Peter Graff was laid to rest years ago. The venerable James Hasson sleeps in the Franklin cemetery. His son, Captain William Hasson, is an honored resident of the city that owes much to his enterprise and liberality. Capable, broad-minded and trustworthy, he has been earnest in promoting the best interests of the community, the region and the state. A recent benefaction was his splendid gift of a public park—forty acres—on Cottage Hill. He was the first burgess and served with conspicuous ability in the council and the legislature. Alike as a producer, banker, citizen, municipal officer and lawgiver, Captain Hasson has shown himself “every inch a manly man.” When you talk of any better town than Oil City, of any better section than the oil-regions, of any better people than the oilmen, of any better state than Pennsylvania, “every potato winks its eye, every cabbage shakes its head, every beet grows red in the face, every onion gets stronger, every sheaf of grain is shocked, every stalk of rye strokes its beard, every hill of corn pricks up its ears, every foot of ground kicks” and every tree barks in indignant dissent. Such was the narrow ravine, nowhere sixty rods in width, that figured so grandly as the Valley of Petroleum. [Illustration: FARMS ON OIL CREEK, VENANGO COUNTY, PA., IN 1860-65.] A SPLASH ON OIL CREEK. The dark mud of Oil Creek! Unbeautiful mud, That couldn’t and wouldn’t be nipped in the bud! Quite irreclaimable, Wholly untamable; There it was, not a doubt of it, People couldn’t keep out of it; On all sides they found it, So deep none dare sound it— No way to get ’round it. To their necks babies crept in it, To their chins big men stept in it; Ladies—bless the sweet martyrs! Plung’d far over their garters; Girls had no exemption, Boys sank past redemption; To their manes horses stall’d in it, To their ear-tips mules sprawl’d in it! It couldn’t be chain’d off, It wouldn’t be drain’d off; It couldn’t be tied up, It wouldn’t be dried up; It couldn’t be shut down, It wouldn’t be cut down. Riders gladly abroad would have shipp’d it, Walkers gladly at home would have skipp’d it. Frost bak’d it, Heat cak’d it; To batter wheels churned it, To splashes rains turned it, Bad teamsters gol-durned it! Each snow-flake and dew-drop, each shower and flood Just seem’d to infuse it with lots of fresh blood, Increasing production, Increasing the ruction,