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.