Prehistoric Saltwater Shark Nursery Fossils Found in Illinois.

Not far from Chicago, in a region now dominated by cornfields and whitetail deer, scientists say they've found fossil evidence of a “shark nursery” where prehistoric predators hatched.

The finding, which challenges long-held notions about ancient marine life, highlights a collection of prized local fossils preserved for more than 310 million years by a rare geologic process and then brought to the surface in recent decades by coal mining.

Like salmon in reverse, long-snouted "Bandringa Rayi" sharks (henceforth; Bandringa) migrated downstream from freshwater swamps to a tropical coastline to spawn 310 million years ago, leaving behind fossil evidence of one of the earliest known shark nurseries.

Photo of a fossil impression left by a juvenile Bandringa Rayi shark. These long-extinct sharks are known for their extremely long spoonbill snouts, which resemble those of modern-day paddlefish. This individual measures about 4 inches from snout to tail and was found in marine sediments at the Mazon Creek deposit in Illinois.

Fossils of Bandringa was discovered in 1969 in Will County as strip mining altered the landscape south of Chicago. Coal companies would discard piles of dirt rich with fossils, said Paul Mayer of the Field Museum, and allow people to pick through the churned earth.

Michael Coates, a University of Chicago evolutionary biologist, said the Bandringa sharks likely spent most of their adult lives in the rivers that run through present-day Ohio and Pennsylvania, citing fossils found in those states in recent decades. But Coates and a colleague suggest that the long-snouted critters laid their eggs and spent the early part of their lives in shallow coastal waters, such as the sea that once covered Illinois' Mazon Creek area and much of the Midwest.

Fossils of Bandringa Rayi were discovered in Will County, Illinois in 1969.

Amateur archaeologists and experts alike combed through the piles, and many of the fossils they brought home ended up at the Field Museum, which has the two Illinois samples studied by Coates, a public display about Mazon Creek, and thousands of the region's specimens in storage.

Mazon Creek's fossils began forming hundreds of millions of years ago when flowering plants and grass were nonexistent and when dinosaurs — not to mention humans — had yet to roam the Earth, Mayer said.

“When these sharks died, they fell into the mud of an estuary or even freshwater ponds in a little delta-like area,” said Mayer, who oversees about 40,000 Mazon Creek specimens as the Field's fossil invertebrate collections manager. “They were buried in the mud, and, for whatever reason, iron came in and cemented the rock around them.”

The process preserved many organisms that would have simply decomposed elsewhere, allowing today's scientists to study ancient jellyfish, worms, and the soft-bodied Tully Monster. It also led to a fuller picture of sharks.

The Tully Monster is found only in Illinois and is the state's official fossil.

“The preservation of Mazon Creek allowed us to reconstruct this animal in detail using the fossil record,” said Lauren Sallan, a University of Michigan evolutionary biologist, who started the research as a graduate student rotating through Coates' Chicago lab.

Coates and Sallan's analyzed two Bandringa samples from Mazon Creek originally identified by scientists as separate species. The juvenile sharks, just 4 to 6 inches long, had pronounced spoon-billed snouts that stretched half as long as their bodies and, Coates said, “looks a little bit like the things you see today in sturgeon, paddlefish.” Their findings suggest that the two sets of fossils are in fact members of the same bottom-feeding species, and a juvenile version of the adult sharks found fossilized in Ohio and Pennsylvania. 

After reevaluating 24 fossils, including latex “peels” of Bandringa’s scale-covered skin, it was concluded that Bandringa was a single species that lived, at various times during its life, in fresh, brackish water, and salt water.

Young Bandringas — but not adults — have turned up in Illinois and adult ones — but not their offspring — were found farther east suggests that the sharks thrived in freshwater but used saltwater havens (like the one south of present-day Chicago) as a “shark nursery” to lay eggs and allow young animals to live safely.

Although no sharks living today are known to travel from freshwater to saltwater to lay eggs, most sharks do use shark nurseries.

An artist’s rendering of a 310 million-year-old Bandringa Rayi shark, originally found in fossil deposits from Mazon Creek in Illinois.

The physical differences between the two purported species were due to different preservation processes at marine and freshwater locations, Coates and Sallan concluded. The freshwater sites tended to preserve bones and cartilage, while the marine sites preserved soft tissue.

By combining the complementary data sets from both types of fossil sites and reclassifying Bandringa as a single species, Coates and Sallan gained a far more complete picture of the extinct shark’s anatomy and discovered several previously unreported features. They include downward-directed jaws ideal for suction-feeding off the bottom (getting their nutrients from algae and other plant material), needle-like spines on the head and cheeks, and a complex array of sensory organs (electroreceptors and mechanoreceptors) on both the extended snout and body, suited for detecting prey in murky water.

It’s also the earliest evidence for segregation, meaning that juveniles and adults were living in different locations, which implies migration into and out of these nursery waters. Adult Bandringa sharks lived exclusively in freshwater swamps and rivers, according to Coates and Sallan. Females apparently traveled downstream to a tropical coastline to lay their eggs in shallow marine waters, a reverse version of the modern-day salmon’s sea-to-stream migration. At the time, the coastline of the super-continent Pangaea ran diagonally between the Mazon Creek freshwater and marine sites.

All the Bandringa fossils from the Mazon Creek marine sites are juveniles, and they were found alongside egg cases -- protective capsules that enclose eggs of the next generation -- belonging to an early species of shark. Adult Bandringa fossils have been found only at freshwater locations, including several in Ohio and Pennsylvania.

An artist’s rendering of a 310 million-year-old, bottom-feeder, Bandringa Rayi shark.

Coates and Sallan said that the juvenile Bandringa sharks hatched from the Mazon Creek egg cases and that the deposit’s marine sites represent a shark nursery where females spawned and then departed, returning upstream to freshwater rivers and swamps.

“This is the first fossil evidence for a shark nursery that’s based on both egg cases and the babies themselves,” Sallan said. “It’s also the earliest evidence for segregation, meaning that juveniles and adults were living in different locations, which implies migration into and out of these nursery waters.”

The findings, both scientists say, were possible only because of the fossils found south of Chicago, which are renowned in scientific circles even if they're unknown to many locals. Coates said he learned about the fossils as a graduate student in the United Kingdom and was eager to study them when he arrived here. “The Mazon Creek fossils are world-famous,” he said, “and it's on Chicago's doorstep.”

Compiled by Neil Gale, Ph.D. 

Charles Dadant, Bee-Culturist and the Story of the American Bee Journal (est.1861) in Hamilton, Illinois.

Charles Dadant, was born in 1817 in Vaux-Sous-Aubigny, a small village in eastern France, the second of seven children born to a small village doctor. He became interested in bees as he helped a neighboring priest remove honey from straw skeps at the early age of 12. Disillusioned with the business possibilities in France, he decided to accept an invitation of an old friend Mr. Marlot, then of Basco, Illinois, to come to grow Champagne grapes and raise bees. In 1863, at the age of 46, he emigrated from France to America and settled in Hamilton, Illinois.

Charles Dadant

The growing of grapes here did not prove to be lucrative so he abandoned them in favor of honey bees. By the end of the Civil War, Charles had nine colonies of honeybees and traveled with his young son, Camille Pierre Dadant across the Mississippi River to sell honey and beeswax in a neighboring town. His interest in making quality candles grew from his love and knowledge of beekeeping.

Charles was once the largest producer of extracted honey in America as well as one of the first to import queen bees from Italy on a large scale as he was unhappy with the common black or German bees he found here. He began a series of experiments on the size of hives and wrote a great deal on the large hive that appeared in both American and European journals.

In 1872 he was offered the editorship of the American Bee Journal, but refused because of his unfamiliarity with the English language. He learned to read the New York Tribune by digging at the words one at a time with a pocket dictionary so that he could then translate it back into French for his wife. Charles was a dreamer, a man with ideas and determination. He was the experimenter who became more widely known abroad than in his adopted country.

When his father wrote home to France that he had settled on a 40-acre farm north of Hamilton that he had purchased from Mr. Marlot, the rest of the family packed their trunks and started for the unknown land that Camille had only dreamed of. Camille was only 12 years old when his father brought the family to America. When he first saw the Mississippi he couldn’t believe how magnificent it was in its beauty, almost equal to a lake. He described living in the small log house that his father had built as the happiest time in his life.

Learning to read at the age of 4, Camille was more practical than Charles and was given the responsibility of carrying the purse strings at a very young age – he was the businessman of the two. He built the business around his father’s knowledge and became a beekeeping leader. Every improvement and change for the better was made due to their own efforts and appreciated because of this. He would joke of a European businessman and a little boy digging out oak trees and using a brush scythe to mow down all the hazel brush. The concept of a plow (pulling on the handles to go down and pressing down to bring it out of the dirt) went against all of his notions of mechanics. It was necessary for him to devote himself to the family farm and the sale of his father’s honey and farm products.

In 1871 when his father suffered from an asthma attack, it became necessary for him to take over the families 70 hives as well. Because there was no bridge across the Mississippi at this time, it was necessary for him to get up by 4:30 in order for him to get himself and goods to the ferry by 6:15. He considered himself lucky for many years that he was small because Captain Van Dyke never charged him for the ferry. He knew he was a grownup for the first time when the Captain held out his hand for a dime. He learned at a young age not to spend his money on candy or other desirable frivolities as it would be like throwing his money in the Mississippi for him and his family. He always got a good price for his wares when he sold them as he was a firm believer that “it pays to furnish good goods”.

In 1875 Camille married Marie Marinelli and took her to the same log cabin his father had taken his family to. In 1878, they began manufacturing foundation for their own use and later, for sale. As the business grew, they improved upon manufacturing methods and helped to finance the invention of the Weed sheeting machine, still in use today. In 1885, the revision of Langstroth’s, “The Hive and the Honey Bee” (PDF) was entrusted to them and four revisions appeared under their names from 1889 to 1899. Charles translated it into French and later it was translated into Italian, Russian, Spanish and Polish. Charles died in 1902 and Camille proceeded to produce four revisions of the book himself. In 1904, Camille retired and built a home in Hamilton on what is now North 7th street overlooking the Mississippi.

In his retirement, he became a community leader helping to establish banks, the library, and was one of five to bring about the building of the dam between Hamilton and Keokuk. On his retirement, as he watched his three sons take over the business he stated; “So we have reared a family of beekeepers. Now they can speak for themselves and we can take a back seat and watch them work.” 

In 1912 however, his love of the honey bee beckoned to him once again. He assumed publishing of the American Bee Journal which has been published in Hamilton ever since. His goal was that the journal becomes the “finest publication on bees and beekeeping in the world.” Camille Dadant passed away in 1938.

Dadant and Sons is still in business with the sixth generation in control.

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The Story of the American Bee Journal, since 1912.

The story of the American Bee Journal, its origin, and Samuel Wagner, the first editor, must be closely associated with the Rev. L.L. Langstroth. In 1851, Langstroth had invented his movable-frame hive. In September 1851, a few weeks after a call on Langstroth, the Rev. Dr. Joseph Frederick Berg, pastor of a church in Philadelphia, visited Wagner and told him about this extraordinary beekeeper and his movable-frame hive and his beekeeping methods. They agreed that Wagner should go and see for himself, but it was not until August 1852, almost a year later, that he was able to do so.

  

After visiting Langstroth's apiary and seeing his hive, Wagner made a decision at a sacrifice to himself. He had corresponded with Dzierzon, discoverer of parthenogenesis, proponent of a practical system of beekeeping and author of a book entitled Rational Beekeeping. He had received permission to translate the book into English to be published for the improvement of American beekeeping. Wagner had made the translation, but it was never published. Recognizing the Langstroth movable frame hive as superior, he decided to encourage Langstroth to write a book instead; for his part, he would place all his store of information at Langstroth's service.

Langstroth quickly prepared the copy for the first edition of his book with the assistance of his wife, and Langstroth on the Hive and the Honey-Bee, A Bee-Keeper's Manual appeared in May of 1853.

Inasmuch as there were already two bee journals published in Germany, Langstroth made this prediction: "There is now a prospect that a Bee Journal will before long be established in this country. Such a publication has long been needed. Properly conducted, it will have a most powerful influence in disseminating information, awakening enthusiasm, and guarding the public against the miserable impositions to which it has so long been subjected."

Wagner established the American Bee Journal and its first issue appeared in January 1861, and from the start, he had Langstroth as a contributor as well as an advisor. But after one year of publication, the Civil War resulted in the suspension of its publication until July 1866, when it was resumed.

To quote from Pellett's History of American Beekeeping, "The history of the American Bee Journal has been the history of the rise of beekeeping, and the one is inseparably linked to that of the other. Before this first copy of the first bee magazine in the English language appeared, there were few of the implements now in common use among beekeepers. Conventions of beemen had not been held, a practical smoker had not yet been invented, queen excluders were unknown, comb foundation was still to be perfected, the extractor had not come into use, nor had commercial queen rearing been suggested.

The early volumes of the Journal contain the names of many men of worldwide reputation in the beekeeping world. From the start, Langstroth was a contributor, but to mention a few of the others we would include Henry Alley, Adam Grimm, Moses Quinby, Elisha Gallup, Charles Dadant, Baron von Berlepsch, and Dzierzon. Charles Dadant made his first contributions in November 1867, introducing himself as a newcomer from France. From then until his death in 1902, his name frequently appears as a writer in its pages.

For a long time, much space was devoted to the discussion of patent hives, and hundreds of different kinds received attention. In one year, 1869, more than 60 patents were recorded on hives and appliances, which gives one an understanding of the public interest in beekeeping at that time. Charles Dadant's defense of the Langstroth patented beehive, which appeared in the Journal, had an important place in the final judgment which awarded credit to the frail minister who profited little from his effort.

In the 1870s, a number of other bee publications were started, some of which continued publication for a time. Most made their beginnings after that of Wagner in 1872. The American Bee Journal was continued by Wagner's son with the assistance of Langstroth, who may have done most of the editorial work until January of 1873 when the Rev. W. F. Clarke became editor and owner. When Samuel Wagner resumed publication of the Journal after the Civil War, it was published in Washington, D.C., but when Clarke assumed its management, he moved the Journal to Chicago, Illinois.

Clarke's connection with the Journal was short - in July of 1874, Thomas G. Newman purchased the American Bee Journal. Thomas G. Newman continued as editor and publisher until April 1892, when George W. York joined the staff and the masthead of that issue lists Newman as editor and York as assistant editor. The announcement of the sale of the Journal to George W. York appears in the June 1897 issue and the masthead reads: "Published weekly by George W. York & Co."

York continued editing and publishing the American Bee Journal as a weekly. In the May 1912 issue, is published a letter, dated April 1, 1912, and signed by George W. York, that announced he had sold the American Bee Journal and his business to Camille Pierre Dadant, Hamilton, Illinois. The masthead reads: "CamilleDadant, Editor; Dr. C.C. Miller, Associate Editor." Thus the American Bee Journal was moved to Hamilton where it has been published ever since. In 1916 Camille Pierre Dadant hired Frank C. Pellett as a staff correspondent. Pellett later was to be designated field editor, associate editor, and editor.

M.G. Dadant, returning from college at the University of Illinois, joined the staff of the Journal in October 1918, and his name appears in that issue as business manager. A title he was to hold until the death of his father, Camille Pierre Dadant. About the same time, G.H. Cale, Sr., was employed to take care of the Dadant apiaries, and his name first appears in the October 1928 issue of the Journal as an associate editor, and later he became designated editor on the death of Camille Pierre Dadant in 1938.

During the 1940s through the 1960s, Journal editors and associate editors included M.G. Dadant, Frank C. Pellett, J.C. Dadant, Roy A. Grout and Adelaide Fraser. In 1965, Vern Sisson came on board, first as an assistant editor and later as editor during the early 1970s. Others assisting with the Journal during the early 1970s included Dale Maki and Jim Sheetz. Bill Carlile, a long-time columnist, and Dadant beekeeper, also assisted in editorship duties during the 1970s. In 1974, Joe Graham was hired as editor and he has continued in this position until the present day.

Camille Pierre Dadant had earlier written, "I want the American Bee Journal to be the finest publication about bees and beekeeping in the world." We, the editors who are continuing its publication, have this as our goal and guiding light.

Compiled by Neil Gale, Ph.D. 

Looking North at the Clay Pit from the top of the natural gas tank at Albion and Albany Avenues, Chicago. Circa 1945

The Clay Pit looking North from the top of the natural gas tank from about Albion and Albany Avenues, West Ridge community, West Rogers Park, neighborhood, Chicago (1945). 
CLICK TO ENLARGE IMAGE

The “Clay Pit” was a multi-acre wildlife area that served in the 1930s as a source of material for making bricks. It seemed gigantic, stretching eight blocks north to south and several wide, defined by the streets Whipple (east), Pratt (south), Kedzie (west), and Touhy (north). The Entrance to People's Gas, Light, and Coke facility was on Whipple Street. 

The Clay Pit at Touhy and Kedzie, looking southeast. Circa 1950

Its wilderness-like atmosphere included swamps and ponds with reeds, brush, trees, birds, squirrels, skunks, snakes, frogs, and fish. 

By Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D. 

The Very First Frenchman in Southern Illinois turns out to be a Poacher.

The very first Frenchman so far as known, who passed over the old trails of southern Illinois, was a poacher. That Frenchman passed this way in 1673. He was at or near the mouth of [Little] Mary's River (near Chester, Illinois) when La Salle came down the Mississippi on his very first voyage; that explorer stopped long enough to interview René-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de La Salle (Sieur de La Salle is a title only: translating to "Lord of the Manor.") and got certain valuable information from him.

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In 1670 La Salle set out on another expedition. He led a group of men west across Lake Erie and then overland, ending up at the southern tip of Lake Michigan. Although reports from the expedition do not indicate, it would have been obvious that the Great Lakes represented a vast freshwater sea. From Lake Michigan, the party moved south across Illinois and encountered the Mississippi River. From the first expedition, La Salle would have known that the position on the Mississippi was far north of the Ohio. He likely deduced that both rivers flowed South to the river reported by De Soto. La Salle later followed up the discovery and sailed down the river all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. His trip made him the first European to travel the length of the Mississippi.

The name of this lone Frenchman is not mentioned, but as he was a scout, he may, for convenience, be called "Le Espion" (French for 'the spy'). The information he gave La Salle reveals much of Le Espion's life. He told La Salle about the river from that point (Little Mary's River) to the Chickasaw Bluffs and the various tribes of Indians along it; he also told of a great tributary entering this river from the east and of some of its tribes. Le Espion must have been in that territory for several months to possess that knowledge, probably running into years. He was probably not alone in so vast a territory—there were other lone scouts. He was there not for pleasure, nor for sightseeing, but for business.

The business of Le Espion reveals itself. At that time, many French-Canadians—Itinerant (a traveler, wanderer) merchants, voyageurs, adventurers, etc.—traversing the unexplored west in search of favorable locations for the fur trade. One such voyageur rescued Hennepin at the Falls of St. Anthony. Of course, these adventurers were looking for areas for the illegitimate fur trade because they did not expect to pay the king a royalty for the privilege of trading under such difficulties. But since the fur companies and such men as La Salle did pay licenses, and since they had police powers and might arrest and punish poachers, and since it was the duty of the Fathers to apprehend all such poachers, these Itinerants followed the inland portages, divides, watersheds, or old Indian trails. They avoided the missions and the navigable streams; the Ohio River, from the mouth of the Wabash River to the mouth of the Tennessee River, was taboo because it was frequented by English-speaking traders whom the Itinerants feared to encounter.

The Itinerant Merchant was a Canadian with some means of his own or a line of credit with a Quebec or Montreal fur buyer. He had allied with him from five to twenty-five Canadian youths, on a sort of profit-sharing basis, who were designated voyageurs (commercial travelers). Each voyageur, in turn, had with him a servant and a 'coureur de bois' who acted as interpreter. A fully equipped Itinerant might have in his party as many as seventy-five men and boys—a considerable party, with considerable expense. Accordingly, it behooved the Itinerant to select a suitable location for trade. The best site for the purpose was to be found amid Indians, who were in the midst of fur-bearing woods. Le Espion, doubtless, was looking for just such a place; we shall see.

In 1684, Franquelin, a French geographer, made a map of Louisiana, which included the Mississippi and its tributaries to their headwaters. On that map, he shows, at the head of the Grand Chain of Rocks, a post named Tacaogane; at the Frankfort Hill, one named Nataogami; at the mouth of the Wabash River, on the left bank, one named Taarsile; one at about the location of East St. Louis, named Maroa; and at Cahokia, one named Kaockia. These are the only posts shown within several hundred miles of this old Reservation on that map, and it is presumed that they were the only ones then existed. These posts were necessarily built before 1684, and posts Tacaogane and Nataogami, the only ones within the Reservation, fairly shout as to the business of Le Espion in 1673. Of these two posts, Nataogami had by far the better location; it was at a great crossroads—the intersection of the "grand trace," or Ohio-Mississippi watershed, and the "salt trail" from river to river. If the Itinerant located there had his full complement of seventy-five men, he needed many shelters, requiring several huts.

The “trafiquer (French: a trafficker) post” was a log hut fourteen by twenty feet, with a log partition. A door in the south end of the hut gave ingress to and egress from the storeroom for merchandise, and there was a hole in the partition for convenience in storing furs and peltries in the rear room.

An example of a small American log trading post.

Today (1932), a voyageur would be called a pack peddler. The voyageur with his pack, his servant with a similar pack, and his coureur de bois with a gun and some camping equipment sallied forth in quest of an Indian camp and of trade. Le Espion, in all probability, was one such voyageur looking for a favorable trading place. Having found a desirable location, he built a small, one-roomed hut, thus establishing a sort of sub-post called a depot. He hired an Indian woman to chop wood, build fires, cook, wash and mend. He was then ready to trade brandy or other wares to the Indians for beavers. These cost him from forty cents to one dollar apiece; when they reached Montreal, they were worth four times that much, and at Paris or Bordeaux, ten times as much. Although the coureur de bois was his interpreter, the voyageur soon learned the twenty words necessary for him to be able to trade with the Indians; after that, the interpreter and the servant were kept busy carrying beavers to the post and other merchandise back to the depot.

This sub-post, or depot, was usually given a French name to benefit such persons as might desire to go there in the future. The stream, or prairie, upon which the depot was located, was also given a descriptive phrase name for better identification. In this manner, our many French names came to be here.

Some of the streams that have French names are Au Kas (Okaw), Beaucoup, Au Vase, Cache, Saline (Le eau de salle—salt spring), Grand Pierre, Gros Baie (Big Bay), Bobinet, Au Detour, and Le Clair; there were doubtless others whose names are lost to us. Some of the prairies in and near this Reservation are: Le Prairie du Bochier; Le Prairies du Long, du Chien, du Grand Cote, du Paradis, and du Etang (pond—East Six Mile); Le Prairie du ville de mont (Town Mount); du Coline (hill—probably Knob Prairie); du Mauvais (poor); and dn Fredonner (pronounced Fredonia, and meaning to hum, to buzz—probably Eight Mile).

Our most prominent landmarks were Cavite-en-rocher (Cave-in-Rock); Le Grand Chaine a la Rocher (the Grand Chain of Rocks); Cavite Deltoid (the delta-like formation at the mouth of the Ohio River); Le Cap de St. Croix (Grand Tower) and others not now familiar.

There were numerous little depots with big French names. The best-remembered of these were: Macedonian (Macedonia); Francefort (Frankfort - modern-day West Frankfort); Egalite (Equality); Eau Mineral (Creal Springs); Vienne (vi en, both vowels short; location of this depot uncertain); Moscou (Moscow, probably becoming a post later); Perou (Peru, location well known); Golconda (near Reevesville); A pas le Mocassin (Mocassin Gap) A pas le Geant (Giant's Pass, identity not sure); and many others that a former generation of men could name.

This large number of French names did not become attached to all these places by chance but were given by the French traders, trappers, and hunters who roamed about this Reservation before Americans came; enough of these Frenchmen remained until the coming of our forefathers to acquaint them with these names. Our forefathers adopted the French names they found here for the same reasons that the English-speaking peoples who settled around Kaskaskia adopted the French names of rivers, prairies, and places. A smaller and more scattered French population here probably accounts for the death of many others with French names.

The fact that our French left no history is not at all strange. They were baconers (poachers) violating two strict laws of Canada—they were trading with the Indians without a license and selling them brandy, which had been prohibited. (One such violator had been hanged in Quebec.) They were violating an economic law by wasting their time in the woods with Indians, learning all their vices and teaching them others instead of staying at home and producing foodstuffs for the next winter; this was a tremendous economic loss to Canada. And they were violating the moral law by their relations with Indian women; this was quite a scandal in the minds of the Jesuit Fathers. They wrote many scathing letters about that scandal to the governor and the intendant.

There were not more than nine thousand people in Canada at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and the territory was so immense that properly policing it was not practicable. A stricter edict was therefore declared, but to this edict, D'L'Hut and eight hundred young Canadians answered by withdrawing into the woods to become Indians. As a salve for these, who were much needed in the wars bound to come with the English, the king issued permits that allowed an Itinerant to have as many as twenty-five voyageurs with two men each as helpers. If the two "posts" known to have been in this Reservation each had its Itinerant with his full complement of helpers, then there were as many as one hundred and fifty Frenchmen here. In all, twenty-five such permits were issued. But their issuance only aggravated the brandy-selling and the dissipation and caused the priests to write stronger letters than ever. In this way, the permits were withdrawn and re-issued several times. And this was Canada's somewhat muddled condition of affairs at the beginning of the eighteenth century.

Compiled by Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D. 

The Monk and the Earthquake at Cahokia Mound in the Illinois Territory, 1811-1812.

TRAPPISTS IN THE WILDERNESS

The story of Father Urban Guillet in the Illinois Territory started when his group of Trappists[1] left Kentucky to move further west in 1809. Having been unsuccessful in establishing a self-sufficient community near Bardstown, Kentucky, they received an offer of land and buildings in Florissant, Missouri by John Mullanphy. Mullanphy was an Irish immigrant and a successful St. Louis entrepreneur and philanthropist. In the meantime, the superior of the Trappists received another offer of land, this time from prominent Cahokia citizen Nicholas Jarrot. Jarrot offered 400 acres of land, situated nine miles north of Cahokia, completely free of charge. The Trappists took Jarrot's offer and began to establish their settlement at the foot of the long-abandoned pre-Columbian temple mound of the Mississippian culture. It was this settlement that led to the site's current nickname, Monks Mound.

An artist’s depiction of the Monks Mound is found within the interpretive center at Cahokia Mounds State Park, (Collinsville, Illinois, today).

Although Guillet and his colleagues established farms, built buildings, and opened a school for boys, the monastery of Notre Dame de Bon Secours (as they called it) never flourished. Bad weather, recurrent waves of disease, and crop failures made the Trappist ideal of a self-sufficient community difficult to pursue. Unclear title to the land, furthermore, led to problems with squatters. It seemed clear that the effort to establish a community of self-sustaining religious brothers at the foot of Monks Mound would not succeed."

It was amidst this backdrop of struggle, on December 16, 1811, that the earth shook and perhaps, for Guillet and his confreres, served as another signal of the fate of their errand into the wilderness.

LETTERS TO QUEBEC ABOUT THE EARTHQUAKE

Fr. Guillet corresponded regularly with Jean-Octave Plessis, the Bishop of Quebec. While not his superior in the Trappist order, Plessis was an important figure in French-speaking North America, and Guillet sought his counsel and assistance.

Two of these letters, written on February 18, 1812, and March 14, 1812, discuss the terrifying events surrounding the earthquake that would come to be known as the New Madrid Earthquake of 1811-1812.

In his letter of February 18, 1812, Guillet tells Plessis that “an almost continual earthquake which lasted from the night of 15-16 December until now, helped much to bring people back to their religion. Earthquakes, long harbingers of evil in the Christian tradition, might have been seen as a sign from the beyond. Guillet also describes the destruction wrought by the quake, which damaged houses and "opened the earth in many places.”

The earthquake that Guillet was describing did indeed begin on the morning of December 16, 1811. A series of three earthquakes, measuring between 7 and 7.5 on the Richter scale, shook the entire eastern portion of the United States. Centered in northeastern Arkansas and southeastern Missouri, these earthquakes caused damage and fear over half a continent. Another significant earthquake occurred on February 7, 1812, destroying the town of New Madrid, Missouri and toppling buildings in St. Louis.

In his March 14, 1812, letter to Plessis, Guillet again describes the destruction in the wake of the earthquakes. He writes that the damage locally was minor, but that he was nearly crushed by a falling chimney." He mentions the destruction of New Madrid and relates a story about the supposed source of the earthquakes: a volcanic eruption in North Carolina. This story, while likely credible, passed through many hands before it got to Guillet in the Illinois Country and may have been exaggerated.

THE AFTERMATH
The struggles to eke out a living from the unforgiving environment of the American Bottom, coupled with the shock of the 1811-1812 earthquakes, may have finally convinced Fr. Guillet that the mission at Notre Dame de Bon Secours was doomed to failure. In 1813, the Trappists gave up their effort, abandoned the monastery, and returned to Europe."

While it would be speculation to suggest that the earthquake drove Fr. Guillet and the other Trappist Monks away, it would be fair to conclude that the earthquake was another major factor in the decision to abandon the mission.

Fr. Guillet's account of the earthquake is one of many that exist, and this account cannot be considered without attention being paid to the context. If the many accounts of the earthquake are compared, a picture of the earthquake emerges. If, however, one account of the earthquake is set in its historical context, a deeper rendering of the meaning of the event to the lives of those who lived it arises. In considering historical sources, one must always consider the context along with the source itself if an understanding of the past is to be had.

The memory of the earthquakes of 1811-1812 doubtless lived on in the unrecorded memories of those who lived through it. The recorded accounts, like that of Fr. Guillet, are a small sample of the widespread experience of the event. The past, in its totality, may be unknowable. We can come to understand it, though, through what remains from it.

Compiled by Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D.

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[1] Trappists - The order takes its name from La Trappe Abbey or La Grande Trappe, located in the French province of Normandy. A reform movement began there in 1664, in reaction to the relaxation of practices in many Cistercian monasteries. Armand Jean le Bouthillier de Rancé, originally the commendatory abbot of La Trappe, led the reform. As commendatory abbot, de Rancé was a layman who obtained income from the monastery but had no religious obligations. After a conversion of life between 1660 and 1662, de Rancé formally joined the abbey and became its regular abbot in 1663. In 1892 the reformed "Trappists" broke away from the Cistercian order and formed an independent monastic order with the approval of the Pope.

The White Squirrels of Olney Illinois.

Why are there so many white squirrels in Onley, Illinois? There are two theories that offer some historical perspective.

The William Yates Stroup Theory

While William Yates Stroup was hunting squirrels in the woods near his home in the southeast Olney Township he saw a gray squirrel run into a nest and shot the den killing the mother and knocking out two pure white baby squirrels. He put them into the pockets of his game bag and took them home with him, turning them over to his sons, George and Era Strop who raised them by hand feeding them milk by a spoon. The little squirrels lived, thrived and grew well. That fall farmer Stroup brought the squirrels to Olney and presented them to the Jasper Banks Saloon (JAP's Place) and displayed them in his window. They attracted attention and were a fine drawing card for JAP's Place. 

The albinos were finally released when the Illinois legislature passed a law prohibiting the confinement of wildlife, which included squirrels. The squirrels were taken to Oakwood, the home of Thomas Tippit commonly called Tippit's Woods and released. The Tippit residence was located at 802 N. Silver Street, but has since been torn down.

The George W. Ridgely Theory

George W. Ridgely moved to a farm about six miles southeast of Sumner, In 1899 George discovered a cream-colored squirrel and a white squirrel playing on his farm near Sumner. He tried to capture them but was unsuccessful. Finally he asked his neighbor John Robinson to help him, but they were unsuccessful. Finally the men constructed a box-like trap and a cage eight feet by six feet. They captured them and were able to raise several litters before bringing a pair to Olney in 1902. Mr. Ridgely sold the pair to Jasper "Jap" C. Banks for $5 each. Mr. Banks made a green box for his albinos and displayed them in his saloon window, hoping they would attract customers and cause them to go inside and get a better look and have a drink.

When the Illinois state legislature passed a law prohibiting the containment of wild animals, Mr. Ridgely released all his squirrels from his cage near Sumner. They wandered in his woods and neighboring lands, and the squirrels were no longer to be found.

Jap Banks also disposed of his squirrels, giving the pair to the sons of Thomas Tippit Sr., a former mayor of Olney. Thomas Tippit had a woods near his home then located at 802 Silver Street His sons placed the open green box in one of the nearby trees, liberating the squirrels.

Thomas Tippit Jr. and his brother watched the male white squirrel leave the cage. Just then a large female fox squirrel attacked the male albino, "tearing him to shreds" and dropping him to the ground. Tom threw something at the fox squirrel and drove her into her den. They he ran to the house and got a shotgun. His father had allowed him to shoot it for the first time the day before. Fourteen-year-old Tom drew aim and shot the fox squirrel as it approached the white female. The albino produced a litter of all white squirrels establishing the Olney albino colony.

About 1941, there were 800 white squirrels. In the mid-1970's, John Stencel, instructor at Olney Central College, received a small grant from the Illinois Academy of Science to study the white squirrels. 

A squirrel count is held each fall. Both white and gray squirrels are counted in addition to cats. The number of squirrels has dropped causing concern. When the white squirrels dip below 100, Stencel said, they are concerned about genetic drifts, a biological force that speeds up the extinction of a small population. 

In 1997, the Olney City Council amended its ordinance which disallowed dogs from running at large to include cats. The 1997 squirrel count realized a decrease in cats. Dr. Stencel is hopeful this will have a positive affect on the white squirrel population. 

In an effort to help the white squirrel population, City Clerk Belinda Henton has obtained a permit to rehabilitate wildlife from the Illinois Department of Natural Resources, Division of Wildlife Resources. Residents are asked to contact Mrs. Henton when they discover white squirrels that have been abandoned or hurt.

White Squirrels and the Law

White squirrels have the right-of-way on all public streets, sidewalks, and thoroughfares in Olney, and there is a $750 fine for accidentally running one over.

The police department badges and squad cars have a picture of a white squirrel on it. 

The white squirrel has proved to be an enduring symbol of Olnean pride, and stands as Olney's most defining feature.

Albino or white squirrels are on the endangered species list since 2014.

Compiled by Neil Gale, Ph.D. 

The History of Chicago's Air Quality.

Like most large cities, Chicago has a history of poor air quality. As it industrialized, Chicago relied on the dirty soft coal of southern Illinois for power and heat. Burned in boiler rooms, locomotives, steel mills, and domestic furnaces, the ubiquitous coal created an equally ubiquitous smoke. Soot soiled everything in the city, ruining furniture, merchandise, and building facades. Chicago legislated against dense smoke in 1881, but residents and visitors continued to complain about choking clouds and filthy soot. In addition to smoke, the numerous industries surrounding the slaughterhouses produced foul odors and dangerous chemical emissions, further diminishing air quality.

Coal burning steamer on the Chicago River.

Undoubtedly the poor air increased the severity of several pulmonary diseases, including asthma and pneumonia. Perhaps second only to Pittsburgh in smoke pollution at the opening of the twentieth century, Chicago gained a national reputation for its terrible air, but it also became a leader in regulation. In the early 1900s, a movement to force railroad electrification focused on the Illinois Central's waterfront line and kept the smoke issue in the news. Still, air quality did not significantly improve until coal use began to decline after World War II.

In the early 20th century, private, single-family, two and three flat residence were instructed to burn their waste in the small concrete garbage incinerators that the city constructed in the alleys behind each property as a solution to growing landfill issues. Garbage trucks would open the cooled incinerators and shovel out the ashes. Larger incinerators used by schools, hospitals, and apartment buildings.

In 1959 the city created the Department of Air Pollution Control. The new department investigated all types of emissions and suggested regulations for several previously ignored sources of pollution, including burning refuse and leaves. 

Public concern for air quality heightened after a 1962 disaster killed hundreds of London residents, and by 1964 Chicago received more than six thousand citizen air pollution complaints per year. As with the early movement to control smoke, the new activism focused on the potential negative health effects of impure air. Not surprisingly, the Loop, the Calumet Region, and northern Lake County, Indiana, were the most polluted districts in the metropolitan area.

In 1967 the U.S. Public Health Service determined that only New York City's air was more polluted than Chicago's. Impelled by citizen activism and new federal regulations in the 1970s, the city attempted to control the largest polluters, including the massive South Works steel plant. Even as these efforts began to reap benefits, however, the continuing suburbanization and auto dependence of the metropolitan area meant that auto emissions would plague the city for decades to come.

By the 1990s, a decline in heavy industry and effective regulation of auto emissions combined to significantly improve Chicago's air. Chicago no longer ranked among the nation's most heavily polluted cities.

By David Stradling
Edited by Neil Gale, Ph.D.

The Chicago River.

The Chicago River.

The Evolution of the Skokie Lagoons.

The Skokie Lagoons are a nature preserve on the Skokie River that extends from Glencoe to Winnetka and is owned and managed by the Forest Preserve District of Cook County (FPDCC). Within the system are seven inter-connected lagoons totaling 190 acres that are surrounded by floodplains and uplands. Water flows from north to south through the Chicago Botanic Garden into the Skokie Lagoons and south to the north branch of the Chicago River. The lagoons have a long evolutionary history going back to Pleistocene age continental glaciation.

The North Shore uplands, lowland marshes, ravines, and Lake Michigan are all products of the last ice age. About 14,000 years ago, global warming caused the Laurentide icecap to retreat, leaving Glacial Lake Chicago (more than 60 feet above the present Lake Michigan). The glacier also left a topography of lake border moraines (low hills) separated by valleys and marshes that now include the Des Plaines River and the west fork (through Glenview), middle fork (through Northfield), and east fork or Skokie River of the north branch of the Chicago River. As lake levels fell, extensive wetlands developed in the valleys; the largest (approximately 20 miles long and ¼ to 1 mile wide) was the Skokie Marsh. To the east, the Highland Park Moraine, deposited by the Wisconsinan Glacier, separated the Skokie Marsh from Glacial Lake Chicago, now Lake Michigan.

Flooded Winnetka 1924.

Ridge Avenue in Winnetka lies along the crest of the Highland Park Moraine that slopes gently east and west. Glacial meltwater flowed eastward into Lake Michigan through stream valleys cut into the moraine clay deposits. In the marshes to the west, a diverse wetland plant community developed, including marsh grasses and wild rice that supported a robust community of fish and mammals and was also an important stop-over for migratory waterfowl. Woolly mammoths and bison were also known to be residents of this region. It is said that Potawatomi Indians called the marsh the Kitchi-wap choku (CheWab Skokie on early maps) that roughly translates to “great marsh.” Since the area was subject to flooding, the first European settlers took a cue from the Potawatomi and used the land primarily for hunting and fishing.

Frank Windes, Winnetka Village Engineer from 1898 to 1940, reminisced about the marsh of his childhood in a talk to the Masonic Club in 1933:

There were great flocks of wild geese, ducks and wild swans. In the wet woodlands were to be found snipe, plover, woodcock and partridge. In the summer the plover, killdeer, bobolink, meadow lark, marsh wren and many of the waders were found in great numbers. Coon, mink, rabbits, muskrat and weasels were found, and we had great fun hunting with our old muzzle-loading shotguns. It was bare of trees, except for a few straggling willows and a wooded island or two; it was very wet most of the year; and now and then large tracts of “floating bogs” dangerous to walk across in flood times… The wild flowers grew in great profusion. Pond lilies were found in some of the ponds, wild strawberries, grapes, elderberries, cherries and plums grew in the bordering woods and meadows and on the “islands.”

Fishing was easy, according to Windes:

As small boys we would build two small dams across the Skokie stream. We would wade in the stream and beat the water with sticks, scaring the fish between our 2 dams. After we had some 20 to 30 good sized bass, pickerels, catfish and perch enclosed, we would close the dam, and then shovel out the fish, and everyone in town had a fine mess of fresh fish. The skating was wonderful. We could use iceboats, and skate all the way from Winnetka to the Wells St. Bridge in Chicago.

In the late 19th century, floods and mosquitoes were a chronic problem in the Skokie Marsh. Settlers dug drainage channels in sections of the marsh in order to expand “useful land” for grazing and farming. These attempts to improve the land had a negative consequence. Peat deposits from the newly-drained marsh regularly caught fire, blanketing neighbors with dense smoke.

Flooding continued and in 1884, the Skokie Ditch was constructed from the Skokie Marsh, eastward along Willow Road, through Indian Hill and Kenilworth to Lake Michigan. Legal opposition and loss of funding killed the project before it could be dug deep enough to fully drain the marsh.

Two decades later, Frank Windes formulated plans for turning the swampy Skokie Marsh into a lagoon system and presented them to Daniel Burnham and the Chicago Plan Commission for inclusion in the 1909 Plan of Chicago. Burnham said he was “many years ahead of the game; wait, someday this will be taken up; not now young man.” It wasn’t until 1933, after a half-century of unsuccessful attempts to “drain the swamp” that President Franklin Roosevelt approved the creation of the Skokie Lagoons as a Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) project along with seven others in Illinois. Winnetkan Harold Ickes, FDR’s Secretary of the Interior, is credited with the development of the project.

Plans, Development of the Skokie Lagoons, Forest Preserve of Cook County.

CLICK MAP TO VIEW IN FULL SIZE.

The FPDCC had been buying up land in and around the marsh with the intention of flood control and the creation of a waterfowl refuge and recreational area. About 4 million cubic yards of earth were excavated and landscaped by more than a thousand workers. It was the largest CCC project in the United States. 

Looking north from Willow Road Bridge the month the lagoon project began, July 1933.

The plan—completed in 1942—includes lakes, floodplains, connecting channels, flood control dams, and perimeter ditches to divert stormwater around the lagoons.

In 1968, the Chicago Botanic Garden was carved out of the north section of the Skokie Lagoons between Dundee Road and Lake Cook Road. Designed by landscape architect John O. Simonds, the Botanic Garden includes nine islands and 60 acres of water. Owned by FPDCC and managed by the Chicago Horticultural Society, it is a world-renowned living plant museum with 25 display gardens surrounded by four natural habitats.

Although peat fires were eliminated and flooding was reduced, by 1979 problems with siltation of the lagoons and untreated sewage spurred FPDCC to new action. The FPDCC and the Northeastern Illinois Planning Commission implemented a plan to divert treated wastewater around the lagoons. In addition, over one million cubic yards of sediment were dredged from the lagoons between 1988 and 1993.

Following the dredging, 40 tons of invasive carp were removed and native and sport fish restored to the deeper (up to 12 feet) and cleaner lagoons. Fishermen are now a common sight at the Willow Road dam and boaters regularly enter the lagoons at Tower Road.

Today, the biggest threats in the more than 540 acres of floodplains and uplands in the Skokie Lagoons are invasive plants: overstory trees and garlic mustard in the floodplains, buckthorn in the uplands, and tall perennial reeds in the diversion ditches. Although peat fires have been eradicated, dead trees in the uplands are becoming a fire hazard. FPDCC and Chicago Audubon Society volunteers have been actively working to rid the area of buckthorn and garlic mustard, clear brush, and restore native plant species including grasses, sedges and wildflowers.

The Skokie Lagoons have transformed marshes into ponds and parkland, eliminated peat fires and greatly reduced the mosquito problem. But new homes built on land that was once marsh flood-plain still flood occasionally. In an effort to better control flooding, the Village of Winnetka is considering construction of a storm sewer system consisting of an eight-foot-wide pipe that would extend east to Lake Michigan—an underground version of the Skokie Ditch.

The evolution of the Skokie Lagoons is not complete. The construction of levees and dikes on the Mississippi River for flood control and navigation resulted in new problems that may not have been anticipated by the early planners. As exemplified by the Chicago Botanic Garden, close attention to detail and plenty of funds will assure the vision of sustainability.

Compiled by Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D. 

Olson Memorial Park, Waterfall and Rock Garden, Chicago, Illinois. (1935-1978)

Olson Rug Company was established in 1874. The manufacturing mill was located in Chicago at Diversey and Crawford Avenues (now Pulaski Road). When the raw material was scarce during WWII, people would send in their old wool rugs, rags, clothing, etc., and Olson Rug would turn them into a beautiful area rug. The family-owned business was "the place" to buy rugs for many years.

Alongside the factory was the renowned Olson Memorial Park. Walter E. Olson built the approx. 2-acre park in 1935. The project took nearly six months to complete. About 800 tons of stone and 800 yards of soil were used for its construction. Approximately 3,500 perennials, along with numerous species of pines, junipers, spruces, arborvitaes, and annuals, starkly contrasted the area's industrial surroundings. Olson Park's stunning rock garden, duck pond, and 35-foot waterfall replicated a waterfall on the Ontonagon River in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

The park was intended for his employees to bring nature to the factory grounds. Olson's idea for the park came from his summer home in Little St. Germaine, Wisconsin, where nature in the north woods created a peaceful setting, and he thought he would do the same for employees and the crowded Avondale community well.

The opening of the park took place on September 27, 1935, what was then American Indian Day in Illinois (the fourth Saturday of September), as well as the 100th anniversary of a treaty that resulted in the final expulsion of the Pottawatomies, Chippewas, and Ottawas across the Mississippi, and included a symbolic gesture deeding back the area of the park to the Indians.

During the first Sunday after its dedication, Olson Park attracted as many as 600 visitors per hour. This theme was kept up with visiting Native American chiefs performing war dances in authentic period clothing periodically at the park.

As Olson Rug Park became more elaborate, it was opened to the public free of charge. A trailer was set up to serve hot dogs, lemonade, and other staples. The word spread. By 1955, over 200,000 people a year were visiting the park.

OLSON PARK AND WATERFALL

The park's decor changed with the season. At Christmas, there was the obligatory Santa. At Easter, the obligatory Easter Bunny. Halloween saw a floodlit moon hanging over the waterfall, complete with a witch on a broomstick.

In some years, the great lawn featured a re-creation of McCutcheon's famed cartoon "Injun Summer." [1]

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Marshall Field & Company bought the Olson Rug plant in 1965 and converted it into a warehouse. They kept the park that was adjacent to the plant operating until 1978 when the waterfall became too expensive to repair. It would have cost over $100,000 ($472,000 today) to fix it, and it's not clear how much the park costs to operate and maintain each year. Fields decided to level the park and paved it over to create a parking lot for employees and customers. Since the park was on private property, Fields had the right to do whatever they wanted with it without interference from the city. 

Compiled by Dr. Neil Gale, Ph.D.

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[1] "Injun Summer" was first published in the Chicago Tribune, written by John T. McCutcheon, and printed in the September 30, 1907 newspaper. McCutcheon won a Pulitzer Prize in 1932, the first Tribune staff member to receive journalism's coveted award.

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Thoughts About "Injun Summer."

One day in the early fall of 1907, cartoonist John T. McCutcheon found himself groping for inspiration for a drawing to fill his accustomed spot on the front page of the Tribune. He thought back to his boyhood in the 1870s in the lonely cornfields of Indiana. "There was, in fact, little on my young horizon in the middle 1870s beyond corn and Indian traditions," McCutcheon recalled later, "It required only a small effort of the imagination to see spears and tossing feathers in the tasseled stalks, tepees through the smoky haze..."

That "small effort of imagination" became McCutcheon's classic drawing, "Injun Summer." It was accompanied by a lengthy discourse with the plain-spoken charm of Mark Twain. The cartoon proved so popular that it made an annual appearance in the Tribune beginning in 1912 and ran in hundreds of other newspapers over the years.