Bits of news from the Leadbelt

A niece and nephew, Ann and Charles Wichman, who live in Doe Run, Mo., send me copies of the newspaper, The Farmington Press. Doe Run was my last home before I departed for college, teaching, marriage and Cape Girardeau. Doe Run was once a thriving little town, headquarters for St. Joe Lead Co. There was a shaft leading down to some mining activities. Two large chat piles were part of the town's topography. They were not as tall and majestic as the chat dumps in Elvins, Flat River and Desloge, which are rapidly disappearing, as the chat is being used for numerous purposes. There was a notable museum housing the first crystal chandelier I ever saw. I was awestruck by its beauty, seemingly hundreds of dangling prism pendants. I never saw it lit. Electricity came late to Doe Run.

Suspended from upper balcony rails were carpets, Brussels and, for all I knew, Persians. St. Joe was rich and this was their museum. There was a row of fine big houses across the road from the museum. In retrospect, I imagine they were company houses for St. Joe's officials. In our time, these were known as the Waltman, Manwaring, Powell houses -- named for the tenants.

When St. Joe moved its headquarters to Bonne Terre, the museum began to lose its stature and over the years came to house a flea market. However, I found some things there that were just as precious to me as a Persian rug. For instance, I found some of the old "bluebird dishes" like the ones we ate from on the farm.

So, with these memories in mind, I like to keep up with what is going on in Farmington and Doe Run. In a recent edition of the Farmington Press, I read in the 50-years-ago column this little tidbit:

"According to the Conservation Commission, the price for fur pelts were: opposums, 25 cents; striped skunk, 96 cents; muskrats $1; raccoon, $1; mink, $15; weasel, 65 cents; gray fox, 25 cents; red fox, 35 cents.

Notice how that mink pelt stands out! This stirred another memory of mine -- the time Mama caught a mink. For several mornings, Mama reported that something had killed another of her precius White Leghorn hens in the night. White Leghorns were the best layers and selling eggs was one of our cash incomes. When her outrage reached a critical mass, she vowed she would catch the thief, even if she had to sleep in the hen house.

My sister, Lou, and I jumped on the prospect. We loved to sleep anywhere except in our own beds -- in the hayloft, the smokehouse, the surrey or just on a quilt spread on the ground where we could see the moon and stars.

We begged to sleep on the strawed floor of the hen house where there might be some excitement going on.

Mama quickly nixed this idea. "It may be the black panther," she told us. Enough said. There were three things that made our toes curl with fear -- the black panther, Britt's bull and Sam Hildebrand. Sam had long been dead but we didn't know that and hear only of his meanness. In due time, we learned there was no black panther. Britt's bull seemed to go on forever, but we knew he could never get in the hen house.

Back in a far corner we heard Mama exclaim, "Here it is!" She was referring to a hole in the wall and had found the entry. Methodically she set a steel trap. Next morning there was a mink.

Dad quickly put the glossy brown animal out of its misery. He took it to where they paid for such and came home with SIX DOLLARS!

Income taxes would have required that we report $6 as income, a loss of three White Leghorns and the eggs they would have laid over time at $8.50 cents.

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.