* Community History "Myrtle Springs" in Bowie County TX ************************************************************************ USGENWEB NOTICE: In keeping with our policy of providing free information on the Internet, material may be freely used by non-commercial entities, as long as this message remains on all copied material, AND permission is obtained from the contributor of the file. These electronic pages may NOT be reproduced in any format for profit  or presentation by other organizations. Persons or organizations  desiring to use this material for non-commercial purposes, MUST obtain  the written consent of the contributor, OR the legal representative of  the submitter, and contact the listed USGenWeb archivist with proof of  this consent. Gloria B. Mayfield, LadyTexian@tcainternet.com  TX Tombstone Project Manager Submitted by Vicki Richards GVRICHARDS@aol.com ************************************************************************ Source: Watlington Manuscript - Texarkana Gen Quarterly "Myrtle Springs" in Bowie County Time was, in the years that are gone, when its location was well known, as all roads and by-paths led to Myrtle Springs. But to the younger readers, brief mention of its exact location will be proper. Two and a half miles north from the little village of Hooks, and within a stones throw of the splendid public highway leading from the latter place to Red River, is this famous old spring, long celebrated and admired for its picturesque and romantic situation and its wonderful flow of pure, crystal-clear water shaded by dense foliage of overhanging myrtle and century-old oaks, and as the long ago stamping ground of the Red man. In the dark, dim past, according to tradition, and with reasonable certainty, beneath the gloomy shade of the primeval forest surrounding this old spring came the Indian with his dusky squaw and papoose, set up his wigwam, dressed his pelts, "jerked" his venison and other wild meat, and fashioned his rude but deadly implements of the hunt or war path, the bow and arrow, scalping knife and tomahawk. Here, too, were often built their council fires around which were held their "powwows", involving tribal or other questions, of as deep and serious import to them, no doubt, as the League Of Nations, or other mighty, world-wide problems engrossing the minds and thoughts of eminent Statesmen today. And here, too, in his hideous war paint and gaudy feathers, foregathered the Red Warrior to revel in the ghastly, blood curdling orgies of the "war dance", which always preceded his wild and cruel forays of pillage and murder. So much for tradition, and this only to convey some impression of the antiquity of this old spring. It is still as buoyant and ceaseless and wonderful as in the centuries dead and gone, but the Indian has long since passed away to his "happy hunting grounds". And with his exit, when, "Westward the star of Empire took its course," came the hardy, pale face emigrants from the barren worn out lands of the old states, attracted by the many inducements and opportunities here offered to those in search of new and better homes, and in the course of human events, and when Texas as a State, was just a young and modest little Miss, (a few of the more adventurous spirits dating their advent back to earlier years when the Lone Star flag waved in the breeze) There grew up around this old spring a small village or "settlement", comprised for the greater part, of Virginians, North and South Carolinians, and Georgians, -- all typical southern gentlemen of the old school with all the term implies, -- the Peters, Lewises, Forts, Barkmans, Mitchell's, Hooks, Battles, and Rochelle's, Knights, Smiths, Balls, and others The writer never knew Lemuel Peters nor Charles Lewis, they both having died some years prior to his arrival in Bowie, but their names are household words, appearing as often, perhaps oftener than others, in the Deed Records of Bowie County. "Uncle John" Barkman was also dead, but his sons -- Dr. Barkman, a popular physician at the time, and Rome Barkman, afterwards Sheriff of the County, and other sons were all well and intimately known to the writer. Byron Brakmand, a son of Dr. James Barkman, long since dead, owns valuable river bottom lands and stock, besides mercantile and other interests at Leary, and a beautiful home in Texarkana where he now resides. In spite of his much name -- Byron Percy Shelley Barkman,-- and contrary to early predictions of his friends on that account, he has "made good", and is today a prominent influential citizen, and also recognized as one of the most successful and prosperous planters on the Red River. Many pleasant and well remembered incidents of familiar and intimate association with these old pioneers could be recorded, but only a few of the more prominent need be mentioned. Warren Hooks, from whom the town of Hooks took its name, was a native of Wayne County, North Carolina, and came, with his family and numerous Negro slaves, to Bowie County in 1848. Like the Rochelle's and Battles and others of these early settlers, he invested extensively in lands, his holdings embracing many hundreds of acres of Red River Vally land, together with fertile, heavily timbered upland adjoining in all approximately 5,000 acres, and extending from the Red River south to the Texas and Pacific Railway at Hooks. At the time of his death in 1876 he was one of the largest cotton planters in the County. The grand and imposing old family residence designed by him, in the style of old Colonial architecture, with its two and a half stories, its numerous tall prick chimneys and with pretty and commodious rooms, its quaint Venetian window blinds, and its double porticoes extending the entire length of the building and supported by lofty columns, the lumber and material of which was shipped by steam boat from New Orleans, is today after the lapse of more than seventy years, in a wonderful state of preservation -- a monument to the wisdom and foresight of warren Hooks. A.J. Hoskins, who was subsequently, and for many years, prominent in the political councils of the County, was the architect of this building. He died at his home in New Boston many years ago at a very advanced age. As may be supposed, good schools, more especially the higher grade of schools for young ladies, were non- existent here in those early days, and Col. Hooks, with the laudable ambition to educate his several daughters at any cost, sent them all back at different times to his old home state, North Carolina, where there were educated at Salem, then the most justly celebrated female Seminary in the South. The old Hooks residence is now owned and occupied by J. O. McCutvheon, son-in-law of Warren Hooks. An unmarried son and two daughters also unmarried, compose his family - his wife having died in 1912. Henry, the son, an estimable young man of fine Christian character, has the charge and management of the estate, and with his sisters, Misses Minerva and Susie, are extremely zealous and active in all church and Sabbath school work. Incidentally, it may be stated, that of all the many sons and daughters of Warren Hooks, and well known to the writer in that long ago, not one is living today. All have passed away from earth. The old dwelling, some few hundred yards east, was the home of H. J. Battle and built by him several years antedating the erection of the Hooks residence, and it, too, is well preserved, but by its many repairs and changes, it can hardly be said to be the original Battle building. With these two exceptions, the old habitations, like their former owners, have all passed away, leaving scarcely a tract to mark the spot where they stood. All is changed. The dense woodland once surrounding Myrtle Springs has vanished, and in its place are fertile, well stocked farms, dotted by pretty modern dwellings, the homes of prosperous, happy and contented people. Time and the woodsman's axe have not even spared the old spring. It's charm and beauty is gone, and amid the desolation stands, seemingly sad and lonely, wrapped in the solitude of its originality. But its ceaseless, ever flowing water is still fresh and pure as when in the ages ago it was sipped by the Red Man, and like Tennyson's river, it "flows on forever". Among the dwellers then at Myrtle Springs, was Caleb Mitchell, "Uncle Caleb", as everyone called him. He was a very old man when the writer first met him more than half a century ago, was of considerable learning, of still remarkable retentive memory and vast and varied experience, an entertaining talker, and like many very old people, delighted in recalling incidents and association of the long past. Much of Uncle Caleb's youth and young manhood was spent in Arkansas, both before and subsequent to its admission as a state in 1835, and he had met many of her officials and distinguished men. Often would he regale his ever interested listeners with incidents of his life in Arkansas, and was always at his best when speaking of those old times, and more particularly of the old friends and acquaintances then dead and gone. Among those old friends, none where held in higher esteem or fonder memory than the redoubtable Colonel Andy Falkner, the veritable and original "Arkansas Traveler", immortalized in song and story. Colonel Falkner was a government land Surveyor when Uncle Caleb knew him, and among his other accomplishments, the Colonel was a good fiddler. The old man would often laughingly recall the many times he had heard "Andy" play the "other part of the tune". A picnic or barbecue, especially the latter, at Myrtle Spring, invariably brought the people from the country round about. They came on foot, on horse or mule back, some in buggies, many in wagons drawn by mules or oxen - rather slow plodding as travel goes today, but everybody in time for the speaking and the feast. And such a feast!! Beeves and porkers and mutton, by the dozen, and fat juicy venison, all "done to a turn". The ladies, old and young, with immense baskets and boxes of bread, pies, cakes and custards and other edibles, were always in attendance, to assist at the long tables, while their better (or worse) halves listened to the inevitable candidate. Yes, he was on hand, to meet the dear people, to shake the "horny hands" of the voters and kiss the babies. By the way, the hands of all the voters then were horny. That great apostle of "women's rights", Susan B. Anthony, was yet unknown, and the minds and brains of the women, God bless them, had not yet become confused and muddled with politics, woman suffrage and social reform.