Mystery of 'Poison Farm' Deepens As Two More Die

1915

Visit to Place Brings Out Peculiar Story

SPRINGFIELD, Ill., Dec. 16. — "There y' be," said the guide. "Y' see that stretch o' woods? It's past them. Nobody's ever been in them woods. Y' can't get thru. Well, we go round 'em and then down the hill and then we come to the poison farm. Giddap. Beautiful day, ain't it?"

The rig jogged over the unfrequented road that ran away in loops to meet the sky.

"There ain't many people as comes out here," went on the guide. "It's only a mile and a half from Marseilles but the woods there ain't very hospitable, and the poison farm ain't the sort of place people gets too curious about.

Two More Just Died

"Y' know, two o' them died last week, both together. Everybody dies or gets sick. It's the most mysterious thing. Now, y' take the people as lived on it five or six years ago. I don't recall how many died, but I know they was durn sick, and it always comes on 'em at the same time of the year — almost a certain day. It's something to do with them woods there, I'll betcha, altho the doctor's been working down there for two weeks now, ever since the little girl took sick. Giddap.

"You wouldn't think on a beautiful day like this as there was a poison farm right around the bend, would y'?"

For a few minutes the rig rattled along without any obligato from its driver. The country which on leaving the village of Marseilles had become typical Illinois farm country was now assuming the aspect of a broken wilderness against which pioneers were still struggling. To the west stretched the "poison" wood in which, according to the gossip of the countryside, "no foot had ever trod."

"Poison House" Looms Up

"Now we're comin' to it," called the driver, flickering his whip. "There she is. Y'see that little house. That's the house. That's where the two died last week. Giddap! Come on, there!"

The veteran village charioteer was growing excited. He had straightened in his seat and was leaning forward.

The rig drew to a stop in front of a pretty farmhouse that lay in the shadow of the river hills around it.

"Hello Doc," called the guide, and a serious looking man approached. He introduced himself as Dr. A. J. Weirick of Marseilles.

"Let's not bother the folks," he said. "You can look over the place, and I'll tell you what little we have been able to find out about it."

A tour thru the farm revealed nothing unusual. Apparently the farm differed in no way from the farms which adjoined it. The same road cut thru it, the same pastures surrounded it, the same growths covered it. Only in the pretty farmhouse sat the lone figure of a man, the farmer, who had lost his wife and child a few days ago.

An hour later Dr. Weirick told the medical and scientific side of the strange story which has aroused superstition and fear in the neighborhood. The farm has been tenanted by various families. Before the present tenants lived on it two other families were the occupants.

It was many years ago that something strange about the farm became apparent. In October one or two of the people in the place would get sick. There were deaths but no attention was paid.

The next tenants came on the farm and again the strange fact was noticed that in October sickness came and death. One after another the family fell ill during that month of the years they were there and they finally moved.

Mother, Then Daughter, Stricken

The first year the present occupants were there the wife became ill — in October. She was saved by medical treatment. The second year the daughter became ill — in October. She, too, was saved. The third year the father was stricken and saved as the others had been.

A year passed, during which the peculiar illness was absent and then in October the daughter fell ill. The father also began to "feel bad," and doctors were summoned from Ottawa and Marseilles. While the doctor was caring for the girl and her father the wife began to complain of dizziness and nausea. A nurse was sent for. She had no sooner arrived than the older woman succumbed. Her death was followed in a few hours by the death of her daughter. The husband, who appeared to be also dying, was taken to the hospital.

"It's some form of poison," went on Dr. Weirick. "What it is we don't know. The State Board of Health has taken a hand. The coroner at LaSalle long ago gave up the case. He said there was nothing he could do.

"There is something strange and perhaps unknown to our science lurking in those dense woods or in the pastures. We're as far from a solution of the various deaths and illnesses as ever."

"Giddap," cried the guide, leaving the hospital, whither Dr. Weirick had gone. "I tell y' what, young fella. If y' want the real story o' this poison farm y' go ask Looie over t' Marseilles. He knows. It was he as came thru them woods one night after celebratin' in Ottawa, and while I ain't got no faith in what he says an' no belief in them kind o' things, y' just go and ask him if y' want the real story about why everybody dies in October sudden when they lives on that farm."

The Boy Who Tipped the Scales to a Generous 450 Pounds

Raised In Nebraska

Not long ago one of the most corpulent persons in the country died at Cedar Rapids, Neb. His name was C. Hemingson and his photograph was submitted to GRIT by Roy Meson, of Cedar Rapids. Hemingson was but 17 years old when he died. He weighed 450 pounds. In spite of his immense proportions he managed to move about quite actively. He was helping to extinguish a small fire when he succumbed to over-exertion. He was born and raised on a farm near Cedar Rapids.

—Grit

Molasses Covered Pigs Stick Together

Pennsylvania, 1915

Stanley F. Smith, of near Irishtown, Secretary to the Oxford Township Board of Supervisors, had a very peculiar operation to perform among his swine on Sunday morning.

It was simply this: Mr. Smith, on Saturday evening visited town, and on his return home, when he alighted from his buggy, took a kettle containing one gallon of molasses from the vehicle and placed it upon a stone in the barnyard, where he expected to get it and take it to the house with him after he had stabled the horse and placed the buggy in the shed.

It happened, however, that Stanley had forgot about the molasses when he went to the house, and did not think of it until Sunday morning. It happened, also, that there were a number of shoats running at large in the yard, and during the night they discovered the kettle, overturned it, and spilled the contents. They not only ate of it, but layed down and rolled in it, and then went to sleep in a huddle.

On Sunday morning when Mr. Smith approached the yard he found three of the shoats sticking together — so much so that they could not separate and neither one of them could move without taking the other along. Finally, the only way that Stanley could contrive to separate the squealers was to cut them apart with a large mule shears, which he succeeded in doing, only after getting himself well soaked with the contents of the kettle, which now covered the shoats.

—New Oxford Item, New Oxford, PA, Jan. 14, 1915.

The Wogglebug Story — Witches and Hobgoblins

Wisconsin, 1905

Bachelor Brothers Move Away to Avoid Witches and Hobgoblins

Christian and William Born, who live in Lebanon on the Woodland R.F.D. road next to J. B. Schneider, have been busy for some time past in building a sort of a Noah's ark on wheels, and there has been considerable speculation by their neighbors as to whether the outfit would turn out to be an automobile or a flying machine. Nothing would have surprised their friends, however, as the boys have long been regarded as foolish.

Last week Thursday they loaded up their deep sea going cab with a number of trunks and boxes, and started on a pilgrimage, leaving everything on the place as though they intended returning that day. Their shepherd dog was left as custodian over the eighty acre farm and about thirty head of stock, besides a large number of chicks.

When they did not return that day nor the next the neighbors went over and cared for the stock and notified the chairman of the town, Herman Witte, of the case. He started a deputy sheriff after the boys, and he overtook the outfit at Troy Center Tuesday evening. They said they were en route to the sunny south in obedience to a command from the spirit of their dead father, who has also ordered the construction of their portable house. The deputy invited them to return by rail with him to Juneau to meet a number of his friends, members of the medical profession and they readily assented, as their team needed a rest anyway. So they are now in Juneau, where they were examined as to their sanity.

The boys' father died some years ago, and they have been living with their mother on the farm, neither of them being married, although they are both over forty-five years of age. They have been having a strenuous time with the witches and hobgoblins the past year. Somebody bewitched three of their best milkers at a time when milk was high, while another witch cast a spell over their chickens when the egg market was around thirty cents. All this they were up against for years and withstood manfully, but when the Wogglebug told them that their farm was heavily encumbered and would soon be foreclosed upon by a number of witches, they gave up in despair and at this time their father's spirit appeared and billed them for a trip to Missouri.

The neighbors say that Mrs. Born has been mentally unsound for years, and that the boys have always been very eccentric and extremely superstitious.

Their team and wagon passed through the village this afternoon being driven back to Lebanon, and its odd appearance attracted lots of attention. — Neosho Standard.

A Puppy Adopts a Brood of Chickens

1896

Rather a pathetic story comes from a small town on the outskirts of Philadelphia, the truthfulness of which is vouched for by a prominent citizen of the place.

This P. C. is an extensive chicken raiser, and some time since set a favorite hen upon a nest of eggs, expecting them to hatch in the usual period of three weeks. Three, four and five weeks passed and no chickens, and it was not until the end of the sixth week that the new poultry appeared, but with them came the demise of the old hen, presumably as a result of her unusually long continued sedentary occupation.

The chicks, not knowing, of course, that their mother was dead, attempted to crawl under her wings and keep warm. Their owner, seeing the trouble they were in, pressed a small Newfoundland pup into service, and, placing it in a closed coop, put the chicks in after. The soft fur of the pup made a pleasant retreat for the little ones, and now pup and poultry are inseparable. — Philadelphia Call.