has attended Annual Meeting and knows 
 what the church believes. 
 
 Plainly, to John Heckman, now eight years old, the way 
 to go to heaven when you die is to belong to the Dunker Church 
 and to obey its rules. 
 
 According to Moses Plunkett, and many others, the church 
 as governed by the Annual Meeting is the greatest thing in the 
 world. 
 
 And truly the church is the greatest thing in the world! 
 That faith stands out in the ideals of the Brethren, Eastern or 
 Western. And John Heckman, as well as many others, will one 
 day be thankful beyond expression that this conviction was so 
 early instilled into his thinking, and that time will be able 
 to temper the shortcomings of the administration of this 
 conviction. 
 
 46 
 
According to Moses Plunkett, it is also a thing to be thankful 
 for that his own mind is not cluttered with book learning, and 
 therefore John shall be ordered to feel the same way. There 
 will be no schooling for John Heckman in the four years he lives 
 in this home. He will have plenty of plain food, but very poor 
 clothes. He will be whipped too, if Moses thinks he needs it, 
 for to spare the rod is to spoil the child, a teaching from the 
 Bible itself. And since John will not remember the whippings 
 in afteryears, there is a probability that according to the thinking 
 of the day they are deserved. 
 
 Now, in spite of the strength of his faith against all 
 "worldliness," Brother Plunkett is tempted and falls. This 
 catastrophe occurs when the circus comes to town. 
 
 Brother Plunkett reasons that the animals in the circus 
 are creatures of God, exactly the same as the cows, horses, sheep, 
 and pigs on his own farm are. But he has never seen elephants, 
 or lions, or giraffes, or camels. Monkeys, too, are there. Sarah 
 warns him that the church will not approve, but Moses has 
 no intention of listening to a woman's opinions. And the 
 temperature of his desire to see the animals steadily rises. 
 Taking the delighted Johnny with him, he walks over to the 
 show. 
 
 Within a few days, two of the deacons drive into the 
 Plunkett yard and cite Brother Moses to the church council. 
 There he will explain his action of attending this thing that 
 is a part of the world, not a part of the church. There he will 
 apologize. There he will promise to sidestep no more. 
 
 Later Moses Plunkett will draw the same tight line of 
 requirements on all others over whom he can exercise authority. 
 Before many years he will take part in a dividing movement 
 within the church, going to Kansas where he will serve as 
 a minister of the Old Order Brethren, professing to believe that 
 only the old order of things is right. 
 
 There are many longings of the human mind that are not 
 of the old order of things, and certainly these longings often 
 come from the heart as well as from the mind. Young Albert 
 Brown now says to his mother, "Ma, I want one of them 
 melodeons and I've got the money to buy it." 
 
 47 
 
Albert's mother, Sister Cripe, throws up her hands in 
 horror. "No, no, Albert! You can't. You can't have an 
 instrument of music." 
 
 "I don't know why," says Albert stubbornly. "I love music 
 and I reckon I'd have it in my own fingers if I had a melodeon 
 to practice on." 
 
 "Oh, but, Albert! You'd be churched. And they'd church 
 me too for having such a worldly thing in my house. You can't 
 do it, Albert." 
 
 "I'm of age," declares the young man. 
 
 Sister Cripe sighs. "Yes, Albert, you're of age. But wrong 
 is whatever the church says is wrong, at whatever age you 
 may be." 
 
 Albert cannot resist the desire to own a melodeon, to draw 
 music from its reeds, to let the sweet soft notes swell and roll 
 and vibrate through his very being. But he must respect his 
 mother and her home. 
 
 Carefully making plans that will not be discovered, Albert 
 buys a melodeon one summer day, hauls it home, and hides 
 it in a little shed he has constructed in the corner of the orchard. 
 There in the shelter of a clump of alder and crab-apple brush, 
 beneath a huge wild cherry tree, Albert retires to be alone and 
 tenderly play by ear some of his favorite tunes. 
 
 Within a few months Elizabeth Harshbarger consents to 
 marry this young man, and the young couple set up house- 
 keeping with the few simple necessities of a new household, 
 augmented by the beloved melodeon. "My, my!" says Lizzie, 
 over and over. "I don't know what Pap will say." 
 
 Elder Harshbarger does object. He loves good singing, but 
 in all of his eighty-five years he will never approve of musical 
 instruments for the Brethren. Any follower of Jesus can control 
 the words and the music of the songs that he sings, but the 
 instruments that are manufactured are also used by the devil 
 and his followers. Lizzie Brown believes that her father is 
 sincere in his conviction, and when she sees him drive into 
 the yard she covers the offending article or perhaps closes the 
 door to the room in which it stands. This at least removes the 
 
 48 
 
pressure of a constant reminder to the elder of his daughter's 
 departure from the pure teaching of the church. 
 
 Shall man limit growth? Shall man limit revelation? Shall 
 man limit creative ability itself? These are questions that are 
 indeed becoming a burning concern among the Brethren. 
 
 Within a few years this burning question will cause 
 consternation and grief in the Dunker Church as does the 
 Chicago fire in the affairs of that city. 
 
 On this ninth of October, Widow O'Leary is so careless as 
 to allow her cow to kick her lantern over in the straw of her 
 stable, and Chicago burns. 
 
 George Vaniman and Louisa talk about the great destruction. 
 George reads in the Sangamon Journal that a man named 
 William Kerfoot is the first to build a shack from the ruins 
 on his old site and resume his business. Over his door Mr. 
 Kerfoot inscribes these words: "All gone but wife, children 
 and energy." 
 
 George says, "That's the stuff great men are made of. It 
 seems that sometimes we must have disaster to prod us into 
 better thinking and greater doing." 
 
 Louisa, teaching Chester Melvin his ciphering lesson, 1 + 1, 
 1+2, and 1+3, listens to George's words and hears the word 
 disaster like the gong of a bell. And Chester Melvin wants to 
 lay aside his ciphers and listen to his father talk about Chicago. 
 Chicago is a faraway mysterious place to a little boy at Pleasant 
 Hill. 
 
 1872: Entry in Louisa Vaniman s Diary, March 8 
 
 There was baptizing at the meeting yesterday. We 
 looked on. 
 
 The baptismal pool is a quiet little spot in the very southeast 
 corner of Deacon Jacob Brubaker's field across the road from 
 the church. 
 
 The Brethren have built retaining walls of foundation stone 
 to dam a quiet little brook as it picks up its existence from 
 
 49 
 
the near-by level lands and ripples away toward Fetter Creek. 
 
 In the spring the air is fragrant with greening willows 
 and wood violets, and spring beauties grace the grassy banks. 
 Clusters of wild crab-apple brush paint a blush of pink into the 
 charm of the sacred baptismal service, and the splash of the 
 water, as the trine immersion is performed to symbolize the 
 washing away of sin, echoes with the cheer of bright promise 
 to the new Christian. 
 
 In the summer the shade of the willows is refreshing, and 
 the pasture grass is embroidered with bright dandelions. Perhaps 
 the baptizing is performed at night by the flicker of a half-dozen 
 lanterns. Or perhaps there is a moon reflecting its silver rays 
 over the scene and there are fireflies reflecting their busy little 
 lights over the glimmering water. Then the dipping of the 
 applicant sends little waves lapping softly against the stone wall, 
 and a sense of security echoes in its lapping. 
 
 In the fall, leaves flutter in silent descent from the trees to 
 the water of the pool and float there on its placid surface. There 
 is a whisper of wind through the dark traceries of the trees 
 against the sky. And somehow the baptismal waves which 
 agitate the quiet flying leaves imprint the true sense of the need 
 of being washed "whiter than snow." 
 
 In the winter there will be ice on the pool, and the people 
 on the bank will be bundled up until it is hardly possible to 
 tell the thin ones from the fat. But those to be immersed step 
 up with a quickness and a firmness that indicate the deepest 
 need of the human soul, the need to overcome not only the 
 sense of being a sinner but the plunge into the icy water as 
 well. It will actually be an exhilaration of the spirit known in 
 no other season of the year. No one will ever become ill from 
 this icy birth, for the ecstasy of the spirit overcomes every 
 weakness of the flesh. 
 
 Deacon Jacob Brubaker and his good wife, Anna, are now 
 happy because their own sons are reaching maturity and are 
 making their decisions in favor of the church. 
 
 It is something, Anna knows, to keep lively boys, growing 
 into the vigor of manhood, from sowing wild oats. This, she 
 and her husband feel they have accomplished quite well by 
 
 50 
 
keeping the boys busy on the farm, and by investing in a few 
 good books for them to read, such as the Bible, Pilgrim's 
 Progress, and a history of the United States. Moreover, they 
 always attend services at some Dunker church every Sunday, 
 perhaps at Sugar Creek or at Otter Creek, and they even make 
 an occasional trip over the thirty miles to Christian County. 
 And of course they are always at Pleasant Hill at the regulariy 
 appointed times. 
 
 Elder John Metzger of Cerro Gordo is here at Pleasant Hill, 
 preaching in his powerful way. Anna weeps joyous tears 
 in the shadowed recess of her deep black bonnet as she sees her 
 oldest son, John H., twenty years old, go down into the pool 
 for baptism. Then Sam, seventeen, follows, and Isaac Crist, 
 now twenty-one, and Albert Vaniman, only fourteen but 
 declaring he knows exactly what he is doing in spite of his 
 youth. 
 
 The elder has interrogated the boys thoroughly, for the 
 Brethren baptize only those who know in no indefinite terms 
 what will be expected of them when they serve the Lord Jesus 
 Christ within the bounds of the Dunker faith. 
 
 It is now that Mr. and Mrs. David Mayer realize that they 
 have certainly lived long enough to have decided for themselves 
 which form of baptism is right. As Methodists, they feel that 
 too many worldly things are coming into that religious body. 
 They too are led down into the pool for trine immersion in 
 the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. 
 
 Louisa Vaniman never observes a baptizing without feeling 
 that she too must be saved by this lovely symbol. With all her 
 heart she wants to feel that she is one of God's children and is 
 within the security of the congregation. But she cannot make 
 this decision alone, and George always says no. 
 
 Sometimes he says in a teasing way, "Oh, wait until we're 
 out of debt, Louisa, then we can join the church." Or, he may 
 say, "Louisa, I can afford to buy pretty clothes for you, and 
 I'll not have you wearing such clothes as the Dunkers impose 
 upon their members in the name of religion." 
 
 George turns from attending the baptizing to attending the 
 sale of Noah Brubaker, who is moving to a western state. 
 
 51 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOJST 
 LIBRARY 
 
"That courthouse tax," says Noah, "will last all my 
 endurin' days. I'm going to get out from under it. My brother 
 Henry has been given a gift of one hundred sixty acres of land 
 in Nebraska by the railroad if he'll stay there and preach to 
 the settlers. I'll go and help him." 
 
 This is one of the first instances of a clever policy of 
 the railroads, and this policy grows to the extent that for many, 
 many years no Annual Meeting of the German Baptist 
 Brethren will be held without land agents in attendance. And 
 there will be the well-known fact that the Brethren traveler 
 and writer, Elder D. L. Miller of Mt. Morris, Illinois, will travel 
 over the United States on a free lifetime pass, helping to 
 establish Brethren colonies in the West. 
 
 Now Michael Frantz and his wife, Barbara, buy Noah 
 Brubaker's farm and with their family of children face life 
 with a sense of buoyant Christian joy. Mother Barbara is a 
 good manager. She works and sings and plays with her 
 children, and each Sunday finds her at meeting with every 
 child neat and clean and instructed to keep out of mischief. 
 
 A great honor, and a responsibility too, has now come to 
 the Pleasant Hill congregation. The Annual Meeting of the 
 German Baptist Brethren of America has granted the request 
 of the Southern District of Illinois that the meeting of 1874 
 might be held in Southern Illinois. 
 
 Joseph Filbrun considers the vast capacity of his new bank 
 barn and its loft floor, forty by eighty feet in size. He considers 
 the convenience of the Chicago and Alton Railway, which 
 passes near the house. He visualizes the prestige, honor, and 
 triumph that this Meeting would bring to him and his belief 
 in the power of the Annual Meeting. Upon this conviction he 
 extends his invitation for the Meeting to be held in his barn, 
 and it is accepted. 
 
 Plans are immediately set into motion for feeding and 
 bedding thousands of people. Calves must be set aside to grow 
 into butcher beef. Fruit must be dried. Potatoes, beans, and 
 beets must be planted and harvested. Wheat flour must be 
 saved. Apple butter must be boiled. It will be a big task but 
 it will be done. The Dunkers are second to none in energy, 
 
 52 
 
resourcefulness, and will power. Not only do they believe what 
 they say they believe, but they do what they set out to do. 
 
 At once Elder Daniel Vaniman sets about the business of 
 passing a subscription paper to every Brethren householder in 
 Southern Illinois. The financial expenditures must be met by 
 the pledges of the members, and no one will be missed. 
 
 Jonathan Brubaker now receives his call to preach. He is 
 well prepared, for he reads his Bible regularly and he especially 
 believes in the quiet joy of Christian living. But his faith and 
 the faith of his family are soon tried in a way seldom anticipated. 
 
 The measles are bad this year. "Regular old red measles," 
 says Susie Brubaker. She nurses her daughters, Lizzie and 
 Mary Ann, as they come down with this disease. With Mary 
 Ann, the measles refuse to break out and she is terribly ill. At 
 last, with the fever gone and Mary on her feet again and back 
 in school, she often complains, "My back hurts, Mother." 
 
 So the months will bring the discovery that somehow the 
 normal growth of Mary's body has been permanently retarded, 
 while her growing spine is curving into a hunch between her 
 shoulders. Always, now, the Pleasant Hill folks will call her 
 Little Mary Ann. Little Mary Ann, yes. But not little in 
 patience! Or in kindness! Or in friendship! Or in Christian 
 faith! Is it not true that the world knows nothing of its greatest 
 people ? 
 
 1874: Pentecost Sunday 
 
 The great Annual Meeting of the German Baptist Brethren is 
 at hand. Pentecost Sunday is the great day of inspiration, and 
 on Monday the business meeting will begin. 
 
 Now it is Saturday. Everything is ready. The task that 
 has seemed so prodigious has taken form under many willing 
 hands, the inspiration of visionary minds, and much practical 
 action. 
 
 Joseph Filbrun experiences a prideful thrill as he inspects 
 all that has been accomplished. He is a short, thickly built man, 
 
 53 
 
and now he steps quickly from one end of the place to the 
 other, giving efficient last-minute orders in quick blunt words to 
 those who are there to help. 
 
 The great haymow, opening on the north bank of the barn, 
 has been swept clean of all litter of hay and shucks. Rows of 
 bare plank benches face the preachers' platform built at the 
 doorway. 
 
 There is a great tent which has been raised along the north 
 side of the barn. It is a wonderful tent, and Joseph Filbrun 
 lifts his flat black hat to cool his balding head and strokes his 
 straggly beard as he inspects this spread of canvas two hundred 
 feet to the north and as far east as the barn itself. 
 
 The south half of the tent is filled with the plank benches, 
 but the north half is partitioned off for the dining room. There 
 long tables are waiting with benches on each side, and Joseph 
 has been assured that one thousand people can be fed at one 
 time. 
 
 Beyond the tent is the cook house. And outside the cook 
 house are the additional great copper kettles sitting on their 
 tripods, ready for the boiling of the beef. 
 
 Joseph turns toward the railroad and is satisfied that in that 
 direction, too, all is well. The Chicago and Alton Company has 
 provided a temporary spur with a platform and a ticket office 
 right at the field gate, and an agent is to be on hand throughout 
 the meeting. 
 
 A substantial board walk has been built from this little 
 station to the Filbrun dooryard, a distance of some seven 
 hundred feet— a fine idea, especially in case of rain. 
 
 Joseph Filbrun walks over to the twenty-acre field east of 
 the barn, set aside to accommodate those who will come in 
 vehicles. He feels that there will be plenty of room for all 
 the teams and is to be astounded on Sunday when he will be 
 obliged to open another field. 
 
 The two new Western windmills are Joseph's pride and 
 joy. As the mill wheels fan the air and water flows from the 
 new suction pumps into his carefully built tanks, he knows 
 that the water problem has been solved. Water for the teams 
 will be at hand, and he has assigned his sons Jonas, Ben, and 
 
 54 
 
Joe to keep a constant supply pumped at the house for drinking 
 purposes. 
 
 The sanitation problem is being met in the only known 
 way of this day when plumbing is unheard of. Long pits have 
 been dug, proper seats and roofs built over them and high board 
 walls around them, a place for the women beyond the house 
 in the young orchard and another for the men far away in 
 another direction. All this, Joseph knows, has been done, and 
 there is no need for further inspection. 
 
 Young John Heckman has been on hand through all the 
 preparation, since Moses Plunkett and Sarah are interested in 
 being there to help Sarah's parents in every possible way. On 
 this Saturday Johnny wears himself out watching the trains 
 arriving and emitting entire carloads of passengers with their 
 satchels, valises, and lunch baskets. Sometimes he helps someone 
 by carrying a bundle or a basket, and by evening he is tired 
 and content to let the trains arrive without his presence. 
 
 It is almost as interesting to see the canvas-topped farm 
 wagons arrive, and the carry-alls and the square-topped buggies. 
 These are now coming in from all over the district. They 
 line up in the field, the wagons often providing their own 
 tethering as the drivers unhitch the teams and tie them to the 
 wheels. But the rigs are assigned to the hitching posts arranged 
 along the hedgerows. 
 
 Now the cooks are getting busy, for supper must be served, 
 and the aroma of wood smoke and boiling beef and coffee 
 drifts over the evening air. While the guests go into the dining 
 tent and fill up on beef, potatoes, bread, and stewed dried apples, 
 the lodging committee assigns the people to sleeping places. 
 
 It is plain that by Sunday night every Brethren home for 
 miles around will be taxed to full capacity. Every house will 
 have its rooms full of improvised beds made of straw ticks 
 spread upon the floor. These will furnish comfortable rest for 
 the feminine crowds. 
 
 The masculine guests will be accommodated in the barn 
 lofts on the various farms. There blankets and comfortables 
 are spread over the hay, and half the pleasure of attending the 
 Annual Meeting is this carefree getting together. 
 
 55 
 
Who cares if bits of straw are to be found in his hair or 
 whiskers at breakfast tomorrow morning? It will have been 
 good (or perhaps not so good!) to have had someone with 
 whom a discussion could be carried on about religious methods 
 and the doctrines and customs of the church. Far into the night 
 voices will rise and fall among the snoring sounds of others as 
 these discussions reach the point of arguments that are with 
 difficulty kept within the bounds of brotherly forbearance. 
 
 The length of the calm summer twilight is counted upon 
 to give ample time after supper for the various visitors to be 
 directed to their lodging places. 
 
 Young Sam Brubaker leads out with a wagonload of guests 
 and motions for the long line of vehicles assigned north and 
 west to follow him. 
 
 George Gibson is doing the same for those assigned south 
 and west. Others are guides to the east and to the south, 
 directing guests into the area of the Cherry Grove school and 
 into Montgomery County among the members near the 
 Studebaker and Lake schools. Even the meetinghouse at 
 Pleasant Hill is filled with pallets, and loads of guests are 
 conveyed there to rest for the night. 
 
 When Sunday dawn breaks, the roads come alive with all 
 of these vehicles rolling back to Joe Filbrun's barn in time for 
 breakfast. The breakfast costs no one a penny, and neither will 
 any other meal at this meeting. 
 
 Of course there will be the little matter of four thousand 
 dollars to the members of the Southern District of Illinois as 
 the cost of entertaining the Brotherhood. But it is worth every 
 penny of it. 
 
 To these people their whole life is the church. Salvation 
 comes through the church. So does prestige among men. Their 
 social life centers in the church. Their first loyalty is to the 
 church. Now each detail of this work of entertaining the Annual 
 Meeting is ticking along in a smooth fashion. 
 
 Sam Ridgeway and the Stutsman boys, Henry and 
 Valentine, and Levi Ganger, are some who cook the beef. 
 "We're not supposed to salt the beef," says Henry Stutsman. 
 "Not salt the beef!" snorts Sam Ridgeway. "I'd like to 
 
 56 
 
know why not. A body couldn't endure eatin' beef without salt." 
 
 "It's against the Bible, I reckon," says Henry. 
 
 "Against the Bible or not," declares Sam, "I'm not cookin' 
 beef without salt." 
 
 "So! So!" says Henry with a grin. "But go easy. Them 
 Eastern Brethren have a heap of power. And there'll be a right 
 smart crowd of them here." 
 
 Sam Ridgeway's eyes glint. In his opinion it would be 
 unhealthful to eat meat without salt in humid Illinois. Let 
 the Easterners squirm. Sam intends to answer only to the 
 Lord. 
 
 So it is that the "kitchen" is visited by a committee who, in 
 brotherly kindness, are seeking the one who is responsible for 
 the salt in the meat. 
 
 The art of evasion and the suave acceptance of orders blends 
 into an undeclared promise to try to do something about it. 
 
 "But I'm not goin' to try," Sam mumbles, "until this meeting 
 is over." 
 
 Certain men are assigned to keep the fires going. Certain 
 ones carry the water. Someone brings the dairy supplies. 
 Someone secures the ice. Ice is a rare and precious thing, and 
 difficult to provide. But there is a good supply for sale at the 
 icehouse in Girard this year. Thus the good sisters are able 
 to hold up their heads in the pride of sweet cream and butter 
 decently served. 
 
 Only at night do the sisters stop their hours of peeling 
 potatoes or sorting dry beans. The bread comes from Springfield 
 on the train, and whole loaves grace the tables where each 
 person helps himself to such portions of the loaf as satisfy his 
 hunger. 
 
 The young people work in the dining room. Here is John 
 Mayer with his natural flair of the restauranteur, not realizing- 
 that many years of his life will be spent in the restaurant business 
 but realizing that just now he is having a pleasurable time. 
 
 Who will be able to say exactly the names of those who 
 have come to help? For there are not only these Pleasant Hill 
 families, but from the Lake school and Cherry Grove areas there 
 are the Studebakers, the Browns, the Bowersoxes, the Hamiltons, 
 
 57 
 
the Garsts, the Auks, the Heckmans, and the Steads. From 
 the Otter Creek townships there are Gibsons and Riffeys, 
 Beckners and Neads, Shroyers and Wrightsmans. From Sugar 
 Creek in Sangamon County there are Naffs and Millers, 
 Harnleys and Shutts. 
 
 On Sunday the outsiders for miles around decide that they 
 would like to see what sort of a meeting this is that the railroad 
 company will honor the Dunker church people with a special 
 station and schedules and rates. They too drive to the Filbrun 
 farm, and it is said that all together Rve thousand people sit at 
 the tables on Sunday noon and ten thousand people are in 
 attendance at the services. 
 
 It is a day of great oratory and no one's back gets tired 
 sitting erect on the backless seats. No one complains of the 
 hardness of the boards. Those who sit on the floor do not 
 complain of cramped muscles, and those who must wait long 
 to be fed do not complain of hunger. 
 
 Never is there a time of greater realities. Never a time 
 of greater joy and rejoicing. Never a time of greater friendship 
 and brotherhood. 
 
 And when long years hence the Annual Meeting becomes the 
 Annual Conference, and the doors of the greatest auditoriums 
 of the United States swing open to receive the Church of the 
 Brethren; when the leaders will speak eloquently through the 
 device of a loud-speaker system; when the singing is accompanied 
 by the rolling glory of pipe organs; when this group and that 
 enjoy the fellowship of breakfast banquet tables— never, God 
 knows, will they be able to say they are any more happy, or 
 any nearer to the Lord, than today in Filbrun's barn. 
 
 Finally on Monday morning that august body, the Standing 
 Committee, assembles on the platform. The fifteenth chapter 
 of Acts is read. The people fall to their knees, a mighty prayer is 
 rendered unto Almighty God, and the business session is begun. 
 There are interpretations as fine as a sieve, which are 
 apparent as the meeting progresses. In Acts 15, they have just 
 read, "Why tempt ye God, to put a yoke upon the neck 
 of the disciples which they are not able to bear?" 
 
 Now as the discussion waxes a bit warm, it is decided not 
 
 58 
 
to allow publication of the Annual Meeting minutes that would 
 include the names of disputants, and, as the session progresses, 
 the yoke of the church is weighted by more and more law. 
 It is decided not to allow the Brethren to wear only the 
 mustache, for it would contribute to pride. They are not to 
 engage in the profession of banking, which might lead to 
 covetousness, litigation, and usury. 
 
 They are not to send their children to college, and are not 
 to establish high schools controlled by the church, although the 
 first Dunkers in America did co-operate in an early academy 
 at Germantown, Pennsylvania. Of this fact these Brethren are 
 probably unaware since its existence was short because of a 
 lack of funds. 
 
 The admonitions pile up by adding that the Dunkers are 
 not to join the farmers' clubs, as all such are worldly 
 organizations, and they are not to possess musical instruments 
 in their homes, although those who do are not to be deprived 
 of church membership. 
 
 To redeem the closed vision of the delegates concerning 
 such points in question, the leaders with spiritual vision are 
 at last victorious with a decision "to send out ministers on 
 missionary work to preach the doctrine of peace to the nations." 
 
 The editor of the church paper known as the Pilgrim is to 
 declare in his next issue that many of the conclusions of this 
 Annual Meeting were not in harmony with his views. Yet, 
 on the whole, everyone expresses the conviction that this has 
 been a very good meeting. The excitable discussions have 
 heightened interest and given tone to other more patient 
 deliberations in this day when the people are tempered to the 
 daily expectance of a display of the emotions. 
 
 The joy of association with kindred spirits as one great 
 family of the church is a great bond of the Brethren that is a 
 dear and precious thing, and this joy will continue down into 
 the middle of the twentieth century. How much longer, only 
 the Lord knows. 
 
 The meeting is over. The wagons and rigs drive away. 
 The Chicago and Alton trains pick up the last passengers. The 
 tent is folded up and sent away. Quiet descends on Joseph 
 
 59 
 
Filbrun's farm, and he sends the boys to the fields to work 
 the neglected crops. Joseph has enjoyed the glory of entertaining 
 the Annual Meeting, but underneath the serene surface of 
 brotherly love he sees a storm brewing. It is being activated by 
 a spirit of change. Of new ideas. And to these he knows he 
 will never accede. 
 
 Each year it is more difficult to hold the growing member- 
 ship of the Dunkers within the lines of absolute simplicity. 
 Of absolute unworldliness. Of absolute peace. Of absolute 
 power by the church authorities. 
 
 Joe shakes his head and sets his lips together. Any changes 
 from the old ways within the church will never meet his 
 approval— least of all, higher education through high schools 
 and colleges. He does not approve of this missionary idea 
 either. 
 
 "Well, well! We'll see," he says to himself, and he sets 
 about doing up the evening chores. 
 
 1875: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, October 17 
 Our little Calvin is one year old to-day. Called at 
 Deacon John Brubaker's. Elder Naff was there. 
 
 All of Deacon John Brubaker's family look forward to the 
 visits of their Grandfather Naff. They know of no one else 
 whose tongue can roll the poetry of the ages into such rich 
 cadences of the mystic heart. When Grandfather comes, Riley 
 and Josiah and Caleb linger expectantly in the chimney corners. 
 Lizzie and Katie neglect the dishes. Isaac and Nicholas sit on 
 the hearth. Martha sits on her father's knee and Charles and 
 Alpheus sit with their mother. 
 
 Then Elder Naff opens his mouth and speaks from memory 
 such glorious words as "The heavens declare the glory of God 
 and the firmament showeth His handiwork." In fact, Elder 
 Naff has memorized over half of the Bible, and as he quotes its 
 great passages the words are as beautifully dictioned here before 
 this fireplace in a Pleasant Hill home as when the famous Edwin 
 
 60 
 
Booth renders his Shakespearean roles from the great stages of 
 New York and London. 
 
 Emotional thrills stir this family with spiritual longings, 
 and the sweet satisfactions of the highest and best will lead 
 each child in this circle to be active in the church all of his life. 
 
 Of course Elder Naff has his peculiar beliefs as well. His 
 grandchildren never offer him a rocker, since he believes 
 that too much comfort might lead him into the sin of indulgence 
 of the flesh. He will never look into a mirror, not even to 
 comb his hair, for his conviction is that this might involve 
 the breaking of the second commandment. 
 
 Neither does he believe in laughter. Mirth, he believes, 
 must be suppressed into the quiet, reserved smile. But when 
 Grandfather returns to his home near Springfield, the family 
 relaxes into less stern ways. Even then severe lessons are 
 often taught under the cover of fun. 
 
 There is the evening when there is fried wild rabbit for 
 supper. It is Martha's favorite food. But as quickly as the 
 blessing is voiced, her brother Isaac calls, "Please pass the fried 
 rat." 
 
 "Yes," says Nicholas, picking up the joke, "pass the fried 
 rat." And all of the eyes around the table begin to shine — that 
 is, all but Martha's. 
 
 Martha's stomach shrinks within her, but she smiles brightly 
 and says, "You mean, pass the fried rabbit." 
 
 "I said rat," insists Isaac, taking a bite of his piece of the 
 delicacy. "Didn't I, Pa?" 
 
 "Yes," says Deacon John with a chuckle. "You said rat." 
 
 The platter goes around the table and each one helps 
 himself — excepting Martha. Pa's words imply that the platter 
 does contain rat. And if her adored father says it is rat, rat 
 it is. Her stomach is becoming more unsettled by the minute 
 and the sensitive little girl can eat no supper. 
 
 When the platter is empty someone says, "What? Is the 
 rabbit all gone? It sure was good." 
 
 Martha cries, but is gravely admonished, "Now, Martha! 
 Just hush! You've only yourself to blame. Even if the plate 
 
 61 
 
had contained rat, everyone else was eating it. You, too, should 
 have eaten if you were hungry." 
 
 The term baby sitter is not yet coined, but the children in 
 all large families care for each other. Often the father and 
 the mother and the older children who have become young 
 people climb into the rigs and go to funerals, to love feasts, to 
 town, or to a wedding. 
 
 Then the young ones at home assume a dilatory interest in 
 each other. The teen-age boys run to the swimming hole while 
 Martha and Charles and Alpheus walk the rafters in the barn 
 loft. Or, more daring yet, Martha pushes the well bucket to 
 one side, climbs inside the latticed well shelter and plays house 
 over thirty feet of dark glimmering death — but only when the 
 folks are gone! 
 
 The weddings this year are those of Isaac Crist and Sarah 
 Brubaker, daughter of Jonathan. And John H. Brubaker, son 
 of Deacon Jacob, brings Lizzie Neher home from Sangamon 
 County as his bride. And there is Mary Brubaker, daughter of 
 Moses, who is now united to Lewis Heckman. 
 
 "I haven't a thing in the world but a team of mules, a 
 wagon, and the clothes on my back," says Lewis. "But I'm 
 willing to work." 
 
 "That's enough," says Moses. "If you'll add the virtue of 
 saving to your work you'll get along." 
 
 Lewis and Mary will prosper greatly and will give 
 liberally of their money to the work of the Brethren. Mary 
 Heckman will be known for her generous hospitality, also to 
 be reflected in her daughter, Olive, who becomes a minister's 
 wife. And in the middle of the twentieth century it will be 
 Olive's son, Ralph Smeltzer, the young minister, who will 
 contribute important leadership in the church, broadening 
 Brethren hospitality into interracial and international love and 
 understanding. 
 
 It is this same love and understanding that compels George 
 Vaniman to do more than pity the unfortunate. It is a true 
 compassion with him that leads him to help worthy men. 
 And then there are the tramps, too, hordes of them following 
 the railroads. 
 
 62 
 
Louisa hands out bread and butter and meat until George 
 decides that his head shall rule his heart in this matter. To 
 the next ne'er-do-well that knocks at the kitchen door, George 
 therefore says no. 
 
 "Mister," says the beggar, "here you are with this big, 
 comfortable house and fine barn, and pastures full of horses 
 and cattle, and you refuse to share a slice of bread with a man 
 who has not even a home. Is that fair or right?" 
 
 George's determination to be tough melts under the 
 question. He knows it isn't right. He knows that the judgment 
 does not belong to him, but to the Unseen Father of all men. He 
 remembers that "the son of man hath not where to lay his 
 head." Turning to Louisa, he orders, "Give this man bread 
 and meat." And never again does George refuse help to any 
 man. 
 
 There are protracted meetings being held at the meeting- 
 house, and many converts are being baptized. Louisa longs 
 with all her heart to be one of the applicants. But George 
 again says no. Why? Perhaps it is only the Lord who knows. 
 
 Now the Brethren urge Mr. Adam Fetter to repent and 
 be baptized. 
 
 "I know I ought," he says. "I live right here and I reckon 
 I'll die here and be buried here. But, blankety-blank— " and 
 he shoots tobacco juice expertly from between his teeth — "I just 
 never could quit swearing." 
 
 No, there is no place for swearing among the Brethren. 
 Even little slang terms are not allowed in the strict Brethren 
 homes. They suggest the spirit of disobedience to Jesus' 
 command, "Swear not at all." The Brethren not only practice 
 the command, "Let your communication be yea, yea, and nay, 
 nay," but they also literally believe "Lend not your money to 
 usury." Money is loaned by the Dunker brother without notes 
 and without interest. Should he lose the loan he is satisfied that 
 he has obeyed the gospel. His conscience is clear. 
 
 Now many of the Pleasant Hill folk journey to Otter Creek 
 where a preacher is to be called. The call falls on Javan Gibson 
 and it is a splendid choice. He will mount his horse and ride 
 among the members of the District of Southern Illinois. He will 
 
 63 
 
help build nine meetinghouses while he oversees his own farm 
 lands, and his boys, Willie and Albert, will learn to know that 
 they must shoulder a man's tasks as well as hunt coons and 
 possums in the dense timbers of Otter Creek. 
 
 Hunting in the misty nights by following the bell tones 
 of barking hounds is a delight to the men, both old and young. 
 Johnny Heckman, now twelve years old, takes his place among 
 the groups of boys exchanging their small talk around the 
 church stiles and he tells a coon story. 
 
 "I know a fellow named Jack Auk," he says. "When 
 Jack hunts coons he follows the coon right up into the tree. 
 Then he jerks his axe from his belt and cuts off the limb where 
 the coon is crouching, right between his feet." 
 
 "Aw, he doesn't," says another boy in disbelief. 
 
 "He does so!" declares Johnny. 
 
 "Then how does Jack keep from falling?" 
 
 "He jumps," says Johnny. "He jumps and helps the dogs 
 finish oil the coon." Johnny speaks with conviction and now 
 the boys believe his words. They turn and trudge along the 
 walk and enter the meetinghouse, their minds on dogs and 
 coons rather than on heaven and hell. 
 
 1876: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, ]une 2 
 
 We've been to Virden to see a balloon ascension. 
 Chester Melvin was so excited. 
 
 Chester Melvin Vaniman is nearly ten years old and to 
 witness a balloon ascension has been a most fascinating 
 experience. The desire to go up into the blue is a thrilling one 
 that has consumed many a boy through the ages. No doubt 
 the sons of the Hebrews in ancient Egypt, watching the storks 
 glide away in their brilliant knowledge of the high blue, wished 
 that they, too, could fly. 
 
 Now Chester Melvin asks questions. How? Why? How? 
 Why? At last Louisa's patience wears away. 
 
 "Chester Melvin," she says in her sprightly way, "don't 
 
 64 
 
ask me anything more about that balloon. I tell you I don't 
 know how or why it flies. You are only a little boy here at 
 Pleasant Hill. Leave the balloons to the men that know about 
 them." 
 
 Of course a mother can tell her son to forget about the 
 thing that intrigues him most, but thus dismissing the subject 
 for herself does not dismiss it from the boy's thinking. 
 
 One day soon afterward a peddler comes, driving a livery 
 rig loaded with long thin rolls. Chester Melvin and Elmer 
 climb the fence and watch the man tie his horse to the hitching 
 post, select one of the rolls, and start for the house. Then the 
 two little boys immediately dash into the house by the kitchen 
 door, even as their mother admits the stranger at the front door. 
 
 The peddler's words are persuasive as he tells about the 
 advantage of every family in the land owning a map of the 
 world. He flips the roll open and stands tall to let the map 
 hang before their eyes, a map so large that it will cover a wall, 
 and its heavy slick paper is lithographed in beautiful colors. 
 
 "Madam," says the peddler, "your boys can travel all over 
 the world sitting right in your own home." 
 
 Louisa sees at once that only the man of the house can deal 
 with this important decision. 
 
 "Chester Melvin," she says, "run get your father." 
 
 The boy dashes out of the house and his legs scissor over 
 the ground in a sprint of speed. When he finds his father in 
 a nearby field he is so excited he cannot explain the reason for 
 this call to the house. As the boy follows his father's swift 
 strides, he hopes with all his heart that Father will buy the 
 beautiful map that shows all the places of the world. 
 
 George Vaniman does purchase the map, and it is hung 
 on the kitchen wall. George enjoys the map himself, and 
 as he explains its pictured spaces of lands and seas to his boys 
 he is truly content to be traveling all over the world from his 
 chair in the kitchen. 
 
 But not Chester Melvin. For now, added to his burning 
 desire to know more about the balloon, is a dreaming about 
 faraway places. And Louisa holds little Calvin on her lap and 
 helps Chester Melvin trace his fingers across the map to Chicago 
 
 65 
 
and San Francisco, to Hawaii and Australia, to France and 
 the North Pole, while Elmer goes to the barn and helps his 
 father feed the work horses and curry the gentle mares and 
 turn the colts to pasture. 
 
 There is an advancing, too, in the work of the church. For 
 several months the opinion has been expressed that all of these 
 German Baptist Brethren in this central Illinois area should be 
 divided into local congregations. In this year, 1876, the division 
 is made. 
 
 Sugar Creek in Sangamon County remains under Elder 
 Isaac Naff. Otter Creek at Stirrup Grove is placed in charge 
 of Elder D. R. C. Nead. At the Lake school the name 
 Macoupin Cree\ is selected, and Elder Daniel Vaniman takes 
 charge, while at Pleasant Hill Joseph W. Harshbarger is elected 
 elder. 
 
 The Pleasant Hill people are highly pleased. It will be a 
 great satisfaction to be a self-ruling body and to add to the 
 unity of interests and purposes within this peaceful community. 
 
 Now some of the Brethren are wondering if they possess 
 the true gratitude for the peace and mercy of God which they 
 should have when the news comes to Pleasant Hill of the 
 Custer Massacre in the Black Hills of South Dakota. 
 
 "The violence was caused," says Preacher Cullen Gibson, 
 "by man's greed for gold. It is not the Brethren way." 
 
 "The Brethren are a hundred years ahead of time," says 
 Frank Gates. "History shows that peaceful homes have never 
 been gained anywhere in the world, or at any time in history, 
 without violence first." 
 
 "All the more reason," declares Cullen, "that we must hold 
 to the teachings of nonviolence and brotherhood. We must 
 promote a final time of peace." 
 
 Are the Brethren, with their convictions against war, a 
 hundred years ahead of time? Will another century teach men 
 to control and ride the wild horses of their violent passions? 
 Are the mills of the gods grinding slowly but surely toward 
 the fulfillment of peace on earth? It is only the Lord who 
 knows. 
 
 66 
 
1876: Entries in S. S. Bruba\ers Diary 
 
 September 28: Sowed wheat to-day. Went to town for 
 my wedding suit. 
 
 September 29: Was married to-day to Mary Ann 
 Harshbarger fifteen minutes before nine o'clock by 
 Cullen C. Gibson. Took the train at Virden for Macon 
 County. 
 Samuel S. Brubaker is a young man of much executive ability. 
 In the first place, he has always attended church councils with 
 his parents and been impressed with the strict use of parlia- 
 mentary rules. "Let everything be done decently and in order" 
 is an admonishment that the Brethren take seriously. 
 
 Sam records in his diary that a protracted meeting is held 
 early in this year, running for sixteen days. Charley Vaniman 
 and his brother, "young" Dan, and Sam's own brother, Ezra J., 
 are baptized on February 13. During the next two weeks, 
 fourteen more are baptized and one member is expelled. 
 
 There is a barn-raising at Henry Frantz's and this is an 
 event of great fun, with the women coming too, bringing huge 
 baskets of food, and everyone joshing everybody else. 
 
 One day Sam goes down into the Virden coal mine and 
 no one knows it until he is up again. His mother, Anna, is 
 horrified. 
 
 "Mother," Sam explains, "mining is going to be a part of 
 the life of our community. I think we ought to know some- 
 thing about it. Besides, a man is obliged to do something 
 daring once in a while." 
 
 On June 16 Sam plows corn until noon. After dinner he 
 sets out in his own new buggy, which he has purchased from 
 Isaac Crist for sixty dollars, picks up his intended wife, Mary 
 Ann Harshbarger, and drives to Macoupin Creek to attend the 
 first communion to be held in that congregation, now taking 
 place in the barn of Cassius Brown. 
 
 Sam and his lady, along with twenty other visiting young 
 people, stay over night at the home of his cousin, Sam F. 
 Brubaker. On Sunday they go back to the barn to hear a great 
 sermon, then to Aaron Stutsman's to dinner, and arrive home 
 well fed physically, socially, and spiritually. 
 
 67 
 
In this one year Sam accounts for Sunday dinners in the 
 homes of twenty-two different Brethren. The social custom 
 of big Sunday dinners among the Brethren has started rolling. 
 It will not stop until the turn of the century. 
 
 Sam also attends twelve church councils in this year, for 
 anyone worthy of being called a good member will be present 
 at the church council to enact the business of the Lord. There 
 is also always a promise of interesting affairs, for the Brethren 
 usually indulge in lively discussions. 
 
 It is true that the great desire to keep the church "pure 
 and unspotted from the world" is the source of some tattle- 
 taling. This desire is also the source of a temptation to the 
 less strong to cover their own sidestepping from the straight and 
 narrow way by focusing the attention of the elders on some 
 point of departure other than their own. Such members often 
 pose as pillars of strength. 
 
 Those members who are indifferent to the teachings of 
 the Brethren are quickly made into a "case" before the church 
 body. Those who can never quite reach the perfection of the 
 Dunker demands willingly confess and promise to make this 
 mistake no more. Finally there are those who are faithful in 
 the complete Brethren way. Through God's grace they will 
 be recorded as saints. 
 
 Now Sam finishes the tedious task of digging several acres 
 of potatoes in time to be married and take a wedding trip. 
 
 Willow-tall, Mary Ann Harshbarger, his bride, is a sweet 
 and steady girl. "I reckon I chose her," says Sam, "like she 
 chose her wedding dress — because it would wear well." 
 
 Mary Ann's even temperament and her faithful Christian 
 living will be a shining example to many for long, long years. 
 
 These Dunker young people all have qualities that wear 
 well. There will never be a divorce among them, for faith- 
 fulness to the marriage vow is taught as a part of the living 
 gospel. When these young people marry and settle down, 
 they know that it is for always. And to be willing to take each 
 other "for better or for worse, until death do us part" makes 
 life better. 
 
 68 
 
This these Brethren people know, and will believe, down 
 into the middle of the twentieth century. How much longer, 
 only the Lord knows. 
 
 1877: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, March 30 
 
 Michael Frantz died the other day. I feel so sorry for 
 Barbara. 
 
 The security of each home in the community is visibly shaken 
 when Michael Frantz dies. He has been a quiet Christian man, 
 and has not aspired to positions of leadership. He has been 
 the head of a happy home, the father, husband, and provider. 
 Now he is dead. 
 
 The women bow their heads in sorrow and sympathy for 
 the widow, and as they weep they feel a leaden horror weighing 
 their inmost hearts down into the depths of dread. 
 
 "What if it had been my husband?" 
 
 "Or mine?" 
 
 "Or mine?" 
 
 Susie Brubaker, Preacher Jonathan's wife, takes twenty- 
 month-old Ezra Frantz into her arms and leads the child Peter 
 by the hand, while Mother Barbara and young Jonathan and 
 Martha and Susie and Jacob follow the bier to the church, 
 and then walk across the road to the cemetery. So many trips 
 must be made across this road to this cemetery, and now it is 
 she, Barbara Frantz, and she is a widow. 
 
 The dark uncovered heads of the men and the black- 
 bonneted heads of the women crowd around the grave, and 
 Barbara stands among them. Her face is drawn with grief, 
 and she seems not to hear or to see. 
 
 But when the clods have fallen into their rightful place, and 
 the dirge has been sung, Barbara suddenly notices Susan 
 Gibson standing near by with her baby, Elmer, in her arms, 
 and Barbara remembers that she too has a little one that needs 
 her. 
 
 69 
 
She turns to Susie Brubaker and reaches to take little 
 Ezra. "I'll tote the baby now," she says. 
 
 "I'll be right glad to keep him," urges Susie, "and Peter 
 too, until — " 
 
 "Let her have them," advises Sister Catherine Harshbarger 
 in quiet tones. "I reckon they'll do her good." 
 
 Ah, Catherine! How long will you be here to give such 
 wise advice? And do you know what the future holds for 
 Barbara Frantz? 
 
 Barbara herself knows that she must emerge at once from 
 her blur of lost happiness and respond to the laughter of her 
 children, who will return to their play in the sunshine. 
 
 She goes home, pauses at her kitchen door, and looks 
 across the prairie. She cannot penetrate the illimitable mystery 
 of death, but she can cope with reality. 
 
 It is spring. The plowing must be done. The seed must 
 be sown. After that the harvest, not only this year, but the 
 next. And the next. And the next. 
 
 1879: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, ]une 3 
 
 Sunday I sent the boys to Sunday School in their Uncle 
 Daniel's new barn. 
 
 Sunday school! This idea has been slowly making its way 
 into the programs of the various denominations since it was 
 established in England by Robert Raikes in 1811. But as yet the 
 Dunkers have not accepted it. 
 
 "I believe," says Elder Daniel Vaniman, "that since we 
 accept day school as being good for our children, a Sunday 
 school would be sensible too." 
 
 "No!" says Joseph Filbrun with emphasis. "This thing is 
 not for the Dunkers. It is a worldly thing. All the world is 
 accepting it. We are a separate people. A peculiar people. We 
 cannot have a Sunday school." 
 
 "Sunday schools worldly?" exclaims Charles Gibson. 
 
 70 
 
"Nonsense. A Sunday school will give guidance to our children 
 in Bible study. Let's have one at Pleasant Hill." 
 
 But Joseph Filbrun is adamant. He declares to those who 
 will listen, "The Bible tells us to instruct our children in the 
 commandments of the Lord, each man in his own household. 
 We shall not have a Sunday school at Pleasant Hill. Not at the 
 church, for we are elected to keep ourselves unspotted from 
 the world, and not at the schoolhouse, for I am on the board 
 and I will not give my consent." 
 
 Mary and James Gibson as urgently declare that they will 
 have a Sunday school for their children to attend, and they 
 will have it at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 Thus the arguments for and against a Sunday school as 
 a part of the church become a battle between progressive and 
 conservative ideas. In all the German Baptist Brethren West 
 the dissension centers at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 Even before the year 1878 had closed its records, the Otter 
 Creek congregation had organized a Sunday school. Now 
 Preacher Javan Gibson announces, "We have ninety-two pupils 
 and ten teachers have been assigned to their duties to teach 
 the Bible." But even Preacher Gibson's testimony does not 
 ease the tension at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 How long can the church stand this tension that strains the 
 bond of Christian love? For a time it is a heavy fog of 
 disagreement that no light can penetrate. Elder Daniel 
 Vaniman falls on his knees in prayer and his very soul cries 
 out, "Oh, Lord! What can we do about this?" 
 
 "You can open your barn." 
 
 The voice is as real to Daniel as was the voice that talked 
 to Moses. Or to Elijah. Or to Paul. 
 
 So now a Sunday school for the Pleasant Hill community 
 is being held in Elder Daniel Vaniman's barn, and Charles 
 Gibson is the superintendent. 
 
 Elder Joseph Harshbarger proceeds in his guidance of the 
 church in this crisis with a cautious hand. He rules that the 
 members who desire to send their children to Sunday school 
 at the Vaniman barn may do so and not be admonished. Those 
 
 71 
 
who do not desire to do so are not to be urged. "Let us try, 
 in Christian love, to let the Lord be our guide." 
 
 Now the children and the young people flock from the 
 homes of the Brubakers, the Gibsons, the Stutsmans, the Crists, 
 the Blockers, and the Nehers, walking or driving over the 
 country roads to Vaniman's barn. 
 
 Songs are sung to the accompaniment of pigeons' startled 
 flights, and prayer is said with amen's that may be accented 
 by the bawl of a calf yearning for its mother. As Scripture 
 verses are recited, they are punctuated by the thud of horses' 
 hoofs. But it is a Sunday school. "Thank God for that," says 
 Mary Gibson. 
 
 "I'm a little afraid," says Susie Brubaker, "that Sunday 
 school will make our children proud." 
 
 "Proud?" Susan Gibson shakes her head. "How can it 
 make them proud? Most of them go barefoot and in their 
 everyday clothes." 
 
 Hannah Stutsman speaks up. "I reckon it wouldn't hurt 
 our children to be proud of knowing more about the Bible." 
 
 "You'll rue the day," Amanda Snell warns. "A Sunday 
 school will lead to Sunday-school picnics." 
 
 "I'm afraid you're right," says Catherine Harshbarger. "But 
 the Annual Meeting approves. And Joe has given his consent 
 for our children to go." 
 
 Daniel Vaniman's barn is three miles or more across the 
 community from the homes of the Filbruns, the Hubers, and 
 the Snells. Brother Filbrun is using all of his influence to win 
 these neighbors to his way of thinking. So the inconvenience 
 of the distance makes a good excuse for these families to avoid 
 attendance at the Sunday school. 
 
 They are content, at present, to consider the idea as one 
 not to be accepted at once. After all, they have been taught 
 that only the Dunkers, the German Baptist Brethren, have the 
 pure gospel. It is not clear to them how the Sunday school, a 
 movement from the outside, can fit into Alexander Mack's 
 foundational teachings. 
 
 "As for me and my family," says Henry Snell, "we will wait 
 for further light." 
 
 72 
 
1879: Entry in S. S. Bruba\ers Diary, July 28 
 
 Got my buggy torn up yesterday. Got off lucky. 
 
 Sam Brubaker is driving through Girard and Dr. Adam 
 Simmons is riding with him. The steed in the shafts is young. 
 When a pig on the street runs between his legs the horse breaks 
 into terrified kicking. The buggy is demolished, but the doctor 
 and Sam escape into the street with slight injuries. 
 
 Sam is extra thankful that the doctor was not injured 
 to speak of. Dr. Adam Simmons is a Dunker himself and one 
 of the best doctors this side of Springfield. He is a favorite 
 physician among the Brethren although he has little time to 
 attend church services. He loves his books on Brethren doctrines, 
 which are well thumbed, and he is firm in the teachings of 
 Alexander Mack, though he is not in sympathy with recent 
 rulings of the Annual Meetings. 
 
 Wisely he does not ask the Pleasant Hill Brethren to accept 
 his letter, but, driving to Stirrup Grove once a year, he 
 celebrates the love feast with the Brethren at Otter Creek. And 
 they are glad that he is there. 
 
 Albert Brown's girls will remember the love-feast night 
 when Laura becomes ill. Her mother lays her on one of the 
 pallets in the great attic and says, "Cora, you sit beside Laura 
 while I go down into the meeting and call Dr. Simmons." 
 
 Of course Dr. Simmons will have his healing powders with 
 him. He would no more attend the love feast without his black 
 bag of medicines than the sisters of the church would attend 
 without their prayer caps. He gives Laura some powders and 
 the two little girls rest in the attic and seem truly to be up in 
 heaven as the glorious songs come up to them, soaring with 
 the vibrations of faith. 
 
 This is the year, too, when Preacher Jonathan Brubaker is 
 nearly killed in a runaway. On August 28 he drives to Virden 
 and loads a heavy water tank onto his wagon. His team is 
 frightened by a passing train and bolts, throwing Jonathan from 
 the wagon and dumping the tank on top of him. His crumpled 
 body is picked up and he lies, all but dead, in a near-by house 
 for days. Then he is carried on a lounge by ten men the three 
 
 73 
 
miles to his home. Preacher Jonathan suffers for months. Much 
 of his preaching and all hard labor are over, yet he will live 
 to see the year 1921, his head crowned by ninety-two years of 
 witnessing with joy, truly a saint and a grand old man of the 
 church. 
 
 The farmers are prospering and the dry fall weather is fine 
 for building. Many are erecting needed buildings on their 
 farms, and even Widow Frantz is building a new two-story 
 house. She incorporates the old wooden schoolhouse into the 
 new kitchen ell, a little wooden frame that will be there when 
 its years number at least one hundred ten. With a pride that is 
 good, Barbara watches her new home take form and goes out 
 on this Sunday evening to do the chores, four-year-old Ezra 
 running beside her. 
 
 They go into the pasture to call up the twelve head of 
 horses and colts. The horses answer the call, their instincts aware 
 that good oats await them in their stalls. But there is also 
 harness there and one errant animal gives a snort that plainly 
 says to its companions, "Freedom is best. Let's go." Breaking 
 into a gallop, this animal lunges toward the pasture gate just 
 as little Ezra, running ahead of his mother, reaches its open 
 space. 
 
 Barbara sees that she is helpless to stop the bolting horses. 
 "Lay down, Ezra," she shouts. "Lay down." The child obeys 
 and the band of horses come thundering over him, every flying 
 hoof jumping over the little "log" lying there in the gate. 
 
 Thoroughly shaken, the Widow Frantz snatches her child 
 into her arms. He is frightened but he is not hurt. Truly the 
 Lord has something for this child to do. 
 
 But not all of the Dunkers are building. Many are going 
 to Kansas. The young married men especially feel that Illinois 
 no longer offers expanding opportunities. Now the Crist boys 
 feel the urge to go to Kansas. 
 
 "It's wheat country, Mother," says John. "A man can grow 
 mountains of wheat out there." 
 
 "Let's sell the farm here," says Dan, "and go to Kansas." 
 
 "But what about the church?" asks Sister Crist. "Your 
 father counted on all of you working in the church." 
 
 74 
 
"We'll build churches in Kansas," promise Henry and 
 Isaac. "Someday there will be Brethren all over Kansas." 
 
 So their farm at Pleasant Hill is sold to S. S. Brubaker, 
 and the Crist boys venture into the life of the Great Plains. 
 They will pit their human strength and judgment against the 
 tremendous odds of the elements, and they will dare what other 
 men cannot endure to dare. They will stay on in the years that 
 seem God-forsaken, and increase their land holdings when 
 other men are begging or borrowing money to return to the 
 East. 
 
 Finally, their economic reward will come when, in one 
 year, they will raise over one million bushels of wheat, truly a 
 mountain of food for the world. 
 
 Neither will they have been idle in the Lord's work, for 
 each of the Crist boys will be teaching and preaching in Kansas. 
 And after the opening of the Brethren mission in Kansas City 
 in 1898, in the heyday of this flourishing cattle and railroad 
 town, it will be Isaac Crist who for twenty-six years will bring 
 the Brethren teachings into the hearts and lives of those who 
 are willing to be converted into the love and fellowship of 
 the Brethren. 
 
 1879: Entry in Louisa Vanimaris Diary, September 15 
 
 Dan's took dinner with us Sunday. Albert is going to 
 college. 
 
 College! There are those among the Brethren to whom this 
 word is as nothing. It is definitely out of their sphere. There 
 are others who hear the word with a secret interest but cannot 
 picture such a visionary move as a part of their life. Only a 
 few respond at once to its challenge and opportunity. 
 
 The Annual Meeting of the German Baptist Brethren is 
 now encouraging higher education, and an academy is being 
 opened at Mt. Morris, Illinois. It is to be a school dedicated to 
 furthering the higher education of the youth of the church, 
 pledged to indoctrinate the students and keep them within 
 
 75 
 
the bounds o£ the church by example and precept. It is a far 
 step from the opposition to higher education voiced by some 
 individuals at the Annual Meeting just five years ago at Joe 
 Filbrun's barn. But this is not the first time progress has 
 overcome hindering movements against the higher good; nor 
 will it be the last. 
 
 Elder Daniel Vaniman is extremely interested in the success 
 of this church college, and his son Albert, now twenty, 
 immediately enrolls at the new college as one of its first students. 
 
 Young Albert Vaniman may or may not realize that leaving 
 Pleasant Hill is an epoch in his life. Certainly he cannot see 
 the wideness of his varied service for the Lord that lies ahead. 
 But the community consciously expects much of this youth who 
 has already shown sincere consecration to the church and its 
 ideals. 
 
 Now George Vaniman grips his nephew's hand and says, 
 "Good-by, Albert. We'll expect great things of you." Albert 
 smiles in his quiet way. 
 
 "I'll do my best," he promises. "But it will be within the 
 bounds of the church. Why don't you come in, Uncle George?" 
 
 "Don't bother your head about me," says George. "I reckon 
 I'm doing good enough." 
 
 And so the years will pass and Albert will graduate from 
 Mt. Morris. He will be called to the ministry in 1884. He will 
 study at McPherson College too and will graduate from the 
 Kansas Medical College. He will find himself and his wife, 
 Alice, traveling over the State of Texas, jolting over thousands 
 of miles in his own camp wagon as he administers both medicine 
 and the Word of God to the Indians, half-breeds, and frontiers- 
 men of Texas for a number of years. 
 
 The day will come when Albert will hear his father preach 
 a powerful missionary sermon at the Annual Meeting. And 
 Albert will decide to become a foreign missionary. 
 
 The saying will then go out over all the Brotherhood for 
 many a year, "Don't preach too loud or pray too hard for the 
 Lord to send missionaries to foreign lands. He may send your 
 son." 
 
 But Elder Daniel Vaniman will be willing to see his son 
 
 76 
 
go into all the world and preach, and Albert will find himself 
 going to Sweden as a missionary in 1900. 
 
 Finally the folks at Pleasant Hill will hear that Albert 
 Vaniman has returned home from the land of the Northern 
 Lights with broken health. And Albert will be the first to rest 
 in the newly plotted cemetery at Raisin, California, in 1908, 
 his life measured not by the years that he has counted off, one 
 by one, but by the rule of love and service held and marked 
 by Him who sees and measures all. 
 
 On a certain Sunday Louisa Vaniman goes with George 
 to hear the morning sermon at Pleasant Hill. She allows the 
 boys to remain at home, planning for them to attend Sunday 
 school at their Uncle Dan's barn in the afternoon. 
 
 Returning home from church, Louisa walks into her 
 kitchen to find a sorry sight. Sitting there with swollen eyes 
 and faces, and hands lumpy with red stings, Chester Melvin 
 is sick and miserable, Elmer is sick and indignant, and Calvin 
 is sick and crying. 
 
 "Boys, boys," cries Louisa, "what in the world has 
 happened?" 
 
 "Old bumblebees," Elmer tries to shout through his sickness. 
 "And Chester stirred them up." 
 
 "You helped," Chester insists faintly. "I heard them first, 
 but you helped stir them up." 
 
 "Where were the bees?" demands Louisa, forgetting even 
 to lay or? her hat. Reaching for the saleratus, she dumps a large 
 portion of it into a bowl, moistening and stirring it into a 
 soothing paste to put on the stings. 
 
 "In that old cookstove on the rubbish heap," Chester 
 explains. 
 
 "We were just hammering on the stove to hear them buzz," 
 adds Elmer, trying to grin. "And a lid broke and out came 
 the bees." 
 
 George comes into the house and hears the story. "I guess 
 Chester Melvin is the inquisitive one," he says. "Perhaps 
 something will come of his investigating spirit someday." 
 
 "I hope something better than getting his brothers into 
 
 77 
 
such a mess as this," declares Louisa, as she smears the stings 
 with the healing paste. 
 
 Chester Melvin, miserable with his stings, listens to the 
 passing trains as he lies on his bed that night. The engines 
 whistle for the crossing, hissing steam as they stop at the 
 water tank a few rods beyond. Then, huffing and chuffing, 
 they pull away into the night. 
 
 "I'd like to go somewhere," he declares to himself for the 
 thousandth time in his life. "I'd like to climb onto a train and 
 ride to far places. I'd like to and I'm going to." But the day- 
 dreams of this alert fourteen-year-old boy turn into night 
 dreams; and then morning comes with the regular farm chores 
 to be done. 
 
 Although Henry Showalter and his young wife, Rinda 
 Gibson, and their baby, Minnie, have gone off to Kansas, other 
 young Dunker couples to settle within the influence of the 
 Pleasant Hill congregation are James Wirt and the young 
 widow, Hannah Gibson Vaniman; George Gibson and Rebecca 
 Harshbarger; Charles Vaniman and Elizabeth Brubaker, 
 daughter of Preacher Jonathan; and Deacon John Brubaker 's 
 two oldest sons, Riley and Josiah, who have married Dunker 
 girls from the Sugar Creek church — Lizzie Harnley and Susan 
 Gibbel. 
 
 There being a fine corn crop this fall, these young farmers 
 are buying Studebaker wagons and fitting extra bang boards 
 onto the high boxes. The wagons roll into the fields, and 
 energetic young fellows like Benjamin Filbrun go into the 
 field at the crack of dawn. Each, with a simple husking peg 
 strapped around his hand, brings in two tiptop loads of corn 
 each day. 
 
 With the rhythm of banging ears as an accomplishment of 
 which to boast, Ben declares that he husked and cribbed one 
 hundred twenty-one bushels of corn in one day. "Now trot 
 out your huskers and beat that record," he dares. 
 
 78 
 
1880: Entry in S. S. Bruba\er's Diary, March 20 
 
 Went to church council Saturday. Discussed missionary 
 work. Great deal of dissension. 
 
 Mary Gibson closes her Bible after reading Acts 16:1-15. She 
 pauses and looks down the length of her long table, laden 
 with chicken and noodles and biscuits, and all of the other 
 viands of a Sunday dinner. 
 
 She impresses her guests with the importance of her 
 reading by repeating, " 'Come over into Macedonia and help 
 us.' Now that means us," Mary continues. "And if I could 
 call back ten or twelve years, I would be the first one to go 
 out from our church as a foreign missionary." 
 
 James laughs and says, "Well, you'd have to go without 
 me. I reckon I don't feel the call, but of course I do approve 
 of mission work." 
 
 Charles Gibson and John H. Brubaker, whose families are 
 the guests here at James' table on this January Sunday, also 
 express their approval of the movement. 
 
 Charles reviews the facts that, actually, missionary work 
 has always been a common effort among the Dunkers in 
 America. "Come over into Macedonia and help us" has been 
 translated into journeys through primeval forests, over trackless 
 plains, across flooded streams, and even into Indian perils. No 
 member of the church and his unchurched neighbors have 
 lived too far away for one of the Dunker preachers on horseback 
 to find them. 
 
 In these past years a horse and a saddle have been counted 
 as no expense, and a man's time between crops has had no 
 intrinsic value. Not a cent of money has been needed for 
 missions. 
 
 "But now," declares Charles, "we are facing a different 
 situation." 
 
 "The situations may be different but the command remains 
 the same," says John H. " 'Go ye into all the world and preach 
 the gospel.' Mary, turn to the twenty-second chapter of Luke, 
 I think the thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth verses, and read." 
 
 Mary again takes up the Bible and, finding the passage, 
 
 79 
 
reads : " 'When I sent you without a purse and script and 
 shoes, lacked ye anything? And they said, Nothing. Then he 
 said unto them, But now, he that hath a purse let him take it, 
 and likewise his script.' " 
 
 "It's plain," says John H., "that even Jesus prepared for 
 different situations." 
 
 James hands dishes of the good food around and urges 
 everyone to eat more. "It is just as plain to me," he says, "that 
 a preacher cannot meet railroad expenses from his own pocket." 
 
 "But we must still obey the commandment to go," reaffirms 
 Mary, as she pours hot coffee into every cup. 
 
 But there are those who are voicing serious objections to 
 the missionary movement. They declare that when Jesus sent 
 out the seventy He commanded them to go without purse or script 
 or extra coats, and shoes. This the preachers on horseback have 
 done. They argue further that any preaching that must be 
 done by traveling on the railroad and paying fare and all the 
 other involvements of this new movement is not the literal 
 fulfillment of Jesus' command. 
 
 "Salvation," they say, "is to be offered free, without money 
 and without price." 
 
 In secret silence do they whisper, "My money belongs to 
 me. I've earned it. It's mine. Mine to keep"? 
 
 The news that the Northern District of Illinois is supporting 
 four missionaries in Sweden without the sanction of the Annual 
 Meeting comes to Pleasant Hill, and Brother Joseph Filbrun 
 considers this rank heresy. "What," he wonders, "will such 
 notions lead to anyway?" 
 
 To top off all these disturbing trends, Elder Daniel Vaniman 
 now comes up with the ringing statement that the German 
 Baptist Brethren Church of America is able to raise one hundred 
 thousand dollars a year for missions and never feel it. "We 
 can," he says, "if we give of our means with a self-sacrificing 
 spirit. 
 
 "Do we dare," asks Elder Vaniman further, "think of our 
 farms paid for and cash in the bank, and be satisfied that we 
 do not owe the Lord a cent?" 
 
 Poor Brother Filbrun! He cannot accept the Sunday 
 
 80 
 
school. Neither can he accept this missionary idea, which he 
 believes leads into sheer popery, with a salaried ministry. And 
 as for college — colleges are of the world. All of these things 
 are of the world. The church is no longer pure. 
 
 It is known that Brother Filbrun is receiving every 
 encouragement to hold on to the old order of things from a 
 similar-thinking, and even larger, group of Dunkers in Ohio. 
 Now as Annual Meeting time rolls around, these contentions 
 are taken before that body at large and presented for discussion 
 and judgment. 
 
 Because Pleasant Hill seems to be a center of dissension, 
 the Annual Meeting sends a committee here. To the majority 
 at Pleasant Hill, this is terrible. To be visited by a committee 
 from Annual Meeting! It is truly a disgrace! 
 
 Yet Elder James Quinter is one who comes, as kind and 
 fine a man as ever walked the earth. No wonder that he is 
 one of the most able men in the Brotherhood. 
 
 He calls the congregation into council. And were the 
 walls lined with the tape recorders of the mid-twentieth 
 century, that generation of seventy years hence would have 
 been able to play back his historic words: "Brethren and sisters, 
 I am grieved and humiliated that the enemy is being allowed 
 to interfere so much with our usefulness in building the 
 Kingdom of God." 
 
 Finally Brother Quinter concludes with some such words 
 as these: "Brethren, the decision which I must declare is this. 
 The church must go forward, not backward. It must look out, 
 not in. It must look up, not down. Let us forgive all our 
 differences and all go on together, brethren. For," he pleads, 
 "he who cannot forgive others breaks the bridge over which 
 he himself must pass." 
 
 Brother Quinter calls for prayer, but there are those who 
 do not fall to their knees. And there are those who cannot 
 pray, "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors." 
 
 The council is over, and Brother Filbrun and his followers 
 realize that they have lost their cause. To them this means 
 the parting of the ways. 
 
 As the following months go by it is evident that the 
 
 81 
 
Brotherhood of the German Baptist Brethren is being torn 
 into three groups. 
 
 There are those who are seeking what they believe is the 
 highest good in Zion. They feel that they are far in advance 
 of the main body of Brethren, and they desire to go ahead with 
 the paid ministry and without the doctrine of the plain dress, 
 including the discarding of the prayer cap. 
 
 This progressive faction with the evangelist, S. H. Bashor, 
 as one of its leaders, will withdraw in the near future and 
 will be known simply as the Brethren Church. 
 
 Others, with Joseph Filbrun as the Illinois leader, are 
 convinced that only the old order is right. They will drop off 
 behind, to be known as the Old Order Brethren, and they will 
 carry with them a large and unfortunate bitterness in their 
 hearts. 
 
 Tears are shed. They flow freely at Pleasant Hill. Havoc 
 is made which only the cloak of charity can cover. Families 
 are divided. Husbands go one way, wives another. Even most 
 of Joseph Filbrun's children do not make their decision as 
 he would have them do, and Peter and Ben become preachers 
 for the Dunkers. 
 
 Out of all this confusing sorrow the great body of the 
 German Baptist Brethren stands firm, Dunkers still, retaining 
 for a time the simple dress and the unpaid ministry but 
 determined to advance with a program of Sunday schools, 
 missionary endeavor, and higher education. 
 
 Now the Old Orders will set up their own Annual Meeting. 
 They will set up their own congregation within the Pleasant 
 Hill area. They predict in dark tones to the Dunkers here, 
 "You'll never keep the commandments, nor the plain dress. 
 Not with Sunday schools and missions and colleges. You will 
 soon be only another part of the world." 
 
 And the folks at the Pleasant Hill meetinghouse predict 
 with similar conviction concerning the Old Orders, "They'll 
 never hold their children. 'Where there is no vision the people 
 perish.' Where there is no growth there must be death. They 
 will die out." 
 
 82 
 
Almost at once the Old Orders begin moving to Kansas 
 or returning to Ohio. Perhaps it is well that they do. 
 
 Young John Heckman sees all and hears all. With the 
 clarity of youth he sees through the subterfuges of personal 
 prejudices. He sees personal ambitions for power hiding behind 
 the declarations of dogmatic beliefs. While there may be 
 sincere conviction, it does not always cover the selfish tangents 
 involved. But there is nothing that a boy like John can say 
 to the leaders of the church. Besides, he has enough troubles 
 of his own to worry about. 
 
 At seventeen John is now working as a hired man, 
 sometimes for relatives, sometimes for others of the Dunkers 
 who need a willing hand. He has grown up lank and tall, and 
 some of the good sisters who feed him urge him to "eat hearty 
 and put more meat on your bones." 
 
 Life is really hard when a boy is kicked around from one 
 home to another, and from one job to another. Of course the 
 good Brethren do not actually kick, but the sensation is always 
 there in John's heart that he does not really have a home. 
 
 Seventeen is an age when a boy can easily become a rowdy. 
 The temptations are here, hiding in a hangover of rowdyism 
 from the pioneer days. Mean tricks are played over and over 
 again. A young man may call on his lady, leaving his horse 
 at the gate. When he leaves the house to go home he may find 
 that his horse has been untied and allowed to run away. The 
 rowdies think it a smart trick to steal whips and lap robes from 
 waiting buggies. And it is common to hear a group of wild 
 boys traveling the road at night, indulging in sprees of riotous 
 singing and shouting and the shooting of pistols into the air. 
 
 Then there is liquor available too. John Heckman knows 
 some young men who imbibe on certain occasions. He is never 
 comfortable when with such acquaintances. Of course every 
 good mother hopes that her boy will not take up with these gay 
 companions; but John has no mother. 
 
 Great credit is due him now, in the fact that he recognizes 
 that his safe course is to turn constantly to the Brethren and 
 their church-directed lives. Only in this way, John knows, can 
 he keep within the way of honorable behavior and right living. 
 
 83 
 
This summer he is appreciating a friendship with Albert 
 Vaniman, home from his first year of study at Mt. Morris. 
 Albert tells about the many fine young people at college, the 
 interesting classes, the splendid lectures, and the good music. 
 Every time John sees Albert, Albert has something alluring to 
 say about going to college. 
 
 Then one particular Sunday Albert says, "J°hn, you ought 
 to go to Mt. Morris. You'd like it there, and they'd like you." 
 
 At this first suggestion of his going away to school, John 
 judges the idea to be fantastic. Yet the more he sees of Albert 
 the more he realizes that within his inmost being he very 
 much admires what Mt. Morris has already done for Albert. 
 
 So it is that when the day approaches for the opening of 
 school, Albert urges a final invitation. "John, do come with me. 
 You have no one but yourself to please. Pack your clothes and 
 come along." 
 
 With a sudden overwhelming decision, John knows that 
 this is the thing that he must do, and the orphan boy is off 
 to college. 
 
 1881: Entry in Louisa Vaniman s Diary, February 20 
 I've finished a new dress. The weather is awful cold. 
 
 Louisa loves to sew. Now she finishes a beautiful brown 
 cashmere dress, with white lace at the throat and velvet braid 
 enriching its folds. It is a dress to be worn many years, for in 
 this day a woman selects her clothing for a period of long service. 
 
 Such ladies as Louisa, attending church at Pleasant Hill, 
 are a treat to the eyes of the children of the Dunkers. The 
 plain and somber clothing of the members is enlivened by the 
 appearance of these outsiders. Not only do the little Dunker 
 girls thrill and sigh over the beautiful dresses of the visitors, 
 but even the young men cast covetous glances at the charm and 
 attraction of the dresses of "the world." 
 
 Yet the sisters of the church develop a distinction of their 
 own. There is now money to buy fine materials, and the 
 
 84 
 
Brethren women buy the best. They make up their plain 
 dresses with the finest of workmanship. Their plain bonnets 
 are now being made of silk and their prayer caps of the sheerest 
 of tarlatan; and many are adding strings of white or black 
 satin ribbon. Their Sunday shoes are the softest of kid. Indeed, 
 the well-dressed Dunker sister, though dressed in the order, 
 may well cry pride in every line of her clothing. 
 
 Now the years following 1880 become the elegant, 
 prosperous years that emerge bright and shining from the 
 dark shadows of the Civil War and its aftermath of depression 
 and adjustment. But on July 2, President Garfield is shot by a 
 disappointed office seeker. 
 
 Many a boy at Pleasant Hill had proudly worn a Garfield 
 button all through the presidential campaign. The Dunkers 
 have political opinions, but they are admonished by the Annual 
 Meeting not to vote. The church being basically a peace church, 
 the early leaders have established the teaching that if a man 
 votes for government officials he will then be honor bound 
 to bear arms for that command. But the belief is that if he 
 has not taken part in the vote a man can be a respectable, 
 peaceable citizen of the land, loyal to God, obedient to his 
 country's laws, but eligible to lay claim to being excused from 
 going to war. 
 
 George Gibson chafes under this restraint at the ballot 
 box. He sees that even basic social principles are not as simple 
 as they once were. The Christian vote is needed to keep 
 government policies on a Christian level, and Christian men 
 are needed to fill offices of responsibility. He declares that the 
 whole subject of war and bearing arms can never be righted 
 by a man's selfishly paying a sum of money to hire a man of 
 lesser convictions to go to war in his place. The Brethren, he 
 declares, must certainly make a more poignant testimony for 
 peace in the future than they did on the whole during the 
 recent war. 
 
 As for more local questions, there has been a recent vote 
 in Girard on the saloon license. Those favoring the saloons 
 won. This, in George Gibson's eyes, is unpardonable. If all 
 
 85 
 
of the Christians in the little city had voted against liquor the 
 "saloons could not have come into our fair town." 
 
 Yet, even had the Dunkers lived within the voting precinct, 
 they could not have voted because of their teaching against 
 using this citizen's privilege. 
 
 George goes to Carlinville to hear Frances Willard speak 
 for the temperance cause. He comes home and sees drunkards 
 on the streets and knows that he will hit the liquor business 
 through the ballot box the first time he has the chance, let 
 the church say what it may. 
 
 George Gibson will be called to the ministry in 1883. He 
 will continually work for his conviction that Christians must be 
 leaders everywhere. In a decade he will be gratified to see the 
 Brethren at Pleasant Hill beginning to vote, first on local 
 affairs, and, later, within the broad framework of a presidential 
 election. George will later serve two terms as the mayor of 
 Girard, living always with the purpose to preach and to 
 practice a religion that is less doctrine and more ethics. "For," 
 he quotes, " 'the letter killeth but the spirit giveth life.' " 
 
 1882: Entry in S. S. Bruba\ers Diary, February 25 
 
 Church Council to-day. Decided to keep written 
 records. Good idea. 
 
 Although the Pleasant Hill congregation has been organized 
 now these six years, the council body has not kept written 
 records. Now a leather-bound ledger is purchased, and those 
 who wish to do so may read the proceedings of the Brethren 
 seventy years from now. Yet as the penman, James Wirt, 
 writes his unsigned records for a space of fourteen years, it 
 hardly occurs to him that far-off 1955 will find these records 
 in loving care and good repair. How much longer, it is only 
 the Lord who knows. 
 
 Wherever the German Baptist Brethren go, their records 
 as a religious and agricultural people are outstanding. Now 
 a Kansas newspaper says, "This religious group always settles 
 
 86 
 
on choice land. . . . Now they are buying the finest and best 
 lands of Kansas. This society is rapidly increasing in influence." 
 
 Beyond Kansas is California, and Nicholas Brubaker, now 
 fourteen, reads that scientists declare the great trees of California 
 as already good-size trees when Moses was a boy. Nicholas is 
 fascinated. He wonders how scientists reach their conclusions. 
 How have men done this and that and how and when and 
 where? What is the secret of the universe? And of God? 
 He wants to read and read. He starts with the Bible. He loves 
 its stories, its poetry, its increasing revelations of God, its 
 Christian commandments. 
 
 Deacon John approves of his boy's search for knowledge, 
 but the busy summer months require many hands. With 
 only Caleb and the younger boys there, John decides to hire 
 extra help. On Sunday he is delighted to see John Heckman 
 home from college for the summer and he hires him on the spot. 
 
 John Heckman moves into the deacon's home and plows 
 and reaps and pitches hay; on the side he urges the young 
 people of this home to plan to attend Mt. Morris. 
 
 Caleb, twenty-four and an active member of the congrega- 
 tion, plans to go. He will attend Mt. Morris and will meet 
 Molly Lemon, who will become his wife. He will settle at 
 McPherson, Kansas, where he will be called to the ministry 
 and by four sons and three daughters will add to the national 
 ranks of Christian citizens, scientists, educators, and dentists. 
 
 Caleb's sisters, Lizzie and Katie, are grown young ladies 
 too. At twenty-two, Lizzie asks of John Heckman, "How 
 can I go to Mt. Morris? As a woman, I am dependent on my 
 father until I marry. But if I do not choose to marry I certainly 
 would like to go to Mt. Morris. And I certainly will not ask 
 my father for the money." 
 
 "I can see that it's a problem," says John. "It might not be 
 a bad idea for women to be a little more independent." 
 
 But for the present Lizzie applies her culinary skill in the 
 home kitchen and adds to her treasury of exquisite needlework. 
 She threads her days into a rosary of time and gives much 
 thought to the sermons which she hears and to the reading 
 of the Brethren at Wor\ and the Bible. 
 
 87 
 
John Heckman is satisfied to see the shining ribbon of a 
 desire for an education among the younger boys of Deacon 
 John's family, and with eighteen-year-old Isaac N.'s promise to 
 come to Mt. Morris soon, John Heckman packs his trunk to 
 leave Pleasant Hill. He feels a touch of sadness. Somehow he 
 knows that this splendid place will never again be home to 
 him. 
 
 Now at the church council the deacons' visit is set for the 
 first week in October to be followed by the love feast on the 
 twentieth. This annual church visit is looked upon with both 
 pleasure and apprehension. Those who are in full alignment 
 with the teachings of the church are happy to see the visiting 
 brethren come. Those who are straining at the restrictions and 
 champing at the bit for more freedom would slip out the 
 back door if they could. But they can't. Two brethren have 
 been assigned to visit each member and the visit will be made. 
 It is the absolute duty of the church to know the standing of 
 each member. 
 
 The deacons go out two by two. When the knock comes 
 on a door, someone peeps out and exclaims, "It's the visit." 
 Instantly each church member in the family drops his task. The 
 faces of the family assume a solemn mien as those who are 
 members of the church file into the room where the deacons 
 have been seated with great formality. A few preliminary 
 remarks on the weather and the crops are exchanged, but there 
 is a peculiar, important atmosphere that causes the younger 
 children in the home to stick their fingers in their mouths and 
 indulge in furtive peeps from another room. Each one in the 
 family who is a member sits stiff and sober on his primly placed 
 chair, and almost at once this serious-minded neighbor, who 
 usually comes in at the kitchen door with friendly laughter, 
 clears his throat and asks the ponderous questions that will 
 reveal who's who and what's what in the church. 
 
 "Are you still in the same faith as when you were baptized ? 
 
 "Are you willing to continue to work for the promotion of 
 the church and its teachings? 
 
 "Are you at peace with all of the brethren?" 
 
 The deacons themselves are greatly pleased when the 
 
 88 
 
answers come out of a happy quietness in the room — "Yes," 
 —"Yes,"— "Yes." 
 
 The answer to the first question is a yes almost without 
 exception. But the second question may strike a spark of 
 contention, and these sparks will become more and more 
 numerous and flagrant as the years go by. They may or may 
 not become a refining fire that will burn some unimportant 
 residue from the gold. Actually several nuggets now held up 
 for truth will melt away and in the far future prove of no 
 continuing worth, though they may, for a time, have helped 
 support the pure vein of golden faith that will remain forever 
 among the Brethren. 
 
 The very sparks that fly from one person's criticism of 
 the teachings referred to in the second question will often 
 bring up regrets on the third question in another family. For 
 there are those who cannot be at peace with a brother or a 
 sister who digresses from even one teaching. In these instances 
 the atmosphere of the visit becomes stern and strained, and 
 the deacons must make a note of the contention that it might 
 be brought before the church council. 
 
 In whatever vein the visit proceeds, the deacons finally ask 
 the family to kneel and a short prayer is offered. 
 
 When all are seated again, the solemnness of the previous 
 moments gives way to a natural friendliness, and the second 
 deacon asks, "Now what can you give toward the two-day love 
 feast?" The good sister promises two or three gallons of apple 
 butter, or a quart of cream, or a crock of butter, or several quarts 
 of pickled beets, and at least four pies. The good brother may 
 promise a couple of bushels of potatoes, one dollar on the beef 
 and some help on the hay, or a half bushel of corn. 
 
 Finally the deacons go on their way, leaving behind them 
 a glow of Christian content. Or, in cases of contention, there 
 may remain a feeling of resentment against these brethren "who 
 are prying into my personal liberty." 
 
 So it is that another council is called on October 7, to set 
 the spiritual house in order for the love feast. 
 
 Preacher Jonathan Brubaker and Deacon Jacob Brubaker 
 apologize to Preacher Cullen Gibson, thus making right a 
 
 89 
 
concealed business report in the case of an estate settlement 
 within the membership. 
 
 Preacher Cullen Gibson himself apologizes for allowing his 
 children to go to the Methodist church to see magnified pictures 
 thrown on a screen by means of a Drummon Light. One 
 member is expelled because he refuses to stay away from the 
 saloon. Two others apologize for having entered a saloon and 
 taken a drink of liquor, and one apologizes for voting in 
 Girard to license the saloons. One apologizes for wearing 
 a stylish suit, and promises to have the lapel or rolling collar 
 altered, by a sister who sews, into a plain standing collar before 
 the date of the communion. 
 
 The fact is that the taunts of the Old Order Brethren are 
 ringing in the ears of these people at Pleasant Hill. "You 
 cannot remain plain and have a Sunday school and a missionary 
 program" were the words. Now there are those at Pleasant 
 Hill who are determined that this prophecy shall not come 
 true, and for many years the Dunkers will lean over backwards, 
 so to speak, to show the Old Orders that their dire forebodings 
 are wrong. 
 
 Elder Joseph Harshbarger rules with the heavy hand of 
 authority that the members must abide by admonitions being 
 declared by the church council directly in line with the Annual 
 Meeting. 
 
 There must be no following of the foolish fashions of the 
 world in clothing. Hair must be combed plainly, parted in 
 the middle or combed back by the brethren, without plaiting 
 or ornaments by the sisters. 
 
 All homes should remain plain in construction, without 
 bay windows, and should be simply furnished. Even the rigs 
 in which the members ride must be plain. 
 
 Deacon David Vaniman and Elder Daniel Vaniman, too, 
 are required to remove the lovely polished lamps from the sides 
 of their new phaetons. Actually the new phaeton itself is too 
 stylish. These leading brethren should have set an example 
 by purchasing the plain, square-top buggy. But now that the 
 phaetons have been used they cannot be returned. The stylish 
 lamps must therefore be removed. 
 
 90 
 
"You see what I mean?" says George Vaniman to Louisa. 
 "Now our lamps on our phaeton are filled and ready to be 
 lighted on any dark night. The Dunkers may get caught 
 without their lanterns." And George smiles at his simile as 
 he remembers the Bible story of the lamps of the wise and the 
 foolish virgins. 
 
 "Don't you make fun of them, George," Louisa chides 
 crisply, with a trembling down inside of her. "They are good 
 people and may not be as far ofT as we are, still refusing 
 to be baptized." 
 
 1882: Entry in Amanda SnelVs Diary, October 23 
 Love feast at Pleasant Hill. Large crowd. 
 
 The preparation for the two-day love feast is a great thing, and 
 the love feast itself is greater. 
 
 On Friday the inspiring sermons that began in the early 
 afternoon are concluded at four o'clock. These sermons have 
 attempted to lead all of the members to examine themselves 
 carefully and prayerfully. They have exhorted each member 
 to be very sure that he is worthy of partaking of the symbols. 
 No one dares to risk bringing condemnation upon himself. 
 
 At four o'clock the deacons hasten to direct the completion 
 of the physical preparations for the coming spiritual feast. 
 Many of the menfolk lay off their coats to help. They raise 
 the drop doors of the north side of the room and hook them 
 to the ceiling, and bring long tables from the high stack along 
 the north wall. These are placed at intervals throughout the 
 great meeting room, and the benches are moved to face the 
 tables. It is a sizable task, but there are many willing hands. 
 Presently there are twelve or fourteen tables ready for the 
 setting out of the supper and the seating of two hundred or 
 more communicants. 
 
 Spotless white cloths are stretched on the tables while the 
 children roam around the room. They have been allowed 
 
 91 
 
to wear their best clothes to school that morning, and have 
 been warned to take care of them. Now they have come 
 directly from the schoolhouse to the church. They are growing 
 more hungry by the minute as the wonderful aroma of boiling 
 beef rises from the basement through the wide stairs, with its 
 service window at the top landing now open. 
 
 But it is not yet time for the beef to appear. The procedures 
 are all properly timed, and first the menfolk file up the stairs 
 from the basement, bearing small wooden tubs of hot water, 
 placing one under each table. Small hand basins too, filled 
 with hot water, are placed there beside the tubs, and a deaconess 
 hands out towels and long white aprons to be placed at each 
 end of every table. 
 
 Then at last a line of men is formed up the stairs. Across 
 the big room, bowl after bowl of smoking beef, and bowl after 
 bowl of steaming savory soup made of broth and broken light- 
 bread are handed from man to man until each table is supplied. 
 Young men are meanwhile moving among the tables with 
 huge wicker baskets on their arms, placing bread upon the 
 tables, and other young men set a cup of water and lay a 
 spoon at each communicant's place. 
 
 Quickly more of the long white cloths are now laid over 
 the food. And if one has watched closely it will have been 
 noticed that pitchers containing the "fruit of the vine" have been 
 quietly placed on the preachers' table and napkins containing 
 lengths of unleavened bread have been laid gently beside the 
 pitchers. 
 
 Already many extra benches are filled with outsiders who 
 have come to observe the symbolic services of the Dunkers. 
 
 Now when all is ready the deacons direct the membership 
 to take their places at the tables, the sisters at the north side 
 of the meeting room, the brethren at the south. 
 
 This is a sacred affair; but the seating is directed in quiet 
 haste, for the feet-washing will be more pleasant if the water 
 is not chilled, and the supper will be more tasty if the beef 
 and soup are not too cool. 
 
 The children who are no longer babies sit along the west 
 wall and their mothers plan to sit near them. Portions of beef 
 
 92 
 
will be placed on pieces of bread when it comes time to eat 
 of the meal and will be passed to these children to allay their 
 hunger. But when the symbols of the broken body and the 
 shed blood of Christ are passed, the children do not receive 
 of them. This, they are taught, cannot be partaken of until 
 they have been brought to the table by baptism. 
 
 A hush now falls over the great meeting room, a reverent 
 mood that is expectant of a majestic blessing. One of the 
 elders leads out on the song, 
 
 Be present at our table, Lord, 
 Be here and everywhere adored, . . . 
 and the love feast has begun. 
 
 Who can describe in mere words the spiritual feast of 
 these people who are now enjoying a mountaintop experience? 
 
 Who can say how many are being made spiritually clean 
 as the little tubs are pushed along the rows of benches and 
 each one, in humble love, washes the feet of the one beside 
 him, and wipes them with the towel "wherewith he is girded"? 
 
 Who can say how many realize the perfect fellowship of 
 love, the brotherhood of man, by eating of their meal of bread 
 and meat and soup, communal style, as the guests of the Lord 
 Jesus Christ? 
 
 Who can say how many brethren are willing to break 
 their own bodies, as Jesus was willing, now as the elders tread 
 between the tables to replenish the supply of the communion 
 bread — "my body broken for you" — being broken by each 
 brother and passed to the brother beside him? 
 
 Who can say how many of the sisters can share the sorrow 
 of Mary, the mother of Jesus, as the elders in solemn ceremony 
 break the symbolic bread and hand a morsel to each sister? For 
 "it was Eve who gave death to Adam, and it is Adam who must 
 hand life back." 
 
 Who can judge the sincerity of these people as they follow 
 the bread with the wine, each communicant taking a sip from 
 the common glass, being admonished by the officiating elder 
 that each one must love— love to the extent of realizing that 
 Jesus made the supreme sacrifice of His blood, His life, for 
 the salvation of every sinner in the world? 
 
 93 
 
Finally, who can judge how far these good brothers 
 and sisters can rise above selfishness and prejudice, anger and 
 hate, as the ceremony of the holy kiss goes from lips to lips 
 all around each table? 
 
 As it was yesterday, today, and forever, so here and now 
 it is God the Father who is the judge. 
 
 It is the Lord who knows here on this night that Albert 
 Vaniman, who has sat at these tables so often, will give his life; 
 that George Gibson is being prepared to send a daughter to 
 Africa; that Lizzie Brubaker, Deacon John's daughter, is here 
 conscious of such stirrings of consecration that she will often 
 wonder why she did not go to the mission field herself, yet not 
 knowing that Africa will be graced by the gifts of her two 
 daughters. 
 
 Mary Gibson knows that she longs to go herself, and 
 cannot; yet she prays for a consecrated family from whom 
 some will give their all. And from the other side of the veil 
 of life, she will see a granddaughter working in the Dark 
 Continent in 1953. 
 
 Charles Brubaker, sitting on a side bench, realizes tonight 
 that he cannot possibly be happy until he too has been baptized 
 and is seated at the table; yet he does not realize that he will 
 be used by Jesus to perform miracles of healing in India but 
 that himself he cannot save. And in India he will die at 
 the same age at which Jesus died, a young man "full of grace 
 and truth." 
 
 There among the little girls on the bench along the wall 
 is Anna Shull, munching her bread and meat, respectfully 
 watching the solemn rites taking place before her eyes, never 
 doubting for a moment that one day she will be a member and 
 be a part of it all, yet not seeing the actual vision of herself 
 sailing as a missionary to India, and, after her, a daughter and 
 a granddaughter also. 
 
 As for little Clara Gibson or that boy Willie Shull sitting 
 with the teen-agers across the room, it would indeed take the 
 all-seeing eye to realize tonight that for these two there will 
 be a happy marriage and the sending of two of their seven 
 sons to the mission field in India. 
 
 94 
 
Truly the Spirit is working mightily at Pleasant Hill. And 
 although there are those who may forget at times tonight's high 
 resolves and good intentions to live noble, Christlike lives, and 
 although there may be others too weak to reach the ideals of 
 the strong, yet there are many who do rise in each great 
 experience of the love feast to a greater spiritual attainment. 
 Now the voices at Pleasant Hill rise in perfect harmony — 
 sopranos, altos, tenors, and basses — an a cappella choir unto the 
 Lord. 
 
 'Tis midnight and on Olive's brow 
 The star is dimmed that lately shone; 
 'Tis midnight; in the garden now 
 The suffering Saviour prays alone. 
 
 The congregation sits for a moment spellbound by the 
 "power and the glory." But there is work to be done, and the 
 practical-minded shake themselves loose from the ethereal and 
 are the first to rise from their seats. 
 
 While the meetinghouse is again being set in order for 
 the usual services, the sisters hasten to move among the visiting 
 Brethren. Many have come long distances from the adjoining 
 congregations, and have planned to stay for the Saturday 
 meeting. Every home at Pleasant Hill will have a full house, 
 and if the five, six, or seven beds which most families normally 
 keep in use are not sufficient, then pallets will be made on the 
 floors. Not a few bring their own pallets and will sleep at 
 the meetinghouse. 
 
 Wherever these folks rest, there will actually be little sleep, 
 for many of them see each other only on love-feast occasions. 
 There is much to talk and to laugh about. There are tales to 
 tell and there are mutual troubles and sorrows to share. Before 
 they realize the passing of the hour hand over the face of the 
 clock, it is morning and time to go back to the meetinghouse 
 for breakfast. 
 
 There is certain to be a spiritual feast on Saturday forenoon. 
 First there is a morning worship hour while the people gather 
 for breakfast. 
 
 At nine o'clock there is a sermon for the children. This 
 
 95 
 
is a new experience in the Brethren's program, and how the 
 children love it! 
 
 After the children's sermon, the preachers are invited one 
 by one to speak as the Lord directs. 
 
 Elder Good, a blind brother, is here, and as he rises to 
 preach he becomes confused and turns and starts speaking to 
 the wall. 
 
 And Elder Isaac Gibbel is here from Sugar Creek; he speaks 
 rapidly in his Pennsylvania Dutch manner— "Jutch not, dot ye 
 be not jutched." People love to hear Brother Gibbel preach. 
 His broken English only emphasizes his points. He has 
 something to say and he says it and then sits down. 
 
 And Elder Isaac Nefif is usually present at love-feast time. 
 He prays his powerful prayer, with his face lifted to the Father: 
 "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty : cherubim and seraphim, 
 falling down before Thee. . . ." 
 
 But with all of this spiritual program in action, this Saturday 
 meeting is, first of all, a social event. The people come, not 
 by twos and threes, but by sixes and sevens, members and 
 outsiders, friends old and new. 
 
 Never will there be a greater enjoyment of human 
 companionship. Such greeting of friends. Such well-wishing. 
 Such sharing of experiences. Such giving of news. All quietly, 
 but joyously, mingling here in the churchyard. 
 
 There are shy glances and fluttering of eyelids by the 
 young women under the bold or bashful gaze of the young men, 
 followed by little strolls around the churchyard. 
 
 There are the solemn moments of walking in the city of 
 the dead across the way. 
 
 There are the children playing around the stiles in careful 
 decorum so as not to incur punishment from a parent. Or 
 perhaps they play out at the wagons, as do the children of 
 Charles Gibson and Javan Gibson the year they have the 
 whooping cough, and they have "such fun." 
 
 Even when nine-year-old Willie Shull falls into the baptizing 
 pool and Ezra Frantz pulls him out, they consider that they 
 are having fun as they seclude themselves in the bushes while 
 Willie's clothes dry on the fence. 
 
 96 
 
As to the eating of breakfast and dinner in the huge 
 basement, every bite of food is as free as the friendship shared. 
 Today the outsiders are not left out as they were at the love 
 feast last night. Now anyone comes in and steps over the 
 backless benches and tucks his feet under the tables. Never 
 were potatoes boiled in beef broth more mealy and delicious, 
 and never was beef so tender and tasty. 
 
 The country butter is quality butter from the good sisters' 
 dairies, and the apple butter is as rich and as red-brown as 
 a long day's boiling can make it. The beet pickles are plentiful, 
 blood-red, sweet and spicy. No Dunker sister would serve a 
 red beet which is less than perfect. 
 
 Stack after stack of bread disappears. And in later years, 
 when a bread slicer has been purchased, the men in the pantry 
 are warned again and again, "Be careful and don't cut off a 
 finger." 
 
 As for that pantry, it is ten feet square and lined on three 
 walls with pie shelves. Pies! Flaky and delectable they are. 
 Apple nudging raisin, and mincemeat sitting sedately beside the 
 cherry. The peach pie scorns the lowly gooseberry, but the 
 plain egg custard, wearing nutmeg freckles, lords it over all 
 the other varieties when the elders call for pieces of this quivering 
 yellow delicacy. Of course the pumpkin pies come in for their 
 share of glory, and here by their side may be the greatest 
 delicacy of all, the rare lemon with its high frosted peaks dewy 
 with golden drops of syrup. Such pies indeed, and never one 
 left when dinner is over. 
 
 All of the time that the friendly conversation goes on over 
 the consuming of this plain but wonderful food, young women 
 are flitting up and down the aisles, checks rosy with excitement, 
 eyes aglow with fun, cap strings flying, inquiring in joyous tones 
 like music: 
 
 "Will you have tea?" 
 
 "Coffee?" 
 
 "Tea?" 
 
 "Coffee?" 
 
 97 
 
1883: Entry in S. S. Bruba\ers Diary, December 14 
 
 Mary Ann's mother was buried yesterday. Used my 
 new spring wagon to carry the coffin. 
 
 To enter this world by birth and leave it by death is the 
 routine of life, but no family is ready for that finale. In January 
 the news had come that the vigorous young elder, Abraham 
 Lear of Christian County, had died, leaving his widow and 
 four children, the youngest boy, John, only thirteen years old. 
 
 Now in December Elder Joseph Harshbarger's family meets 
 a similar sadness when he is awakened one night by Sister 
 Catherine's cry, "J oe ' I' m choking. Oh, Joe!" 
 
 Elder Harshbarger, afflicted with a shaking palsy, cannot 
 light the lamp, but shouts through the dark rooms for the 
 children. Isaac, rushing down the stairs, sees his mother 
 gasping for breath, and dashes from the house to throw himself 
 on a horse and gallop off to get Dr. Shriver. But when Dr. 
 Shriver comes, Catherine Harshbarger is sleeping her last sleep. 
 
 The bier is carried to the meetinghouse in Sam Brubaker's 
 new spring wagon. This is the day when to die costs scarcely a 
 cent, and it will be said in the future that S. S. Brubaker was, 
 for twenty years or more, the undertaker for the Dunkers at 
 Pleasant Hill, performing a deed of brotherly love in time of 
 sorrow. 
 
 The Sunday school, now established as a part of the 
 recognized work of the church, has been moved into the house 
 of the Lord, where it belongs. Sternly admonished not to bring 
 pride into the church, it meets each Sunday afternoon when 
 the roads and weather are favorable. 
 
 But pride is a recusant emotion defying all definition or 
 judgment. Now the younger sisters are appearing wearing 
 bonnets of much smaller size than the big enveloping ones of 
 the past years. To many this change means pride, and Elder 
 Harshbarger admonishes that no more such bonnets shall 
 be made. 
 
 Yet, out in the churchyard after the council is dismissed, 
 an older sister says, "Pay no attention, girls. Go ahead and 
 wear your new bonnets. 'They' will have to get used to changes." 
 
 98 
 
So the struggle between the old and the new begins to 
 take positive form, picking up intensity as time marches on. 
 
 John H. Brubaker is installed into the deacon's office. And 
 at the Annual Meeting of this year the missionary movement 
 is approved and Elder Daniel Vaniman of Pleasant Hill is 
 given the commission to frame the over-all plans for the mission 
 program of the German Baptist Brethren. 
 
 The Annual Meeting is at Lawrence, Kansas, this year and 
 is conducted in a huge tent at Bismarck Grove. 
 
 "I'd like to go to Annual Meeting," says Emma Snell. 
 
 "Well," says her father, Henry, "I reckon if you'd like to 
 go to Annual Meeting you may go. Ollie, would you like to 
 go too?" 
 
 "Oh, no, Pa," says Ollie. "There's too much work to do." 
 
 Of course it can't be denied that there is much work to do 
 on a thrifty Brethren farm. At the Snells' Emma helps in the 
 house and Ollie helps in the fields. She puts on her big slat 
 sunbonnet and her heavy brogans and works along in the fields 
 with the men, and morning and evening she does the milking. 
 In this she finds sweet and complete content. 
 
 But now Emma is going to Annual Meeting and begs 
 Lizzie Brubaker, Deacon John's daughter, to go along. The 
 deacon approves and the two young ladies are thrilled to be in 
 the large group of Dunkers that takes the train for Kansas. 
 
 The girls have been at the meeting but half a day when 
 they are certain that they could never wish to leave beautiful 
 Illinois for this hot, windy place called Kansas. After the 
 meeting they travel to Olathe, Kansas, to visit Isaac Brubaker 
 and his wife, Adeline Nead, a young married couple recently 
 from Pleasant Hill. 
 
 "Do you folks actually like this Kansas country?" Emma 
 asks. 
 
 "We like it better than Nebraska," says Isaac. "We tried 
 
 that country first. But I doubt that we'll ever return to Illinois." 
 
 "I reckon pioneering is in Isaac's blood," says Adeline. 
 
 "Remember, he came to Illinois in the covered wagon with 
 
 Father Jonathan when he was only twelve. I don't know where 
 
 99 
 
he'll stop, but where he goes I'll go. That's what a good wife 
 does." 
 
 Isaac smiles. "Well, I don't like to be crowded, I reckon. 
 And now I've been called by the church to preach. The West 
 needs preachers right bad. I'll have plenty to do." 
 
 None of them can know that this Isaac Brubaker will 
 preach through long years. That he will become an elder at 
 McPherson, Kansas, in 1902 and in 1910 will pioneer in 
 California, assisting in establishing and developing the con- 
 gregations of the Brethren throughout the broad valleys of that 
 golden land. 
 
 Emma and Lizzie also visit at Lizzie's Great-Uncle Moses 
 Brubaker 's home near Olathe. There they speak of their love 
 for their beautiful Illinois country, and a son of the family, 
 Ezra H., listens and remembers. 
 
 George Vaniman, too, returns home from the Annual 
 Meeting and a good look at Kansas. He tells Louisa and the 
 boys of his trip and his contentment with Illinois. In turn, 
 Chester Melvin says, "Father, I've been reading all about the 
 Brooklyn bridge. It was opened on May twenty-fourth and 
 it's the longest suspension bridge in the world. I think it's 
 wonderful for men to be able to build such great things." 
 
 "Yes, Son," says George, "man is wonderful. Made in the 
 image of God." 
 
 "Image," repeats Chester Melvin. "I've wondered about that 
 word. What does it really mean, Father?" 
 
 George lays aside his newspaper and looks at his eldest 
 son. "Chester Melvin," he says, "I don't know a thing except 
 what the Bible says. Jesus said, 'God is Spirit.' So I reckon if 
 we are made in His image it must be His spiritual image." 
 
 "That's what Charles Gibson said at Sunday school," says 
 Chester Melvin. "I like the idea. If the Spirit of God creates, 
 then man can be creative. He can build the Brooklyn bridge. 
 He can. . . ." 
 
 The young voice trails off into a dream. 
 
 100 
 
1884: Entry in Louisa Vanimaris Diary, January 10 
 We have a new son, born January 3rd. We named him 
 Vernon. 
 Chester Melvin Vaniman, now eighteen, stands in the kitchen 
 studying the lithographed map on the wall. It is showing frayed 
 edges and a smoky face, and will soon be fit for nothing but 
 to burn. But it is still the map of far places. 
 
 Louisa comes into the room with her tiny baby boy named 
 Vernon. But just now Chester Melvin is not especially 
 interested in this baby brother, who at this moment is of small 
 influence in a large world. Chester Melvin is thinking of 
 his own plans, and his head is full of them. 
 
 "Mother," he says, "I'm going to college. And after college 
 I'm going to see some of the world." 
 
 "Well," says Louisa, "I'm not sure just how much of 
 the world you will see, but I think it is a good idea for you to 
 go to college. We'll see what your father thinks." 
 
 George comes in, sits over his supper, swirls hot coffee 
 in his saucer, and thinks deeply. 
 
 "Yes," he says presently, "I do want you to go to college, 
 Chester Melvin. But don't you want to come home then and 
 be a farmer? I'll settle you on good land and give you a 
 good start." 
 
 "I don't like farming, Father." Chester Melvin begins to 
 pace up and down the room. "You know I don't. I don't 
 like horses. You know I don't." 
 
 George sighs and rubs his hand over his hair, which is 
 no longer dark but colored with visible silver. He reflects that 
 Chester Melvin has always shown, in this way or that, that he 
 has no inclination for farming. 
 
 Some folks relish the quoting of Solomon's admonition, 
 "Spare the rod and spoil the child." But George knows a 
 spirited colt can be ruined for life with the whip used at the 
 wrong time. It is surely the same with boys. It isn't right to 
 feel that he can compel Chester Melvin to be a farmer if he has 
 it in his head to see the world instead. 
 
 "Very well, my son," says George. "But take one thing at 
 
 101 
 
a time. You may go to Mt. Morris now. That will give you a 
 start. If you desire a different college later, time will take 
 care of your wishes. Just so you make good, Son. I'll expect you 
 to apply yourself." 
 
 At Mt. Morris, Chester Melvin begins reading the Scientific 
 American Magazine. He is fascinated by the explanation of 
 such things as the compression of gasoline vapor in combustion 
 chambers to create power. He reads every word about the 
 dynamo, which has now come into practical use for generating 
 electricity. He learns the system of charged batteries with 
 negative and positive poles. He finds complete instructions on 
 the building of cameras with their fascinating arrangements of 
 optical lenses. He reads of the ideas on flying machines, and 
 at last is satisfied to know how a balloon is built, and how it 
 ascends and descends as its operator wishes. 
 
 All of these things are an open sesame to the channels of 
 his keen mind, and when he comes home for vacation he soon 
 has Calvin hanging on his every word. 
 
 "It's worse than Dutch to me," complains Louisa. "Such 
 words. Combustion. Dynamos. Ballast. Umph! Are you sure 
 you understand them, Chester Melvin?" 
 
 "Please just call me Melvin, Mother," says the young man. 
 "I like it better." 
 
 Louisa shrugs her shoulders and a queer little smile of 
 acknowledgment illuminates her face. Her oldest son is grown. 
 Into her life has come the time that comes to every mother — 
 when she must step aside and allow her son to go ahead into 
 his own paths. Now she can give help and advice only when 
 it is asked for. Now she can give surcease to "bumped heads" 
 and "injured fingers" only in the secret recesses of the prayer 
 room of her heart. 
 
 Elmer Vaniman is fifteen this summer, tall for his age, 
 husky and strong. He loves the livestock, just as his father does. 
 He loves to drive the horses, drawing the lines over their 
 backs with a respect for their intelligence and power. 
 
 "Elmer," says George, "always respect your horses. Some 
 of them have more sense than certain people I know. In fact, 
 horses are a great deal like people — good, bad, ornery, gentle, 
 
 102 
 
and often plain lazy. One horse will take the bit and work. 
 Another will take the bit and aim to run away with it. Today 
 I'm going to let you break the bay colt. She's a gentle sort, and 
 you'll get along with her." 
 
 George and Elmer go to the barn and lead the colt out. 
 She is only bridle broken. And often in breaking a colt, there 
 is likely to be quite a threshing of the dust as the colt resents 
 this insult to its freedom. There may also be a desire to let heels 
 fly or more or less of a determination to run. 
 
 "Now remember, Elmer," George cautions, "keep talking to 
 the colt. Keep your voice calm and friendly. Get the harness 
 on her. Walk her. Hitch her. Drive her. But always move 
 slowly. Keep talking. Smooth her neck. Let her feel your 
 hands gentle but firm. Praise her, but don't stop working with 
 her until she drops those ears. Not if it takes all day." 
 
 George smiles and is pleased as he sees Elmer's eager, ruddy 
 face, his keen blue eyes shining, his determined but gentle 
 manner as he takes over the colt and its training. 
 
 "Natural-born hostler," George says to himself as he goes 
 about his own duties. "I reckon Elmer will settle on the land." 
 
 On a summer Sunday George Vaniman's family takes 
 dinner at the home of his brother Daniel. A large group of 
 relatives and friends have come along from church to enjoy the 
 hospitality of this home with its walnut woodwork and bronze 
 fireplaces and adze-cut timbers that divide this two-story house 
 into identical rooms from the basement to the attic, a house 
 that will stand as a beautiful home even into the middle of the 
 twentieth century. How much longer, only the Lord knows. 
 
 Now the folks all enjoy Sister Libby's fried chicken, 
 mashed potatoes, green beans, and cole-slaw, and the three kinds 
 of pie, all of which are plentiful, for both the first and the 
 second table. 
 
 Young Dan Vaniman's family is there. Emma retires to 
 the big bedroom where she talks with her Aunt Louisa while 
 they rock their babies to sleep, Emma rocking Herbert, her 
 first-born son, and Louisa rocking Vernon, while Libby's own 
 baby, Otis, lies sleeping in his cradle. 
 
 103 
 
"These little boys will have a lot of fun growing up together, 
 Aunt Louisa," says Emma. 
 
 Louisa smiles in tender anticipation of the future. "I'm 
 sure they will," she says. The topics of conversation drift in 
 gentle tones from one thing to the other. 
 
 "They announced a baptizing today," says Emma. "Will 
 you be going?" 
 
 "I doubt it," says Louisa. "I find it harder to get around 
 than when I was younger. But George says I'm not to be 
 without a girl any more. Cora Wineland is coming to stay 
 with me. I'm to keep her until she's eighteen — feed, clothe, 
 and educate her. She'll be a lot of help. Who's to be baptized, 
 Emma ? " 
 
 "Abe Harshbarger," says Emma. "Why don't you and 
 Uncle George be baptized?" 
 
 Louisa glances at the sleeping baby in her arms and rises 
 to lay him down. 
 
 Emma continues her words. "Looks like Uncle George 
 would want to be a good example for his boys." 
 
 "George is a good example for his boys," says Louisa with 
 spirit. "I wouldn't ask for a one of them to be different from 
 their father. He's as good-hearted a man as ever lived, and 
 as kind. And a good provider." 
 
 "But he's not saved," insists Emma. 
 
 "Please, Emma," says Louisa, "let's not talk of it. It's not 
 me that's holding back. But the Good Book says a woman 
 must be subject to her husband in all things. I reckon now I'll 
 go help with the dishes." 
 
 But Louisa does worry about not being in the church. If 
 George could only share in his brother Daniel's activities, 
 how fine it would be! 
 
 Elder Daniel Vaniman is now a Brotherhood leader. He 
 is on the first Mission Board and will hold this position for 
 eleven years. He is a writer of ability and is contributing an 
 excellent little column in the Gospel Messenger called "Chips 
 From the Workhouse." 
 
 The membership at Pleasant Hill is urged to subscribe to 
 the Gospel Messenger and to read its every page. 
 
 104 
 
"I can't afford to take it," says one member and another. 
 
 "The subscription price," says Elder Harshbarger, "is the 
 amount of the dog tax of Macoupin County. Now I will pay 
 for a subscription for any member who can't afford it, if he 
 doesn't keep a dog." 
 
 The young people often hear Elder Daniel Vaniman 
 discourse in his clear, forceful way about the importance of 
 dedicating their lives to God's best purposes for them. 
 
 "In our own country, and in foreign lands too," he declares, 
 "we must not tear down the other man's house but we must 
 build a better one beside it and then invite him over." 
 
 "True religion." This is an expression that must stand 
 through the ages. Its interpretations of truth are to be as varied 
 as the eras in which men shall live, but there will always be 
 those who are conscious that "light is light in whatsoever lamp 
 it burns." There will always be those who remember that 
 "whosoever shall call upon the Lord shall be saved." Yet who 
 is it that can declare the exact manner in which each individual 
 in all of God's numberless creation shall "call upon the Lord"? 
 
 Even more important are these questions: "How shall they 
 call on him in whom they have not believed? And how shall 
 they believe in him of whom they have not heard? And how 
 shall they hear without a preacher? And how shall they 
 preach, except they be sent?" 
 
 1884: Entry in S. S. Bruba\ers Diary, November 24 
 Father Harshbarger married Widow Frantz yesterday. 
 
 The summer of 1884 does not pass without John Heckman's 
 making a short visit to Pleasant Hill. He comes, tall and 
 mature, smiling and happy. 
 
 "John, I'm glad to see you. How splendid you look." The 
 same words come from all of his relatives and friends. 
 
 John Heckman has fully realized this change within and 
 without him. He can say, "Of course I'm changed. The 
 skies have opened and given me a glimpse of heaven. I was 
 
 105 
 
baptized into the church last year. Now a sweet girl named 
 Hattie Price has promised to marry me. I feel that I have 
 found the place in the world where I belong." 
 
 Indeed, John Heckman has found the place where he 
 belongs, and where he will serve the Lord until past the middle 
 of the twentieth century. How much longer, only the Lord 
 knows. 
 
 But this time when John Heckman leaves Pleasant Hill 
 he will not return for eighteen years. The Brethren who have 
 known him as a growing boy and the boys who have been 
 his pals will always be interested in hearing of the activities in 
 the life of this young man, of whom they will always be proud 
 to say, "Oh, yes. I know John Heckman. He was raised here." 
 
 They will be proud to know that he marries into the 
 seventh generation of the great Price family, the descendants 
 of the German Baptist brother, John Jacob Price, who came 
 to America in 1719 and who sat beside the famous Peter 
 Becker at the first Dunker love feast in America at Christmas 
 1723. 
 
 The Brethren at Pleasant Hill will rejoice when they 
 receive word that John Heckman is called to the ministry in 
 September 1886; they will rejoice also at his ordination as an 
 elder in 1889. And they will learn that he is a prosperous farmer 
 as well. 
 
 Here at Pleasant Hill the Dunkers are so vitally a part of 
 the church at large and its attendant struggles that no movement, 
 small or large, in this matter of personal freedom in choice of 
 conduct or duty versus dogmatic ecclesiasticism is going to miss 
 them. 
 
 Always it will be known and spoken of that John Heckman 
 is patiently working, more and more as the years go by, attending 
 the Annual Meetings, visiting the churches, speaking kindly but 
 firmly for brotherly love and understanding. 
 
 He will attend at least fifty of the great Annual Meetings. 
 He will sit three times in that august body, the Standing 
 Committee. With pride and confidence, his friends at Pleasant 
 Hill will know that more tolerant methods, conducive to the 
 
 106 
 
growth of the German Baptist Brethren, are being brought by 
 John and his fellow workers into the new age. 
 
 For truly a new age is bursting upon the world. An age 
 of mechanized power. An age that will release man from the 
 burdens of muscular labor into a life in which processes of 
 the brain will control the efforts of the hand. An age in which 
 men will work but not slave, will fly and not walk. 
 
 Sixty-five years from now John Heckman himself will fly 
 in a great air liner to Africa, a grand old man at eighty-five, but 
 as young as the never-aging spirit within him; flying to visit 
 the Nigerian mission field of the Church of the Brethren, 
 established by the help of his own son Clarence, and Clarence's 
 wife, the consecrated young girl, Lucile Gibson, from Pleasant 
 Hill. 
 
 But certainly now, in 1884, neither the most realistic nor 
 the most imaginary thinking can in any wise picture the vision 
 and the gifts of the personalities so soon to be born with the 
 arrival of the twentieth century. 
 
 On the Sunday of November 23, several who arrive at the 
 meetinghouse hear a whispered secret. The secret brings broad 
 smiles and exclamations. "Why, really!" "How nice!" "You 
 don't say!" 
 
 And after the services all of the relatives of Widow Frantz 
 and of Elder Joseph Harshbarger drive to the widow's home 
 to take dinner together. After the dinner, Sister Frantz and 
 Brother Harshbarger stand before their loved ones there in 
 the big sitting room, and they are united in holy matrimony 
 as the service is read by Preacher Jonathan Brubaker. Then 
 Brother Harshbarger passes candy to all of the children, and 
 everyone seems happy over this new arrangement. 
 
 The new Mrs. Harshbarger leaves her farm and with her 
 youngest children moves into the Harshbarger home. Little 
 Ezra Frantz, nine years old, now has the only father he will 
 ever remember; and never will he forget, even in the far future 
 of 1954, the firm, kind guidance and the cheerful encouragement 
 of Father Harshbarger. 
 
 Both Peter and Ezra Frantz are especially compatible with 
 their new father for they, as well as he, are mechanically inclined. 
 
 107 
 
These boys are fascinated by the well-dummy here at their 
 new home. Over the well Brother Harshbarger has built a 
 large enclosed windlass. This windlass lowers a set of shelves 
 down into the cool watery depths by a heavy rope, and in this 
 dummy are set the crocks of milk, cream, and butter. But it 
 is the secret lock that appeals to Ezra most. 
 
 Laying his hand on the top ledge of the enclosure with 
 careless ease, he says to a visiting friend, "Open the door." 
 His friend finds the door securely locked, yet with the pressure 
 of one finger on the secret spring Ezra releases the door before 
 the startled eyes of his visitor. 
 
 The lock is seldom explained for it is the secret that makes 
 the enclosure safe against the prying of inquisitive children, and 
 the danger of their falling into the well. 
 
 Equally intriguing is the Woolman patented farm gate 
 which Brother Harshbarger has installed at the road. For here 
 at Harshbarger's a small pasture lies between the house and 
 the highway, as is the case at many a farm home on this 
 Illinois prairie. 
 
 Now, lacking a footman or a "darky boy" of the old 
 aristocracy, people must climb from their rigs to open and 
 close the gates. But not at Brother Harshbarger's. Nor at 
 James Wirt's. These good brethren have provided that the 
 driver merely stops his team before the gate. Then he pulls 
 a rope dangling from a tall post. By a system of levers, this 
 causes the gate to jump into the air and drop away from the 
 drive. The vehicle and the team pass through and another rope 
 is pulled. The gate jumps shut. Ah, what a convenience! 
 
 1885: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, June 15 
 
 Worked in the garden. Baked bread. Had a letter 
 from Chester Melvin. 
 
 Working in her garden with loving delight, Louisa is especially 
 happy because she has had a letter from Melvin. Melvin is 
 studying voice now. It's a bit strange how the boy has reached 
 
 108 
 
this decision over all of his other interests. George is disgruntled 
 over Melvin's choice, for he believes music can be only an 
 interesting sideline in a man's life. Actually, no one enjoys 
 singing more than George does. 
 
 Even now Louisa hears his clear voice being carried to her 
 on the breeze, singing a favorite song — 
 
 There is a happy land, 
 
 Far, far, away — 
 Where saints immortal stand, 
 
 Bright, bright as day. 
 Oh, how they sweetly sing, 
 
 Worthy is the Saviour King! 
 Loud let His praises ring 
 
 For-ever-more! 
 
 It is a glorious song, and George is singing it as if he 
 intended singing himself right into heaven. Louisa wipes a tear 
 from her cheek with her sleeve and whispers, "Dear God, it 
 seems like he can sing himself right up to You. But I can't. 
 I reckon I'll have to be baptized without him." 
 
 Baptismal services occur frequently at Pleasant Hill. No 
 one ever waits. Whenever the Spirit moves, the service is 
 rendered. A number of folks drove to Macoupin Creek 
 recently and witnessed the baptizing of John Lear and others. 
 Only a few days ago Nicholas Brubaker was baptized here at 
 Pleasant Hill. 
 
 Louisa had not attended but she has heard about the 
 baptizing suit, for there are differences of opinion as to its 
 propriety. Some are sure that the officiating minister should not 
 wear this waterproof contraption. Others argue that it's the 
 sinner, not the preacher, that's being baptized. At any rate, the 
 bulky rubber thing now hangs, between baptizings, in the great 
 attic of the meetinghouse, exactly like a dead man on a gallows. 
 
 For many a year there's not a child growing up at Pleasant 
 Hill who will not climb the attic stairs at love-feast time for 
 the sole purpose of seeing that "dead man" hanging in the 
 shadows of the rafters, enjoying the delicious thrill of being 
 half or wholly frightened. 
 
 The Sunday school has now been given permission by the 
 
 109 
 
church council to use the new Brethren Hymnal, this being the 
 first edition authorized by the Annual Meeting to be published 
 with notes. It is published by Quinter and Brumbaugh, and its 
 hymns have been numbered with an arrangement that will 
 make it possible for the Brethren to use both the new hymnal 
 and the old one without the music at the same time during 
 public worship. 
 
 This new hymnal is printed with shaped notes, and each 
 family plans to purchase several copies. They will be carried 
 as faithfully as a pocket handkerchief, for at home each family 
 that loves to sing will spend many a long winter evening in an 
 after-supper session of singing. 
 
 It's not for nothing that these Brethren people have for 
 several years been attending singing school at the near-by 
 schoolhouse. Without benefit of an instrument to guide them, 
 they are able to select any new song, and, by the ringing note 
 from the tuning fork and the do-re-me, shaped-note method, 
 any selection soon becomes familiar and a new song has been 
 added to the repertoire of the group. 
 
 The day is to come when the children of this year 1885 
 will sit in softly lighted rooms and watch their children and 
 their grandchildren proclaim the marvel and the joy of a 
 device that has chained the vibrations of light and sound 
 into the last word of entertainment and education by scientific 
 methods. They will see that future generation settle down into 
 their own particular fatigues of body or spirit, or both, and 
 profess to enjoy the sights and sounds before them. 
 
 The silver-haired ones will feel a mingling of amusement 
 and pity. They will gladly acknowledge the progress of science, 
 its possible wonders and services. But they will also wonder 
 how the generations of that future mid-twentieth century will 
 find the desire and the joy of creative ability arising from 
 within themselves. A desire and a joy that would lead them 
 out of themselves; out of their problems; out of their fatigues; 
 out of their "nerves"; out into wholesome fun with one another; 
 into the reading of the Bible and the writings of the great; 
 into all of the arts; into the development of their own souls 
 through their ears, their eyes, their touch, their minds. 
 
 110 
 
Yes, those generations of the future will have more 
 opportunities than these folks have here in 1885, but will they 
 use them as well as the talents of the Pleasant Hill people are 
 now being used? It is only the Lord who knows. 
 
 Mary Gibson sees to it that her family attends all of the 
 church and school activities. They are a lively group, and she 
 realizes it is going to be hard to hold them down. Of her boys 
 she will say, "David is the smartest, Everett is the best looking, 
 Preston has the best manners, and Lemuel? Well," says Mary 
 with a motherly sigh, "I guess Lemuel is the meanest." 
 
 Meanness, however, is usually only misdirected mischief. 
 When the years of discretion come and Lemuel is much older 
 and is sponsoring entertainment groups for the benefit of the 
 American Expeditionary Forces in France, he will remember 
 these boyhood days at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 In that far-off day he will remind the soldiers sitting there 
 in a Red Cross hut on the battlefields of France that it is to 
 preserve the freedom of democracy that they are thus met — 
 "the democracy that I learned to love when I drove my old 
 horse, Bally, through Illinois mud to the country school. There 
 I learned that it was Daniel Webster who said, 'God grants 
 liberty only to those who love it and are always ready to guard 
 and defend it.' " His words go on and on, and then Mr. Gibson 
 introduces his entertainment numbers. 
 
 Down in the hut a young soldier will be listening to every 
 word. The name of the entertainer will be a familiar one, but 
 there are no doubt many Gibsons in Illinois. The speaker will 
 not look familiar and the soldier will listen to the spoken words 
 only to sit up at attention when the old horse, Bally, is 
 mentioned. 
 
 "Old Bally! Ha! Old Bally! Oh, there couldn't be more 
 than one old Bally in Illinois." And the soldier, young Emory 
 Brubaker, will begin to grin. "Why, it's nobody but Lemuel 
 Gibson," he will say to himself. "Lem Gibson. And I saw 
 him drive old Bally past our house at Pleasant Hill a hundred 
 times when I was just a kid." 
 
 There in the far future in that foreign land, the ties of 
 Pleasant Hill will bring the soldier and the Red Cross worker 
 
 111 
 
together in their remembrances of the old home. And although 
 they were not taught to go to war, they, like a million others, 
 will know what every soldier must somehow know — far better 
 than those who taught him — that war is wrong, but that God 
 has patience with His erring children, and that wars are "not 
 the end." 
 
 Mary Gibson now feels that the church should again 
 expand into a larger program. She suggests that a prayer meeting 
 be opened to meet on a weekday night. She urges, "It will be 
 a good place for our restless young people to go. And all of 
 us need to learn more about prayer. More about Jesus and 
 prayer. More about the Bible and prayer." 
 
 "Humph!" says one. "Now Mary Gibson is mistaken if 
 she thinks she can use a prayer meeting to cover her 
 encouragement of the young sisters to wear worldly clothes, and 
 herself now wearing a boughten coat instead of a shawl." 
 
 "Prayer meetings," says someone else, "belong to the 
 customs of other denominations. We'd better be careful or 
 we'll get just like them. We'll have the world inside our church." 
 
 Mary Gibson is sincere but the congregation turns down 
 her idea for a prayer meeting, waiting for further light. As a 
 compromise gesture the decision is made to hold a preaching 
 service on each Sunday night of the regular meeting Sunday. 
 
 Everyone enjoys this. Now it becomes a regular thing to 
 see all of the young men coming into the meetinghouse on 
 Sunday nights carrying plush robes over their arms and snappy 
 buggy whips to stack in the corner of the room. It is never 
 safe to leave these valuable accessories in the rigs during 
 services, for the spirit of the practical joke and that of vandalism 
 have not yet been separated by those who tend to be uncouth 
 and refuse to enter the meetinghouse for divine services. 
 
 The Dunker boys have their own temptations now that 
 most of them own good horses and buggies as soon as they 
 reach the status of a young man. 
 
 It is so much fun to race, especially on the wide, straight 
 stretch of the Virden and Girard road. The young men gather 
 up their lines, brace their feet on either side of the dash 
 board, and purse their lips into a peculiar keen signal. To the 
 
 112 
 
sensitive ears of the steeds this means "go faster, faster." And 
 the buggies speed along and are often nearly wrecked as one 
 driver or the other refuses, with a triumphant grin, to "give" 
 at one of the numerous one-way bridges. 
 
 Thus it becomes a concern to each of the mothers as to the 
 young man who keeps her daughter's company, just how 
 fractious his horse might be, and how much braggadocio he 
 will display in showing his girl (her daughter) about his skillful 
 horsemanship. 
 
 Frank Snell is an expert horseman and always drives the 
 very best of steeds. Sparking Katie Brubaker, he has been well 
 trusted to take her to the literary program at the schoolhouse 
 or to the preaching at one of the meetinghouses. 
 
 Now Frank and Katie are united in marriage on the day 
 before Christmas. At Deacon John's there is the wedding 
 dinner at which seven kinds of cake, baked by the bride, are 
 served, while the Snells accent the infare dinner on the following 
 day with as many varieties of pie. 
 
 Katie's wedding gown is of plain wool, Dunker styled as 
 the elders approve, and she wears her prayer cap tied over her 
 wavy brown hair. She lays her tiny hand in the great hand of 
 the groom, who towers beside her, correct in striped trousers, 
 winged collar, fashionable cravat, and a Prince Albert coat, 
 for he is not yet a member. 
 
 "Don't worry," says Deacon John. "He'll come into the 
 church now that he's married and settled down." 
 
 The deacon's prophecy is true. The German Baptist 
 Brethren young people are all coming into the church, sooner 
 or later. It is a happiness that radiates through all the community, 
 this oneness of heart and mind, soul and purpose. But there 
 arc dangers ahead, potent little seeds that even now are 
 sprouting and sending down roots that will plunge the church 
 into problems as it grows. 
 
 Now the settlers that came to Pleasant Hill a score of years 
 ago are fast becoming the old people. The second generation 
 is being married and the third is being born. There is need 
 for more recreational activities. Apple-butter boilings, corn 
 
 113 
 
huskings, and quiltings have their place. But the tendency is 
 to explore other avenues of interest. 
 
 The church forbids dominoes and card games. Henry and 
 Valentine Stutsman and their brothers-in-law, Pleasant Parrot 
 and David Wineland, have found that out in no uncertain terms. 
 David, tired of having his personal freedom questioned, with- 
 draws from the church. But the Stutsmans are thoroughly 
 planted within the fold. They will be patient. They are 
 convinced that they can afford to acquiesce in certain small 
 things that they might lead in larger ones. They hope that 
 insignificant points of dissension will be finally lost in the 
 progress of greater spiritual projects of the Kingdom of God, 
 yet to be added to the paths of the Brethren. 
 
 1886: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, September 27 
 
 District meeting has been at Pleasant Hill. We had a 
 lot of company. 
 
 After the entertaining of the district meeting in September, 
 the church council of October 30 adjourns and the congregation 
 witnesses the rite of baptism administered by Elder Javan 
 Gibson to Martha Brubaker; Jesse Vaniman and his cousin, 
 Levi; Willie Shull and his sister, Anna; and George 
 Wrightsman. 
 
 The two-day love feast follows in a few days, and Javan 
 Gibson, now a widower, and his daughters arrive at the 
 meetinghouse at Pleasant Hill. As Melva, pretty and sixteen, 
 and her oldest sister, Julia, stand by the stove on the women's 
 side of the room, Julia whispers, "Melva, do you see that young 
 man standing down there by the other stove?" 
 
 "Yes, I see him," says Melva. "That's George Wrightsman." 
 
 "That," says Julia, "is the young man Mother had picked 
 out for you before she died." 
 
 "She didn't tell me," says Melva. 
 
 "You were too young," says Julia. "But I'm telling you 
 now." 
 
 114 
 
The dead mother's wish will come true and Melva Gibson 
 and George Wrightsman will marry in the year 1891. Always 
 they will be active in the church, teaching in the Sunday 
 school, serving in the deaconship, promoting the preservation 
 of the old meetinghouse, celebrating their golden wedding, 
 believing that Christian living is in truth the bulwark of the 
 Kingdom of God. 
 
 A revival now follows the love feast, with Elder Martin 
 McClure of Macon County doing the preaching. This is the 
 first time that this elder has come to Pleasant Hill. It is to 
 prove to be a misfortune that he ever came at all. 
 
 At first his aggressive, vehement preaching against sinful 
 pleasures and worldly fashions seems plausible and right. Some 
 will remember even for sixty-five years others of his eloquent 
 sermons on such subjects as The River of the Water of Life, 
 Who Is My Neighbor? and Love. 
 
 While all of the noise of his preaching is going on and the 
 emotions are stirred it seems that no one could do less than 
 believe that Brother McClure is inspired of God. But once 
 this man returns to his home, some of the Brethren are not so 
 sure that the man is truly sincere. 
 
 "He is intensely autocratic, to say the least," say Mary and 
 James Gibson. 
 
 "He reminds me," says Culle'n Gibson, "of a man who 
 must be terribly busy with other people's business to cover up 
 his own." 
 
 "We'd better remember that Jesus said, 'Judge not,' " says 
 Charles Gibson. "We hope the man won't need to be here often." 
 
 Among the young people attending Mt. Morris this year is 
 Laura Vaniman, Elder Dan's daughter. Laura is planning to 
 marry Homer Ullem of Wisconsin in the spring. 
 
 "We want Professor Orr to perform our ceremony, Mother," 
 says Laura in the summer. "But how can I make my wedding 
 dress and be in school?" 
 
 "Schoolgirls do not usually get married," says Mother 
 Libby. "But if that's your wish, we'll make the wedding 
 clothes now and you can take them with you." 
 
 So the trousseau is made and goes to college in the bottom 
 
 115 
 
of Laura's trunk, secreted there until March. How fortunate 
 for Laura that mischievous chums do not find the precious 
 garments! 
 
 Laura's little brother, Otis, is not so fortunate in an 
 experience with new clothes. "You're going on four, Otis," 
 says Mother Libby. "You are big enough now to wear a suit, 
 and I'm going to make you the prettiest suit you ever saw." 
 
 Accordingly the little boy's Sunday dress is laid away, a 
 dress which he will treasure even in far-off 1955. Now blue 
 serge trousers and a bright red blouse decorated with white 
 horseshoes make Otis Vaniman the proudest boy in the 
 community. They go to Aunt Louisa's to a Sunday dinner 
 and Otis pays a playful visit to a flock of his aunt's great fat 
 gtcse. The geese "see red" and take after the child, who manages 
 to climb a gatepost and sit there above the hissing flock, adding 
 his own screams to the melee. 
 
 These are small problems, however, when compared with 
 the one that now falls to the lot of Elizabeth Shull's children. 
 Fatherless for a number of years, they now lose their mother 
 by death also. Yet the love of God provides where there is 
 faith, and faith is the bread and meat upon which the young 
 widow has raised her children. 
 
 Now Elizabeth's brothers, John H. and Sam S. Brubaker, 
 are appointed guardians of this family of growing young people 
 and they take them into their homes to "nurture them in the 
 admonitions of the Lord." Willie will not only become a 
 skilled farmer but will be called to the ministry in 1895 and 
 will give most of his forty-eight years of administrative work to 
 the Brethren in or around Pleasant Hill. Rosella will presently 
 be married to Clinton Whitmire, presiding over her Brethren 
 home for more than fifty years. Martha will become the wife 
 of John Lear, giving thanks for her youth at Pleasant Hill 
 through at least fifty-four years of Christian service. 
 
 More especially will Anna remember, when she will have 
 become a foreign missionary and will have been sent with 
 her husband, Daniel L. Forney, in the second group of 
 missionaries to be sent out by the Brethren to work in India, 
 going in the year 1897. Through the terrible famine years of 
 
 116 
 
1900 Anna Shull Forney will nurture many orphans in her 
 own home there in India, longing to demonstrate in some way 
 the givingness of love and compassion as she has had it 
 revealed to her in Christian living at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 1887: Entry in Amanda Snell's Diary, September 11 
 Typhoid is bad this year. Several have died. Council 
 at the meeting house today. Love feast next week. 
 Henry is to get the beef. 
 Epidemics are a threat that plunges every heart into a well 
 of acute fear. Black diphtheria is one disease that brings the 
 sickle of death without fail. 
 
 Typhoid fever is another from which no physician can 
 promise a recovery, since it seems to depend upon the 
 constitution of the patient. "We can only wait and see," says 
 the doctor. And these good men of the medical profession often 
 wish, when death comes to a family, that they were wood- 
 choppers instead of healers. 
 
 The Brethren do teach a doctrine which could help them 
 more than they know. Alexander Mack has included in his 
 fundamental doctrines of the German Baptist Brethren the 
 teaching found in James 5:14, 15: "Is there any sick among 
 you? Let him call for the elders of the church, and let them 
 pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the 
 Lord; and the prayer of faith shall save the sick and the Lord 
 shall raise him up, and if he have committed sins they shall 
 be forgiven him." 
 
 Somehow the Brethren have found it difficult to accept this 
 promise as a promise of healing from disease. Rather, they 
 accept as a more predominant interpretation the theology of 
 the last unction. 
 
 The doctrine of the anointing service is often a topic of 
 Sunday afternoon discussion among the members. Testimonies 
 of healing here and now are given in cases where the patient 
 has had the faith to hear Jesus say, "I will; be thou clean." Or, 
 
 117 
 
"Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole." Or, "All things 
 are possible to him that believeth." 
 
 But the elders find it difficult to offer a prayer at the 
 anointing service that does not introduce the point of doubt — 
 "If it be Thy will." And most of the members wait until death 
 rattles the door before they call the elders, who then anoint, 
 emphasizing the forgiveness of sins. 
 
 Even in the middle of the twentieth century the Brethren 
 will continue to weaken the promise of the healing by praying 
 "if." Or perhaps because science has said, "There is no hope," 
 they will not teach healing by faith at all. 
 
 God Himself may be wondering how many inventions 
 based on the vibrations of light and sound and how many 
 secrets of cosmic energy will have to be demonstrated by the 
 intelligence of man before the Christian people will realize 
 that here are laws which Jesus and Saint James demonstrated 
 in their day, by faith. 
 
 Now little Gracie Stutsman lies deathly ill of typhoid, and 
 Dr. Simmons looks at Valentine and his wife, Tabitha 
 Gerlock Stutsman, and shakes his head. He goes to the kitchen, 
 taps the teakettle, and orders, "Boil all the water this family 
 drinks. We'll hope that no more of you get the fever. But as 
 for this little girl that's sick. . . ." 
 
 Gracie dies and Sister Tabitha mourns, "My first baby, and 
 so smart and helpful. I reckon she'd a-loved to live." But there 
 are the other little ones needing her — Nellie and Bessie and 
 Otis, the baby. Tabitha rises to the present needs. 
 
 More and more young people are meeting and falling in 
 love as the Dunkers drive back and forth between the various 
 congregations. All of the large social contacts needed for 
 intermarriage with the members are here. 
 
 For some time Abram Gibbel, son of the Pennsylvania- 
 Dutch preacher, has been driving fifteen miles from Sangamon 
 County down to Pleasant Hill on meeting Sunday. He spends 
 the afternoon at the home of Preacher Jonathan Brubaker, 
 courting the youngest daughter, Emma. After dark he climbs 
 into his buggy, wraps the lines around the whip in the socket 
 and commands his horse, "Go on home, Bob." The horse jogs 
 
 118 
 
home, turning each corner properly, his master asleep on the 
 buggy seat. 
 
 This romance blooms into a wedding in this year and 
 Emma goes to live on the Sangamon prairies, with Mother 
 Susie saying, "I'm glad you're not going far. We can see you 
 once in a while." 
 
 Now on a certain Sunday a well-dressed young man is 
 bowling along the road. His spanking fine team is black and 
 white spotted, and the buggy is polished, its flashing wheels 
 glinting in the sun. Having arrived at Virden on September 8 
 from Olathe, Kansas, this young man has immediately found 
 work with W. C. Alderson, an enterprising farmer west of 
 Virden. Today there has been an opportunity for the young 
 man to borrow his employer's team and buggy, and now he 
 is arriving at Pleasant Hill. He knows only two persons there, 
 the two young ladies who had attended the Annual Meeting 
 at Bismarck Grove in Kansas in 1883. 
 
 When he drives into the churchyard a large number of 
 people are already gathering and are pausing outside to exchange 
 greetings. They do not miss seeing the stranger driving in, 
 and the question, "Who is it?" immediately passes from person 
 to person. And they wait for the young man to tie his team 
 at the racks and come strolling toward the meetinghouse. 
 
 Deacon John Brubaker extends his hand and says, "Howdy! 
 I reckon you're a stranger here. My name's Brubaker." 
 
 "My name's Brubaker, too," says the young man. "Ezra H. 
 Brubaker from Olathe, Kansas." 
 
 "Oh! So you're my Uncle Moses' boy," says Deacon John 
 in his friendly way. "We're glad you're here. Come along home 
 with us after church and we'll get acquainted." 
 
 Ezra does not find it difficult to get acquainted at Pleasant 
 Hill. He feels at home at his Cousin John Brubaker 's at once. 
 He meets Isaac Harshbarger on this first Sunday and their 
 beautiful lifelong friendship is begun. 
 
 Ezra finishes his work at Mr. Alderson's and moves to 
 Pleasant Hill. He shucks corn for S. S. Brubaker and others, 
 and then does the same for Deacon John and remains there 
 for the winter. The deacon's oldest boys have left home, and the 
 
 119 
 
younger ones, some folks say, won't amount to much, always 
 with their noses in books and their father hiring the work done. 
 
 But the deacon doesn't worry too much about that. After all, 
 who is to judge how much a man amounts to. His boys are 
 never out gadding around. Isaac N. and Nicholas are 
 teaching, and Charles and Alpheus are studying the higher 
 branches at the two-room school at Pleasant Hill. He needs 
 Ezra H.'s help and Ezra needs a job. It's a fine arrangement. 
 
 Late in the winter Deacon John's family entertains his 
 brother, Moses Brubaker, and his family at Sunday dinner. 
 Moses' daughter, Elma, shy and petite, proves to be a charming 
 companion to Ezra H. all the afternoon. Moses' rig is crowded 
 and the children decide that some of them will walk the short 
 mile to their new home on the edge of Girard. Ezra H. offers 
 to walk with Elma "just for the fun of going," and her 
 little sister, Susan, elects to walk with them while Asa and 
 Lydia ride with their parents. 
 
 Susan prattles along, whether the others listen or not. She 
 talks of her big brother, Jonathan, away at Mt. Morris. And at 
 last when they are very nearly home she says, "Ezra, are you 
 going back home?" 
 
 "Well," says Ezra, "I'll see. Maybe I'll stay awhile and 
 warm my hands. They're getting cold." 
 
 "Then will you go home?" insists Susan. 
 
 The young man laughs at the precocious little girl. "Well," 
 he says, "it will take a long time, I expect. My hands are 
 pretty cold." 
 
 1887: Entry in S. S. Bruba\ers Diary, October 1 
 
 Brother John was called to the ministry today. Got my 
 clover seed threshed. 
 
 The Pleasant Hill congregation reaches the decision in this 
 year that another preacher is needed, and the special meeting 
 for this purpose is arranged for October 1. The call falls on 
 John H. Brubaker, a man of exemplary habits, an avid reader, 
 
 120 
 
and a serious thinker. His devotion to the church for the next 
 fifty years will be unexcelled. He will not only serve at Pleasant 
 Hill, preaching in turn and serving long years as elder-in-charge, 
 but will also be prominent in the district work and will serve 
 four times on the Standing Committee of the Annual Meeting. 
 
 This active service for the church by the free ministry is 
 considered by the congregation to be a great honor, as well as 
 a call. But those who see that this position is becoming more 
 and more a financial burden are beginning to express themselves. 
 
 "Here we are," says George Gibson, "preparing sermons, 
 conducting funerals, attending district and Annual Meetings, 
 serving on administrative boards, and paying much of the 
 expense from our own pockets, while the operation of our 
 businesses suffers. Jesus says that the laborer is worthy of 
 
 his hire." 
 
 "Oh, but, Brother George. You must not talk so!" is the 
 
 horrified cry. 
 
 "I will talk," says George. "If someone doesn't talk and 
 arouse people from their pleasant lethargies, they'll travel along 
 in the same rut until they are down to their necks. Didn't 
 Alexander Mack talk? If he hadn't we wouldn't be here in a 
 Brethren church." 
 
 And now it's something more to talk about when Elder 
 Joseph Harshbarger petitions the church for an assistant elder. 
 His health is quite poor and he feels that the full charge of 
 this rapidly growing congregation is beyond his physical ability. 
 Out of meeting Brother Harshbarger recommends "our dear 
 brother, Martin McClure, who would be willing to come at 
 the time of each council and officiate over the meeting." 
 
 With not a little inward dismay a minority of the families 
 who go to the council find themselves outvoted. They submit to 
 the vote of the majority, who elect Elder Martin McClure. 
 
 "Well," says Cullen Gibson, "I'll keep still as long as I 
 can. But I doubt if 'sleeping dogs' will be still. I'm sure there 
 
 are some. 
 
 All of the church expenses are met by subscription, and 
 Brother John Neher, the church treasurer in most of the early 
 years, counts over the subscribed dollar per family in his 
 
 121 
 
methodical way. If more money is needed, then those who 
 are willing give more. But never do the Dunkers mention money 
 on the day of worship. This, in their present thinking, would 
 be desecrating the service of prayer and praise and exhortation, 
 and offerings at the Sunday services are unthinkable. 
 
 The congregation now plans for the fall love feast. Henry 
 Frantz will buy the bread. Henry Snell will furnish the beef. 
 John Saul will bring the hay, and the communion bread will be 
 baked at Preacher Cullen Gibson's. 
 
 The baking of the communion bread is in these days a 
 solemn occasion in itself. The ministers and their wives gather 
 at the given home, and some of the deacons and their wives 
 will help if needed. 
 
 The kneading boards, the rolling pins, and the bowls are 
 placed on the long kitchen table. The ingredients and the flat 
 baking tins, the markers and the pricking forks are also 
 assembled. 
 
 The sisters stand at the tables properly veiled with their 
 prayer caps, and the ministers offer short prayers to dedicate 
 this act of baking the bread that is to become the holy symbol 
 of our Lord's body. 
 
 Now into a large bowl are poured three pints of thick 
 cream, and if the cream seems a bit thin, a half pound of melted 
 butter is stirred into the bowl as well. Then, with much sifting 
 and stirring, flour is added until the dough can no longer be 
 stirred with a spoon. 
 
 This large lump of dough is now divided into parts which 
 are received by the waiting sisters. Each one kneads, over and 
 over and over, her lump of dough. And when it is finally well 
 blistered with air bubbles, it is rolled into a sheet the thickness 
 of a very thin cookie. Finally this sheet is spread over a baking 
 sheet in the perfection of its unbaked state. 
 
 Now a preacher takes the inch-wide marking stick and 
 with the dull side of a knife he marks the rolled sheet into 
 creased strips. Another preacher takes up a five-tined fork 
 and perforates each division with careful precision from end 
 to end. 
 
 The oven, heated exactly right and tested by a sister 
 
 122 
 
thrusting her hand into its chasm for a moment, now receives 
 the pans of bread from the hands of one of the brethren. 
 
 All the while there has been no light conversation to 
 break the solemnity of this occasion of the baking of the 
 unleavened bread. It is a serious business in more ways than 
 one. The fact is that the communion bread as the German 
 Baptist Brethren bake it is not only sacred but it is delicious. It 
 has a marvelous flavor all its own. 
 
 When the time of eating comes, this bread will not only 
 represent the broken body of Jesus but it will also be tasted 
 expectantly and with a fine appreciation for its own delectable 
 quality. 
 
 An outsider knows that it is a rare privilege to be allowed 
 a taste of this precious bread, and that such taste will come 
 only in secret through a friend in the church. 
 
 After each love feast the children of the members rush to 
 their mothers begging for a bite from one of the left-over ends. 
 Even such a favor is hard to find in the early years. In later 
 years, however, the next generation of elders will smile down 
 on the uplifted faces of the little children, and will slip each 
 of them a piece of the sacred bread. 
 
 "I've tried making up a batch at home, just for my children 
 to eat," says Mary Gibson. "But it never tastes like it does at 
 the love feast." 
 
 "It can't," says Susie Brubaker. "It can't taste the same 
 unless it's been blessed." 
 
 The years will soon come when the menfolk will cease 
 to help in the preparation of this communion bread. But the 
 accomplishment of making and baking it will be passed from 
 one generation to another and will be practiced with skill by 
 many sisters even in the middle of the twentieth century. How 
 much longer, only the Lord knows. 
 
 When the announcements are made at the close of the 
 four-o'clock examination service on the day of the love feast, 
 Preacher Cullen Gibson stands and says, "Brethren, the Good 
 Book says in Proverbs 12:10 that 'a righteous man regardeth 
 the life of his beast.' Now there is hay out on the grounds and 
 
 123 
 
there's plenty of corn to pass out at the south cellar window. 
 Be sure and help yourselves." 
 
 Passing the corn from the basement window to the guests 
 who have come with teams is the task assigned to the teen-age 
 boys. Through all the years every boy whose parents are 
 members at Pleasant Hill will take his turn passing corn 
 through the window as a part of the hospitality of the church. 
 
 Running home from school, the children who pass the 
 church will for many years pop into the basement on love-feast 
 day. They know that if Sam Ridgeway is there turning the 
 beef with his four-foot fork he will slip a generous hunk of 
 the meat into the dinner bucket of each of them. 
 
 With his eyes twinkling, his bald head glistening, and his 
 huge black beard covering his chest, he'll say, "There you 
 are, boys. Now scat along with you before we get caught." 
 
 Although the Brethren are given to joyous singing and 
 devout and frequent amen's during a sermon or a prayer, they 
 are really quiet worshipers. 
 
 Now they are startled when among the visitors who come 
 to Pleasant Hill there are the Wormwood girls, very surely old 
 maids in the blunt classification used in this day when career 
 girls are unknown. The singing and the praying bring out 
 their strong and exuberant Methodist "Hallelujah! Praise the 
 Lord! Yes, Lord! Hallelujah!" 
 
 The Brethren frown on this religious enthusiasm. They 
 believe with Paul that everything should be "done decently and 
 in order." 
 
 They frown even more when Tom Vancil comes into the 
 church at the revival following the love feast. Mr. Vancil has 
 come through a terrific spiritual battle. He is supposed to be 
 the author of an anonymous letter in the newspaper in which 
 he has said, "I have been accused of denying Christianity. But 
 if there is a man or woman in this troublesome world that 
 cares anything for my soul, let them know that I am in great 
 trouble over the King James translation of the Holy Bible. 
 But I do love Christianity." 
 
 Mr, Vancil now surrenders this struggle at Pleasant Hill 
 
 124 
 
and he gets to his feet following his baptism shouting sincere 
 shouts of joy. 
 
 One of the good members jumps up and says, "Now we 
 can't have this, brother. Not in the meetinghouse." 
 
 But another member speaks and says, "I say if the brother 
 feels like shouting, let him shout." 
 
 In February of this year the ice had been broken on the 
 baptismal pool and John Shull, Charles Brubaker, Peter Frantz, 
 Everett Brubaker, and David and Preston Gibson were baptized. 
 Tonight they are at the Lord's table for the first time. This is 
 a glorious answer to Mary Gibson's prayers. A group of boys 
 growing up together seem to turn their natural energies to 
 mischief. Their decisions to take up the Christian life should 
 give direction to their activities. Mary decides to urge again 
 that the congregation open a prayer meeting at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 1888: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, June 5 
 
 Chester Melvin has graduated from Mt. Morris. 
 
 The year 1888 has been brought into a swift existence by the 
 conveyor belt of time. It is now apparent that changes are 
 coming with perceptible precision. 
 
 The Brethren at Pleasant Hill are aware that the Otter 
 congregation at Stirrup Grove has found that its members 
 have vanished from its territory to the west. Its meetinghouse 
 is far away from its members, who are locating nearer Girard 
 and Virden and adjacent to Pleasant Hill. 
 
 Now it is a piece of interesting news to hear that on January 
 9 the West Otter membership has purchased from C. A. Woolley 
 a plot of ground just three and one-half miles west of the 
 Pleasant Hill crossroad. 
 
 The menfolk prepare at once to roll the large meetinghouse 
 from Stirrup Grove to its new location while the ground is 
 frozen. And because the spring communion cannot be held 
 at West Otter as usual, it is planned to hold one at Pleasant 
 Hill in April. 
 
 125 
 
When April 20 arrives, the usual beautiful day is missing. 
 Throughout the afternoon, clouds roll in from the four corners 
 of the horizon, and by night there is a steady downpour that 
 brings a miserable drenching to those who are arriving by wagon 
 from a distance. 
 
 The rain pours in a deluge during the meeting with much 
 crashing of thunder and vivid lightning flashes. 
 
 Looking out into the rain-washed night after the service 
 is over, Henry Frantz says, "I always come to the love feast, 
 rain or shine, mud or dry. But this is the worst night I've 
 ever seen at communion time." 
 
 The members living near by make it a special point to 
 invite the people who have little protection from the storm 
 as overnight guests. One team refuses to start out over the 
 unfamiliar roads. Elder Harshbarger calls his stepson and says, 
 "Ezra, pull ofif your shoes and roll up your trousers, and lead 
 this man's team over to our place." 
 
 It proves to be quite a problem for several to reach home 
 on this night. George and Rebecca Gibson have a trusty team 
 which carefully picks its way home through the darkness. When 
 nearly home they must cross a bridge over Mill Creek. George 
 can hear the roll of the water in the flooded stream. The horses 
 stop of their own accord, and no amount of coaxing will move 
 them over the bridge. Presently a flash of belated lightning 
 reveals to George that the bridge has been washed away. 
 
 "Thank God," says Rebecca, "that we were driving a 
 trusty team." 
 
 Chester Melvin Vaniman graduates from Mt. Morris this 
 spring. He brings his class picture home with him, and Louisa 
 looks at it again and again. Such nice young people they are, 
 and two of President Royer's daughters are in the group, wearing 
 pretty white dresses made with clusters of little flowers at their 
 throats. And Chester Melvin, so elegant in his new broadcloth 
 suit and white bow tie. 
 
 But Louisa knows that her son is a friendly young man 
 in spite of his style. "Be friendly to everyone," she had 
 admonished him when he had first gone away to college. 
 
 126 
 
"Never slight anyone intentionally. You might ignore the 
 very person you will need most as a friend someday." 
 
 And the day will come when Melvin is halfway around the 
 world that he will remember this advice from his wise little 
 mother at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 At Deacon John Brubaker's the daughter, Lizzie, has in 
 this summer startled her family by announcing, "Well, I guess 
 it's plain now. I'm going to be an old maid, for sure. I've broken 
 my engagement to Frank Huber. Five years he's kept me 
 dangling, and — " 
 
 "Good for you, Lizzie!" shouts her brother, Isaac. "If a 
 man can't make up his mind in that length of time he doesn't 
 love you anyway. As for being an old maid, well — I'm sure a 
 pretty girl like you wouldn't be called an old maid at college. 
 Now's the time for you to go to Mt. Morris." 
 
 "I agree with you," says Lizzie as she turns to her father. 
 "I've stayed by you a long time, Pa," she says. "And I've been 
 glad to do this for you, with Mother being sick so much. But 
 now I think it's time for me to go." 
 
 Now with the promise of the position of cook at the college 
 secure in a letter from President Royer folded in the pages of 
 her Bible, Lizzie is packing her trunk. She sings in happy 
 anticipation as she folds her plain dresses, not made with capes 
 and aprons but all styled with the touch of a white edge on 
 the collar, a dainty distinction in Lizzie's attire for half a 
 century. 
 
 Once at Mt. Morris Lizzie enjoys using her culinary skill 
 in cooking for ninety students, frying corn-meal mush for 
 breakfast and cooking nutritious dinners and filling suppers on 
 the meager food allowance provided by the management. And 
 if J. G. Royer comes to the kitchen in an investigating mood 
 and sees large, plump prunes on hand, he takes them back to the 
 store and exchanges them for small, cheap ones. 
 
 No matter how busy she finds herself, Lizzie enjoys the 
 educational atmosphere of the college and drinks here and 
 there of the cultural things that spill over into her few leisure 
 hours. 
 
 At home, Martha, barely seventeen, shoulders the responsi- 
 
 127 
 
bilities of the household, baking twelve loaves of bread twice 
 a week — to say nothing of pies and cakes. She must wash and 
 iron for the menfolk, each of whom expects to wear an 
 immaculate white stiff-bosomed shirt to church every Sunday. 
 
 Martha tries not to complain as she spares her mother 
 all the heavy work. Her brothers are good to her and take 
 her to every singing that is announced. But the most happy 
 event of all has now occurred, because that dashing young man, 
 Isaac Harshbarger, has recently brought her home from meeting. 
 
 Happy thoughts pinpoint her map of days. She is happy, 
 too, for her cousin, Elma Brubaker, who, on December 27, 
 becomes the bride of Ezra H. Brubaker, lately of Kansas. 
 
 Elma is grateful that this young man will even consent to 
 proceed with their contemplated marriage after a most 
 humiliating episode in the hospitality of her father's house. 
 
 It was on a recent cold and stormy evening, and Ezra 
 was invited to remain as a house guest rather than face the 
 storm in returning to his boarding place. 
 
 "Which room will you give him, Mother?" Elma had 
 asked. 
 
 "The northeast room," was her mother's answer. "We'll 
 get the room ready after supper." 
 
 The table was graced with an array of foods, both fancy 
 and plain. The young hired man, named Ralph Chandler, was 
 at the table too, and in his bashfulness he had pointed to one 
 of the bowls on the table and said, "Pass that stuff." 
 
 Sister Brubaker flared in defense of her culinary skill, 
 "Thank you, Mr. Chandler. I don't serve stuff! That's peach 
 cobbler." 
 
 Mr. Chandler had blushed brick red, but when morning 
 came it was Sister Brubaker's turn to blush. 
 
 "Good morning," she had greeted her intended son-in-law 
 as he came into the kitchen, where breakfast was being prepared. 
 "How are you this morning?" 
 
 "Well," Ezra had replied, "I'm all right, I guess. It was 
 pretty cold up there." His eye had a twinkle that Sister 
 Brubaker did not notice as she shoved a pan of biscuits into 
 the oven. 
 
 128 
 
"Cold?" she asked. "Didn't you have enough comforts? 
 Didn't — " Sister Brubaker paused with a fork in midair, and 
 her face assumed a caught-cat expression as she turned to her 
 daughter. 
 
 "Elma," she demanded, "didn't you make up that bed?" 
 
 Elma was horrified. "No, Mother. I thought — oh, Mother— 
 I supposed you had made it up!" 
 
 So no one had prepared the bed in the northeast room. 
 And Ezra had found there only a sheet shrouding the plump 
 straw tick. He had slipped into the hall and gotten his 
 overcoat and though it had not been a comfortable night, he 
 figured that he had certainly gotten a good joke on his 
 bride-to-be. 
 
 1889: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, May 1 
 
 Daniel's are moving to Kansas. How we will miss 
 them. 
 
 The winter has been very cold but this has not hindered several 
 of the young people from being baptized at Pleasant Hill. Just 
 before the New Year, Martha Shull received the sacred rite. 
 Now Andrew Hutchison, a famous Brethren evangelist, holds a 
 revival meeting in January, following which Charles Frantz, 
 Emma Stutsman, Alpheus Brubaker, Asa Neher, Everett 
 Brubaker, and Clara Shull are immersed. 
 
 This revival stirs a great interest in the community, and 
 often if the weather is clear folks walk out from Girard or 
 Virden to share in the inspiration. 
 
 As the Friday night of the Pleasant Hill school literary 
 program approaches, Elder Harshbarger suggests that Mr. 
 Lynch, the teacher, should call off his program so that there 
 might be no conflict with the church. His suggestion is 
 seconded by several of the members. But the evangelist says, 
 "Why, that won't be necessary at all. We'll set the service at 
 the meetinghouse a half hour early. The school can set theirs 
 a half hour late, and we'll have both." 
 
 129 
 
The young people love Brother Hutchison for this broad- 
 minded solution to the conflict. "How wonderful it is," they 
 tell each other, "to have such an approval of our interests coming 
 from a leader in the church." 
 
 The frequent admonitions in the church council against 
 pride and the foolish fashions of the world, and against the 
 ballot box, are disturbing to the young people who are now 
 being baptized. 
 
 Now that they are members they sit in the council and 
 hear the unbrotherly arguments that take place in the meeting- 
 house that has been dedicated to the Lord, and they feel that 
 such attitudes of criticism are surely not pleasing to Him. 
 
 Here is the church which they love, and within its bounds 
 they have promised to work. It stands for all the fine things 
 of life as well as for all basic truth, for the revelation of God, 
 and for salvation through the Lord Jesus Christ. 
 
 "Surely," says Alpheus Brubaker, "the narrow conceptions 
 must give way to larger vision and deeper understanding. It 
 looks like our job is going to be to help make this growth 
 through love. It can't be done through friction." 
 
 It is February when Ezra Frantz, now fourteen years old, 
 wishes to be baptized. The congregation dismisses the service 
 in the meetinghouse and walks across the road to the baptismal 
 pool to observe the rite. 
 
 Ezra takes off his coat and shoes and steps out onto the 
 ice, but his weight will not break it. Preacher Jonathan Brubaker 
 follows, stomping heavily on the inch-thick ice and kicking 
 aside the broken pieces. They clear a spot large enough to 
 permit the immersion of this boy who wishes to be "washed 
 whiter than snow." 
 
 The members who observe know that Ezra will not mind 
 the icy water. But the outsiders shiver for him, mentally and 
 physically, as he kneels and sinks waist deep into the chilly 
 depths around him. 
 
 How can the unsaved be expected to know that vibrating 
 rings of light and love are flowing around the applicant and 
 warming the ice-bound pool? And as this cosmic transformation 
 occurs and Ezra is immersed the three times which the German 
 
 130 
 
Baptist Brethren believe the only right method of baptism, 
 Ezra feels a weight fall from him. Self has gone and Christ has 
 moved in. He feels no declaration of theology. He feels only 
 a simple consciousness of a joy that now he is saved, that he 
 is now a child of God. He will give his testimony yet in far-off 
 1954: "Oh, I was so happy! It was truly the happiest day of 
 my life." 
 
 On St. Valentine's Day, Martha Brubaker, not quite 
 nineteen, is tremulously happy too. Isaac Harshbarger has 
 chosen her, the little Dunker girl, to be his wife. 
 
 The ceremony of marriage is now read for Martha and 
 Isaac by Jonathan Brubaker, and the usual big dinners are given. 
 Martha wears a plainly made woolen dress of lavender-tinged 
 beige for her wedding gown, and a soft purple wool cashmere 
 to the infair dinner. She wears her prayer cap too, with its 
 satin ribbons untied and draped over the bodice of her gown 
 that boasts two dozen pretty mother-of-pearl buttons from throat 
 to belt. Martha will never add the cape and the apron. 
 
 Isaac, at twenty-five, has persistently refused to come into 
 the church and now stands, with his plain bride, in his fashion- 
 able attire of striped trousers and the Prince Albert coat and 
 all of the correct accessories, including a handsome gold watch 
 and chain. 
 
 His wedding gift to his bride is a lovely engraved silver 
 watch with a long silver chain forged of infinitesimal links, 
 which she wears around her neck. Adjusting its tiny guard, 
 she tucks the watch into a little pocket in her bodice. 
 
 There are those of the members who frown on this display 
 of watch and chain as indicating pride. But Martha and her 
 family declare that the watch is useful, that it is of silver and 
 not of gold, and that the commandment of Paul in First Timothy 
 2:9 is in no wise disobeyed. 
 
 In March, Lizzie Gibson becomes the bride of the rising 
 young businessman of Girard, John J. Stowe, who will come into 
 the Brethren membership and give liberally of his time and 
 money to the advancement of the Kingdom. He will be civic 
 minded too, and will receive Theodore Roosevelt's appointment 
 
 131 
 
as postmaster, a position which he will hold for twelve years 
 of service to the community. 
 
 New Brethren families move in from time to time, and 
 here is Christian Roesch coming on a rebound from Kansas. 
 "I wouldn't stay out there," he declares, "if they'd give me 
 the whole state. I got out while I had enough money to get out. 
 Those that stay will be sorry. A crop once in five years. That's 
 all, at the best, out there around Quinter." 
 
 "Isn't that where the Crist boys live?" asks Henry Stutsman. 
 
 "Yes, they are there. Dan bought the land I left. He claims 
 there's a future for those who will tough it out. Maybe he'll 
 be well of? someday, but I don't see it." 
 
 There are many Brethren, however, who do see Kansas 
 as a land of opportunity; and now Elder Daniel Vaniman is 
 one of them. He sees the little Brethren college at McPherson 
 struggling to become established. He has a family of young 
 people facing the desire for higher education and opportunities 
 on new land. 
 
 "And," says the elder, "I like the spirit of the people out 
 there in Kansas. Their confidence in the future is superb. They 
 seem to see the country as it will be twenty, fifty, or even a 
 hundred years from now. They have vision unlimited. The 
 Brethren will grow there." 
 
 So Elder Daniel Vaniman sells his home to Deacon Mike 
 and Mattie Neher and moves to McPherson. His church 
 activities are followed closely by the folks at Pleasant Hill. As 
 the traveling secretary of the General Mission Board of the 
 entire Brotherhood, he will spend many years raising an 
 endowment for the mission cause, and will raise fifty thousand 
 dollars to establish the publishing interests of the church at 
 Elgin, Illinois. He will thus spend the years until 1903, when 
 the word will come to Pleasant Hill that Elder Daniel Vaniman 
 has gone home. 
 
 The human family can accept the natural events of the 
 race. It is the unnatural thing, such as the flood at Johnstown, 
 Pennsylvania, which now occurs on May 4, and sweeps three 
 thousand people to their untimely death through both fire 
 and water, that horrifies the people. 
 
 132 
 
"It is terrible," declares Louisa Vaniman, who reveres 
 Johnstown as the place of her birth. "I reckon it's one more 
 thing that reminds us we should be right with God." 
 
 "In other words," says George, who unfolds another 
 newspaper to read more about the disaster, "you think that we 
 are not right with God." 
 
 "Well," says Louisa, going through the bundle of mail 
 George had brought from town, "we may be like the rich 
 young man; there may be one thing we lack." 
 
 "Mother!" George's voice seems stern. "I read my Bible 
 as well as the newspaper. Don't you think I know what it 
 says? Merely being baptized with a form of water baptism 
 doesn't save anybody. They've got to have something more. I 
 think you and I are having a very profitable life. Now let's 
 trust the Lord and go on being happy, Louisa." 
 
 Louisa says no more. She looks at George and sees him 
 there in his favorite chair. Twenty-three years in Illinois, and 
 George is white headed, and she is no longer a slip of a girl 
 but is a middle-aged lady and on the plump side. They've 
 worked hard and they've prospered. 
 
 George has increased the size of his herds and his barns. 
 He has cattle and horses and mules; Louisa has no idea how 
 many. But if putting first things first means helping others, 
 then George will rate high when the testing time comes. 
 
 1889: Entry in Amanda Snell's Diary, October 31 
 
 Isaac Harshbarger was baptized to-day. Brother Flory 
 is to hold protracted meetings after the love feast. 
 
 Elder Michael Flory, a brother-in-law of Elder Joseph Harsh- 
 barger, moves his family to Illinois in this year. On one Sunday 
 morning they are in attendance at the service at Pleasant Hill 
 for the first time. 
 
 Brother Flory sits at the preachers' table and when the 
 time for the sermon arrives the invitation is extended to him 
 to preach. He arises and with a clear voice and enthusiastic 
 
 133 
 
manner he expounds the Word with intelligent insight and 
 spiritual power. 
 
 The brethren and the sisters stir in their seats and glance 
 at one another with unspoken words that say, "Oh! This man 
 is a fine preacher." And as they listen the hour is gone before 
 they know it. 
 
 Michael Flory is always to be known as a "good preacher." 
 He settles in Girard, farms some, works in the lumberyard, but 
 more and more gives his full time to evangelistic work and 
 the paid ministry of the district mission board. 
 
 "My greatest hope," he will often say, "is to see the church 
 grow in spiritual power, progressing as the problems of mankind 
 require." 
 
 In these years Anna Shull is selling books each summer to 
 earn money for college expenses. She drives her Uncle John 
 H. Brubaker's gentle horse to the buggy, going from home to 
 home and extolling the virtues of the books, which she honestly 
 believes should be in every home. 
 
 One of her favorites is bound in green and gilt and is 
 entitled Bible Readings for the Home Circle. It comprises one 
 hundred sixty-two readings for study and twenty-eight hundred 
 questions on religious topics. Here are the stories of the "falling 
 of the stars" in 1833 and the great "dark day" of 1780. In 
 no uncertain terms the author proves that the end of the 
 world is near. 
 
 The book closes with the fascinating pictured allegory 
 showing Satan playing the chess game of life with Man, and 
 the guardian angel looking on. All of the Dunkers who can 
 spare two dollars and fifty cents buy the book. Now as the 
 children in these homes grow up and become informed about 
 this author's interpretation of the Bible, they will be satisfied 
 or mystified or terrified. With hearts pulsing into their throats 
 they will breath a sigh of relief when Man finally wins the 
 game with Satan. But the total impressions of this book will 
 be as varied as their respective religious natures. 
 
 Martha Harshbarger is deeply religious. She now reminds 
 her young husband, Isaac, that he had promised her that he 
 would come into the church soon if she would marry him. 
 
 134 
 
"Well, I intend to keep my promise," he says to his young 
 wife. "But I'm not going to let anyone say that he brought 
 Isaac Harshbarger into the church. When I come in it's going 
 to be because I've made my own decision, and not because 
 some preacher or some member has brought me in." 
 
 "Then you'll be wise if you don't wait for the series of 
 meetings," says Martha. "You know they've been after you 
 for the last six years, first one and then another. I've heard 
 them talk about you time and time again. The elder's son. And 
 not in the church!" 
 
 "I know," says Isaac with a bitter little laugh. "I'm the 
 prize sinner at Pleasant Hill. I used to run around half the 
 nights of the week. I raced my horses on the road. I dressed 
 like a dandy. I attended the picnics in town and even smoked 
 cigars once in a while. I reckon I'm right smart a sinner." 
 
 "Oh, but, Isaac, you're not bad! You're not bad at all," 
 Martha lovingly hastens to assure him. "Now that you're 
 married and settled down, all you need to do is to be baptized 
 and come into the church." 
 
 Martha sees that Isaac is under conviction, and she pleads, 
 "Isaac, when you swallow your foolish pride and are baptized, 
 I'll be the happiest girl in the world." 
 
 Isaac says no more, but on the following Sunday night 
 he says as they hurry up the brick walk to enter the meeting- 
 house, "Listen, Martha, if Uncle Mike Flory preaches tonight 
 and gives the invitation, I'm going forward." 
 
 Martha is electrified with joy at this declaration, and *he 
 prays fervently that Uncle Mike will preach. Then when he 
 does takes his place at the stand, she prays that he will give an 
 invitation. 
 
 Brother Flory does follow the theme of salvation, and now 
 he announces a hymn number. 
 
 As Isaac turns to the hymn, his uncle at the preacher's stand 
 pleads kindly, in the simple words of the song, "What are you 
 going to do tonight as Jesus knocks at your door? He gently 
 knocks, has knocked before. Let us sing." 
 
 As young Dan Vaniman leads out on the song, Isaac 
 drops the hymnbook into Martha's lap on the first word. 
 
 135 
 
He strides up the aisle and reaches the front of the room almost 
 before the preacher has time to realize that here is a convert 
 waiting for the right hand of fellowship. 
 
 The worshipers are surprised and so happy in their surprise 
 that they can hardly get on with the song. Tears roll down 
 over the cheeks of Elder Joseph, that this, his son, has at last 
 given his best to the Kingdom of God. 
 
 Now it is Friday night, October 31, and the two-day love 
 feast begins tonight. Before the afternoon examination service 
 begins, two young men are ready for the baptismal rite. Isaac 
 Harshbarger goes down into the baptismal pool and his Uncle 
 Mike Flory baptizes him "in the name of the Father, and in 
 the name of the Son, and in the name of the Holy Spirit." Then 
 the minister folds his hands on the head of the new Christian 
 and prays, "Father, look down upon this Thy son who has 
 been buried to arise to a new life in Christ." 
 
 Isaac comes up out of the baptismal waters and joins in the 
 singing: 
 
 Happy day! Happy day! 
 
 When Jesus washed my sins away. 
 
 He taught me how to watch and pray 
 
 And live rejoicing every day. 
 
 Happy day! Happy day! 
 
 When Jesus washed my sins away. 
 
 Until he dies at the age of eighty-five years, Isaac Harsh- 
 barger will sing this song. Driving his team through the 
 quiet of his restful fields, whose atmosphere is not yet agitated 
 with the roar of tractors, he will be heard singing, "Happy day! 
 Happy day! . . ." 
 
 Or carpentering or gardening or at the chores around the 
 home, his song will again be heard: "Happy day! Happy 
 day! . . ." 
 
 Or when he is retired from active work and helps his wife 
 with the lovely flower plantings that bring her the bronze 
 Louis L. Emmerson Memorial from Governor Green of Illinois 
 in 1941, Isaac will still be whistling and singing, "Happy day! 
 Happy day! . . ." 
 
 Or when, at last, too old and crippled to work, he will watch 
 
 136 
 
Martha stitching with exquisite skill the lovely quilts that go into 
 homes in many states, he will often burst into snatches of 
 singing: "Happy day! When Jesus washed my sins away." 
 
 The second of the two applicants baptized on this day is 
 the young man, Dayton Ohmart. 
 
 "Isaac," says Dayton, "when I heard you were going to be 
 baptized I said to my wife, 'Susan, I can't put it ofr" any longer. 
 If Isaac is going to be baptized I will too.' " 
 
 "You shouldn't have waited on me," says Isaac. "I might 
 have waited too long." 
 
 "I've always looked to you as an example," says Dayton. 
 
 Now he too comes up out of the water, his face aglow with 
 the joy of salvation. Isaac reaches out and grips him by the 
 hand, and Dayton grips Isaac's and declares, "Isaac, now we are 
 brothers. Full brothers in Christ." And as long as these two 
 shall live their friendship will be graced with the perfect bond 
 of Christian love that is more than any bond on earth. And 
 there will never be anything that they will not do for each 
 other or for the church. 
 
 Elder Michael Flory holds a two-week protracted meeting 
 after the love feast and there are ten more baptisms, Ezra 
 H. Brubaker being among the number. 
 
 As a result of this year's visit by the deacons among 
 the Brethren, the congregation assembled in regular council 
 accepts a paper in which Mary Gibson, for the third time, 
 petitions for a prayer meeting to be held on a weekday evening. 
 The membership listens to the new preacher, Michael Flory, 
 speak a good word for the idea. With his sanctioning influence 
 the paper is passed with the understanding that the meeting 
 will not be called a prayer meeting as in the other denominations, 
 but it is to be called a social meeting. 
 
 When spring comes and the spring thaw sets in, and the 
 roads become bottomless strips of mire, the attendance at all 
 night meetings falls to zero. Since long hard hours of farm 
 work are ahead, the social meetings become an activity that is 
 to be carried on only after the work is done in the fall. 
 
 The church council now also shows progress in its attitudes 
 by sanctioning the meetinghouse as a proper and good place 
 
 137 
 
for the singing school. The only proviso in the agreement is 
 that the school must furnish its fuel, and that the pupils must 
 sing only from a hymnal or a gospel songbook. 
 
 This is satisfactory to Mr. Joseph Lowdermilk, the present 
 teacher, and one of the largest singing schools ever to be held 
 in the community now moves from the schoolhouse to the 
 meetinghouse. 
 
 Although many women take part in the singing schools, it 
 is seldom considered proper for them to lead public singing. 
 Never are they allowed to lead in the church services, but they 
 are now occasionally being allowed to be choristers of the Sunday 
 school. Actually, leading the song service is considered a man's 
 job, and at present young Dan Vaniman is one of the most 
 frequent leaders in the congregation. 
 
 The Sunday-school classes are large in these years. Little 
 Mary Ann Brubaker, having now completed two years of 
 Bible and literary studies at Mt. Morris, becomes one of the 
 favorite teachers among the teen-agers and the young people. 
 
 "Little Mary Ann really knows the Bible," says one. 
 
 "And she really believes it," says another. 
 
 Through the years one or another of the folks at Pleasant 
 Hill will gladly pay compliments to the constant inspiration of 
 "little Mary Ann" to those around her. 
 
 Often suffering with pain in her curved spine, she yet 
 laughs with those who laugh and weeps with those who weep. 
 She loves and appreciates the arts and literature. She will 
 make fortunate investments in real estate and will have adequate 
 funds to be independent. She will handle cap goods for the 
 Brethren sisters, and they will come to her for miles to buy of 
 her supplies. Even through the mails the sisters of the church 
 will order of Miss Mary A. Brubaker fine tarlatans and sheer 
 bobbinets from which to make their prayer caps — materials that 
 in the fashionable areas of the world are being used for the 
 jeweled, glittering gowns of the stage and of the drawing 
 rooms of the wealthy social circles. But the old adage is "What 
 people do not know does not hurt them." 
 
 The dedication of a given article by a given person to 
 a given purpose is now waiting to be applied with profit by 
 
 138 
 
the Brethren. If only they were willing to adopt this principle, 
 as yet so widely unrecognized by them, it would simplify a 
 number of problems. 
 
 A deep agitation over the wearing of gold now comes 
 alive at Pleasant Hill. As the people everywhere become 
 educated to the new possibilities in the scientific development 
 of the optical lens, more and more people are beginning to 
 wear eyeglasses as a constant part of themselves. Not the 
 half-lens, steel-rimmed affairs that many of the older folks 
 are wearing, halfway down on their noses for near-sight work, 
 but full corrective lenses in gold frames that will leave no 
 green and black corrosion marks on their faces. 
 
 Now a few of the members turn to First Timothy 2:9 and 
 read Paul's admonishment against wearing gold or pearls or 
 costly array. Because they see the Bible as a book of do's and 
 dont's, they are determined that not even gold-framed 
 spectacles can be allowed among the faithful members, much 
 less gold watches. 
 
 Out of such trials, patience and understanding and long- 
 suffering must come. The deep abiding faith that cannot be 
 shaken must be developed by those who are being criticized 
 because they see the larger basic truths. 
 
 In Mary and James Gibson's family, several are now wearing 
 permanent gold-rimmed spectacles, and in spite of those who 
 attempt to compel them to conform to the order of the Annual 
 Meeting, they strive to be patient. 
 
 Mary Gibson knows no greater joy than teaching the little 
 tots' class there in the little kitchen at the meetinghouse. If 
 the children get restless, she holds their attention with one of 
 the adventurous Old Testament stories. Having no knowledge 
 of future trends in child training, Mary teaches these stories as 
 they were written and understood in the ancient days when 
 the Jewish writers had first recorded their sacred history. 
 
 Young Edgar Gates listens to the God-guided war records 
 of Israel from his Aunt Mary's lips. Many years later he will 
 say, when he is a captain in the army of the United States in 
 that war that will be known as World War I, "This is a holy 
 war. We are fighting it to make democracy live. God is on 
 
 139 
 
our side just as He was in the days of Israel. I'll never forget 
 how Aunt Mary Gibson taught us there at Pleasant Hill those 
 wonderful old stories of God helping His people. Of God on 
 the side of right." 
 
 Five-year-old Vernon Vaniman and his cousin Herbert 
 sit in Mary Gibson's class too. And here, at this tender age, 
 they receive an insight into deeper things. They hear their 
 teacher tell the terrifying story of the prophet Elisha, and in 
 her own melodramatic way she gives the instance of the 
 children who ridiculed Elisha and cried to him, "Go up, thou 
 bald head; go up, thou bald head." "Then," says Mary, "because 
 those children were so very, very naughty and had made fun 
 of one of God's prophets, two big old she-bears came out of 
 the woods and killed forty-two of them." 
 
 The boys gulp in surprise, and Vernon looks at Herbert, and 
 Herbert looks at Vernon. Then Vernon says, looking his 
 teacher straight in the eye, "I don't believe a word of that." 
 
 This characterization of the deeds of God even these 
 little boys cannot accept, and it stirs within them a desire 
 which grows as they grow, a desire to find the truth behind the 
 words in the sacred account of man's search for God and of 
 God's revelation to man. This questing spirit will find good 
 answers. And when Herbert and Vernon are grown, and 
 Herbert is Brethren and Vernon is Baptist, they will be typical 
 of the strongest, most vigorous laymen in the work of the 
 Kingdom. 
 
 This year does not close without the happy news being 
 received at Pleasant Hill that a marriage is solemnized on 
 December first for Elder Javan Gibson of West Otter and 
 the widow of the late Elder Abram Lear of Montgomery County. 
 Thus two fine Brethren families are brought together, and more 
 than ever their young people will mingle with those at Pleasant 
 Hill. 
 
 Laura Lear will find her romance with Everett Brubaker 
 here at Pleasant Hill, and in 1899 she will be married to this 
 young man, who will serve as a deacon and as a missionary 
 director of the district for many years. She will take modest 
 pride in raising a large family, all active in the Church of the 
 
 140 
 
Brethren. And in that future day of 1954 this couple will rejoice 
 with their grandson whose name will be listed in the College 
 Who's Who of America — Gene Fahs of Manchester College, 
 also raised at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 John Lear, now nineteen, stands tall and dignified. He has 
 a keen sense of responsibility and a serious turn of mind, and 
 now that his mother is going to a new home he feels that he is 
 free to become independent, to get a job, and to save his own 
 money as he makes his own way. He comes now to the 
 Brethren at Pleasant Hill and makes his home among them 
 in the summer and turns to teaching school as a profitable 
 winter occupation. 
 
 1890: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, August 10 
 J. G. Royer from Mt. Morris ate dinner with us today. 
 
 The economic status of the farmers now involves new problems. 
 More and more each year, George Vaniman is helping those 
 who need a lift. He often loans cash, and, in the old Dunker 
 way, he sometimes loans it without a promissory note. Among 
 the Brethren, their word continues to be as good as their bond. 
 Among the outsiders, by whom George is widely known, he 
 often hears a man say, "I need a cow ... a team ... a plow 
 ... a mower." Then George buys the needed article and sends 
 word for the man to come and get it. 
 
 "Pay me when you can," says George. "And if you can't 
 pay me in a reasonable time, just return it as if it had only 
 been borrowed." 
 
 Sometimes Elmer doubts the wisdom of his father's free- 
 handed policies. Sitting around the base-burner one day, Elmer 
 asks, "Are you sure, Father, that it's good policy to let so much 
 property go away unaccounted for?" 
 
 "It's always good policy to help those who need help," 
 declares George. "And it's always good to encourage the 
 discouraged. That takes deeds as well as words." 
 
 Presently George continues: "Tomorrow morning, Elmer, 
 
 141 
 
I want you to get up and go after those hogs I bought today, 
 and I want you to go before breakfast." 
 
 "Before breakfast," objects Elmer. "Why then?" 
 
 "I've a suspicion," George explains, "that if we don't go 
 before breakfast, those hogs will be filled." 
 
 "But that man is a good member of the church," Elmer says. 
 
 "Yes," says George, "he is. But you go before breakfast 
 anyway." 
 
 Elmer follows his father's instructions, and, as he drives 
 into the lot of the man who has sold the pigs, the man is 
 indeed hurrying through the lots with large buckets of water, 
 and is indeed in the act of "filling" the hogs. 
 
 "You see what I mean?" says George later. "But you see 
 everyone has his temptations, Son. First we must look out for 
 our own, and sometimes we must sort of look out for the other 
 fellow's too." 
 
 George goes about his work reflecting on many of the 
 ways of men that are good and that are bad. He reflects on all 
 of the sermons he has heard preached, and on all of the songs 
 he has heard sung, and he is sure that one can seldom say that 
 a man is good or bad. Certainly it can be only the Lord who 
 knows. 
 
 Somehow George can feel neither a special desire for heaven 
 nor a special fear of hell. He is too busy looking after all of 
 the opportunities around him, here and now, to think of that 
 unknowable future. Anyway, what is heaven and what is 
 hell? Isn't it within you? That's what Jesus says in the Bible 
 George reads. 
 
 J. G. Royer comes from Mt. Morris to Pleasant Hill almost 
 every summer, urging the parents in the Brethren congregation 
 to educate their children by sending them to this Brethren school. 
 
 A few in the membership, even yet, are sure that the college 
 is leading the young people away from the truth and the purity 
 and the simplicity of the faith which the Annual Meeting has 
 ruled is right. 
 
 "You'd think," says Nicholas Brubaker, "that we are 
 supposed to obey the Annual Meeting in place of the Bible. 
 Now I think the Annual Meeting should be made by the 
 
 142 
 
members, not the members be made by the Annual Meeting." 
 
 J. G. Royer is a great and alert soul, and he sees the future 
 demands of this growing nation, the United States of America. 
 He realizes the vision that nothing can stop this land from 
 becoming great, and the Brethren can do no less than to become 
 great within it. He sees the enviable positions of Christian 
 leadership in society as a whole, and he clearly hears the voice 
 of prophecy say, "The Brethren must keep up with this advance 
 of civilization. They must be a part of it. They must contribute 
 to it." 
 
 As he talks to the folks at Pleasant Hill, he says, "Change 
 must come. Except a grain of wheat die, it cannot live again. 
 We must prepare the soil, plant the seed, and expect new life. 
 It will be better to cultivate that change than to try to stop it. 
 To stop it will be death to the church." 
 
 Moses Brubaker's son Jonathan has been attending Mt. 
 Morris in previous years. Now, on August 14, he is united in 
 holy matrimony to President Royer's daughter Nettie and moves 
 away, never again to reside at Pleasant Hill. He too will 
 become a Brethren minister and elder in California. 
 
 "I'm happy for them," says Lizzie Brubaker. "They make 
 a wonderful couple. And I'm happy for myself that I'm going to 
 Mt. Morris this year as a student and not as the cook." 
 
 Both Lizzie and her brother, Isaac N., are eager to be off 
 to school again; and John Lear is another who is going this fall. 
 
 Lizzie is teased a great deal by her brothers and now they 
 demand, "What about this J. Z. Gilbert who's been paying 
 you so much attention at Mt. Morris? Are you going to marry 
 him?" 
 
 "Well," says Lizzie, blushing prettily, "I reckon if I were 
 I wouldn't tell you." 
 
 Lizzie's charming personality and her gracious manner do 
 win many friends to her side, and this year while at Mt. Morris 
 she will live in the home of D. L. Miller, the Brethren traveler 
 and lecturer, and assist in the housework for her board. She 
 will join the Philatorian Society, of which she will be the 
 secretary, and W. I. T. Hoover and J. Z. Gilbert will be the 
 other officers with her. 
 
 143 
 
Lizzie's literary efforts in this year's English class include 
 a true human-interest story, in which she relates the tale of a 
 long wagon journey made by eight unmarried young couples 
 from Pleasant Hill. 
 
 Riding in two spring wagons behind good road horses, 
 these young people had set out for Liberty, Illinois, a distance of 
 ninety-five miles, to attend a love feast with the Dunkers at 
 that place. The miles receded in a steady fashion and food 
 disappeared from the huge hampers to satisfy hearty appetites. 
 
 Evening of the first day found them over halfway to their 
 destination, and a Brother Lewis and his family gave them 
 sleeping room in their spacious home for the night. 
 
 After enjoying the love feast on the evening of the second 
 day, the group decided that since they were so near the "Father 
 of Waters" they should see it. Accordingly the drivers headed 
 their teams toward Quincy, twenty miles farther from home. 
 
 The fun of crossing and re-crossing the Mississippi River 
 by ferry, the antics of the clown of the crowd, who lost his 
 lady's parasol by dropping it into the river, and the arrival 
 at home on the fourth day, late— very late— concluded the 
 story. Certainly when the story is told in the afteryears the 
 first remark by her daughters will be "Oh! Was your mother 
 worried about you?" 
 
 Charles Brubaker is now the missionary solicitor at 
 Pleasant Hill. As he goes from family to family collecting the 
 freewill offerings which the members see fit to donate to the 
 cause of missions, he turns the coins which he receives over in 
 the palm of his hand and considers them and the cause for 
 which they have been given. 
 
 He reflects with a great deal of conviction that although 
 this phase of missionary endeavor is a worth-while beginning, 
 there is little reason to feel good over giving a little money 
 to rescue the perishing. Or to feed the hungry. Or to heal the 
 sick. Do not such charities tend, very often, to obscure all 
 ignorance and the evils and injustices permitted by the people? 
 Should not real charity, real love for mankind, remove the 
 conditions that make superstition and beggary and disease? 
 Charles is a deep thinker, and as he considers this subject 
 
 144 
 
he discusses it in the family circle which often lingers around 
 the table. 
 
 The hired girl gets the meals on the table, but it is always 
 a question just when she may get the dishes washed. The 
 boys are certain to be discussing some subject pertaining to the 
 school or church, or to travel or literature. 
 
 When they are at home, Isaac and Nicholas keep up a 
 running exchange of thoughts that intrigues Charles and 
 Alpheus. 
 
 Nicholas is teaching this school year in a school near 
 Auburn. He is studying Latin under the tutoring of Mr. 
 Remine, the principal of the Auburn high school. 
 
 "When I once start to college," says Nicholas, "I'm going 
 to go a long time. I plan to qualify for the opening examinations 
 in a university one of these days. How will that be, Mother?" 
 Nicholas looks at his mother, Mary, with an affectionate twinkle 
 in his eye — Mary, always wearing her familiar three-cornered 
 kerchief tied over her head. 
 
 Mary looks at all four of these sons in turn, all so young, 
 so eager, so alive. 
 
 "What can I say to any of you?" she says, with tears in 
 her eyes. "You talk of things I know nothing about, and you 
 are going out into a life that I can in no wise imagine. The 
 only thing that I know is the Bible. The most that I can say is 
 that I expect each of you always to read the Bible, love God, 
 and do right no matter where you are." 
 
 "Oh, Mother, Mother, we'll always try to do that. Don't 
 you worry." And N. J. lays his arm in a loving caress around 
 his mother's stooped shoulders and gives her a little hug. 
 
 "No, Mother, don't you worry," echo the other boys. And 
 somehow though she is often terribly concerned, Mary keeps 
 her sons wrapped in the security of humble trusting prayer. Her 
 letters will follow them to the ends of the earth, written in 
 the cramped style of the early days, and her closing words will 
 always be: "Wishing you God's greatest blessings, — your mother, 
 Mary Brubaker." 
 
 Nicholas has on hand a book which few Dunkers would 
 approve of. His questing mind is reaching into the whys and 
 
 145 
 
the hows of science that have intrigued him since he came into 
 his teens. 
 
 This book, Comstock's Geology, published in 1834, gives 
 the information that hypothetical geologists require more time 
 for the creation than is allowed by Moses in his account in 
 Genesis. It gives at great length the theories of learned men 
 who believe that Moses is in error. 
 
 Yet the author declares in his final conclusion that the 
 Bible is true, that men may speculate with safety on the changes 
 the universe suffered while it was "without form and void and 
 darkness was upon the face of the deep," and bring to their aid 
 any millions of ages which they wish; and that violent con- 
 vulsions that shook the earth to its center certainly could, and 
 did, take place. 
 
 As Nicholas reads he underlines the passage that says 
 that "it is to be regretted that any interpreters of Scripture 
 should torture the Hebrew into so many vexing renderings." 
 And Nicholas decides that he will read the Hebrew for himself 
 someday. Certainly no theoretical arguments can ever shake 
 his firm conviction that both the Bible and science can be made 
 to fit into the plans of God and of man. And though he does 
 not know it now, Nicholas will read the Bible in seven 
 languages. He will further his knowledge in the universities of 
 Los Angeles, California, receiving various degrees, but never 
 will his faith in the Bible and its message be shaken — the faith 
 and the message which he learned at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 1890: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, November 1 
 
 Vernon, my baby, has started to school. Lavina and 
 Abe Bowman have bought her father's place. 
 
 The time has come in Joseph Filbrun's life when he wishes to 
 retire from the active work on his large farm. Most of the 
 children have married and left home. Only the youngest are 
 still at home with their parents. 
 
 146 
 
"I'd like to buy the home place," says Lavina Bowman. "But 
 Abe isn't well since he had that sunstroke. We might not be 
 able to pay for it." 
 
 Needing to talk to someone about the proposition, she goes 
 to George Vaniman for advice. 
 
 "The coal is there," says George. "Go ahead and buy the 
 place and then sell the coal. That will put you where you can 
 pay for the land. It will take hard work and good managing, 
 but you can do it." 
 
 So Lavina Bowman buys a large acreage of her father's 
 farm. "I hate to see you go back to Ohio, Pap," says Lavina. 
 "You're leaving most of your children married and settled here 
 at Pleasant Hill." 
 
 "But you didn't stay Old Order with me," says Joseph. "And 
 since I wish to worship as my conscience directs me I'm going 
 back to Ohio where my brethren are. You children will have to 
 go your own way." 
 
 "It's strange," says George Vaniman to Louisa. "I keep 
 thinking about Joe Filbrun. He brought a lot of money with 
 him to Illinois. Now he's taking even more away. But with 
 all his thrift and business ability he never sold his coal rights." 
 
 "And it's lucky for Lavina that he didn't," declares Louisa. 
 
 It is lucky for Lavina. Here another woman will show her 
 talent for good business in a day when women are supposed 
 to know nothing of business. Lavina will sell her coal rights. 
 She will build a large new house. She will raise four daughters, 
 all becoming valuable Brethren workers. She will care for her 
 husband, who suffers a tragic illness through long, long years. 
 She will deposit money in the bank and will be known as a 
 wealthy Dunker woman whose business ability is second to none. 
 
 The day, too, will come when she will hear that her father 
 has been killed at a railroad crossing. Believing that even as 
 he had the gift for divining for water he also had now received 
 the divine revelation of the location of a gold mine, he was 
 making a trip to the spot and failed to see the train. 
 
 Lavina will weep for her father. "He was a good man," 
 she will say to Louisa Vaniman. "But he had plenty. He didn't 
 
 147 
 
need the gold if it were there— which I doubt. It's a pity he 
 had to pass on in such a tragic way." 
 
 Now in this year of 1890, Louisa Vaniman sends her 
 youngest child off to school. She cannot know, as she watches 
 little Vernon ride off on the gentle old mare that she is seeing 
 the child who is going to surpass the agricultural dreams to 
 which George so hopes that one of his boys will be devoted. 
 And when Vernon tries her patience with his mischief, or makes 
 her proud with his polite manners, or challenges her with alert 
 but untried ideas, she does not know that here is a boy whose 
 life will be an unbroken record of devoted service to American 
 agriculture. 
 
 Just now her sympathy goes out to Deacon John Brubaker's 
 family. They have been called to Mt. Morris by a letter from 
 President J. G. Royer, who had written, "Your son, Isaac N. 
 Brubaker, is very ill. I have insisted that he return home until 
 he is better, but he will not give up. Please send for him. I 
 am sure that his condition is serious." 
 
 So Deacon John goes to Mt. Morris and brings the young 
 man home, suffering from a terrible cough. The doctor does 
 all that he knows to do but is helpless and shakes his head, 
 cautioning the family that if it is quick consumption they can 
 anticipate the fatal results. 
 
 "I'm so worried about my brother," says Martha Harsh- 
 barger to her husband, Isaac. "I can see that he's poorly enough 
 to die." 
 
 "We'll hope for the best," says Isaac. "When spring comes 
 and he can get out in the sun, maybe he'll get well in a hurry." 
 
 Then, to cheer his young wife, Isaac says, "Martha, let's 
 buy an organ." 
 
 "An organ?" Martha's eyes light up at once. Then she 
 remembers the attitude of many of the Brethren and especially 
 of her father-in-law, the elder. 
 
 "We couldn't, Isaac," she objects. "Your father would be 
 terribly hurt." 
 
 "Well," says Isaac, "I love music, and I'm going to have it 
 in my home. I think that making music is as right as growing 
 corn, and I reckon Pap won't be too surprised. We'll get a 
 
 148 
 
plain organ. It will cost less anyway, and we don't need a fancy 
 case." 
 
 "But who will play it?" asks Martha, still in doubt. 
 
 "You," says Isaac. "I'll let you take lessons from Virginia 
 Christoe." 
 
 An organ! And music lessons from Miss Virginia Christoe! 
 To Martha, the idea is out of this world. But Isaac is serious, 
 and within a week an organ, not ornate but yet lovely in polished 
 walnut, with a plate-glass mirror over the console and little 
 round brackets on which to set vases or lamps, and with its ebony 
 stops and ivory keys and plush-covered treadles, stands in Isaac 
 Harshbarger's home. 
 
 The appearance of organs in the homes of the Brethren 
 brings admonishments in the church council, but since the 
 Annual Meeting has declared that those who own musical 
 instruments are not to be dismissed from the church, small 
 heed is paid to any effort to hinder the love of good music in 
 the congregation. 
 
 The elder does personally charge his son Isaac with not 
 having a full love for Christ and the church. 
 
 "You're wrong, Pap," says Isaac. "I love the church or I 
 wouldn't have joined it. I respect you and your beliefs, but 
 my generation faces the future. As I see it, things can never 
 be the same from one generation to another. You worked in 
 your time and in your own way. Now, I'll have to work in my 
 time and in my way." 
 
 Elder Harshbarger sighs and realizes that sixty-five years 
 have passed over his head. He is growing old. The problems 
 of the church rest heavily on his shoulders. He had hoped that 
 to have an able assistant like Martin McClure would help him, 
 but all summer long there has been dissension in the congregation 
 because of this man and his differences with various families. 
 Yet Elder Joseph can see no sound reason for the trouble. 
 
 The elder is glad to see that the influence of the congregation 
 is spreading. A committee of the Brethren has now made the 
 necessary arrangements with the Primitive Baptists for the use 
 of their little meetinghouse on the first Sunday evening of 
 
 149 
 
each month. And now, in 1890, the Dunkers hold their first 
 regular preaching services in the city o£ Girard. Certainly 
 this expansion of the work is indicative of a fine spiritual light 
 glowing in the lamps of the membership in spite of lesser 
 differences. 
 
 1891: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, August 6 
 
 I. N. Brubaker was buried today. Too bad. Was such 
 a promising young man. Elmer is getting ready to go 
 to college. 
 There is the sound of weeping in the home of Deacon John 
 Brubaker. Food remains untouched on the table, and the 
 neighbors gather and slip quietly into the house and add their 
 tears to those of the ones who are mourning for Isaac N. 
 Brubaker, who has died at the age of twenty-five. 
 
 The quick consumption has done its work, and finally Jesus 
 has stepped into the room and said, "It is enough. Come up 
 higher, Isaac. I have prepared a place for you. If it were not 
 so I would have told you." 
 
 The meetinghouse is filled with Brethren and friends who 
 have come from the east and the west, the north and the south. 
 J. G. Royer comes from Mt. Morris to preach the funeral, and 
 at the request of the family the custom of congregational singing 
 is set aside. A quartet composed of Melvin, Elmer, and Calvin 
 Vaniman and Abram Harshbarger sing the songs. With 
 beautiful understanding they sing the song I. N. himself had 
 selected, when he had said in those last days, "No sad songs 
 at my funeral, please. Just those of assurance and Christian joy." 
 
 And when I. N.'s voice had become too weak to speak, 
 Alpheus, hovering near, heard his brother whistling softly, 
 many, many times, the melody of the song, It Is Well With 
 My Soul. 
 
 Now the words and tones vibrate from the throats of these 
 young men, his friends: 
 
 150 
 
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, 
 When sorrows, like sea billows roll; 
 Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, 
 It is well, it is well with my soul. 
 
 And there is confidence that it is well with this young 
 Christian's soul. Joe Masterson, another young friend, says at 
 the cemetery, "I. N. certainly fills a Christian's grave." 
 
 Nicholas, terribly shaken with his own grief at giving up 
 this brother who was his closest companion through all their 
 boyhood years, leads Deacon John and Mother Mary from the 
 graveside and says, "We shall see him again on the resurrection 
 morning." 
 
 This is the faith of the Brethren. And the song, It Is Well 
 With My Soul, becomes the family song that will be sung at 
 the funeral services of each of the members of this family 
 as they pass over, one by one. 
 
 Sundays dawn soberly at Pleasant Hill, yet there is a 
 joyous expectancy as well. The soberness must be present, for 
 Sunday is the Lord's Day and is not to be desecrated by undue 
 work or action or noise. The joy is there because, after a week 
 of workdays at home, today there is somewhere to go, or there 
 is the company coming to dinner. 
 
 Saturday has been faithfully spent in making preparation 
 for Sunday. The pantry shelves are loaded with food. Saturday 
 baths have been performed with prompt and decent precision 
 by all, from the youngest to the oldest, although the procedure 
 is fraught with the inconveniences of dragging wooden tubs 
 into the kitchens and heating kettle after kettle of water. 
 
 When the members of the family climb into their rig 
 on Sunday morning they are properly diked out, their somber 
 clothes brushed, their shoes polished, and shirts, prayer caps, 
 and handkerchiefs immaculate and white. 
 
 At church the children do not understand the long sermon, 
 but they do understand the solemnity of the service, the sincerity 
 of the prayers, the joy of the singing, and the sonorous quality 
 of the Scriptures. They understand that here is wholehearted 
 belief, and they sense the holy security experienced in the 
 serious countenances of the members. And their spines tingle 
 
 151 
 
and their heads prickle as an occasional minister preaches with 
 authority on his ideas of hell and the end of the world. 
 
 During the sermons the minds of the young folks are 
 likely to stray. Lovers cast bold glances across the aisle to 
 the women's side of the meeting room, and the young ladies 
 are conscious of these glances. If they are shy they pleat their 
 white handkerchiefs into accordion folds with nervous fingers 
 and pretend they do not see. Or, if one of them is also bold 
 she will meet the lover's gaze with an arched eyebrow and 
 a knowing quirk of the corner of the mouth. And both the 
 boy and the girl hope that the everlastingly watchful eyes of 
 the preachers and the deacons on those benches facing the 
 audience in their constant stare of judgment have not caught 
 this exchange of the sparks of love. 
 
 On the occasions of such sermons there is likely to be an 
 ingathering of souls. In this year John Flory, Mary Miller, 
 Lizzie Stowe, Vida Brubaker, and Moses Brubaker's daughters, 
 Susan and Lydia, are baptized. 
 
 The records of these years are telling the startling fact 
 that although the lists of converts are frequent and sometimes 
 long, the converts are almost exclusively the children of the 
 Brethren. 
 
 Is this then to be the record— that the German Baptist 
 Brethren and their interpretation of the gospel will draw few 
 souls into the Kingdom other than the ones who are born into 
 the Brethren families? 
 
 John Lear and Martha Shull are married on August 16 
 of this year at the home of the bride's sister, Rosella Whitmire, 
 of Virden, and the young couple moves within the West Otter 
 congregation where John has been employed to teach a country 
 school. 
 
 With Elder Martin McClure presiding, the Brethren at 
 Otter Creek now hold a council for the purpose of calling one 
 of their number to preach. When the votes are counted there 
 is an almost equal vote for two, and John Lear stands a close 
 second. 
 
 "Brother McClure," says a brother from the floor, "let's 
 call both of these brethren to preach." 
 
 152 
 
There are several hearty yeas, but the elder is adamant. 
 
 "No," he declares. "One you asked for, and one you get." 
 
 This action is surely a pity, and many of the folks at 
 Pleasant Hill declare, "What a shame! John ought to be 
 preaching. He has the same fine gift his father had." 
 
 Eight years, however, will pass before the call again comes 
 from the church for John Lear to preach— this talented young 
 man, waiting to become a pillar of strength in the Brotherhood. 
 Why? Only the Lord knows. 
 
 In this year Preacher Jonathan Brubaker and his wife, 
 Susan, receive the information that the Gibbel families of the 
 Sugar Creek congregation are moving to California. Preacher 
 Isaac Gibbel has heard the call to a far country, even as did 
 the patriarchs of old, to a land that is new and a place that 
 needs Christian leadership and consecrated wealth. 
 
 The young folks will go too, and tears are shed as Emma 
 Gibbel says good-by to her loved ones at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 "California is a long, long way," says Mother Susan. "We 
 may never see you again." 
 
 "Oh, don't say that, Mother," says Charley Vaniman. 
 "Emma's lucky she can move by train instead of a covered 
 wagon. Why, you can get on the train and go see her sometime." 
 
 Emma's letters are shared with the church friends, and the 
 young people go home and get out the available maps, hunting 
 for those strange Spanish words in the name of the San Jacinto 
 Mountains. Nicholas Brubaker puts his pencil on the spot 
 on the map in Deacon John's big atlas. 
 
 "Here they are," says Nicholas. "About twenty miles from 
 Temecula as the crow flies. Why, Gibbels are in the Ramona 
 country. Have you read Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson?" 
 
 Twenty years have passed, however, since the tragic story 
 of Helen Jackson's famous book reached the American public. 
 Now the American farmers are firmly established in that dry- 
 farming country, and the Brethren are making it their new 
 frontier. And now Emma Gibbel from Pleasant Hill is there. 
 
 The fall of this year sees Nicholas Brubaker taking up 
 his education at Mt. Morris. Melvin Vaniman returns to 
 Valparaiso University in Indiana and Elmer Vaniman and his 
 
 153 
 
cousin, Levi Vaniman, take the train for McPherson, Kansas. 
 "Goodness me," says Louisa, "it's quiet around here. I 
 reckon somehow I've gotten used to Chester Melvin being away 
 but I certainly hope Elmer doesn't stay long." 
 
 "Well," says George as he watches Louisa knead a batch 
 of bread and expertly pinch off light rolls for dinner, "we 
 want all the boys to have a good education. But I'm counting 
 on Elmer coming back to the farm." 
 
 While at McPherson College, Elmer puts faithful hours of 
 training into his vocal music course and into courses in commerce 
 and philosophy. He gets into some high mischief as well and 
 helps put a cow into the attic while celebrating Halloween. 
 Perhaps that is the worst that he does in his moments of fun. 
 The best that he does is to be baptized into the church. 
 Louisa's heart sings with this news and tears of joy moisten 
 her pillow as she turns this event over in her mind. Elmer is 
 in the church. But she and his father are not. Louisa knows 
 that she is going to do something about this soon. It is a thing 
 that she can no longer fight, and only an early decision, 
 without George if necessary, will give her peace of mind. 
 
 George has now been honored with the position of highway 
 commissioner. The roads are terrible more often than not. 
 George rides over the community in his open buckboard drawn 
 by a little white horse, making his plans to drain the many 
 mud holes and to build some new bridges. 
 
 This is a tiring job but it's good to get tired. Then one 
 may have the luxury of rest at the end of the day. In spite of 
 many important things for which he is responsible, George 
 finds time to read a great deal. He now receives his copy 
 of the new Biographical History of Macoupin County in the 
 State of Illinois. It is a heavy volume and very splendid in 
 appearance. 
 
 Thumbing through the book, turning its pages with care, he 
 finally comes to his own biography. He gives these pages a 
 careful reading, then, saying not a word, he turns to the front 
 flyleaf and, reaching for a pen, writes with precision: 
 
 "Oct. 13, 1891. Paid $15.00 for this book. 'Experience is a 
 dear teacher, but fools will have no other. Poor Richard.' " 
 
 154 
 
How can George know that when the year 1954 arrives, his 
 granddaughter, Georgina Vaniman Blair, Elmer's only child, 
 there on the home farm at Pleasant Hill, will read his notation. 
 And how can he know that she will say with a sparkle in her 
 blue eyes, "I wish Grandfather could know that his note in this 
 book is worth $15.00 to me. And I'm sure Grandfather was no 
 fool." 
 
 1892: Entry in S. S. Bruba\ers Diary, January 1 
 
 Willie got married December 2nd. I'm going to help 
 him start up farming. Hope we have a good year. 
 
 The marriage of the popular young couple, Willie Shull and 
 Clara Gibson, took place on December 2 of the past year with 
 the usual fanfare of wedding dinners and many, many guests. 
 This wedding had been happily anticipated by the church 
 folks, and in the establishment of this home the church has 
 gained immeasurable strength which the photo-plates of time 
 will record in proper sequence. 
 
 These expected events make folks happy but a surprise 
 always stirs up excitement. A present surprise comes about 
 when hand-written invitations are now received by many 
 families. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. John Brubaker 
 
 Request your presence 
 
 At the Marriage Ceremony of Their Daughter 
 
 LIZZIE 
 
 At their Residence, Girard, Illinois, 
 
 Sunday Morning 
 
 February 28, 1892 
 
 At Ten-o'clock. 
 
 As these invitations are received and read there is an 
 instant reaction. "Well, for pity-sake! This doesn't name the 
 bridegroom. How queer!" 
 
 The consensus of opinion, however, is that without a doubt 
 it is J. Z. Gilbert. For hasn't everyone attending Mt. Morris 
 
 155 
 
reported that Lizzie and J. Z. are the best of friends? Only 
 Deacon John's family, then, knows that Lizzie has corresponded 
 with a young Brethren widower in Indiana for eight months, 
 that she has met him only once, and that today they are to 
 become man and wife. 
 
 The guests assemble in the living room, and Katie Snell 
 and Martha Harshbarger leave the kitchen and come into the 
 front room to see their older sister join the ranks of the matrons. 
 There is an audible gasp when the couple walks into the 
 room and stands before the officiating minister, and one guest 
 is heard to say in an undertone, "Well, J. Z. Gilbert has certainly 
 changed a lot." 
 
 Lizzie and Jake are beaming with personal happiness and 
 with the fun of the surprise. Everyone takes an immediate 
 liking to the mild-mannered groom, and they recognize in 
 his face the goodliness of the Christian glow that comes from 
 his gentle heart. 
 
 Frank Snell says to Isaac Harshbarger, "Lizzie's got a good 
 man, Isaac. A good man." 
 
 And Isaac agrees and says, "Yes, sir, I think you're right. 
 He'll make a good brother-in-law." 
 
 Jacob L. Minnich is a fine man. Now he takes one of 
 Pleasant Hill's Christian daughters to Indiana with him, and 
 later he will take her to La Verne, California. 
 
 Lizzie packs her trunk to leave her girlhood home, and 
 asks the elder for her church letter to take from her childhood 
 church. Her bouquet of future years will be plucked by the 
 fingers of time, and from the family which becomes hers there 
 will be Hazel Minnich Landis and Modena Minnich Studebaker, 
 who will work faithfully and sacrificially on the Nigeria mission 
 field of the Church of the Brethren. 
 
 There will be the day when the Gospel Messenger of 
 December 6, 1941, will be published, and, turning its pages, 
 Lizzie Brubaker Minnich Vaniman will see her photograph 
 printed on one of its pages and will read the words, the lovely 
 words, Portrait of Mother, Eighty-one Years Old, by Modena 
 Minnich Studebaker, Gar\ida, Africa. 
 
 156 
 
Sabbath morn. 
 
 Sun — shining and golden. 
 
 Mother coming out on the front porch and locking the door, 
 
 Looking sweet and demure as she walks down the steps 
 
 In her plain little bonnet 
 
 And soft plain dress. 
 
 Serene 
 
 She is, and filled with contentment, 
 
 As she takes the few steps which 
 
 Place her at the church door. 
 
 Then she enters in. 
 
 Out in the kitchen 
 
 Bustling around. 
 
 Her wavy graying hair 
 
 Covered by her prayer veil 
 
 And her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. 
 
 Making luscious lemon pies whose 
 
 Fluffy golden tops ooze round, golden drops. 
 
 She has never failed the Ladies' Aid on its sale day yet, 
 
 And she certainly isn't one to begin now! 
 
 Her armchair drawn up close to the radio. 
 
 She listens awhile, then writes on thin, white paper 
 
 To her children, all gone, some of them far away. 
 
 Homey mother love sprinkled generously through all the letters. 
 
 Bits from the radio speaker's advice 
 
 Getting mixed into the letters here and there. 
 
 She smiles as she writes, and rocks. 
 
 Then listens awhile again, then writes. 
 
 Sitting at the quilting frame at 
 
 Ladies' Aid 
 
 Surrounded by her friends of many years. 
 
 Everyone chatting at once as they work. 
 
 (Does anyone take time to listen?) 
 
 Mother does. 
 
 Sitting with a smile on her face 
 
 She listens, as she quilts and quilts. Making 
 
 Long 
 
 Perfect 
 
 Rows. 
 
 157 
 
Stitches so incredibly tiny and precise 
 
 Come from her needle, going patiently and skillfully 
 
 Up and down. 
 
 Up and down. 
 
 In her accustomed pew in her church. 
 
 Joining in the hymns and the 
 
 Prayers. 
 
 Then her face uplifted to the minister 
 
 In sweet attentiveness. 
 
 Finally, her head beginning to nod drowsily 
 
 In the warm, quiet air. 
 
 Rousing suddenly to catch the closing words 
 
 Of the sermon. 
 
 All, familiar. 
 
 All, satisfying. 
 
 All, deeply beloved. 
 
 The poignant beauty of the words will touch the Brother- 
 hood, for they will be words that describe every sainted mother 
 from the Atlantic to the Pacific. 
 
 After this treasured contribution there will yet be years to 
 be added to Lizzie's bouquet of time— years scented with faith 
 and hope and love. Even in far-off 1954 as Hazel will be found 
 sketching sheet after sheet of drawings for the book of 
 missionary stories which Modena will have written, Mother 
 Lizzie will watch and smile, wrinkled and frail, waiting for the 
 Lord to come. 
 
 This year of 1892 is the year in which Charles Gibson 
 receives his call to the ministry by the West Otter Creek 
 congregation. Now he takes his excellent teaching talent into 
 
 the pulpit. 
 
 And James Wirt, with quick and fervent thoughts on any 
 Biblical subject, now receives his call at Pleasant Hill. James 
 likes the text from Saint James which says, "Even so, the 
 tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things. Behold, 
 how great a matter a little fire kindleth! And the tongue is 
 a fire." James Wirt expounds the thought that many good 
 things become dangerous when they are not controlled 
 
 Now the lack of control of the spirit of authority kindles 
 
 158 
 
a fire of dissatisfaction at Pleasant Hill. Now comes the 
 repeated charge that Elder Martin McClure is using harsh 
 authority in the church and that there is plenty of evidence, 
 if one looks for it, of a strange hypocrisy in his own life. 
 
 At this charge, Elder McClure offers to resign. But Elder 
 Harshbarger is tenderhearted. He is not willing to hurt anyone's 
 feelings, failing to realize, however, that there are feelings 
 involved on both sides of any question. Here, then, are the 
 elders and those that oppose them. Elder Harshbarger, believing 
 firmly that he himself could not have misjudged Brother 
 McClure and brought a false leader into the congregation, 
 admonishes the members to love one another; and by a small 
 majority the congregation begs Elder McClure to retain his 
 position as assistant elder. 
 
 Mary Gibson goes home heartsick. She plunges into the 
 preparations for a double wedding that is to take place at 
 her home when her daughter, Carrie, is to become the bride of 
 S. B. Miller from Iowa and Lizzie Beckner will be united 
 in marriage with Enoch Brubaker. 
 
 This happy event does not shake from Mary's thinking, 
 however, the seriousness of the present trend toward dictator- 
 ship in the name of religion. Much of the contention has been 
 directed at her own family. Carrie is able to confound her 
 faultfinders with declarations of a faith that goes deeper than 
 changing one's dress pattern to a new model. But the boys are 
 not so patient and are discouraged in their attempts to live as 
 Christians and also please the Brethren within this iron-clad 
 authority which the young people are constantly reminded they 
 must obey. 
 
 "I believe," says Mary, "that Alexander Mack would turn 
 over in his grave if he could see the trend toward Rome that 
 some are wanting to take." And to ease her hurt she turns to 
 her duties and sings, "More about Jesus would I know, More of 
 His grace to others show. . . ." 
 
 Of course her boys are healthy young Americans and have 
 strong ideas of their own. There are mischievous moments when 
 even their father, James, has trouble guiding their activities. 
 Thinking to keep them from leaving home so often on weekday 
 
 159 
 
evenings, James takes the taps from the hubs of the buggy 
 wheels. This holds the boys but one night. They ride into 
 town the next day and buy their own supply of hub taps. 
 
 But such activities are not necessarily of religious importance, 
 and neither are the points of form concerning which the church 
 calls on them for apologies. 
 
 Someone again declares, "The Old Orders were right. The 
 Sunday school and the colleges have brought the world right 
 into our church." And they dedicate themselves to the task 
 of stopping this invasion of their chosen definition of the world, 
 in order that the Brethren might remain a peculiar people. 
 
 Those of the progressive opinions, however, declare, "If the 
 great Christian good that is coming out of the widening 
 movements of the Brethren is the world in the church, then let's 
 have more of it. Externals are superficial, but the center of 
 devotion remains the same." 
 
 Preacher John H. Brubaker drives along the road with 
 his horse and buggy, trying to give consideration to the various 
 opinions of the members. He takes his position as a minister of 
 the gospel seriously, and he knows that it is only a matter of 
 time until, according to the procedures of the church, he will 
 probably be ordained as an elder. What would he do if he were 
 faced with making the decisions which Elders Harshbarger and 
 McClure are now making? 
 
 It is something to think about, and John H. suddenly 
 becomes conscious that he is watching the wheels of his buggy 
 turn, the sturdy hub supporting the radiating spokes, the spokes 
 driving the rim, the rim picking up a spray of dust, or a crust 
 of mud, or a flutter of clinging leaves or particles of falling 
 sand, all falling away of their own weight, but never able to 
 stop that hub of strength in the center of the wheel, nor the 
 purpose of its spokes and the rim that progresses forever 
 forward toward its goal. 
 
 Is not the Kingdom of God like this? John H. sees that 
 this is of the same stuff from which Jesus spoke parables. Great 
 patience and lovingkindness and earnest guidance then are 
 the answer, in his opinion, to this constant dribble of the 
 exterior problem of the Kingdom. 
 
 160 
 
1893: Entry in Louisa Vaniman's Diary, October 2 
 
 George went to Chicago this week. Sold cattle and 
 went to the fair. 
 
 With the boys all home from college for the summer, Louisa 
 goes about her work with a singing heart. Now the house has 
 come alive with many young people. More Sundays than not 
 there is an extra tableful of company, and frequently on a 
 weekday evening a group of the young people or young married 
 couples come in to gather around the organ and sing. These 
 young people love to come and sing with Melvin and Elmer, 
 whose excellent training has not made them uppity, and they 
 are willing, and even eager, to share what they have learned. 
 
 Their guests are usually a mixed group from the home 
 community and the near-by towns. But there are a few parents 
 at Pleasant Hill who consider these Vaniman boys too 
 progressive and certainly too stylish, and they discourage their 
 children from attending a singing at George Vaniman's. Such 
 Dunker parents argue that for their young folks to associate with 
 outsiders will make them discontented in their status as a 
 peculiar people. 
 
 "How true," says Louisa. "But is that reason enough to 
 rob children of natural associations or turn them into better- 
 than-thou attitudes?" 
 
 Louisa hustles around making ice cream for the young 
 people flocking into her house and wishes that the Brethren 
 would not build such a wall of "thou shalt and thou shalt not" 
 around the wheat field of their religion. Clannishness and 
 smugness are becoming an outward garment with which some 
 of the Brethren young people are clothing their personalities to 
 protect themselves from the embarrassments of being unworldly. 
 This is cheat in the wheat, Louisa decides, and she wants none 
 of it to blow over the wall and take root in her garden. 
 
 Melvin has come from Chicago and is hanging around the 
 farm in a discontented restlessness which does not escape 
 Louisa's eyes. 
 
 "Son," she says, "you've something on your mind. What 
 is it?" 
 
 161 
 
"I suppose I should tell you," says Melvin, "but I'm trying 
 to work out the answer to a bitter disappointment. Professor 
 Wolfson, the famous German voice teacher, dismissed me from 
 his studio. Out of a clear sky he fairly shouted, 'Mr. Vaniman, 
 you cannot sing. Go back to the farm and plow corn."' 
 
 "If that's what you want," says George soberly, "I can 
 accommodate you." 
 
 "I'm no quitter, Father," says Melvin. "I still have faith 
 in my voice. I'll work out a career in spite of the professor." 
 
 By fall he has accepted the position as instructor in vocal 
 music in Dexter Normal at Dexter, Iowa. He brushes his 
 fine black derby, adjusts his high celluloid collar and his 
 splendidly tailored clothes, and says, 
 
 "Well, Mother, I'm ofr* again to the dull routine of 
 teaching, but it will at least buy my bread and butter. I'll see 
 you at Christmas." 
 
 With cattle and hogs ready for the market, George Vaniman 
 loads his shipments on the Chicago and Alton, and heads for 
 the stockyards in Chicago. While there he enjoys the Columbian 
 Exposition, which had opened on May 1. 
 
 Four hundred years it has been since Columbus discovered 
 the New World. And what a world it has become! George 
 walks over the fairgrounds as one of twelve million visitors. 
 He buys some souvenirs that will be treasured into the middle 
 of the next century and comes back to Pleasant Hill. He tells 
 his neighbors about the wonders he has seen, and Ezra H. 
 Brubaker declares that he certainly would like to attend a 
 fair like that. 
 
 "Why don't you go?" asks George. "You can't see 
 something like this very often." 
 
 "In the first place," says Ezra, "I can hardly spare the 
 money. In the second place, I reckon the church wouldn't 
 like it." 
 
 George looks at the young man with keen eyes and says, 
 "Yes, it costs money to go. But as to this dictation of the church, 
 remember you are a free man, and the dictates of your own 
 well-informed conscience should be your guide. That's just 
 a little advice I'm passing out for what it's worth. Young men 
 
 162 
 
like you should stand up and help the church keep its conscience 
 open to growth." 
 
 "A man of your influence ought to be helping us, Mr. 
 Vaniman," says Ezra with sincerity. 
 
 "I'm helping," George answers, "more than you know." 
 
 In spite of the Columbian Exposition the nation is in a 
 financial slough, long to be remembered as the Cleveland Panic. 
 Two hundred railroads, many of them in Illinois, go into the 
 hands of receivers. The legislators boast that no point in the 
 state is more than twenty miles from a railroad. Within this 
 net of rails the people at Pleasant Hill feel a satisfaction that 
 transportation is all that can ever be desired. 
 
 Over at Detroit, Michigan, however, a tall young fellow 
 named Henry Ford is fooling around with a small gasoline engine 
 and a buggy seat supplemented with four bicycle wheels and 
 guided by a tiller. Some of the Pleasant Hill folks are reading 
 of the predictions that the horseless carriage is a coming thing. 
 It is a hard thing to imagine, and even less do they realize that 
 the acceptance of such an invention will outmode the railroads 
 and create the need for a hard-surfaced road to every farm. 
 
 The creative minds of free Americans are sweeping a 
 wealth of inventions into every avenue of life. Here at Pleasant 
 Hill are some who are destined to be a part of this genius. 
 
 In their growing years Peter and Ezra Frantz have hovered 
 with constant interest over every machine on the farm or in 
 the shop. They have hung around the switchyards in Girard 
 and have absorbed the performances of engines and cars. At 
 home they tinker with the tools in Father Harshbarger's little 
 workshop and discover that they can develop their own ideas. 
 
 Now Ezra has worked out an automatic car coupler. Certain 
 that it will work, he goes to Girard and shows it to Mr. Cates, 
 the agent at the Chicago and Alton station. 
 
 They go out into the switchyards to inspect some cars and 
 there they find the new Gould car coupler, the first one that 
 Mr. Cates himself has ever seen. Ezra's is almost identical. 
 Mr. Cates is kind and says, "Well, it looks like Mr. Gould has 
 beat you to it, Ezra. But don't you be discouraged. Try 
 something else. One of these days you'll be first." 
 
 163 
 
1893: Entry in Amanda Snell's Diary, November 11 
 
 Isaac Harshbarger was called into the ministry to-day. 
 He'll make a good preacher. 
 
 The congregation at Pleasant Hill is assembled in the solemn 
 atmosphere of the meetinghouse. Today a deacon is to be 
 installed and the call is to be extended to some one of the 
 brothers to become a minister. 
 
 There are young men here who know that it might be he, 
 or he, or he. Each one knows that if he receives the call he is 
 honor bound to accept it. Each one knows that the call carries 
 with it a high and sacred honor and each is sincerely willing 
 for the other brother to receive it. 
 
 No member is allowed to influence the vote of another 
 and a serious countenance is maintained by the membership. 
 Not a whisper is made as they file, one by one, into the anteroom 
 past the elders who receive the vote in secret. When the votes 
 are counted the majority have voted for Isaac Harshbarger, 
 but Nicholas Brubaker has also received a part of the total. 
 
 Isaac, sitting there on the men's side quietly waiting, is 
 more or less thunderstruck. Why, he wonders, did the 
 congregation vote for him ? To Isaac's way of thinking, Nicholas 
 would have been the ideal choice. As for himself, he is only 
 a farmer. 
 
 Presently the elder-in-charge calls for the young man and 
 his wife to come forward. Isaac, feeling a great sense of 
 unworthiness, walks slowly across the room to lead his wife 
 to the altar with him. 
 
 But Martha is weeping. "I can't," she says through her 
 tears. "I can't be a preacher's wife. I'm not good enough. I 
 just can't be an example to everybody else." 
 
 Now Lizzie Brubaker, the wife of Preacher John H., rises 
 from her seat and goes to Martha. She puts her arm around 
 her and says, "Martha, we can do all things through Christ, who 
 strengtheneth us. Go on, Martha. Isaac is waiting." 
 
 Isaac, feeling more and more unworthy, goes to Nicholas 
 on the next day. "I still can't understand," he says, "why they 
 called me instead of you, Nicholas. A preacher ought to have 
 
 164 
 
a good education. The old way of preaching won't do in the 
 future. I can see the change coming." 
 
 "Isaac," says Nicholas, "the members wanted the man who 
 will serve the home church. This is your home. As for me, 
 no one can tell where I'll land. But there's more than one way 
 to get an education. I'll be glad to help you select and buy 
 the books you should have. And as a starter, I'll make up a 
 few outlines for you." 
 
 Isaac's eyes brighten. "Will you, Nicholas? Then I do feel 
 like I can go on with the call." Through forty years of pulpit 
 work Isaac will treasure the pattern of Nicholas's logical outlines. 
 He will remain a farmer all of his life, giving unstinted devotion 
 to the various local churches. Many years of preaching and 
 serving in the eldership at the Macoupin Creek church and at 
 Girard will be followed by the honor of the title, Elder 
 Emeritus, bestowed by the home people in his years of 
 retirement. 
 
 The deacon elected at this council is D. C. Vaniman, always 
 known as Charley. With his wife, Lizzie, this outstanding 
 young farmer accepts the dedication of the call. Never a love 
 feast, after this, will be planned and carried out without Charley 
 and Lizzie Vaniman there to help. And never a little girl at 
 Pleasant Hill at the Saturday meeting but who remembers 
 Lizzie making tea and coffee for all the people. 
 
 "Will you have more tea? More coffee?" 
 
 "Yes. It is good coffee. Lizzie Vaniman made it." 
 
 1894: Entry in Louisa Vaniman s Diary, January 10 
 Elmer is teaching singing schools. He does fine. 
 
 Elmer Vaniman has completed two years' study at McPherson 
 College and now announces that he will be glad to teach a 
 subscription school at the Pleasant Hill meetinghouse, each 
 pupil paying one dollar for two weeks. The two-week school 
 stretches into continuous sessions throughout the winter, 
 attended by people from miles around. This training carries 
 
 165 
 
into the religious services of the Brethren a special reputation 
 for excellent congregational singing that lasts for many years. 
 
 Elmer uses the shaped-note books most of the time, but 
 this winter he introduces the new book, Gospel Hymns No. 5, 
 edited by Ira Sankey and first published in 1887 in round notes. 
 
 Here in this book are such marvelous songs as "The Ninety 
 and Nine"; "The Handwriting on the Wall"; "Shall You, 
 Shall I?" "When the Mists Have Rolled Away"; "The Lily of 
 the Valley"; and "I Know That My Redeemer Liveth." 
 
 "Oh, they are such pretty songs," says Isaac Harshbarger. 
 "How can people live without sacred music in their hearts?" 
 
 Indeed these Brethren at Pleasant Hill are helped far more 
 than they know by their love of music— sacred music. The 
 eternal music that is carried within the hearts of believing people. 
 They agree with the poet, John Keble, who has written in 
 his poem, St. Matthew. 
 
 There are in this loud stunning tide 
 
 Of human care and crime, 
 
 With whom the melodies abide 
 
 Of the everlasting chime; 
 
 Who carry music in their heart 
 
 Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, 
 
 Plying their daily task with busier feet, 
 
 Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat. 
 
 Now that Elmer Vaniman has taught his first singing school, 
 he will teach many more. His voice is clear and strong. His 
 time is absolutely correct. He designs his joy for singing into 
 a lively tempo. If anyone says, "Elmer, you sing too fast," 
 Elmer explains, "I do not sing fast. I simply pronounce my 
 words clearly, and I don't drag my feet over them. Now you 
 try it." 
 
 His excellent teaching goes on and on, directing the Dunkers 
 into accomplished gospel singing, rendered with zeal and 
 purpose. 
 
 "Sing like you mean it," Elmer admonishes over and over. 
 
 "Every word." 
 
 For forty years Elmer will be a Brethren song leader in 
 the singing schools or in chorus or choir direction. Singing, 
 
 166 
 
to him, will be a constant source of joyous service to the Lord. 
 George and Louisa are pleased with this interest of Elmer's, 
 and they hope that this son will plan to make his work in the 
 vocal field and work on the farm compatible. 
 
 In this spring the family of Samuel Masterson moves from 
 the Sugar Creek congregation to Pleasant Hill. The young 
 people are a talented group, already acquainted with the young 
 folks here. Through attendance at the love feasts, friendships 
 are often formed early. Martha Masterson remembers that she 
 was only eleven when Pleasant Hill members had come to 
 Sugar Creek for the love feast one Saturday afternoon. 
 
 While the tables were being prepared, a group of boys had 
 gone into the timber hunting the bright, edible pawpaws. When 
 they returned to the churchyard a tall boy of fourteen passed 
 a share of the fruit to Martha. 
 
 "Who is that boy?" she had asked of Laura Flora. 
 
 "Why, that's my cousin, Nicholas Brubaker," was the 
 answer. And now Martha and Nicholas find so much in 
 common that it is soon apparent that they are special to each 
 other. 
 
 1894: Entry in S. S. Brubaker' s Diary, March 14 
 
 Father was buried this week. Still dry weather. 
 Deacon Jacob Brubaker, a pillar of strength among the Brethren 
 at Pleasant Hill, now pulls the covers of his couch about him 
 for his last, long sleep. 
 
 Younger leaders, however, are stepping into the gaps and 
 are seeking to make greater preparation for the work of the 
 church. In January of this year, Charles Gibson and his 
 son-in-law, Willie Shull, go to Mt. Morris for the winter Bible 
 course. 
 
 Charles feels that he must consolidate his own splendid 
 knowledge of the Bible into definite forms which he should 
 use in the local Bible schools which he is planning to conduct. 
 His plan will work well. For a number of years Charles Gibson 
 
 167 
 
will spend much time conducting Bible schools for the Brethren 
 in Illinois and in Indiana and Iowa as well. 
 
 His older sons can carry on the work of the little farm. 
 The winter term of the district school closes on March first, 
 and Frank, showing his definite talent for carpentry, under- 
 takes to repair the roof of his father's house. He falls from 
 the roof to the ground and is unconscious for three hours. 
 
 Young Doctor Simmons proves his skill by doing his part in 
 bringing Frank out of this dangerous injury in good shape. No 
 doubt the Lord has done his part too, for Frank is baptized this 
 year. He will be called to the ministry in 1907 at Sugar Creek. 
 He will marry Leona Filbrun of that congregation, the devout 
 daughter of Preacher Benjamin Filbrun, formerly of Pleasant 
 Hill. 
 
 Frank and Leona Gibson will go as newlyweds to Miami, 
 New Mexico, and for thirty-five years will work there as that 
 territory grows into a valuable state in the Union. It will be 
 Frank Gibson, as carpenter, preacher, and elder, who will make 
 sure that the Brethren are established in New Mexico. 
 
 It will be Frank Gibson the preacher who will drive to 
 three preaching appointments each Sunday, urging his blind 
 mare, Nelly Bly, over dusty miles. It will be Frank, the 
 carpenter, living fifty miles from an undertaker, who will build 
 caskets for those who die. And Leona, faithful and resourceful, 
 will shirr the materials that make both the lining and the 
 covering of this last resting place for those who pass on. 
 
 Even when their own little girl will go to the Heavenly 
 Father, it is Frank who will make the casket and Leona who 
 will shirr the silk to make the pretty bed for their child's last 
 sleep. 
 
 "Never," says the older sister, Irene, as the story is written, 
 "will I forget those rows and rows of shirring on Mother's 
 sewing machine." 
 
 It is Frank Gibson, the elder, who for thirty-five years will 
 speak the "last unction" and pray the prayers not only over the 
 loved ones of the white people but also over many a poor 
 Mexican who will have no money to hire a priest. 
 
 Finally, Frank will teach carpentry to the boys in the 
 
 168 
 
New Mexico Industrial School, and when his life is laid down 
 at the age of sixty-four it will be said over and over again, 
 "Here was a good and faithful servant." 
 
 Now in 1894 Charles Gibson also takes up the agency for 
 the Hollinger wire fence. He is well aware that the farmers have 
 little love for the thorny Osage Orange hedges which have now 
 remodeled the prairies into boxed fields that fit the present 
 methods of diversified farming. He finds that if the farmers 
 have the cash they are eager to try this new fencing, and by 
 April he has sold seventeen hundred rods. Since the sale price 
 includes the erection of the fence, Charles hires Ira Ganger, 
 John Lear, and Ezra Frantz to build them for him through the 
 summer months. 
 
 Ezra Frantz works on the fence, alert to its manufactured 
 construction. One day he goes home and says to his brother, 
 "Peter, I can make a better fence than this brand we are using 
 now. Come out to the shop and help me work out my idea." 
 
 As they work, Ezra remembers that he is on the alert for 
 an opportunity to make the better "mousetrap" that will cause 
 people to beat a path to his door. Perhaps this is it. 
 
 The boys become deeply involved, but they share their 
 secret with no one outside the family. Peter spends money 
 going on mysterious trips, and more than one man says, 
 "Those Frantz boys can waste more time and money piddling 
 around. Why don't they settle down and do some good hard 
 farm work like their brother, Jonathan?" 
 
 But genius is always criticized. By September, Peter and 
 Ezra convince the Chain-Stay Fence Company of Mt. Morris, 
 Illinois, that their new fence and the machine to make it are 
 a successful commercial risk. They announce their invention and 
 plans for its production to the doubting Thomases at Pleasant 
 Hill. And Peter takes his wife, Lily, and their baby son, Roy, 
 and goes to Mt. Morris to be the new superintendent of the 
 factory. 
 
 The machine which Peter has invented is the first of its 
 kind that will make a round eye on wire without a center pin 
 around which to bend it. The eye is made in a die. And this 
 method of making it will be the one used exclusively by many 
 
 169 
 
manufacturers even in 1954 when only Ezra lives to tell the 
 story. How much longer only the Lord knows. 
 
 And the Lord knows, too, that here is Peter Frantz, the 
 Brethren boy from Pleasant Hill, going out into the world as a 
 consecrated businessman. Here is a Christian who in all of 
 his long life as a manufacturer will actually use in his business 
 the principles which Jesus taught. As farmers all over the 
 Midwest build Stay- Wire fences, or as the farmers all over 
 America hang great rolling barn doors on the excellent Frantz 
 glide hangers, they will be using only two of many practical 
 inventions that will come to American industries through the 
 skill of the Frantz boys from Pleasant Hill. 
 
 When the years will have rolled around and Peter Frantz's 
 little son, Roy, has grown into manhood and has volunteered for 
 foreign mission service, Pleasant Hill folks will grieve with 
 Peter and his wife as their son is called to do his work for 
 the Kingdom from the "other side." 
 
 Yet in this grief will be further dedication. Orphans will 
 be taken into this home and raised as children of their own. 
 Even in the lifetime of Peter, the Frantz Manufacturing 
 Company of Sterling, Illinois, will be valued at two hundred 
 fifty thousand dollars. And by that future date of 1954, when 
 Peter will have gone to the glory land, this same company will 
 have become a million-dollar corporation. 
 
 The supreme dedication to God of financial blessing will be 
 made by Peter and Lillie Frantz. Before their deaths they will 
 present to the Church of the Brethren one hundred thousand 
 dollars to make possible the building of Bethany Hospital in 
 Chicago. This gift will be made in the modest Christian manner 
 in which these modest Christian people will always have lived. 
 
 At Pleasant Hill there will be folks, both Brethren and 
 non-Brethren, who will remember the struggling young 
 inventor in 1894 and they will say, "Talk about casting your 
 bread upon the waters! What little encouragement we gave to 
 Peter Frantz we more or less begrudged. Now 'see what God 
 has done.' " 
 
 At the approach of Pentecost Sunday and the Annual 
 Meeting, a number of the folks at Pleasant Hill begin making 
 
 170 
 
plans to take advantage of the special rates which the railroad 
 companies always extend to the Brethren at this special season. 
 The meeting is at Myersdale, Pennsylvania. 
 
 Louisa Vaniman says, "George, I believe I'll go to the 
 Annual Meeting. I could stop in Ohio on the way home and 
 visit our relatives there too." 
 
 "The very thing," says George. "Go and take a good rest 
 from all of this work." 
 
 Louisa goes and while visiting in Ohio she attends a 
 protracted meeting and at last takes the step she has promised 
 herself for some time that she would take. She is baptized and 
 becomes a Dunker sister. 
 
 She prays to the Heavenly Father in private and says, 
 "Father, I have made my confession before men, and I have 
 obeyed the commandment of baptism. But if I don't tell George 
 for a while, I reckon you'll understand." 
 
 Home again, Louisa does not tell George of her baptism, 
 but one day soon after her return he receives his newspaper 
 from the old home town in Ohio, and there in the items of 
 news is the report of the Dunkers' protracted meeting. 
 
 George is stunned for a moment, and then he collects his 
 thoughts, clears his throat, and says, "Listen to this, Mother." 
 As he reads the item, Louisa drops her sewing and sits with 
 bowed head before her husband. 
 
 George looks at her over his reading spectacles, and he 
 asks, "Was that you, Louisa?" 
 
 "Yes, I guess it was." Louisa's voice is low and she sighs 
 deeply. "I'm sorry, George, to go ahead without you. But I had 
 to be baptized, George. I just had to be." She lifts her eyes 
 to this companion whom she loves so deeply, and they are 
 filled with a yearning for his understanding. 
 
 "Well," says George, "I wish you had told me. But now 
 that it's done, I hope you are happy." 
 
 He hesitates and then adds firmly, "But, Louisa, you are 
 not to change your style of dress to please the Brethren at 
 Pleasant Hill. I hope you understand that. They are fine 
 people, but you are fine too. The finest of the fine. And if 
 
 171 
 
they can't accept you as you are — well, they can't have you. 
 That's all." 
 
 Louisa lifts her drooping shoulders. "You've paid me a 
 great compliment, George," she says. "And, somehow, I'll 
 manage my membership. If the congregation at Pleasant Hill 
 will not accept me because of my style of dress, that will not 
 cancel my baptism. I have a happiness down inside of me that 
 I have longed for. And it is a happiness that somehow, George, 
 I believe you have already found. You are fine too, as fine a 
 man as ever lived, and a wonderful husband to me." 
 
 Louisa's decision is a great thing in her life, and there 
 has also been a decision made at the Myersdale Annual Meeting 
 which is a great thing for the German Baptist Brethren. 
 
 Isaac Harshbarger comes back to Pleasant Hill to give 
 his delegate's report and is able to say, "Our church is now a 
 truly missionary church. Our mission board, of which our own 
 beloved Daniel Vaniman is chairman, has accepted the 
 volunteers, Brother Wilbur Stover and his wife Mary, and 
 Sister Bertha Ryan to become foreign missionaries. The 
 volunteers have asked to go to India." 
 
 Isaac does not spare his enthusiasm as he speaks to the 
 folks at Pleasant Hill. He sees this decision as one that will 
 give the church a new set of values. A new purpose to its 
 witness. A worth-while task that will turn the attention of the 
 membership at large and as individual congregations away from 
 themselves, and their selfish and petty interests, to the great 
 commandment, "Go ye into all the world. . . ." 
 
 Foreign missions now become a topic of conversation. The 
 members sit at one another's Sunday dinner tables and pour 
 scalding coflee into their saucers and watch it cool and sample 
 its flavor and talk about the problems of going out among 
 heathen people. 
 
 Nicholas Brubaker and Charles are greatly interested. 
 
 "This is a wonderful thing for the church," says Nicholas. 
 Many of our members believe that religion is something that 
 can be hedged in and fenced around, molded into a definite 
 form. Many of them believe that religion is only the way 
 they do things; the clothes they wear; the homes they live in; 
 
 172 
 
the buggies they drive; obeying the Annual Meeting. Aren't 
 these things of the Pharisees? And Jesus said, 'Unless your 
 righteousness exceed that of the Pharisees—' " 
 
 "As I see it," says Charles, picking up his Bible to read 
 a chapter, "there's no excuse to be interested in trivial things. 
 After hearing Isaac's sermon last Sunday, I know that the new 
 missionary program is going to challenge more than one to 
 the last full measure of devotion." 
 
 And there are those in Charles Brubaker's family who will 
 never forget those words. 
 
 In the summer months Nicholas Brubaker works for a 
 few weeks as a harvest hand for George Wrightsman. Nicholas 
 enjoys the excellent conversation in this home. George says, 
 "You know, Nicholas, if you want a good neighbor you must 
 be a good neighbor. If you want a good friend you must be 
 a good friend." They laugh heartily over tall tales too, and 
 then on a Sunday they attend preaching services at Otter Creek. 
 A minister of the name of Buckley preaches and among other 
 things he declares that the use of wine as a beverage is approved 
 by the New Testament. He proves his point by citing his 
 audience to Jesus' miracle of turning water into wine, and by 
 emphasizing Paul's statement to Timothy to "take a little wine 
 for the stomach's sake." 
 
 "That man," says Nicholas, "certainly strained at a gnat 
 and swallowed a camel. One thing is certain. I'll never sit 
 through a sermon like that again. I'll get up and walk out first." 
 "Well," says Melva, "I agree with you. I like a sermon I 
 can take home with me and ponder on it. But I'm sure it 
 won't give me much inspiration to ponder on this one." 
 
 "It makes me wonder," George adds thoughtfully, "if 
 that preacher might not like the cup a little too well himself." 
 The ideals of the Brethren certainly can never condone 
 the use of intoxicants as a beverage. Even the medicinal use 
 of liquor is being sternly questioned and just two years back 
 the Annual Meeting rendered the decision that only 
 "unfermented wine shall be used as the cup of the communion." 
 
 173 
 
1894: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, September 30 
 
 Elmer has gone to McPherson to teach. Calvin went 
 too. Little Vernon is the only one at home. 
 
 In the fall of 1894 the vast system of education gets underway. 
 Charles Brubaker goes to Normal, Illinois, to enter Teacher's 
 College. Asa Stutsman, one of the mute sons of Henry, has 
 graduated from his school at Jacksonville with the highest 
 honors; now he leaves to attend college in Washington, D. C. 
 Nicholas Brubaker goes to De Pauw University at Greencastle, 
 Indiana. Elmer Vaniman leaves for McPherson to fill the 
 position of an instructor in the music department, and Calvin 
 goes as a student. 
 
 Elmer is thrilled to have received this appointment. "I 
 hope you aren't too disappointed, Father," he says to George. 
 "I do like farm life in many ways, but I'm sure I'll like this 
 professional position better." 
 
 "Well, Elmer," George replies slowly, "I made up my mind, 
 long ago, that I would never be guilty of compelling my sons 
 to be square pegs in round holes. After all, the important 
 thing for you is to be happy in what you do. Give your best. 
 Aim to be upright and honest. Love your fellow men. With 
 that I will try to be content." 
 
 With the older boys gone and more time on her hands, 
 Louisa now organizes the first women's work group at 
 Pleasant Hill. The vigorous interest of Mary Gibson being 
 enlisted, they select the name, the Dorcas Sewing Society, and 
 announce the first meeting to be held at Louisa's home. 
 
 "We ought to meet at the meetinghouse," says Mary. 
 
 "Why, they wouldn't let us," says Louisa with a smile. 
 "We'll prove the value of the society first and then ask to be 
 part of the church." 
 
 So on a Thursday afternoon thirty women meet at Louisa's 
 home to sew for the "Western sufferers." Louisa plunges into 
 the work of directing the activities of this large group. By 
 next February the Dorcas Society will have shipped three 
 hundred fifteen garments to the Brethren families holding on 
 in those first terrible years of homesteading the Great Plains. 
 
 174 
 
Louisa and Mary will have solicited the storekeepers in Virden 
 and Girard as well and outdated shoes and coats will have been 
 added to the garments which have been stitched in loving 
 concern. 
 
 Elder Daniel Vaniman will write from McPherson on 
 January 22, 1895, as published in the Virden newspaper: 
 
 "Have received the boxes of clothing. Also $22.50 from 
 Cullen Gibson. Many thanks to the donors in behalf of the 
 western sufferers. Elder Dickey and Elder Henry Brubaker 
 are traveling over the destitute districts to distribute the goods. 
 Send all you can." 
 
 In the full of the moon in November, Elder I. Bennett Trout, 
 a popular Brethren evangelist, holds a protracted meeting. The 
 weather is not cold and the moonlight is crystal clear. Every 
 evening a large group of people, both old and young, walk 
 out from Girard and with laughter and goodwill are not 
 troubled at all that they do not own horses and rigs that they 
 might ride. 
 
 "It was such fun to walk," Anna Flory Yates will say in 
 far-off 1954. "And it was such joy to sing after we were there." 
 This year, 1894, is a year of high harvest for the church. 
 When Brother Trout has preached forty-five sermons in this 
 meeting, which is protracted for thirty days, the list of those 
 who are baptized is long. Thirty-one young people from the 
 Dunkers' own homes have now come into the church in 
 this year. 
 
 During the enthusiasm of the meetings, Louisa Vaniman 
 presents her letter of baptism to the elder at Pleasant Hill, the 
 letter which had been given her by the Ohio congregation. 
 The elder hesitates, and then calls her aside and has a little talk 
 with her. 
 
 "I can't present this letter to the church, Mrs. Vaniman," 
 he says. "To my knowledge you have not laid aside your stylish 
 clothing." He talks on and on with his charges and his 
 admonition that a woman of her age and prestige will be 
 expected to set an extra good example for the young people. 
 "Brother Harshbarger," Louisa says, "I understand your 
 present ruling now allows a convert to continue the wearing 
 
 175 
 
of his supply of clothing until it has been worn out. Then the 
 new clothing is to be designed in a style that the church 
 recognizes as plain. I promise to do that, Brother Harshbarger. 
 Won't you please ask Brother Trout for his opinion on this?" 
 
 Louisa knows that Brother Trout will approve, for she has 
 discussed the question with him. She also knows that the 
 new dresses she had made up for her spring trip to the Annual 
 Meeting will last for years. Her bonnets, too, she plans to wear. 
 While they are not trimmed with feathers or flowers they are 
 pretty, to suit George. If they are not plain, the dictation of the 
 elders must come last or not at all. 
 
 Under the stern instruction to fall into the accepted order 
 of dress, Louisa is accepted into membership in the congregation. 
 Now she hopes to lend her influence to the change that is 
 rapidly being taken into the hands of the younger members. 
 The order of plain attire must go out before it breeds derision 
 and division. 
 
 1895: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, ]une 12 
 
 Had a letter from Melvin. He likes his new adventure. 
 Perhaps nothing else in this old world can bring the surge of 
 joy equal to that joy that comes with spring. The muted 
 footsteps of Mother Nature merge into the music of the 
 songbirds as she goes to the orchard and hangs ruffled skirts of 
 pink and white over the greening fruit trees. 
 
 Ezra H. Brubaker rides his plow and hears only the 
 strange tearing of the soil as it is turned by his plowshares; 
 the soft thud of the horses' hoofs as they clump over the ground; 
 and the slight creaking of harness leather as the horses lean into 
 their collars and follow the furrow. Then he hears the words of 
 one of the newer favorite gospel songs rising bell-clear: 
 
 Lord, I care not for riches, 
 
 Neither silver nor gold; 
 I would make sure of Heaven, 
 
 I would enter the fold. 
 
 176 
 
In the book of Thy Kingdom, 
 
 With its pages so fair, 
 Tell me, Jesus my Saviour, 
 
 Is my name written there? 
 
 Is my name written there, 
 
 On the page white and fair? 
 In the book of Thy Kingdom, 
 
 Is my name written there? 
 
 Ezra H. knows the singer without looking up, but he 
 glances across the hedgerow and sees George Vaniman riding 
 along the road with his white driving pony hitched to the 
 buckboard. George stops his steed, climbs from his rig, and 
 makes an inspection of a drainage ditch in the roadway, all the 
 while continuing his singing: 
 
 Lord, my sins they are many, 
 Like the sands of the sea; 
 But Thy blood, oh, my Saviour, 
 
 Is sufficient for me; 
 For Thy promise is written, 
 
 In bright letters that glow, 
 "Tho' your sins be as scarlet, 
 I will make them as snow. 
 
 The road commissioner goes on with his work, digging here 
 and there, and continues his song as well: 
 
 Oh! That beautiful city, 
 
 With the mansions of light, 
 With its glorified beings, 
 
 In pure garments of white; 
 Where no evil thing cometh 
 
 To despoil what is fair; 
 Where the angels are watching, 
 
 Yes, my name's written there. 
 
 George sets his shovel back in the buckboard, climbs in, 
 and drives on, singing the last chorus with its special emphasis: 
 Yes, my name's written there, 
 
 On the page white and fair; 
 In the book of Thy Kingdom, 
 Yes, my name's written there. 
 
 177 
 
In far-off 1953, Ezra H. Brubaker, a sainted elder in the 
 church, young in spirit and vision, will even yet be able to 
 hear these words being played on his record-plate-of-memories, 
 as they are sung on this morning by George Vaniman. So 
 earnest. So sincere. 
 
 The Pleasant Hill farmers are not only busy with the 
 spring plowing but they are also deeply interested in sending 
 seed and feed for the livestock to the stricken Brethren in the 
 West. S. S. Brubaker, Sam Stutsman, and Ben Beckner have 
 collected enough grain from Virden and Girard townships to 
 fill two railroad cars. Many have given from their own limited 
 stores, for even Illinois has been too dry. Certainly every one 
 who has given to this cause can say with the recent great poet: 
 "Not what we give, but what we share, . . . Who gives himself 
 with his alms feeds three, Himself, his hungering neighbor, 
 and me." 
 
 "I recollect," says Cullen Gibson, "the day when I had 
 only twenty-five cents, in cash, to my name. A tramp asked me 
 for a quarter, and since the Bible commands that 'what a man 
 asks of you, give it him,' I gave it to him." 
 
 "Well," says George Vaniman, "I reckon this kind of 
 Christian work is my love feast. And the more I ponder over 
 it, the more I believe that until we share out of our own needs 
 it is doubtful that we know the true meaning of Jesus' teachings." 
 
 George and Louisa are enjoying Melvin's letters which are 
 arriving from various cities of America. 
 
 Melvin has entered a new adventure which will lengthen 
 into a span of several years. Last December he became a 
 member of the Griffeths-Faust Company at Springfield, a light 
 opera company organized by John Griff eths, the opera star, 
 and was now on tour. 
 
 Melvin not only sings the roles assigned to him but is the 
 company electrician as well. As with any group, the individuals 
 involved must be "all for one and one for all," from the least 
 to the greatest. This principle Melvin has learned in his boyhood 
 at Pleasant Hill. He can contribute to it with sincere devotion. 
 
 Louisa sits down and writes to Melvin. The things that 
 she writes are trite, but each item is news from home. 
 
 178 
 
"Virden, Illinois. June 12, 1895. Dear Melvin: Father sold 
 hogs last week. Got $3.80. That seems a little cheap Abe 
 Harshbarger and Nora Gates were married June 5th. I guess 
 the old days when you and Abe sang to-gether will never be 
 again Your Uncle Daniel Vaniman visited here after the 
 Annual Meeting in Decatur. It was nice to have the Meeting 
 so near. The roads are alive with bicycles this spring. They set 
 the horses crazy with fright. We women are almost afraid to 
 drive anywhere alone. We'll look for you home soon 
 
 Before the Annual Meeting, Charles Gibson asks the 
 Pleasant Hill congregation to sponsor a Bible school in Guard. 
 The congregation, however, turns down the request, for Elder 
 McClure declares that Charles Gibson, being a member of the 
 Otter Creek congregation, has no right to suggest activities at 
 Pleasant Hill. Anyway, it's possible that a Bible school might 
 suit the Western ideas better than the Eastern. 
 
 Charles is not discouraged, however, and proceeds to 
 arrange a Bible school such as he has in mind. He finds Doctor 
 Adam Simmons and Brother J. Z. Bechtold willing and glad 
 to help him underwrite the school. Now the announcement 
 appears in the Girard Gazette that "the Dunkers will hold a 
 Bible School in Girard at the M. E. Church, August 14-24. 
 Professor E. S. Young of Manchester College, North Manchester 
 Indiana, will be the teacher. Four classes a day will be held and 
 preaching each night. All Christian workers are invited to 
 
 attend." . \ , 
 
 As the days pass, antagonism and accusations pile higher and 
 higher and become loaded with double meanings concerning 
 secret transgressions. Many words flow into a maelstrom of 
 unchristian attitudes, and the Holy Spirit is no doubt grieved 
 On August 10 the membership meets in council. The usual 
 business is disposed of. The usual admonitions against pride are 
 read. At last the charge of impropriety is brought against those 
 members of the congregation who are sponsoring the Bible 
 
 school at Girard. . 
 
 Nicholas Brubaker can keep his seat no longer, and rises to 
 defend the value of the Bible school. Forgetting that on June 1 
 he had returned from De Pauw University and has not as yet 
 
 179 
 
brought his letter of membership back to Pleasant Hill, he 
 rushes into his speech. 
 
 "Brother Moderator." 
 
 "N. J. Brubaker will speak." 
 
 Nicholas begins his speech and his words are rapid and 
 to the point. 
 
 "Can such a good thing as a Bible school be questioned? 
 Are we here to judge trivial proprieties in place of motives? 
 Are we here to judge at all? Even church leaders should be 
 servants of the people, not the masters. So much criticism and 
 so much dictation kill all patience and loving kindness. It looks 
 as if someone needs to be bold enough to prick some of the 
 pretensions that are present here. Only God knows how many 
 can be injured and even destroyed by this process." 
 
 Elder McClure's face is a study of inward rage, and he 
 cuts off the speech. 
 
 "Who is the speaker?" he says. "Does he hold his letter 
 in the Pleasant Hill congregation? The clerk will answer." 
 
 "N-o-o," says the clerk slowly. "N. J.'s letter is not here 
 at present." 
 
 "Then," declares the moderator, "I withdraw my consent 
 for this young man to speak from the floor." 
 
 "Very well," says Nicholas. "But, remember, you can fool 
 us with dogmas, doctrines, and rulings for a part of the time, 
 but you can't fool us all of the time." 
 
 "I demand," shouts Elder McClure, "that the speaker be 
 seated." 
 
 Nicholas is seated, and the meeting proceeds with others 
 taking part in the discussion. Nicholas takes notes. This is a 
 habit with him. Wherever he is, he takes notes, and this note 
 writing is now noticed by the disturbed elder. 
 
 "N. J. Brubaker," says Martin McClure, "is determined to 
 do more work in this church than any other. If he can't do it 
 publicly, he will do it privately. Who is this N. J. Brubaker 
 anyway? He doesn't belong here, nor anywhere else." 
 
 Deacon John has been nervous and miserable. He knows 
 that Nicholas is correct in his convictions, but the deacon 
 himself has taken no part in the arguments. He has done 
 
 180 
 
everything he has known how to do to make Elder McClure s 
 work at Pleasant Hill pleasant and profitable. He has met 
 Brother McClure at the train time after time. He has made 
 him comfortable in his home again and again. Brother McClure 
 has seen Nicholas grow into manhood. Now he sneers, Who 
 is N. J. Brubaker?" It is more than Deacon John can bear, and 
 he buries his face in his hands and sobs. 
 
 Consternation sweeps through the congregation. Prickles 
 of embarrassment drop like pins through the silent room, silent 
 but for the sobs of the deacon. 
 
 Elder McClure has the grace to see that he has gone too tar. 
 "Brethren," he says, "my work at Pleasant Hill is finished. I 
 resign, at this moment, as your assistant elder. I will not come 
 back again." He takes his hat from the wire hatrack stretched 
 over the aisle and leaves the room. 
 
 The Bible school convenes and the attendance is large. 
 Isaac Harshbarger recognizes that here is a never-to-be-forgotten 
 opportunity for him to add to his education for the ministry. 
 He is convinced that such Bible schools ought to be a regular 
 feature of each church year. 
 
 "It's a shame," he says to Martha, "that Elder McClure sets 
 his foot down on everything the Gibsons try to do I'm like 
 your brother Nicholas. I've got enough of it. The church 
 differences between the East and the West were dropped 
 twenty years ago by Annual Meeting. Maybe there is something 
 else behind all this." 
 
 Isaac now throws his weight of approval to the new and 
 growing activities of the Brethren, and the future will see 
 many splendid Bible schools held at the Pleasant Hill meeting- 
 house. But for the present there is more anxiety pressed upon 
 the congregation. 
 
 As the September council is called it is discovered that 
 Elder John Harshbarger, a leading man of the Southern District 
 of Illinois, is present. Now he accepts the invitation of his cousin, 
 Elder Joseph, to conduct the meeting. 
 
 Martin McClure is there and apologizes for all of his 
 actions at the last council, and Elder Joseph Harshbarger 
 resigns from his presiding position over the congregation. Then, 
 
 181 
 
seeking to heap loving forgiveness on top of the accepted 
 apologies, the voting body elects, by a small majority, Martin 
 McClure as elder-in-charge. 
 
 "Heaven help us," breathes many a member, with a sinking 
 heart. Dictatorship has indeed descended on the Brethren at 
 Pleasant Hill. But the elder, living in another county, is seldom 
 present on Sunday. It is possible, then, for the members to 
 attend Sunday worship with a measure of joy. And there 
 are the activities of the home, the farm, the school, and the 
 towns to which they can turn. This they proceed to do. "For," 
 says one, "if we cannot be friends and talk about religious 
 things, we'll be obliged to talk about common things." 
 
 1895: Entry in Amanda Snell's Diary, November 17 
 
 George Vaniman died suddenly this morning. It's 
 such a shock. 
 
 Saturday is a busy day. In the afternoon George Vaniman 
 drives to town and buys a few necessities. The trading finished 
 and many a friendly conversation concluded with others who 
 are in the Saturday crowds, George drives home and does his 
 usual chores. Yet, when he comes in to supper, he remarks of 
 not feeling well, eats a light supper, and retires early. 
 
 Having stayed up to finish all of the details of her usual 
 large preparations for a Sunday full of activities, Louisa finally 
 retires. She does not disturb George, who seems to be sleeping. 
 But in the night, as the clock strikes two, she awakens and 
 says, "Why, George, you're cold. George, you're— George! 
 George!" Her voice trails into a whisper of shock as, horrified, 
 she realizes that George will never speak to her again. 
 
 Somehow she gets to the stair door and calls Elmer and 
 Vernon. How very grateful she is that Elmer is at home this 
 winter. 
 
 Calvin comes from McPherson, but Melvin is in Canada 
 with the opera troupe and cannot be located in time to attend 
 the funeral, which is finally set for Wednesday. 
 
 182 
 
As the teams and rigs pour over the roads toward the 
 meetinghouse at Pleasant Hill with antlike precision, it is 
 apparent that this is to be the largest funeral ever yet held at 
 Pleasant Hill. This building has the largest seating capacity 
 of any public place in this end of the county, often figured at 
 six hundred. Now almost two hundred people overflow into 
 the churchyard. 
 
 J. G. Royer has come from Mt. Morris to preach the funeral, 
 assisted by John H. Brubaker. Isaac Harshbarger leads the 
 congregational singing. 
 
 When the prayers have been said, the obituary read, the 
 sermon preached, and the songs sung, then begins the tread of 
 the feet of those who pass before the bier resting there in front 
 of the preachers' table. 
 
 These feet are the feet of those who have come to pay their 
 last tribute of respect to this man who has lived at Pleasant 
 Hill for thirty-two years. This man who has helped the helpless, 
 fed the hungry, clothed the naked, befriended the friendless, 
 neighbored with the neighbors, worshiped with the worshipers, 
 sung with the joyful, and sorrowed with the sorrowing. 
 
 Tread. Tread. Tread. The feet pass between Louisa and 
 the coffin in which her loved one lies. She can see those feet 
 through her enveloping black veil. Boots unpolished, from 
 the barnyard. Boots polished, from the town. Brogans, muddied 
 and hard. Brogans, new and clumsy. Shoes of new leather. 
 Shoes old and worn. Shoes of fine kid. Shoes covered with 
 winter arctics. 
 
 Tread. Tread. Tread. The feet keep coming through the 
 aisles. To whom do they belong? Were all of these George's 
 friends? Will they never quit coming by? 
 
 Louisa holds her handkerchief to her mouth and watches 
 the feet. They do not stop. Not until over seven hundred 
 people have paid their last respects. Have satisfied their eyes. 
 Have said their last than\ you's. Have said good-by in their 
 hearts to this man who had helped them when no one else 
 would. This man who risked financial ruin to help the needy. 
 This man whose advice was generally right. 
 
 "This man," says Judge Balfour Cowan in his remarks 
 
 183 
 
after the sermon, "was looked up to as a father by many, and as 
 for those who cherish gratitude for lesser favors, their names 
 are legion. May he rest in peace and reap the reward of the 
 righteous." 
 
 Louisa shivers with grief and chill as everyone follows the 
 bier across the road. She stands by the open grave in the cold 
 wind that wails and sweeps in melancholy gusts over the hill, 
 where George Vaniman is now being the first one at Pleasant 
 Hill to be laid away in a cemented tomb. 
 
 "Think how nice that will be, Mother," says Elmer, as they 
 arrive home and try to make small talk that will be a comfort 
 to all of the family. "No water nor dirt can ever get into Father's 
 grave. Someday everyone will be buried this way." 
 
 " Tis all right, Son," says Louisa. "It's a nice mark of 
 respect. But Father is not there in that tomb; that's only his 
 remains. This is the fourth day. He's resurrected by now." 
 
 "Do you believe that, Mother?" asks Calvin. 
 
 "Yes, I believe it," says Louisa. "If I didn't I could never 
 stand my grief. Jesus said, 'I am the resurrection and the life.' 
 Not I was or I will be, but I am." 
 
 "I never thought of that," says Calvin. 
 
 "And," continues Louisa, "it's the living love in a life 
 that counts. Your father had so much of that. How much I 
 never truly realized until today, when all those feet were treading 
 by." 
 
 Louisa pulls her little rocker up beside the hot stove, drinks 
 hot coffee, and rocks gently as she thaws her chilled body. Rocks 
 there in her little rocker where she will rock, so often alone, for 
 twenty-seven more years. What, now, will these years bring? 
 
 The Brethren at Pleasant Hill feel the loss of George 
 Vaniman keenly, as a neighbor and a friend. And there is a 
 strange emptiness in their very hearts and souls as they realize 
 that here was a man, godly, save for his lack of the symbol of 
 baptism. 
 
 "It's awful," mourns one in hushed tones, "to be so near 
 and yet lost." 
 
 "Lost?" asks another. "Did it ever occur to you that some 
 
 184 
 
of our interpretations may not be correct? Just look at the 
 good George did." 
 
 "But we are not saved by our works. We are saved by 
 grace." 
 
 "Yes. That's true enough. And we are also told, 'By 
 their fruits ye shall know them.' And I knew George Vaniman 
 and I know he had the fruits of the Spirit." 
 
 "Well," says another, "I've thought many a time about that 
 statement of Jesus when He said that many will come and 
 say, 'Lord! Lord!' And the Lord will say, 'I never knew you!' 
 I reckon we'd better not make our pictures of the hereafter 
 too definite. We might miss it." 
 
 1896: Entry in S. S. Bruba\ers Diary, January 29 
 
 Anna Shull and husband were here on wedding trip. 
 Are going to be missionaries. 
 The air castles which Anna Shull had built as she sold books 
 at Pleasant Hill are no longer spun of imaginary webs. Now 
 they have taken form and shape and dimension. She has been 
 attending college at North Manchester, Indiana, and now in 
 January of this year is united in marriage to Daniel L. Forney. 
 The young couple come to Pleasant Hill on their wedding trip 
 and then they move to the Arkansas mission field of the 
 Brethren. 
 
 Two more years and Anna and her preacher-missionary 
 husband will be in India. The Stovers are writing to the church 
 publications about India. India! The land of superstition and 
 starvation and plague. Where widows of low caste are burned 
 alive on their husbands' funeral pyres and girl babies are 
 drowned at birth. Such customs are well-nigh unbelievable to 
 the Brethren. 
 
 Especially do Katie and Frank Snell compare heathen India 
 and Christian America as they hover lovingly over their own 
 little girl who has failed to throw off the ravages of whooping 
 
 185 
 
cough. Katie finds release from her grief by directing her 
 energies to Dortha, now eight years old. 
 
 "Dortha," says Katie, "would you like for Mama to make 
 you a doll cupboard?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, Mama," says Dortha in delight. So Katie selects 
 soft pine boards, and with only a butcher knife, a meat saw, 
 a brace and bit, a hammer, and some nails she makes a doll 
 cupboard thirty inches high, complete with carved scroll top, 
 shelves, and glassed doors that swing on little hinges. Sand- 
 papered and painted, this skillful work of Katie's clever hands 
 becomes a possession which is a rare thing to little girls at 
 Pleasant Hill. 
 
 Dortha treasures her little cupboard through all her 
 playtime years, never dreaming that she will even treasure 
 it in far-off 1954. How much longer only the Lord knows. 
 
 After the death of George Vaniman, Elmer and Calvin do 
 not return to college. The large farm and its vast stock of 
 machinery and horses and herds and all the attendant financial 
 problems are now resting on their shoulders. 
 
 Louisa encourages the boys by saying: "Your father gave 
 you much good advice and training. You are twenty-six and 
 twenty-one years old. Use your judgment and make your own 
 decisions. This is home to all of us and Melvin too. If you 
 decide to carry on the farm as your lifework it will make a 
 living for all of us. I'll help you all I can." 
 
 "Mother," says Elmer, "you've taught us a lot about life 
 yourself. And I'm sure the wise thing to do is to stay with 
 the farm." 
 
 Louisa smiles. "Thank you, Son. Sometimes I've thought 
 we were too strict. But we wanted to teach you to face reality. 
 I guess this is it." 
 
 The administrator's sale is set for January 31, and as the 
 day of the sale dawns the Vaniman brothers look over the 
 rows and rows of machinery. They have been surprised to 
 have several head of livestock returned but are not at all 
 prepared for the thing that begins to happen as the hour of 
 the sale approaches and the crowds arrive. 
 
 186 
 
"This team," says one man, "was loaned to me by Mr. 
 Vaniman. He was such a fine man. God bless him." 
 
 "This cow was loaned to me by Mr. Vaniman," says another. 
 "It fed my children when I needed help. I sure appreciated it." 
 
 The story goes on and on until noon. "Boys," says^ the 
 auctioneer, "we'll have to extend the sale over tomorrow." 
 
 When the famous two-day sale is over, Elmer is completely 
 humble. "Mother," he says, "I can never do business in the 
 way Father did, but I will frankly admit that his faith in his 
 fellow men has been fully justified." 
 
 Now Louisa turns to the girl, Cora Wineland. "Cora, she 
 says, "you've been with me eleven years. You've come to be 
 a daughter to me. Since you'll be eighteen next Sunday we'll 
 have a birthday dinner for you and invite your Uncle Henry 
 Stutsmans and your sisters." 
 
 Besides the dinner, Louisa gives Cora a dower of a cow, 
 twenty dollars' worth of goods, a bed and bedclothes, one 
 bedroom set, and a forty-one-piece set of dishes. Elmer and 
 Calvin give her a watch. 
 
 Now Cora is equipped with the knowledge of housework 
 and goes out to make her own way by working in the homes 
 of the neighborhood until she becomes the bride of James 
 
 Neher in 1898. 
 
 The Valentine Stutsmans have been having a siege or. 
 typhoid fever again. This time Nellie, Bessie, Otis, and Ruth 
 have each suffered with the disease, one by one. 
 
 "Oh, I'm so hungry, Doctor," says Bessie, looking at Dr. 
 Simmons with eyes sunken behind hollow cheekbones. "When 
 can I have something to eat?" 
 
 "Not until we can see your backbone through your 
 
 stomach." 
 
 "I'm that way now," says Bessie. 
 
 "Well, in that case," says the doctor, "you can have a little 
 square of butter-bread with just a tiny bit of apple butter on 
 it tomorrow morning." He turns to Tabitha. "If it makes her 
 sick, send for me." 
 
 It does make Bessie ill, and Valentine sends Charlie Ganger 
 dashing off on horseback for the doctor. 
 
 187 
 
While the family is enduring this terrible siege, Isaac 
 Filbrun and his wife, Mary, nurse them and arrange a calendar 
 of nursing service among the Brethren membership. Amanda 
 Snell, young Dan Vaniman, Jonathan Frantz, and many others 
 too, take turns going into the Stutsman home, and at last when 
 these children are all on the road to recovery, the Dorcas Aid 
 Society goes in and helps Tabitha do up her spring sewing. 
 
 1896: Entry in S. S. Brubaker's Diary, November 20 
 I'm a deacon now. Will try to be a good one. 
 
 The weatherman builds a paradox of seasons in 1896. Last 
 year was very dry. This year is very wet. Some cornfields are 
 never planted. Those which were are choked with weeds. In 
 August the weather is so humid that grain threshing is next 
 to impossible. If a man intends to do fall plowing his horses 
 are overcome with heat. 
 
 "The papers say," says John Stowe, "that there are eight 
 hundred dead horses on the streets of Chicago. It must be 
 terrible." 
 
 "Such extremes in weather conditions make hard times 
 financially," says Abram Harshbarger. "I've sold out my watch 
 repair and jewelry business and bought a grocery store. People 
 must eat but they can do without luxuries." 
 
 "I see you're building a new house," says John, "and you 
 keep a horse and buggy. I reckon you're not doing too badly 
 for a young businessman." 
 
 Ezra Frantz is a young businessman now too. Several 
 months ago Peter sent for Ezra to come to Mt. Morris and add 
 his talent to the growing staff of workers at the fence factory. 
 
 In this summer Ezra journeys to Texas, and on August 12 
 is united in marriage to Mary Buckley, the cousin of Peter's 
 wife. This couple of newlyweds now visit Ezra's mother, 
 Barbara, and Father Harshbarger, and Ezra tells them of his 
 work. 
 
 "The factory is growing," Ezra explains. "We've just 
 
 188 
 
finished moving it to Sterling, Illinois. We believe Sterling is 
 a better location for manufacturing." 
 
 Ezra is full of enthusiasm, and when he and Mary have 
 left, Elder Harshbarger says, "Mother, the world is going to 
 hear from our boys." 
 
 Mother Barbara smiles in modest happiness. "I've never 
 expected anything else, I reckon. But if they do make their 
 mark, I'll give all the credit to the Lord. And you've been a 
 good father to them, Joe. That counts. And the church and 
 the good community influence count more than we'll ever 
 know, I'm sure." 
 
 The world will indeed hear from Ezra as well as his brother 
 Peter. Ezra's next move will be to purchase a machine shop 
 that manufactures coal and rock drills. He will make an 
 addition to this plant by inventing some special machinery that 
 is an immediate success, and with this he will exceed the profits 
 of the fence company. 
 
 The brothers will then unite their small companies into 
 one large one, and will presently be building six of Ezra's new 
 patents for the Dillon Griswold Steel Mills. Business and 
 contracts will be good and they will send for their older brother, 
 Jonathan, to come and make patterns for them. 
 
 "Oh," Ezra will say as he tells the story in 1954, "we learned 
 everything the hard way. I've often wondered how much 
 better we could have done if we had been trained draftsmen. 
 Trained machinists. Trained businessmen." 
 
 In a few years, however, Ezra will move to Texas for 
 Mary's health, and since his move will stretch into a stay of 
 a lifetime, he and his brother will dissolve their partnership, and 
 each one will proceed alone. 
 
 In the land of cotton Ezra's active mind will turn to new 
 opportunities, and in a short time he will have invented a 
 machine to make the cotton-bale buckles which a banker is 
 manufacturing. Then in 1910, Ezra will patent a cotton tie 
 buckle of his own, and the machine which will make them. 
 This Frantz cotton buckle will become the most widely used 
 cotton-bale tie in all the cotton states, and even yet in 1954 
 it will be used almost exclusively. 
 
 189 
 
This successful "mouse trap" does indeed bring the world 
 to Ezra Frantz's door. When he will retire at the age of 
 seventy, he will have been president of twelve corporations of 
 the South. He will have manufactured, in addition to the cotton 
 buckle, automobiles, gas engines, power hay presses, water- and 
 oil-well machinery, and piston rings. His Christian business 
 standards will be so high and so sound that failing corporations 
 will come to him and ask that he come to them and get them 
 back on the road to success. 
 
 He will own farms and design homes and build large city 
 developments. He will handle real estate on rising evaluations, 
 and he will be able to save large and successful holdings in that 
 future crash of 1929. 
 
 He and his wife will raise a family of four and adopt two 
 orphans as well. They will not live in a Brethren community 
 or be able to worship in a Brethren congregation, but all of 
 their children will be baptized as Brethren. Ezra will serve 
 the Lord actively with the Presbyterians and act as an elder and 
 often preach in the pulpit. He will serve as a trustee of 
 McPherson College, sitting in its sessions with Francis Vaniman, 
 his old playmate at Pleasant Hill. He will make possible the 
 drilling and putting into operation of an oil well for the Church 
 of the Brethren at Falfurrias, Texas, in those future days when 
 Brethren Service has become a great but humble Christian 
 institution around the world. 
 
 His children will become members of the faculties of the 
 University of Nebraska and the University of Texas; one will 
 compose sacred music; one will become the wife of a minister; 
 one will teach at Hardin-Simmons University; and one will do 
 research for the Ford Foundation. 
 
 "Oh, we have been wonderfully blessed," Ezra will say 
 when he will have celebrated fifty-four years of married life, 
 and then his companion will have passed on. "And I thank 
 my Lord for my Christian parents and home, and the privilege 
 of having been raised at Pleasant Hill. That same influence is 
 what we hope we have given to our own children for all 
 their lives." 
 
 With the membership growing both by baptism and by 
 
 190 
 
letter, the congregation at Pleasant Hill now proceeds to elect 
 two deacons at the regular council meeting on November 20. 
 
 S. S. Brubaker and Franklin J. Snell are elected, and, with 
 their wives, are duly installed in their new offices. 
 
 "I couldn't be a preacher," says Frank later, "but maybe 
 I can make a tolerably good deacon." 
 
 "Yes, you will make a good deacon, Frank," says Martha 
 Harshbarger. "But now will you let your beard grow as the 
 church asks of its officials?" And Martha looks at Isaac, who is 
 wearing his black beard, and remembers her tearful horror 
 when the members, with Frank, her brother-in-law, as one of 
 them, demanded that Isaac as a minister of the gospel wear a 
 
 beard. 
 
 "Oh, no," says Frank. "Not me. I'd look terrible with a 
 
 beard." 
 
 Frank does make a good deacon, however, and through 
 all of his life gives liberally of his time to all of the various 
 duties of the deacons incurred by the numerous love feasts, 
 the annual visits, and the caring for the widows and the 
 orphans of the church. 
 
 S. S. Brubaker dedicates his years also toward being a 
 good deacon. He will stint neither time nor money in promoting 
 the program of the church as directed by the Annual Meeting. 
 He will work at Pleasant Hill and he will work in the district. 
 Many an accomplishment for the advancement of the German 
 Baptist Brethren will be helped by S. S. Brubaker's skill in the 
 field of finance, in which he gives excellent business advice, and 
 he will live to be old and full of years. 
 
 At this same council the step is taken which will bring 
 welcome release to the tensions in the church administration. 
 Martin McClure resigns as elder and John H. Brubaker is 
 elected. 
 
 This event has come rather unexpectedly. Cullen Gibson 
 had sent a call to the Annual Meeting in the spring, asking 
 that a committee be sent to Pleasant Hill to investigate the 
 elder and his policies. The request had been delivered by the 
 delegate, but, strange to say, no action was taken. 
 
 "I'm not surprised," says Cullen Gibson. "Our elder stopped 
 
 191 
 
the action himself, for he can never stand an investigation. 
 I suspect he is to be pitied, but something's got to happen." 
 
 Now at this quiet and solemn council, Martin McClure eases 
 himself out of a position that he is desperately trying to avoid. 
 How desperately only the years will tell. 
 
 Is this man who is stern with others following that course 
 that he might be able to control himself? Is this man who sets 
 a deep and narrow-gauged track for others doing so because he 
 knows that he, himself, will be lost if he sets one foot outside 
 that track ? It is something to wonder about. 
 
 Within the decade it will be known at Pleasant Hill that 
 Martin McClure is no longer within the church, and has 
 come to a sad state. It will be known that this brilliant man 
 will have needed strength and help that he did not have or 
 receive. Has he lived fifty years too soon? In that future time, 
 Alcoholics Anonymous might have rescued him. 
 
 But he did have the church. He had the gospel which he 
 preached. How will he have so tragically let go the convictions 
 of his own exhortation to others? How will his faith have been 
 lost? Is it only the Lord who knows? 
 
 When the corn is all in the crib Elmer Gibson and Alva 
 Beckner leave for Manchester College and Charles Brubaker 
 packs a trunk to go to California. 
 
 "I've always planned to go to California," says his brother 
 Nicholas. "Now you are going first." 
 
 "I'll be looking for you," says Charles. And on his arrival 
 in that far state he writes, "I have arrived after a jerking, smoky, 
 cinder-eyed trip. But the Rocky Mountains are beautiful with 
 a beauty that words cannot describe." 
 
 It will be almost nine years before Charles will return to 
 Pleasant Hill. He will alternate study, teaching in the public 
 schools, and working as a salesman of that lovely new ware, 
 aluminum, until he graduates from the university at Berkeley. 
 Living in Los Angeles for a time, he will be called to the 
 ministry by the Los Angeles church in 1899. Finally he will 
 witness the unforeseen and terrible events at San Francisco 
 which only the future can tell. 
 
 192 
 
1897: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, February 7 
 The boys went to Springfield to hear Melvin sing. 
 It is time to retire, yet Louisa lingers before the fire. She has 
 noticed the familiar chuffing of the engines at the water tank 
 all through the evening. Then suddenly she hears a familiar 
 voice calling, "Hello, Mother! Hello, Mother!" And almost 
 at once the dear, familiar step comes bounding up onto the 
 
 P ° rC Louisa rushes to the door and is as delighted to see Melvin 
 as he is to see her. 
 
 "I got off at the water tank," he says. "I've just tonight at 
 home I must go back to Springfield in the morning and 
 tomorrow night we perform there. Why don't you come, 
 Mother, and see Faust?" 
 
 "I reckon 'twould be nice," says Louisa. "But, my son, I 
 don't need to journey to Springfield to hear you sing. Somehow 
 your singing will always be the greatest to me right here at 
 Pleasant Hill. You and Elmer and Calvin and Abe Harshbarger 
 singing It Is Well With My Soul. And so many other great 
 gospel songs. Remember? Can you ever sing any better, or 
 can you ever sing songs more glorious?" 
 
 "Oh, Mother, Mother!" declares Melvin. "How right you 
 are And I realize more each year of my life how much it 
 means just to know that home is here. It's a security that makes 
 it possible for me to go on with my ambitions. Boys"-and he 
 turns to his brothers who have gathered around-'you'll come to 
 the performance, won't you?" 
 
 "Yes," says Elmer. "Calvin and I will come." 
 
 "And how about me?" asks Vernon. "Mother, let me go 
 
 too. Please." 
 
 "Your brothers may not want a youngster like you tagging 
 
 along," says Louisa. 
 
 "Oh, yes," says Melvin. "Bring Vernon, by all means. We 
 may select a new production one of these years. Vernon ought 
 
 to know Faust." 
 
 So Vernon Vaniman is a grateful boy of thirteen who has 
 the privilege of enjoying this famous story of medieval Germany. 
 
 193 
 
And he returns home and tells his mother about Faust searching 
 for the riddle of life and his fine tenor singing. And about 
 Mephistopheles, the devil, and his marvelous bass voice, and 
 his promise to Faust of happiness through money, fame, or 
 power which, after all, brought only death. And there were the 
 other parts too and the rousing "Soldier's Chorus," and Melvin 
 singing there as one of the soldiers, dressed in a coat-of-mail. 
 
 "Sounds like a sort of sermon," muses Louisa. 
 
 "Yes, Mother," agrees her young son. "It was a good 
 sermon." 
 
 The congregation at Pleasant Hill is now enjoying the 
 use of two rows of new hanging lamps. They light the big 
 room with a surprising brightness. And the children watch, 
 fascinated, as the janitor draws the lamps down or shoves them 
 up, the long chains buzzing on their spring-pulleys like cicadas 
 in July. 
 
 The new lights may surprise the people, but they are not 
 surprised that Deacon David Vaniman, ill for two years, now 
 dies. This man, who was the first Dunker at Pleasant Hill, 
 whose vision of a Christian community and its contributions 
 to the Kingdom of God was ever before him, has gone to his 
 reward. 
 
 The song, We Are Going Down the Valley, echoes across 
 the grassy slopes of the cemetery. Clouds scuttle across the 
 infinite sky. The wind sighs its soft tunes in the pines. The 
 cackles of the chickens on the near-by farms are heard. 
 
 When the business is all settled, David Vaniman's sons 
 give their mother a sense of independence by saving for her 
 the gentle buggy horse and the old phaeton, no longer stylish 
 but showing the marks of many winters. 
 
 "Now, Mother," says Charley, "you can live with whichever 
 child you please and have your own buggy and go where and 
 when you wish." 
 
 So, until the year 1910, Betsy Vaniman will be seen driving 
 here and there. And the little girls at Pleasant Hill will 
 remember her because she carries, wherever she goes, a lovely 
 basket with hinged lids on top. In it Betsy will store not only 
 quilt blocks and knitting, but out of its depths will come cookies 
 
 194 
 
or cherry tarts, or candy. Or even a kitten. No, indeed! No one 
 ever knows just what will come out of Betsy Vaniman's basket. 
 
 The preacher engaged for the protracted meeting this year 
 is of the dogmatic school. Sitting in Charley Vaniman's living 
 room one night after services, he declares with bumptious 
 conviction, "Your young people here at Pleasant Hill are 
 usurping the leadership. Too many of them have been to 
 college. And if you will notice, those who go to college come 
 home spoiled." 
 
 "S-s-s-sh," warns Lizzie gently. "I don't think you should 
 make such remarks. The schoolteacher, Sister Martha Masterson, 
 is in the room overhead. I'm afraid she'll hear you." 
 
 Martha does hear and she feels both sorrowful and 
 righteously indignant that there must be such preachers who 
 have no vision. 
 
 Anyway, it isn't just those who have been away to college 
 that rebel against the order of attire. Alpheus Brubaker and 
 John Lear realize that they look odd wearing no neckties with 
 their Sunday suits, and on the way to Carlinville to the 
 teachers' institute they stop at a haberdasher's and buy this little 
 article of neckware which is worldly and forbidden by the 
 council at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 They tell Valentine Stutsman about their subterfuge and 
 although Valentine himself observes the plain style of the 
 Brethren he knows its doubtful value and does not hesitate to 
 say so. He chuckles a little and says, "I won't tell on you, boys." 
 
 1898: Entry in S. S. Bruba\ers Diary, March 26 
 
 Noble Kent shot Bill last night, Bill is hurt bad. 
 The boisterous rattle of winter gives way to the soft wooing 
 of spring early this year, and by the eighteenth of February the 
 roads are so bad that everyone walks everywhere. Even when 
 Mr. Peron Kent dies the last week of this month, most people 
 who attend his funeral at Pleasant Hill walk or ride horseback. 
 Elder John H. Brubaker preaches the funeral of this man 
 
 195 
 
who was born on the raw Pleasant Hill prairie in 1835. This 
 man who sold land to the Brethren settlers. This man who 
 has been a good neighbor when there was farm work to do, 
 but who has never been interested in any church affiliation. 
 
 Mr. Kent has been sorely tried in past years by the 
 escapades of his oldest son, Noble. More than once he has paid 
 out large sums of "damage" money, and he has also expended 
 cash for this son for business ventures in Peoria. 
 
 In all fairness to the second son, Willie, Mr. Kent had had 
 a legal will drawn up that takes cognizance of these 
 expenditures. Now when the will is read Noble finds that the 
 farm belongs to Willie and to his mother. Little of Noble's 
 share is left. 
 
 On the night of March 21, Willie Kent is shot through the 
 window by someone who has knocked at the door. Willie is 
 near death for days, and in the meantime the authorities have 
 traced footprints that lead through the mud of the fields to 
 the Pleasant Hill cemetery fence. They are picked up again 
 crossing the Virden and Girard highway. There is no doubt. 
 The would-be murderer has escaped at the water tank at 
 Vaniman's crossing by jumping a freight train that would 
 take him to far places. 
 
 "I know it was Noble," says the hired man, "for I looked 
 up and saw him." 
 
 "It's too bad," says S. S. Brubaker. "Just too bad, right 
 when Willie is making something out of himself. They say 
 he was doing fine teaching school out in North Otter this 
 winter." 
 
 The story is long and will become even more tragic. Willie 
 Kent's recovery will be slow and painful, and will allow him 
 time to brood over the hatred which Noble has held for him 
 since his birth. 
 
 "Plainly," Willie will reason to himself, "now that Father's 
 gone, it's either me or Noble. It's a fight to the draw, and 
 there's no way out." 
 
 The Brethren neighbors at Pleasant Hill are deeply 
 disturbed. They can look to the incident as an example of the 
 results of hatred and of unchristian principles of living. 
 
 196 
 
Yet there is something else here to think about. Why have 
 not the Brethren been able to reach these two or three unsaved 
 families of the community? Where have they failed? Certainly 
 the Brethren have provided plenty of evangelism. They have 
 demonstrated their own faith and joy in their beliefs. They 
 have rated high in their standards of Christian ethics— in 
 integrity and loyalty and kindness among their fellow men. 
 These Brethren do not realize now in 1898 that even yet 
 in the middle of the next century, when change after change 
 has come in the customs of both the church and the world in 
 which it lives, this same question will remain unanswered. In 
 the years leading to those far-off days, the Brethren will come 
 to realize that with very high percentage they are following a 
 historical pattern! "To be Brethren you must be born and 
 raised Brethren!" Why? Is it only the Lord who knows? 
 
 Now the story of the Kent boys extends into the months 
 ahead, and on the fifth day of December Elder John H. Brubaker 
 preaches the funeral of Noble Kent, and this time it is Willie 
 who is the fugitive from the law. 
 
 From an unknown place he will write, "I am to be pitied, 
 not censured, for my act. I have always tried to live an honorable 
 life. The mental strain of always being hunted by my brother 
 became unbearable." 
 
 Willie Kent is pitied by many, and the sentence of the 
 judge will be tempered with mercy. And the testimony of the 
 Brethren at Pleasant Hill will live, after all, in the heart of 
 Willie Kent. 
 
 This will be known when a pleasant, well-dressed, white- 
 haired man driving a good automobile will arrive at the 
 Pleasant Hill meetinghouse on a Sunday in July in 1936. It will 
 be the day of the Brubaker reunion, and this man will say, "Do 
 you know me? I am Willie Kent." And he will shake the 
 hands of S. S. Brubaker and Isaac Harshbarger and Ezra Frantz, 
 and greet the men who were boys when he left Pleasant Hill. 
 His eyes will take in the meetinghouse. The rows of maples. 
 The cemetery. "It's the same," he will muse. "Much the same. 
 You'll never know how often I have remembered you Dunkers. 
 I just had to shake hands with some of you once more." 
 
 197 
 
1898: Entry in Amanda Snell's Diary, August 20 
 
 The church is building a baptismal pool in the yard. 
 As the worshipers step out into the churchyard from a fine 
 spiritual banquet on Sunday morning, invitations are pressed 
 upon friends for the physical banquet that hearty appetites 
 crave, even on a Sunday. 
 
 "Howdy. Better go along for dinner." 
 "No. Not today. I reckon you folks better go along with us." 
 "Well, I reckon we can." 
 
 "Howdy. Where are you folks going for dinner today? 
 Oh! Then I reckon we'll go too." 
 
 This hospitality at Pleasant Hill is strung on an elastic band 
 of mutual friendships. It is perfectly within propriety for anyone 
 to "go along for dinner" to the place where a mutual friend 
 has been invited. 
 
 The hostess starts her preparations for dinner, keeping one 
 eye on the barnyard window to see how many rigs are driving 
 in. Long before the menfolk get the horses unhitched, watered, 
 stabled, and fed, all of the women have "pitched in" to prepare 
 dinner. 
 
 The hostess takes hasty stock of her pantry. Bread, pies, 
 and cakes are always there from Saturday's baking. A dozen 
 varieties of jellies and pickles are on the shelves. Canned fruit 
 and vegetables are in the cellar. The smokehouse will yield 
 ropes of stuffed sausage or a great ham to slice. 
 
 Perhaps it is a summer Sunday and she has planned to have 
 fried chicken. She has three dressed and they will supply the 
 first table. She assigns one guest to the frying and hastens 
 out to the chicken coop. 
 
 "I'll help you," says another of the guests. And, in no time 
 at all, heads and feathers are off and there is plenty of chicken 
 to replenish the skillets. With all of this crisis of haste in 
 upholding her reputation to set a good table, this sister who 
 prepares chickens at the last minute is never excused if a 
 pinfeather is found in the gravy. 
 
 No community is without those people who are poor or 
 shy or different. They are here at Pleasant Hill too. They 
 
 198 
 
stand around and grin expectantly as invitations are being 
 extended, but seldom do they receive the inclusion that they 
 
 hope for. 
 
 The Brethren are not without natural selfishness and as 
 the gay groups go on their way it is at times clearly up to 
 the preachers' wives to cancel plans of their own and take these 
 people who cannot return the invitation home with them to 
 
 dinner. 
 
 "For if ye love them which love you, what reward have 
 ye? Do not even publicans do the same?" 
 
 So Nancy Gibson, Susie Brubaker, and Barbara Harsh- 
 barger— Lizzie Brubaker, Hannah Wirt, Susan Gibson, Rebecca 
 Gibson, and now Martha Harshbarger, too— are depended upon 
 to uphold the commandment of lovingkindness among the 
 
 neglected ones. 
 
 As the members visit together this summer they discuss 
 the need of a baptismal pool. The old pool in its natural 
 setting no longer holds water. There are those who are loath 
 to give up the natural stream, but new light on this item of 
 necessity wins the decision to construct a pool in the yard, to be 
 filled with water from the pump and covered by a heavy lid 
 that will safeguard the playing children. 
 
 In the fall of 1898 Vida Brubaker and Lydia and Susan 
 Brubaker are among those that go to Mt. Morris. But Nicholas 
 Brubaker is bound for California at last. 
 
 "Oh, Nicholas," weeps Mother Mary. "Why do you have to 
 go so far away?" 
 
 "Now, now, Mother," says Nicholas. "Why did you leave 
 Virginia and come to Illinois? It looks to me as if the Dunker 
 people must keep their faces set to the west. I'd say it's the call 
 of opportunity. Just think, Mother, what a young man can 
 do in a new land helping to build up the churches and the 
 schools. A man is compelled to find the place that fits him. For 
 me, I believe that place is California." 
 
 Nicholas's immediate position is that of professor of 
 English at the new Brethren college at Lordsburg. And all of 
 his future years will be devoted to the schools and churches 
 of Southern California. He will be a leader in educational 
 
 199 
 
associations, both in Los Angeles and in national fields. He will 
 serve as a trustee of the Brethren college when it is no longer 
 Lordsburg but La Verne. 
 
 In 1910 he will be called to the ministry in the South Los 
 Angeles church. He will become an elder in 1918 and in his 
 active years will preach in every Brethren congregation in 
 Southern California. He will teach a Sunday-school class 
 continuously through all the years and will be teaching in the 
 Calvary Church of the Brethren in Los Angeles when he dies. 
 
 Of him Harry Masterson will write: 
 
 Yes, weep, but not too much, 
 
 O'er this poor broken bit of clay; 
 
 This old and outgrown house 
 
 Wherein I could no longer stay. 
 
 For the Master Builder bade me come. . . . 
 
 Martha Masterson leaves Pleasant Hill this same month to 
 attend McPherson College. Next year will find her in 
 California, the bride of Nicholas Brubaker. She too will teach 
 in the schools of Los Angeles County for thirty-five years. Even 
 in 1953 she will yet be keen in her interest in education, in the 
 church, and in the world. A tiny white-haired lady, she will 
 board a transocean plane and fly to Hawaii. Looking out over 
 the ocean in all its immensity she will recall a few precious 
 words from one of Nicholas's best published poems: "... the 
 ocean, like an island of time. . . ." 
 
 1899: Entry in S. S. Bruba\ers Diary, November 28 
 John Lear preached to-day. Wonderful sermon. 
 
 The years of spiritual growth which the Lord has given to 
 John Lear are now fulfilled. Through the Macoupin Creek 
 congregation, in which area John is teaching school, now, on 
 the first Saturday of November, he receives his call to preach. 
 John feels overwhelmed by the sacred importance of his 
 calling and has a deep sense of unpreparedness. "How can 
 
 200 
 
I preach?" he says to his wife. "I don't have enough education. 
 The Lord should have the best and nothing less." 
 
 "Then we'll give our best," says Martha. "No sacrifice 
 will ever be too great for me in order for you to preach." 
 
 When the fourth Sunday comes it is meeting day at Pleasant 
 Hill and John is there. Sitting at the preachers' table for the 
 first time, he looks out over the expectant congregation. The 
 people's hopes run high. They have heard John orating, teaching 
 or debating. They know he will be invited to preach today and 
 they know they will not be disappointed. 
 
 When he is invited to preach, John takes his place behind 
 the plain black box, lays his Bible there, and gives his text 
 from Galatians 6:17: "I bear in my body the marks of the 
 Lord Jesus Christ." 
 
 Now people know what John has been thinking about while 
 he hoed corn or built fence or taught school. He has something 
 to say and he says it, without notes and without meandering 
 from his theme. When the service is dismissed the comment is 
 passed around, "He preached just as if he has always preached." 
 In the first year of his ministry, John preaches frequently in 
 the local congregations. One Sunday at Pleasant Hill the 
 earnestness of his words and actions causes his collar to fly 
 loose from its special button. He jerks the offending collar 
 from his throat and throws it aside. 
 
 "Why, John!" Martha protests aloud, forgetting that she 
 is in divine service. 
 
 John hears his wife's words and apologizes to all with 
 the declaration, "I will not let even a collar come between me 
 and my message." 
 
 These are the days when people are disappointed it the 
 preacher does not pound the pulpit with a fist, or shout, or 
 stomp his feet. They are fascinated and impressed by the 
 shouting or stomping or pounding. But if a man can do all 
 of these, the energy and success of that preacher is immeasurable. 
 John Lear can do all three. The power of his thoughts soars 
 through the power of his action and everyone is electrified by 
 John's fulfillment of the accepted method of the day. 
 
 Will the Brethren have lost something valuable in the 
 
 201 
 
passing of the next forty years? Will they have lost enthusiasm 
 because the preacher no longer shouts? Will they have lost 
 conviction because the preacher no longer stomps? It is only 
 the Lord who knows. 
 
 John Lear sets about the work of the Kingdom in earnest. 
 There will be no division of time for him. He, has been called 
 to preach and he is going to preach. His first problem is to 
 secure a higher education — a man of thirty going to college! 
 He attends Mt. Morris, Millikin University, and Bethany 
 Biblical Seminary, earning two degrees. In all of this time he 
 will be preaching. 
 
 His record of service in the Brotherhood will be long. It 
 will include seven times on the Standing Committee and once 
 as moderator of the Annual Meeting. When he retires, history 
 will say, "John Lear has held seventy revivals in thirteen states." 
 In those sunset years of the future, when thousands of miles 
 have been traveled and thousands of sermons have been 
 preached, Martha Lear will say, "It's been worth, all the 
 sacrifice. And there are so many wonderful texts in the Bible 
 that John never had time to use." 
 
 New light is coming to the Brethren. Somber shades are 
 giving way to pretty colors. Even old Grandmother Anna 
 Brubaker goes to town and buys a length of bright red cloth 
 covered with tiny white flowers and from it cuts eleven dress 
 lengths for eleven little girls at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 The sisters turn to white too, and on the first pretty summer 
 Sunday white starched dresses adorn row after row of young 
 ladies and younger girls wearing bonnets made of colored 
 silk in the approved plain pattern. 
 
 John H. Brubaker, as the elder, believes in kindly under- 
 standing. His problems are many even after allowing simple 
 changes. As an elder he is committed to uphold the Annual 
 Meeting decisions. Yet his conscience will not allow him to 
 be harsh with those who feel the growing intense need of 
 freedom for personal decisions within the basic ideas of the 
 Brethren. 
 
 He now uses the policy of appointing a committee to work 
 with each dissenter, continuing the committee for many months. 
 
 202 
 
He knows that, given time, the congregation or the Annual 
 Meeting may accept new views. Or the erring member may 
 decide to acquiesce, and membership will not need to be 
 withdrawn. 
 
 The church discipline involves entertainment too. The 
 young people in Preacher James Wirt's home now give a party. 
 They enjoy a jolly evening with Father James and Mother 
 Hannah looking on, happy to see the young folks happy. But 
 some o£ the members dislike the description of the occasion 
 which comes to their ears. At the next council they demand 
 that the young people be admonished in no uncertain terms. 
 Preacher Wirt asks for the floor and says, "Brethren, you 
 may admonish me, but not the young people. I was there and 
 by my silence gave consent." 
 
 Elder John H. Brubaker spends many afternoons driving 
 along the country highways in a leisurely style. It is interesting 
 to see the crops and the improvements being made on one farm 
 and another. But his chief purpose is to visit the sick, to help 
 the needy, to call on the spiritually weak and the dissatisfied. 
 At Pleasant Hill, and also in scores of congregations over 
 the Brotherhood, many are dissatisfied at being forced into 
 customs that do not fit the new century ahead. It is a period 
 of sadness. In multiplied councils, A and B and C report, "I 
 will no longer work with the Brethren." And one looks around 
 and sees that many tears are trickling down sad faces. 
 
 Of course God does not lose these, His children. In a 
 matter of weeks, almost without exception, the ones from whom 
 the Brethren have withdrawn fellowship unite with other 
 denominations. What a tragic loss it is for the church of their 
 heritage! And is the loss justified by faith? Is the strangeness 
 of this present situation among the Brethren repeated, one way 
 or another, among all Protestant people? 
 
 Here are parents, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, 
 and friends. They work and play together and life is good. 
 But when religion is mentioned these same people become 
 doctrinal clam shells, snapping their jaws shut on an interpreta- 
 tion which they have chosen to believe. They become enemies 
 
 203 
 
in the margin of an argument, and life is miserable. Ought 
 
 this to be? 
 
 Certainly it is difficult for old people to change their 
 convictions. Elder Joseph Harshbarger sometimes broods over 
 these things. He feels that "now-a-days something happens to 
 the people after they are baptized." They seem to forget that 
 they have become a part of the church. 
 
 He walks up the aisle a bit stiffly, for old age is setting in. 
 But something still swells in his throat and hammers in his 
 chest when he thinks of keeping the church "pure and unspotted 
 from the world." Can the young people ever understand this 
 ideal of the old? 
 
 1900: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, January 1 
 
 I've lived to see a new century. 
 It is a new century! Pleasant Hill folks look out and see the 
 same fields. The same trees. The same sky. But at the same 
 time there is a difference. The soil is ever changing in its 
 content, giving and receiving the properties of life itself. The 
 trees are changing, adding unseen rings of fibre to their 
 strength. The sky is changing, darkened with clouds newly 
 formed and brightened at sunset with colors newly reflected. 
 
 Cannot people, then, be expected to change also? To add 
 to their content of knowledge and revelation? To add to their 
 stature the unmeasured growth of character and wisdom? To 
 add to their sorrows and joys newly discovered sacrifices and 
 beauty? They can, and they should, and they will. 
 
 The new century with its unbounded surge of science and 
 its gifts brings into full conflict the spiritual battle between 
 the young and the old in the Brotherhood of the German Baptist 
 Brethren. It is now that Pleasant Hill will again be hearing 
 of John Heckman and of his intelligent, patient work on the 
 Standing Committees in 1901, 1903, and 1907. Then with John 
 Lear and others equally strong, in 1910, he will take up the 
 imperative task of breaking through the hard shell of uniformity 
 
 204 
 
in dress by forming opinions and guiding the tensions o£ the 
 liberal and the conservative elements in the Brotherhood. As 
 a result of this great work the Annual Meeting will, by 1920, 
 become an advisory body, and its dictatorial dogmas will no 
 longer shackle the freedom of the human spirit in the Church 
 of the Brethren. 
 
 In these changing times the Brethren women, who were 
 once admonished to keep their homes plain, are now caught up 
 in a tangle of chair-tidies and cushions, what-nots and bric-a- 
 brac, stereoscopic views, pillow-shams, store carpets cushioned 
 with straw and rugs over the carpets to save them from wear, 
 and even starched lace curtains. They are not aware where the 
 idea began, but it is Victorian. It is an expression of prosperity 
 that is coming out of the glory and the power of Queen 
 Victoria's British Empire, on which, it is now said, the sun 
 never sets. 
 
 Louisa Vaniman, as the president, continues the work 
 of the Dorcas Sisters. Now with Tabitha Stutsman as vice- 
 president, Vida Brubaker as secretary, and Lizzie Stowe as 
 treasurer, these sisters petition the church to allow them to 
 meet in the meetinghouse to sew. 
 
 The permission is given— "any time they wish." Louisa 
 smiles and says nothing. For six years she has guided the 
 Dorcas Society, sending box after box of clothing to the home 
 mission field. Now it is accepted as a part of the church— "any 
 time they wish." Certainly there was never a people so careful 
 to "prove all things" as are the Brethren. 
 
 Louisa's boys are proving things at home too. All summer 
 Calvin has fooled around with a sputtering thing he calls a 
 gasoline engine. What he is doing with it, Louisa has no idea. 
 Now she hears the boys shouting and Vernon comes running. 
 "Mother!" he shouts. "Mother! Come quick! It goes. 
 Calvin's buggy goes without a horse! He's made an automobile!" 
 Louisa goes out and sees Calvin riding around in an old 
 buggy without its shafts. A one-cylinder engine fastened onto 
 this rig is chugging away, and Calvin is guiding it, by a 
 handle, around the barnyard. 
 
 Louisa laughs. Then she cries. "It goes," she murmurs. 
 
 205 
 
"And without a horse." She laughs and cries again. Then her 
 imagination and her authority assert themselves. 
 
 "Boys! Boys! What are you coming to? Don't you ever 
 dare to drive that contraption out onto the roads. Everyone 
 will think my boys are crazy if you do." 
 
 Louisa is concerned, too, about Melvin. His last letter has 
 come from Hawaii and there the opera troupe has been 
 stranded with the whole island of Oahu quarantined with the 
 black plague. Of course the troupe had been compelled to 
 disband. "But," Melvin had written, "don't worry about me. 
 I've a job as a photographer now and I'm sure it's going to 
 prove to be a profitable field in which to work." 
 
 Soon Louisa is pleasantly surprised to be informed that 
 Miss Ida Loud, a talented musician and vocalist of Virden, is 
 announcing her engagement to Melvin Vaniman of Honolulu. 
 And Louisa is happy to give her blessing to this young lady 
 who now, on October 10, leaves Virden for the trip of almost 
 five thousand miles to become the bride of Louisa's oldest son. 
 And it is interesting too, when another letter comes, to 
 know that Melvin and Ida went to church services at the 
 cathedral and sat near a pleasant, cultured native woman, the 
 famous former Queen Liliuokalani. 
 
 Perhaps there will never be a cathedral at Girard, but 
 the work of the Brethren is growing there. The crowds are 
 large and it seems an excellent move to buy the Christian church 
 house, which is for sale. The purchase is made in July and 
 before the leaves fall this house of the Lord, new to the Brethren, 
 is ready for service, including the bell in the belfry. 
 
 The tones of this bell are melodious and announce the 
 testimony of the German Baptist Brethren and their invitation 
 to come and worship. But its clapper strikes heavily on the 
 hearts of a few of the members with each vibration, and only 
 time will erase the scars of the tears shed over the acceptance 
 of a bell for the Brethren. 
 
 On November 25 the new meetinghouse is dedicated by 
 the evangelist, S. F. Sanger, and a protracted meeting follows. 
 All of the Pleasant Hill folks attend and the news items of 
 
 206 
 
the year are relished as they visit with visitors who come from 
 
 a distance. 
 
 Abram and Emma Gibbel have returned from California 
 with their family and have purchased the former Frantz land 
 there at the Pleasant Hill cross road. Yes, Abram is a deacon 
 now. And it's apparent that such energetic people as the Gibbels 
 will step at once into leadership positions in both the church 
 and the community and always be consistently progressive. 
 
 It's nice to gain a family. It makes up for the loss of 
 Charles Gibson's large and active family, which has moved 
 to the Sugar Creek congregation in Sangamon County. Ota 
 and Irvin Gibson are only young boys but they will be called 
 to the ministry on a distant day and Irvin will become an elder. 
 
 There have been several weddings among the young 
 people— Lela Frantz and John Flory; Mamie Masterson and 
 Elmer Gibson; Maud Stutsman and Alva Beckner. And there 
 was a golden wedding anniversary, that of Preacher Jonathan 
 Brubaker and Susie. 
 
 Brother James Gibson has died. He was a man who always 
 said, "Come on, children, let's go to Sunday school and church." 
 He never said, "You children go. I'll stay home today." 
 
 And Ezra J. Brubaker's wife has died at thirty-seven and 
 left fourteen-year-old Leah to shoulder the responsibility of 
 mothering a large family. Leah does a wonderful job too. The 
 boys rally to their share of the challenge. They are excellent 
 workers and find jobs on the Brethren farms while their father 
 goes here and yonder, always looking for that better chance. 
 The younger boys shoulder their shotguns, take to the fields, 
 and bring in plenty of rabbits for the table. The family having 
 provided themselves with the necessities of life, Leah is proud 
 of such basic accomplishments. And she is proud to see all of 
 the eight baptized into the church. 
 
 The family is also proud of Leah and will make it 
 possible for her to have the privilege of attending Bethany 
 Biblical Seminary and of becoming the wife of the young 
 minister, Charles Wright. 
 
 207 
 
1901: Entry in S. S. Brubakers Diary, February 8 
 Council to-day. George Gibson is leaving the church. 
 I'm not surprised but it's a sad day. 
 Last year the congregation at Pleasant Hill had honored 
 George Gibson by sending him as a delegate to Annual Meeting. 
 Now at the February council he reveals to the membership that 
 he has made his decision to withdraw from the Brethren. 
 
 He declares that he will unite with a denomination that is 
 not refusing to grow into adequate understandings of the needs 
 of the people in this new era. He further declares that both at 
 Pleasant Hill and at the Annual Meeting the spiritual vision of 
 the membership is hidebound and is literally dragging on its 
 haunches. 
 
 "I cannot serve my Lord in this way," says George. 
 
 Rebecca begs her husband to pray for more patience, and 
 to stay with her in the German Baptist Brethren Church. 
 
 "I cannot leave our church, George," she begs gently. "We 
 ought to be together." 
 
 "I know," says George. "And I don't repudiate any of my 
 faith. I simply want to grow and see my church develop into 
 a body that won't withdraw its membership from our splendid 
 young people who fail to obey the commandments of man. 
 I've lost all my patience, and I'm through with them." 
 
 George does not change his decision. He unites with the 
 Baptists and as an elder in this denomination he works faithfully 
 all of his life, filling many a Sunday morning preaching 
 appointment in an unpastored church. 
 
 Alva Vaniman and his sister Pearl are now in college at 
 McPherson, Kansas, and Lydia Brubaker is studying dramatics 
 at Columbia, in Chicago. 
 
 "Are you sure it'll be of any use to you to study this thing 
 you call dramatics?" asks Lydia's father, Moses. 
 
 "Certainly, Father," says Lydia. "I might teach elocution 
 in some college like Mt. Morris. Or I might even become an 
 actress." 
 
 "An actress!" Lydia's father is horrified. "The church would 
 never allow you to do that." 
 
 208 
 
"Well," says Lydia, "I'm not going to stay with the Dunkers 
 anyway, Father. They do not have the desire to grow into the 
 mystical reaches of the full power of the Spirit. Now Mary 
 Baker Eddy. ..." 
 
 Moses listens, and he finds that his daughter Susan also 
 feels, as does Lydia, that the Brethren have placed their feet on 
 some solid basic beliefs but they have failed to reach into 
 several of the great promises of the Holy Spirit. 
 
 "So you feel that you must turn to Christian Science?" says 
 Moses with a sigh. "Well, I cannot live your faith for you. 
 I only hope it will make you happy and keep you near the 
 
 Lord." 
 
 Susan will marry the Brethren boy, Asa Neher, who is 
 clerk of the council at Pleasant Hill for many years. Their 
 lives will be Christian; they will celebrate their golden wedding 
 anniversary, and their children will gather around them and 
 call them blessed. 
 
 Their oldest son, Edgar, will "fly in the blue" and in this 
 flying he will "join the choir invisible, whose music is the 
 gladness of the world." 
 
 Lydia now continues her work in Chicago. When she takes 
 her part in the graduation recital, Senator Hunter of Missouri, 
 who is sitting in the audience, says, "There's the girl for me." 
 Lydia will become the wife of this self-sufficient senator 
 who has no faith in God, and she will follow his way of life 
 with him— the life of the Southern gentleman who loves his 
 position and his money, and who follows the horses and bets 
 at the tracks. He loves to "wine and dine" in hotel after hotel 
 and at sporting places across the nation; for him home will 
 seldom be more than a hotel suite or a city apartment. 
 
 Lydia will find that she is, indeed, an actress playing on 
 the stage of life. At first there will be a thrill to this life that 
 glitters against the simple background of her Christian childhood 
 when she went to church at Pleasant Hill and her father said 
 grace before meals, and when people cried with her when her 
 mother died and laughed with her on the happy days. But 
 by and by the thrill fades into the hollowness from which it 
 was born and Lydia finds surcease for her conscience in her 
 
 209 
 
music and in her religious beliefs. She will become an 
 accomplished pianist, and her husband will take delight in 
 presenting her skill to his friends, and, for a time, will buy her 
 pretty clothing to display her charms. 
 
 Later Lydia will teach piano as a useful hobby, and she 
 will give generous sums of money to the church which she has 
 chosen. Her faith will indeed be great, and it will give her 
 a poise and a peace that will glow in her face when at last she 
 will coax Mr. Hunter to return with her to the old home place. 
 
 Old and stubborn, shaggy, unkempt and friendless, this 
 man who has kept his faith in his money will finally stand over 
 the grave where his wife is being buried at Pleasant Hill in 
 the beautiful casket which money has provided. The nieces 
 and nephews of Lydia will have overruled the old man, and 
 the young Brethren pastor, Leland Nelson, will be reading a 
 Christian graveside service. 
 
 "We commit this spirit back to the God who gave it. 'Our 
 Father who art in Heaven. . . .' " 
 
 "I don't believe it," mutters the aged widower. "I don't 
 believe it. This is all." 
 
 May God have mercy on those who believe that this is all. 
 
 Nature has a way of sneaking up on man's fight against 
 time. The corn grows dark and proud, then suddenly the light 
 pallor of coming ripeness creeps into the green, and in what 
 seems to be no time at all this crop of "farmer's gold" rustles 
 in the wind that comes whooping along its prevailing paths. 
 
 The nights begin to linger, and lamps are lighted all over 
 the countryside at four o'clock in the morning. As soon as the 
 milking is done and stomachs are filled with fried mush and 
 gravy, fried potatoes and eggs, and "sody" biscuits and oatmeal 
 and coffee, wagons are heard clattering to the fields, and the 
 thump! thump! thump! of the ears of corn against the bang 
 boards sets up a rhythm of its own. 
 
 Valentine Stutsman comes in from the field at noon to 
 revive his strength with one of Tabitha's excellent meals, and 
 Tabitha says, "Val, are we going to the love feast at West 
 Otter tonight?" 
 
 210 
 
"I guess hardly," says Valentine. "We ought to stay with 
 the corn and get it all out. The weather might break." 
 
 "Otis wants to go," says Tabitha. "I feel like if Otis wants 
 to go, we certainly ought to go. He's getting old enough 
 that I'd like to see him thinking about coming into the church." 
 
 "All right," says Valentine, "we'll go." 
 
 Otis does do a great deal of thinking about the sermons 
 which he has been hearing preached and about the doctrines 
 which he has been taught all of his life. At school Alpheus 
 Brubaker, the teacher, is laying emphasis on character-building 
 traits. And Alpheus is Otis's ideal. "If I can be a man just like 
 my teacher," Otis thinks to himself, "then I'll be satisfied." 
 
 Opposing arguments stagger against each other as Otis 
 reflects upon his present and his future. But the spirit of fun 
 is strong in this boy. There are gay things which young people 
 can do if they are not in the church, and if a fellow wants a 
 fling at these worldly things then he has no right to make sacred 
 vows only to break them. So there are now times that Otis 
 turns conviction down with an extra spurt of happy-go-lucky 
 hours. 
 
 But God has patience with those whom He has chosen for 
 a special work. Even Jonah of old could not run away from 
 God's will. 
 
 1902: Entry in S. S. Bruba\er's Diary, May 14 
 
 Annual Meeting is at Harrisburg, Pa. We've chartered 
 a coach from Springfield. 
 The membership is constantly reminded that the Gospel 
 Messenger is an excellent source of information and inspiration 
 and should be in every home. Now John Huber is appointed 
 to get this job accomplished if possible. 
 
 John and his family are a quiet, faithful group, and John 
 —tall, dark complexioned, and neat in the order— always sits 
 in the same seat in the meetinghouse. His chosen place is at 
 the center aisle, halfway back, at the spot where a sexton once 
 
 211 
 
nailed to the end of the bench a narrow board on which a 
 thermometer is mounted. 
 
 John has a splendid bass voice, and as the hymn is now 
 announced he shifts a bit sideways in his seat to get a better 
 light on the book. On the first word he throws his head back 
 to bring out his joyous notes of praise and cracks his skull 
 against the thermometer board. 
 
 John is surprised, and misses a note or two, but the boys 
 and girls are overcome with the humor of the situation. They 
 are glad that the singing drowns their snickers and wonder 
 why it is that any unusual happening in church is so funny. 
 But they straighten up promptly as the hymn closes, for if the 
 elder sees them disorderly in church he will lecture them on 
 the spot and there will be whippings at home for good 
 measure. 
 
 As Pentecost Sunday approaches, the Dunkers charter a 
 coach from Springfield to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, by way of 
 Niagara Falls. Louisa Vaniman and Vernon are among those 
 that go. When they arrive home Louisa finds welcome letters 
 from Melvin and Calvin, both of whom are in New Zealand. 
 Before Christmas, Calvin had left for the South Pacific by 
 way of San Francisco. He had refused to take any of the family 
 funds and with two dollars in his pocket he boarded a cattle 
 train to work his way. 
 
 "Dear me!" Louisa had declared. "It's no disgrace to work 
 but I'm not pleased with Calvin going or? like this." 
 
 It is interesting to the home folks to know that Melvin 
 has built a camera for which he has invented the largest 
 photographic lens in the world. From flag poles, tall buildings, 
 ship masts, and anchored balloons, Melvin is photographing 
 the harbors of the South Pacific for the Pacific Mail Steamship 
 Company. 
 
 Louisa lays the letters away. To her these far places are 
 spots of color in her memory of a map on the kitchen wall. 
 Two of her boys are there. Vernon is entering McPherson 
 College in September. Only Elmer is at home. She sighs with 
 a sigh that includes the scope of her thirty-six years as a mother. 
 Life comes and life goes, and one must keep step with its 
 
 212 
 
unrelenting sweep, treasuring the joys, weighing the sorrows, 
 and arranging them on the shelves of time. 
 
 In August Louisa is made aware that she has no right to 
 entertain thoughts of lonely self-pity, momentary though they 
 might be. She has had the greatest blessing of all— that of living 
 to rear her children. 
 
 Now Tabitha Stutsman is ill. Dr. Albert Simmons calls on 
 her and someone in the Stutsman home says, "You look tired 
 this morning, Doctor." 
 
 "Yes," says Dr. Simmons. "Haven't you heard? Becky 
 Gibson died last night. There's a fine baby girl. I tried so 
 hard to save the mother. . . ." The doctor's words choke off. 
 As he examines Tabitha, within his heart he is afraid for this 
 family too. 
 
 In their home near Girard, Rebecca Gibson lies a corpse. 
 This gentle, unassuming mother has given her life to present 
 a new life to the world and to its Maker. Forlorn and weeping, 
 four young people and a little boy stand with George at the 
 casket. 
 
 George remembers the times he has officiated at deaths and 
 quoted Job's words: "The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away. 
 Blessed be the name of the Lord." Can these words answer his 
 own "Why?" 
 
 Many come to mourn, and Lizzie Brown takes tiny Lucile 
 in her arms. As long as Lizzie lives she will not only be aunt 
 but also mother to this little girl. 
 
 The day of the funeral is unbearably hot, and the women 
 fan with their palm-leaf fans even while riding in the long 
 procession of buggies and surreys which follow the black 
 hearse through the dust to Pleasant Hill. 
 
 J. G. Royer comes from Mt. Morris to preach the funeral, 
 and the words of his text soothe the sore hearts with the 
 ever-abiding assurance, "The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not 
 want. . . ." 
 
 At the home Lizzie Brown keeps vigil with the baby who 
 will never know her consecrated mother— this mother who had 
 spent months of hours in humble prayer for her family and 
 for the coming baby for whom she knew she would give her life. 
 
 213 
 
It will be no wonder that little Lucile Gibson will always be 
 an ardent child of God; no wonder that at ten years of age she 
 will be baptized, the sacred rite being administered by Otis 
 Stutsman in his first such experience. From that day forward 
 Lucile will affirm over and over again, "I'm going to be a 
 missionary." No wonder then that she will be in that early 
 missionary group which the Brethren will send to Africa, going 
 as the wife of Clarence Heckman, the son of John, who is so 
 well known at Pleasant Hill. "God works in a mysterious way 
 his wonders to perform." 
 
 Lucile will work diligently helping to perfect a written 
 native language at Garkida, Nigeria. She will master the Bura 
 language and will write native schoolbooks to be used in the 
 mission schools. She will serve also as the house mother at 
 Hillcrest Hall, and will be the field treasurer of the Africa 
 mission. Finally, in 1954, as an accomplished linguist, Lucile 
 will assist in a revision of the Bura New Testament for a new 
 edition. 
 
 Sailing or flying, Lucile and Clarence will ply their course 
 between the United States and Africa through a total of thirty 
 years of service. How much longer only the Lord knows. 
 
 Two weeks of life are granted to Tabitha Stutsman after 
 the passing of her friend, Rebecca. Then her book of deeds 
 is also closed and the foreseen sorrow slips into the life of 
 Valentine and his children. Never again can their mother give 
 such joyous wedding feasts as she has given the older girls 
 this past year. Otis grieves, "I don't know how I can ever live 
 without my mother," and little Bennett asks questions too and 
 begs, "Where did my mama go?" 
 
 This seven-year-old boy is the namesake of the popular 
 evangelist, I. Bennett Trout. "And I hope," Tabitha had said, 
 "that my Bennett will grow up to be a good preacher too." 
 
 Now she has left the scene, but her hopes for Bennett will 
 spiral into the blossom of fulfillment. In 1917 Bennett Stutsman 
 will enter the ministry of the Brethren. With college and 
 seminary finished, he will be entering years of high promise as 
 a talented, successful pastor when death will come in 1931. His 
 
 214 
 
young widow and his little son will be two more who must 
 bow and say, "We'll trust in Him who knoweth best. . . ." 
 
 As Michael Flory preaches at Tabitha's funeral, Otis hears 
 the words, "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord ... and 
 their works do follow them." But how can his mother's works 
 follow her, Otis wonders; and in his thinking the answer 
 will come. 
 
 1903: Entry in Louisa Vanimans Diary, December 15 
 
 The boys are home. Wish they'd stay. 
 The year 1903 opens on a cold wave. The seams of winter are 
 laced with threads of ice in strong stitches of cold days that 
 follow each other one by one. 
 
 When each winter day draws to a close and the men are 
 at the barn doing the evening chores, mother and children often 
 sit in the darkening rooms waiting for supper. There is a 
 gentle hissing of steam from the teakettle in the kitchen. The 
 corn-meal mush is bubbling under the kettle lid in long slow 
 bursts of escaping steam, and the apple dumplings are crisp and 
 brown and waiting in the warming closet of the coal range. 
 
 The heater is spreading a glow of warmth through the 
 sitting room, and the spell of this evening hour is so precious 
 that the mother does not light the lamps. If a child says, "Why 
 don't you light the lamps, Mother?" Mother will say, "Wait 
 till Papa comes in. This is nice— sitting here waiting together. 
 I'll tell you a story about Jesus. Or about when I was a little 
 
 girl." 
 
 The story is told and the lamps are not lighted until "Papa 
 comes in," or until it is too dark to see to do anything at all. 
 The first purpose may be to save the oil. 
 
 But as the lamp oil is being saved, there is a spiritual gift 
 for mother and children that pre-empts the first value. Now 
 they sit quietly and talk over the doings of the day. If something 
 has gone wrong, here in the quiet dusk it can be evaluated 
 without anger or grief. It is a time to resolve to do better 
 
 215 
 
tomorrow; to draw more closely to one another and to God. 
 Forgiveness and love settle around them as silently but as surely 
 as the dimming twilight. 
 
 The farmers at Pleasant Hill are eager to have the privilege 
 of telephone service in their homes. Young Dan Vaniman has 
 spent much time and effort in calling the men of the community 
 together at various times to discuss a telephone project. Now a 
 large group meets on an evening at Charley Vaniman's and 
 the Farmer's Mutual Telephone Company is organized with 
 S. S. Brubaker as president. This company, born at Pleasant 
 Hill, will spread all over the townships of Girard and Virden. 
 The organization is completed with a board of directors, and 
 Alva Vaniman is hired by the new company to direct the 
 installation of the system, and to be the service man. 
 
 The field of this new invention will become Alva's life 
 work and the future will find Alva the owner of the Girard 
 Telephone Company, and finally in an administrative position 
 with the great Bell Telephone Company before he dies. 
 
 Alva oversees the setting of the first poles at Pleasant Hill, 
 plunking one after another into the holes dug from his father's 
 home to Louisa Vaniman's. It is a red-letter day when he 
 stands in his Great-Aunt Louisa's house and rings his father, 
 Charley. 
 
 "Hel-1-o-o-o," drawls Charley. 
 
 "Hello, Father," says Alva. "Can you hear me?" 
 "Don't talk so loud and I can," Charley answers. 
 One by one the thrill comes to everyone at Pleasant Hill 
 as the poles are set, the lines are strung, and the queer-looking 
 sets of boxes with their bells and receivers and transmitters 
 hang on the walls of the homes of the community. 
 
 "Hel-lo," everyone yells. "Can you hear me?" And the 
 women's voices run a scale, climbing higher and louder, thinking 
 to be heard the better, finally cracking on a high note and 
 subsiding. 
 
 Many are half afraid of the new contraption. And when 
 thunderstorms roll up, and lightning follows the telephone 
 wire, and fire flies into the house, and the fuse crackles and 
 burns out, it is frightening to say the least. 
 
 216 
 
"Oh, goodness me!" says Martha Harshbarger, more in 
 prayer than in slang. "I'm afraid of that thing. I don't know if 
 I want it in the house or not." And she, as well as others, pulls 
 the cut-out every time a storm brews, and the line is grounded 
 for hours before service again becomes possible. 
 
 Dan Vaniman, however, does not live to enjoy his telephone, 
 or to see the advancing science of messages by sound grow into 
 the astounding miracles of the future. 
 
 He has a serious illness now, an illness that requires his 
 admission to a hospital in Springfield. In this day the word 
 hospital is defined by the people as a place where one goes to 
 die, a place from which one returns in a box. Almost never 
 does anyone come home alive. And now all of the neighborhood 
 waits to hear the news. It is as they expected. On March 1, 
 Dan Vaniman dies. 
 
 The countryside is emerging from its winter's frozen shell. 
 With the rising frost the bottom has gone out of the land and 
 the roads are strips of quagmire. The Brethren meet the train 
 at Girard, and these men walk, taking turns, carrying the body 
 in its coffin over the mile to the farm home north of town. 
 
 On the day of the funeral the usual black team is hitched 
 to the hearse, and other teams hitched to spring wagons and 
 buggies begin the attempt to struggle over the roads to the 
 Pleasant Hill meetinghouse. 
 
 In front of Isaac Harshbarger's home a clay bog-hole sucks 
 the heavy hearse into its depths and the team flounders in its 
 hopeless clutch. Everyone stops. A strong team is unhitched 
 from another rig and a four-horse hitch is strung onto the 
 hearse. The horses lurch into their collars and, with a 
 stupendous effort that knots their great muscles, they yank 
 their feet against the suction of the mud, step by step. The 
 heavy vehicle gives, inch by inch, and is at last drawn out of 
 the hole. 
 
 At the meetinghouse Emma Vaniman sits on the 
 mourners' bench with her three blonde sons, and, like many 
 another family in God's world, they wonder why this has 
 happened to them. Yet, in Christian fortitude, they pick up 
 where their father has left off. 
 
 217 
 
Herbert is grown and will carry on the operation of the 
 large farm for several years. In the coming year, 1904, Stella 
 Gibson will become his bride. In all of the fifty years that lie 
 ahead of them, Herbert and Stella will be found in their place 
 in the Church of the Brethren, whether living in Illinois or in 
 California, enthusiastic examples of Christian leadership. After 
 the Ocean Grove Conference of far-off 1954 Herbert will say, 
 "The older I get, the more I like to be with the Brethren." 
 
 Roy, now only twelve, will be an example of the American 
 story, old, yet ever new, of the farm boy from a simple, 
 Christian home, reared to place integrity, perseverance, and 
 faith in God and his fellow men as the first things in life, being 
 sought by the greatest executives in the world. 
 
 In Germany, in Russia, in England, in Africa, flying 
 unnumbered miles as an executive of Chrysler Motors in the 
 Export Division, he remembers to return to Pleasant Hill to 
 visit his mother, at last to help lay her to rest there. And the 
 folks will say, "Success hasn't turned Roy's head at all. He's 
 the same friendly Pleasant Hill boy." 
 
 Frank too, now a child of seven, will give credence and 
 dignity to the truths he learned at his mother's knee, and when 
 he is baptized into the Presbyterian denomination he will request 
 trine immersion, as he learned it from the Brethren at Pleasant 
 
 Hill. 
 
 In August the warm breeze carries the fragrance of new- 
 mown hay into the meetinghouse, and the buzzing of the 
 cicadas in the maples vibrates through the quiet hush of the 
 afternoon, while the soothing words of the preacher, Isaac 
 Harshbarger, fall on the sore hearts of the family of the elder, 
 John H. Brubaker. Here, too, the mother has left young people, 
 a mother whose patience in long-suffering has been superb and 
 whose reward certainly is now glorious. These young people, 
 too, will grieve, but the words of the Scriptures lead them 
 through the sorrows of death because of the promise of the 
 resurrection, and each one, as layman, deacon, or minister's 
 wife, will give a lifetime of unstinted service to the Brethren. 
 
 Now in September of this year, Riley Brubaker sells his 
 farm and prepares to move to Kansas. He loads all of his 
 
 218 
 
livestock and other personal goods into a freight car and boards 
 the caboose to ride to his destination. The family follows 
 by passenger coach. From this family are two boys, David and 
 Albert, born within the Pleasant Hill congregation, who will 
 one day be ministers of the gospel for the Brethren. 
 
 David's service will be from the quiet of a prayerful heart. 
 Albert will take as his wife Mabel Crist, daughter of Dan, who 
 moved from Pleasant Hill in the long ago. Albert and Mabel 
 will do outstanding work in the home mission field of Wisconsin 
 before he dies at the early age of forty-three. 
 
 The news which Louisa Vaniman receives from the South 
 Pacific does not always reveal the actual experiences of Melvin 
 and Calvin. The truth is that a fantastic situation has 
 developed as Melvin completes his marvelous photographs of 
 one harbor after another. 
 
 "These men could very well be spies," declare some 
 spokesmen among the people. "Who knows but that a foreign 
 navy will steam into our harbor any day and take possession?" 
 The suspicion grows into an open threat and as the mutterings 
 threaten to break into open harm the Vaniman brothers leave 
 Australia. What next? 
 
 Calvin comes home to Pleasant Hill and presently a letter 
 from Melvin tells of his fascination with a moving-picture 
 machine, the Vitascope, and of his opening, to the best of his 
 knowledge, the first movie in San Francisco. 
 
 "At a nickle a show," he writes, "the people should come 
 in crowds to see this marvelous new thing." 
 
 But the people do not yet know that the movie is marvelous. 
 The venture is a failure. Disgusted and penniless, Melvin literally 
 kicks the Vitascope into a dozen pieces and comes back to 
 Illinois. 
 
 As he comes into the house to greet Louisa, the familiar 
 fragrance of home comes rushing over him. It is made up like 
 an apothecary's prescription, of so much smoked sausage, so 
 much homemade bread, and so much apple pie, and it's 
 something a man can never forget though he goes to the 
 ends of the earth. 
 
 219 
 
"Melvin," begs Louisa, "why don't you stay home for a 
 
 while?" 
 
 "I can't, Mother," says Melvin. "It seems like I have to 
 keep going. I guess I'm nothing but a glorified bum. Now I've 
 got an idea. . . " And Melvin finds himself entertaining 
 thoughts that will again take him thousands of miles from home. 
 
 1904: Entry in Louisa Vaniman s Diary, February 26 
 
 The boys had a big live stock sale to-day. I'm tired. 
 Elmer Vaniman has now developed the policy of holding 
 surplus livestock sales as a part of the farm program. As the 
 sale is advertised, the railroad company stops its trains at the 
 Vaniman crossing and buyers come from out of the state. 
 
 The horses and mules offered for sale are not common, 
 and the auctioneer's hammer comes down at four hundred 
 forty-five dollars for the banner team. The big crowd mills 
 around over the place and consumes eighty pounds of wieners 
 (a food almost unheard of at Pleasant Hill), three hams, 
 twenty dozen buns, fifty loaves of bread, and two barrels of 
 coffee— all free, from the Vaniman boys to the people. 
 
 When the weather becomes more or less dependable toward 
 the middle of the summer, the first automobile ever to drive 
 into Virden or Girard or the Pleasant Hill community comes 
 chugging down from the north. 
 
 Peter Frantz does not know that automotive history will 
 record this little two-seated Oldsmobile, with its single cylinder, 
 toboggan dash, and dos-a-dos seat, as the most important vehicle 
 at the turn of the century. But he does know the exultation of 
 this successful experiment of driving such an unheard-of 
 distance in an automobile. 
 
 He will receive overtures of praise from the promoters of 
 the industry. And within a few days, on July thirty, to be 
 exact, two cars will pass this way, the first ones to drive from 
 Chicago to St. Louis. But now Peter clatters along in his 
 chain-driven Olds, and as he rolls merrily through the Virden 
 
 220 
 
square, a score of little boys, and that many men as well, take 
 to their heels and run alongside this fascinating horseless buggy 
 about which they have heard but which they have never 
 before seen. 
 
 "Where-d-ya-come-from?" someone calls. 
 
 "From Sterling, Illinois," shouts Peter Frantz with a 
 grin. "Over two hundred miles." He gives the little engine on 
 the back of the car more gas, and then heads for Pleasant Hill, 
 leaving the men and boys standing in the street with gaping 
 mouths and bulging eyes. 
 
 When Peter arrives at Elder Harshbarger's dooryard, the 
 old gentleman and Mother Barbara are waiting, aghast at the 
 sputtering thing which they have seen coming through the 
 pasture and which has frightened the grazing horses into 
 galloping to the safety of the farthest corner. 
 
 Now they laugh and wipe tears from their eyes too, and 
 Peter is really a sight for he's been out and under a half a 
 dozen times, adjusting the chain drive, or pouring gas into 
 the little tank. It has been a big job too, to find the way, with 
 no charted roads or signposts from town to town. 
 
 "But I'm here," says Peter. "And I'll tell you, folks, this 
 is going to be the way to travel someday." 
 
 "It'll never be as good as a train," declares the elder in 
 his quavering old voice. "It might make a rich man's toy." 
 
 "Oh, we've got a long way to go to perfect the automobile," 
 Peter admits. "But I have faith that this invention is going to 
 amount to something, Father. I truly have. Just think! I've 
 come over two hundred miles." 
 
 This Oldsmobile is one of the first three automobiles to 
 have been shipped into the State of Texas. There Ezra Frantz 
 had purchased it and in turn sold it to his brother, Peter, in 
 Illinois. Now Peter is here at Pleasant Hill, with the men and 
 boys crowding around his machine, and he takes his old friends 
 for their first automobile rides. 
 
 History is being made here at Pleasant Hill as well as at 
 St. Louis, where the great historical event of the Louisiana 
 Purchase is being celebrated with a Centennial World's Fair at 
 Forest Park. 
 
 221 
 
"Elma," says Ezra H. Brubaker, "since your sister, Lydia, 
 has been so generous as to invite all of us to come to St. Louis 
 and visit her and see the World's Fair at the same time, I've 
 decided we'd better go." 
 
 Elma is delighted, and the children are beside themselves 
 in their anticipation of such a precious adventure. 
 
 In due time this family arrives at the fair and is over- 
 whelmed with the grandeur and the beauty of this spectacle, 
 which is the greatest fair the world has ever known. 
 
 When they have seen a thousand things they had not seen 
 before, Ezra and his family thank their Aunt Lydia Hunter 
 for a wonderful time and return to Pleasant Hill. 
 
 The love feast is being held at its appointed time. Now 
 a caucus is called after the examination service and Ezra H. is 
 taken to task for his departure from the accepted teachings of 
 the Brethren that any fair, especially a world's fair, is not 
 suitable for the Brethren, who are expected to live without the 
 indulgence of worldly entertainment. 
 
 "I'm very sorry," says Ezra with Christian patience, "if I 
 have hurt anyone's feelings and I beg their pardon." 
 
 "Will you promise never to go again?" asks Cullen Gibson. 
 "No," says Ezra. "I can't promise that. Never is a long 
 
 time 
 
 Ezra's apology is accepted, nevertheless, and everyone 
 partakes of the love feast. However, this is not always the case. 
 There are occasions when someone has refused to apologize 
 and the one who has been offended refuses to commune. Have 
 they, then, both forgotten that they have not come to commune 
 with each other but with our Lord? 
 
 The church work at Girard is flourishing and an 
 evangelistic stimulus is present there that is not in the country 
 community. There are those who are now making the 
 prophecy that the Pleasant Hill meetinghouse will one day be 
 abandoned in favor of the town house. Others throw up their 
 hands in horror. "Oh, no!" they cry. "Pleasant Hill will never 
 be abandoned. That cannot possibly happen." 
 
 A few of the young couples being married this year are 
 Stella Gibson and Herbert Vaniman; Vida Brubaker and Harry 
 
 222 
 
Masterson; Ida Neher and Harvey Vaniman; and there is also 
 the marriage of the widower George Gibson to Miss Mary Gay. 
 
 George continues to insist that all Christian people have 
 no real differences if their beliefs are weighed on the scales 
 of God's love. There is little sentiment among the people, 
 however, that all Christians should be seeking their points of 
 oneness rather than their differences. Their approach to 
 salvation continues to be its accomplishment on the plane of 
 "I am right and you are wrong" and "No, you are wrong and 
 I am right." And time is being wasted and there will be world 
 wars to pay the cost of Christianity's divisions. 
 
 Science does not waste its time so foolishly. Each man who 
 seeks to perfect an invention stands on the experiments already 
 proved and proceeds from there. For this purpose Melvin 
 Vaniman now goes to Paris, seeking to study the ballistic balloon 
 and its usefulness in his field as a photographer. 
 
 1905: Entry in Louisa Vaniman s Diary, October 1 
 Vernon has gone to the University, Calvin's gone again 
 too. 
 Louisa Vaniman is seldom without help in her home. Now 
 the girl, Isabelle Jelf, is with her. Louisa cautions Isabelle that 
 there will be many tramps that will come to the door. "Always 
 give them a handout," says Louisa, "but since George died I 
 never ask them into the kitchen." 
 
 On a chilly fall morning Louisa suddenly goes into the 
 kitchen, puts on a jacket and a hood, and catching up her 
 apron she lays three large loaves of her yesterday's baking into 
 it. She picks up a roll of butter, and turns to leave the house. 
 
 "What in the world are you going to do, Aunt Louisa?" 
 asks Isabelle. 
 
 "I see a half dozen men around a bonfire down at the 
 tracks," Louisa explains, "and I'm going to feed them. I'm 
 afraid they are hungry." 
 
 223 
 
"But, Aunt Louisa," Isabelle protests, "you'll break yourself 
 up feeding those bums that way." 
 
 Louisa pauses a moment. "Isabelle," she says, "they are 
 some mothers' sons. And my boys are gone too—I don't 
 know where. I don't truly know if my boys are hungry or 
 not, but if I feed these, maybe some other mother will feed mine." 
 "I never forgot that," Isabelle will say almost fifty years 
 later, when she, herself, will have developed a great heart of 
 compassion. Isabelle will marry Doran Brubaker, and this 
 couple will become the parents of a large family. Then in the 
 early days of that marvelous invention, the radio, it will be 
 broadcast over the networks of the Middle West that "six 
 children of Mr. and Mrs. Doran Brubaker of Virden, Illinois, 
 were killed this evening when the auto in which they were 
 riding was struck by an Illinois Traction car." 
 
 Only two children— the oldest, a daughter, and the youngest, 
 a son— will be left to this mother and father, and to them Isabelle 
 will turn all the fond love and prayerful compassion of her 
 mystical heart. And in those days of the coming mid-century 
 when the Church of the Brethren no longer calls young men 
 but asks that they present themselves living and willing 
 servants of the ministry, that youngest son, Wilmer Brubaker, 
 born at Pleasant Hill, will enter the ministry of the church. 
 The chugging of a two-cylinder automobile now becomes 
 both a familiar and a dreaded sound in the community. Alva 
 Vaniman has purchased a Model C red Ford, and, according 
 to the old men, he's certainly a mighty foolish young man to 
 put out so many good dollars for this new-fangled machine 
 that can't be used in rain or mud or cold. Some of the young 
 men envy him and wish they had an automobile too, though 
 there certainly is nothing practical about them as yet. 
 
 Vernon Vaniman prefers his beautiful new buggy, a 
 runabout with collapsible canvas top, leather-covered seat, and 
 red, rubber-tired wheels. It is the last word in style and he loves 
 to drive a high-stepping horse hitched to it and bowl gaily 
 along the road, playing his whip lightly over his steed's back 
 He is ideally happy when he can call for Nora Showalter and 
 
 224 
 
then drive to a cultural entertainment in town or perhaps to 
 church at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 Elder }. H. Neher of Brotherhood fame is holding a series 
 of meetings at the old meetinghouse. Strange and perhaps sad 
 to say, this will be the last banquet of spiritual guidance to be 
 served at Pleasant Hill, when evening after evening one and 
 all are exhorted to put Satan and stubbornness aside and look 
 to Jesus as their guide. 
 
 Now Otis Stutsman throws aside all that has kept him from 
 becoming a Christian and at the age of twenty he joins the 
 Brethren in their great intention always to do right. This 
 intention of the church, as it questions and sorts every idea, is 
 becoming a source of revelation and growth, and Otis is to have 
 a large part in developing the new patterns of thinking in the 
 Brotherhood. Such young men as Otis, finding spiritual security 
 in the basic core of the Brethren beliefs, are to develop the 
 teaching, "We walk by faith, not by sight," and it is going to 
 be their quest to find out, if possible, where sight leaves off and 
 faith begins. 
 
 1906: Entry in S. S. Bruba\ers Diary, ]une 12 
 
 Have been to the Annual Meeting in Springfield. 
 Twenty thousand there on Sunday. 
 Abram Harshbarger has purchased the beautiful brick mansion 
 in Girard built by a Brethren pioneer, Amos Young. With this 
 property is a large pond and an adjacent icehouse. While 
 winter holds the water ice-bound, the ice is sawed and stored 
 in sawdust for summer use. 
 
 In summer, four-year-old Naomi Harshbarger goes with 
 her daddy into the cool recesses of the gloomy building to 
 bring out the generous chunk that will sell for a dime and will 
 freeze all the ice cream a large family can eat. 
 
 Naomi loves to ride with her parents in their new surrey 
 with the fringe on top and go out to the meetinghouse at Pleasant 
 Hill and see Grandfather Harshbarger's. She hears the singing 
 
 225 
 
and the preaching and at the close of the long sermon there is 
 the sudden stirring when the congregation goes down onto its 
 knees in prayer. 
 
 Anyone peeping about can see faces suddenly relaxing; 
 can see faith written on them; can see fears laid aside for a 
 few moments; can see self-righteousness unbend. A few faces 
 may show impatience for the prayer to be over, and there are 
 the outsiders who never seem to pray, who remain erect in their 
 seats and are even staring around in curiosity, seemingly 
 detached. Or, perhaps, they realize that the Dunkers, as a body, 
 have shut them out. 
 
 Kneeling with the members, little Naomi's knees get tired 
 before the prayer is over. She climbs back onto the seat and 
 shares the status of the outsiders until the prayer is done. 
 
 Spring now shoots a flutter of new leaves onto the trees and 
 April is half gone, immersing the countryside in peace. 
 
 But no such peace is at San Francisco, California, on the 
 morning of April the eighteenth at thirteen minutes after five 
 o'clock, when an ominous rumble heralds a catastrophe that 
 immediately envelops the city. 
 
 "Words are inadequate to describe the tragedy," Charles 
 Brubaker writes to his people at Pleasant Hill. "We were 
 aroused by the tremors here at the university and were 
 congratulating ourselves that no harm had been done, when 
 somehow the message came through that San Francisco was 
 down. Volunteer relief workers were called for and many of 
 us went over to do what we could. We found over five 
 hundred blocks of man made glory in ruins." 
 
 Charles helps distribute food, clothes, and medicine,- and 
 when it seems that there is little else a student can do, he 
 returns to Berkeley. He graduates from the university there in 
 June, and returns to Pleasant Hill, where everyone is planning 
 to attend the Annual Meeting being held at the Illinois State 
 Fairgrounds at Springfield. 
 
 Once more the Southern District of Illinois is the host. Free 
 entertainment is no longer provided, however, and most of the 
 Pleasant Hill folks prefer to go back and forth on the trolley 
 each day rather than to rent a room in the city. 
 
 226 
 
Almost everyone from Pleasant Hill attends on the day of 
 the missionary meeting, for in this year, 1906, there is for them 
 the special interest of seeing their own Charles Brubaker being 
 dedicated by the Mission Board to work in the mission field 
 of India. 
 
 Some people build a house and have no dream. It is only 
 a shelter. Some people play a musical instrument and have no 
 inspiration. There is only a noise. Some preachers preach and 
 have no message burning within them. They have no vision. 
 But Charles Brubaker has a vision and he has the message 
 of the Holy Spirit burning within him. He had once been 
 sorely tempted to enter an attractive business in San Francisco. 
 Had he done so, his business and perhaps he himself would 
 have perished in the ruins caused by the earthquake. Plainly, 
 in putting his temptation aside he was following the voice 
 of God. 
 
 Mother Mary is proud of Charles but she is human too. 
 His decision to go to India seems an unfathomable thing in 
 distance and time. It is like an ogre to swallow him up. 
 
 "Mother," says Charles, trying to put cheer into these last 
 days together, "just think of all I'll learn while I'm doing 
 good. And I will be interested in the many queer customs of 
 the people in India too. Why, the Hindoos, I am told, make 
 tea often. And for strainers they merely take off their turbans 
 and pour the tea through." 
 
 Charles laughs and he talks and in his quiet way renews 
 his friendships at Pleasant Hill, but he is eager for his sailing 
 date to be announced by the Mission Board. 
 
 It is estimated that one hundred fifty Brethren people from 
 Virginia to California, and from Texas to North Dakota, visit 
 their relatives at Pleasant Hill after the Springfield Annual 
 Meeting. As these people visit, they are impressed to see the 
 huge new brick building being erected, here above Mill Creek 
 in Cullen Gibson's pasture, by the Brethren of the Southern 
 District of Illinois, as a home for the aged. 
 
 Now on Thanksgiving Day, November 29, the Home is 
 dedicated. Galen B. Royer, the secretary of the General Mission 
 Board, is here and delivers the sermon. This beautiful Home, 
 
 227 
 
with its fifty rooms and great halls, is a part of the Brethren's 
 growing program of realistic Christian living. Elder Michael 
 Flory and his wife are the first superintendent and matron, and 
 "over the hill to the poor house" will no longer be a threat to 
 the homeless that will now come within the bounds of this 
 Brethren Home. People will come and people will go, but 
 fifty years from now the Home will be more beautiful than 
 ever, more convenient, and filled to the last room with Christian 
 folks who, in their twilight years, await that "one clear call." 
 Charles Brubaker's sailing date is finally set for Thanks- 
 giving Day, and this means that he must be on the way to 
 New York several days before. 
 
 His ticket has been purchased for him to leave Virden on 
 the night train. Now Isaac Harshbarger's family comes to 
 Frank Snell's and Mother Mary is there in her little cottage 
 built in the Snells' yard. As they have supper together it is 
 almost impossible to think of anything to say that will not 
 bring tears. As the last packing is being done Mother Mary 
 comes up to Charles with a stack of pure white cloth squares. 
 "Here are your tea strainers, Charles," she says. "You just 
 can't drink tea strained through those heathen turbans." 
 
 Mother Mary is old and Charles cannot laugh at his 
 mother's naive understanding. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Mother, for being so thoughtful," he says. 
 The men carry the roped trunks from the house and set 
 them on the wagon waiting at the gate. 
 
 "I think we'd better be starting," says Frank, and he goes 
 out of the house to untie the team. 
 
 It is hard, so hard, to say good-by when so much that is 
 unknown lies ahead. Charles leaves his mother quietly weeping 
 in her little rocker beside her hearth, a little old lady in her 
 cape and apron and prayer cap, with the three-cornered black 
 kerchief tied over her head. At seventy-four she is certain that 
 she cannot possibly live until the seven years of Charles's term 
 in India are over, and thus see him once again. This is truly 
 good-by. And truly, it is only the Lord who knows that 
 Mother Mary will live twenty years more in the sunny clime 
 
 228 
 
of La Verne, California, but that she will indeed have said her 
 earthly good-by to Charles. 
 
 Now at Katie's door, Martha and Katie cling to their 
 brother, and Isaac finally persuades them to let him go. 
 
 The wagon clatters off across the barnyard and the sisters 
 stand on the porch shouting through the night, "Good-by, 
 Charlie! Good-by, Charlie!" And his strong, clear "Good-by, 
 and God bless you" comes back to them. 
 
 "Oh, Marthy," says Katie, turning to her sister, "well never 
 see him again. I just know we won't." 
 
 The nieces, Dortha and Vinna and Ethel, join in the 
 weeping. And Ethel, only nine, will never forget the poignant 
 words— words that will be unforgettable in her own life's 
 experience— "We'll never see him again." 
 
 Entries in S. S. Bruba\ers Diary 
 
 May 1, 1907: Council today at Pleasant Hill. E. H. 
 
 Brubaker called to preach. 
 
 December 1, 1908: Have had three weeks protracted 
 
 meetings. Isaac Frantz from Ohio preached. 
 Everything is topsy-turvy in the home of Alpheus and Minnie 
 Brubaker. Trunks and boxes are being packed and roped for 
 their move to McPherson, Kansas, and furniture is being 
 prepared for disposal at a public sale. 
 
 "I'll be glad to get rid of this wardrobe," says Minnie, 
 taking the last garments from the hooks in a top-heavy piece 
 of furniture. "I cringe yet when I see Hazel and Martha sitting 
 in the lower drawers and the whole thing toppling over on 
 them." 
 
 "'All's well that ends well,'" quotes Alpheus. "And the 
 girls weren't hurt too much. Now I'm hoping that this move 
 to the West will end well for us too." 
 
 The summary of the God-directed years of Alpheus and 
 Minnie and their family filed in the records of time will show 
 that the hopes of this young man will come true. 
 
 229 
 
At McPherson, Alpheus will be called to the ministry in 
 1908, but by the fall of 1911 he will have moved with his family 
 to California. There, after four years of teaching, he will 
 fill all of his remaining active years with pastoral service, and 
 from there he will serve three times on the Standing Committee 
 of the Annual Meeting. 
 
 His four daughters and one son will be college graduates, 
 and these young people will become Christian leaders in their 
 own fields. The rich ethical and mystical interpretations of the 
 Scriptures which Alpheus will expound will be remembered 
 by all who hear him preach. "Our forefathers built well," he 
 will say on a visit at Pleasant Hill. "I wonder if the future will 
 be able to say that we have built as well." 
 
 Certainly when the record of the Brethren extends to 1954 
 it will be widely known that A. O. Brubaker, from Pleasant Hill, 
 has helped to bring a fuller flowering to the church because he 
 has been a wellspring of joy in the service of the Lord. How 
 much longer, only the Lord knows. 
 
 The railroad station is a mystical place sitting on the 
 cinders beside the railroad tracks— its weird ticking of instru- 
 ments abetting the expectancy that flutters up and down from 
 stomach to throat, its air of excitement peppering every 
 traveler. 
 
 Now Ezra H. Brubaker waits at the station to meet Elma 
 as she returns from California, where she has attended the first 
 Annual Meeting held in that state, at Los Angeles, and has 
 visited her father, Moses Brubaker, in Pomona. 
 
 "Well," says Ezra when Elma has arrived and they are 
 driving home, "do you want to move to California?" 
 
 "No," says Elma. "There's too much going on there that I 
 don't approve of. We'll keep our children at Pleasant Hill." 
 And among her children there will be the youngest, Mabel, 
 who will become the wife of that young minister, Emmertt 
 Stover, the first Brethren child to be born on the India mission 
 field. 
 
 Customs and styles of living are different all over the 
 United States. What can the Brethren do about the changes 
 that affect their own customs? Their struggle for truth is an 
 
 230 
 
honest struggle. Everything is important and no question is 
 too simple to ask or to answer. No other people will have had 
 such honest concern or will have made such a basic quest, and 
 few will have made so much ecumenical advance when the 
 middle of the century will have come. 
 
 But now in 1908 the end of the old pattern is in sight. It 
 is a pattern that once fit the body for which it was cut. Now 
 it is torn and tattered, and the body has grown wider and 
 taller and shows new muscular bulges. 
 
 Now the council body at Pleasant Hill begins to "respect- 
 fully return" all admonishing recommendations that are of the 
 old, narrow patterns. The council even changes its hour of 
 meeting from the time-honored Saturday to a weekday evening. 
 Folks are becoming more busy each year. Where there has 
 been, in the recorded past, a leisurely enjoyment of sermons 
 and people and days, a sense of urgency is now creeping into 
 the life of the community just as it is creeping into the life of 
 the nation. 
 
 The evangelists who come to Pleasant Hill are alert to 
 the changes of the times. Brother I. N. H. Beahm now comes 
 to hold a series of meetings. He is a powerful speaker, and 
 to those who long for the old ways he gives the same advice 
 which he gives to the younger people. "We must put Jesus 
 in our lives, first, last, and always," says Brother Beahm. 
 "When that is actually done, the problems will all resolve 
 themselves." 
 
 Brother Beahm expects his audience to be alert also. When 
 night after night he has seen some of the congregation indulging 
 in naps of weariness, he shouts at last, "Brethren! Here I am 
 a thousand miles away from my wife and children preaching 
 to you, and you sit here asleep. I object!" 
 
 Dortha Snell leads the singing for this revival, and at 
 long last the prejudice against women choristers has been 
 broken. Dortha has a beautiful Jenny Lind voice, and as a 
 chorister she is not dull or routine, but animates the great 
 gospel songs with her own expression of her belief in their 
 words as she sings them. 
 
 Stella Vaniman, Ruth Stutsman, and Vinna Harshbarger 
 
 231 
 
become excellent choristers, and in a short time it will not 
 even be remembered that once women were not allowed this 
 position of leadership. 
 
 In these years of 1906, 1907, and 1908, there are more than 
 fifty baptisms at Pleasant Hill, and forty of them are of children 
 of the Brethren. In spite of deaths and the fact of the frequent 
 loss of entire families by removal of their homes to the 
 western states, the membership is now nearly two hundred 
 fifty. 
 
 The enlarged duties of the ministry have brought a 
 realization of the need of another resident minister. The call 
 is given to Ezra H. Brubaker on May 1 of 1907, and as a 
 preacher-farmer and elder, Ezra will spare no reasonable effort 
 to perform his duties and to meet the opportunities for Christian 
 service in the community and in the Brotherhood. 
 
 Elma too will take her obligations seriously and as the 
 primary superintendent of the Girard Sunday school she will 
 spend days and days driving over the little city visiting the 
 needy and bringing the unchurched into her classes. 
 
 The combined results of all of this outreach of the 
 congregation is the literal bursting of the walls of the Girard 
 meetinghouse. In the summer of 1908 a large addition and a 
 basement are built. 
 
 A new bell is hung during this remodeling of the building. 
 "Frank could use the old bell in New Mexico," says Elmer 
 Gibson. And so the Pleasant Hill congregation sends the bell, 
 which once cost many tears, to the little frontier congregation 
 at Miami, New Mexico. There its joyous pealing will join the 
 tolling of the mission bells across the West until that future 
 day of November 11, 1918. And on that day it will ring and 
 ring, expressing the joy of the Brethren that the war is over, 
 and in that ringing it will be cracked so that it cannot ring again. 
 
 Arguments now arise at Girard, with some contention as 
 to the right or wrong of building an indoor baptistry; but the 
 "rights" win and a baptistry is built under the pulpit. The 
 congregation watches many a future evangelist who shouts 
 and pounds and stomps— all three— and hopes the lid of the 
 baptistry will not break through. 
 
 232 
 
"We rise to a new life in Christ." These are the beautiful 
 words proclaimed there on the baptistry cover as it is raised, 
 while the audience sits in the pews and sings, "Happy day, 
 happy day; When Jesus washed my sins away." 
 
 Among the large number baptized in November of 1908, 
 when Elder Isaac Frantz is preaching, is Chalmer Shull. 
 Chalmer, only sixteen, is a boy of high ideals and outstanding 
 scholastic ability. He hesitates through most of three weeks of 
 powerful preaching, waiting for a special feeling of the need of 
 repentance. The special feeling never comes, and finally, because 
 he knows he should, he yields to his best judgment and is 
 baptized. 
 
 But there is no hesitancy in Chalmer's work for the 
 Kingdom. He will be called to the ministry in 1914. He will 
 graduate from Mt. Morris College and from Bethany Biblical 
 Seminary. He will do student preaching through all of these 
 years, and, like his Uncle John Lear, he will preach as if he 
 had always preached. In 1920 he will go to the India mission 
 field, and there he will work for thirty-three years. Even in 
 1954 he will enter yet another term of service which, God 
 willing, will make forty years for Chalmer in India. As to this, 
 it is only the Lord who knows. 
 
 In the summer of 1907 the widower Valentine Stutsman 
 brings to his home at Pleasant Hill a new wife, Etta Heckman, 
 and her two children, Mabel and Russel; all are members of 
 the Brethren. 
 
 Otis Stutsman and Dortha Snell are united in marriage 
 in November. In fact, there are many weddings in these years. 
 And there are many young people following their graduation 
 from the Pleasant Hill school by going to Mt. Morris, or to 
 Bethany, or to the local high schools, for an education beyond 
 that of Pleasant Hill is now a "must" for the children of the 
 Brethren. 
 
 In 1908, for the reasons recorded in the minutes of the 
 Annual Meeting held at Des Moines, Iowa, the German Baptist 
 Brethren change their official name to the Church of the 
 Brethren. 
 
 233 
 
1909: Entry in Louisa Vanimaris Diary, March 3 
 
 Vernon and Nora were married in Kansas last week. 
 Will live here on the east farm. I'm glad. 
 
 Vernon Vaniman graduated from the University of Illinois 
 last June. He majored in agriculture and is now thoroughly 
 convinced that there is great value in the program of farming 
 methods being conducted at the United States Agricultural 
 Experiment Station at Urbana. He takes Nora Showalter as 
 his wife and settles on a part of the large home farm. 
 
 If George Vaniman could have lived he would now have 
 one of his heart's desires fulfilled by seeing Vernon's great 
 interest in the land, in farm life, and in the advancement of all 
 rural life to its highest and best. 
 
 The Pleasant Hill folks have always been keen and thrifty 
 farmers, but the old men cannot be turned to a sudden and 
 complete acceptance of scientific farming, and they sometimes 
 severely criticize Vernon and his new-fangled notions. But 
 within a few years, the young men of the Brethren will rally 
 to the Farm Bureau organization and move into its leadership. 
 
 Since 1904, when Melvin went to Paris, Louisa has received 
 only sketchy letters from this son who is engrossed in the new 
 era. Men of this age do not weep that there are no more worlds 
 to conquer. The earth has been conquered with wheels. Now 
 it must be conquered with wings. By 1954 they will be yearning 
 to conquer space. When, at long last, will they seek to conquer 
 themselves ? 
 
 Now, as a member of the Aero-Club of Paris, Melvin 
 Vaniman has met a man named Walter Wellman, who has 
 made one unsuccessful attempt to reach the North Pole in a 
 rigid balloon. Louisa is concerned about Melvin and she would 
 worry more if she knew that he and Ida are living in a little 
 shack outside Paris and that Ida is busy sewing hundreds of 
 yards of silk from which Melvin is building a new dirigible 
 for Mr. Wellman. 
 
 By early summer Louisa reads in the newspapers that 
 Wellman's new balloon is finished, has been named the America, 
 
 234 
 
and, with Melvin Vaniman as engineer, is to fly at once, trying 
 to be the first to reach the North Pole. 
 
 "Oh, Melvin, my son!" Louisa cries in her secret soul. "If 
 you were only young again and standing in the kitchen beside 
 the map on the wall." To avoid the mental pictures of Melvin's 
 dangerous undertaking, Louisa drives herself from one task 
 to another, until, by God's good fortune, she reads that Melvin 
 is once again safe on European soil. 
 
 The America has failed, and now it is Admiral Perry who 
 proves to the world that he has reached the North Pole. 
 
 "There is no reason, now, for us to go," says Mr. Wellman. 
 
 "Then why don't we cross the Atlantic?" says Melvin. 
 
 "The very thing," declares Mr. Wellman. And he is off 
 to the United States to raise the money necessary for such 
 an experiment. 
 
 Louisa tries to rest in the rural content that reigns at 
 Pleasant Hill. It is pleasing to hear that Elder John H. 
 Brubaker has now brought a new wife to his home. The entire 
 membership is invited to a reception on the lawn. It sounds 
 worldly to a few and they refuse to go. But the crowd is 
 large— enjoying the lemonade, ice cream, and cake served in 
 the lantern-glow; happy in a new-found pattern of fellowship; 
 convinced that an entire congregation might find it profitable 
 to hold a party. 
 
 Elizabeth Howe, the new wife of the elder, formerly from 
 Pennsylvania but now from a period of years spent with the 
 Brethren's Italian mission in Brooklyn, is well known in the 
 Brotherhood. The strength which she adds to the Pleasant Hill 
 congregation is beyond ordinary calculations. She will hold 
 many Bible institutes here, and many a notebook containing 
 her outlines for the study of the New Testament will be used 
 and re-used until the book has fallen apart. 
 
 With the eye of a missionary, the elder's wife looks around 
 for work to do for the Lord. She finds the "Patch," a settlement 
 of coal miners at the Greenridge mine south of Girard. Taking 
 other workers with her, she drives a ten-mile trip each Sunday 
 afternoon, conducting a Sunday school at the Patch. 
 
 From this work will come a group of converts, a group of 
 
 235 
 
people unlike anyone the Brethren have ever known. Here 
 are people who must have only spiritual milk, not meat. Who 
 must receive patient, forbearing teaching in the basic ideals of 
 Christian culture as well as the gospel of salvation. They stick 
 out like sore thumbs as they sit in the meetinghouse with the 
 congregation. Not a few of the brothers and sisters hope that 
 they will not need to sit beside one of the mission converts at 
 the love feast. A few openly express themselves that the 
 Greenridge members should be charged to stay at home and 
 be given a love feast of their own. 
 
 Sister Brubaker is horrified at this attitude of those who 
 profess to stand for all that is purity in the church. Is it 
 only the missionary-minded who can be cosmopolitan with the 
 gospel of love, by the Fatherhood of God, through the 
 brotherhood of man? 
 
 So, not only at Pleasant Hill, but in all the Brotherhood, 
 the challenge is being born that will require the Brethren to 
 be more concerned about lost people than about being a 
 separate people; about taking the gospel and friendship to the 
 underprivileged; about forgetting petty fear and false pride and 
 seeking to grow. For without growth, life dies. 
 
 In this year Otis Stutsman and Elmer Gibson are called to 
 the ministry. But when the young men bring their wives to 
 the altar, Elmer asks the privilege of making a statement. His 
 words are brief and to the point. 
 
 "I am convinced," he says, "that since I am a cashier in a 
 bank I should be a good cashier. I can do that only by putting 
 all my time to it. I am also convinced that the same thing is 
 true about a preacher. If I were going to be a preacher, I would 
 wish to be a good preacher. I could do that only by putting all 
 of my time to that work. Now since I cannot make a living, 
 as a preacher, in the unpaid ministry of our denomination, I 
 will take my wife and we will return to our seats, and you may 
 consider that my name is positively withdrawn." 
 
 Elmer and his wife do return to their seats; yet Elmer does 
 not in any wise refuse to be an excellent worker in the church. 
 He will serve as the church treasurer for many years, and as 
 the Sunday-school superintendent for twenty-five years. Each 
 
 236 
 
one who sits in his Sunday-school sessions, or attends his 
 teachers' meetings, or graduates from his teacher-training 
 classes has acquired a complete historical and geographical 
 picture o£ the Bible from Genesis to Revelation. 
 
 Neither does Elmer neglect the moral, ethical, or spiritual 
 applications. And there are those who say, "Elmer's talent is 
 teaching, not preaching. He was led to make the right 
 decision for him." 
 
 With Otis Stutsman there is a somewhat different situation. 
 Otis is a farmer and the farmer-preacher pattern is the old 
 accepted pattern. There are still many who say that a preacher 
 can shovel corn to the hogs, keep a plow going, and have a fine 
 chance to be thinking up a sermon right out in the fields with 
 God. "It's nonsense," they say, "to talk about a paid ministry." 
 Yet even as Otis sits there with his wife on the front bench 
 of the meetinghouse silently acknowledging that he will accept 
 the call, he knows within himself that he can never be satisfied 
 to be a minister of the old pattern. He too will need to make 
 a living for his family. He too will need the paid ministry. 
 
 It is impossible to think all the problems through in five 
 or ten or fifteen short minutes. He can only accept the call 
 tonight as a leap in faith. God will use him, and somehow 
 there will be a living for his family. But come what may, Otis 
 knows he must accept this call, for it is not only God who calls, 
 but his mother, too, for "her works do follow her." 
 
 Otis and Dortha are installed into the sacred and responsible 
 position and go home to talk the remainder of the night. Dare 
 they break loose from the security of the farm? Dare they plan 
 to spend their last penny in going away to school? Will the 
 church advance in its policies and accept the paid ministry in 
 the near future? If they are the parents of several children, 
 will there be any possible way to give them an education? 
 
 It is only the Lord who knows how many young men of 
 the present years are asking themselves these very same questions, 
 in the very same situations all over the Brotherhood. But, as 
 an elderly sister says, "if the frog jumps around in the cream 
 long enough, the butter will come." 
 
 Otis and Dortha will break away from the security of the 
 
 237 
 
farm. They will attend school at Bethany Biblical Seminary 
 for two years. In the beginning they will serve a mission 
 church, and they will often pray for more conniving skill and 
 more unexpected financial blessings to be able to have a living. 
 
 But to Dortha Stutsman in these early years of being a 
 pastor's wife, her home training in the natural thrift of the 
 farmer-Brethren, who never buy anything they can raise or 
 make themselves, comes to her rescue. And her children grow, 
 husky and hearty and happy. 
 
 Within a few years the salaried ministry will be approved 
 by the Annual Meeting. Then will follow splendid pastorates 
 for Otis in several large congregations in the Brotherhood. He 
 will have the gift of powerful oratory and of magnetic sincerity. 
 And he will never experience stage fright, not even in his 
 first sermon. 
 
 "How could I," he will say, "after all the practice we had 
 at the old Pleasant Hill school?" 
 
 The rare quality of Dortha's voice will open a field of service 
 that will complement her husband's work. Acknowledged as a 
 beautiful soloist wherever she goes, she will sing at weddings 
 and at funerals on hundreds of occasions, and the Home Bureau 
 Chorus, which she will have trained, will win first place in 
 state and national contests. 
 
 There will also come the time when a talent scout will sit 
 in her audience again and again and plead with her to accept 
 a long-time contract to sing as a soloist in the Denver 
 Conservatory of Music. 
 
 Modest and unassuming, Dortha will remember her vows 
 to her husband, her home, and her church. No fame or success, 
 she will be certain, can ever bring so much happy satisfaction 
 into her life as to abide in the simple faith and the loving service 
 of the Church of the Brethren, to which she is consecrated; the 
 service of her splendid children, to whom she owes unending 
 devotion; and the service of her gifted husband, who could 
 never do his God-given task without her. 
 
 "I am sorry," she will say. "I have made my commitments 
 and I cannot accept your offer. But I thank you for it." 
 
 College for their six children is a dream that comes true 
 
 238 
 
for Otis and Dortha. Not because there is money to send them 
 but because they have taught these children that by integrity, 
 perseverance, self-sacrifice, and faith in God, it is possible for 
 young people to reach the goal that will make them most useful 
 
 and happy. 
 
 There will be a disappointment which only God can 
 explain as one young man of this family will be taken by death. 
 But when the family is grown and each one is working within 
 the Kingdom of God; when one is the third vice-president of 
 Texas Oil in the Chrysler Building in New York City; when 
 one is with the Bank of America in San Francisco; when the 
 others are outstanding in business, psychology, counseling, and 
 history; when Otis has served seven times on the Standing 
 Committee of the Annual Meeting; when he has preached over 
 forty years, then this couple will look back to this night m 
 1909, when, through the Pleasant Hill congregation, God said, 
 "Otis, go preach!" And they will be glad that he did. 
 
 Harvey Brubaker, too, is giving serious thought as to his 
 future, and Deacon Sam and Mother Mary Ann are disturbed, 
 to say the least, when Harvey says, "I'm not going to stay here 
 on the farm. It's too slow. It's too dull. I want to go somewhere. 
 I want to know things that I'll never learn here." 
 
 With the prayers of his parents following him, Harvey goes 
 to Chicago. He discovers at once that Chicago is not slow. 
 Neither is it dull. His first sensation is one of thrilling 
 satisfaction. This is it. This beats the farm. This is being 
 somewhere. Soon Harvey discovers that the things that may be 
 learned in Chicago may be things that he does not wish to know. 
 He senses a spiritual battle, and, turning to his Brethren training 
 at Pleasant Hill, he is guided into the wise decision to work 
 his way through Manchester College. Married in 1912 and called 
 to the ministry in 1913, Harvey will graduate from Bethany, and 
 he too will preach with power and as if he had always preached. 
 With his good wife, formerly Iva Rohrer, by his side, his work 
 will be successful in Ohio and in California for fourteen short 
 years. Then disease will cut the silver cord of life. Why? 
 Can it not be said, as of Jesus, "I work and my Father works"? 
 If no longer in the seen, then in the unseen? 
 
 239 
 
1910: Entry in S. S. Bruba\er's Diary, February 10 
 Voted to close all services at Pleasant Hill meeting 
 House. Its a sad, sad day. 
 "No man putteth a piece of new cloth into an old garment," 
 Jesus once said. And now the cloth woven of new Christian 
 vision and human needs cannot be made to fit the old cloak. 
 The meetinghouse at Pleasant Hill is outgrown. But Pleasant 
 Hill is a sacred place. No community can suddenly turn a cold 
 shoulder on a place that is a part of its nerves and bones and 
 muscles and blood. A place that for forty-five years has been 
 the throbbing heart of a people. Yet the majority vote of the 
 council now forms the decision that the Sunday school and the 
 preaching services shall no longer be held at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 "We have grown to be an outstanding influence in Girard," 
 says one of the leaders. "Now we should also build a meeting- 
 house in Virden. We Brethren have a faith that should be 
 shared with others." 
 
 Sorrowfully the members contemplate the best plans to be 
 followed in the change that has come. Committees are appointed 
 and the trustees recommend that the Pleasant Hill congregation 
 "transfer the cemetery and the title of the same to an incorporated 
 body for the purpose of maintaining and keeping in repair 
 said cemetery." The result of this decision will be the Pleasant 
 Hill Cemetery Association, incorporated in 1912, and the little 
 knoll in Deacon Jacob Brubaker's pasture, set aside so long ago, 
 will become a landmark of beauty and loving care. 
 
 The congregation is increased by thirty-two baptisms in 
 this year's revival at Girard but it continues to grant letters to 
 those moving west. Now Abram and Nora Harshbarger, with 
 their little daughters, Naomi and Kathryn, leave the home 
 congregation. But, as Brethren, they will always be faithful 
 workers, working on the frontier of the church, first at Miami, 
 New Mexico, then at Lindsay, California. And finally, when 
 the children are in college at La Verne, Abram and Nora will 
 follow them there. 
 
 "I've moved several times," says Abe. "But I've always 
 moved where I could live among the Brethren." 
 
 240 
 
When Naomi becomes the wife of Dr. George Hollenberg 
 she will encourage him in his outstanding work in the field 
 of biological chemistry at Redlands University. And when he 
 is selected by the government of the United States as a member 
 of the secret mission to study the results of the atomic test at 
 Bikini, she will gladly testify that her guiding light is still that 
 of the "faith of our fathers," nurtured at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 At last Elder John H. Brubaker finds that the years are 
 catching up with him. His familiar, beloved words, "My dear 
 brethren and sistern," have greeted his congregation times without 
 number in Christlike sincerity. Now Elder W. H. Shull, 
 affectionately called Willie because he is the personal, lifelong 
 friend of all, becomes the elder of the congregation. He takes 
 up the guidance of these Brethren people at a time when not 
 only local adjustments are being made but when crucial 
 policies are being formed for the advance of the Brotherhood. 
 Not only the meetinghouse at Pleasant Hill is being 
 abandoned, but West Otter Creek has also closed its doors. 
 All of its members have moved to Kansas, or to Virden or 
 Girard. 
 
 Here and elsewhere there are fewer and fewer distinguishing 
 marks of special attire among the Brethren. The broad-brimmed 
 black hats, the high-collared coats, the whiskered faces, the 
 white prayer caps, the big black bonnets, and the aprons will 
 be gone in a few short years. 
 
 Yet it is only these surface things which will be gone. Out 
 of the lives and the deeds of this passing generation the 
 immortal virtues which they taught will live forever. They 
 will live from New York to California. From Texas to 
 Wisconsin. From China to Africa. 
 
 The new elder and his wife, Clara, will be the parents of 
 ten children, all baptized Brethren, all strong Christian 
 workers. Chalmer, the oldest, will be joined in the India mission 
 field by Ernest, the youngest. Out of the seven sons, six will 
 be ordained to the ministry. If their talents are not always 
 directed to pulpit or pastoral work, they will be slanted to 
 such outstanding work as Jesse's Christian counseling for 
 supervisors of industry, widely used in the areas of management 
 
 241 
 
and labor; Merlin's Brotherhood ministry to nonresident mem- 
 bers, to Brethren Service, and in the publishing interests; Russel's 
 work in the educational field as the editor of the National Forum 
 Personal Guidance Series for high school students. There will 
 be Arthur's Christian devotion to teaching in the public schools, 
 and the faithful service of a willing layman will be Ralph's 
 contribution. 
 
 The three daughters, too, will contribute much in various 
 phases of Christian service: Ethel Brubaker as an art teacher 
 in the boys' school at St. Charles, Illinois; Cleda, wife of the 
 minister, Charles Zunkel, as a leader in the women's work of 
 the Church of the Brethren; and Bertha, wife of the minister, 
 Forrest Weller, along with her husband doing outstanding 
 work at the University of South Dakota, especially in the field 
 of radio. 
 
 There will be grandsons of Willie and Clara Shull vitally 
 interested in the ongoing vision of the church: Merlin G. Shull, 
 pastor of the East Nimishillen Church of the Brethren, Ohio; 
 Wayne Zunkel, pastor of the Harrisburg Church of the Brethren, 
 Pennsylvania; Gordon Shull, professor in the College of Wooster, 
 Ohio; and David Lear Shull, a professor in Michigan State 
 College. Other grandchildren will play useful roles in the 
 society of which they will be parts. In those far-off days the 
 infinite mind of God will certainly yet be measuring the carefully 
 nurtured values that once grew at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 The exciting event of Halley's comet comes to the world 
 this year. As predicted by the astronomers, it flings its tail 
 of fire across the sky. And while the newspapers are full of 
 the stories of frightened Negroes and white folks skeptical as 
 to what will happen when this unknown thing whips across 
 the path of the earth in space, the folks at Pleasant Hill do not 
 seem to be disturbed. 
 
 They go to what may be the last love feast at the old 
 meetinghouse, trusting God, "who doeth all things well." 
 Driving home that night they see the glory and the mystery 
 of the comet, brilliant in the arch of the heavens, and the 
 ordinary stars twinkling on the velvet backdrop of the blue 
 depths of the universe. To them the heavens declare the glory 
 
 242 
 
of God. And the worst thing that happens to the Brethren at 
 this time of Halley's comet is that Arthur Vaniman runs the 
 bread slicer on this love-feast evening and cuts of! the end of 
 one of his fingers. 
 
 The burning of the famous courthouse bonds of Macoupin 
 County is more exciting to the people here than is Halley's 
 comet. A great celebration takes place at Carlinville on July 21 
 with distinguished speakers and the singing of America and 
 Glory Hallelujah. At the appointed hour the hated bond is 
 brought to Governor Deneen and he, standing on the court- 
 house steps, lights the bond at a jet of natural gas and burns to 
 ashes all that remains of the debt on the finest courthouse in the 
 United States. Forty-three years and Macoupin County has 
 thrown off its shackles. 
 
 Bells and whistles in every corner of the county sound for 
 five minutes. And the Brethren at Pleasant Hill are happy that 
 they are at last absolved from this dishonest tax. 
 
 Carlinville is a place where she has never been although she 
 is twelve years old, and Ethel Harshbarger stands in her father 
 Isaac's yard wishing that she could be at the celebration. She 
 looks far out through the azure blue that is empty save for the 
 flight of a bird. And suddenly there is with her a sense of things 
 that are to come. Of the sound of more whistles and more bells. 
 And of the presence in the sky of more than a bird or any of 
 its kind. 
 
 But how can Ethel know that there will be bonds more 
 important than courthouse bonds? Or that whistles and bells 
 will be sounded for more far-flung experiences than this? Or 
 that the sky will one day be filled with silver wings and there 
 will be no way to keep the young men of that day from 
 adventuring into their new-found freedom? 
 
 She cannot know that her son, Edgar L. Weddle, born 
 at Pleasant Hill, baptized in her church, often playing in the 
 shadow of the old meetinghouse, will on one far future day 
 take off with skill and daring in his stout heart. Slipping from 
 the bonds of earth. Climbing upward. Sending his ship into 
 the infinite halls of air, a frail child of man in that high silence 
 where he can "put out his hand and touch the face of God." 
 
 243 
 
And because he will not return from that high silence, his family 
 will say, "He is not, for God took him." 
 
 In October of this year 1910, a cablegram is flashed halfway 
 around the world to the Elgin office of the Church of the 
 Brethren. It is a sad message and it must be relayed to Pleasant 
 Hill, where Martha Harshbarger is washing lamp chimneys 
 on this Saturday afternoon. 
 
 As Martha answers the ringing telephone, the word is 
 given to her: "Your brother, Charles Brubaker of India, died 
 October twenty of typhoid fever." 
 
 Martha can only say, "Oh, no! It can't be true." But it 
 is true, and the mourning sister sees that the sun has set, and 
 she kneels beside the sink, weeping and washing the lamps. 
 
 Charles Brubaker has been working not only through the 
 testimony of words but in healing by faith as well. "With our 
 education in material things, and lack of faith in Jesus' power 
 to heal, through us," he had written shortly before he died, 
 "we say the day of miracles is past." But now, in the January 
 issue of the Missionary Visitor of 1911, appears Charles's own 
 story of "Living Faith." And there unfolds the marvelous 
 experience of the native at Nanole who had been bedfast for 
 seven months; of his belief in the promises of Jesus as Charles 
 expounded them to him; of Charles's own conviction concerning 
 the promise that "they shall lay their hands on the sick, and 
 they shall recover"; of his inspired act of taking the sick man 
 by the hand and saying, "According to your faith in the name 
 of Jesus, arise and walk"; of this man's arising immediately and 
 walking; and of the following weeks which revealed that the 
 man's healing was indeed permanent. 
 
 Yet there are the proud doubters, even among the Brethren, 
 and there are those who declare that Charles Brubaker over- 
 stepped the bounds of Brethren faith to "dare to heal" in this 
 manner. 
 
 "Oh, ye of little faith!" 
 
 Charles Brubaker is the first missionary of the Church of 
 the Brethren to die on the foreign mission field— "a kind of 
 first fruits," writes Wilbur B. Stover, "beckoning us to further 
 achievements." 
 
 244 
 
Charles's wife, formerly Ella Miller, whom he had taken 
 as his life companion after arriving in India, turns to her deep 
 abiding faith to sustain her through the lonely years ahead, 
 as do all who realize that this is a tragic loss in a field where the 
 harvest is plentiful but the laborers are few. 
 
 Last year Elmer Vaniman began building a new house 
 across the road from Mother Louisa. This was a sweet morsel 
 of news, for Elmer is a very eligible and successful bachelor 
 and everyone has been wondering who is to be the winning 
 lady. Elmer keeps his own counsel and he and Vernon continue 
 to drive their splendid buggies, while Calvin buys an old-model 
 high-wheeled machine, and his cousin, Herbert Vaniman, and 
 his wife Stella, drive up to church one sunny Sunday morning 
 in a shining Hupmobile. 
 
 All of the members gape in wonder and admiration— old 
 folks pretending to disapprove, young folks all but envious, the 
 women sensing that with such lurking fear on the summer 
 roads they are going to be afraid to venture off their farms 
 driving horses to the homes of the nearest neighbors. 
 
 Louisa is pleased now that Elmer brings Miss Mary Stead, 
 a lovely Christian lady, home as his bride. Elmer is also adding 
 a new interest to his livestock ventures and is showing his 
 best horses and mules at the Illinois Agricultural State Fair. 
 In the future years he will win hundreds of blue ribbons. He 
 will win six trophies, and he will win the Governor's Cup ten 
 straight years before he dies at the age of seventy-eight. 
 
 To Louisa, Elmer's work is satisfying and educational, but 
 Melvin is again adventuring into the unknown. Now, if she 
 reads the Illinois State Journal, which she sometimes refuses to 
 do, the headlines stare at her: "Wellman To Cross The Atlantic. 
 Otf to British Isles Is Belief. Aeronaut in Big Dirigible, America, 
 Sends Wireless, 'All's Well.' " And there is a picture of Melvin 
 standing by the big propeller of the America, along with Mr. 
 Wellman and the others of the crew. 
 
 "Dear God! Dear God!" prays Louisa. She prays all night. 
 And tomorrow the explorers have disappeared into the fog, 
 the signals weaken, and no one knows where the America is. 
 Then out of the silence comes the welcome news that although 
 
 245 
 
the America had to be abandoned at sea, the steamship Trent 
 has rescued all the crew. 
 
 "Chester Melvin," Louisa whispers to herself, "I wish you'd 
 leave this flying business. Go back to your camera. Or even 
 your music." But in the next paragraph she reads, "Melvin 
 Vaniman, the designer and engineer of the America, has no 
 regrets over the loss of the dirigible. He now has plans for 
 a bigger and better aircraft." 
 
 And Louisa can only wait and pray while the forces so much 
 larger than herself take hold of her son, who must serve his 
 generation and God with brave vision. 
 
 1911: Entry in Louisa Vaniman s Diary, February 15 
 Melvin has been home. It was so good to see him. 
 
 "Don't worry about me, Mother," says Melvin Vaniman as he 
 pays his mother a short visit. "Life is too short for me to waste 
 any time in thinking of any excuses as to why I could not, or 
 should not, do the things I am doing. I might fail in 
 accomplishment, but it won't be because I have failed in 
 courage." 
 
 Louisa goes about her duties in the house and the garden 
 with all the impetus of spirit which she can master. She is now 
 sixty-six, and to the children who see her at church in her 
 black or gray silk dresses trimmed with a bit of lace, and her 
 little black bonnet made of shirred silk, she is really quite an 
 old lady. But now Louisa keeps herself extra busy, for there 
 must be no time at all to think of Melvin and his daring ideas 
 and his constant invitation for his brothers to come and fly 
 with him. 
 
 Frank A. Seiberling of Akron, Ohio, president of the 
 Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company, capitalist and philan- 
 thropist, has now become interested in Melvin and his vision 
 of a successful rigid aircraft. 
 
 "I am backing Mr. Vaniman in this enterprise," Mr. 
 Seiberling will say in an interview for Colliers in November, 
 
 246 
 
"because I personally want to. I shall not miss the money. I saw 
 people putting obstacles in Mr. Vaniman's way because they 
 did not understand him. I remember when I was a boy and 
 had ideas, and had to struggle against a thousand oppositions. 
 I vowed then if I ever had the privilege I would someday help 
 someone else who is fighting for an idea against the opinions 
 of stupid people who have no vision." 
 
 All through this year, Melvin works on his great "submarine 
 of the air," a ship that is to be christened the A\ron, the largest 
 "gas bag" in the world, made of materials manufactured by 
 the Goodyear Company, powered by four gasoline engines, 
 propelled by six propellers (four of which are of the new 
 orientable type invented by Melvin), with a lifeboat, non- 
 capsizable, with airtight compartments, and equipped with 
 wireless. 
 
 It is all very wonderful as people over the world read 
 about it in Colliers and in Hamptons and in the Scientific 
 American. Many in the fields of publicity are excited about 
 this coming attempt to cross the Atlantic, but there is much 
 disapproval in the fields of home at Pleasant Hill, where the 
 home folks more or less believe that Melvin is very foolish. 
 
 "If he does fly the Atlantic," the doubters say, "what good 
 will it do?" And they go on about their work, content to have 
 their feet in the soil. 
 
 But here is Vernon Vaniman, who is not content to see 
 the soil being robbed of its chemical wealth, and he is terribly 
 conscious of the fact that in the areas of rolling lands the top- 
 soil is washing away. 
 
 He is certain that the ordinary rotation of crops practiced 
 faithfully at Pleasant Hill is not enough to preserve the wealth 
 of the soil, and that the blindness of the farmers against 
 erosion, multiplied in community after community in his own 
 county, and state, and over the nation as well, is a threat to all 
 individual farmers and to the national security. 
 
 Yet, now in 1911, Vernon cannot exactly know the extent 
 which this conviction will take in his life. He cannot know 
 that he will become the emergency district demonstration leader 
 
 247 
 
with the United States Department of Agriculture in 1917, 
 when the people of the nation will face World War I. 
 
 Nor can he know that higher appointments will follow 
 rapidly, and that he will soon join the staff of the Illinois 
 Agricultural Association. He will then plunge into the 
 organization of the Farm Bureau, organizing local units in 
 seventeen counties of Illinois in 1917. In 1919 he will help 
 organize the American Farm Bureau Federation, and when he 
 addresses a great audience in Chicago on the twentieth anniver- 
 sary of the birth of this Federation, in 1937, he will declare, 
 "There is no defeat in truth, save from within; unless you are 
 beaten there, you're bound to win." 
 
 Over and over again Vernon will speak to the farmers 
 everywhere in his gracious manner, with inspiration and 
 confidence, with a tremendous fondness for people, traveling 
 up and down the land, preaching the gospel of what farmers 
 can and must do through education, co-operation, sound 
 economic practices, scientific methods, and Christian devotion 
 to the cause of a better America through agriculture, which 
 is after all the lifeblood of the nation. 
 
 Vernon Vaniman will remember that the farmer is often 
 ridiculed. Wasn't he a farm boy, and even in the high school 
 at Virden did not someone once call him a hayseed? And 
 wasn't he a farm boy at the university, and didn't he hear the 
 sneer from the rich city sons as they called him a rube? 
 
 But he will have the opportunity to declare to the farmers 
 of America, "Anything worth doing is worth a definite policy, 
 backed by religious motives to do one's best, even on the farm. 
 The world has no monopoly on brains, intelligence, and 
 education. Farmers must take their own drivers' seats." 
 
 The farmers will listen to this man who will become known 
 simply as Van to thousands, and the Farm Bureau movement 
 will spread from ocean to ocean, and from its support will 
 come Four-H clubs all over the world. 
 
 In this year of 1911, Vernon cannot yet know that as the 
 organization director of the American Farm Bureau Federation 
 he will be attending the convention of the midwest states at 
 Lincoln, Nebraska, on November 30, 1948, when the quick, 
 
 248 
 
clear call of the Lord will come: "You've done your part, Vernon. 
 Come on now to a bigger farm. A better field. A higher job." 
 Vernon's body will be taken home in that future day to 
 Pleasant Hill, and there, where winter is ready to pin his 
 beloved land down with ice and snow, he will be laid to rest 
 on the gentle slope of the cemetery facing the old meetinghouse. 
 The tributes of family and friends will be many, and the tribute 
 of the Federation, too, will be made within a few days, when 
 on December 11, 1948, the National Convention will meet at 
 Atlantic City, New Jersey, and President Kline will ask five 
 thousand people representing a million American farmers to 
 rise and stand in silent tribute and a moment of prayer— all 
 for Van, the boy from Pleasant Hill. And this at Atlantic City 
 where Melvin, now in 1911, is building the Akron. 
 
 Little Mary Ann Brubaker is keeping house for her father, 
 Preacher Jonathan, since Mother Susie died in 1910, "old and 
 full of years." Little Mary Ann, now a woman of fifty, is a 
 good housekeeper and cheerful in spite of the affliction of her 
 dwarfed body. But she does often suffer, and she tries a great 
 many medicines and treatments for relief. No one will ever 
 know whether Little Mary Ann is or is not expecting a certain 
 Doctor Hatfield to arrive on the scene in person. But this he 
 does, claiming to be an Indian doctor, looking every inch a 
 carnival medicine man-tall, dark, with high cheek bones and 
 a precise goatee and mustache. His black flowing tie sets off 
 his black frock coat and his fine felt hat has the usual curved 
 brim. His manners are those of a gentleman. 
 
 The Brethren are dumbfounded to see such a person among 
 them and look askance at this strange man who takes up his 
 residence at Preacher Jonathan's house. Each Sunday he rides 
 on the front seat of the surrey with Brother Jonathan and 
 drives the fat bay mare to church, sitting in quiet politeness on 
 the men's side through all the services. 
 
 As one Sunday succeeds another down through the summer, 
 the members look at one another and whisper behind their 
 hands, "Is that Indian still here!" 
 
 Little Mary Ann insists that the herb medicines are helping 
 her. The weeks stretch into months and Lizzie Vaniman, Little 
 
 249 
 
Mary's sister, living there in the same yard, gets tired of seeing 
 the Indian popping into sight, any time, anywhere. It is 
 disquieting, to say the least. The hired girl is afraid of him 
 although little Iva Vaniman likes him and will listen to his 
 fascinating stories for hours on end. 
 
 Charley Vaniman is skeptical too, and he at last says to his 
 father-in-law, "Pa, it's time to get rid of that Indian. If you 
 don't then I will." 
 
 The doctor politely leaves and takes his mystery with him. 
 He may have been in hiding, he may have been homeless and 
 jobless, he may have accepted money for medicine that was 
 useless, but no one had been murdered, insulted, or robbed. 
 
 "I think we are right lucky," says Charley. 
 
 As Belle Roberts works for Lizzie Vaniman year after 
 year, washing time and again the forty full-length windows of 
 this big house, sweeping the wall-to-wall carpets — taken up, 
 beaten, and restretched over fresh straw at each spring house- 
 cleaning — adding the other hundreds of routine duties, she is 
 a happy, satisfied young women working for the sum of two 
 dollars a week and her room and board. 
 
 She might work in town and receive a few cents more; 
 however, there she would be treated as a servant. But to work 
 for a Brethren household is to be accepted as one of the family. 
 The Brethren do not forget the lesson taught them by the 
 symbol of feet-washing and in their daily lives they truly believe 
 "that he that is greatest among you let him be as the younger, 
 and he that is chief, as he that doth serve." The extra farm 
 hands, too, sit at Lizzie's table, which is always stretched to 
 accommodate at least a dozen people and is loaded with the 
 abundant foods of the farm. 
 
 On Sundays there is often company and there are times 
 when Lizzie stands over the cookstove frying chicken until 
 three o'clock in the afternoon. Of course, as in all Brethren 
 homes, the oldest guests are honored by being invited to eat 
 at the first table. They relish their food and their conversation, 
 and take their own sweet time to roll the last delicious morsel 
 of food over their tongues and sip the last succulent drop of 
 coffee from their cups. 
 
 250 
 
At last they rise, leisurely, as if there were no one else 
 hungry at all. Then the older women do suddenly realize this 
 fact and they say, "My! My! Let's get busy and clear this table 
 so that others can eat." 
 
 When at long last the children, too rigidly trained to 
 complain of hunger, are seated at the third table (or the fourth!), 
 they are ravenous and, like Esau, would sell their most prized 
 possession for a mess of beans. 
 
 But now they are honored by being served the same fine 
 food which their elders had enjoyed, and Lizzie herself sits at 
 the table and eats with them. She smiles in her weariness and 
 she urges gently in her soft voice, "Just eat all you want, children. 
 You've had to wait s-o-o long." And her gentle words take 
 all of the sting out of being just a child waiting to become a 
 grownup. 
 
 There are many gentle mothers at Pleasant Hill. Will they 
 not always be remembered so? The salt of sternness melts 
 under kindness as snow over flame, and the hurt of the 
 cultivation of character is soothed by affection, even as the 
 soil is cut by the hoe and sends forth its plants to fruition. 
 These are the simple, satisfying verities of the Brethren mothers. 
 Trained by this mother will be Iva Vaniman, who, when 
 grown, will be the wife of Ernest Snell, son of Frank and Katie, 
 and, like her mother before her, she will be skilled in the 
 home-keeping virtues. She too will love people and no kindness 
 will be too small nor any task too large for her. In that future 
 year of 1954 she will serve as co-chairman of the New Era 
 banquet at La Verne College in California, and with the 
 beautiful precision of Christian accomplishment, more than 
 a thousand guests will be served at this feast of fellowship 
 among the Brethren and their Christian friends. And Iva will 
 smile and say, "Oh, I learned hospitality and all of its tangents 
 when I was a child at Pleasant Hill." 
 
 And then to crown their middle-age activities, Iva and 
 Ernest will fly to Puerto Rico in a Pan American Clipper to 
 donate two years of service to the Lord in that field of great 
 need. 
 
 251 
 
1912: Entries in Louisa Vanimaris Diary 
 
 February 10: We will soon be building a church in 
 
 Virden. 
 
 June 13, each day to June 30: Sick all day. 
 
 July 2: Received news of terrible accident of boys' 
 
 death. 
 
 July 7: Sunday. Sad day. Went to church to Calvin's 
 
 funeral. Largest funeral ever held at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 July 19: Friday. Chester Melvin's funeral. Great 
 
 many here. 
 March is an especially unpleasant month, and ends with a 
 sleetstorm that wrecks the countryside. After this, spring sets 
 in with plenty of rain and while it is too wet to work the 
 Brethren purchase a location for the new church in Virden. 
 There is now both enthusiasm and regret in the attitudes of 
 the Brethren at Pleasant Hill. The young people look forward 
 to the use of a beautiful brick church, with a tower for chimes, 
 and colorful windows, polished pews, carpeted aisles, electricity, 
 and a modern heating plant, all of which will be dedicated, 
 complete, in June 1913, with John Lear preaching the dedication 
 sermon. The old people cling to the beloved meetinghouse in 
 the country. So plain but so substantial. So old but so precious. 
 And the middle-aged are torn between the two. 
 
 A territorial line is drawn and the Pleasant Hill congregation 
 is no longer one, but two. From now on into the future — only 
 the Lord knows how long— these two independent congregations, 
 Girard and Virden, will carry on the work of the Brethren. 
 And now the Pleasant Hill meetinghouse is presented to the 
 Virden congregation to do with as it wishes. 
 
 There are those who say, "Let's tear it down completely, 
 lest it fall into the hands of the worldly and its sacred memory 
 be desecrated." 
 
 Louisa Vaniman remembers very well the year of its 
 building. "If that meetinghouse is torn down the very stones 
 will cry out," she declares. 
 
 "That meetinghouse is a landmark," says Elmer Vaniman. 
 "It would be a tragedy to destroy it. It will stand a hundred 
 
 252 
 
years. We ought to have faith in ourselves and in our children 
 that this house can be used for good for untold years to come." 
 "I wouldn't think of destroying such a valuable place," 
 says Everett Brubaker, now returned from a short residence in 
 Texas. "When you've seen the desolation that I've seen you'd 
 never mention the destruction of anything." 
 
 "I'll give a thousand dollars toward its preservation," says 
 old Brother Jonathan Brubaker. 
 
 So it is that such gifts of money as Jonathan and others 
 give are accepted by the newly organized congregation and 
 the old meetinghouse is presented to the Pleasant Hill Cemetery 
 Association as a gift, "to be used as a chapel, or for any 
 Christian or educational purposes." 
 
 Now, for all the known future, the Pleasant Hill lawns will 
 ring with the laughter of little children playing on the 
 recreational equipment that gives joy to every Sunday-school 
 picnic of many local churches of various denominations. The 
 great basement will swell again with the voices of friends as 
 they spread their basket dinners over the tables when they meet 
 at family reunions, Sunday after Sunday, each year, from April 
 through October. 
 
 Speakers of the Farm Bureau and other community 
 organizations will give voice to educational and inspirational 
 thinking in the big meeting room. There will be spring 
 rallies and fall retreats of Brethren youth and one of Dan 
 West's famous workshops for peace— Dan West, of Brethren 
 fame, whose inspired idea of Heifers for Relief will grow from 
 a Brethren plan of sharing into a world-wide power for love 
 that will reach the gates of heaven itself. 
 
 Now in 1912 the camera's eye of the future can be directed 
 toward many others who will activate that future, which flows 
 out through the Pleasant Hill heritage. 
 
 Deacons Irvin Brubaker and Charles Gibbel and their 
 wives will carry on in a multitude of ways. As a deacon, Verner 
 Stutsman will serve the home church; he will be active in 
 the district; he will serve the Brotherhood as its Annual Confer- 
 ence treasurer for one term and as a member of the National 
 Council of Men's Work for nine years; he will represent 
 
 253 
 
Southern Illinois on the trustee board of Manchester College; 
 he will work in the American Red Cross and in Kiwanis of 
 America as a state executive. His wife, the former Mabel 
 Heckman, will work as a leader in women's work, at home, in 
 the district, in the regional organization, and in the Brotherhood. 
 
 There will be Adda Bowman Weddle, Pearl Vaniman 
 Bowman, and Ada Vaniman Snell as deacons' wives, often 
 faithful above the call of duty. And Ada will be active in the 
 district and in the Illinois Council of Church Women. 
 
 There are others who will become ministers' wives: Lela 
 Brubaker as the wife of Charles Harshbarger; Maggie Ganger 
 working beside her pastor husband, John Smeltzer; Vinna 
 Harshbarger as the wife of the evangelist-pastor, Ralph G. 
 Rarick, working in missions from the pinelands of Alabama 
 to the lakelands of Wisconsin, and in large established congrega- 
 tions from historic Pennsylvania to scenic California; Marie 
 Wirt, making her contributions beside her pastor-teacher 
 husband, Russell A. Sherman of Indiana; and Stella Brubaker, 
 honoring her minister husband, W. M. Piatt. 
 
 There is the Girard Sunday-school boy, Paul Bechtold, 
 who will enter the ministry. And there is in this year of 1912 
 the boy Paul Gibbel, studious and industrious, getting up at 
 four o'clock in the morning to study, to milk cows, to get the 
 chores done. Then off to high school in Virden, then to Mt. 
 Morris and on to medical college. And at last as a minister-doctor 
 he will go to the Africa mission field in 1926 for an intensive 
 term of service at Garkida, Nigeria, and will have charge of 
 the building of the Ruth Royer Kulp Memorial Hospital. 
 
 No, Pleasant Hill will not die. She is the immortal mother 
 of many congregations, many educational institutions, and 
 many consecrated business accomplishments. And what great 
 things may yet come from Pleasant Hill it is only the Lord 
 who knows. 
 
 Now it is June, and the moment toward which Melvin 
 Vaniman has been working at Atlantic City has arrived. Calvin 
 is with Melvin as one of the crew of his great new dirigible, the 
 Akron. Elmer had once thought that he, too, would go, but there 
 is some pressing business and he cannot leave. Elmer and 
 
 254 
 
Vernon say nothing of the dangers of Melvin's work. Their 
 words are all of confidence and of enthusiasm for the success 
 of this planned crossing of the Atlantic. 
 
 But mothers are not easily fooled. Louisa Vaniman works 
 hard, even beyond her strength, cleaning the chicken yard, 
 washing, hoeing in the garden. Yet the power of the pending 
 fear seeps into her vitals, and she writes, "Sick all day." Over 
 and over she writes these words. But it is not a sickness the 
 doctor can heal, and she knows it. She doesn't send for him. 
 
 Before noon on July 2 the telegram arrives at Virden stating 
 that Melvin and Calvin Vaniman have lost their lives in the 
 explosion of the dirigible in which they were riding on a test 
 flight. 
 
 Shaken and white, Elmer and Vernon would almost rather 
 die themselves than to tell their mother. Yet it must be done. 
 And certainly the unexpected urgent business which had kept 
 Elmer at home was the hand of God, and Elmer trembles at 
 the thought. What special thing is it for which he has been 
 saved ? 
 
 The papers are full of the tragedy and the disaster shares 
 the headlines of the St. Louis Globe Democrat with the 
 announcement that Woodrow Wilson is nominated by the 
 Democratic Party on the fourth ballot. 
 
 Since the dirigible was over the waters of an inlet, only 
 Calvin's body is recovered at once, and in due time Louisa 
 receives the body of this, her son, and it lies in state in her 
 front parlor. 
 
 The house and yard are filled with people, and they express 
 themselves in low tones to one another. 
 
 "I was afraid of this." 
 
 "I've said all the time I wouldn't be surprised to hear of a 
 disaster any day." 
 
 Only one, Francis Vaniman, from Kansas, says, "I've been 
 following Melvin's work. I knew it had dangers, but I didn't 
 expect anything like this." 
 
 A heavy rain on Saturday settles all the annoying dust for 
 over Sunday. The roads are even a bit muddy, but more than a 
 thousand people gather at the Pleasant Hill meetinghouse. The 
 
 255 
 
sermon is preached by Elder Michael Flory, assisted by the 
 Vanimans' good neighbor, Ezra H. Brubaker. A cloud of 
 depressing, helpless sadness hangs as an invisible mist over 
 the church, the people, and the cemetery. 
 
 It is almost two weeks later before divers are able to extricate 
 Melvin's body from the wreckage of the Akron lying in a 
 ghostly heap in that inlet at Atlantic City. And now all of the 
 sadness of the many people, and the funeral, and the burial 
 must be repeated. 
 
 The plaudits of the scientific world and the newspaper 
 editors overwhelm the day. Says the editor of the Springfield 
 Evening News, "Melvin Vaniman was one of the most energetic, 
 resourceful, persistent workers in his field. His untimely death 
 will be a distinct loss to a science that is being so rapidly 
 developed, and which gives so much promise for the future." ^ 
 General Allen of the United States Signal Corps says, "I 
 expected Vaniman's work to lead to valuable results. He was 
 an aerial engineer of great skill." 
 
 So it is that the sensational disaster which brings to an 
 end the greatest aircraft ever yet constructed in the Western 
 Hemisphere also brings to an end the lives of two Pleasant Hill 
 
 boys. 
 
 "Intrepid, noble boys," the preacher said in his sermon. 
 And Melvin's own words once penned in a letter home will 
 still be read in 1954. "Always I would be honorable and right 
 and go with nothing myself, than to ever be dishonest." 
 
 "Be brave, Mother," Vernon has begged through all the 
 ordeal. And Mother Louisa does take her bereavement bravely. 
 Before the accident she had spent days in bed, ill and 
 praying. Now what is done is done, and, remembering one 
 of her favorite hymns, she hums the tune and sings snatches 
 of the words, like Job of old: 
 
 I know that my Redeemer liveth, 
 And on the earth again shall stand; 
 I know eternal life He giveth, 
 That grace and power are in His hand. 
 There being nothing so consoling to mind and body as 
 busy hands, Louisa works all day in the garden the day after 
 
 256 
 
Melvin's funeral; and day by day she plants cucumbers, sows 
 turnips, helps Nora cook for the threshers, and paints the 
 carriage. 
 
 If it rains she puts on her boots and one of George's old 
 hats and an old raincoat and works in the garden in spite of 
 the dampness. She cannot tell people why all of this work gives 
 her such comfort. They wouldn't understand. But now she 
 knows that Melvin and Calvin are with her again. Now they 
 are not roaming the world, but they are here in the sunlight. 
 Here in the moonlight. Here in the rain. Now they are her 
 own again, at Pleasant Hill. 
 
 Through the future years the folks at Pleasant Hill will 
 see or hear of one or another dirigible of which Melvin 
 Vaniman's A\ron was the forerunner. There will be the Los 
 Angeles, the Graf Zepplin, the second A^ron, the Shenandoah, 
 and the Hindenberg. And at long last the scientists will know 
 that disasters follow dirigibles, and that, for the most part, it 
 will be airplanes that must conquer the skies. 
 
 In that future year of 1952, Georgena Vaniman Blair and her 
 husband, active young adult leaders in the Church of the 
 Brethren, will present to the very elderly gentleman, Mr. F. A. 
 Seiberling, at Akron, Ohio, the portrait of her Uncle Melvin 
 Vaniman for the Akron Historical Museum. And as they 
 will see there at Akron, on that very day, the trial flight of the 
 world's largest dirigible, built for the United States Navy, 
 Georgena will remember all that she's been told of that first 
 A\ron, and she will be proud that her Uncle Melvin from 
 Pleasant Hill had made his contribution to such very great 
 things. 
 
 What are great things? Is there anyone who knows? Are 
 the great who are sung any greater than the ones who are 
 unsung? Can youth live so bravely and reach so deeply into 
 the wellsprings of the human soul that they are as spiritually 
 rich as the old? Perhaps it is only the Lord who knows. 
 
 A few of the early Brethren are still here. But they are old. 
 Elder Joseph Harshbarger is old, very old. And Deacon John 
 Neher. And Preacher Jonathan Brubaker. And Preacher Cullen 
 Gibson. Cullen will live to be ninety-seven. 
 
 257 
 
"I hope to see one hundred years," he will often say. And 
 he almost reaches his goal. Even at ninety-five Cullen will 
 play croquet with a granddaughter on a Sunday afternoon, and 
 he will win the game. He will laugh in delight and Lizzie 
 Stowe in great pretended shock will say, 
 
 "Why, Father, who would ever have thought you would 
 ever play croquet? And on Sunday, at that!" 
 
 And being very deaf he will pretend not to hear. 
 In many ways it is comfortable to be old. To rest from 
 physical struggles. To be deaf enough not to hear tiresome 
 conversations. Not to be ashamed to take daytime naps. To 
 have earned your bed and board for the rest of your days. Not 
 to be afraid to die. 
 
 No one who has been succored by the faith at Pleasant Hill 
 is afraid to die. Pleasant Hill's testimony is a living, growing 
 one, and let no one say that he can figure the profits and losses 
 in the ledger of infinity that was once opened at this blessed 
 place. 
 
 The children, the grandchildren, and the great-grand- 
 children will be forever grateful for the deep personal piety 
 which is their inheritance, and no one should hold against the 
 early fathers those human errors which often freckled the surface 
 of their lives. 
 
 "Like apples of gold in pictures of silver"— these classic 
 words from the Book of Proverbs and those from St. Paul express 
 the rich conclusion of this treasury of fifty years of consecrated 
 experiences. "Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, 
 whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, 
 whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, 
 whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, 
 and if there be any praise, think on these things." 
 
 From the open fields of Pleasant Hill, where the winds blow 
 and the flowers bloom and the crops grow, an era of time 
 accounted as the years from 1863 to 1912 has become a precious 
 electric charge for the dynamos of the future when the Dunkers 
 —the German Baptist Brethren, now the Church of the Brethren 
 with a membership of over two hundred thousand souls— shall 
 no longer fear to face the world and its problems. 
 
 258 
 
Standing on that hill o£ years in 1955, the newer generations 
 will come to realize that the old fathers and mothers did 
 not demand of their children ideals that were too high. Rather, 
 the fence of isolation will have come down at last, and the 
 fascinating picture of this community will be exhibited in the 
 galleries of time. It will have been revealed to hundreds of 
 Christians whose lives will be busy one way and another, 
 working to bring the Kingdom of God into the hearts of men, 
 and who will be happy to declare, "From this majesty of stars 
 at Pleasant Hill, I lighted my candle of God's love." 
 
 259 
 

 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 I 286.5W41P C001 
 
 PLEASANT HILL ELGIN, ILL.