January 13, 1905

Partial transcript: the first three paragraphs are partially cut off.

Extra services commence at the M. E. Church on Sunday evening, under the management of Rev. G. W. Hines.

The extra meetings at the M. E. Church continue. There has been some interest manifested during the past week but up to the present writing no converts have been made and no seekers have been at the altar.

I had stayed in Milton until I had almost lost all the desire to be anywhere else. My connection with Milton had always been pleasant, so much so, that it required a strong effort to break away from the enchantment and in chapters of these learned surroundings. There’s nothing like change of scenery and company for their reed said that station of spirit and promotion of longevity acting on this axiom I resolve on a visit somewhere, and no better place was presented to suit my mind that Frederica, the scene of my boyhood days, where many of the pranks of use were played and the episodes of early life and acted. And I am here amid other friends and acquaintances, in writing these lines that do not propose to trespass on the realm of the Frederica correspondent, and shall deal with matters of which she would probably not write. I have not yet have an opportunity to observe much, but what I have seen the notes change when contrasted with thirty years gone by. The configuration of the country is the same, the waters of the murder kiln are as blue as when I roamed the streets a bare-footed boy, and later made love to the young lasses of the town. But, O, how changed are these misses! The auburn traces are not without a tinge of gray, the brilliant eyes are dim, and the sprightly step is no longer elastic. Time is telling on them as well as on the writer. We meet many whom we scarcely recognize, yet in former life they were are well known friends. They too are getting old.

There are many improvements here, you to me, and some of them I may have occasion to mention, incidentally, in a future communication. Frederica is a beautiful town, at least I think so. Could I think otherwise? Its streets, its walks, north, east and west, its bridges, and many of its dwellings, all contain a sentimental interest for me, recalling memories of summer times, of moonlight eves, and trysting when the heart was young.

The old heads of the town have disappeared and younger ones have taken their place; and many new families have increased the population, bringing with them new ideas and the spirit of aggression, progression and enterprise. This influx has given to the former resident an impetus for the last several years; as witness the steamboat, the bank, of the mills, and other modern improvements of note.

Mr. David W. Pettyjohn, of near Springfield Cross Roads, died January 7, 1905, age 40 years, two months, and 10 days. He died of […] pleurisy. The funeral was held at 1 o’clock Tuesday, at St. John church. The funeral was conducted by the Rev. Harry Taylor. Mr. Pettyjohn was prosperous and a well to do farmer and a good Christian. He leaves a widow, one child and four brothers