IN pioneer days after the corn was laid by, as we called it, then we had a while that we did not work much. There was not much harvesting to do, as our hay harvest was in the prairie grass, and that was done late in August or September, and during this idle spell the men would hunt and fish, and those that did not have plenty of bees would hunt “bee trees”, and get honey to do them for the year. The boys would go into the woods and dig Ginseng; and when we would dry it we got twenty-five cents per pound, and when we sold it green we got ten cents per pound, and a boy could make good wages for them times. Eighty Years Ago. IT was Eighty Years Ago, in the wild woods, on Mitchell’s Creek, near a good spring, JACOB PERRYMAN, the father of the author of this little book, pitched his cabin. He was of Scotch descent, and my MOTHER was of German descent; they raised a large family, of which we was the sixth. The writer was born April 26th, 1836, and raised there when it was almost impossible for a boy to get an education; but he was supposed to risk his chances with the wolf and the rattlesnake, and all the dangers seen and unseen of that early day. So you see the writer has lived in Illinois more than three score and ten years, and if, in speaking of my native State, we spread the “paint” on pretty thick, you will pardon us. Maybe we have enjoyed life more than the most of people have, and if the reader of this book finds that the tone of it shows too much of a disposition for mirth, remember it is our nature and we cannot help it, and we attribute it to our raising. The man who lives in Illinois and don’t enjoy life is a man who does not know a good thing when he has it. The man who lives in Illinois and does not see beauties on every hand to make him glad, is mentally cross-eyed. [Illustration] Sixty Years Ago. I WANT to sing a little song, Of the people and their ways; And how the people got along Away back in early days. We rather thought the quickest way To let the people know,— We would sing to them Of how we lived, Just Sixty Years Ago. When coon-skins was two bits apiece, And beeswax was a bit, And eggs four cents a dozen— That was all that we could get; And deer-skins always went at par, And feathers was not slow; And that’s the money people had Just Sixty Years Ago. And, Oh! that big old fire-place.— It took a sight of wood; We would haul it on a “lizzard”— And we would pile on all we could; We would haul a big long hickory log, Especially when there was snow;— For we worked two yoke of cattle then;— Just Sixty Years Ago.