It was a frosty March afternoon in the year 1865 that Quiller DAWS, a well-known Huntersville horse trader, and by many considered the patron saint of that hamlet, was slouched sound asleep in his old, oaken armchair, in front of the large open fireplace.

His faithful old Irish spouse, Peggy, was busy as usual at her carpet loom, but in her mind she was trying to solve a vexing problem, so unusual that she wanted to impart the information as soon as possible after Quiller’s next awakening period. Frequently casting a watchful eye in his direction, she at last spied that the old horseman was trying to unharness his slumber—preparing to take his hourly drench of Mart ADAMS’ "Hill Top Dew." A moment later she saw his blinking toadlike eyes opening, when she shouted in a rasping voice, indicative of her pent up emotion,

It was plainly discerned that Peggy was laboring under the driving force of a ruffled temper, for she quickly followed by stating that the new village expounder of Wesley also said,

The latter diatribe seemed to deeply prick the calloused conscience of the old horse trader. He straightened out his jackknife sitting posture, and nimbly brought his ninety-four pound body to an upright position (he was six feet four inches in height). There he stood, silently for a moment, looking all the world like a dessicated Indian Chieftain; then slowly in well-measured words and deep thought he replied,

This tart answer must have seemed timely to old Peggy Daws, for she forthwith left her loom and was soon hobbling towards the home of the village grapevine gossip-spreader with Quiller’s militant answer. The old horse trader walked to the north window to watch her, then returned to his chair and demijohn of "dew." Noting that the container was about empty, he groaned sorrowfully; and truthfully spoke to himself aloud,

Quiller Daws lived in what is now Irondale, at the corner of Diamond and Creek Street. The cooper shop in which he was born was converted into a dwelling, when that collection of houses bore no name, but later doffed and donned the names of Pottsdale, Huntersville ;and Irondale. His father made salt barrels for Sam POTTS, and whiskey barrels for Martin ADAMS of Chestnut Grove Ridge. The son never learned the cooper trade but became a horse trader, and its customary concomitant—a consumer of much red liquor.

Quiller was as eccentric, as his name was euphonious, and his personal appearance as grotesque as the little green herons that frequently flew along the course of the North Fork. Summer and winter alike he wore an unusually high plug hat, a spike-tail coat that reached his knees, and high topped boots with his trousers neatly tucked in at the top. He always carried a hickory cane. To add to his Gothic architecture, he wore, as was the custom at that time, long well greased hair, as well as a full beard, both as black as the crows that nest atop the high Yellow Creek ridges.

Up until March 1864, the smiling Fate of success seemed to always be beaming down on the old horse trader, for until that time one trade a week, with the extra "boot," and a demijohn of Adams’ "Hill Top Dew" filled all the needs of his sparse flesh and dormant spirits with perfect approbation.

During the last year of the War Between the States, the North Fork country began to be pinched with a multitude of troubles, that spread through that neighborhood like a virulent disease. Severe as it was for others, Quiller DAWS felt that he had an elder brothers portion of afflictions and vexations. The government had bought almost every available horse, and this coupled with the death of Martin ADAMS on February 16, 1864, brought to Daws the full realization that he had a struggle on his hands that was almost an insoluble dilemma. Everyone, seemingly, had his measure full and running over with trouble, distress and want. The crops had been poor, the drought severe, prices high, and money scarce. The huge Union Army was beginning to grapple with the rebels south of the Ohio, and casualties among the local volunteers (to the glee of the local Copperheads) was increasing daily. The Knights of the Golden Circle were antagonizing these soldiers’ families, urged to greater efforts by their disloyal leader, Vallandigham, from the nearby town of Lisbon.

During these troublesome times, an aged Methodist preacher, named Barcus, came into the village of Huntersville to offer solace to their troubled souls. He succeeded in gaining a few members for a new congregation, although many were rebellious—profane, common drunks, and rough as oak knots.

The old trader thought to himself, since everyone is laying the cause of his troubles on the back of his neighbor, surely the whole world has not turned sour on itself, and pickled its miserable people—even Quiller Daws, and my troubles the greatest. The old horse trader narrated his many afflictions to himself, when he shouted in disgust at his miserable outlook,

Daws made for his now empty horse stable, and crawled into the deep straw with his container of "ambrosia," and soon snoring loudly, obviously free of all worldly distress—large draughts of Adams’ great levelling tonic, oft repeated, and the Goddess of Peace flapped her sable wings over his worried eyes, and he felt free from all the tantalizing vexations besetting Huntersville.

Of his many dreams, one in particular that shocked him to strict attention, was the certain hearing of his name, distinctly spoken in a clear voice, by some unknown and unseen person calling,

The old trader on hearing his name thrice called answered,

Then the voice came down into the straw near Quiller’s ear, and whispered in plain, sharp cut words,—

The voice explained to Daws; how on a certain day that all the discontented would pack their troubles, and bring them to him, as he stood in judgment on the lofty hill at the rear of his house. Each grumbler—and there would be many—would give up his numbered packages of complaints and receive the number of some neighbor’s package of troubles, which was to be his. In this exchange the worries, afflictions and annoyances would be redistributed among the North Fork people more equally, and the murmurings cease.

Early the following morning, Quiller Daws as directed, took his stance on the hilltop. Even then some grouches, who had sit up all night, were awaiting his appearance. Others were flocking in from all directions with their troubles in wagons, carts, wheelbarrows, boxes, packs on their backs, or parcels in their pockets. They came from Chestnut Grove and Calico Hill; from Cornfield Row and Ghost Hollow; Salt Run and Yellow Creek. What a motly [sic] procession of traders, farmers, sawyers, miners, widows, wives, white and black, drunk and sober, deadbeats and common nuisances—all offering their bundle of troubles to be exchanged from some neighbor’s lighter load. All possess the universally distributed human traits of recalling and recounting their miseries, and being happy in the expectation of getting something for nothing. Equally, all held that ancient belief that their many troubles came from outside influences, instead of their own carelessness.

Quiller Daws was beginning to get peeved at the continuous line of muttering trouble bearers, when late in the afternoon old Ananias Mc B—- with some hesitation approached Daws saying,

Quiller called out the name of Richard LUCAS and handed his ticket to old Ananias Mc B—. Lucas walked up to the judgment stand with his dusky wife and reported calmly,

Quiller listened, knowing the old colored man’s troubles were true, when his wife yelled "Amen" and Quiller replied,

Quiller Daws looked utterly disgruntled, then he handed old Ebenezer Grimm’s ticket to Joe BAGLEY and called,

"Tip" spat a great gob of tobacco juice and began shouting and swearing,

Quiller Daws, now disgusted and very tired, yelled in a loud voice to the group still coming up the two hillsides.

Then faithful old Peggy Daws with Quiller’s troubles loaded in a four horse Conestoga wagon strode up to her husband and responded.

The Daws chuckled as they took old Rev. Barcus’ neatly wrapped box, and moved down the hill to the house. Quickly the package was opened, but it only contained a letter which stated in tear stained words this sorrowful notation,

These words Quiller read and reread, then growing pale and panic stricken he rushed out of the house for fear he was about to faint. Looking towards the North Fork, he saw the old preacher and Mrs. Daws dumping the old parsons exchanged troubles into the creek. Quiller sick nigh unto death and trembling frightfully, yelled to the parson who had just thrown the last whiskey barrel into the North Fork,

This was the first time such offer was ever made to a minister by Quiller Daws. An hour later Daws was happily telling how he discovered inside the hardest nut ever cracked in Huntersville, the sweetest kernel he ever tasted, and now, instead of being a stone rejected by the builder, he felt that he was that cornerstone itself.