AMERICAN
HIGHWAYS
BYWAYS
S E
UCSB LIBRARY.
u
HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS FROM
THE ST. LAWRENCE TO VIRGINIA
INCLUDING THE STATES OF
WEST VIRGINIA
PENNSYLVANIA
NEW JERSEY
DELAWARE
MARYLAND
NEW YORK
VIRGINIA
AND THE
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
An old Dutch porch in New Jersey
HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS
FROM THE
ST. LAWRENCE TO VIRGINIA
WRITTEN AND
ILLUSTRATED BY
CLIFTON JOHNSON
Published by THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
New York MCMXIII
LONDON: MACMILLAN AND co., LIMITED
Copyright, 1913,
by the Macmillan Company.
Set up and Electrotyped.
Published September, 1913.
AMERICAN
HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS
FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE
TO VIRGINIA
Electrotyped
and
Printed
by the
F. A. Bassette Company
Springfield, Mass.
Contents
Page
I. The Adirondack Winter I
II. Midsummer in the Catskills . . 26
III. The Heart of the Hudson Highlands . 47
IV. The Land of Oil . . . .81
V. An Industrial Metropolis . . . 107
VI. A Vale of Anthracite . . . -131
VII. A Famous Battlefield . . . -151
VIII. The Water Gap and Beyond . . 170
IX. Along Shore in Jersey . . . 203
X. A Glimpse of Delaware . . . 222
XI. Roundabout the Nation's Capital . 242
XII. Maryland Days 254
XIII. Beside the Rappahannock . . . 282
XIV. June in the Shenandoah Valley . . 303
XV. West Virginia Rambles . . .320
Illustrations
An Old Dutch Porch in New Jersey . . Frontispiece
FACING PAGE
Among the Mountains ...... 6
Getting a Pail of Water ...... 10
A Load of Logs on Lake Placid .... 19
A Summer Afternoon ...... 26
Coming from the Hayfield . . . . -35
Ploughing one of the Stony Fields .... 40
Going A-Milking ....... 53
Skinning the Coon ....... 58
Ready to Start after Partridges .... 67
An Old-time Well That is Still Pumped . 86
Oil Creek at Petroleum Center .... 90
Going to Town ....... 99
Braddock's Battlefield Viewed from Across the Monon-
gahela ........ 107
A Toll Bridge 114
The Old Church at Economy ..... 122
A Coal Village with a Mountainous Culm Heap in the
Background . . . . . . .131
A Breaker . . . . . . . .138
A Miner and an Above-ground Friend . . . 147
An Old Smokehouse . , . . . .154
The Devil's Den . . . ^ .163
The Haymaker t 168
IX
x Illustrations
FACING PAGE
A Boatman at the Gap ...... 181
The Old Wells weep 186
Housework ........ 195
A Back Porch ....... 203
Reflections . . . . . . . .210
The Scarecrow . . . . . . .218
The Wreck ........ 227
Setting the Net ....... 230
The Pump at the Back Door ..... 235
The Capitol ........ 240
At the Alexandria Waterside ..... 247
At the Fishing-place . . . . . .251
In the Garden ....... 258
Coming from the Spring ...... 266
The Wash-house ....... 275
Old Homes in Fredericksburg ..... 282
A Farm Gate ....... 291
Making a Hoe Handle ..... ^ 294
The Wilderness Church ...... 298
The Shenandoah River ...... 307
A Ferry . . . . . . . . 311
The Great Chimney . . . . . .315
A Log House on the Mountain .' . . .322
Worm Fences . . . . . 331
Returning from the Post Office . . . .338
Introductory Note
All the volumes in this series are chiefly concerned
with country life, especially that which is typical and
picturesque. To the traveller, no life is more interest-
ing, and yet there is none with which it is so difficult to
get into close and unconventional contact. Ordinarily,
we catch only casual glimpses. For this reason I have
wandered much on rural byways, and lodged most of
the time at village hotels or in rustic homes. My trips
have taken me to many characteristic and famous
regions; but always, both in text and pictures, I have
tried to show actual life and nature and to convey some
of the pleasure I experienced in my intimate acquain-
tance with the people.
These "Highways and Byways" volumes are often
consulted by persons who are planning pleasure tours.
To make the books more helpful for this purpose each
chapter has a note appended containing suggestions
for intending travellers. With the aid of these notes,
I think the reader can readily decide what regions are
likely to prove particularly worth visiting, and will
know how to see such regions with the most comfort
and facility.
CLIFTON JOHNSON.
Hadley, Mass.
This volume includes chapters on
characteristic, picturesque, and
historically attractive regions in the
states of New York, Pennsylvania,
New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland and
Virginia, and a chapter on Washington
and its vicinity. The notes appended
to each chapter give valuable infor-
mation concerning automobile routes,
and many facts and suggestions of
interest to tourists in general.
Highways and Byways from
the St. Lawrence to Virginia
i
THE ADIRONDACK WINTER
WHEN I decided to visit the Adirondacks I chose
to go to Lake Placid. That particular vicinity
has two superlative attractions it is in the
very heart of the "Great North Woods" where the
mountains lift their giant forms highest; and it is here
that John Brown, the apostle of freedom, lies buried
on a little farm he once tilled.
March had come, but winter had not loosed its grip,
and the earth was wrapped in a coverlet of spotless
white, and people driving on the highways jogged about
on runners to the cheerful music of sleighbells. The
snow softened and rounded every contour of the open
country, it hid the roofs of the buildings, and Nature
had used it in a recent storm to playfully decorate all
the trees.
My first walk began early in the morning when the
children were on their way to school. They were sturdy
2 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
youngsters, and the boys were apt to protect their legs
and feet with heavy outer socks and overshoes such as
woodsmen wear. "Well," one of the dwellers in the
village by the lake commented, "the little tads need
to dress that way, knocking around in the snow as
they do."
I could easily agree with him when later I passed a
district schoolhouse that occupied a wayside knoll in
an outlying section of the village. The children, while
waiting for the final call of the bell in the little cupola,
were having a riotous snowballing frolic and were
powdered from head to foot. It seemed to be a good-
natured tumult, except that the boys were kicking
around one of the girl's rubbers, which the owner, with
shrill-voiced protests, was trying to rescue. The school-
house had stood there before any church had been built
in the region, and John Brown used to attend Sunday
services in it.
Somewhat farther on I asked directions to the Brown
Farm of a man at work in the highway digging through
a drift. He said that the summer road to the farm was
not broken out, and I would have to go roundabout by
the winding winter road through the woods. While we
were talking two men passed us. They had bags on
their backs and were headed for some lumber camp.
The previous day the town had voted for licence and
these men had backed up their views on the subject by
such liberal potations that the road was not wide enough
for them. One of them, when he came to the drift, lost
The Adirondack Winter 3
his footing altogether and had to be helped up out of
the snow by his companion.
Presently I went on into the forest of bare-limbed
birches and maples mingled with dark spruces and
balsams, and when I emerged from the woodland there
was the John Brown homestead before me off across a
pasture. The group of buildings stood lonely amid the
environing snows, the last home on a country byway.
Beyond was a deep ravine and a little river, and all
around the horizon loomed the sober mountain heights.
Prominent amid the wooded ranges was Whiteface
Mountain, a pyramidal peak whose summit was bare
of trees, and white as if capped with eternal snow; and
on the opposite horizon was the big dome of Mt. Marcy,
also bare and white.
The Brown Farm is the property of the state, and a
caretaker occupies the low, rambling, unpainted house.
Except for a veranda on two sides, the dwelling is
practically as it was when Brown lived in it from 1849
to the time of his fatal raid on Harper's Ferry. There
were no trees about the buildings, and this was the case
with nearly all the other scattered farm homes. They
were rather frail and uncouth frame structures, wholly
exposed to heat and cold and the assaults of the storms.
A few steps from the dwelling of the old Abolitionist
was an inclosure protected by a stout iron fence, and
here was some shrubbery, a tall flagpole, an enormous
rock, and a lowly gray gravestone sheltered from a
souvenir-crazy public by a glass-sided box. Near the
4 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
back door of the house was a great pile of wood, and
in the shed a man was sawing the sticks into stove
length. He was preparing his fuel supply for the coming
twelve months, and behind him rose the compact piles
of split wood. For a little while he left his work to
show me a small room that had been Brown's "office,"
and which contained in its rude, meagre furnishings a
round table, a straight-backed chair, and a cupboard
"they claim" Brown had used.
When I left the farm I was tempted to turn aside
from the road and follow some footsteps that I thought
would guide me across a wooded valley to another road
I could see on an opposite hill. The trail meandered
through the fields, and then down a steep wooded in-
cline into a swamp. There my unknown guide seemed
to have lost all sense of direction, and went zigzagging
hither and thither, hurdling over so many fallen trees,
that I became discouraged and turned back.
But how beautiful it was in that wild woodland,
which the all-enveloping snow had converted into a
realm of magic! The dark branches of the evergreens
drooped gracefully beneath the fluffy, glistening masses,
and every stump and stone and fallen tree-trunk was
softly cushioned. A light breeze whispered through
the upper boughs and now and then dislodged some of
the snow and sent it rustling down; and over all was
the deep blue sky, no less marvellously pure in color
than the snow itself. I heard a few chickadees softly
chattering, and the scream of a jay, but I would hardly
The Adirondack Winter 5
have suspected that any other life existed in the quiet
woodland, were it not that I saw the handwriting of the
wild creatures on the fair page of the snow. There were
their tell-tale tracks, and I wondered what pleasure, what
business, or what stern need had made them fare forth.
I did not go directly back to the village but continued
to ramble on the country roads. Once I passed a
cemetery. It was on the bleak shoulder of a hill at
some remove from the nearest habitation, and in it was
a woman with a muff pressed against her face crying
in a heart-broken way over a new-made grave. Round-
about was the vast white world and the big serene
mountains, and overhead the majestic cerulean dome
of the sky nature so steadfast and unpitying con-
trasted with that dark, whimpering human figure
bowed with grief, helpless, crushed!
Farther on I came across a man who was filling a pail
from a dipping-place in a wayside stream. Many of
the farm folk depend on such a source for their house-
hold water-supply. The man informed me that I was
on the old military road which was laid out westerly
from Lake Champlain through the Adirondacks.
"When they were making it," he said, "they did n't
turn out for anything. They sighted from one hill to
another and made a pretty middlin' straight road.
But a good deal of it has been abandoned now."
I mentioned that I had been to the John Brown
Farm, and he said he had a picture of Brown that he
would show me if I would go to the house with him.
6 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
He led the way through a decrepit gate, and escorted
me into the sitting-room, where I sat down by the
stove. There was a rag carpet on the floor, and, con-
spicuous on the walls, were ghastly, enlarged photo-
graphs in ponderous frames. My host was smoking a
pipe, and he continued to wear his hat a faded, band-
less affair with the crown full of holes like a pepper box.
We were soon joined by his mother, a thin, elderly
woman, who wore spectacles and earrings.
"Here is the picture of John Brown," the man said,
"and I want you to see this other picture of a hen and
rooster that I own. A feller took that picture with a
little hand camera. Well, sir, he ketched 'em just right.
They was on a dung hill, and the rooster was crowing.
One of the storekeepers in the village is goin' to have
the photograph enlarged to put in his window. Ain't
that rooster natural as life now?
"Did the man over on the farm take the cover off
the gravestone for you?"
"No," I replied, "probably it is frozen down."
"That don't matter," my host commented. "He'd
'a' worked like the old Harry to get it up if you'd given
him a quarter. The stone would have been all gone
long ago if they did n't keep it protected. If you had
a piece off it as big as the end of your thumb you could
sell it for a good price.
"How'd you like to have that caretaker's job?
He ought to be able to make money hand over
fist. He don't have to pay out for taxes, or repairs, or
The Adirondack Winter 7
nawthin', and he can sell the crops, and he gits a good
deal of small coin from the visitors. He has a good
chance."
"I'm seventy-seven years old," the woman observed,
"and I can remember when the Browns drove in their
cattle at the time they came here."
"When I was a young feller goin' to school," the man
said, "I was at a neighbor's one day, and they had an
ox there that they told me had belonged to John Brown.
He was about the biggest ox I ever see. My gosh! he
looked like a mountain beside of me."
"I was often over to John Brown's house when he
lived there," the woman said. " 'Twa'n't but a few
steps from where I lived. But the most I remember
about his looks was the way his hair was brushed
straight up from his forehead. He had a great bushy
beard when he died, but I think he grew that for a dis-
guise. , Earlier he was a smooth-faced man. The family
would walk to church at the schoolhouse. We did n't
think we'd got to ride every time we went anywhere in
them days. I s'pose it was a mile and a half. The
youngest child was a babe the last part of the time the
Browns lived here, and Watson Brown would come to
church carrying the babe in his arms. Watson is the
one they claimed had his bones wired together. Let
me see when did they bring those bodies here? It
was the summer Mary Bush died, and that was more
than twenty years ago. You know two of John Brown's
sons was killed at Harper's Ferry Oliver and Watson.
8 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
Well, they say a doctor who wanted a skeleton got hold
of Watson's body, and when the bones was sent home
to be buried on the old farm they was wired together.
That's what I've always heard.
"But you can't tell for certain what to believe and
what not. Once I was out on the piazza with my big
spinning-wheel twisting yarn, and some city people
stopped to see me work. They'd been over to the John
Brown Farm, and pretty soon they sot down on the
edge of the piazza and begun to tell about this and that
thing at the farm which had belonged to John Brown.
Well, John Brown never see any of them things. But
when people tell a story long enough it gets to be a
fact."
"I'll tell you, my friend," the man said with em-
phasis, "there's more daubed on to John Brown's
history than a little. It's something like the old man's
cider barrel. He said it was the same old cider barrel,
but he'd had to repair it from time to time till there
wa'n't nawthin left of the original barrel but the
bunghole.
"You'd be surprised how many people visit that
farm in the summer. If I could have a cent apiece for
those that go there gracious! I'd be rich. It's a sort
of craze. There's some persons just as animated over
that grave as over a gold mine.
"Here, I want you to look at this grub hoe. You
can see that it is old-fashioned, and was made by a
blacksmith. I found it over on the John Brown Farm.
The Adirondack Winter 9
We were having a big conflagration, and I was then
righting fire. I was using a common shovel, and this
hoe was about a foot down in the ground. I was glad
to get it golly, yes! and I put a club into it, and dug
dirt to fight the fire with. I 'spose, because I found it
on John Brown's farm, I might say it was his'n sure
it was! Then just a little corner of it would be worth
as much as ten dollars for a souvenir.
"That was an awful fire we had. It was in 1908,
and a very dry time. They were having fires all over
the country. Fires begun in the Adirondacks 'long
about the middle of summer. We could n't breathe
nawthin' but smoke for a while. Once the fire was
right up here back of us in the woods. That was a little
closter than we wanted it to be. It was so near we
did n't dare sleep nights. Why, we reckoned our place
was a goner and we kep' barrels and tubs, and such like,
full of water ready all around the barn. But the wind
happened to favor us. At night we could see the fires
burning on the mountains in every direction. They
had a darn nice little time with the fire on that moun-
tain you can see from the window over to the north-
ward. There was lots of downstuff, and though the
mountain is three miles away we could hear the fire
roaring like the noise of a high wind. It cleaned off
the hull mountain and left nawthin' but the bare rocks
and a few charred tree trunks.
"That's the worst fire we've ever had, but I expect
there's goin' to be just as big in the future, the way
io Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
they're fixin' things. You know the state has some
great forest reserves here, and the laws are very strict
about the timber, and the officials are quick to prose-
cute and fine trespassers. There's considerable chewin'
about it, and somebody is goin' to burn the state forest
out of revenge. It's gettin' so a poor man don't have
any chance. They put his nose down on the grindstone
and make him turn the handle. You've got to have a
licence to carry a gun, and it's 'gainst the law to keep
a dog unless he's tagged and registered. Most of the
year I can't, 'cordin' to law, go right out there in the
yard and rake up a mess of chips and burn 'em. I
could this time of year, but what's the use? The chips
would n't burn. One of our neighbors piled up some
stumps in the middle of a ploughed field and burned
'em. They fined him twenty-five dollars. Would n't
that make you crusty?
"The state has put men on the mountain tops to
watch for fires in the dry part of the year. Telephone
lines connect the lookout stations with the villages, so
as soon as a fire starts we know where it is and get right
out to fight it. But they take these college pups just
graduated for the fire patrol. Why can't some of us
local men have the job? It's a snap; for they're paid
seventy-five or eighty dollars a month. That money
would come in pretty handy for some of us here. You
can't hardly make a livin' farmin'. The climate is too
cold to raise corn or to ripen potatoes, and the biggest
share of the men go to the woods in winter. That's
Getting a pail of water
The Adirondack Winter 1 1
where I'd be if it wa'n't for mother. But there's just
her 'n me, and she don't like to stay alone. Besides,
somebody had to do the chores."
"We been havin' very mild weather for the time of
year," the woman said. "I never saw such a winter,
old as I am. We've had very few zero nights, and only
a little snow. I can remember winters when the snow
was so deep you could n't see a fence nowhere."
"Yes," the man added, "this road here used to have
a high zigzag rail fence along it to keep cattle in the
pastures. Stakes was drove at every angle, and there's
been so much snow you could n't see none of them
stakes. When I was young it was mostly forest here,
and the snow did n't drift much, but now, by gol! the
trees along the roads have been cut off, and the wind
gets a chance to stir the snow around."
"We used to travel a good deal on horseback," the
woman said. "My folks lived in Keene, over the
mountain, and my Uncle Lon lived here. You could n't
hardly drive a wagon over the mountain road the stones
were so high. Uncle Lon liked to have me come and
visit at his house and help take care of the children.
At the time I made my first visit I was so small I had
to stand up on a little chair to wash the dishes, and
uncle fetched me on horseback in his arms. When I
grew larger I'd ride on the horse behind him. Like
enough I'd stay three or four months. I went to school
some, but people wa'n't very particular then whether
the children got any education or not."
12 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
"That's so," the man corroborated, "the parents
would send a boy to school, and if he went, all right,
and if he did n't go, all right. I've started for school
and never see it that day. Maybe I'd come down to
your house, and you'd have a boy, and the two of us
would go off playing. I never went to school much any
way, by gracious ! Father had inflammatory rheumatism
and wa'n't sost he could do anything. I had to begin
workin' pretty young. Soon as I could pick up a pan
of chips I was at it. But the children are obleeged to
go to school now, and if a boy stays away the truant
officer is at his heels, and when he finds the boy fishin'
or something he says, 'What in thunder are you doin'
here?' and sends him back to his books.
"Children at twelve years old now know more than
a man grown did under the old style. But they don't
study at school. They just recite, and then bring their
books home and spend all the evenin' writin' out their
lessons for the next day. They know more, and yet
they ain't as hardy as they used to be. It's as the
Bible says 'People grow weaker as they grow wiser.'
"When I was a boy we had three months' school in
winter, and the same in summer, in charge of common
deestrict school teachers who never'd had much
schoolin' themselves. They boarded round and stayed
at the houses of the folks who sent children three
nights a term for each scholar. Some of us lived two
or three miles from the schoolhouse, and if the snow
come deep the man who lived farthest off on a road
The Adirondack Winter 13
would probably take his ox team and break out a track
and pick up the scholars along.
"Well, what changes have taken place since I was a
boy! Gosh! who'd ever think I'd live to see a wagon
goin' rippity slash through the street with no horse
hitched to it; or a bicycle goin' along without havin'
to pump it! And there's trolley cars. Golly! I could n't
understand 'em at all until I went out of the mountains
and saw 'em.
"Fifty years ago this country was pretty much
primeval forest, with families startin' in here and there
to clear up a chunk of land. They'd chop down the
trees and pile 'em up and burn 'em. Then they'd put
in potatoes, turnips, or oats, and as soon as they could
they'd stock the ground down in among the stumps to
raise some hay for their cattle. You'd understand
what it means to start a home in the wilderness if you'd
drove a single A drag as much as I have on new land
where it's nawthin' but ketch and twitch and jerk
around all the time.
"After a while the city people began to come in here
for the huntin' and fishin'. There was no accommoda-
tion for them except at the little farmhouses, and per-
haps the farmers did n't have any room to spare. But
those fellers would n't take 'No' for an answer. If
they could n't get a chance to sleep on one of the cord
bedsteads they'd sleep on the floor, or in the barn
anywhere. And they were men with money, mind you
lots of it. They don't rough it that way now. Why,
14 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
even the fellers they hire to drive 'em around got to
have on gloves, and a b'iled shirt, and a plug hat; and
you can't tell the drivers from the city men.
"We had bears and wolves here, when I was a small
kid, and this was a wild country. Good Lord! I've
seen deer playin' down here on the plains like a mess of
calves. Deer are naturally tame, and a good deal like
the sheep specie. You'd see one of 'em or hear a fawn
blat, you know, and you'd take your gun and go out
and knock it down in no time. But now they've been
so frightened they keep way back in the big woods;
and yet the law won't let you kill nawthin' but bucks
and only two of them in a season. The trouble is
there's too many hunters, and all kinds of game is
gettin' scarce."
"Uncle Lon killed lots of deer," the woman observed.
"He could go out and shoot one anytime. I know
we'd just got up one mornin' and his wife said, 'We
ain't got no meat.' '
"He went to the door and looked down on the
meadow, and there he see four deer feedin'. 'Now
don't make no noise,' he says, and he crep' down a
little ways and shot one of the deer, and we had venison
for breakfast.
"I always liked this country. I went away to live
once, but I was glad to git back. It seems more like
home to me here than any other place. But the
timber's gittin' less and less, and the region don't look
like it used to look."
The Adirondack Winter 15
"This used to be a great country for fishin','' the
man affirmed. "Why, right out in the little brook that
you see in the holler you could ketch trout that would
weigh over a pound. You did n't have to travel a life-
time to get a mess of fish. No, sir! you could fish down
that brook twenty rods and git all you could eat
more'n you could git fishin' twenty miles now. What
I call sport is all gone. Oh, gol! there ain't nawthin'
now, my friend. They've cut down the big forests, the
fire has got in here, and the brooks and streams are
dryin' up. I don't see what people come up here for.
Still, it's a healthy climate, and the air is fine for con-
sumptives. Saranac Lake is a great resort for lungers,
but they knock the summer business and are not allowed
at the Lake Placid hotels.
"You ought to 'a' been here last week to our carnival.
It was a two days' affair, and we kep' things busy all
the time. We had shows, marchin' and drillin', horse-
racin', slidin', and skatin'; and it was all got up by
just us folks here, and we chipped in so as to have some
little purses for prizes. If we're goin' to have any fun
here in the mountains we got to provide it ourselves.
The men would git onto their double sleds and go down
the toboggan slides clear across the lake, three quarters
of a mile. Oh, my lord! they went so fast they had to
lean against each other way over forward to keep on.
"You'd 'a' laughed to see the skatin' races. One of
the skaters was a young feller named Hennessy Jim
Hennessy's son. He's only sixteen, and small and slim.
16 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
Good land! his leg ain't as big as my wrist, and that's
the truth if I don't ever speak again. You'd say the
wind would blow him over, he's so slender. But he
took the prize in the boy's class, and then he entered
the men's class in competition with some great big
fellers from the hotels. It was surprisin' what energy
there was in that kid. He dropped right behind the
fastest one of the men skaters and trailed him. I
wanted to have a little fun, and I said to some of the
hotel fellers standin' lookin' on, 'Here's ten dollars
that the blue-shirted feller wins.'
"But they did n't dare to take me up. It was a two
mile course, and when they neared the end Hennessy
made a spurt and came in ahead. 'What do you think
of my little Irishman now?' I says. Oh, wa'n't the
hotel men sick!
"One evenin' of the carnival the folks dressed up in
fancy costumes. They rigged up in every darned thing
you could think of to disguise 'em. They was dressed
in all kinds of shapes as old farmers, Indians, niggers,
and everything. Oh! 'twas lovely. Two of the girls
fixed up as angels, wings and all, and they was dandy.
You could n't tell who they was even their own
mothers did n't know 'em."
It was evening when I returned to the village, and
the sun had set, and all the landscape was in shadow
except the mountain summits. The higher ridges had
been glazed by an ice storm, and while their bases were
a dusky purple the sunlight lingered on the frosty
The Adirondack Winter 17
heights imparting a soft ethereal glow that was quite
Alpine in its effect.
I had been advised to call on Byron Brewster, if I
wanted information about John Brown. "You get
Byron wound up and you'll hear something," my ad-
viser declared.
So I called on him. "John Brown came here," he
said, "when this was new country, but he bought a
farm where a house had been built and some of the
woods cleared off. The nearest village was two miles
west at Saranac Lake, where there was a little store
and possibly a dozen houses. We were connected with
the outside world by a stage line that had its eastern
terminus on Lake Champlain. The driver made a trip
once a week, and he went on horseback usually. When
he took a wagon it was an old-fashioned buckboard.
"One of the Abolitionist leaders owned a great tract
of Adirondack land, and they planned to settle colonies
of free negroes on it. Brown brought some of the colored
people here, but they could n't stand so cold a climate,
and they did n't stay long.
"Brown's oldest son, Oliver, married my sister, and
the little room that is called Brown's office was their
bedroom. Brown never had any use for an office in
the house, for he never was to home only a few days at
a time. He was busy travelling around freeing the
slaves, a little squad at a time. I know because I lived
in his family for several years. My folks had ten
children the families was all large here then and if a
1 8 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
kid could be disposed of so he earned his own living, so
much the better. Captain John Brown was a noble
man, and he had a saint for a woman one of the finest
this world ever had. They were very poor and could
just barely get along; and I remember this I never
shall forget it when Brown was talking with the
family about their hardships he told 'em it was always
darkest just before the dawn. He was sure God would
take care of them. Oh! yes, I tell you he believed in
the Almighty as much as any man who ever lived. All
of his family were in sympathy with him, and were
ready to risk their lives in the cause of freedom. My
sister went down to where he and his followers lived in
a farmhouse near Harper's Ferry and kep' house for
'em while they was gettin' ready to capture the arsenal."
One evening I dropped in at a village store where
several teamsters were lounging on counters and boxes
visiting and smoking. They were talking about the
logs they had been drawing and other forest topics. It
seemed that the villagers drew most of the logs from
the woods to the mills or the streamsides, and that the
lumberjacks in the camps were as a rule immigrants
"from all over the world," with Canadian French,
"Polocks," and Italians predominant.
I asked how soon the Adirondack forests were likely
to be exhausted.
"Well," one of the men responded, "twenty years
ago a pulp mill was built here, and they claimed then
that five years would do the forest up, and our good
A load of logs on Lake Placid
The Adirondack Winter 19
timber would be all gone; but we are getting out just
as much now as ever, and there's lots left.
"There ain't much big pine left on the mountains,"
the storekeeper remarked. "The biggest pine I've
seen lately was one the flood brought down on the
meadow last spring. It was an old walloper, and sound
as a nut. Some one up above had used it for a foot-
bridge. The sawed lumber from it sold for seventy-five
dollars."
"Look at the fine timber back here on the state
land," one of the teamsters said. "There's not only
the growing trees, but millions of feet of dead trees
where the fires have run through that are still good saw
timber and pulp wood. Those dead trees ought to be
got out instead of bein' allowed to lay there rottin'
doin' no good to nobody. But the state won't hardly
let you cut a whipstalk on its land, and if you take off
a tree even a dead one you're fined twenty-five
dollars."
"Well," the storekeeper said, "if people were given
a chance to take the dead timber it would n't be long
before they'd get in the green timber. They will sneak
it off in spite of everything. They just hog it. There's
houses right here in this town built out of timber stole
from the state."
"The fire has got more timber than the lumberjacks
have here in the Adirondacks," one of the teamsters
asserted.
"Yes," the storekeeper agreed, "in 1908 there was
2O Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
one piece of fire over twelve miles long. I went through
to Utica on the train and saw fire every few minutes,
either in the grass or the woods, the whole distance.
At the same time there was fire every gol darn inch of
the way from here to Loon Lake. For weeks we
could n't see the mountains the smoke was so thick.
Lots of the summer people dug out. They were afraid
of their lives. I used to work all the week in the store
and go out Sundays to fight fire. We could n't make
much headway. It was the same as if a man tried to
bail out the ocean pretty near. The fire would break
across the paths we made to stop it, and we could
only keep narrowing it up a little. It burnt till we
had a snowstorm the week before election. Fighting
forest fires that year cost this town ten thousand
dollars.
"Another bad year was 1902. We had windy days
then when the fire went faster'n a man could run, and
flashed right up to the top of the green balsams. Some
of our bad fires are started by the city men. They get
a drink or two into 'em and then don't know nothin'
and are careless about their campfires."
"Well, sir, we had a saucy little fight year before
last," a teamster remarked. "There'd been a thunder-
storm, with a little spurt of rain, and the lightning
started a blaze in some dry timber. It burnt over
thirty or forty acres before we got it under control, and
then we had to keep men watching it for a week because
it had worked down into the duff. That duff was
The Adirondack Winter 21
fifteen inches or so thick, and the fire kept smould-
ering in it and every little while would break out.
" I worked for Rockefeller most of that season. You
know he has a big estate down below here a ways.
There used to be farmhouses yes, and villages on it,
but he bought the owners all out, or froze 'em out. One
feller was determined not to sell, and as a sample of
how things was made uncomfortable for him I heard
tell that two men came to his house once and made him
a present of some venison. They had hardly gone when
the game warden dropped in and arrested him for
havin' venison in his house. All such tricks was worked
on him, and he spent every cent he was worth fighting
lawsuits. People wa'n't allowed to fish on the property,
and the women wa'n't allowed to pick berries on it. A
good deal of hard feeling was stirred up, and Rockefeller
would scoot from the train to his house, and pull the
curtains down, 'fraid they'd shoot him. Oh! he was
awful scairt."
The storekeeper had picked up a bunch of keys from
his desk and he jingled them suggestively and was
buttoning up his coat. It was evident that he intended
to close up, and the conclave got off the boxes and
counters and straggled out of the door.
One day I walked far up on the frostbound Lake
Placid. There were three roads on the ice running along
parallel only a few feet apart. The central road was a
driveway, and the other two were merely ploughed out
trails to catch the drifting snow. By and by I met a
22 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
load of logs, and the driver stopped to speak with me.
He had started out from the village at six o'clock that
morning, driven some eight miles to a logging camp at
the far end of the lake, and now was returning. On his
big, broad sled were twenty-five logs, thirteen feet long,
making a load that weighed about six tons. It seemed
a wonder that a single pair of horses could draw it.
I had gone as far as I cared to go up the wide lonely
expanse of the lake, and the teamster invited me to ride
with him back to the town. So I clambered up beside
him on the ponderous load. As we went along the ice
snapped and cracked beneath us, but it was eighteen
inches thick and perfectly safe. Log drawing had
begun when the ice was half that thickness, but they
did not venture to carry as heavy loads. Disasters
occasionally occur; and yet, whether it is the load, or
the horses, or both that break through, the results are
seldom serious. The previous winter, however, two
horses had drowned. They broke through thin ice,
and though dragged out again and again the ice gave
way beneath their weight. Curiously enough, the ice
is safest on warm days. Then it is elastic, but in very
cold weather it is brittle, and is contracting and crack-
ing. Sometimes a load will drive onto a small section
surrounded by fresh cracks, and down it goes. Usually
the ice is burdened with so much snow that water oozes
up through the cracks and makes the road slushy and
rough.
One would think that such thick ice would linger a
The Adirondack Winter 23
long time in the spring, but the teamster affirmed that
when they got a warm south wind the ice disappeared
in about two days. He said it sank in the lake.
There were hills to go down when we reached the
village, and I got off on the verge of the first steep
pitch. The driver protested that there was no danger,
but when I saw the big load go swerving down the icy
incline with the horses pushed into a trot in spite of
their backward bracing, a smashup seemed easily
possible.
On the day that I left the mountains it was snowing,
and the storm-swept open country, and the stumplands,
and the fire-wrecked woods looked dreary enough.
The wind blew, and the falling flakes filled the air with
a wild flurry, and the loose new snow sifted along on
the hard older snow in a drifting smother. It was "a
rough day out," but there was serenity in the snow-
adorned forest that had escaped the fires. There the
woodland aisles were delicately atmospheric and more
fairy-like than ever.
NOTES. The Adirondacks are the most popular summer and
hunting resort in the state. They stretch from near Canada almost
to the Mohawk River, a distance of 120 miles; and from Lake
Champlain about 80 miles westerly. The loftiest peak is Mt. Marcy,
which attains a height of 5,345 feet. It has several rivals that are
not much lower. Nearly the entire mountain region, or Adirondack
Wilderness as it is called, is densely covered with forest, and lumber-
ing is carried on extensively. Great quantities of spruce, hemlock,
and other timber are annually floated down to the Hudson and the
St. Lawrence. The region contains more than 1,000 lakes varying
24 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
in size from a few acres to 20 square miles. One of these, "Tear of
the Clouds," is over 4,000 feet above the sea level, and is the source
of the Hudson. Among the wild creatures to be found in the dis-
trict are catamounts, bears, deer, otters, badgers, eagles, and loons.
The lakes and streams are well stocked with trout. Flies and
mosquitoes are troublesome in June and July.
The most frequented regions are those of Saranac and St. Regis
Lakes, Lake Placid, and Keene Valley, all of which contain numer-
ous hotels and summer camps. The hotels are generally comforta-
ble, and some are luxurious. Guides and canoes can be secured at
all the chief resorts.
The principal gateways to the mountains are Utica and Saratoga
on the south, Westport, Port Kent, and Plattsburg on the east, and
Malone on the north. Much of the region is accessible to automo-
biles, and it has become a favorite touring ground for motorists.
The roads are for the most part dirt, and some of them are very
good, but others are rough and winding, and there are places where
sand or clay are encountered.
The region east of the Adirondacks abounds in scenic and historic
attraction, and a most attractive trip can be made from Saratoga to
Plattsburg, 127 miles. There is a good dirt or macadam road nearly
all the way. Saratoga itself is interesting as one of the oldest and
most frequented of our watering-places. Among the popular drives
in the vicinity is that to the top of Mt. McGregor, 1,200 feet high.
The distance is 10 miles. The cottage in which General Grant died
in 1885 is located on the summit. East of Saratoga, 12 miles, near
Schuylerville was fought, in October, 1777, the battle which resulted
in the surrender of the British army under General Burgoyne.
An island in the Hudson River at Glens Falls, 19 miles north of
Saratoga is the scene of some of the most famous incidents in
Cooper's " Last of the Mohicans." At 28 miles on this route is Lake
George. Fort William Henry once stood on the shore here, and
there was much fighting in the region during the French and Indian
wars. The lake is 33 miles long and 3 miles wide. Wooded moun-
The Adirondack Winter 25
tains flank it on both sides, and islands to the number of 220 dot its
surface. The road follows the west shore of the lake, and presently
reaches the borders of Lake Champlain near old Fort Ticonderoga,
recently restored. Farther north it passes the ruined fortifications
at Crown Point. Near Keesville on this route is the Ausable Chasm,
where the Ausable River flows through a rocky gorge 100 to 175 feet
deep and only 20 to 40 feet wide. This is considered the most won-
derful piece of Nature's work of its kind east of the Rocky Moun-
tains. Waterfalls and rapids add to its charm.
II
MIDSUMMER IN THE CATSKILLS
THE Mountains of the Sky, as the Indians called
them, or the Wildcat Creek Mountains, as they
would be called if the Dutch word Catskill was
translated into English, include one height with an
altitude of 4,200 feet, and there are numerous other
heights in the group that are genuinely impressive in
their upward soaring. Yet none of them are at all
savage, and the region has a certain gentleness of aspect
that is restful and charming. The mountains them-
selves, instead of rising in craggy steeps, nearly always
lift their shaggy, wooded shoulders in mild undulations;
and in the tangle of valleys you rarely fail to find either
an occasional village or scattered farms.
Nevertheless, the region is one that can never be
wholly tamed. A formal monotony of straight roads
and right-angled corners, and fields of regular size and
shape is forever impossible. The roadways almost of
necessity adapt themselves to the lay of the land, and
are full of graceful curves and piquant surprises.
Another charm of this Catskill country is its streams.
Everywhere you go you hear the purl of brooks in their
shadowed, rocky hollows, and not infrequently the
melody of a waterfall; and the water is bright and pure,
A summer afternoon
Midsummer in the Catskills 27
and continues as of yore to be the lurking-place of the
speckled trout.
The section that has most appealed to me is not
where the mountains soar highest, but more westerly
where the country becomes distinctly pastoral and the
farms creep far up the great billowy hills. Sometimes
the cleared land sweeps right over the giant summits,
but oftener the highest portion of the hill has a green
cap of woodland. It is a pretty sight as you look from
one hill across to others and see the tilled fields forming
a sort of patchwork quilt of varying shapes and tints.
The seams of the quilt are sturdy stone walls erected
at an infinite expense of time and labor in gathering
the stones from the land and piling them into barriers,
and then year after year keeping these barriers in re-
pair; for even the stoutest stone wall is not permanent.
The frosts gradually, but surely, heave it into complete
ruin if it is neglected.
One of my stopping-places was a sleepy little village
around which the big hills rose on every side. At the
close of a warm August day I sat after supper on
the piazza of the rustic hotel with the landlord and
his wife. Some of the neighbors who had been off
berrying were plodding homeward on the adjacent
walk, and the landlady asked them what luck they
had had.
"There ain't as many berries as usual," one of the
pickers responded, "and everybody is after 'em. Why,
up on Cold Hill, where we went, there was seven people
28 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
to one huckleberry; and, by gracious! it's a long walk
there and back, I tell yer."
"But you've got your pails full," the landlady com-
mented.
"Oh, we got our share, don't cher know," the picker
said, "and now we must hurry along so as to have time
tonight to look 'em over. That's quite a job."
Meanwhile the landlord was talking with a small
boy of the party. Their bantering conversation came
to an end with the landlord's saying: "Want to fight?
But what's the use? You could n't lick a postage
stamp."
The next morning I went for a long walk and followed
a winding highway that for mile after mile climbed a
seemingly endless hill. It was a rather attractive road
with little farms scattered along, and wooded heights
rising on either side, and at last it brought me to where
the land dipped into another valley, and I began to
descend. The day was warm and pleasant, and mowing-
machines were busy, and men with scythes were laying
low the grass around the borders of the fields and on
the slopes that were too steep for a machine. I was in
no haste and occasionally stopped to chat with the
roadside workers, or with persons I met on the highway.
One of the latter was an old man who was hobbling
along aided by a cane and pausing often in his slow
progress to catch his breath.
"I was eighty-three my last birthday," he said, "and
I ain't good for nawthin' any more. That house you
Midsummer in the Catskills 29
see down the road used to be my home, but I don't live
up here in the mountains now. My son has the old
place, and I'm just visiting him this summer. I
would n't care to stay the year through. It's cold here
in winter darnation cold, and the roads are blocked
with snowdrifts.
"This used to be a great country for game. We had
wild pigeons by the million. There was such flocks
that they darkened the sky. They built their nests on
the mountains along the highest ridges. Every tree,
almost, would have nests in it. The nests was usually
made out of coarse sticks, but I remember a season
when the pigeons carried away most of a haystack I
had and used it for nest-building. As a common thing
they'd fly away every morning to their feeding-places
at a distance, and come flying back at night, but once
they got here before the snow was gone, and then I
saw 'em scratching for food wherever there was a bare
spot.
"They never stayed here all summer, but went off
when the young ones could fly, and returned when the
buckwheat was ripening. We had to guard our fields
or they'd have taken every kernel of the grain.
"We used to snare 'em. We'd scatter buckwheat on
some level place, and up above on a perch we'd have a
captive pigeon with its eyes covered. When a flock
was flying over we'd pull away the perch, and the bird
would flutter to the ground as if it was going after the
feed. That attracted the other pigeons to the spot.
30 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
We had a net ready attached to a pole, and by pulling
a string could make it flop over the birds when enough
had lit, and then we had 'em.
"Once I was out layin' behind a wall watchin' for
pigeons, and they come and lit in an old dead cherry
tree just as thick as they could stick hundreds on that
one tree. I killed thirteen of 'em at a single shot.
"They was mighty nice eating, and there was more
meat on 'em than you'd naturally expect, for they
did n't look as large as their bodies really were. That
was because their feathers lay so snug; but when a
bird was picked it was near as big as a dove.
"Lots of men went to the mountains after squabs in
the spring, and when the old birds at the nesting-place
were disturbed they'd fly up in such numbers their
wings made a sound like thunder. The men would
climb the trees after the squabs, or they'd cut the trees
down. Sometimes they'd cut off acres and acres. The
squabs were shipped to the cities, and I've known men
to get a two hundred dollar check for a single shipment.
"There were great numbers of pigeons until about
1875. Then they suddenly disappeared. It is said that
they all perished in a great storm at sea while migrat-
ing, and that vast quantities of their bodies washed up
on the shores."
Toward night I engaged lodging at a farmhouse that
was well up on one of the vast slopes overlooking an
impressive succession of vales and hills. There I
stayed several days. The farm made a specialty of
Midsummer in the Catskills 31
dairying, and every morning Jim and Ned, the young
men of the household, together with Mrs. Ned and the
hired man, were up early enough to milk the fifty cows
by six o'clock. Then the cows went in a straggling line
over the hill to the pasture, and the milkers came in to
breakfast. One feature of the morning bill of fare was
buckwheat cakes. The family had them for breakfast
the year around, and ate them with pork fat, butter,
or maple sugar.
During the day the men and boys were busy haying,
but about four o'clock in the afternoon two of the
youngsters and their dog went to the brushy pasture
after the cows. At the boys' bidding the dog ran about
over the hills and through the clumps of trees and
bushes gathering the scattered herd and barking
at the lingerers until he brought them to the bars.
There the boys counted them as they passed through
and made sure they had them all.
The supper hour was five, and the milking immedi-
ately followed. Women help with the milking on
nearly all the farms. " But they don't like it very well,"
Ned observed, "and they feel abused unless the men
do the bulk of it."
"Well," Jim said, "I think the farmers would be
better off if they'd lighten the job of milking by keeping
fewer cows. As it is they pay out most of the money
they get for their milk to buy feed. But I must say
they're generally prosperous. You take our next
neighbor down the road, for instance. About a dozen
32 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
years ago he bought that place for six thousand dollars.
He's got it all paid for, and he could sell it for twice
that now. The family that owned it before he did all
had the typhoid but one, and there were nine of 'em.
Seven died, and most everybody was afraid to live on
the place. But this man was n't, and he got it cheap.
He went there with his wife and children, and not one
of 'em has had a sick day since."
I came across this neighbor one day as he was plough-
ing. The ground was surprisingly stony. Indeed, the
soil of all the fields, outside of the alluvial deposits in
the valleys, was like a vast plum-pudding in which
there was about an equal proportion of stones and
earth. The plough was continually scraping the stones
or being jerked this way and that by them. Some of
the biggest that were brought up to the surface would
later be dragged off, but it was not the custom to trouble
with any of less size than a man's hat.
"It's so stony we don't plough any oftener than we
can help," the farmer said. "I'm turning this sod
under on account of the hawkweed. There's a snag
of it on this lot. I guess it'll soon get all over the world
if it keeps spreadin' the way it has here. It'll grow on
any land that ain't boggy. Where a spring dreans it
won't do nothin', but back on the hills where the ground
is perfectly dry it flourishes; and the dryer the weather
the better it does. By cultivating a crop we can kill it
out, but if we seed the land down, it gradually comes
back. Yes, you got to fight it all the while, my friend.
Midsummer in the Catskills 33
The leaves and the blossom-stems are covered with a
kind of fuzz, and when you are haying that there dry
fuzz flies in the air and raises the dickens with you. It
gets in your nose and throat, and it tickles and makes
you sneeze. You might as well work in cayenne pepper.
It makes your eyes smart, too. Some can't handle the
hay in the barn at all on account of the hawkweed dust.
It knocks 'em out. Even in winter it'll bother you some
when you're getting hay from the mow to feed the stock.
But hawkweed makes good pasturage. We turn in the
cattle in the spring and they keep it browsed down. If
they did n't it would mat right over everything."
The pest did not become troublesome until about
twenty years ago. It has a gay blossom that is quite
attractive, and no doubt it escaped to the fields from
some woman's posie pot.
Another foe that the farmer has to fight is the wood-
chuck. The creatures have their burrows along the
roadsides and in the fields everywhere. They eat a
great deal of grass, and destroy the vegetables in the
gardens, and make inroads on various of the field crops
if they are not strenuously opposed. "I tell you," Jim
said, "they're an awful mean thing, tromping down
the mowing; and they make holes, and heave up heaps
of dirt that are a great nuisance in your fields. There's
millions of 'em this year more'n I've ever seen before."
His assertion as to their numbers seemed rather
sweeping; but they were certainly exceedingly plenti-
ful. If I went for a walk, when they were out feeding
34 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
toward evening, I had the brown, furry creatures con-
stantly in view, sometimes low in the grass, sometimes
with heads poked up watching me, but oftenest scurry-
ing to the shelter of their holes.
Saturday evening the young people of the family
drove to the village. It is the common habit of all the
country round to resort thither on the final afternoon
or evening of the week. They go partly to trade, partly
for sociability. That is the merchants' harvest time,
and the stores are open and the clerks busy till about
midnight. A good many of the men drift to the hotels
to drink, and this fag end of the week is the only time,
except rainy days, when a man is likely to be seen
staggering on the street. The haying hands are usually
the worst drinkers, and on a rainy day they are apt to
want their pay that they may spend it at some hotel
bar. Nor are they satisfied to stop drinking and return
to work until their money is gone.
One of the midsummer attractions of Saturday night
at the village is a dance, and people come to it from
seven or eight miles around. About half the dancers
are city vacation visitors, but they mix in a very
friendly way with the country folk, and harmony and
a lively enjoyment of the occasion are general.
"We're supposed to quit at twelve o'clock," Ned
said to me, "but if we get a set on just before that hour
we dance it out. Most of us stay till the last minute.
Here's Emmy, for instance," and he indicated his wife
"she'd rather dance than eat. There's always a good
Coming from the hay field
Midsummer in the Catskills 35
crowd, and the hall is full. The women dance free, but
a man has to pay ten cents for each set he dances. Some
dance every set, others only one or two, but I guess
they'd average five."
A misty rain was falling when Sunday dawned, and
after breakfast the men sat in the kitchen and smoked,
or lay down on the sofas to doze. Presently Sam, the
hired man, pulled out his watch and remarked that it
was just seven minutes past eight. Ned commented
that Sam only had luck to thank if he had hit the cor-
rect time within half an hour.
"I bet a dollar that my watch is right," Sam retorted.
"I'll take your bet," Ned said.
"I set that watch by the town clock yesterday,"
Sam explained.
"Oh!" said Ned, "you might as well look at the heel
of your shoe as at your watch or the town clock either
to get the true time. That clock hain't been right sin'
I can remember."
In the afternoon the sky brightened and the sun
shone forth on the wet earth. When the roads and
grass were dried somewhat two of the men went in
search of raspberries along the stone walls, intending
to get a mess for supper, and Jim took his gun and spent
a leisurely hour or two exterminating woodchucks.
"I'd rather have gone fishing," he said, as he entered
the house later. "Yes, fishing would have suited me
better than gunning, if I had n't broke my pole the
last time I went. I'd landed one nice big trout that
36 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
weighed a pound and a half, but that one I lost, when
the pole went back on me, was twice as big. By gol!
it makes me cry to lose so many of them big trout."
The last thing before bedtime Jim sat down by the
stove with a stick in one hand and his jackknife in the
other and began to whittle kindlings to start the morn-
ing fire. "I do this every night," he said, "unless I
forgit it. In that case I have to whittle the kindlings
in the morning. This stick is hemlock. I like pine
better, because it's easier to whittle, but one'll burn
about as good as the other. I wish I had the big pine
on the road to the village that the wind blowed over
this spring. We had a storm then that was a storm. I
was settin' by the window lookin' up toward the sap
bush when it started, and I see the big maples bend over
nearly to the ground. Some were Uprooted, but most
of 'em would spring back. The clouds were so black
I thought we was goin' to have an awful shower, but
it only rained a little spat.
"Well," he said, as he shut up his knife, "I'd be
saved considerable work whittling if we burned coal.
Quite a good many families burn it in winter in the
settin' room, but the price is so cussed high they don't
use any more than they can help."
One of my walks in the neighborhood was on what
was known as the Hardscrabble Road. The portion of
it, however, that I traversed was simply a pleasant,
meandering country byway. Where it separated from
the main road was a small, whitewashed stone building
Midsummer in the Catskills 37
with the date 1813 cut into one of the stones, and I
inquired the significance of this date from some people
who were sitting on the piazza of a house near by. They
seemed sociably inclined, and I entered the gate and
joined them. The group included a middle-aged woman
and her mother, and another gray-haired, elderly
woman, whom her companions call Aunt Jane. On the
grass in front of the piazza sat a little girl playing with
a kitten. Two of the women were sewing, but Aunt
Jane was a visitor and lived in the building with a date
on it.
"That date shows when it was built," she said. "It
was a schoolhouse at first, and the schoolmaster lived
in this house here. The children come from four or
five miles around yes, even from way over in Meeker
Holler. It was such a back country then, and the
roads were so poor that a good many come on horse-
back. They kept their horses in the schoolmaster's
barn.
"Later other schoolhouses was built more convenient,
and this one was dropped. Not long ago I happened
to be out in the yard when a man who was drivin' along
the road stopped and spoke to me, and he says, 'I'm
goin' to be bold enough to tell you that I went to school
in that building.'
"Then he said he wished he could live in this region,
and asked if I knew of any places for sale. I told him
I did n't, and he looked around and said, 'Well, you've
got God's own country here.'
38 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
"They say that all the stones in the walls of our house
was took off from that one acre yonder that the building
stands on, but there were so many left that we had to
work awful hard to get the land cleared so we could
raise anything on it.
"When they quit keepin' school in the buildin' it was
fixed up for a church, and there was a pulpit made at
one end of the old schoolroom, but for the last thirty
or forty years it's been a house. Several families had
lived into it before we got it, and it was all run down and
was a horrid-lookin' thing. The lower part had been
divided into rooms, but there wa'n't a yard of paper on
the walls, and there wa'n't no chamber floor upstairs.
The downstairs floor is still in there with its wide, old-
fashioned boards, the same that was put in when the
house was built; and there's the same padlock on the
door that was on it when we moved in.
"It's quite a comfortable house for a small family.
The only fault I got to find with it is that we don't have
anything better than crick water on the place. That's
the reason I'm over here now. I came to get a pail of
spring water and a little buttermilk."
"Well," grandma said, "that house of yours certain
was a snug little church when I was young. I've went
there to meetin' many a Sunday."
Just then a young turkey boldly joined the group on
the piazza. "Now you go back," the housewife said.
"Your company's not wanted."
"One of them young turkeys picks its own ma," the
Midsummer in the Catskills 39
little girl observed. "It picked its ma under the
throat."
"We've had very good luck raisin' turkeys late
years," the housewife said. "I s'pose we've got forty
at present, and we've lost hardly any since they begun
hatching in the spring. But Mrs. Brock says hers are
dyin' off to beat all. There! I seen one fly up from
among the cabbages down in the garden. Ruth, go
and drive 'em out."
"I don't want to," Ruth responded. "It's too
far."
"You'll walk farther'n that if your mama starts after
you," the mother declared. "Besides, if you leave the
turkeys in there they'll eat the cabbages all up and
then you won't have none to eat yourself. They do
like those cabbages, and they've got some of 'em just
skinned."
The little girl rose reluctantly and went to chase the
turkeys. A team was approaching on the road. "Ain't
that Raskins ag'in?" Grandma said.
"Don't look like his team to me," Aunt Jane com-
mented.
"I think 'tis yet," Grandma said. "Yes, that's
Raskins drivin'. Must be he's got boarders and is
givin' 'em a ride."
"There's another team comin' up the hill," the
housewife remarked.
"That's Henry Bligh and his adopted daughter," Aunt
Jane announced after observing them a few moments.
40 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
"Henry married Nora Dean, you remember. Her and
I was close friends."
"Where does he live?" Grandma inquired. And
they went on discussing him and his family and his
abode in detail. It was the same with every vehicle
that passed they always interrupted whatever con-
versation they were engaged in to comment on the
occupants.
I wanted to hear more about the church, and in
response to my questions Aunt Jane said: "They
did n't have meetin's there regularly, but every once
in a while word would be given out that there was to be
a meetin' in the Hardscrabble schoolhouse. I lived in
the village then, and I used to see the people on a Sun-
day go stringin' along up the street, and if I had n't
heard of any notice I'd wonder where they was goin'.
You know they do go a good deal up to the burying-
ground Sundays to look around. But when I'd see the
whole lot comin' back after two or three hours I'd
understand they'd been to Hardscrabble. It was Old
School Baptist meetin's they had here, and the sermons
was so long indeed that Doc. Atkins, who was our
village dentist then, said he'd get tired sometimes and
would go out and lay on the grass and eat caraway."
"Land! it was just like Doc. Atkins to do that way,"
Grandma observed. "He's moved out of town now."
"He must be gettin' toward eighty," the housewife
mused. "He's been an old man a long time. Doc.
was a good dentist in his day. Folks all said he made
fflfG8te,-&*;. :
L Vi. .? V *-.V* ' Tf .-.* ^.ttuL .-*.-.-.
Ploughing one of the stony fields
Midsummer in the Catskills 41
grand false teeth. But he never looked neat enough to
suit me. I remember tellin' some one in the post office
one day that I did n't want his fingers round my face;
and I turned, and there he was right behind me. But
he just haw-hawed and took it in good part."
"He made my teeth," Grandma said, "and I've had
'em forty-six years."
"Oh, Doc. could make teeth all right," the house-
wife agreed. "Yes, sir, he could. He made some for
George that's my husband. One day George was
bringin' home a load of hay, and he was drivin' along
a side road with the hired man follerin' behind when the
horses took fright at some boarders who'd climbed up
in a tree. The horses shied, and load and all went
tumbling down a kind of dugway eighty or ninety feet.
They turned a complete summersault, and the load of
hay landed on George bottom side up. The hired man
thought George was killed, but when he got down there
he heard him sayin' he was smotherin', and he dug a
hole in the hay as quick as he could to give him air."
"I s'pose them boarders helped," Aunt Jane re-
marked.
"No, no, help nothin'!" the wife exclaimed. "The
hired man got him out alone. For a wonder George
did n't have any bones broken, but he was bruised up
like the mischief, and his teeth was smashed all to
pieces. So he had Doc. Atkins make him a set of false
ones."
Grandma's thoughts now turned back to the subject
42 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
we had been discussing previously. "There's still a
Hardshell Baptist Church in the village," she said,
"but they seldom have services nowadays. Once in a
while, though, Dominie Lawson comes from down the
valley and preaches. They say he's smart, and I've
always been anxious to hear him, but it ain't been con-
venient. Did you know that they never have no musical
instruments in the Hardshell churches?"
"David Buxton who died last spring was a good
Baptist," Aunt Jane said. "He'd been sick a long time,
and toward the end he was nothin' in the world but a
skeleton. For quite a while before he died he was so
afraid he'd say or do something wrong that he did n't
dare read anything but his religious paper, Signs of the
Times. He's taken that paper ever since he was a young
man. It's full of sermons and old-fashioned religious
experiences, and most people would find it dull, but it
was a great comfort to David. I went to his funeral,
and Dominie Lawson preached the funeral sermon. It
must have been an hour long. There was no direct
application to the occasion, but it was some predestina-
tion stuff that rambled round and round gettin' no-
where, I thought. The pall bearers sat there and slept,
but I kept wide awake to see what the sermon was
goin' to amount to. The words, 'He knows my sheep, he
knows my voice,' come into it pretty often, and every time
the dominie repeated 'em he looked right over at me."
"He knew you was a lost sinner, Aunt Jane," the
housewife remarked.
Midsummer in the Catskills 43
"Way back when David Buxton's father was alive,"
Grandma said, "the Hardshell church used to be
crowded, and at the time of the yearly meetin' people
would come from all around and have family picnics
and stay three or four days. There'd be singin' and
sermons then from morning till along late in the after-
noon when folks had to go home to do the chores. At
night every Baptist hereabouts had his house full of
visitors. Oh, they had great times! Listening to the
sermons all day put me in a fidget, but those old-time
Baptists would have sat there a month, I guess, and
enjoyed it."
"I was at the Baptist Church once on a communion
Sunday," Aunt Jane said, "but they did n't pass me
the bread and the wine."
"They would," Grandma said, "if only you'd been
baptized by bein' immersed in a brook or bathtub or
something. They used to have their batizin's in the
crick. Do you recollect when they baptized Curtis
Taylor? They'd just dipped him when Doc. Atkins
called out, 'That's right chuck him in ag'in.' I was
there, and I heard him. He meant that considerable
reformin' was necessary in Curt's case; and he didn't
make any mistake about it either. Curt is quite a
drinkin' feller, and he don't go to church nowhere
now."
"That same day Jennie Todd was baptized," the
housewife observed, "and if I'd had anything to do
about it they'd 'a' left her in till this time."
44 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
"The last batizin' I went to," Aunt Jane said, "was
in winter. They cut a hole in the ice, commencin' at
the bank and makin' a channel perhaps fifteen feet long
out to the middle of the stream. There was snow on
the ground, and it was an awful cold day, but considera-
ble of a crowd come to look on. Just one young woman
was baptized. The dominie walked out in the water
with her and soused her right down under out of sight.
Then they went to the nearest house to change. their
duds. It's claimed that a person who's baptized in
winter is miraculously protected from feelin' the cold,
but I noticed that the girl wanted to get in the house as
quick as she could, and the dominie was in about as big
a hurry. Their clothes froze on 'em, and it's my opinion
that if she'd known as much before as she did after-
wards she'd have waited till warm weather."
Aunt Jane now declared that she must go home, and a
few minutes later she walked out of the yard carrying
a pail full of spring water and a lesser receptacle full of
buttermilk. About this time the farmer came to the
piazza and announced that he had finished building a
chicken house, but had neglected to provide it with any
way to get in or out. So the housewife had to go with
him to consider the problem, and I resumed my
rambling.
NOTES. The Catskills are attractive in their legendary lore,
their picturesque scenery, their cool and healthful atmosphere, and
their accessibility. Good hotels and boarding-places are found
scattered all over the region, both on the heights and in the valleys,
Midsummer in the Catskills 45
and it is not difficult to satisfy one's wishes in the matter of expense
as well as in surroundings.
The chief gateways to this outlying group of the Appalachian
system are Kingston and Catskill, both situated on the west bank
of the Hudson. The mountains themselves begin to rise only a few
miles from the river. A narrow-gauge railroad connects Catskill
with the base of Catskill Mountain. You can make a quick ascent to
the top of the mountain by an elevating railroad, but a more inter-
esting way to go up is by a winding wagon road through the woods.
Half way to the summit on this road is the scene of Rip Van Winkle's
famous 20 years' sleep. Catskill Mountain has many wild cliffs,
and on its eastern side is almost a sheer precipice. The view from
its upper ledges over the plains between it and the Hudson is of
unique beauty. Ten miles off, the river itself can be glimpsed, and
on the far horizon are the blue ranges of the Berkshire Hills. The
vicinity of the mountain abounds in pleasant walks and drives.
Perhaps the most delightful of these excursions is the one through
the narrow wooded ravine known as Kaaterskill Clove, with its
limpid creek and dainty waterfalls.
Persons having an ambition to scale Slide Mountain, the loftiest
of the Catskill heights, can do so most readily by journeying on the
railway that crosses the mountains from Kingston, and leaving the
train at Big Indian. It is 1 1 miles from there to the summit.
West of Kingston, 16 miles, the Ashokan Reservoir is nearing
completion. This is to be a chief source of water-supply for New
York City, 86 miles distant. The water will flow through a concrete
acqueduct, 17 feet in diameter, which will pass under the Hudson at
Storm King. The reservoir will convert a portion of the fair Esopus
valley into a lake, 12 miles long and from I to 3 miles broad. About
64 miles of highway must be discontinued, 7 villages abandoned,
and the bodies moved from 32 cemeteries. The main dam rests on
a foundation sunk 200 feet below the level of Esopus Creek and the
dam rises 200 feet above the creek. A macadam boulevard is to
encircle the lake. It will be lined with shade trees, and lighted by
46 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
electricity at night. The total cost of the undertaking will be
250,000,000.
Automobile routes go westward into the Catskills from Kingston,
Saugerties, and Catskill. Good dirt roads are the rule, but they are
often narrow, winding, and steep.
In literature the individuality of the mountains is best set forth
in the writings of John Burroughs, who was born at Roxbury in the
westerly portion. Roxbury was also the birthplace of Jay Gould.
West of the mountains, on Otsego Lake, is Cooperstown, famous
as the home and burial-place of J. Fennimore Cooper. The site of
the old Cooper mansion is marked by a statue of an Indian hunter.
South of the Catskills, 6 miles west of New Paltz, is the famous
resort of Lake Mohonk, near the summit of Sky Top, 1,550 feet
high, one of the Shawangunk Mountains. Here are held notable
annual conferences concerning the World's Peace and the welfare
of the Indians. Lake Mohonk can be easily reached from Newburg
or Kingston over good dirt and macadam roads. The great hotel
at Lake Mohonk, and the hotels at Lake Minnewaska, 6 miles
south, are managed on "a strictly temperate plan," and "visitors
are not expected to arrive or depart on the Sabbath." The charm
of the scenery in the region consists largely in the attractive mixture
of the wild and gentle.
Ill
THE HEART OF THE HUDSON HIGHLANDS
FOR a distance of twenty miles, from Cornwall on
the north to Peekskill on the south, the broad
current of the Hudson twists and turns among
the mountains. Where the river enters this realm of
rugged peaks are the two opposing heights of Storm
King and Breakneck Mountain, forming the Northern
Gate of the Highlands. Where the river escapes into
the milder region beyond Peekskill is the Southern Gate
guarded by the Dunderberg on the west shore, and the
Spitzenberg Mountains opposite. Up and down the
stream the great river steamers plough their way, and
the canal-boat tows toil back and forth, and there are
frequent motor boats plying in the neighborhood of the
towns, and now and then one sees a steam yacht, or,
best of all, especially amid the wilder scenery, a slow,
old sailing vessel dependent wholly on the vagaries of
the winds.
Hugging close to either shore for nearly the whole
distance through the Highlands is a railroad, and to get
a foothold, even at the water's edge, it has often been
necessary to blast out a terrace at the base of the crags,
or to open a way through some outjutting ridge by
cutting down from the top or by tunnelling. The
48 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
thunder of the trains along the iron rails comes to the
ear almost unceasingly, the air is apt to be much
dimmed by the smoke that pours forth from the en-
gines, and you are constantly reminded that the valley
is a great commercial highway.
Perhaps of all the bordering mountains Storm King
is the best known. Its abruptness and comparative
isolation make it particularly impressive. To some the
name seems rather sentimental, but to most it is in
keeping with the mountain's size and character, and
they would not have it replaced with the older cog-
nomen of Butter Hill. "A pretty big lump of butter,"
one of the long-time residents of the vicinity commented
to me, "but it really does have the shape of a lump of
butter if you see it from some points of view."
He called my attention to the sister height across the
stream, and said: "That's another big bunch of rocks.
They say an Indian fell down the cliffs there once and
broke his neck, and so they call it Breakneck Moun-
tain."
As one continues southward the more important
mountains are Bull Hill, Crow Nest, Sugar Loaf, An-
thony's Nose, Bear Hill, and the Dunderberg, all steep
and ponderous, and with many a bare, gray shoulder
of rock showing through the foliage. About half way
between the northern and southern gates is West Point
with its magnificent, castle-like buildings nestling amid
the trees near the cliff-bordered river and having a
background of forested ridges.
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 49
Most of these features of the region are familiar to
whoever has journeyed up and down the river, but I
wanted to see something of life and nature beyond the
immediate borders of the stream. On the map, back
among the mountains, I had found a place called
Doodletown, and I determined to make its acquain-
tance, fully persuaded that a place with such a name
and in such a situation was worth investigating. I made
a guess at what was the nearest railroad station, and
there I left the train one sunny October morning. A
short climb up a steep hill took me into a tiny village
in a wooded glen, where one of the natives gave me
detailed directions so that the crooks and partings of
the roads between there and Doodletown should not
puzzle and take me astray. While we were talking, a
shock-headed country boy about fourteen years old
sat on a store porch close by. He looked straight ahead
and was apparently meditating, wholly oblivious of
what was going on around him, but as I was resuming
my walk he casually observed that he was going to
Doodletown and would show me the way. So we went
on together.
I presently learned that my companion's name was
Johnny Stotten. He was at first somewhat reticent, but
gradually became voluble and confidential. "I'm
goin' to be a boatman," he said. "I'll get a job on a
brick barge, don't you know? This year I'm in school,
but I'll be on the river next year. Some boys might
not like handling bricks, but I've always worked from
50 Highways and]Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
a kid up, and I don't think it'll be any harder than
what I've had to do up here in the mountains. I help
loading the wagons and sleds and driving the horses.
Some of the cordwood sticks are so heavy I can't hardly
lift 'em, and often we have to draw the wood from
awful rocky places where it's right straight down
almost, and the load nearly pushes the collars off the
horses' heads. Once in a while there's an accident. A
man near us was up in the woods sleddin', and he was
walkin' side of the load drivin' when he stepped on a
wet stick you know how slippery that is. His feet
went from under him, and the horses drug him quite
a distance. Some of his ribs was broken and his
shoulder, and he's been a cripple man ever since.
"Do you see those dead trees up there on that slope?
There used to be lots of highholes in them. A highhole
is a bird with a big, long mouth. It's like a woodpecker,
only larger. They're good to eat, and we used to shoot
'em while they were around in the bushes after dog-
wood and sumach berries.
"Now we're passing along side of a little lake High-
land Lake, they call it. The water looks clear and nice,
but it'll poison anyone who takes a drink. It makes
your mouth itch and your face swell up. My brother
drank some once, and when he came home we did n't
know him. Oh! did n't he have a big face! There's
lots of fish in the lake black bass, perch, pickerel, and
everything. Gorry! I don't know what is n't in there.
We've eaten many a nice mess of 'em.
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 51
"A battle was fought near here in the Revolutionary
War that's what they tell me. I like to hear about
battles and I like to read history; but I don't like to
read novels. They scare me so my hair stands up
straight, and I don't know what to do.
"There's a family of Arabians have got a camp off
in the woods on this side road that leaves the main
road here. The man goes around to the houses and
tells fortunes. I guess he makes money because he's
always dressed good when I seen him. He wanted to
give an entertainment in the schoolhouse, but they
would n't let him. One of the Doodletown boys went
to the Arabians' camp, and the man took a half dollar
and blew it into a dollar. The boy don't want to go
there again. He says they are witches. I would n't
want to see 'em do such things, and I don't believe they
can. They have some kind of a scheme to fool you.
"Way up on that mountain ahead of us a horse fell
off the rocks last summer. It was a big white horse
that was out to pasture, and it broke its back and
busted a big hole in its head."
At last we reached Doodletown up among the forest
heights. It is a place of scattered homes, and these are
dotted along on divergent roads that follow up various
valleys between the big rocky ridges. Nowhere is there
a village nucleus, and even the church, the schoolhouse,
and the store are widely separated from each other, and
none of them has more than a house or two in the im-
mediate vicinity. The little white church stands at the
52 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
junction of two roads, and close by was a great way-
side pile of cordwood. This wood was indicative of the
chief industry of the region. The forests, and not the
diminutive fields or the few cattle, are the main support
of the people.
One of the dwellings that particularly attracted my
attention was a shed-like structure scarcely high enough
to stand up in. Roundabout the grass grew rank, and
evidently was neither cut nor browsed off. The door
was padlocked. On the end of the hut toward the road
the window was open and several narrow strips of
board had been nailed across in a manner to suggest a
cage for savage beasts; and, sure enough, when we
came opposite the house, several dogs leaped up on the
inside, put their forepaws on the windowsill and barked
at us viciously.
"Hello, Danny," Johnny said.
"Who are you speaking to?" I asked.
"Well," Johnny said, "the man who lives there looks
just like one of his dogs, and I can't tell whether I see
Danny or the tarrier at the window; so I say 'hello'
anyway when I go past. Danny calls the dogs his
children. He lives there alone with 'em, and when he
goes off to work he locks 'em in. I think they get their
noses in every bit of food he eats."
I inquired of Johnny where I could find a lodging-
place, and he mentioned several homes including his
own. It was easier to continue with the friend I already
had than to seek refuge among entire strangers, and
Going a-milking
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 53
we went on up one of the valleys to the last house on
the winding mountain road. The dwelling was a shape-
less, uncertain structure, the older portion of which
had at some time been painted yellow. At the front
door was a little porch with a broken floor, and the
porch posts were so decayed at the base that they
threatened to let the patched and twisted roof down
altogether. On the hard-trodden earth round about
was a great variety of household furniture chairs and
rugs, pieces of stovepipe, etc. The boy's mother ap-
peared at the door, towsled and grimy-handed and
somewhat disconcerted by the advent of a stranger.
She was in the midst of housecleaning, but I might
stay if I would be satisfied with the accommodations
they could furnish.
So I sat down in one of the chairs in the yard where I
could look forth at the mountains aglow in the sunshine
with their autumn tints of scarlet and gold. Johnny
and a younger brother, Gerald, and a still smaller sister
started a game of ball at one side of the house amid the
weeds and upthrusting boulders. For clubs they used
woodpile sticks, and their ball was a little wad of cloth
wound about with string. There was a good deal of
laughter in their play, and a good deal of scolding, dis-
puting, and bluffing. They could not bat the ball far
without its going into the brush or trees or over a
tumble-down stone wall. Often they knocked around
some hard, green, globular fruit that strewed the ground
under one of the yard trees. I asked what the green
54 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
balls were, and Gerald said: "We call 'em mock
oranges, but they hain't. When they get dry they smell
awful pretty and we like to put 'em in the bureau
drawers where we keep our clothes."
Close by the picket gate that gave entrance to the
yard was a big dead cherry tree with its gauntness
almost hidden by grapevines. The leafage on the vines
was still green, and here and there I could catch
glimpses of pendant purple clusters of grapes. Pres-
ently Johnny went and stood by the roadside surveying
the tangle of vines up above. "I guess I'll have to get
some of them grapes," he said to me. "There's grapes
in the woods, too summer grapes and frost grapes.
The summer grapes grow around the swamps. They
are big and sweet, and we pick and do them down. If
I'm where the frost grapes are after they are ripe I eat
'em right out of hand."
Johnny now sat down and took off his shoes, then
gripped the tree and scuffled upward till he was among
the branches. Soon the grapeskins began to drop, and
Gerald observed this evidence of feasting with watering
mouth. "Give us a bunch, Johnny," he called.
But Johnny said nothing, and the grapeskins con-
tinued to fall with irritating profusion. Gerald repeated
his request and threw one of the hard green mock
oranges up at Johnny as an inducement to comply.
When this did not produce the desired result the bom-
bardment of appeals and missiles became continuous.
The boy in the tree was well protected by vines, and
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 55
at first he was not especially disturbed. But after a
while he was hit. Then he protested loudly and told his
brother he would come down and kill him.
"Chuck us a bunch, and I won't bother you,"
Gerald said.
Just then Lizzie, a grown-up sister, came out to the
road and addressing Gerald said: "S'pos'n' you made
Johnny fall out of the tree. I'll go right in and tell
mama of you."
So he threw a few mock oranges at her, which made
her skip and screech. Some of them flew in my direc-
tion. "Stop it, Gerald!" she cried. "You'll hit that
man! You think you're awful cunning, but you just
wait till papa comes home!"
"Mama!" she called, as she scurried into the house,
"Johnny's in the grape tree and Gerald's pelting him."
Pretty soon she reappeared. "Johnny," she called,
"come down and lick him. Come down and chase him
till you ketch him."
After a while Mrs. Stotten came out and looked up
into the tree. "Where are yer, Johnny?" she said.
"Why don't you get that man some of those grapes?
Pick some nice bunches, and I'll put 'em in a dish."
She went back and got a pan and caught the bunches
as he tossed them down. "They all smash," she said
depricatingly.
"Go git a apron," Johnny said.
She brought the apron and holding it well spread
out said: "Let's have some nice big ones, Johnny.
56 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
That's it. Well, now, Johnny, get a few more bunches,
and then hurry down. You've got to go to the store.
I've been pokin' you to go all the afternoon."
"I'll be right down," Johnny responded.
"It begins to get cool," Mrs. Stotten said to me.
"Perhaps you'd be more comfortable sitting in the
parlor. The men'll get home soon, and they'll be com-
pany for you."
I went in and she brought me some grapes in a glass
dish. Most of them were intact, and the clusters were
large, though the individual grapes were small. While
I sat by the open window eating them the little girl
approached shyly outside and put an apple on the sill
for me, and then hastily and silently departed.
Mrs. Stotten presently called again to Johnny who
still lingered in the tree. "I'm coming," he said reas-
suringly; but not until he had been called once or
twice more did he descend. Then he leisurely put on his
shoes and went off down the road to do the errand at
the store.
Mrs. Stotten now began supper preparations by
going to where a few long sticks lay by the wayside
and cutting enough into firewood to make an armful.
She wielded the ax with an effective vigor that was
plainly the result of much practice. About this time
the man of the house arrived with Luther, his oldest
son. They sat down in the parlor with me, and Mr.
Stotten said: "You some resemble a man named
Willetts who comes up here from New York to paint
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 57
pictures. He's the greatest mountain runner I ever
seen in my life. That feller goes around our rough
roads and woods just for pleasure. Oh, gracious sakes,
yes!"
While Mr. Stotten talked he smoked his pipe, and
from time to time he relieved himself of his surplus
saliva. There was a carpet on the floor, but it was so
cut as to leave a strip of painted floorboards exposed
along the borders of the room, and it was this strip of
flooring that received his expectorations.
"I heard a good many guns goin' today," he con-
tinued. "There's fine hunting here. I don't s'pose
any mountains have more game in 'em than these.
You see, for a long distance back westerly it's mostly
wilderness with very few inhabitants. We have any
amount of red and gray foxes, and once in a while a
link or a catamount, and sometimes a black bear travels
through. Probably those bigger wild animals wander
here from the mountainous country in Pennsylvanny.
My wife's brother come across one of those Rocky
Mountain wildcats when he was out with his dog hunt-
ing not long ago. The wildcat clumb a tree, and it
made a spring for him just as he shot at it. Down it
come close to him, and if it had n't been hit so bad
it was about at its last kicks it would have killed him,
dog and all. A wildcat is a nasty beast when it comes
to fighting. It has a way of layin' on its back and
scratchin' a dog all to pieces.
"This is my native region, but I've worked a good
58 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
deal on boats up and down the Hudson and along the
coast. One while I worked on a New Haven oyster
boat, and what feasts I had then! I can eat oysters till
I look like 'em eat 'em raw right out of the shell.
Those oysters were big they were old bouncers.
"That puts me in mind of a girl who lived back here
in the mountains. Her home was in what is called
Burke's Holler over t'other side of Bull Hill. A feller
named Henry Newell, who used to run around with her
a good deal, invited her to go with him to West P'int
where there was to be some doin's. This 'ere girl
had n't never seen the river before, and when a steam-
boat hove in sight she grabbed Henry by the arm and
says, 'Look a' there! What's that comin' up the river?"
"'That's a steamboat,' Henry says.
"'How old is that steamboat?' she asked.
"'I s'pose twelve or fourteen years,' Henry says.
'"Well, my gracious!' the girl says, if she grows till
she's twenty won't she be a bouncer!'
"Henry made a mistake giving her that outing.
After seein' how the young fellers at West P'int dressed
and behaved she concluded he wa'n't smart enough for
her. He was expectin' they'd be goin' to the dominie
soon to get j'ined together, but she dropped him. That
was years ago, but he won't stand any jokin' on the
subject even now. I met him with his team on the
road lately and made some pleasant remark about the
age of steamboats and the like o' that, and he was
goin' to knock my brains out with a cordwood stick.
Skinning the coon
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 59
"That girl gives you a fair idea of the ignorance of
some of the people in these parts of the world. I s'pose
there's folks back here who've lived to a terrible age
and never seen New York. One day I met a well-to-do
man I knew in a village where there was a little fruit
and candy store and invited him to have an ice-cream
with me at my expense.
"He hung back. 'I don't know whether I'd like it,'
he said.
"But I insisted on to him, and we went into the
little store and had some. 'Well, John, that's pretty
good, ain't it?' he says, when we finished.
"He was seventy years old, and in his hull life had
never tasted ice-cream before. The fact is he was that
infernal stingy he would n't buy it even if he
wanted it.
"Another old man his name was Courtlandt Powers
went down to New York for the first time. When he
come back we asked him how it looked. He said he
thought it was quite a smart place, but he felt no satis-
faction in going there because the houses were so blame
thick he could n't see anything."
I mentioned the salute Johnny and I had received
from the dogs in the little hut down the road.
"Yes," Mr. Stotten said, "Danny is quite a dog
fancier. He had seven or eight dogs livin' there with
him one while. But he got sick, and the board of
health come up and decided it would improve the
premises and his chances of getting well to dispose
60 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
of the dogs. They sent word for me to see that the
dogs was all shot. I went there, and Danny made a
great fuss. He said there was no religion in dog-
shooting, and no man who Was a man would do such
a thing the man who'd drag away a poor dog and kill
it must have a heart of stone. I told him I had my
orders, but he would n't let me shoot only three.
"Danny's a good worker. The worst you can say
about him is that he's an opium-eater. He'll take a
two-ounce bottle of laudanum and put it to his mouth
and drink it right off, and he has to have the opium or
he'd die. If he goes without it any length of time he'll
lay right in fits and froth at the mouth like a mad dog
till he gets it. I knew a woman who used opium. She
lived to be wonderful old, but in her last years she was
all withered and dried up so there was nothing of her.
When she did n't have opium she'd be in such distress
you would n't think she'd live from one minute to
another, but when she got some again she'd be up in-
side of quarter of an hour and around as lively as a
cricket. Luther, you remember her. That was Jim
Beasley's wife mother to Mandy and Molly."
Supper was now announced, and Mr. Stotten knocked
the ashes out of his pipe, and Luther threw away the
stub of a cigaret he had been puffing, and we adjourned
to the dining-room. The room was small, and with its
table, chairs, stove, and other furniture was much
crowded. The food was bountiful, and appetites were
hearty, and huge mouthfuls conveyed on the knife
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 61
blades disappeared with remarkable rapidity. The
place of honor at the table was occupied by a white-
haired patriarch whom Mr. Stotten addressed as
Daddy, and whom the children called Grampy. "He's
past eighty years old," Mr. Stotten said to me, "and
just as well as he ever was. You never had a doctor to
you in your life, did you Daddy?"
"Wunst," the veteran said.
"But I'll warrant you wa'n't so wonderful serious
sick even if you did have the doctor," Mr. Stotten de-
clared, and he turned to me and added, "I wish my
health was as good as his."
"Is that a dog under the table stepping on my feet?"
Luther said.
Lizzie, who was bringing in a freshly-filled dish of
potato and some apple sauce from the little leanto
kitchen, set the things on the table, and investigated
underneath. "No, it's a cat," she announced.
One of the delicacies in the bill of fare was honey.
The comb that contained it was in irregular pieces and
the cells were a good deal broken. "We got that honey
from over in the woods a few days ago," Mr. Stotten
explained. "I watched some bees flying away from a
bunch of sumachs and saw the direction they took, and
I follered to where they went into a hole in the rocks.
We put sulphur in dry rags and made a smudge. That
killed most of 'em, though some people say that bees
killed that way come to after a few hours. It was a
bad place to get at. Luther crawled down in head first,
62 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
and I held onto him by the seat of his pants. He cut
the honey loose and then hooked onto it with a crotched
stick and drew it out. We could n't help its dragging
on the rock, so there's some grit into it. But we got
more honey than I ever got out of any bee tree I've
cut. Luther was stung quite a little about his hands,
and they swelled up like cushions. Will you have some
more potato? This has been a poor year for raisin'
potatoes here. We planted four barrels, but I doubt if
we'll git that many. We had a fair hay crop. Johnny
and Gerald can both swing a scythe now, and they're
quite a help. A machine is not much use here, the
fields are so small, and there's so many rocks stickin'
up, and so many swampy spots."
Johnny returned from the store just then. He
sidled up to his mother rubbing his stomach and said:
"I don't feel good. Will some one else milk for me?"
"Yes, I will," she responded.
Then Gerald wanted some one to milk for him, not
because he did n't feel well, but because he had filled
the woodbox and he thought he had done his share of
work. His plea was not successful, and the evening
tasks were done somehow. Even the invalid Johnny
did not escape scot-free, for when it was announced that
the horse had strayed off down the road he was obliged
to go out and pursue it in the thickening gloom of the
evening.
I had gone back to the parlor. In the center of the
room was a little stand with a big shabby family Bible
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 63
on it, and in one corner was a marble topped table, the
edge of which had been beautified by a band of home-
applied bronze. The other furniture included several
modern easy chairs, two attractive rugs, a stove, and
a little organ. On the corner table was an ornate lamp
of huge dimensions. It was such a lamp as seldom
makes an advent into as humble a home except as the
result of a wedding, and how it got there I could not
imagine. But Mrs. Stotten came in and lighted it and
with some pride inforrried me she had earned it acting
as an agent in selling soap, coffee, tea, witch-hazel, and
similar things in the neighborhood. "Every time I sell
ten dollars' worth," she said, "I send on the money,
and get as pay for my work something nice for my
rooms. You can furnish your whole house. I can sell
ten dollars worth in a day pretty near. I just hitch up
the horse and drive around. Most everyone will take
off me when I go myself. If I send the children they
won't do as well. I only go in summer when money's
plenty, and I sell two or three ten dollar lots in a season.
That cuckoo clock on the wall is one of the things I got.
I don't always take the trouble to wind it, and I see
it ain't going, but I'll start it and you can hear it
strike."
She wound it up and resumed her seat, and pretty
soon it struck eleven, and its melodious notes seemed
to sufficiently atone for the fact that it was four or five
hours out of the way. While Mrs. Stotten and I were
talking the little girl came in and climbed into her
64 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
mother's lap, and began to tell about playing ball that
afternoon. "I made three runs," she announced.
"Well I bet yer," the mother commented. "This is
the baby," she added to me. "She's seven years old,
and now it's her bedtime."
She went away with the little girl, and soon after-
ward Johnny looked in at the parlor door and said:
"Pop says for you to come out in the other room where
there's a fire. We ain't got the stovepipe up in here
yet. There's a fireplace in back of that stove, but it's
boarded up and we don't use it. In the summer we
hear the young swallows holler in there. Once I took
away the board and found one of the big swallows. I
made a grab and caught him. He had little black eyes.
I carried him outdoors and let him go. I like to see
the swallows fly."
When I entered the dining-room Mr. Stotten was
leaning over the lamp that was on the table lighting
his pipe at the top of the chimney. Luther was pre-
paring to write a letter, but was having difficulty in
finding paper. A week ago he had a box full, and now
as he shook the box and looked into it ruefully he dis-
covered only one lone envelope. "Who uses my paper
like that?" he said. "Gorry! I wish they'd leave some-
thing alone. I s'pose if I'd waited another day that
envelope would have been gone, too."
However, with his mother's help, he was at last
furnished with writing materials. "Liz," he said, as
he settled down to start his letter, "you go and get me
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 65
some water to drink. The pail in the back room is
empty."
They got their water from a well in front of the house
of their nearest neighbor.
"No, I don't want to go," Liz said. "I'm afraid."
"Oh, go on," Luther urged.
"No," Liz persisted.
"I'll go with you," Mrs. Stotten said. "I can't keep
the Old Boy away from you, but I guess I can protect
you from the dark."
So Liz got the pail and the two went forth into the
night.
"This region has been settled a long, long time,"
Mr. Stotten said. "There were people living here be-
fore the Revolutionary War, and the British soldiers
who marched back and forth through the mountain
called them the Yankee Doodle Boys. That's the way
the name of Doodletown started. Once there was a
big fight between the Hessians and the Americans down
by Highland Lake. Oh! it was a bloody battle. Our
men slaughtered them Hessians right and left, and after
the fight ended they threw the dead into the lake. There
was so many they say a person could walk across on
those dead bodies. The water is eighty to ninety feet
deep anywhere you might to measure it, and in one
place they claim there ain't no bottom at all. A while
ago a young feller who was fishing on the lake raised
a body with his hook. But he was so scairt when he
brought the dead man to the surface that he took out
66 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
his hook and let the body sink. Then he could n't
get it again. It had on a uniform of gray cloth with
two rows of brass buttons down the front, and a yaller
stripe across the shoulders, and a yaller band around
the sleeves. The body itself wa'n't decayed, but was
petrified just like a clay man. Whether that's true or
not he always told it straight. I've heard him tell it
myself as many as half a dozen times. Yes, it's likely
there's lots of dead men down in that lake.
"The water in it is bad. I'll guarantee that whoever
drinks it will have trouble. There used to be a big ice-
house by the lake, and in the winter three hundred men
would be working to fill it. They drank the water, and
they all had sore lips and a sore mouth. Then they
got quills for to suck through, but it still made 'em
have sore tongues and sore throats."
"A great many years ago," Mrs. Stotten said, "one
of my relations Hiram Holley, his name was found
a skull on that battlefield, and he took it home. Ole
Mis Holley kept it in her bedroom on the bureau as a
kind of ornament. Gracious sake! what an ugly thing
it must have been. I don't think I'd want it on my
bureau lookin' at me. Once my mother, when she was
a girl, went visitin' the Holleys for a few days, and they
put her in that bedroom to sleep. But she would n't
stay in there, and I guess I would n't either."
"That puts me in mind of a story I heared a feller
tell down in Jersey," Mr. Stotten said. "Two men
was workin' in a cemetery, and in their talkin' they
Ready to start after partridges
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 67
begun to brag of how bold they were. 'I'd dare go
anywhere the darkest night that ever was,' says one.
"'Well,' says the other, 'I'll bet you wouldn't go
in that vault over there at midnight and pick up a
dead man's skull and bring it out.'
"'I'll bet you a gallon of rum I'll do it this very
night,' says the first man.
"So about midnight he went to the tomb. The
other feller had got there first and was hiding inside
intending to give his friend a scare. The man walked
in and felt around until he got hold of a skull, when the
other feller says, 'Let that alone. That's my skull.'
'"Well, if that's yours, I don't want it,' the feller
says. 'I'll find another.'
"After a little search he found one, and the other
feller hollers out, 'Let that alone. That's my skull.'
"'But they can't both be yours,' the feller says.
'There's only one man talkin'! I'm goin' to have this
anyhow.'
"So out he walked with it, and he won the bet."
Luther had now finished writing, and he brought
out a rattlesnake skin to show me. The live beast had
been over five feet long, and on the end of the tail were
ten rattles and a button. "I come across him right in
the middle of the road," Luther said, "and when I
threw a stone at him he showed fight and rattled and
struck at me. Rattlesnakes have tushes that are just
like cat's claws, and they open up their mouth wide
and hack at you."
68 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
"There used to be a man who had a saloon down by
the river," Mr. Stotten said. "Wildcat Bill they called
him, and he was a wildcat, too. He kep' some snakes
there. I did n't know he had the devilish things till
one day I was in the saloon and an Irishman come in
and says, 'Can I get some beer here?'
"'Sure thing,' says Bill. 'I got beer that would
make a dead man alive, and a live man dead.'
"He filled a glass and put it on the counter and then
reached underneath and got a great big rattlesnake
and stretched it beside the glass. When the Irishman
saw that snake he gave one frightened whoop and
dashed out of the door. Wildcat Bill was too fond of
playing those little jokes with his snakes. His saloon
did n't prosper, and he gave up the business."
Johnny was sitting with a dog in his lap, and he
mentioned that last summer the dog had been bitten
by a rattlesnake. "Yes," Mr. Stotten said, "and for
two or three days afterward, if he heard a grasshopper
or any little noise along the way, he'd imagine 'twas a
rattler, and he'd almost jump out of his skin. I laughed
at him till I had a pain in the side. I put kerosene on
his bite put it on good and plenty. That kills the
p'isen right on the spot kills it in a jiffy as dead as
a stone
"The biggest rattlesnake I ever killed had only five
rattles," Luther observed, "but I seen one another
feller killed that had twenty-seven. They claim the
first button comes when the snake is three years old
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 69
and after that one rattle grows every year, but the
snake with twenty-seven was n't large. I believe
snakes are a good deal like people, and shrink up when
they get old."
"Pop come near being bitten by a copperhead once,"
Johnny said. "It fastened onto his pantleg, and he
was dragging it along when I told him of it."
"I tell you, a copperhead is a bad animal to have
hold of you," Mr. Stotten affirmed. "I don't want one
to draw any blood on me."
"But a rattlesnake is ten times more p'isener,"
Luther commented.
"You's think that in a wooded country like this
there'd be considerable timber good for building pur-
poses," Mr. Stotten said, "but we have to buy all our
lumber. There ain't a sawmill in the region. There
used to be plenty in the olden time, and you can still
find the places where they stood, and the ruins of their
dams. The mountains are kep' cut off in supplying
cordwood to the brickyards, and we manage to get it
all no matter where it grows. If the slopes are too steep
for a team, we pitch the wood down or make gutters
and slide it down.
"Daddy," he said, raising his voice and addressing
the old man, who was sitting by the stone in the leanto
kitchen, "you can remember, before coal was common,
when they tuck most all the wood from here to New
York to use for kindlings and firewood in the house-
stoves."
yo Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
"Oh, good gracious, yes!" the patriarch said.
"Some curious stories are told about what happened
through here in the early days," Mr. Stotten said.
'There was Cap'n Blauvell, for instance. He was
a-sailin' his sloop down near Haverstraw one dark
night, when his crew heard some one holler to him
three times 'Hello! Jake Blauvell.' He anchored and
went ashore in a boat, and after a while he come back.
They sailed on down to New York, discharged the
cargo, and returned to Haverstraw, and there the
cap'n laid up his sloop. He did n't make any more
voyages, and from that time off he was a terrible rich
man. Whoever it was that called to him must have
told him where treasure was buried. They calculate
he dug it up somewhere on the beach here by lona
Island. It had been buried by Captain Kidd, I suppose.
Kidd's vessel was chased up here one time by a govern-
ment ship. When he saw he could n't escape, he
scuttled his ship and went ashore in a boat that was
just loaded with gold and silver. In the rocks up above
West P'int there's what is called Kidd's Cave. They
say a skeleton of a man was found in it and quite some
treasure, too, and they think Captain Kidd must have
crawled in there and died.
"I understand there's treasure right on the United
States grounds at West P'int. In 1872 three men
offered three thousand dollars for the privilege of
digging under the corner of the government barn there.
I know that to be a fact, and it made quite an excite-
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 71
ment in the papers at the time. But the government
would n't let 'em dig. The men were Mart and Sam
Conklin and Josiah Hunter. Mart, he told me himself
that as near as he could calculate by an instrument
they used for discovering precious metals, a hogshead
half full of gold and silver was buried right there. I
knowed Mart well, but 'tain't likely he'd have told me
if he had n't had a little rum in.
"Did you ever hear tell of an instrument that would
locate treasure? I'd almost take my oath they used
a witch-hazel crotch. That boy there," he said, indi-
cating Luther, "can take a witch-hazel limb and find
a ten cent piece anywhere. A peach limb does just as
well, and there's a feller down at Jones P'int uses
basswood in preference to either. You grip the end of
a branch in each hand so the crotch p'ints straight up,
and when you come to where you are over money or
a spring of water, it tips outward and down. But with
me it draws right back to my body. That shows I'm
pretty well charged with electricity. Anyhow, I can't
locate less than eight or ten dollars. But I've been
thinkin' lately that I always had a big silver watch in
my pocket. Perhaps it was that made the difference.
"They say those three men dug up a pot of money
out here in Orange County near Galloway's Tavern.
I did n't see the pot, but I've seen the cover. It lay
there at Turner's Station on the stoop a long time, and
it was kind of a flat stone about three inches thick and
eighteen across that looked as if it had been knocked
72 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
with a hammer and made pretty near round. Four
columns of letters was cut into it, but no one could read
'em. I've seen that cover I s'pose a dozen times.
"On one of our mountains there's some strange
letters cut into a rock. They're in two rows, and one
row is twelve feet long, and the other nearly as long.
The letters are formed by making nicks in the rock
with a stone chisel. The nicks are not deep, and they
are a little distance apart. You can only see 'em one
time in the day, when the sun shines ag'in' the rock in
the afternoon. The rock is very difficult to find. Years
ago two boys named Horace Flemming and Henry
Keyser come across it, and when they left the place
they never dremp but that they could go right back any
time they pleased. But them boys could n't find that
rock ag'in, though they hunted and hunted and hunted.
Other people could n't either, or if they did they
could n't go back to it. Those boys noticed that they
could see Flemming's house as they looked down from
the lettered rock on the mountain top. But from the
house the mountain could n't be seen on account of a
knoll between. Seems as if there was a kind of en-
chantment about the spot. Once a clairvoyant woman
was taken up there on the mountain to see what she
could discover, but she could n't do anything. She
had fits and fainted away and everything else, and she
said all sorts of spirits was up there follerin' her.
"It's supposed that the letters chipped on that rock
tell where the Long Tinker's silver mine is on Black
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 73
Mountain. That mine was worked by the Indians
when the white men first come to this country. Finally
an Italian come into the mountains here, and he was
terrible tall and a tinker by trade, so he was knowed
as the Long Tinker. The Indians asked him if he
could n't find any better business than that for makin'
a livin,' and he told 'em, 'No.' Then they tuck and
showed him this silver mine. After working it for a
good while and getting all the silver he wanted he went
back to Italy with his wealth. In the meantime the
Indians had cleared out, and no one else knew anything
about where the mine was until it was discovered by
Cap'n Waldron and Alexander Bulson. While hunting
on Black Mountain they come to a brush fence, and
forced their way through it and found three beaten
paths. They followed one path, and it led to a spot
where the long tinker had made charcoal for to melt
his ore, and among the weeds and bushes was a little
forge and crucible. They comeback and follered an-
other of the paths, and it went down a hill to where the
tinker had dumped cinders in a brook. The third path
tuck 'em to the mine, the mouth of which was corked
up with a lot of wood that had been stuffed into it.
They tried to pull some of the wood out, but it was
rotten and would n't hold together. The guns they
carried were a long old-fashioned flintlock sort in com-
mon use at that time, called buccaneer guns; and they
reached in as far as they could with 'em and did n't
strike no end to the hole. Right at the edge of the
74 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
opening was a shelf cut out of the rock, and on it was
a lot of ore. They picked up some and started back
down the mountain. By and by Bulson throwed his
ore away. He said he had stone enough on his land at
home without lugging on any more. But Cap'n
Waldron tuck hisn on board his packet sloop, and there
he kep' it two or three years. You see, neither he nor
Bulson knew anything about the Long Tinker and they
did n't bother to investigate further. One day a young
feller who'd come aboard the cap'n's packet and was
lookin' around happened to notice that ore from Black
Mountain and he asked what it was.
'"I don't know,' says the cap'n. 'I found it in the
mountain in an old mine hole.'
"'Can I take it and have it tested?' the feller asks.
'"Yes, take it and welcome,' says the cap'n, and he
never made any inquiry what the feller's name was or
where he could find him.
"He'd pretty near forgot all about the matter when
a few months later that feller spoke to him on a street
in New York, and said the ore was the richest of blue
silver and wanted to know where the mine was located.
They come up here to the mountains and went to
hunting for it. But they could n't find it, and then
they called on Alexander Bulson and asked him if he
knew where it was. 'By my life!' said he, 'I could go
there the darkest night that ever blowed. I could find
the way blindfolded.'
"The next morning all three started out, and they
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 75
hunted till they had to give it up; and that mine hain't
been found since. But once a feller was up on Black
Mountain lookin' for sheep, and something happened
to him. What it was he never would tell, except that
he went into a trance and when he come to himself he
was close by the mine. Yet he would n't go back
there, nor tell others how to go. Long afterward, when
he was on his death bed, they went and tried to get him
to tell, and they thought he would n't refuse them,
but he did."
About the time this tale was finished Luther came
in from the hall with a hunting-coat on, carrying a gun
and a lantern. "Come boys," he said to the dogs, and
they roused up and leaped about him eagerly. "I'm
goin' coon-hunting," he explained, and he lighted a
cigaret and departed.
"I've give up hunting coons myself," Mr. Stotten
said. "The last time I went I got so dead tired I
vowed I'd never go again. Steve Burrows went with
me. Perhaps you've heard of him. He's one of the
biggest politicianers anywhere in this region. Yes,
he's in politics head over heels. A coon will go up a
tree after the dogs have run it pretty tight, and then
you generally have a chance to shoot it; but Steve and
I run one an hour and then it went into a holler tree,
and as we did n't have no ax with us we had to give up
tryin' to get that coon. I guess we travelled thirty
miles that night, and then we laid in the woods all day
afterward. The next night we got on the trail of a
76 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
wildcat. He'd run for a while and climb a tree, and
before we'd get near enough to shoot he'd jump down
and run again. Finally we tuck the dogs off the track.
If we had n't they'd be follering that wildcat still.
Later the dogs got after some coons, and they treed
'em, and pretty soon we had 'em. There was four.
That satisfied us and we started for home. By the
time we got there we was tired out and half starved
out, too."
Everyone had gone to bed but Mr. Stotten and I,
and now I retired also. About an hour later I was
aroused by voices calling my name and by a thumping
on my door. Then Mr. Stotten and Luther came into
my room. The latter carried his lantern and a coon
he had shot. "The dogs found it in a pile of wood that
had upsot," said he, "and they scared it out and it ran
along an old woodroad. Why the deuce it did n't
go up the timber I don't know, but it kep' on till it
come to a slippery, slanting rock. It scampered along
that rock toward a cliff, but as soon as I stepped on
the rock I slid down, gun, lantern, and all, into a brook.
The dogs overtook the coon at the foot of the cliff, and
they fought it to beat the band. A coon is a pretty
cunning animal, and it's awful strong and spunky. I
scrambled up somehow to where the coon was, and I
managed to kick it two or three times to help the dogs
out. Then it broke away and was climbing up the
rocks when I shot it. Just heft it and see how solid
it is."
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 77
So I hefted the coon, and after a few final comments
my visitors left me.
In the morning, soon after six, I heard Mr. Stotten
tramping upstairs and calling the boys, and by and by
we had breakfast, with flapjacks for the chief item in
the menu. There was a heaped-up plate when we
started, and fresh additions, hot from the backroom
stove, kept it heaping to the very end, in spite of our
vigorous attacks. After we finished, Johnny had me
look at one of the dogs that had gone on the hunt the
previous night. There were bloodstains on the dog's
neck and marks of the coon's teeth. "We got a standing
offer of forty dollars for him," Johnny said. "He's
gettin' kind o' old now, but he's smart as a whip and
ain't afraid of nothin'. The only trouble is that his
teeth are worn down so he can't get a holt and hang on.
"One of our dogs was poisoned last spring right in
his coop in the yard. He was a tarrier a little bit of a
runt like. In the morning we found him lying there
all swelled up. Gosh! we gave him sweet milk and all
we could think of, but it did n't do no good."
"There's some queer things happen here," Mr.
Stotten said. "Down on the river road a barn burned
last week. Some one had been stealing from the man
that owned it. Every time he'd git a load of feed the
thief would come and help himself and take a hundred
pounds or so. The man got tired of bein' robbed, and
he bought some locks and fastened his barn up good
and tight. That very night, after he went in and sot
78 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
down to eat supper, his wife said: 'Oh look! What
a light!'
"The barn was on fire. He ran out intendin' to
save his horses. His wife tried to hold him, but he
shook her off and went into the burning barn, and cut
the horses loose and clubbed 'em out. It was a nice
big barn, and he always kep' his flour and meat in there,
and he had lots of good tools in it, and a carriage that
cost one hundred and thirty dollars, and farm wagons
and twenty ton of hay. He ain't got a secret too good
to tell me, and since the fire we've talked things over.
It's his idee that the guilty man is a feller that's lately
moved into the neighborhood who has a habit of layin'
around all day doin' nothin'. He's often been seen to
hitch up in the evening and start off somewhere, and
he must return late in the night, for no one sees him
coming back. A man who does like that I would n't
trust noways. But you have to be careful what you
say when you can't prove it. No, people dassen't say
much for fear he might burn 'em up while they lay
asleep."
"I saw someone come snoopin' around our house
one evening," Luther said. "My gun was right handy
in the shed, and I picked it up and blazed away at the
feller as he was goin' down through the orchard. I
shot to hit, too, but I probably did n't."
Now the younger boys got their milkpails and went
to the little barn where each had a cow to milk. One
of the cows was tied in the barn because it had no
The Heart of the Hudson Highlands 79
respect for fences, but the other was in the barnyard.
Luther took his coon, fastened it up on the sunny side
of a shed, and began skinning it. Several dogs lingered
about him, shivering in the chill morning air and
watching him hungrily. I could not help remarking on
the appearance of one of the dogs, he was so very lean
and bony and forlorn. "That dog has got a good
pedigree," Luther said, "but he killed one of our
chickens in the summer, and that has set the women
folks against him so they won't feed him. See that big
bird up there in the sky. It's an eagle. Now it's mak-
ing a turn, and the sun shines on its bald head and white
tail feathers. They build their nests here among the
rocks. It's dangerous to meddle with their nests.
They'll pick and bite and claw savage. I've seen
seven or eight of them at once up on Timp Moun-
tain."
Presently the task of skinning the coon was finished,
and after the skin had been tacked up on the shed
Luther and Mr. Stotten started off to their work some-
where in the woods. Later in the day I retraced my
steps to the valley depths of the Hudson. A three
mile walk from the upland glen where I had been stop-
ping took me to the railroad station, and then the
metropolis was scarcely more than an hour's journey
distant. The wonder was that so much of the wild and
primitive should survive close beside the busy valley
thoroughfares, and at such a slight remove from one
of the most populous centers of civilization.
8o Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
NOTE. The Highlands of the Hudson, a continuation of the
Appalachian Blue Ridge, lift some of their mightiest heights di-
rectly beside the spacious and stately Hudson. A particularly easy
and inexpensive way to make a general acquaintance with them
and the river is to go on a day steamer from New York to Albany.
The trip lasts from about 9 in the morning to 6 in the evening. The
boats are magnificent in size and equipment, and the largest one
will carry 5,000 passengers. The most interesting sights and points
of interest along the river are the turretted peninsula of New York;
the Palisades; the broad expanse of the Tappan Zee; the vicinity
of Tarrytown, just below which place is Sunnyside, the quietly
charming home of Washington Irving, while just above is the hamlet
he made famous in his "Legend of Sleepy Hollow;" Stony Point,
the scene of "Mad" Anthony Wayne's notable exploit in capturing
the stronghold from the British in 1779; West Point; and the
Mountains of the Highlands ending with Storm King.
The river is not especially picturesque beyond Poughkeepsie, and
many persons prefer to disembark there. On the outskirts of the
city is Vassar College.
The valley roads are macadam for the most part and offer many
attractions for the motorist. A good opportunity to view the moun-
tains from a height is afforded by the Dunderberg which is ascended
by a spiral railway from Jones Point. The summit is an amuse-
ment resort.
For more about the characteristics and history of the valley see
Johnson's "Picturesque Hudson."
IV
THE LAND OF OIL
THE existence of mineral oil in the valley of Oil
Creek in northwestern Pennsylvania was known
to the Indians from time immemorial. The
Senecas, who inhabited the region in the pioneer days
of the white men, resorted thither at stated seasons to
gather the oil for medical purposes; and in connection
with procuring it there were certain ceremonies ending
with setting fire to the oil that gathered on the surface
of the pools, and a dance around the flames.
The early settlers adopted the Indian practice of
using the oil as a medicine, and they had a good deal of
confidence in its efficacy as a cure for rheumatism. It
was even put on the market and attained a large sale
in the drugstores under the name of "Seneca Oil."
At length some New York men conceived the idea
that the oil had value as an illuminant, and that it might
be obtained in larger quantities. They bought a
seventy-five acre tract of land near Titusville, for which
they paid five thousand dollars. It was practically
worthless except for its oil possibilities. The new
owners hired a man to trench the land and to pump the
surface oil into vats by means of apparatus attached
to that of an adjacent sawmill, but they gave most of
82 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
their attention to selling stock. Several years passed,
and the stockholders became dissatisfied. Some of
them arranged to have one of their number, Col. E. L.
Drake, at that time a conductor on the New Haven
railroad, go to Titusville and take charge of operations
on their land. He attempted to find oil by boring, and
after prolonged and discouraging labor he tapped an
underground reservoir of the oil, in August, 1859, and
thus started a vast industry which made the valley of
Oil Creek the scene of one of the wildest bonanza ex-
citements of modern times.
Everyone who owned land near the Drake well
either sunk wells or leased the right to others. The
uncertainties of the enterprise were, however, very
great. By far the larger portion of the wells obtained
no oil at all, or in unrenumerative quantities, but there
were a considerable number of the early wells that
pumped from five to twenty barrels a day. In June,
1 86 1, a flowing well was discovered on the property of
a man named Funk, and to the astonishment of every-
one the oil came forth at the daily rate of two hundred
and fifty barrels. Many spoke of the Funk well as an
Oil Creek humbug, and they looked day after day to
see the stream stop, yet the flow continued with little
variation for fifteen months. Such a prodigal supply of
grease upset all calculations. The public were sus-
picious of the new illuminant and thought it dangerous;
so the demand for it was as yet small, and this Funk
well and other flowing wells that were soon discovered
The Land of Oil 83
glutted the market. For a time the pumping wells were
nearly all abandoned. The price of oil fell as low as
ten cents a barrel, and great quantities ran to waste
for want of any adequate way of storing it.
In summer most of the oil was shipped down the
creek on flatboats, and at the mouth of the creek,
eighteen miles from Titusville, the oil barrels were
transferred to larger b6ats and went on down the Alle-
ghany. When there were not enough boats the oil
barrels were lashed together in rafts for the creek trip,
and might even continue in that way to Pittsburg.
The creek boats were towed back upstream by horses.
Not far below Titusville was a dam that furnished
power for a lumber mill. In dry weather the creek was
too shallow for navigation, and the water held back by
the dam was utilized for creating "pond-freshets."
Once or twice a week several hundred boats, some of
them square-ended scows, and others pointed and
slim, were loaded with oil, below the dam, and then the
sudden release of the water through floodgates created
a sufficient flow to carry the fleet along down to the
Alleghany. Often a boat that cast loose too hastily
would ground in the shallows, and the following boats,
hurried on by the rush of the current, would batter the
stranded boat into kindling wood, and there might
result a general jam with much damage to vessels and
a considerable loss of oil.
The nearest railroad shipping points were twenty-
five miles away, and great quantities of oil were carted
84 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
thither, especially in winter when the creek was not
available. It was not an uncommon sight to see a solid
line of teams a mile or more in length on the highways
leading to the railroads. Rubber boots and flannel
shirts were recognized necessities in the attire of the
teamsters, who were as rough and ready in their man-
ners as in their clothing. They were big-hearted,
honest, hard-working fellows, skilled in profanity and
the vigorous use of the whip. Some earned ten dollars
or more daily. Yet however much they earned they
were apt to spend it all in revelry on Saturday night,
heedless of anything but present pleasure.
One afternoon, in May, 1863, a spouting well was
struck that proved the most fabulous money-maker
the region produced. A column of water and oil rose
into the air a hundred feet enveloping the derrick and
near trees. The gas roared and the ground quaked,
and the amount of oil ejected at first amounted to three
thousand barrels a day.
The effect of this and the previous excitements was
to throng the entire valley with a restless, ambitious
population, and naturally among those who came were
hundreds of loafers and numerous gamblers and other
persons of evil intent. Within the next few years land
anywhere near the producing territory soared to fabu-
lous prices, and the region swarmed with a hungry
horde of Eastern capitalists. A new town named
Pithole grew in four month's time to a place of ten
thousand people. During this period any kind of a
The Land of Oil 85
shelter was a luxury, and a stranger on his first night
there was lucky to be allowed to sleep in the shavings
under a carpenter's workbench. At the hastily im-
provised restaurants long lines of men waited their
turn to pay twenty-five cents for a thin sandwich and
a small plate of beans, and men of wealth elbowed
greasy drillers and grimy teamsters at the lunch boards.
A one course dinner without tea or coffee cost one
dollar. Water to supply the hotels and boarding-
sheds had to be hauled, and this water often commanded
a better price per barrel than the oil. The place reached
the summit of its glory in 1866. Then the oil pool,
which was about one mile broad by two long, showed
signs of exhaustion, and the decline of the magic city
was rapid. In a single year it had grown from a quiet
nook of five farms to a place of twenty thousand people.
A half dozen years later there were as few inhabitants
as at the beginning, and now, the once populous streets
are plowed fields or the browsing ground for cattle.
The history of the deserted valley of Pithole Creek
is similar to that of various other places in the region.
Among these I might mention Red Hot, which for a
time was like its name, but soon cooled off and died a
natural death and left no trace behind; and there was
Shamburg, which actually is a sham burg now, but
was by no means such in the boom days.
My own acquaintance with the oilfield wells that
are still producing began on the southern outskirts of
Titusville. One of them had been pumping for more
86 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
than forty years. They were in irregular groups, each
group with its pumping station, and all connected by
pipes which delivered the oil to a refinery. Four-posted
derricks with much crisscrossing of braces are over the
older wells, but the increasing expense of lumber has
led to making three long poles, set up to form a tripod,
serve instead. Often these poles are transferred from
well to well as new borings are made, and at the com-
pleted wells there perhaps will be only an inconspicu-
ous pump and a small storage tank. From each power
house there radiate to the scattered wells slender lines
of rods suspended by ropes from posts four or five feet
high. These sway steadily back and forth and keep
the pumps working. The power houses are rude
shanties with a gas engine inside. Usually a single man
takes care of the engine, and often he is not at the
building much of the time, and the shanty is left locked
with the engine still going. In that case the steam
exhaust is likely to be equipped with a whistle that
keeps up an intermittent tooting. The cessation of
the toots is a prompt warning that something is wrong.
These vocal engines are known as "barkers."
Gas drawn from the same source as the oil furnishes
the fuel for the engines, and if there is more than is
needed it is allowed to escape through a pipe and burn.
You see these torches flaring unceasingly both day and
night. When darkness shrouds the landscape their
flickering glare in the lonely fields and on the wooded
slopes is quite mysterious.
An old-time well that is still pumped
The Land of Oil 87
Were it not that the fuel is costless, this pioneer oil-
field would perhaps be wholly abandoned, for the
average yield per well is decidely less than a barrel a
day. "We think they're dandy wells if they yield two
or three barrels," one of the engine attendants said,
"and we pump for an eighth of a barrel. Some of the
wells are pumped only every other day, and maybe
then for no more than an hour or two. We get to know
about how long it takes to pump up what has gathered,
and then we turn off the power to let more oil drain
into the sand down below. Water seeps in with the
oil sometimes a great deal of it. I've pumped over
two hundred barrels of water to get one of oil from a
well."
I visited the spot where the original Drake well was
sunk. It is a short walk aside from the highway amid
the weeds and brush, and you find there only a water-
hole into which some one has thrust endways a large
piece of iron pipe. Roundabout are swampy farmlands,
and at a little remove, on either hand, rise rugged
heights whose sides are thinly covered with forest.
Near by I observed what seemed to be an abandoned
railroad track, but a man whom I met informed me
that it was still in use. "The Pennsylvania Railroad
has a line on the other side of the crick," he said, "and
it does n't propose to let any rival build on this side.
It's got a ninety-nine year lease of the right of way here,
but the lease has in it some provision compelling the
running of trains. So in order to technically keep
88 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
within the law a single train is run over the track each
year. They have to cross the crick just above, and as
a permanent bridge would be expensive they put up a
slight affair that they take away after the train has
made its journey, for if they did not remove the bridge
it would be destroyed by the ice freshets. All there is
to the train is a little dinkey engine and one car. They
could n't use a big engine. It would flatten the tracks
right out. Even as things are, the weight makes the
water squush out of the rotten ties as the train goes along.
Oh! they have an awful time, and usually land in the
ditch. They run out here about six miles. It's a free
picnic, and they always manage to have a few passen-
gers on board. One of our legislators tried to pass a
law annulling such fake leases; but the Pennsylvania
Railroad owns the state, and he got notice to keep his
hands off, and his efforts amounted to nothing."
I went on southward following a winding way up
and down interminable hills. It was a rather lonely
farming country. The houses were small, the out-
buildings shabby, and there was much litter about
them. Sometimes an oil well or two would be right
in the dooryard, and I was rarely out of sight of the
derricks, or beyond the sound of the pumping opera-
tions, and nearly always there was the odor of oil in
the air. But it was a beautiful day with drifting clouds
overhead that now gloomed the landscape with their
shadows, and then allowed a burst of sunshine to play
over the green, new-seeded grainfields, and the browner
The Land of Oil 89
grass and cornlands, and the patches of woodland with
their half bare branches still adorned in part by clinging
leaves of many varied hues.
At noon I visited a little while with two men who
were sitting on a bank eating their lunch in a roadside
nook among the ruddy-foliaged oaks. Near by were
two stout spans of horses munching a feed of oats that
had been poured down on the mossy turf, and beside
the highway were two loaded wagons. The men were
drillers on their way to a neighboring village where
they were to put down a well. They mentioned that
the last well they drilled was somewhat over a thousand
feet deep, and it took them eight days to sink it. Drill-
ing was their business, and they kept at it, if they had
jobs, all the year through except in winter. They ex-
plained that there were four different streaks of oil-
bearing sand down below, but none of them yielded
very generously now. "We don't get half what we
did ten years ago," they said, "and the wells are getting
lighter all the time."
At length I came to the village of Petroleum Center.
It occupies a turn of the Oil Creek valley where the
abrupt environing hills recede somewhat and leave a
fairly level stretch of lowland. Once a mushroom city
had grown here almost in a night. Now only the ghost
of it was left. The stream flows on as of yore, and the
unchanging hills continue to look down on the scene
through winter snows and summer heats. Only man
and his works seem puny and ephemeral. One of my
90 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
chance acquaintances in the place called my attention
to the fact that even the hills and the stream have not
always presented the same appearance. Out of the
low ground at the bend of the creek rises a round, steep
hill. "We call that the Hogback," the man said. "It
looks curious, don't it, right in the middle of the valley.
I used to think that God made the world just as we see
it but water has had a good deal to do with shaping
things, and that accounts for the Hogback. Once the
stream must have run in behind that hill as well as on
this side of it and worn the land down."
Among the few scattered village structures that have
survived the boom period the only substantial one was
a brick store that was originally a bank. Even that
had a dejected air, many of its windows were broken,
and there was no display of goods behind the dusty,
fly-specked panes at the front of the store. The in-
terior was equally unattractive. It was crowded and
dingy. In one corner were mail boxes, and the con-
tents of the boxes looked faded and musty as if the
mail never was called for.
Most of the adjacent buildings were deserted and
ruinous, and the whole aspect of the place conveyed a
sense of dilapidation and hopelessness. I wanted to
talk with someone who knew personally the city that
had been, and my quest led me to a little house at the
upper end of the village. I was ushered into a tidy
sitting room where I was somewhat abashed to find
myself in the midst of what seemed to be a ladies'
Oil Creek at Petroleum Center
The Land of Oil 91
sewing-circle. But when I hinted that I was intruding
on a public occasion they said they were simply old
friends who had got together to while away the after-
noon visiting. There were half a dozen of them,
mostly elderly, and all long-time residents of the region
who plainly enjoyed recalling the exciting past; but
my chief informant was the spectacled, white-haired
lady of the house.
"Everybody in the country seemed to be migrating
to Oil Creek when I come," she said. "At first my
husband and I lived in a boarding-house at Funkville
just above here. It was a pretty good-sized building
two and a half stories but very hastily and rudely
built, without lath or plaster, and yet they charged
eight dollars a week for board. Our chamber was the
only one in the house that had wallpaper. It was better
than the others, too, because there was a boughten bed-
room set in it. A party that had occupied it before we
did brought the set with 'em, but got hard up, and the
set went toward paying the board bill. The walls of
the dining-room were papered with newspapers. The
big dining-table, around which twenty-five or thirty
persons could gather comfortably, was so roughly made
it looked as if it had been whittled out, pretty near.
Often the boys would have in the girls of a night and
dance in the dining-room. Then the big table would
have to be taken out. Up in the attic were nine home-
made, corded, wooden beds with low bedposts and
little small headboards. They had straw mattresses
92 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
on 'em, and every day the servant girl would stir up
the straw to make 'em level.
"The way that boarding-house was built and fur-
nished was a fair sample of what you'd find then all
through the valley. We had just shanty houses that
were n't put up for to stay. If the oil failed in one
place a man could take his worldly goods, house and
all, and go somewhere else. I remember one house
here that was taken down in the morning and carted
eight or ten miles, and then it was set up and the owner
slept in it that night.
"We had ten thousand people in Petroleum Center
one while. Now I doubt if there's a hundred. It's a
lovely place, ain't it! I think a person would have to
put on his spectacles to find it as he went past on the
train. When it was largest it was full of hotels, res-
taurants, and saloons, and was about as tough a place
as was ever heard of. Derricks, buildings, and roads
was all jumbled together hit or miss. We used to have
three churches. They done well, and the Catholic
priest and the two ministers all lived here, and crowds
of people attended the services. Two of the buildings
still stand, but it's hard work to get any congregation
together in either of 'em. There's just a handful gather
every other week when the priest comes; and no regu-
lar preaching service is held in the other church, but
we have Sunday-school. A few years ago some Episco-
pal lay-workers volunteered to try to keep things going,
and quite a nice little crowd came out off and on for a
The Land of Oil 93
while. But the workers could n't get enough to pay
expenses, and they threw up the job. Some of the
people was n't able to pay, and some would n't. Just
now two revivalists are trying to have meetings every
night, but the attendance is slim. They had only
three grown persons and a few children the first night.
People ain't interested, and they simply won't go."
My hostess paused while she went to a small stove
that was in the room and adjusted a stopcock at one
side. "It's getting toward evening," she said, "and
the air is growing cooler. I thought I'd turn on a little
more gas. In the early years that I was here soft coal
was our fuel, and I'd have liked it very well if it had n't
burnt out our chimleys so quick and been so dirty.
If you took off a stove lid to have your griddle right
over the flames, the bottom of the griddle would get
all coated with stringers of sut. I'd feel discouraged,
too, when I hung out my washing and the clothes got
covered with little smut balls. That would happen in
moist weather on days, you know, when the smoke
would blow down instead of going up. Now we have
gas piped to our houses to furnish all the heat and light.
It costs us twenty-eight cents a thousand. Besides
this little stove we have a range in the kitchen. Our
gas bill last month was a dollar-twelve, and it was less
than three dollars the coldest month last winter. I
think it would be awful to have a coal or wood stove
with all the ashes and dirt.
"Lots of gas used to be wasted. I know that near
94 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
one of the refineries there was a good-sized pipe sticking
up from which the gas flamed night and day all the
year around, and there was a place in winter as large
as a big room where the grass grew green with the
snowbanks all about."
Another person whose reminiscenses particularly
interested me was a Titusville merchant who had aided
in financing the first well, and without whose help the
well might have been a failure. "Drake was a jovial,
kind-hearted, polished gentleman," he said. "It was
his habit to wear a silk hat and a white necktie, and he
was quite distinguished looking. He hired two or three
men and set 'em to digging with the hope that a good
deep hole would strike a plentiful supply of oil. As
they dug they put a cribbing of logs around the sides of
the hole to keep the earth from caving in. Soon so
much water soaked in that it put a stop to digging.
Then they rigged up a pump, but the water came in as
fast as they could pump it out, and presently Drake
said: 'This won't do. We're pumping all Oil Creek
here.'
"He thought the matter over and got the idea of
drilling. To drill through rock would n't have been
very difficult, but at that spot was a lot of mud and
water and earth that would have filled the drill hole
right up. He had a difficult task. To set a man to get
at a supply of underground oil at that time was like
blindfolding him and telling him to do something that
had never been heard of before. But he got some four
The Land of Oil 95
inch pipe which he rudely jointed together, and that
served to carry him through the soft upper material
to the rock. It was slow, discouraging work, and he
worried a great deal and evidently was under a great
mental strain. I've heard him say many times, while
he was putting that well down, that he wished he'd
gone to the penitentiary instead of coming here. At
length he was hard up for money, and he asked me to
indorse his note for five hundred dollars. I had con-
fidence in him as a man, and I did as he requested.
He did n't have much to say about his drilling enter-
prise, and let it be inferred that he was after salt. The
people would have thought he was a crazy fool if he'd
said he was boring for oil.
"The actual labor of drilling was done by Uncle
Billy Smith, assisted by his son. Uncle Billy was a
mechanic accustomed to salt boring, but things went
slowly. Drake had been here sixteen months and was
about to go back home and apply for his old position
on the railroad when they struck oil at a depth of
seventy feet. That was the shallowest successful well
ever drilled in this oil field. If he'd had to go any deeper
he'd have abandoned the enterprise. Either fortune
or Providence favored him. The oil rose within five
inches of the surface. When pumped, it yielded four
hundred barrels a day. Drake was a big man then.
'I've got any amount of friends now,' he said when he
came into the store to pay his account.
"He might have leased land up and down the valley
96 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
and got rich; but he was n't what you'd call a good
business man, looking out for the dollars. He liked
his ease too well. Besides, he thought he had all the
oil there was right at that one place. For a while he
set down here and became a justice of the peace. His
friends let him into some of the oil companies, but he
never made much. A place he bought here in town
proved to be his best investment. Property advanced
very rapidly in price on account of the oil excitement,
and he sold out at a profit of twenty thousand dollars.
Then he thought he was rich, and he went to New
York and lost every cent within a few months. Finally
the Pennsylvania legislature was induced to grant him
a pension, and his wife still draws it.
"We all begun to put down wells after Drake made
his strike, and sometimes we'd have only a wet hole,
and be flooded out, and sometimes a dry hole with
never a smell of oil in it. But enough good wells were
found to keep up the excitement. There were fellows
who did first-rate gathering up territory here and taking
it to New York to sell. I sold a fifty-acre tract of
swamp myself there. My customers were important
New York bankers. They figured out so many wells
to an acre and were convinced there was a magnificent
future in that piece of swamp. It could have been
bought for twenty-five dollars before the boom. They
paid me a hundred thousand for it, and they never got
any oil at all from the property. Another deal that I
helped put through was one involving a quarter of a
The Land of Oil 97
million dollars, and I was given five thousand dollars
worth of stock for my services. Unluckily, I did n't
get a chance to unload before the bubble burst, and
my stock was practically worthless."
I wish to quote one other man. His memory covered
the entire period of the rise and fall of the oil industry
in the region. He was a grizzled, bushy-browed man,
still alert of mind and vigorous in body, but age was
beginning to tell on him, and his hands were contorted
with rheumatism.
"According to a record in my mother's old Bible,"
he said, "I discovered America here in Titusville in
1840. So I was nineteen when Drake struck oil. This
was a lumbering hamlet then, and there were two good-
sized sawmills here. The logs were run down the cricks
to 'em, and the sawed lumber was made into small
rafts. After the rafts reached the Alleghany they were
coupled up into river fleets and floated on down to
Pittsburg. The country was heavily wooded, princi-
pally with pine. It had not been cleared to any extent,
and the mills run their business till up along pretty
near 1870. Then the pine timber was about exhausted.
But new firms sprung up later that gathered up the
remnants in our woodlands, and those remnants were
worth more, at the higher prices that prevailed, than
the original timber.
"The sawmills employed all the laboring men in
this region when I was a boy. They paid them with
orders on the companies' stores. We saw very little
98 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
money. If a man had a quarter it was got away from
him in about fifteen minutes. But in the spring, after
the mills sold their lumber, they distributed enough
cash so their workmen could pay their taxes. Few
people raised any crops except a little buckwheat and
a small patch of potatoes. The families along the creek
led a rough life, and two thirds of their houses were logs.
In winter they'd make a few shingles, and in spring
you'd find 'em hired out rafting lumber to Pittsburg.
Often they were so poor they'd return on foot.
"We probably had two hundred inhabitants here
in Titusville. There were a couple of hotels that de-
pended mostly on the men engaged in the spring lumber-
ing operations, and there were three stores. My
brother-in-law kept what was called the drugstore, and
the principal drug was whiskey. Every store sold
liquor them days. They did n't have to have any
licence.
"Our mail come and went twice a week. Old man
Cook was the carrier. He drove an ancient sorrel
horse hitched to a rattletrap buggy. When it suited
him to get here with the mail on the days it was due
he got here. Otherwise he did n't, and he considered
that was no one's affair but his own. There was n't
much mail anyway, and it did n't matter. Often he
stopped for the night with an old lady who lived three
miles out. Sometimes we boys would go there and
steal the mail and bring it to town.
"When Drake struck oil three of us young fellows
The Land of Oil 99
got a. little bit excited and thought we'd try our luck.
So in the fall of that same year we leased five acres of
land and organized "The Great American Oil Com-
pany." The justice of the peace charged us a dollar
for drawing up the lease, and as we only had sixty cents
he had to trust us for the rest, and he died without
getting it. We kind o' forgot that debt, and he never
asked us for the balance due him. The owner of the
land was a poor very poor farmer. We agreed to
give him five dollars a month and an eighth of the oil.
That looked big to him.
"For shelter we built a shanty on the property, and
I did the cooking. We started work in a very modest
way by digging a pit on our land near the crick. At a
depth of four feet we struck bed rock, and we brought
an old wooden pump from town and rigged it up to
pump the water out of the hole. A little oil oozed in
with the water and formed a thin skin on top. By
putting half a woolen blanket down flat on the surface
we could soak up the oil, and then we'd wring the
blanket out into a pail. Any water that was soaked
up with the oil would settle to the bottom of the pail,
and we'd pour off the top into a barrel. After the oil
was sopped off from our pool we pumped the water out
into the crick. That was a half-hour job, and it took
the pit an hour to fill again. We got about eight gal-
lons of oil a day, and when we filled the barrel we took
it to a grocer here, and he gave us thirty dollars. I
thought that was a big amount of money, for I'd never
ioo Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
had two dollars in my life before. The oil was bigh-
grade, and was sold for lubricating and medical pur-
poses. It was no humbug either as a medicine. I'd
been having trouble with my throat, and I would put
a leaf down on that crude oil and lick if off. That cured
my throat entirely, and I've never had a sore throat
since.
"We worked that blanket process for three or four
months. Then we hired a couple of men to drill a well.
They brought their tools on their backs from Oil City.
The whole outfit did n't weigh more'n a hundred
pounds. We drilled all winter. The well was kicked
down, just as most of the early wells were. A long
slender pole was adjusted on a post, and the drill was
suspended from the small end. To the rope that held
the drill a leather loop was attached into which the
driller could put his foot, and by giving a downward
kick the drill would be brought into action. Then the
spring of the pole raised it ready for another kick.
"After getting down I s'pose a hundred and fifty
feet we struck oil, and the next morning, when I went
to the well and stepped inside of the shack we'd built
above the drill hole, my foot went into about eight
inches of oil that had flowed during the night. It was
thick, like molasses, and we scooped up half a dozen
barrels full. But when we went to pumping we got
mostly water, and it did n't pay. Then we put down
another well, and that was no go either. By that time
I did n't have a dollar, and I was ready to give away
The Land of Oil 101
my third interest in the Great American Oil Company.
While I was in that frame of mind a man come lookin'
around our property, and after some talk he asked me
what I'd take for my third. At first I was going to say
two hundred dollars, but on second thought I said to
myself, 'I'll just paralize the old gent;' and I told him
my price was four thousand dollars.
"I expected he'd kick me into the crick, but he closed
the bargain. He was from Jamestown, New York, and
two other men there were interested in the deal. They
paid me a thousand dollars in gold and gave me a note
for the balance.
"It seemed to me I was rich enough to be satisfied
for a while, and I went down to Pittsburg and attended
school for a year. At the end of that time I started for
home. On the way I stopped one evening at a tavern
where the local school board was having a meeting.
A teacher had recently had a row with his pupils and
they had thrown him out and would n't let him come
back. So he left, and the authorities were, looking for
a new teacher. I told 'em I'd take the job if I did n't
have to board round. The president of the committee
said I could make my home with him, and I accepted
his proposal. He was a great talker and wanted me
for company.
"The schoolhouse was a clapboarded frame building,
but the clapboards were off in a good many places, and
it was delapidated and pretty near ready to tumble
down. In the schoolroom there was a continuous
IO2 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
bench against the wall around three sides, with a desk
in front. On the remaining side was my desk on a
platform. The children got the fuel we burned from a
soft coal bank back of the building. I taught reading,
writing, and arithmetic, and it was a part of my work
to set the copies for the children in their writing-books,
and sharpen their goose-quill pens. It's quite an art
to sharpen a goose-quill, but I had that art all right.
Books were n't very plentiful. However, most of
the pupils had a spelling-book.
"I didn't like teaching. I'd rather do anything
else than teach school. The committee hired me for
three months, and I was glad it was n't for a longer
period. I guess the pupils were gladder than I was.
One little fellow, when I began to teach, knew all his
letters but four, and by the time I was through he'd
forgotten all but four.
"Meanwhile I had n't got my money on that three
thousand dollar note. The property had proved to
be valueless, and the whole thing had been shut down
and abandoned. So the Jamestown men did n't want
to pay me, and I had to hire a lawyer to make 'em see
things in the right light. Then I was obliged to go to
Jamestown to get my money. I put up over night
there at a hotel, and in the morning went to a bank,
which turned over the cash to me. It was in bills of
small denomination, mostly ones and twos, and they
made a great big package that I could just crowd into
my inside overcoat pocket. I went back to the hotel,
The Land of Oil 103
and after sitting a while in the office it occurred to me
that I would go out for a walk and see the town. The
day was warm and I took off my overcoat and left it
hanging in the hotel office. By and by I thought of my
money and rushed back to the hotel in a great sweat.
It had n't been stolen, and I was much relieved. Then
I put the overcoat on with a determination to wear it
the rest of the time. I even wore it while I ate my
dinner.
" In the early afternoon I took a train for home. The
train did n't go clear through and I had to change and
wait at a junction. Rather than loaf around the station
there I decided to go for a stroll, and to relieve myself
of any anxiety I had the express agent put my money in
his safe. When I came back to the station my train was
just leaving, and I ran and jumped on the last car.
The train was going at a good speed before I thought
of my money. It was left behind.
"I came to Titusville, and gave the express agent
here an order so the money could be forwarded. Gen-
erally the train ran off the track every day and of course
there had to be a smashup when my money was com-
ing. The little iron express box lay in the woods two
or three days, but it got here in the end. My money
was turned over to me on a Saturday, and I put in all
the next day counting it. Eleven hundred dollars I
spent to build a house. It was a good investment. A
few years later a man come along and looked at the
house and says, 'What'll you take for this shebang?'
104 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
"'Six thousand dollars,' I said, and he bought it at
my figure.
"You see property in Titusville and the entire valley
took a great boom. Such crowds rushed in here that
they had the greatest difficulty to find lodging at night.
The hotel-keepers would put a man to bed, and as soon
as he was asleep would take him to the hall and hang
him on a hook and give someone else the bed. To
show you how rapidly population could grow let me
tell you about the postmaster at Pithole. He began
there on a salary of twelve dollars and a half a year.
He was expected to keep track of the stamps sold, and
in most such places the results would n't warrant
raising the pay more than a very little, but in less than
three months he was handling such an amount of mail
that the salary was raised to four thousand dollars,
the same as was paid at Pittsburg.
"As for the oil business its character was wildly
speculative for a long time. Many came here rich and
went away poor, and very few came poor and went
away rich. Numerous wildcat wells were sunk all
around the region that cost good money and were per-
fectly worthless. If a fellow made one or two good
investments and lucky sales he began to think he was
a master of frenzied finance, and he'd most likely strike
for Wall Street. He and his money were soon parted
there.
"Loss and gain in large amounts were a commonplace
here. They tell of two strangers who occupied the same
The Land of Oil 105
room in one of our crowded hotels. One of 'em went
to bed, but he could n't sleep because his fellow-roomer
persisted in walking the floor. Finally he says, "What's
the matter with you?'
'"I've given a note for five thousand dollars that's
due tomorrow,' was the reply.
"Have you got the money to pay it?' says the first
man.
"'No,' says the second man.
"'Then you'd better come to bed', says the first
man, 'and let the other fellow do the walking.'
"Most of the poor backwoods farmers in the valley
sold their land at fabulous prices, or arranged leases
that brought great and sudden wealth, but they
could n't stand the change. They did n't know how
to spend the money, or how to keep it intact. Their
sons became drunkards, and the money vanished in
dissipation, extravagance, and poor investments. I
know of only one land owning family of that period in
this valley that has retained the money which came
to it."
NOTE. In the oil region, even in travelling on the train, one sees
numerous oil-wells, both in operation and deserted. The great
center of the Pennsylvania oil district is Oil City, and the traveller
can see there all the processes of procuring, preparing, and shipping
the oil and its products. In 1892 a large oil tank in the city caught
fire, and the burning oil overspread the water of the creek and caused
the destruction of many buildings and a considerable loss of life.
It is estimated that from the valley of Oil Creek, north of Oil
106 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
City, oil to the value of 200,000,000 was taken in the ten busy early
years. The present yield is insignificant. Titusville has an especial
claim on the sightseer because there the oil was discovered. Inter-
esting visits may be made to the hamlets down the creek which grew
with magic rapidity into populous cities in the boom period, and
almost as suddenly vanished.
There are automobile routes from Titusville north and south and
east and west. The one north goes to Erie, 53 miles, by way of
Cambridge Springs, and the one south to Pittsburg, 113 miles, by
way of Mercer. The roads are good dirt or gravel.
For more about northwestern Pennsylvania see "Highways and
Byways of the Great Lakes."
AN INDUSTRIAL METROPOLIS
PITTSBURG was discovered by George Wash-
ington. In other words, Washington first sug-
gested the spot as a desirable site for a fort,
while it was still untamed wilderness. This sugges-
tion was made in January, 1854, after he returned to
Virginia from an adventurous journey over the moun-
tains to demand that the French, who were beginning
to establish themselves in the region, should withdraw.
Hitherto the angle where the Alleghany and Monon-
gahela rivers unite to form the Ohio had been neglected,
though it was scarcely less important than Niagara as
a key to the great West. A band of backwoodsmen
was promptly dispatched to start a fort there. They
had been at work on it about two months when they
were interrupted by the arrival of a swarm of bateaux
that came down the Alleghany bringing half a thousand
Frenchmen from Canada. The latter soon compelled
the English to abandon their project. They then de-
molished the unfinished fort and began a much larger
one to which they gave the name of Duquesne, their
governor.
The next year General Braddock arrived in Virginia
with troops from England. More troops were raised
io8 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
in the colonies, and in June the little army entered the
wilderness on its way to the Ohio. Three hundred
axmen went on ahead to cut and clear the road, and
in the rear followed the train of packhorses, wagons,
and cannon, toiling over the stumps, roots, and stones
of the narrow forest track. Squads of men were thrown
out on the flanks, and scouts ranged the woods to guard
against surprise. The French were well aware of this
hostile expedition, and a few of them and some of their
Indian allies hovered about the English, and now and
then scalped a straggler.
On the seventh of July the main body of the English,
consisting of twelve hundred soldiers, besides officers
and drivers, forded the Monongahela from the southern
to the northern bank about eight miles from their
destination. They were beginning to move along a
rough path in the dense woodland toward Fort Du-
quesne when the head of the column encountered the
enemy. About three hundred French and six hundred
Indians had come forth from the fort to oppose them.
The place of meeting was at the foot of a steep and
lofty hill where now is the busy, smoke-belching manu-
facturing city of Braddock. There was no ambuscade,
and at first the advantage was with the English. But
their opponents soon scattered and fought from behind
the trees, while the English regulars remained in hud-
dled ranks, greatly disconcerted because they could
see no enemy to shoot at. A charge on the lurking
Indians would have been useless, for they would have
An Industrial Metropolis 109
scattered and eluded pursuit and quickly returned to
the attack.
The Virginians at first fought effectively in the In-
dian fashion and might have saved the day, had not
the brave but injudicious Braddock, furious at such
apparent lack of discipline and courage, ordered them
with oaths to fall into line. Some of the regulars, who
in a clumsy way imitated the provincials, he beat with
his sword and compelled them to stand with the rest
in the open. Braddock had four horses shot under
him, and he dashed to and fro like a madman. Wash-
ington, then a youth of twenty-three, who was one of
Braddocks aids, had two of the horses that he rode
killed, and four bullets passed through his clothes.
In the end Braddock was fatally wounded, and the
mob of soldiers, after being three hours under fire, and
their ammunition exhausted, broke away in a blind
frenzy and ran back to the ford. About three-fourths
of the force had been killed or disabled. The fugitives
were not pursued, yet they hurried on all night, nearly
overcome with fear and despair. During the days that
followed, the retreat continued with a good deal of
disorder, and the abandonment or destruction of
much baggage. On the thirteenth day Braddock died.
He was buried in the road, and the men, horses,
and wagons passed over his grave, effacing every sign
of it, lest the Indians should find and multilate the
body.
The losses on the French side in the battle were
no Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
probably scarcely a tenth of those suffered by the
English. After the conflict ended, the field had been
abandoned to the savages, who made it a pandemonium
of pillage and murder. Later they returned to the fort
laden with plunder and scalps and escorting about a
dozen prisoners. These captives were tied to stakes
and burned to death that night on the banks of the
Alleghany opposite the fort, with the Indians dancing
about and yelling like fiends.
Where the great modern city now stands, the wilder-
ness had only been subdued at the extreme point of the
peninsula. The fort had the water close on two sides,
and it frowned down on the river with a massive
stockade of upright logs, twelve feet high, mortised
together and loopholed. Facing in the other directions
were ramparts of squared logs, filled in with earth and
fully ten feet thick. There was an open space within
surrounded by barracks for the soldiers, officers'
quarters, the lodgings of the commandant, a guard-
house, and a storehouse, all built partly of logs and
partly of boards. The forest had been cleared away
to a distance of more than a musket shot from the ram-
parts, and the stumps were hacked level with the ground.
In this cleared space, close to a protecting ditch that
adjoined the fort, bark cabins had been built for such
of the troops and Canadians as could not find room
within. The rest of the space was covered with Indian
corn and other crops.
Three years later the English again made an attempt
An Industrial Metropolis in
against Fort Duquesne. At their approach the French
blew up the fortifications and withdrew. Soon after-
ward, on the same spot, Fort Pitt was begun. It was
substantial and costly, but it is all gone now with the
exception of one little blockhouse. This blockhouse
was erected when there .was fear of trouble with the
Indians at the time of Pontiac's Conspiracy. On the
landward side of the fort at that time was a moat, but
the moat was perfectly dry when the river was low,
and the savages could crawl up the ditch and shoot any
person who might show his head above the parapet.
The blockhouse was built to command the moat and
frustrate that sort of approach.
The sturdy little brick and timber structure, loop-
holed as of old for the discharge of muskets, is almost
swallowed up now in the great city. It occupies a
secluded nook with the buildings of the town encroach-
ing close on one side, and numerous railway tracks on
the other. Pittsburgers are reputed to be too busy
making money to think about the history of the place,
but they have provided for the permanent preservation
of this blockhouse.
Until recently the caretaker was an elderly woman
who had been at the blockhouse a long, long time keep-
ing it tidy, selling souvenirs, and recounting its story
to visitors. But one day, when she had finished eating
dinner, she very calmly remarked to her daughter:
"Oh! what's the use of it all? Let's take the butcher-
knife route to get away. I'm so tired of this world!
112 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
There's nothing in life but just saying one thing over
and over and over again."
Then she caught up a big knife and made a grab at
her daughter, but the latter took refuge in flight and
escaped out of the house. When she returned with
help she found that her mother had hung herself with
the clothesline.
A new caretaker was installed in the blockhouse, and
her reticence is said to have been quite monumental
for a time. Visitors naturally concluded that her pre-
decessor's tragic end had made her solicitous lest much
repetition in the imparting of information should craze
her also.
The neighboring waterways have been the scene of
many interesting and curious incidents, and among
the rest I would recall the fact that in 1777 a ducking-
stool was established where the Alleghany and Monon-
gahela unite to flow on as the Ohio. A visiting Vir-
ginian writing of the Pittsburg of that time says, "The
homes were miserable huts, and the inhabitants as
dirty as in the north of Ireland or Scotland itself. The
place was unblessed by the gospel and infested with
dogs."
About the same time another gentleman, in giving
his first impressions of the place, wrote of how surprised
travellers were to find here "elegant assemblages of
ladies and a constant round of parties and public balls."
Which was the truer view of the town? Very likely
the observers simply came into contact with different
An Industrial Metropolis 113
phases of the local life, and doubtless there were various
grades of society. As for the ducking-stool its use was
not confined to punishing a too free use of the tongue
on the part of the lowly. Women of position were num-
bered also among its victims.
Imagine the scene when a ducking was to take place.
Here were the unsullied streams and a frontier village
amid the virgin forest. All work was suspended and a
crowd had gathered. Some of the men wore cocked
hats and laced ruffles and buckles and swords, and
there were Indian stragglers gay with paint and feathers
looking on to see how the pale-face managed his squaws.
Fine ladies had come in their silks and satins, and gap-
ing lads and lasses in coarse attire of fustian and woolen,
and stolid hunters and woodsmen, slatternly women of
the humble class, and swarms of dirty children.
All were gazing at the unhappy victim suspended
ready for her plunge. Our forbears thought the pun-
ishment plainly fitted to the crime, for as they said it
was "to drown the noise that is in a woman's head."
The ducking-stool was hung at the end of a pole which
worked on a horizontal bar supported by two uprights.
A sousing, at least temporarily, always had the desired
effect, and the woman would beg for mercy and promise
in future to control her unruly tongue.
Pittsburgh three rivers were vital channels of traffic
in the old days, but now they are far less important
than the railroads. This is partly because they are not
dependable. In winter they are icebound, and in sum-
114 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
mer there are times when the Pittsburg boys play
baseball on the dry sandbars in the bed of the streams.
Many steep bluffs and rude, lofty hills border the rivers
in the Pittsburg neighborhood and the region above.
They give an enlivening touch to the scene, and, before
the industrial period, must have been wildly beautiful.
At their bases, beside the streams, is a constant succes-
sion of manufacturing villages whence the smoke never
ceases belching forth from the tall chimneys and keeps
the valleys forever grimy, and the atmosphere dim and
sooty. Pittsburg itself with its numerous iron furnaces
and busy factories is of course the monarch of this in-
dustrial realm; and as seen by night, when the furnace
flames leap and glow amid the gloom along the water-
sides, it has been likened to hell with the lid off. Here
is produced one-half the steel and glass that is manu-
factured in the United States. It has more millionaires
than any other city on the globe, and the finest resi-
dences and grounds in America. Aside from the fact
that it is an important gateway to the West, the chief
secret of its growth lies in its position in the center of a
region exceedingly rich in bituminous coal, iron, oil,
and natural gas. So general was the use of this gas at
one time that the city emerged from its smoke cloud,
but the period was short, and the factories and furnaces
resorted again to coal and coke. Nevertheless, except
for the big manufacturing plants, it is natural gas that
lights and heats most of the big town. I was informed
that the gas is so cheap that the poor people, who in any
A toll bridge
An Industrial Metropolis 115
other city would eagerly carry off the wood rubbish
resulting from building operations, here disdain such
stuff, and men have to be paid to cart it away.
Formerly Pittsburg had a reputation for being super-
latively healthful. It is related that the three first
churches were on adjacent corners and employed a
single sexton, who was once known to remark com-
plainingly that the times were very hard for he had
had no person to bury for three months. As late as
1845 a physician on a tour visited Pittsburg and pub-
lished the affirmation that he never before was in such
a healthful place. He especially recommended it to
persons suffering from dropsies, dysentaries, and
cholera. Its beneficial qualities he attributed to its
remoteness from the swamps of the Mississippi Valley,
and to the gases which filled the air from the bitumin-
ous coal that was burned.
At a somewhat later period deaths became rather
numerous, but this was no reflection on the healthful-
ness of the situation. It was the result of the influx of
foreign laborers, "who used to kill each other every
Saturday night after they got their wages."
Among its other assets this thoroughly modern city
has a ghost story. There was formerly a pack peddler
who went about the adjacent region, and he was suffi-
ciently aristocratic to have his packs carried by a negro
servant. One day the peddler was found dead. His
throat had been cut, and his valuables stolen. The
negro was suspected. He was caught and bound and
n6 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
hung on Pittsburg's highest hill. Since then that hill
has been haunted. For a long time its crest was an
amusement park. This became rather tough in char-
acter, and those of its patrons who came home late at
night with the gifts of visions imparted by liberal
draughts of booze often saw the negro's eerie figure
stalking through the gloom with his hands tied behind
his back.
One of the city's sources of excitement is its floods.
The frequency and height of these very likely have
some relation to the deforesting of the headwaters of
the streams, but the encroaching of the manufactories
on the banks has doubtless narrowed the channels, and
dams back the water. "We had one of our greatest
floods in 1832, the year I was born," an elderly citizen
said to me. "It submerged the whole lower part of the
town. An immense amount of driftwood used to come
down in those old-time floods. That was due to the
lumbering done up above. A good many people here
went out in boats to catch the best of it. Some of it
floated near enough to shore so you could catch it with
a pole. You could get a supply of firewood and some
good sawlogs.
"Freight went and came over the mountains in
long, heavy wagons with bowed tops covered with
canvas. Each wagon was drawn by four or six horses.
There was a good deal of rivalry among the drivers
to beat each other in the time they made. A driver who
got here from the east within a specified number of
An Industrial Metropolis 117
hours was privileged to suspend some bells over the
harness of his horses at a certain point outside of the
town, and their jingle heralded his arrival as he drove
into the streets. There used to be strings of these
wagons on the turnpike coming and going as far as you
could see.
"Passengers were carried in four-horse stage-coaches.
There was always quite a bustle of excitement in the
town when the coaches went around to the hotels
gathering up passengers before leaving. The larger
baggage was strapped on behind, and the smaller bag-
gage was stowed under the driver's seat. It was natural
that the drivers, moving about as they did, should be
pretty well informed, and they certainly felt their im-
portance. The coaches travelled day and night, but
there were good taverns where the travellers could
stop if they wanted to. You found a tavern once in
ten miles. Relays of horses were kept at them, and at
every one such of the passengers as were thirsty could
get liquid refreshments while the horses were being
changed. It was a rough kind of journeying, and the
rocking of the coach became very tiresome if you were
going a long distance.
"Travelling on the canals or rivers was much pleas-
anter. We had fine river boats that plied between here
and Southern ports, and in the spring and fall a packet
boat left every day. They were large boats with side-
wheel paddles and carried a great deal of freight, and
often were just laden with passengers. I've seen our
n8 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
wharves so full of freight you could hardly get along
there. The low water of summer was a handicap to
river travel, but we had boats light enough to float on
dew, and those kept going.
"We used to have rafts on the river then lots of
'em. Some were of sawed lumber, and some of logs.
There'd be a little cabin of boards on each raft for the
crew to live in. At night a raft would tie up to a tree
on the bank. Traffic on the river also made use of
keelboats and flatboats. The former were much like
canal boats. In going upstream a long rope extended
from the boat to a horse that walked along on the shore,
or perhaps the towing was done by the crew. Where
towing was not practical they made use of a sail, or
resorted to poling. Such a boat would make one round
trip a year to New Orleans. The freight charges were
enormous, particularly for bringing sugar, molasses,
and other Southern products up the river.
"The flatboats were equipped with an oar at each
side of the bow, and a steering oar at the stern. They
carried stone and sand, hay, potatoes, cattle, every-
thing. Often they were just oblong boxes of rough
planks, so loosely fastened together that they could be
knocked to pieces when they finished a down-river
journey, and sold for lumber. You could stand on the
bank and count a hundred boats and rafts in sight at
the same time.
" Yes, there've been great changes on the river within
my recollection, and great changes here on the land,
An Industrial Metropolis 119
too. When I was a boy the city was all down to the
point, and if you went back a mile or so you found
farms and market gardens where now the millionaires'
mansions stand. But I have n't a doubt that the
people who lived in the comfortable old farmhouses
were just as happy as the millionaires in their present-
day palaces."
For the most part, the smoky manufacturing villages
and towns that are so numerous in the Pittsburg region
are utterly devoid of sentiment and charm. But I
discovered one exception. That was a little place
named Economy a few miles down the Ohio. Here
dwelt, until comparatively recently, a peculiar religious
sect known as Harmonists or Economites. The sect
was founded in Germany by George and Frederick
Rapp about 1787, but its adherents were much harassed
there by petty persecutions and presently emigrated to
America. They made a settlement in Pennsylvania
which they called Harmony, and from there they later
moved to Indiana and built New Harmony. This in
turn was abandoned in 1824 and they came to the
vicinity of Pittsburg. At that time they numbered
about five hundred.
They taught that the condition of celibacy is most
pleasing to God, that the coming of Christ and renova-
tion of the world were near at hand, and that if people
would follow the precepts of Christ they must hold
their goods in common. As time went on they increased
in wealth, but decreased in members. Not only did
I2O Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
they have much property in real estate, but they had
investments in coal mines, and controlled at Beaver
Falls the largest cutlery manufactory in the United
States.
The village still presents in many respects its ancient
Economite appearance. There are regular rows of
simple brick houses, the great assembly hall, the
charmingly quaint church with its massive tower, some
of the old walled gardens, and several of the mills.
Evidently the buildings were put up with memories of
Germany in mind, and the result is an old-world village
in our new-world surroundings. The houses are snug
to the walks, and on the side toward the street their
walls rise to a height of two stories, but a wooden leanto
slants low down on the other side. No door breaks the
street walls, for the houses turn their backs on the
public ways, and you have to go through a gate and
enter them from the garden. Thus the people avoided
having their attention attracted by worldly scenes, and
they tried to confine their meditations to things
heavenly.
A village acquaintance let me into the church. He
knew where all the keys to the various doors were kept
on dusty beams and in out-of-the way nooks and
crannies, and I explored the edifice quite thoroughly.
Last of all I climbed the narrow, gloomy stairways in
the tower up to where the clock and the bells are, and
then went out onto a little gallery whence I could look
down on the spreading church roof and the village. On
An Industrial Metropolis 121
each side of the tower was a clock face equipped with a
single pointer to roughly indicate the time. But this
indefiniteness was ameliorated by the fact that the
clock struck the quarter hours. Moreover, at twelve
o'clock sharp, each mid-day, it let loose a peal that
lasted for about three minutes a clamor suggestive
of an alarm of fire. This was the "dinner bell."
When I was in the tower the clock had run down,
and the weights that furnished the motive power hung
inert at the end of the long ropes. The sexton was
supposed to wind it up daily, but he had been called
out of town the previous evening and had not yet
returned.
Across the road was the "Great House" in which had
dwelt the leader of the sect. It was much like the other
houses except that it covered more ground. Beyond
it was a very large garden where there were grapevines,
and a pretentious fountain, and a curious little stone
hut or chapel.
The village used to be much more verdant than it is
now. On all the house walls there had been trellises to
which grapevines clung, and the streets were lined with
cherry trees which furnished fruit as well as shade. The
grapevines have been neglected, and most of them are
dead and gone; and the boys clambered about up in
the cherry trees in quest of fruit and broke down the
branches, so the authorities finally had the trees
removed.
"Before these people came here," one of the villagers
122 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
said, "they lived in just such a village as this that
they'd built and named New Harmony, in Indiana.
At the head of the community was Father Rapp. He
was a self-educated man who'd become a religious
lunatic. Originally he was a poor weaver. The
Harmonists did n't marry, and they would prove by
what St. Paul taught in the Bible that marriage
was n't desirable. I wonder what sort of a fellow St.
Paul was. Probably nature had n't favored him with
good looks. I guess he must have been goggle-eyed,
splay-footed, humpbacked, and in general so ugly the
women would n't look at him. Otherwise, he would n't
have said such things as he did. But the Harmonists
believed in his celibacy doctrine, and it was their idea
that they ought to shun all the ordinary pleasures of
life and pray unceasingly.
"One time when Father Rapp had been praying
all night there in their Indiana town he heard the
sound of a trumpet, and he went out in the yard, and
down came the angel Gabriel. Near the door was a
rock, and the angel alighted on that, and he left the
print of his foot in it. He must have come with his
foot hot straight from heaven and with a good deal of
force, or he would n't have made such an impression.
That footprint has been there ever since. To the
Harmonists it was sacred, and some would kiss it.
They believed that if they continued in the ways they'd
adopted, living abstemiously, and the men keeping
clear of the women, that the angel Gabriel would return
The old church at Econon.y
An Industrial Metropolis 123
and take them in his arms up to heaven so they'd
escape the pangs of death.
"They got their Indiana land for nothing, and they
improved it and even acquired wealth, but a good many
of 'em suffered from malaria, and some died. That
made the people around them say, 'Ho, ho! thought
you was n't going to die.'
"Quite a number deserted, and after a while the rest
sold out, packed up their goods on wagons, and come
here to make a new start. They bought three thousand
acres of land and a lot of cattle and sheep, and
built big barns, and they had a saw mill, a grist mill,
a cider mill oh! they made the best cider I ever tasted.
They were particular about the quality of whatever
they made, either for their own use or to sell. Every-
thing was done up in apple-pie order. They had a
woolen mill and a cotton factory, and they raised
grapes and made wine, and they grew mulberry
trees, the foliage of which they fed to their silkworms,
and they had a mill where the silk was woven into
cloth.
"The silk business was considerable of an industry
with them, and they wore various silk garments of
their own producing. On Sunday when they came out
in all their glory the women would each have a big silk
kerchief about their shoulders, and they had silk gowns,
and quaint blue silk bonnets, and the men had silk
trousers and coats. The fashions did n't change with
them every year as they do with us now, and the clothes
124 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
were all right till they wore out. A well-cared-for silk
gown would last a woman all her life.
"Father Rapp had a silk robe that he used to put on
every evening and walk up and down his garden among
the mulberry trees that grew there praying for the
angel Gabriel to come and take him up to heaven. It
was a very gorgeous gown of ruby velvet lined with
pale blue silk.
" Since Father Rapp died, the Great House in which
he lived has been haunted. Strange noises are heard
in it at night, and apparitions have been seen, and two
Sisters of Charity who slept there had the bedclothes
yanked off from them. One of its occupants, when he
was dying, shrieked and yelled that a great treasure
was buried in the cellar. However, perhaps the in-
fluence that made him say so may have been just
devilish; and yet a Spiritualist medium has said that
he spoke only the truth, but that something dreadful
would happen to anyone who knowingly dug in the
cellar. If a person found the treasure by chance he
would be all right.
"The people were cheerful, comfortable, and kindly.
They were old-fashioned and Dutch-like in appearance,
and they clung to the use of the German language
among themselves. The men and women went out
and worked together in the fields or in the different
mills, and they all did just as they were ordered. Their
labor was not very arduous, and they stopped to rest
when they got tired. But they were not always satisfied
An Industrial Metropolis 125
with the management of their superiors, and there was
more or less heart-burning.
"It was a frugal peasant community, and the people
fared very simply. Twice a week rations were given
out from the general supplies wine, beer, and cider
from the assembly hall cellar, and other things from
the company store. They ate five times a day after
the manner of the fatherland, beginning with breakfast
at six in the morning and ending with supper at half-
past seven. They had various feasts, and in the fall
one great feast that lasted three or four days when they
ate together in the big assembly hall. Their meals
were not very sociable. Once I went to dinner in the
house of the leader of the society, and I began talking
just as I would anywhere else, but I did n't get any
response, and then I noticed that the Father had
stopped with his knife upright in one hand and fork in
the other, and was looking at me viciously. 'Shut
up!' he said in German, and I did so. It was their way
to eat in silence, except for asking in a low voice for
what they wanted, and to get through and get out.
"The old village was perfectly charming absolute
order everywhere, and a sort of peacefulness brooding
over it a Sunday-go-to-meeting quiet. The women
kept the houses scrubbed, and there were muslin sash
curtains at the windows, and on the wide window-sills
were flowers, especially primroses, that bloomed all
winter. They were very careful and choice about
everything. Neatness and cleanliness were universal.
126 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
Even the streets were immaculate, and beyond the
houses were such nice little gardens!
"No one was allowed on the street after nine o'clock,
and anyone caught later than that was arrested and
taken before the trustees. Once a friend of mine came
to the place on a late evening train, and he was halted
by two night watchmen accompanied by a big dog.
They were very gruff, and he was simply scared to
death. The watchmen patroled the streets, and every
hour of the night, beginning with nine, they stopped
right at the church and called out, 'All's well, we wait
for death!'
"If they found any toughs or tramps they took them
to a house set apart for that class of people, and an old
couple lived there to take care of the house and of them.
The vagrants were n't exactly welcome, yet such was
the treatment they received that this was a favorite
resort of theirs. It was against the rules for the vil-
lagers to feed them at the houses; so they were com-
pelled to go to their own hotel. There'd be forty or
fifty of them some nights in seasons when the tramps
were very thick. In the evening or in the morning
you'd see the wayfarers sitting on benches along the
house walls, and the old man and woman bringing out
a big cup of coffee and a chunk of black bread to each
man. After breakfast the old couple bid the tramps
God speed and sent them on their way.
"The Harmonists had a beautiful old hotel here. It
was just such a hotel as you might find in a German
An Industrial Metropolis 127
village. Everything was neat and primitive, and the
dining room floor was sprinkled with white sand. For
three dollars a week you could get every imaginable
comfort there. It's gone now. Unfortunately it was
torn down by somebody who forgot himself. That
was Billy Rice, a fellow who came here as a boy and
was employed around the hotel at first as a hostler, and
later as bar-keeper. He married a nice sort of girl who
had money, and then he bought the hotel.
When he pulled the hotel down it was with the idea
of building something more pretentious, but he could n't
get the cash. So he set up in business as a butcher in a
little shop on his property, and lived in some rooms
over the shop. Meanwhile he'd been growing very
fond of whiskey until he nearly lived on it, and he
began to spend more than his income and to be abusive
to his wife. Still, he was n't a bad sort of fellow when
he was sober. One day he came into the room where
his wife was ironing and said he must have money and
told her to get it from her mother. She refused to do
so, and he deliberately took out a revolver and blew
her head off. She fell, and her body lay under the
ironing table. As for Billy, he got into bed and shot
himself. There they found him seriously wounded.
He was rushed to a hospital, but he only lived a few
weeks, and I think he died there practically from the
want of liquor.
"Time went on and the Harmonists became few and
old, and bedridden and forlorn. They could n't do
128 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
their customary work, and many of them had to have
caretakers. So at last they sold out and the society
came to an end.
"A little outside of the village they had a graveyard.
Burials were made in very rough wooden coffins with
no handles, and they'd just put a rope around the box
and lower it into the grave. Then, when the leader
said, 'Dust to dust, and ashes to ashes,' the people
would drop flowers down on the coffin. Everybody
brought a boquet, even if it was only a wizened little
flower with a few bits of green. None of the graves
were marked. The people tried to live as equals here
on earth, and they chose to sleep as equals in the grave
with no gravestones to suggest differences or to invite
ostentation. Lately a sewer has been run through the
graveyard, and inevitably it disturbed many of the
grassgrown, unmarked graves."
The Harmonists certainly made an interesting ex-
periment in living, and some features of the social order
they established are quite appealing. Their trials and
disappointments were not without compensations, and
I wonder which is the more to be envied that serene
little village of Economy in the time of its prosperity,
or the strenuous city of Pittsburg with its mingled
wealth and poverty.
NOTES. Pittsburg is certainly not beautiful, but it is a chief
industrial center of the continent, and a wonderful wealth pro-
ducer. The reason for its supremacy in these respects is the fact
that it is in the heart of one of the richest coal districts in the
An Industrial Metropolis 129
world, so that it has the advantage of cheap fuel for its manu-
factories.
Through the adjacent rivers more than 20,000 miles of inland
navigation are open to the steamers of the city, and, owing to the
enormous coal traffic, the tonnage of Pittsburg's river craft is
greater than that of New York.
As early as 1804 a line of stages was established between Phila-
delphia and Pittsburg, a distance of 350 miles. The first railroad
across the Alleghanies reached Pittsburg in 1847.
A half day can be spent to advantage visiting one of the great
steel works. As a contrast to the big, grimy manufactories along
the rivers, one should see the palaces in the residence district on
the heights.
Pittsburg's right to the title of "the Smoky City" has been vindi-
cated by the discovery that the average resident carries in his lungs
a quarter of a pint of soot.
Braddock, 7 miles up the Monongahela, deserves attention as
the battleground where the British were so dreadfully defeated by
the French and Indians.
That charming old communistic village of Economy, 19 miles
down the Ohio, should also be seen.
Johnstown, 77 miles east of Pittsburg, is of interest because of
the inundation that overwhelmed it on May 3ist, 1889. It is an
iron-making city at the junction of the Conemaugh and Stony
Creek. The valleys here are deep and narrow, which explains the
completeness of the catastrophe. Above Johnstown, 18 miles, was
Conemaugh Lake, about 3 miles long and I mile broad. This was a
fishing resort of a club of Pittsburg anglers. The waters were
restrained by a dam 1,000 feet long, no feet high, 90 feet thick at
the base, and 25 feet thick at the top. Violent rains filled the lake
to overflowing, and about 3 o'clock that May afternoon a 300 foot
gap was broken in the dam. The water swept down the valley in
a mass a half mile broad and 40 feet high, carrying everything in its
way. In 7 minutes it had reached Johnstown. A little below the
130 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
city the mass of houses, trees, machinery and other wreckage was
checked by a railway bridge. It caught fire and many persons,
unable to free themselves from the debris, were burned to death.
The estimated total of lives lost varies from 2,300 to 5,000. The
property loss was at least 10,000,000.
A coal village with a mountainous culm heap in the
background
VI
A VALE OF ANTHRACITE
IT was with some misgivings that I journeyed to the
Lackawanna Valley. I feared the coal country
would prove wholly black and forbidding, and the
towns dubiously monotonous, and labor conditions
sordid and depressing. My first pause was at Scranton,
but that is a great business center, and though coal is
being mined under and all about it, I preferred to get
away to some smaller and more comprehensible places
to the northward.
Through the midst of the valley runs the Lackawanna
River, a swift, inky stream, whqse waters, in this
mountain region, are no doubt naturally crystal pure,
but are now so stained with coal washings that it might
be a veritable stream of Hades. Where there should be
yellow sandbars are dubious deposits of black, and the
midstream rocks have caught unsightly masses of
rotting railroad ties and other rubbish that is due to the
presence of a busy and rather irresponsible hive of
human industry along the banks. The sky, too, even
when it is cloudless, nearly always has a murky, threat-
ening aspect due to the smoke that fills the atmosphere.
This smoke comes in part from the numerous breakers
at the mouth of the mines, and in part from the engines
132 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
on the railroad tracks that crisscross the valley in an
intricate network. The trains of heavy coal cars, and
the lighter trains on the narrow gauge roads from the
mines moved hither and thither in apparently hopeless
confusion, and wherever I went, the thunder of iron
wheels on the tracks was always sounding in my ears.
Very few trees are found in the valley, yet the great
stumps that are still to be seen in places where the sur-
face has not been torn up show that the land was
heavily wooded at no very remote time. If a chestnut
tree or a beech has by any chance been spared it is a
treasure trove to the youngsters, and when the nuts
ripen they assail it with sticks, and climb up and shake
the branches. They feast on the nuts as they gather
them, for the trees are too few, and the boys too many
to allow the nut-gatherers to fill their pockets.
The coal deposit? are tapped along the sides of the
valley, somewhat back from the stream, and there
stand the giant breakers lofty, sinister-looking struc-
tures, with a wide-spreading base, but terracing upward
to a small peak. The trestled tracks from the mines
run to the very top, and a cable drags the loaded cars
up the steep incline. Close beside each dingy, towering
breaker is a pigmy engine-house with a row of stout
metal smokestacks sticking up through the roof, and
this is the center of an inferno of smoke and steam and
gas.
The loaded cars are dumped far up aloft, their con-
tents are crushed, and the slate and sulphur-stained
A Vale of Anthracite 133
pieces are picked out by the breaker boys. A series of
chutes carries all the material down to the ground level,
and delivers the good coal into cars on the railroad
tracks, and the refuse into much smaller narrow-gauge
cars to be dragged by cable to the top of a vast black
heap of culm, as it is called. Once on the crest of the
culm pile, a mule is attached to the car, and it is dragged
away to the farthest verge, and there its contents are
released and slide down the declivity.
These culm dumps are the most conspicuous feature
of the valley landscapes. They loom huge and somber
above everything else, and dwarf the loftiest breaker
and the highest of the village church spires. It is sur-
prising how small the men and mules on top appear as
you look up at them from below. Some of these gloomy,
steep-sided, barren mountains of coal waste are four or
five hundred feet high, but they are not destined to be
permanent. Most of the material in their soaring
heights is burnable in the modern furnaces. A few of
the piles have already been entirely worked over, and
probably nine-tenths of what was in them was shipped
away.
On the lower edges of the dumps one often sees
women at work rescuing some of the better coal that
is mingled with the stony refuse. Most of these
gleaners are elderly, but there are comely, vigorous
young women, too, and occasional little girls. Now
and then a woman will climb far up the slippery slides,
with her skirts fluttering in the wind. Some carry
134 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
a hammer, and some delve and claw among the frag-
ments with a short-handled hoe or hook. In their
opinion the pieces they hammer free from the slate,
and the other fragments they glean, are just as good
coal as they could buy from a dealer. They carry
it to near-by homes in pails, and to the more dis-
tant ones in bags. Ordinarily, the bags are trundled
away on wheelbarrows, yet frequently an old woman
will get a full, heavy bag on her back and stagger off
with it.
The dumps and the coal mine vicinity were by no
means so desolute and lacking in human cheer as I had
expected. Perhaps the oddest source of pleasure that
I observed was the use of a dump as a sliding place.
The material just there was finely broken, and two
small negro boys with a sled would start at the top,
one sitting and the other standing behind and clinging
to the sitter's shoulders, and down they would come
with a startling rush. It looked like a wild and reckless
ride, but evidently their nerves were not at all shaken.
They lived just beyond the farthermost outthrusting
ridge of the irregular culm pile, and their little cabin
home was quite a curiosity a makeshift dwelling to
which odds and ends picked up by chance had con-
tributed largely. If one could judge by the number of
children playing about the porch, it was thickly inhabi-
ted. With the brushy woods close around, the house
was not without a rude charm that was suggestive of
the sunny South.
A Vale of Anthracite 135
Few of the miners' homes that I saw were exactly
squalid, yet a careless disregard for appearances seemed
to be general. Little attention was given to securing
shade trees, or to beautifying the premises with flowers
and vines. Often there was unkemptness, yet not
such a degree of it as would prove especially unhealthy.
The people seemed hardy, and the children as a rule
apparently had sound bodies and were attractively
intelligent. The miners themselves, going homeward
from work with their blackened hands, faces, and
clothing, looked almost demoniac, but when the grime
had been removed and they had changed their gar-
ments they were much like other men.
Workers recently from Europe are apt to hive to-
gether unreasonably, not because they receive starva-
tion wages, but because they have been used to that
sort of crowding, or because they want to save every
last penny in order to bring over their families. As
soon as they get a thrifty start in the world they adopt
a more generous mode of living. The laborers certainly
have money to spend, for they are among the best
patrons of the cheap shows, and they support an ex-
cessive number of dubious saloons. Lawlessness often
manifests itself in the mining towns, but it is seldom
the recent arrivals who are the mischief-makers. No,
most of the "deviltry" is attributed to young fellows
of American birth.
In the part of the valley where I spent the larger
portion of my time the mountains to right and left were
136 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
near and steep. Their raggedly wooded slopes were
very stony, and even the land along the river had the
same thin-soiled, rocky character. It never could have
offered much encouragement to agriculture. Over the
heights, however, in either direction is fertility. Never-
theless, because of the coal, here is wealth and a dense
population, while over there is comparative poverty
and only scattered dwellers. The coal valley is the
market for the latter, and there is much toilsome team-
ing over the rugged ridges. One day I walked with a
sturdy farmer who was on his way homeward trudging
up the hill beside his team and stopping often to rest
his horses.
"This is a hard old mountain to go over," he said,
"but the steepest, roughest part of the road in the whole
seven miles that I have to go is right here as we're
leaving the town. Do you see the cracks in the side-
walk by this house we're passin'? That's caused by
the ground settling. The railroad company that owns
the coal mines had been robbing the pillars that were
left to support the roof above the coal vein. They
don't care nothin' if they let the whole thing drop.
When they sell any land they only sell surface rights
so they can do as they please underground, and a man
puts up a house at his own risk. Often the house set-
tles and racks, and one corner's up and another down
so the doors won't shut. Oh! it warps 'em up in great
shape. Every day or two you see in the paper that
some house has settled. Last summer the ground
A Vale of Anthracite 137
caved under a man who was workin' in his garden and
let him right down into a mine. In some places I've
noticed houses tipped right sideways. They were so
bad that the people in 'em had to leave. One night a
house went down about twenty feet, and a stove inside
was capsized, and the whole thing burned up. There's
trouble from buildings settling on some of the best
streets in Scranton.
"Of course, the closter a vein is to the top of the
surface and the thicker it is the more chance there is
for trouble after the coal has been taken out. Even
where big enough pillars are left, and they are not
robbed, you are only safe for a while. The exposure
to the air, and the action of water that finds its way
down from the surface make the coal crumble, and
pieces of the roof are always falling. But if the vein
is down as deep as seventy-five or a hundred feet the
vacant space fills up roughly without making a dis-
turbance at the surface.
"Now we're up the worst of the hill on more level
ground, and just ahead is a place where the whole road
has settled five feet. You can see cracks and ragged
holes on either side there in the brush. The ground
settles most in the spring when everything is soft. I'll
take you down into a hollow near here to show you
better what's happening."
He turned off onto a grassy woodroad and left his
horses standing under a tree. We were on a wild up-
land where the scrubby forest growth showed the
138 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
ravages of recent fires, and where the ground was
nearly hidden by the crimson autumn glory of tangles
of huckleberry bushes. Soon we reached the ravine,
and my guide pointed out to me the effects of the work
underground in shattering the bordering cliffs, making
holes in the earth, and slanting the trees out of the
perpendicular. In the depths of the glen was a stream
dropping over the ledges and worrying along its bould-
er-strewn channel with much fume and clamor. At
one place it flowed over an outcropping of virgin
coal that showed distinctly on either side of the hol-
low. Probably it was just such a dark crumbling mass
that first gave a hint of the fuel riches of this wilder-
ness.
When I was again back in the town descending the
precipitous hill I stopped to speak with a corpulent
old Irish woman who sat in the corner of her yard, just
inside of the fence, hammering away at a heap of coal.
She was reducing the big lumps to stove size. "This
is the way it comes from the mine," she said. "It's
awful dear if you buy it after it's made ready for your
fire. I break a little every day, but the work is too
hard for me."
She pulled the old shawl she had on her shoulders
closer about her, heaved a sigh, and looked out at me
over her spectacles with exaggerated pathos from under
the cowl-like brown cloth she wore wound around her
head. After a moment's pause she asked, "Are you an
agent, or are you a boss up at the tunnel?"
-Si
M
A Vale'of Anthracite 139
I satisfied her as to that and mentioned that my home
was in New England.
"Yes," she said, "I know about New England. That
was the first settled part of this counthry. I like to
read in history about thim Pilgrims comin' across the
ocean and of the hard times they had. It's intherestin'.
I have fri'nds out in Boston. That is in New England.
I've often heard tell of Boston, and I think I was near
it once. My daughter had married, and I went to live
with her in Connecticut at a place called Derby. But
it was not nice there. Oh! I did n't like it at all. The
wather was bad, and that made drunkards of 'em, you
know. I could n't drink that Derby wather. But
we have the grandest wather here. It tastes good, and
it's soft and all right for washing.
"This is a healthy place, too. We have pure air.
But at Derby, Connecticut, I'd see so many complainin'
of ager and malaria. They have two big rivers there, and
a great many people were drowned. The people could
get a living all right, but I'd see the women go off
workin' and the men idle at home. I did n't like that.
House rent was awful dear there, and so was other
things. I paid three dollars and a quarter for half a
ton of coal, and you could put it all in three bags, and
I had to pay twenty-five cents for a couple of little
bundles of wood.
"Well, I came back here after a while, and here I'll
stay the rest of my days; but this is no cheap place
either for buying most things. Pork is expensive, and
140 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
so is other kinds of food. That's what they call the
high cost of living. I like pork and cabbage. You bile
the pork a little while; then you put the cabbage in
the pot. Yes, that's what I like. Are potatoes dear
where you live? They are here. Potatoes don't grow
so productive in our gardens as they used to. The
ground is too old or something. I think the mines soak
away all the good from the land. But the Eyetalians
here does have grand gardens; and they are not a bad
sort of people. They fight a good deal among them-
selves, but they don't bother the rest of us.
"That's my old man just goin' in the gate. He's
finished his day's work in the mines. He can't do
heavy work any more, but they don't discharge him.
He's been workin' for the company so long they think
a lot of him, you know. They don't give him no special
job, but just tell him to find something to do. So he
opens doors for the mule cars to go through, and picks
coal off the tracks, and such things. He's a very in-
dustrious old man. He says he'd be cold if he did n't
keep goin'.
"It's dirty work. You see how black they get. I
s'pose it must be good for the soap factories. They
wash up as soon as they get home, and change their
clothes what they call shifting 'em. Every week
they have clean mine clothes, except the coat. That
don't get very dirty because they don't keep it on while
they're workin'. Their clothes are not so hard to wash
as those of men who are in mills. The coal dust comes
A Vale of Anthracite 141
right out unless they've got ile on their clothes. They
wear a lamp on the front of their caps, and sometimes
they carry ile for it in one of their pockets and very
likely a little of the ile leaks out or they spill it on them-
selves.
"I went into the mine once with my man long ago,
but not so far that I could n't look back and see a
little glimpse of daylight. He worked away, and by
and by he says, 'Now I'll put off a little blast and let
you hear it;' and bang it went.
"I was scared. I thought I was gone. Everything
shook and shook and shook. It shook so heavy and
shook so hard it seemed like the whole earth was comin'
down. I thought it was the last of me, and the world
was at an end, and I says to myself, 'If I was a man I
would n't be workin' in a mine.'
"But the men who are used to it would n't work
anywhere else. They can earn more than at most other
jobs. We have silk mills around here, but they don't
pay any wages at all. One good thing about mining is
that it don't wear the men out. Generally their health
is pretty good, but sometimes the dust gets down on
their lungs and they take the miner's asthma and are
short of wind, you know. When they have it bad they
have to stop. They may take medicine to kind of ease
them, but there's no cure for it.
"Then, too, we have accidents in the mines. Yes,
indeed. My son-in-law came in kilt to me, and my
brother was kilt dead, and only five months between
142 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
'em. But it's very seldom we have bad accidents now.
Of course, they can't be helped once in a while. Acci-
dents happen in every place in the mines, and on the
railroads, and around the water. There's no safe place
to work unless it is in the stores, and I've heard that
people get kilt there with the elevators."
The old woman now got on her feet with considerable
effort, shook the wrinkles and the dust out of her skirts
and remarked that it was getting cold and she must
go in, but she paused to ask me if I had seen the
Forty Foot Falls up on the mountain. "People come
clear from Philadelphia to see those falls," she said.
"Philadelphia, that's a city did n't you ever hear
of it?
"There's an Indian cave up on the mountain, too,
but people are afraid to go in it. The Indians used to
say that there was more gold around here than out
West. They must have meant the coal. That cave is
only three miles away, but we have great wild moun-
tains here oh dear! acres and acres of woods; I
would n't care to go there."
Farther down the hill was a rude little building that
served as a grocer's storehouse. A man was busy inside
putting things in order and mending some flour bags.
I sat down in the doorway, and while he worked we
talked. At first we commented on some little boys who
were playing ball in the street watched by a bunch of
smaller children that included a baby in a baby car-
riage. They had a ragged old ball, and some nonde-
A Vale of Anthracite 143
script sticks served for bats. One of the liveliest play-
ers was a poor fellow who had lost a leg. He used one
of his crutches for a bat, and when he hit the ball or
had struck at it three times he put the crutch to its
intended use, and away he hobbled to the base with
astonishing celerity.
A drunken man staggered past, and the grocer's
clerk exclaimed: "My! this would be a rich country if
it was n't for the saloons; and if all the men were like
me the saloon-keepers would have to go to work for a
living. The saloons have a harvest time every day and
every night, and if a customer don't have money they'll
trust him, for it's well known that a man will pay his
whiskey bill before he will any other. He'll buy drink
whether work is slack or not and he'll generally keep
good-natured while he's in the saloon half drunk, but
when he comes home, if everything ain't just so he's
ugly.
"The people here are well off in one way they
don't any of 'em need to pay a cent for their fuel. Those
that ain't lazy get it from the culm heaps. Some who
can afford to buy picks all their coal. Yes, people with
a pretty good bank account will go to the culm bank
for their fuel supply. The more wealth they have the
more they economize and try to make. There's cellars
where you'd find enough coal to do 'em a couple of years.
We used to be allowed to go to the dumps with wagons
to bring away coal, but men got to make a business of
it, so the company put a stop to that. These foreign
144 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
women is great people to pick coal, and they back it
home for the most part.
"The culm piles are valuable, and a good share of
what's in 'em can be broken up and sold. Nearly all
coal has got more or less slate in it, but this boney coal, as
we call it, that's in the dumps can be mixed with good
coal, and one will sell the other. In the early days there
was no sale for the finer coal, and they'd throw it away.
This big dump on the edge of the town has been growing
for forty years, and I dare say that in the bottom you'd
find pea coal and chestnut lots of it. Now they use
down to buckwheat and birdseye sizes.
"Besides getting fine coal, there's a chance to make
a good bit here pickin' huckleberries. If there's a
slack time in the mines during the berry season, the
men go right out with the women and children. I've
known a big family to make five dollars in a day.
They'll be goin' up along the mountains at three o'clock
in the mornin'. Late in the day you'll see 'em comin'
back. Often a woman will have her berries in a pan
such as is used to wash dishes in, and she'll carry that
pan balanced on her head with a little cloth underneath
to keep it from huitin'. She has to come down some
awful steep places, but she'll walk right along with her
two hands folded. They sell the berries to a man here
who's a flowerist has a flower house you understand
and he ships 'em to the cities. He buys 'em by the
quart, and sells 'em by weight. I guess he gets a little
more measure that way. A quart will maybe make a
A Vale of Anthracite 145
quart and a half. Our mountains have been so cut off
and burned over that huckleberries is about all they're
good for, though once in a while someone brings down
a backload of dead sticks for to kindle the fire."
The work in the storehouse was now finished, the
dusk of evening was thickening, and the squad of ball-
players in the street had dispersed. I went with the
grocer's clerk to the adjacent store where the lights had
been lit. Just inside, only a few feet from the entrance,
sat the proprietor, a heavy elderly man with his hat on
his head and a cane in his hand. I thought he looked
rather grim and crusty, but I presently observed that
his face could light up with a pleasant smile, and I had no
further doubts as to his being good-humored and kindly
at heart. People were constantly dropping in to get
groceries. Most of them were children sent by their
mothers. The youngsters invariably came to an awed
stop in front of the old man, and he called them by
name and demanded what they wanted, and then he
repeated the items of their requests to an alert young
woman behind the counter. She served them and
entered the charges in the little passbooks the children
brought, and in a large store account book. The
customers seemed never to pay cash, and I asked the
grocer the reason.
"It's the habit," he said. "The men get their wages
twice a month, and the majority of 'em will hand most
of the money to their women, who will come in and pay
me. But mind you, they won't kill themselves hurry-
146 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
ing to get here with it, or by the size of the load they
bring. Many a one don't square up. I've been selling
on credit for the last thirty-two years, and if I tell the
slow ones that they must pay they are quick to give
me a rap, and that's the thanks I get for trusting 'em.
They'd crush my bones in the grave. Ah, yes! if I dun
them they tell me to go where I don't want to go tell
me to go to the last place where I would want to go;
and they name the place whether they know anything
about it or not. Some move away and leave a dirty
book behind them, and there are others I can't collect
from unless I give the case to a lawyer; and if I do
that there's very little comin' to me after he gets
through."
Just then a small redheaded boy came from outside
and held the door half open while he looked in. The
grocer ordered him to go away, and the boy paid no
attention to this command. The old man shook his
cane at the lad with no better result. "You'd better
stand there yet awhile!" the storekeeper exclaimed,
getting onto his feet and lurching belligerently toward
the door. The boy vanished.
"Give me some tobacco," the old man said to his
clerk as he settled back into his chair.
He filled and lit his pipe, and after a few puffs re-
gained his equanimity. Then he turned to me and
remarked: "When I came here in 1854 tne valley was
all woods and laurel. There were big trees everywhere
hemlock, pine, and ash and you could build a house
A miner and an above-ground friend
A Vale of Anthracite 147
out of one of them trees they were so large and so long.
You'd be under the shade wherever you went, and you
did n't need an umbrella in the hardest rain that come,
for the thick leaves overhead would keep the water off
from you. We'd let our hogs run in the woods from
April to November, and they'd take care of themselves
they would, sir. Our cows, too, could go where they
pleased and be in no danger from the railroads. Now,
good gracious! it's all railroads, you might say, here in
the valley. The best of the trees was carried away to
the sawmills, and afterward you could get no income
from the land it was so poor, and a good deal of it was
sold for taxes.
"At first I worked for sixty-three cents a day ten
hours, too ten long hours, but when the Civil War
broke out wages boomed up. I'll tell you what miners
get now. Two men work together a miner and a
laborer. The miner blasts the coal loose, and the other
fellow loads it. If they are in a good place the miner
will perhaps knock enough down in a couple of hours
for the other to handle, and he's earned three and a
half or four dollars. ' He used to go off home then, but
now, for fear of accidents to the laborer, he has to stay
till the loading is done. The laborer will earn close to
three dollars, but there's times when they're working
where the place is not so good, or they can't get cars
to load. Then you may hear a man say he has n't
made but a dollar that day.
"One advantage of the job is that you are your own
148 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
master. There's no boss standing over you. Besides,
you are away from the cold in winter time, and away
from the heat in summer time. But you have the dis-
comfort of wet clothing. The water is dripping from
the roof all the time onto your back. Maybe you
would n't be in there ten minutes until you'd be like
they'd kept puttin' the hose on you all day, but you
don't mind that while you're busy. In winter, when a
man comes out, his pants often freeze to his legs before
he gets home. Very likely he'll stop in at a saloon and
stay awhile by the stove, and drink a couple of glasses
of beer. Then he's hot inside and out. When it's very
warm in summer, and he comes up from the cool mine
he has to sit down in the shade and get used to the
change a little or he'd be sunstruck.
"A miner is a miner all his life, and as a general thing
he brings up his boys to do the same work. First the
boys are put into the breakers, and from those they go
into the mines. They are brought up to that one thing,
and they think they could n't do anything else, and
often they won't try. If a man can't get his special
kind of a job he'll tramp the country through.
"On the whole the people here are prosperous, and
there's five times as many own their homes as there
are renters; but when a miner has to support a big
family he's got all he wants to do to keep his head above
water with prices as they are nowadays."
So I gathered from what the old grocer and others
said, and from my own observation, that life among
A Vale of Anthracite 149
the anthracite workers is a mixture of cloud and sun-
shine just as it is elsewhere. They are not satisfied,
yet nevertheless there are no other workers with whom
they would willingly change places.
NOTES. Historically, the most interesting portion of the anthra-
cite coal district is the Wyoming Valley. The largest town in the
valley is Wilkes-Barre, named in honor of the two chief upholders
of American liberty in Parliament. The name of the valley is de-
rived from an Indian word that means "large plains." It applies to
an expansion of the Susquehanna basin about 20 miles long and 4
or 5 broad. Were it not for the coal this gentle valley would have a
good deal of pastoral charm.
Near Wilkes-Barre, in July, 1778, occurred one of the most
harrowing of Indian massacres. A force of British troops and In-
dians entered the valley, defeated the settlers, and the massacre
followed. The British officers could not restrain their savage allies,
who butchered some 300 men, women and children. A monument,
four miles north of the town, on the opposite side of the river, marks
the scene of the battle. Three miles farther on is Queen Esther's
Rock, where the half-breed queen of the Senecas tomahawked 14
defenceless prisoners.
The original fireplace in which anthracite coal was first burned
in 1808 is preserved at the old f Fall House on Washington Street in
Wilkes-Barre. Many relics of local Indian and pioneer life can
be seen at the Wyoming Historical and Geological Society rooms.
The height known as Giant's Despair, east of the city, is the scene
of the annual hill-climb of the Wilkes-Barre Automobile Club.
The valley has paved roads from end to end.
A particularly fine scenic route is that from Wilkes-Barre to
Elmira, N. Y., 109 miles. There are good dirt roads much of the
way, but with some steep hills that require great care on the part of
the motorist when the roadway is wet.
The route to Scranton, 18 miles north, by way of Pittston, is
150 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
through the heart of the Anthracite region and abounds in collieries
and villages of foreign laborers. For much of the way the road is
rough and poor. The town streets are narrow, and are crowded
with children and animals, and there are frequent dangerous rail-
road crossings.
VII
A FAMOUS BATTLEFIELD
I WAS on my way to Gettysburg. An elderly man
got in at one of the stops of the train and occupied
a seat with me. He was garrulously inclined and
soon was telling me of some of his varied experiences
and opinions, but he had not discoursed long when he
remarked: "If it's all the same to you I want to change
places. I'll tell you why. We're all creatures of habit,
and I chew tobacco. I want to sit next to the window
so I can spit out.
"See here, my friend," he continued as he settled
down where I had been, "I make it a rule when I meet
a better-looking man than myself to give him a lemon
drop."
He took a paper bag from his pocket, and I accepted
a lemon drop. "I s'pose I've bought hundreds of pounds
of 'em," he added. "Did you say you was goin' to
Gettysburg? I fought there in the great three days'
battle that began July first, 1863. Look at this," and
he showed me a pension paper; "that's my name
Cap'n Eli Billings. And here's a picture of three of my
grandsons. That smallest boy is named after me he's
a brick. They're all good boys, but I'm sorry to say
they've got a craze to go to all the moving picture shows
152 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
that come along. I approve of such shows when they're
proper, but they give too many cowboy and Indian
subjects. That ought to be stopped. It creates a dis-
position to have revolvers, and I see my grandsons
playing fighting and saying to each other, 'I'll shoot
you. I'll kill you.' It's detrimental.
"Speakin' of the war, I was in the whole of it right
smack from the start. I enlisted the day after Sumter
was fired on, and I served to the very end. More than
a hundred days I was under fire, yet there was never a
ball drew blood on me. I heard many of 'em pass near
my head, and they went through my clothes in detach-
ments. A minie ball goes 'Zip!' with the same sound as
you make on a fiddle by giving the E string a pick and
running your finger up on it; and the sound of a shell
is as if it said:
WHERE ARE YOU?
Where are you?
Where are you?
"Where are you? FOUND YOU!"
That last is when it bursts.
"I used to teach a music school, and I played a bass
viol in the Methodist Church. Well, our division got
to Gettysburg on the second day about seven o'clock
in the morning. We marched into a field and had
breakfast, and quite a good many done some washing
and hung the things out to dry. We was lyin' around
A Famous Battlefield 153
takin' it easy when the long roll sounded. That meant
to fall in and get ready to move. So we packed up and
then double-quicked it to Little Round Top. From
there we made three charges across the swampy Valley
of Death and past, the wild rocks of the Devil's Den.
On one of the charges I came across Sam Ralston of
our town goin' to the rear. 'Oh! Eli,' he says, 'our
whole army is demoralized.'
"'Sam,' I says, 'don't think it, just because you're
demoralized.'
"He was a notorious coward and was always dropping
out of the ranks during a battle, if he did n't avoid it
altogether by claimin' he was sick before it began.
"I'll tell you a little joke. You know General Sher-
man said, 'War is hell.' If that is so, what was us fellers
that fought the battles? Why we was nothing more or
less than the devil's imps. Sherman made a mistake.
"After the war ended someone wrote to me to ask if
I commanded a company in the battle of Gettysburg.
I did n't know whether I did or not. I wa'n't thinkin'
about that or about the fightin'. I did my duty, but
the main thing that concerned me was to keep close to
Jim Mellin. He had a grudge against me, and I was
afraid he'd take advantage of the confusion of the battle
to be revenged. So I made up my mind to be so near
that I could grab him if he tried to shoot me. But I
had no trouble at all with him, and at the end of our
third charge he shook hands with me and said, 'Eli,
did n't we drive 'em!'
154 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
"This was the way his bad feeling toward me begun:
I was promoted to be sergeant, and had to see that every
man took his turn at squad duty, and one of the first
things I did after my promotion was to detail Jim to be
on campguard. He swore that he would n't. 'Look a'
here,' I said, 'it'll go hard with you if you don't.'
'"I don't care a hang,' says he, 'I won't mount
guard.'
"Course military is military, and I reported to the
colonel. He had Jim tried by a court-martial, and says
to him at the conclusion of it: 'You are under the
sergeant's orders, and those orders must be obeyed.
I sentence you to thirty days close confinement in the
guard-house and to forfeit one month's pay.'
"At the end of the thirty days I was sent to the guard-
house to have Jim come and sign the payroll for the
month he'd forfeited, but Jim said, 'I won't go with
you, and I'll be blessed if you can take me.'
"That stirred my ire. I went and got two men, and
I had them come with me all armed and ready for
business. As soon as we were in the guardhouse I said
to 'em, 'This man is ordered to go and sign the payroll.
If he don't go when I tell him to, put the bayonet right
into him. You'll do it, too, or I'll report you.' Then I
very calmly said, 'Jim, you go;' and he went.
But he was mad and said he'd kill me, and I thought
very likely he would if he got a good chance. That's a
sample of the ugly side of war. Now, I'll give you a
sample of the pleasant side. It's a little romance.
A Famous Battlefield 155
While our army was here in Pennsylvania, me and five
other fellers was given a day off and we went for a long
walk out into the country. When we started back we
conversed together about the chance of getting some-
thing to eat at the houses along the road, for we was
awful tired of hardtack it was so dry and so often had
worms in it. I was chosen to stop at the next house,
and the others were to come right along behind to sup-
port me. Well, I rang the doorbell, and a nice young
lady came to see who was there. My courage kind o'
failed me, but I made her a military salute, and says,
'Will you be so kind and condescending as to give us
some-er-water to drink?'
"I didn't have the nerve to ask for food. She
brought us a pitcher of ice-water, and she was so
friendly we all see that she'd have been glad to give us
food if I'd only asked for it. Soon we went on, and by
and by we passed over a hill, and found a picnic in
progress close by the road 'in a grove. There was a
bunch of older people in one place, and children in
another, and they insisted we should stop and eat with
them. We knew they would n't take, 'No,' from us,
so we tried to excuse ourselves, and then went along
with 'em. But each of the two parties wanted us, and
finally I told the children that we'd only eat half enough
with the older people, and come back and finish with
them. They said they'd go along and tell us when we'd
got half enough. A little girl named Maggie a black-
eyed, smart little thing, nine years old kept with
156 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
me, and after I'd eaten a while she begun to ask if I
had n't got half enough. 'No,' I said, 'I'm pretty
hungry.'
"At last, however, we soldiers went and sat down
with the children to finish our feast. When I'd eaten
about all I wanted I said to myself, 'I'll get out of this
trundlebed trash.' But as I was rising Maggie flung
her arms round my neck and made me stay. I got
acquainted with her folks at the picnic, and they were
very cordial, and once or twice in the days that followed
I was at their home. Later I had typhoid fever, and
while I was recovering I went and stayed with them. I
married when the war was over, and pretty soon after-
ward my wife and I went to visit Maggie's folks. But
Maggie, who'd always been specially friendly with me,
would n't hardly speak to either of us. I asked her
mother what was the matter, and she said it was be-
cause of my wife. Yes, sir, back in the war that little
girl of nine had fallen in love with the soldier of twenty-
three. Time passed on and she married and went to
live in New York. But I've always had a certain feeling
of affection for her, and in late years we've occasionally
written to each other. Now I'm a widower, and if
Maggie was a widow woman, and she would have me,
I would n't marry any other woman on the face of the
earth. But the last time she wrote she said her head
troubled her terribly and she was sick and tired of
takin' medicine. Her letters have stopped, and I think
she's dead."
A Famous Battlefield 157
My companion reached his destination about this
time, and we parted, and a little later I arrived at
Gettysburg. The town is a prosperous county-seat of
four thousand inhabitants about the same number
it had in wartime. It has changed in the intervening
years, yet much of the old still remains, and it has a
serenity and quaintness that are very charming. In
the business center is an open market square. Thither
the farmers resort in the early morning on the three
market days of the week, back their wagons up to the
sidewalks, display their bags and boxes of fruits and
vegetables and crates of chickens and dicker with the
townspeople who hover about examining and purchas-
ing. All the streets are lined with trees, which, with
their suggestion of cooling shade in the heat of summer,
give the place a touch of the idyllic. The houses are
very apt to be snug to the uneven brick walks, and el-
bow each other quite closely. Porches, steps, and little
porticos extend out from the front of the residences onto
the walks, and the people sit on them in summer even-
ings. They make an interesting architectural feature,
and they promote comfort and sociability. Most of
the houses had gardens behind them, and though it
was mid-October there had as yet been no frost, and
they were full of green growing things and a wealth of
gay blossoms. Little alleys branched off from the main
streets, and appealed agreeably to the eye with their
whitewashed walls and fences contrasting with the
vines and flowers and foliage that overhung them.
158 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
Many of the town buildings date back to war days, and
among these are several built of logs. One log structure
is a negro store. Its commercial character was made
apparent by a few lonesome tomatoes and cabbages on
a stand outside, and by a liberal display of advertising
posters tacked up on the whitewashed logs. Here and
there I observed holes in the logs made by bullets in
that long-gone battle. I thought the holes seemed
rather large, but the proprietor said that was the result
of the boys digging out the bullets with their jack-
knive.
Many another town building bears the scars of battle,
yet not one was intentionally harmed or seriously dam-
aged except an outlying tavern. "Some Rebel sharp-
shooters got into that," my informant said, "and they
were picking off the Union officers. So the Federals
trained their cannon on it and smashed it all to pieces.
I'll tell you what the conditions were here. Before the
war this was a great carriage-building town, and our
trade was in the South. We'd sell and take notes, and
the payment was dependent on the cotton and tobacco.
If either crop was a failure the notes would go over for
another year. The war meant ruin. Our market was
gone, and the money due us could n't be collected.
My father got sixty-five dollars out of about twenty-
six thousand.
"When Lee came marching up in this direction the
goods in the stores were loaded on wagons and carted
off, and some of the women and children struck out for
A Famous Battlefield 159
safety along the Baltimore Pike, hoofing it and taking
with them what they could carry.
"A good many thought the rebels could n't drive
our soldiers, but they did the first day of the battle,
and as our troops retreated through the town they
hollered, 'Citizens, to your cellars!' That was in the
afternoon. In the earlier part of the day lots of people
got up on the housetops to watch the fighting.
"An hour after it began every public building in the
place was a hospital, and soon every barn and shed
likewise, and the town women were kept busy cooking
for the wounded.
"I worked in a store. The proprietors were Quakers,
and therefore non-combatants, and they had gone
away. Food was scarce, but I took some salt bacon,
chopped it in small pieces and mixed it up with corn
flour for flapjacks. Those flapjacks were a rather
palatable article. And I toasted a little rye, and poured
some molasses into a pan and sort of burnt it, and then
I stirred the rice and molasses up together, and after
I'd put some condensed milk to it I had pretty fair
coffee.
"When there was heavy cannonading I'd go to the
cellar, and at night I slept on the floor downstairs.
Hundreds of houses had balls go through their windows
and roofs, and once in a while a shell that was shot over
the town fell short. Yet of all the townspeople just one
young woman was killed. Her name was Jennie Wade,
and its a curious fact that she was the only outspoken
160 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
rebel in Gettysburg. Jennie was a bright, pretty girl,
but because her father was a Virginian, she sided with
his state, and from the beginning of the war she
would n't go out and sing with the other girls for our
soldiers when they were marching through the town.
As a result she was ostracized. During the battle she
was taking care of her sister who was sick. They had a
little meal hidden away somewhere, and while she was
bending over mixing up some in the bread trough that
she had put in a chair, a bullet came through the door,
struck her in the back, and killed her.
In the course of time, after the war, all the states
were putting up monuments to their troops that were
engaged in the battle. As it happened, no Iowa troops
fought at Gettysburg, and the people there were not
altogether pleased at the prospect of not having their
monument like the rest. Meanwhile, Jennie Wade's
sister become head of an important Iowa Woman's
organization, and the project was hatched of honoring
this sister by putting up a monument to Jennie. They'd
got the impression somehow that Jennie was a heroine,
and that she went out on the battlefield to assist the
wounded with water, and was killed while baking bread
for the soldiers. So sentiment was worked up, and a
monument was contracted for that represented her
as a sort of angel of mercy with several canteens hung
from her shoulders. Of course, there was quite a cele-
bration when the monument was brought here and set
up, and Gettysburg was in a predicament. But we
A Famous Battlefield 161
did n't let the truth get the better of our courtesy, and
the newspapers and every one kept quiet."
The house in which Jennie Wade met her death has
been preserved and appears much as it did in war time.
It is a story and a half structure of brick. Two of the
lower rooms are open to the public and are full of battle
relics and souvenirs. More interesting than anything
else is the door still in use through which the fatal ball
passed. Bullets picked up on the battlefield were
prominent among the souvenirs for sale. "We find
more or less in our gardens every year," the caretaker
said, "but most of 'em come from ploughed farm fields.
After a rain is the best time to find 'em. The dirt gets
washed off, and the bullets look like bluish lumps of
earth. The boys go out in their gum boots to pick 'em
up, and men go, too lots of 'em. You see 'em walking
slowly along looking down at the ground, and a stranger
would wonder what they was about. The owners don't
like to have 'em tramping there it beats the ground
down so hard. They sell the bullets to the souvenir
shops."
The severest and most critical fighting took place
only a short distance southward out of the town, and
when I walked thither I found the region as a whole
had the aspect of a fertile, well-tilled farming country.
At intervals there were groups of whitewashed farm
buildings that contrasted pleasantly with the crimson
and gold of the tree foliage. The land was mildly
rolling, except for a few rocky uplifts like Little and
1 62 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
Big Roundtop, but on the western horizon were blue
lines of mountains. All over the field of action are
monuments varying from the small and inexpensive
to the imposing structure erected by the state of Penn-
sylvania, with its tablets containing the names of more
than thirty thousand state troops who were engaged
in the battle, and costing one hundred and fifty thous-
and dollars. Some are graceful and beautiful, but many
are commonplace, and the bronze or stone figures are
not infrequently of the scarecrow order that is, they
are theatrical in their supposedly heroic poses rather
than convincingly human. Numerous cannon are
placed at the vantage points where the batteries were
in the fight, and there are earth breastworks and stone
fences that figured in the conflict. The most interesting
house on the battlefield is the little two room log cabin
that Meade occupied as his headquarters.
Slender framework lookout towers have been erected
at various points, but it is more satisfactory and natural
to view the scene from the boulder-strewn height of
Little Round Top where some of the fiercest fighting
occurred. There I talked with one of the veteran
guardians of the battlefield, and he pointed out the
Valley of Death and the Devil's Den, and he indicated
the Bloody Angle on Cemetery Ridge where the Rebel-
lion reached its flood tide when Pickett made his
disastrous charge up the long gentle slope. "And over
yonder," he said, "is where Longstreet licked the wind
out of Sickles, who'd disobeyed orders by failing to
The Devil's Den
A Famous Battlefield 163
stop on the battleline. He thought he could beat the
rebels, and he went out with both flanks in the air. One
of his legs was shot away, and he nearly got our whole
army defeated. Yes, he lost his leg, but he saved his
bacon. A good deal of talk was made about his per-
formance, and it was only the kindness of Lincoln's
heart that saved him from a court martial."
A party of sightseers passed near us in charge of a
professional guide. My companion spoke rather
scoffingly of the information the guide was reeling off.
"Most of those fellows are ignoramuses, "he affirmed.
"They are careless, or they exaggerate in order to make
what they say interesting. Day after day they repeat
the same story in the same sing-song fashion. They
start with it, and they go through to the finish whether
you want to hear it or not. You can't stop 'em. They
talk you to death.
"We have a hundred thousand visitors a year. Some
of 'em come scattering, and some come in big parties
on excursions. They require watching because so
many of 'em kind o' want to get a-hold of something
to carry away. If we let 'em alone they'd get every
monument there is here, fragment by fragment, and I
don't know but they'd take Little Round Top, too.
You see that statue?"
He pointed to a bronze effigy of General Warren
standing a little out of plumb on a great flat boulder.
"Once we found the spurs had been filed off, and again
that the end of the saber was gone. The statue has
164 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
been repaired and a sign has been put up forbidding
people to get onto the rock. Yet they seem bound to
climb up there, and I have to warn them off. The rock
is shelly on one side, and often I'll hear a little tapping,
and I'll go there and find some one has got a stone and
is trying to knock a piece loose. Lots of 'em have a
hankering to carry off a piece of the Den rocks, and
every now and then we ketch a feller tryin' to scratch
his name on the rocks. They used to write their names
on these lookout towers when they were first built.
The fools had their names and everything all over the
towers, and we had to put up notices."
When I had retraced my steps from the battlefield I
went out from the town eastward to where Rock Creek
loiters through the lowlands. Here was an ancient
stone bridge that climbed over the stream in a succes-
sion of arches, high in the middle, and low on either side.
Close by, in a wet nook that had recently been
mowed with a scythe, was an old farmer poking the
grass into piles. I accosted him, and we soon were
talking about the great battle which so overshadows
all other events in the region.
"As soon as we heard that the rebels were comin%
he said, "there was a powerful excitement through
here. You bet there was! and nearly everyone was
goin' off with their horses to get 'em across the Sus-
quehanna, about forty miles away. Out where I lived,
quite a distance east of the town, we had a neighbor,
formerly of Maryland, named Jacob Brown. He said:
A Famous Battlefield 165
"I ain't goin' to move my horses. I'll just tell the
Rebels I'm from Maryland and that they can examine
the records and prove the truth of what I say.' But
the rebels took his three horses without giving him a
chance to prove he was a Maryland man. Jacob
would n't put confidence in no soldiers after that.
"Some of the troops stopped on his place and started
their campfires. 'There goes my rails,' he says. 'If
only one or two men was doin' it I'd talk to 'em, but
there's a whole army; so what can I do?'
"He was a big stout man, and once I heard him make
a brag at a muster on the drill field north of the town
that he could lick any man under the sun. Well, he
was about three parts in whiskey or perhaps he
would n't have been so loud about it. He juked
around in the crowd makin' his brag until a little man
named Murch jumped in front of him and said, 'You're
a blame liar;' and at it they went. They fought a good
while and neither of 'em said 'Ouch!' But at last
Murch got Bailey down on the ground under him. He
pounded him well and made him take back his state-
ment about bein' able to lick any man under the sun.
"The three days of the Gettysburg battle was an
anxious time for the older people, but I was young then.
I know I slept all right. It did n't bother me any even
when the fightin' ran on into the middle of the night.
One day I clumb up in a clump of chestnut trees and
watched the battle from a distance.
"People ask me if I was in the fight at Gettysburg,
166 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
and I say, 'No, but I was just where the bullets flew
thick and fast.'
'"And did you get hit?' they say.
'"There never a ball touched me,' I say. 'I was
where the bullets flew thick and fast, but not until three
days after the battle." :
I have mentioned the heroine of Gettysburg. The
battle also produced a local town hero. This was John
Burns, an elderly, old-fashioned shoemaker and con-
stable, who got out his gun and went forth into the
ranks to fight for his country. His story is not, however,
universally accepted as fact. "He was a regular coward,
that man was," one citizen informed me. "As con-
stable, if he had a hard case he got some one else to
discharge his duties. Some time after the great fight,
he was showing a senator from Ohio around the field,
and the senator says, 'You were in the battle, wa'n't
you ? '
"'No,' Burns says.
"'Why, yes you was,' says the senator, and they
fixed up a fancy story between 'em."
This illustrates the uncertainties of even recent
history. I quote the words of another townsman to
give what is probably a more accurate view of John
Burns. He said: "There's a couple of lunatics here in
this place who spread that story about Burns not being
in the battle, and they did it out of pure cussedness.
It's a blame lie that he did n't fight. He was erratic,
but he had courage all right, and when he set his head
A Famous Battlefield 167
you could n't stop him. In his early days he drank a
good deal, but later he became a sort of temperance
fanatic. In the poems that have been written about
him he's represented as going to the battle in an antique
yellow vest and a blue swallow-tail coat with great gilt
buttons on it. That's poetic licence. He was no such
gay romantic figure. The facts are that he wore just
ordinary clothes with an old linen duster over 'em. On
his head he had a bell-crowned black felt hat.
"Perhaps you've heard of poisoned bullets being
used in the battle. Oh thunder! that's all tommy-rot.
You'll find in the base of certain bullets a zinc rivet,
and a lot of these roosters claim that when a man was
hit the rivet separated from the rest of the bullet and
let loose some poison. The truth is it was simply a
device for keeping the guns clean. Every tenth bullet
had that rivet, and the discharge flattened it a little and
made it extend enough beyond the edges of the lead to
clean the barrel as it went out.
"Another thing that people talk folderol about is
Meade's inaction after his victory. They say he ought
to have annihilated Lee. But the two armies were very
evenly matched. If Meade had done the attacking here
at Gettysburg he'd have been licked out of his boots.
After the battle it would n't have been wise to follow
Lee closely because he knew the mountain passes by
which he retreated much better than Meade did. Be-
sides, Meade was hampered by a lot of old maids and
grandmothers down there in Washington. How can
1 68 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
you expect a board of strategy, studying maps in the
government offices, far from the field of action, would
have any value? They ought to have had their blamed
heads blown off. They gave the men in the field no
power, and again and again let 'em get defeated while
waiting for the strategy board's orders. There's where
Grant had the advantage of his predecessors. He
would n't be dictated to by a board of inferior and
timid officers at a distance."
NOTES. Gettysburg is only 7 miles from the boundary between
Pennsylvania and Maryland, which marked the northern limit of
slavery before the war. The town itself is interestingly quaint, and
the adjacent battlefield was the scene of what is regarded as the
chief contest of the Civil War the turning-point of the Rebellion.
The struggle was between 80,000 Union troops and 73,000 Con-
federates. In no other battle of the war were as large numbers
actually engaged. The Union loss in killed, wounded, and missing
was 23,000, the Confederate loss, 20,000.
On the southern borders of the town is a national cemetery, at
the dedication of which Lincoln made the famous 20 line address
which is considered his most immortal utterance. Beyond the
cemetery is the portion of the battlefield that was most hotly con-
tested, including Little Round Top, the Valley of Death, the Devil's
Den, and the Bloody Angle. A good walker can visit all the more
important points comfortably on foot, but many will prefer to hire
carriages or to take advantage of a trolley line that traverses the
battleground. Everywhere on its 25 square miles are monuments
over 400 of them in all, and fully #7,000,000 have been expended
on them and the grounds. Probably no other battlefield in the
world has been marked with such care and completeness.
The main motor routes out of Gettysburg are these: North to
Harrisburg, 38 miles, most of the way a fair road; east to Phila-
The haymaker
A Famous Battlefield 169
delphia, 118 miles, roads both very good and very bad; southeast
to Baltimore, 54 miles, mostly good roads; south to Washington,
78 miles, fair road; southwest to Hagerstown, 34 miles, over a stone
road. Nearly all the highways are tollroads, and the interruptions
to pay toll are pretty frequent on some of them.
An attractive route from Harrisburg is westerly up the beautiful
valley of the Blue Juniata. The road is bad in places.
Philadelphia abounds in features of great interest, and the brief-
est sojourn there should include visits to Independence Hall,
Franklin's grave, the Betsey Ross House, Fairmount Park, and to
the city hall, which is the largest municipal building in the world
and cost over 20,000,000.
Bryn Mawr with its famous girl's college is 10 miles west of Phila-
delphia. Bryn Mawr is Welsh for "great hill." At 22 miles on this
route, a little beyond Norristown, the road to the left leads to Valley
Forge, 4 miles, Washington's headquarters in the winter of 1777-
8. At Pottstown on this route, 39 miles, is a wonderful group of
rocks, known as "Ringing Rocks," which give forth a musical sound
when struck.
VIII
THE WATER GAP AND BEYOND
I HAD seen pictures of the Delaware Water Gap, I
had read of its beauty, yet I had wandered into
many out of the way nooks and corners of our
country from the Atlantic to the Pacific before I visited
this easily accessible and famous Water Gap. It is
almost due west from New York City on the Delaware
River which forms the boundary line between New
Jersey and Pennsylvania. Here the stream, before
escaping from the rough, broken country to the north
and entering the gentle pastoral region to the south,
encounters a bold mountain ridge, and passes through
a narrow cleft, where rise on either side great gray
cliffs, raggedly clad with trees. The scene is impressive,
and the jagged savageness of the Gap itself is pleasantly
relieved by the milder and better forested heights that
are close at hand. Big wooden hotels crown the promi-
nent view points, and the vicinity is a favorite summer
resort. I preferred to seek a more rustic region, and
after I had enjoyed loitering about the immediate
neighborhood of the Gap for a time, I followed a wagon
road on the Jersey shore northward along the stream.
Soon I had left the hotels behind, and also the railroads,
which take advantage of the Gap to slip through the
The Water Gap and Beyond 171
mountain barrier and then go on westward. Often the
road I trod skirted the riverbank with only an inter-
mittent screen of trees and bushes between it and the
water, and I caught many an enchanting glimpse of the
stream, and of high hills or serene mountain ranges
dreaming in the distance.
Among the wayside trees were frequent chestnuts
with wide-spreading limbs and shaggy-barked trunks,
and on the ground was a strewing of burs. As I was
passing under one of these trees a chipmunk began to
scold me, and to scurry around through the brush as
if to frighten me by conveying the impression that he
was a dozen times his actual size. Then I observed
that burs and nuts were dropping from aloft, and I
fancied that the chipmunk on the ground had a con-
federate in the tree who was busy throwing down nuts
for him to gather. I secured a share of the toothsome
woodland treasures for myself, in spite of the protests
of the chipmunk in the adjacent brush, and resumed
my walk, munching the nuts at my leisure from a
pocket half filled. When my supply became depleted
I found I could easily replenish it almost anywhere
along the way. The road presently entered a fine
stretch of woodland, tall-treed and damp, with a thick
undergrowth of dark-foliaged rhododendrons. Fre-
quent brooks came plashing down rocky ravines from
the hills, and this wilderness voice of the waters was
almost the only sound that broke the silence. Once I
saw a group of deer hastening ghostlike through the
172 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
leafage, and as soon as their flitting forms vanished
loneliness reigned once more.
After a time I emerged among farm fields, but always
as I went on the woodland was not far away. Late in
the afternoon I was overtaken by the mail-carrier, a
thin, hook-nosed ancient, with long gray hair hanging
about his stooping shoulders. He had an open buggy
drawn by a big, bony, black horse, and as there was
room for a passenger and I was getting footweary I
arranged to ride with him to the next village. It was a
somewhat jerky journey, for he stopped at every house
to leave a little mail bag, which he either hung on the
dooryard fence, or thrust into a box fastened on a post.
Once he drove into a yard and asked a man there if he
had any lard to sell.
"Yes, we got a little," the man said.
"How much d'ye tax for it?" the mail-carrier ques-
tioned.
"Oh, the goin' price, whatever 'tis," the farmer
replied.
They discussed the lard and various other topics, ad-
dressing each other by their first names, and I learned
that my companion's name was Isaiah. "I sell con-
siderable produce during a season," he said when we
resumed our journey. "The hotels down around the
Gap are good customers, and I always carry a load
when I start from up here in the country. I'm ashamed
to tell it, but since the first of April there hain't been a
Sunday when I did n't have to put in my time getting
The Water Gap and Beyond 173
sweet corn, eggs, and such things. But I'm obliged to
make a living somehow."
I asked if the house we had just left was an old Dutch
dwelling. It was a spreading structure of stone shad-
owed by tall trees. At the rear was a long and broad
piazza, and at the front was a porch with a settee on
either side suggestive of tranquil evening loitering.
"Yes, that's a Dutch house all right," Isaiah said,
"and it was built way back in Colonial times. We're
all Dutch through here.
"D'ye see that big field of buckwheat up on the
hillside? The grain is all reaped and stacked and ready
for the threshing machine. That field is a part of
Hiram Robock's farm, but he's only been living on it
for the last two or three years. Now he's got sick of
it, and a few days ago he moved back to Newark where
he come from. Well, it was like this he did n't git
along with his neighbors. He wa'n't very sociable, and
he thought they was too inquisitive about his business,
and too much inclined to trespass. You see when a
man here needs to use a stick of timber he goes up on
the mountain, and if he don't find it handy on his own
land he goes somewheres else on land that lies next to his
and gets what he wants. We all do that way, and
nobody cares; but Hiram thought it was stealing, and
he made a row.
"His buckwheat hadn't been cut .when he moved
away, and his neighbors got quite anxious because it
looked to them as if he was goin' to let that buckwheat
174 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
go to waste. They thought he must be crazy. They
were right about his intentions. He wa'n't goin' to
bother with the buckwheat, and I went to him and
made a bargain to harvest it to halves. We raise a
good deal of buckwheat around here, and all through
the winter we have buckwheat cakes for breakfast
every morning. Oh, we can beat the city people all to
hollow on makin' buckwheat cakes."
My companion talked with considerable animation,
and he often gestured with an upward, outward throw
of his hands, and he emphasized the good points in his
discourse by giving me a hunch with his shoulder.
Presently, in response to a question of his, I told him
that I was from Massachusetts.
"Do you know Dr. Prout of Boston?" he at once
asked. "He's a specialist on stomick troubles, and
he's helped me wonderful. Until 'bout six years ago
I'd been a well man all my life. I'd hired out on a farm
at that time and was workin' in oats. I remember I
was talkin' with the woman of the house after dinner,
and she said: 'I've never knowed you to lay down like
other men to take a noon spell. Don't you never get
tired?'
"There come up a shower in the afternoon, and I
was goin' to the house when suddently I begun belching
up gas. 'What under the sun ails me?' I says. I was
fairly blind, and I went and sot down on the stoop.
But I got worse instead of better and liked to 'a'
choked to death. One of the other men helped me into
The Water Gap and Beyond 175
the house and went for the doctor, who relieved me
some, so that the next day I was out and around. But
I was too sick to work. I doctored with him all winter,
and wa'n't improvin' a bit. I had nervous prostration,
you know. It was just as if death was staring me right
in the face. I can't describe it to you. Dr. Prout's
advertisements was in the paper, and I decided to try
him. I told the man I'd been doctorin' with, of my
intentions, and he said, 'I don't think much of these
advertising doctors. They just take your money and
don't cure you.'
'"That's a little the way of the local doctors, too,'
I says. 'You pledged me your word of honor that you
was goin' to do suthin' to cure me, and here I am.'
'"I told you that in good faith,' he says, 'but your
trouble is more stubborner than I expected.'
"'You was on a wild goose chase all the time,' I says.
"So I wrote to Dr. Prout and told him how I was
afflicted. After that we had considerable correspond-
ence, and his portrait was right on the corner of every
letter he wrote. In his first letter he asked, 'What
does the local doctors pronounce your trouble to be?'
" I replied that they said I had a weak stomick, and
I described my feelin's and symptoms. He wrote back
that he had diagonized my case, and I had catarrh of
the stomick, and that the inside of the stomick was
covered with a thick mucus. 'We must kill the germs
of that;' he said, 'and I can guarantee you a perma-
nent cure; but it will perhaps require a five month's
176 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
treatment, and the charge would be nine dollars a
month.'
"I got the medicine from him, and I had n't taken
it no time at all when I began to be better, and at the
end of five months I was well."
Now we were entering a village. It was a chaotic
little place with what was known as "the mountain"
rising easterly, and a high hill on the west, and right
through the midst of the hamlet ran a swift, noisy
stream. The valley road was here crossed by another,
and near the meeting of the ways was a store, a hotel,
a gristmill, and a church. The store was neatly painted,
and in good repair, and had a mild aspect of prosperity.
In front of the hotel across the way hung a somewhat
pretentious sign, but the building was now a tenement
occupied by two families. It had been years since the
wheels had turned in the gloomy gristmill, and the
barnlike little church was pastorless and seldom used.
In the village were perhaps a dozen homes. Most of
them were distinctly humble, and often they were
forlornly so. The yards and fields were inclosed by
staggering nondescript fences. Every home had its
ordorous hogpen, and this was very apt to be next to
the road where the passer could neither avoid the view
of its filth nor help inhaling some of its aroma. Along
either side of the narrow village ways, among the weeds
and stones, it seemed to be convenient to leave the
farm wagons, and other weatherworn vehicles, some
entirely past use; and for variety there were mingled
The Water Gap and Beyond 177
with them woodpiles, old wheels, broken mowing-
machines, and similar rubbish.
With the help of a ceremonious introduction from
Isaiah I engaged lodging at the storekeeper's, and then
I went for a ramble about the hamlet in the evening
dusk. I found its quaint picturesqueness quite appeal-
ing. There was even a wellsweep at one of the homes
still in use, and this harmonized very agreeably with
the sunbonneted women and rudely clothed men.
The storekeeper's dwelling and place of business were
both under one roof, and after eating supper in the
kitchen I stepped into the adjacent store where a few
dim lamps were burning. A box stove occupied the
center of the apartment, and near it was a long bench.
I took possession of a lone chair, and chatted with the
men who dropped in from time to time. Most of them
settled down on the bench to stay for the evening,
and when that would hold no more they perched on the
counters and on boxes of goods. One man, after feeling
of the stove to make sure there was no fire in it, sat
down on that. Some had resorted to the store to get
their mail, some to trade, others merely to loaf and
gossip. One of them was a stutterer who seemed to
try to overcome his defect by speaking very loud. A
dog had come tagging along at the heels of the man who
sat on the stove, and when the creature saw that his
master was going to linger he curled up and went to
sleep. At a convenient spot on the floor was a pan with
a little sawdust in it. Some of the men were smoking,
178 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
some were chewing, but they all, whether using tobacco
or not, spit at the pan. Their marksmanship was not
very good. If it had been I fear the pan would have
overflowed.
A woman brought in a bag of chestnuts. The store-
keeper weighed them and said, "Eleven pounds, fifty-
five cents. What'll you have?"
She asked for some coffee and a few other small items,
and remarked that the coffee she bought last did n't
seem as good as what she'd been getting.
"It's what I have on my own table," the storekeeper
responded, "and I don't see any difference. Maybe
you used skim milk in it."
He emptied the bag behind a counter on the floor.
"I shall be glad when the chestnut season is over," he
said, "and I get these out of here. I'm tired of walkin'
over 'em, and of having the grubs crawl around. I'm
obliged to spread 'em or they'd heat. There's quite a
number of bushels here now."
"This is a good year for chestnuts," a man on the
bench remarked. "It don't take long to go out and
fill one of them air big pails."
"How many can you pick up in a day if they're right
thick?" another asked.
"A bushel," the first man replied.
"Well, if you did," the other said, "you'd have to
hustle and pick up all the time."
"It don't pay to wait till all the chestnuts fall them-
selves," the storekeeper said, "because the leaves come
The Water Gap and Beyond 179
down, too, and the nuts are hidden. As soon as the
burs are open good you want to climb up in the branches
with a pole and lick the burs off."
"I'd rather get out on the limbs and jar the burs off
with an ax," was the comment of a man whom the
others addressed as Jase.
"No, don't do that," the storekeeper said, "or you'll
bruise the bark and injure the trees. But whipping a
tree and keeping your foothold ain't easy. It's too
risky a job for me. My neck is so long I believe I could
tie a knot in it, and the chances would be that I'd break
it if I made a slip. One time my brother was beating
off burs, and he fell and cut his head open bad. He hit
a stone, and no wonder. There's nothing but stones
round this country. You put your shoe down on one
or more at every footstep."
"It's likely pretty soon that we won't get no more
chestnuts," Jase observed. "I think this 'ere chestnut
tree blight is goin' to clean up all the trees of that sort
on our mountain."
A man came in eating a raw turnip. He wore a
faded felt hat that had lost its ribbon and fitted over his
head like an extinguisher. His other clothing, and
even his beard and face had a faded hue also.
"Set down here, Bill," one of the men said, making
room for him on the bench. "You ought not to be
eatin' raw turnips. It's only three weeks since you
got out of the Trenton Horspital."
"Turnips won't hurt me none," Bill responded. "I
180 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
kin eat anything now; and I'm hungry all the time.
They kind o' starve you at the horspital. For two days
before they operate they don't feed you at all, and your
stomick gits flat as a board. You don't have much
appetite for a while afterward, but I tell you, when you
begin to walk around, you want some grub. The food
was good, but there wa'n't enough of it. There'd be
a little meat, and a little cabbage and potato, and little
messes of several other things, and I could n't hardly
eat some of the stuff it was so darn sweet. Course
they would n't want to give you a swill pail full, but
I thought they might have given me more than they
did. Just as soon as the doctor let me out of the
horspital I went over to a butcher's shop and got me
fifteen cents' worth of boiled ham. Gorry! that was
fine.
"I did n't like the eggs there at the horspital.
They'd been in cold storage. I kin tell a cold storage
egg with my eyes shut. People that say they're just
as good as fresh eggs don't know what they're talkin'
about. Such eggs ain't first-class, and neither is cream-
ery butter."
"But creamery butter brings a better price than
homemade," the storekeeper said. "The public knows
it's at least half way decent, and they're not sure about
the other. I buy and sell butter that the farmers bring
in here, and some of it is fierce. By gee! I've handled
some rotten butter. You could n't hire me to eat it
myself."
o
o
-ss
The Water Gap and Beyond 181
"My dad went to a horspital in New York once,"
the man on the stone said, "and they kep' delayin' and
delayin' and not havin' any operation. Finally he
asked the doctor if he could go out for a while, and the
doctor told him he could if he'd promise to come back.
'Yes,' Pap say, 'I will come back.'
"But he did n't want to pay out no more money for
board at a horspital where they wa'n't doin' nothin'
for him, and so he got fixed up by an outside doctor,
who did such a good job that Pap was around all right
in a little while, and for years afterward he could beat
any man in this country dancin' a jig."
"It costs something to go to a horspital," Bill
affirmed. "If you have a private room they sock it to
you like the Old Harry. Everything costs high nowa-
days. They told me in Trenton that the carpenters
git three dollars and a half a day, and only work eight
hours, and not at all on Saturday afternoon. That
kind o' thing is goin' to ruin this country in time.
"I was lookin' out o' the window one day there and
saw an airship. You would n't git me to ride in one
of 'em for a million dollars. But I'd like to have an
auto. They say autos'll be cheap as wheelbarrows after
a few years. You know bicycles used to be a luxury.
Now they ain't fashionable no more, but are kind o'
gone by. I have an idea it'll be the same with autos,
and common people kin have 'em as well as the
wealthy."
At times I had difficulty in catching what Bill said,
1 82 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
for he had a thick-tonged way of speaking, and when
he had to struggle with a thought more than commonly
profound he would lean over with his elbows on his
knees and run his fingers up under his hat into his
tangled hair, and his muffled voice would go down
toward his cowhide boots. I made some remark to the
effect that airships and automobiles both had a long
list of fatal accidents charged up to them, and that I
had been glad to ride into the village with the mail-
carrier.
"You 'n' me are a good deal alike," Bill commented.
"I'd rather go safe than fast any day."
"Did Isaiah sing you one of his songs?" the occupant
of the stove asked. "He composes 'em himself. He's
got just one tune, but he's made up a good many sets
of words, and he thinks he's quite a singer."
"Isaiah has to make a long hard trip every day,"
Bill said. "This is a mountainious country and it ain't
easy to git to any big town or to the railroad. That's
where we're handicapped when it comes to marketing
the stuff from our farms, and this year we're extra bad
off in a money way because the weather has been too
dry for things to grow good. We had a May drouth
that cut the hay crop, and a drouth in August that just
cooked the corn and everything like that. I ginerally
have hay to sell. Las' year I stacked or put in the barn
fifty ton. I keep a number o' head o' cow and they'll
eat all I got this season. There won't be nawthin left
by the time they can go to pasture in the spring."
The Water Gap and Beyond 183
"'Bout our worst road is the one over the mountain,
ain't it Jase?" the storekeeper said.
"Yes," Jase agreed, "it's pretty darn steep, I tell
you, but in the summer I drawed twenty-two hundred
up it with that old Sally horse of mine."
"There's ten thousand railroad ties wanted from
here next winter," one of the men said. "We'll raft
'em down to the Gap in the spring, I s'pose. When my
father was young rafting on the Delaware was quite a
business. Every raft had to have a steersman and three
other men. They each had an oar near one of the
corners, and they had to keep workin' the oars a good
deal of the time so the raft would drift along properly.
The men would make trip after trip in the spring and
fall when there was plenty of water. They'd go down
on the rafts and come back on the stagecoaches. Any
farmer along shore who had an eddy near his house
where the rafts could tie up had a chance to make
money. The raftsmen would pay well for lodging and
food, and they had to have a little something strong,
you know. Many of the rafts were run clear to Trenton.
There's some pretty dangerous places on the river when
the water is a little low, and sometimes a raft would
git stove up in a rocky rapids. That's a time when the
men needed to keep their wits about 'em. If they
were thrown into the water and got scairt they'd
sure drown. Foul Rift is a bad place. That's where
the Lehigh joins the Delaware, and unless you butt
right into the cross current you're carried over agin'
184 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
the Jersey shore. Oh! you've got to keep your eyes
skint there.
"My land won't furnish many ties on account of
that fire a few years ago. It was an April fire that
started in the night. Early the next morning it could
easily have been put out. Only a little bit of place had
been burnt over, but as the fire was smudging in the
wet swale where it could n't do much damage we paid
no attention to it. There the wind got behind the fire
and drove it right up the mountain faster'n a man
could run. In some places there was down timber, and
in other places the woods had been lumbered off and
the brush lay thick. When the fire struck those it
swept everything pretty near, and often burnt down
into the turf three or four feet deep. Lots of young
chestnuts are still standing dead and bare that was
killed then. We been drawing them dry poles down
ever since as we needed 'em for firewood. The ground
that was burned over is covered with wintergreens
now."
"We got a good many maple trees up on our place,"
Bill said. "When I was a boy we used to tap 'em and
make sugar, but that takes a power of work. It don't
pay."
"Tony's in the jug," Jase remarked. "They got
him locked up for twenty days. He had a little rumpus
with his wife and used a stick of firewood on her, and
she used another on him. Then she went and had him
arrested."
The Water Gap and Beyond 185
"They could n't 'a' missed hittin' every time they
struck," one of the listeners said. "She's so big
around," and he stretched his arms to form an impres-
sive circle; "and Tony looks like a beer kag."
"After they'd taken him to jail," Jase said, "she
went to see him and stood a-talkin' to him through a
window. She asked him to come home with her and
help husk corn; but he says; 'I won't go today. I
need to rest, but I'll go tomorrer." :
A woman who was buying some calico of the store-
keeper turned to the group of men and said: "I think
Tony's wife is an old crank. You would n't 'a' ketched
me goin' to see my husband after I'd got him locked up."
"I don't believe they get very good grub at the jail,"
the ever-hungry Bill said. "But then, long as you don't
git in no trouble you don't have to go there."
"Well b-b-boys," the stammerer said, "it's m-m-most
nine o'clock, and I want to git some m-m-medicine to
break up a cold before this sh-sh-shebang closes."
"I c'n give you some quinine pills," the storekeeper
said.
"What good are pills?" Jase said. "They're all
made of buckwheat flour."
But the storekeeper supplied his customer with
something from a closet in a rear corner and turned
out one of the lights as a signal that it was closing
time. The men got on their feet from bench and
counters and the stove, each made a final spit in the
direction of the pan of sawdust, and off they shambled.
1 86 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
The next day was Sunday. It was a day of loafing
and visiting, but once in a while a customer dropped
in at the store and made a purchase. Most of the men
wore their old clothes, and these were often marvelously
patched, ragged, and shabby. They would gather
about one of the wagons in the street, adjust their
limbs or bodies on or against it, and then talk as the
spirit moved; or they would chat at some gateway or
barnyard fence, or on a home porch.
In the early dawn I had heard the sound of axes and
knew the people were cutting up firewood with which
to get breakfast. Practically all of them brought a
little jag at a time from the mountain and threw it off
in front of the house by the roadside and cut it up as
it was needed day by day. Some, however, spent a
little of the Sunday leisure in chopping up more than
usual. Bevies of little pigs ran about the roadways
rooting and investigating, and there were cows wander-
ing and browsing where they chose.
When I looked from the kitchen window of my
lodging place, after breakfast, I observed signs of life
about a large old house adjoining. It was a somewhat
dilapidated building, and certain of its window sashes
lacked so much glass that they had been boarded up.
The most noticeable decoration of the structure was a
great hornet's nest under the peak of the gable. On
the previous day the house had been vacant, but a
family had moved in from another village house during
the night. A mule was grazing in the yard, and a dog
The old wellsweep
The Water Gap and Beyond 187
was hitched to a clothesline along which the restraining
leash slipped and gave him a limited amount of liberty.
At the rear door was a platform and a pump, and one
at a time the members of the household scrubbed their
hands and faces there in a washdish. The family in-
cluded two or three bewhiskered men, a frowsy old
woman with a corncob pipe almost constantly in her
mouth, a young woman, and a barefooted little girl.
"That old woman looks brown as her pipe, don't
she?" the storekeeper said. "There's a few other old
ladies roundabout who smoke, but the habit ain't com-
mon. This country is pretty well civilized. See, that
woman is in the front room now cleaning a window and
still smokin'. That's her daughter cleaning the other
window. She'd be a pretty rosy lookin' woman if she
was dressed up. There are the men comin' in the gate.
They've got their hog and are drivin' it along hitched
by the hind leg. I wonder how they got it across the
bridge. Pigs are awful mean about crossin' a bridge.
Often you have to take right hold and get 'em over by
main strength.
"These people ain't got cows or chickens or anything
like that, and they don't cultivate any land. They
have to depend on day wages for their living. Their
home, until last year, was over in Pennsylvania in the
scrub oak barrens. That's a peculiar region, and it
begins not far back from the Delaware River. It's
just a dreary level of little oaks that don't get much
higher than six feet, but there are spots where pine,
1 88 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
chestnut, and hickory grow. Every fall of the year the
natives let the fire run through so as to have pasturage
for their cows. Mostly the cows browse on the tender
new sprouts that start up from the roots of the oaks.
There's no fences, and the hogs and cattle run in the
woods. You might think that the creatures belonging
to different families would get mixed up, but the
housen are so far apart that I guess the cattle never
get together. The buildings are of logs. Big families
are the rule, and yet very likely the house will have
only one room downstairs, and the ceiling of that room
is the log crosspieces and loose floor boards of the loft
above. It's a wonder they don't freeze in winter, but
they seem to come out all right in the spring. They
trap and hunt and fish, and they have little garden
patches. Whenever they get an unusual supply of food
they eat it all up at one time. It's either a feast
or a famine with them. If anyone kills a hog all
the neighbors borrow some of the pork and return it
when they kill. Each family keeps an old horse, or a
mule, or a yoke of oxen; and now and then they haul
out some railroad ties, or perhaps they cut a little batch
of hoop poles and shave 'em and take 'em to town. In
exchange they git some tobacker and a sack of flour
and a few other things and feel rich. The old women
all smoke, and their teeth are as black as that stove
what there is left of 'em.
"I suppose these neighbors of ours think this place
has about all the advantages anyone need want. But
The Water Gap and Beyond 189
I don't care to spend my life here. There's no chance
for variety and amusement, and we have only a poor
little primary school for my children to attend. Each
year we have a green teacher. We can't keep one a
second year or get one that's had experience because
the salary is so small and it's so inconvenient getting
here. Sometimes a local girl applies for the job, and
then you run up against all sorts of prejudices. There
was a case here a few years ago where the girl was all
right, but she had the majority of the school board
against her. I and three other fellers contributed two
and a half apiece, and I folded up a nice ten dollar bill,
put it in an envelope, and went to see one of the oppos-
ing men on the board. I says, 'It's worth ten dollars
to you to vote for that girl,' and I give him the envelope.
The girl got the school, and it was that ten dollar bill
what done it. She'd be doin' housework today if she
had n't had that start. As it is, she's a very successful
teacher who's now in a nYst-class position."
"I'm not wanting to stay any more than he is," Mrs.
Storekeeper said. "He's away a good deal, and I have
to wait on customers besides doing my own work. In
winter it's worst, for then there's loafers hanging around
the store all the time, and I get so sick and tired of 'em
I don't know what to do."
"Well, but you have a chance to hear all the news,
don't you?" her husband said.
"I wouldn't object to that," she said, "if they
did n't tell the same thing over and over. There's
190 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
Bill ever since he came home from the hospital I've
heard him tell about his operation until I'm ready to
stop my ears and run. Bill's as proud over that opera-
tion as a nigger with a new shirt."
"I'll say this for our people," the storekeeper re-
marked "they're generally industrious. In summer
they're up at half-past four, and they work after supper
till about dark, then sit around a little while and get
off early to bed. Six o'clock is getting-up time in
winter. During hot weather they rest in the middle of
the day from eleven to two. The girls all learn to milk,
and it's the women that do the milking on most farms.
"Nearly every family takes a local weekly, but they
don't take any dailies or general periodicals with the
exception of a farm paper that one man subscribes for.
They don't have much ambition to see the world. It's
no great journey to New York or Philadelphia, and yet
very few feel they can afford any such luxury, even if
they're well-to-do, which, as a rule, they're not. Some
have mortgages on their places, and more would have,
but I tell you, mister, a farm won't mortgage for much
when the land is goin' down in value as it is here. How-
ever, you can't judge people's poverty by the clothes
they wear. Style don't bother us much in this region.
I know a man who you might think was a beggar or
pauper. He's 'bout as rough a lookin' old piece as there
is around, but he owns many a farm. Lots of poor
men have had more comforts than he's ever had. His
wife goes barefoot. I saw her the other day watching
The Water Gap and Beyond 191
her cows that she'd got hoppled and was letting feed
along the road. She was a tough-lookin' specimen.
"Eventually I don't believe there'll be any village
left here. The old people die, and the young people
won't stay. I'm goin' to sell out and leave soon, and
I'll never come back, not even to be buried. Our
cemetery is too forbidding a spot for any one to want
to go to, alive or dead. It's overgrown with blackberry
briers, bushes, and weeds, and the groundhogs dig
holes in the graves and scratch out the bones. Hundreds
of people have been buried there whose graves were only
marked by a plank set up with perhaps the initials cut
on it. Of course the wood soon decayed, and now no
one knows where the graves are."
As the day advanced the sky became solidly gloomed
with clouds, and a foggy moisture began to fall. When
I presently went for a walk it was a sober, diminished
world I had about me, and after I left the village the
silence was almost oppressive. Not a breath of air was
stirring, and there was only the drip of waterdrops
from the trees, the rustling of an occasional brook, and
now and then the lonely twitter of some little bird. The
weather, and the wet slippery ground did not encourage
me to ramble far, and I soon returned to the hamlet.
On the vine-draped porch of one of the humbler
homes were two men and an elderly woman. I paused
to ask them why every field and yard in the place was
fenced, and the woman replied: "If it wa'n't for the
fences the cows that run around loose would come right
192 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
into our houses. I dassen't go off away from the house
and leave a gate or barndoor open, and I have to keep
the barn shut up tight all through the summer with the
horse sweating away inside."
"Here, want an apple?" one of the men said, offering
me a beauty that he took from his pocket. "Apples
are so plenty this year they ain't worth nothin'. We
shuck ours right off and sold 'em for cider."
"There's Isaac's ducks down here on the millpond,"
the other man remarked.
"You don't tell me," the woman said, and she
stepped out to the edge of the porch and looked to
assure herself.
Across the road was a brook, and a little above was
a dam and a small pond on which we could see several
ducks paddling about.
"You would n't think that little stream over there
would do any damage," the woman observed, "but
I can remember once when it flooded half the village.
Must have been 'bout this time of year, along in the
fall. There'd been awful heavy rains, and a pond above
here busted. When the flood swept through it was
pretty near morning, and some of the people here in
town had n't got up yet. The water tore a great gulley
along this side of the road, and undermined a house
just below us. There was a man into it, and he was
asleep* They had to hound him out. He might not
have escaped if the back of the house had n't been
against higher ground. Well, he made out to git his
The Water Gap and Beyond 193
pants on, and that was about all, I guess; and no sooner
had he left the house than it went right down all to
smash. Another house was partly wrecked. It sot so
slanting after the flood was over you could hardly
walk across the floor. That flood was forty years ago,
wa'n't it Dick?"
"Must 'a' been as much as that," Dick replied.
"I'm forty-six; and they say I was quite a little chunk
at the time, but I can't seem to recall anything about
it."
"Dick," the woman said, "I want you to move them
rattlesnakes out of my weave-room. I've got to work
in there; and you take them skunk-skins out, too.
They don't smell good."
Dick went to a door at the far end of the piazza, and
entered a dingy little room which contained a rusty
stove and a rude loom, and much else that had been
thrust in there for convenience. On the loom was a
partly woven rag carpet. Nearly everyone in the
region saved their carpet rags, and this woman did quite
a business in weaving them. From amongst the litter
Dick picked up a box about fifteen inches square, with
a pane of glass fastened on top, and brought it out on
the piazza. Inside were three big rattlesnakes. He
reached up to a crosspiece overhead and took down a
pair of wooden tongs. Then he slid the glass back,
gripped a snake just behind its head, and pulled it
forth, writhing and showing its fangs and rattling
ominously.
194 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
"Look out; your tongs might slip," the woman
cautioned.
But Dick was careful, and after exhibiting the
monster for a few minutes he restored it to the box.
They make nice belts," he said. "I git a couple of dollars
a hide. When I go lookin' for 'em I carry a smaller
box. They ain't very numerous, and like enough I
might go half a dozen times and not git one. They
like warm sunshiny weather. Then I find 'em in the
fields and around stone walls up on the side of the
mountain. A while ago one was found right here in
the village and it bit a dog. The poison made him
sick you bet it did, and his head swelled up big as a
water-pail."
While we were talking, Bill, the man who had been
to the hospital, joined us, and soon we all went into
the kitchen and sat down. "These two men are
brothers," Bill said to me, "but they don't look no
more alike than a dog and a sheep."
Then turning to them, he said; "That was a pretty
good p'rade at Newton las' week wa'n't it? My! what
a crowd! The automobiles was goin' all the time on
the streets, and every stoop way up in the buildings
stood full of people. I don't know where they all
come from. Lots of money was left there that day.
B'gosh, if I had it all I don't think I'd need to work
any more. I guess every man there spent much as a
dollar."
"I liked the music," the woman said. "My good
Housework
The Water Gap and Beyond 195
gracious! they had the bands from everywhere around,
and fed 'em all free."
"Did you see the big drum?" Dick asked. "Must
have been pretty near four foot across. The drummer
understood his business. By golly! if he could n't
use his arms! They played the band, sir, up till ten
o'clock, when the last train left. People from here had
to drive over the mountain. There'd been rain the
night before; so the mud was deep, and it was awful
nasty goin'."
"Bill," the woman said, "I want you to look at this
picture," and she wiped the dust off a faded, rudely
framed photograph and handed it to him.
It showed the village schoolhouse with the children
seated on a low pile of wood beside the building. "That
was made when I went to school," Bill said, "and here's
me right in the middle. I ain't much bigger'n a big
rabbit. There used to be forty or fifty children went
in those days."
"When I was a girl," the woman said, "I lived
farther up the valley and went to a stone schoolhouse
that they called the little stone jug. We mostly had
men teachers. They were hired for three months, and
paid ten dollars a month, and they would board
round. A man would teach for three months on the
money that was raised in the taxes, and then perhaps
he'd go through the deestrict and git signers who'd
agree to pay him so much a head to have the school
another three months. There's men I knowed who
196 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
teached steady till they were fifty or sixty years old
made a business of it. I remember one woman, too,
who was at it nearly all her life. She went from one
deestrict to another, and they could n't down her.
She was smart, but as she got older she wa'n't up-to-
date enough. She was like a minister he gits behind
the door a little, and they want some one younger.
"In my time every scholar had to find his own books.
Now they're found for 'em. I never got to go to school
such an awful sight, but I know I had an Elementary
Spelling Book. The schoolbooks hain't near as easy
as they used to be. I see that the spelling books now
have the pronounciation into 'em besides just the
words, and the children have to learn how to talk high-
toned. Some of the new notions ain't sensible.
George's kids are learning to spell cow and such words,
and they don't know their letters. How can they git
along that way? We used to have to behave pretty
good. The master had a big twisted hickory, and when
a boy would n't mind he'd take that and give him a
lickin'."
"Nowadays," Bill said, "if the children do anything,
the teacher talks to 'em and let's 'em go, and they do
it again directly; or she makes 'em stand up on the
floor, and what do they care for that? But Lord God!
in my own time I've seen children ruled till I bet their
hands was sore next day."
"I hear you're goin' to take some of your sheep to
market tomorrow," Dick said.
The Water Gap and Beyond 197
"Yes," Bill responded, "if the weather's good. Have
you seen them of Ormy's? His lambs are older'n mine,
but mine are bigger'n hisn are, they've growed so fast.
That's the trouble with these extra early lambs they
don't grow, and besides you have to set up nights and
fool around with 'em or the cold weather'd kill 'em.
The other day that buck of mine that I been keepin'
tethered near the house got loose. The children was
playin' in the road, and how they did scatter when they
see him comin'!"
"That 'ar sheep come clean down here past our
hogyard," the woman said." I was workin' at the wood-
pile cuttin' some wood, and I got over the fence. He
went in the dooryard and knocked Dick endways.
Buck was just a-makin' to come at him again; but
Dick got up and slammed him with a board and sent
him down the road a-sailin'."
"He butted me off my feet once in the spring," Bill
observed, "and I caught him by the leg and pounded
him with a stone. I give him a good trimmin' down.
Since that time he don't bother me. He'll stand and
shake his head and look at me through the fence
'Baa!' but that's all."
When I returned to the store, dinner was ready. In-
cluded among those who gathered about the table was
the village schoolma'a'm. She was quite youthful and
shy, and seemed more like a pupil than a teacher. I
noticed that she helped with the lighter housework.
Probably she paid a lower rate for her board in conse-
198 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
quence. The storekeeper jokingly remarked that she
already had a beau. "Girls of courting age are about
as scarce as white mice around here," he said. "The
same fellow that was goin' with the last teacher is goin'
with this one. The other teacher, after she left, turned
him down. He felt pretty bad, but he wa'n't heart-
broken, and soon as this one come he was right onto
his job. He calls on her, and takes her for a drive now
and then, and if she goes home over Sunday or on a
vacation he'll take her to the station and meet her there
when she comes back.
But the young people don't have the advantages
they used to have for courting, now that there's nothin'
doin' at the church. Last summer a minister vol-
unteered to come and preach every other Sunday, and
he had to drive from a town eight miles away. Hardly
anyone went, and yet fifteen years ago we had services
regularly, and there was good-sized congregations.
People would come three or four miles from all around
and hitch their teams to tieposts in the yard there at
the church. Every year we had Protracted Meetings
when there'd be services in the evening right along for
a spell. I was always glad when the dominie an-
nounced 'em, because I knew I'd have a sporty good
time with the girls. The dominie generally tried to
strike a time in the early fall when there was a full
moon, but 'twould have suited me better to have it a
little dark. There was one fellow who, after meetin',
when he was takin' his girl to where she lived, always
The Water Gap and Beyond 199
stopped at his home in the village to get his overcoat,
and while he was gone I'd hug her and give her two or
three blame nice kisses.
"I remember one Sunday afternoon I went to the
new teacher's boarding-place to see how she looked, and
the people there had me stop and eat supper with 'em.
Afterward the teacher said she was goin' to meetin,'
and I says, 'Guess I might as well walk along, too.'
"We had n't gone far when I says: 'It's kind o'
gloomy on the road. Take hold of my arm, and I'll
assist you.'
"Things was progressin' very nicely, and by and
by I says: 'If you've no objection I'll walk home with
you tonight. But no foolin'. I would n't go out before
that crowd at the church and ask you and get a refusal
for twenty dollars.'
"She said she wouldn't disappoint me, and I left
her at the church door and went in and sat in the choir.
Oh, we had a good meetin', but I got away as soon as
I could when it was over. The schoolma'am was out-
side, and another feller was askin' if he might go home
with her.
" 'No I thank you,' she says, 'I've got company this
evening.' I had a triumph that time.
"I don't know just how much religion people got at
those meetings. It was more excitement than anything
else. One man who was always there was Jake Stickles.
How he would pray! What he said was pretty sensible,
but there was no end to it. Sometimes the dominie
2OO Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
would have us sing to get Jake stopped, and very likely
after we'd sung the whole piece he would n't have
stopped yet.
"People would get up and tell their experiences, and
they'd urge the sinners to repent, and finally they got
me on the anxious seat. I was taken in on probation,
and the prospects were I'd be received into full church
membership on the final night. Gee! what a crowd
there'd be on that last Sunday night! But I did n't
think I could keep store and join the church without
bein' a hypocrite, and I did n't want people to say,
'What a backslider he is!' So I made a date with a
girl for that night and sat up with her till three o'clock
in the morning. I wa'n't at the church at all and they
gave me up as a bad case.
"Naturally, after the Protracted Meetings, you could
look for weddings. Those are very simple affairs here.
You go to a justice of the peace and get hitched and
return home. We don't indulge in wedding trips, but
I know one feller with new-fangled notions who did,
and he had n't been gone more'n a day or two before
his wife got so homesick he had to bring her back. The
cost of getting married is very moderate. A fee of a dol-
lar or two satisfies the justice, of the peace, and Squire
Styers used to do the job for a bobsled load of wood."
Sunday passed and Monday came. The village
work began at dawn, and by the time I was up the men
were busy at their various outdoor tasks, and the
women had started washing. Presently I betook my-
The Water Gap and Beyond 201
self to the highway and turned my footsteps toward
the Water Gap. It was a beautiful day, warm and
bright. I could see the glistening wings of many little
flies and other insects playing in the sunshine, and the
fields were alive with grasshoppers and crickets fiddling
merrily and wholly unaware that the frosts would soon
put an end to them. Sometimes I heard the clear,
vigorous call of a white-throated sparrow migrating
southward, or I heard the rhythmic "hammering" of
a partridge in the woodland, and once I scared up as
many as twenty quail from a roadside tangle and saw
them whir away in wild fright.
Men were ploughing on the hillsides, sowing grain,
and husking corn. The generous heaps of yellow ears
and the scattered pumpkins among the stacks were
grateful to the eye, and cheered one with the sugges-
tion of winter comfort. Around the houses too were
many evidences of the harvest strings of seed corn,
ripening tomatoes brought in from the garden, heaps
of melons and squashes, apples and nuts.
So I went on, sometimes picking up an apple to eat
under a roadside tree, or perhaps pausing to gather a
few frost grapes; and though I doubt not that the
valley here has charm at any season, it seemed to me
that it must be at its best as I saw it in those mellow
days of autumn.
NOTES. The gorge where the Delaware flows through the
Kittantinny Mountains is supposed to be the result of a large lake
breaking its bounds. This theory is borne out by the Indian name
2O2 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
Minisink which applied to the country above, and which means
"the water is gone." Only by taking a trip through the gap in one
of the rowboats or power boats that are for hire can you get an ade-
quate impression of its two-mile length and of the height of its
rocky walls rising 1,500 feet almost from the water's edge. There
are in the vicinity numerous vernal roadways, sylvan paths, water-
falls, and outlooks from cliff and hill and mountain-top that entice
one to a prolonged stay.
The automobile route from here to New York by way of Morris-
town, 79 miles, is mostly good macadam. A more interesting route
is that along the river south to Philadelphia, 118 miles, mostly good
roads. Trenton, 73 miles, is the capitol of the state. It is at the
head of navigation of the Delaware. Great quantities of peaches
and cranberries are raised in the tributary region. General Mc-
Clellan is buried in Riverview Cemetery here. Washington crossed
the Delaware, 8 miles to the north on Christmas night, 1776, in a
storm of sleet and snow, to attack 1,000 Hessians quartered in the
city. He captured them all, evaded Cornwallis, defeated the British
at Princeton and retired northward to Morristown. Cornwallis,
who had sent his trunks on board ship, intending to return to Eng-
land, with the idea that the war was over, changed his mind.
At Bordentown, 7 miles below Trenton, Joseph Bonaparte, elder
brother of Napoleon, and at one time King of Naples and King of
Spain, bought an estate of 1,400 acres after Waterloo. Here he
lived from 1815 to 1832 entertaining many illustrious Frenchmen.
The estate is now public property and known as Bonaparte Park.
At Burlington, 13 miles farther on, is the house in which J.
Fennimore Cooper was born, and the birthplace of Captain James
Lawrence of "Don't give up the ship" fame. General Grant had
his home here during the Civil War. Giant sycamores to which the
early settlers tied their boats, still enhance the beauty of drives
along the riverbank.
At Camden, just across the river from Philadelphia, can be seen
the house of Walt. Whitman, the "Good Gray Poet."
A back porch
IX
ALONG SHORE IN JERSEY
I WOULD have been glad to spend my time in some
rustic fishing village or old-fashioned farming com-
munity, but the entire Jersey shore seems to have
become a suburb of New York and Philadelphia. It
has not, at best, much scenic attraction, for the coast
is uniformly low, and for variety it is mostly dependent
on the numerous, wide marshes, and a network of salt-
water inlets along the ocean borders. So far as hu-
manity is concerned the region presents just two
dominant features: First, the many palatial residences
set in smooth, luxuriant grounds, where Nature is com-
pelled to behave herself and to present at all times a
tidy, dressed-up appearance, with none of the wildness
and gypsy abandon which she prefers; second, a
succession of summer resort towns.
I stopped at one of these resorts by advice of a florid,
talkative man I met on the train. He had been taking
some sort of liquid refreshment that made him effusive,
and he described the place as a sort of heaven on earth.
It was there he had lived at a former period in his career
when he had been worth half a million dollars. He
even told me what hotel I ought to go to one kept by
a certain John A. Casey. "It's near the station and
204 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
near the shore," he said, "and you'll get solid, old-
time comfort there. John A. will make you feel at
home. The food is set right on the table, and he carves
himself. If you want more of any particular thing
you don't have to ask a waiter for it, because it's right
there before you. Yes, you go and put up with John A.,
and the food and the pure air and the sound of the
waves will give you a splendid rest tonight, unless
you've committed murder."
But I did not find the town what I expected from the
description of this enthusiast. Moreover, it was the
month of May, and the hotels were not yet open for
the season. I lodged at a boarding-house where the
landlady only allowed me to stop after looking at me
critically and asking various questions to determine
whether I was trustworthy. Later she told me why
she needed to be so cautious. She had been swindled
more than once, and as recently as last summer a
sporty gang of young men she had harbored sneaked
off with their luggage without paying their bill. But
she was glad they went as soon as they did, pay or no
pay, for they had attempted to flirt with her daughter,
and were a bad lot anyway.
"Do you see that little house across the street?"
she continued. "It was built to rent by a neighbor of
ours who's a baker. When it was ready a family hired
it for the season and paid the first month's rent in ad-
vance, as is the custom. They had their servants and
appeared to be rich and aristocratic, and the baker
Along Shore in Jersey 205
congratulated himself on getting tenants of such
quality. They patronized the bakery freely and had
what they bought charged. In fact, they ran accounts
wherever they traded. Why! even the man who peddles
fowls Chicken Harris, we call him had to wait for
his pay. He's waiting yet, and so are all the others.
One autumn day the family packed up their belongings
and went away. The baker dunned them as they were
leaving, but they put him off with promises. Their
city address that they gave him was false. So what
could he do? Appeal to the law? That would have
been too expensive and troublesome. He could n't
do a thing."
The place was like many other of the shore resorts
a monotonous village of wooden houses that had
among them an occasional big, ungainly hotel. The
land was naturally a sandy barren that did not en-
courage grass or other greenery, and trees were a
rarity. Few of the homes or hotels were occupied
except in the burning days of summer, and the town
was "dead" the rest of the year. Where land and sea
met were ragged, yellow streaks of dunes, their bases
assailed by the waves, and their upper portions worried
by the winds.
Of all the places I saw along the coast, the one that
I enjoyed most was Toms River. It was well back
inland at the head of a bay, and had thus escaped the
city invaders, and was tranquilly old, rather than
glaringly new. The town consisted of a little nucleus
2o6 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
of stores, hotels, churches, and other public buildings,
including a solemn, high-pillared courthouse, and be-
hind these were shady residence streets.
On my first morning there the weather was gloomily
doubtful. Now and then the sun gleamed forth faintly,
but for the most part I could only see low, foggy
clouds scurrying along overhead. An old man, who
had come up from the lower bay with a motor boatload
of clams, remarked that he "would n't wonder if the
wind got around to the west and blew like a streak o'
gimblets point foremost." But toward noon the mists
suddenly melted away, and the sun shone forth with
fervent heat.
The motor boat was tied just below a bridge, close
to the town center, and the wharf there was a common
resort for loiterers. Often a lounger or a customer
would get into the boat, pry open a few clams, and eat
the dripping bivalves right from the shell.
Near at hand, on the street, was a rude fishcart from
which the horse had been detached; and its patrons and
open air traffic seemed to furnish an attractive spectacle
to the loafers and decrepit of the town. They sat or stood
on the adjacent sidewalk and from time to time peered
in at the back of the cart to watch the process of be-
heading and making the fish ready for customers.
"There used to be a covered wooden bridge where
this iron bridge is now," one of the men said to me,
"and on the outside was a footway. One day a Sunday-
school picnic come here on the train from another town.
Along Shore in Jersey 207
Let me see mought 'a' been forty years ago. The
whole crowd of 'em got onto the footway, and it broke
in the middle, and down they slid from both directions,
like they was on a chute, into twenty-five feet of water.
They were as thick as eels in there. It seemed as if a
dozen boats were on the spot right off pulling the folks
out of the water, but they could n't get 'em all. Five
or six drownded, and it's a wonder that no more were
lost."
One of my walks took me along the northern bay-
side where the land sloped up into mild hills that
afforded a pleasant outlook over the broad bay with
its various islands, including among the rest Money
Island, so named because long ago the half mythical
Captain Kidd hid some of his wholly mythical treasure
there. After a while I stopped to drink at a wayside
well. It was an open well that had a wooden curb
about it, and the water was obtained by lowering a
pail hung on a crotch at the butt end of the pole. While
I was drinking, a gray, stocky man accosted me from
a neighboring dooryard. He evidently had the leisure
and the inclination to talk, and I sought the shade of a
convenient tree and we visited.
At the backdoor of the next house a woman with a
black muffler about her head was chopping some rub-
bishy sticks into firewood. Near her a lank elderly
man with streaks of tobacco juice down his chin was
harnessing a horse that distinctly exhibited all its
bony anatomy. "They're the owners of that well,"
2o8 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
my companion said. "That's a pretty shabby lookin'
place of theirs ain't it? But they've got plenty of land
they could sell at a high price, only they're so old-
fashioned they won't part with it. If they raise enough
stuff to keep 'em through the winter that's all they care
about. They never have a cent of money. The fact is,
any one who's lookin' around for a job that pays big
without workin' don't want to attempt farmin' here.
"I've spent most of my life in New York, but I got
tired of the city. It's hubbub and everything there
up in a minute and down in a minute; and one day I
said to myself : 'Good Lord! what's the use? I've only
got one life to live;' and I quit at once.
"You may wonder why I came here. The truth of
the matter is there was a woman in it. My wife had
lived down in this region and this was where she wanted
to have a home. The first thing I did was to buy a
farm. I don't know why. I ain't fit to work on a farm
and never had had any experience on one; but I had
the luck to sell out soon at an advance, and then I got
this little place. I have an automobile, and when I'm
tired of that I get into my motor boat and go fishing or
down to the lighthouse clamming. That boat carries
me around the bay like clockwork.
"I've never had the least inclination to go back to
the city, but I must say I did n't appreciate it here last
winter. The bay froze over solid, and all these fellers
that get a livin' by fishin' came near starvin' to death.
I said to my wife, 'If a man happens along and
Along Shore in Jersey 209
wants to buy this place, we'll sell it and go to Florida
to live.'
"But my wife said, 'Well, Pa, don't get discouraged.
Most likely we won't have such a winter again.' '
After parting with this contented individual I con-
tinued my ramble, but it presently took me into one of
the summer resort villages, and then I went back to
Toms River.
On another day I followed the road in the opposite
direction. Here were little farms, and I could see peas
in blossom in the gardens, and ripe strawberries. The
sweet potatoes in the hotbeds were ready to transplant,
and the "white" or "round" potatoes, as they called
the Irish variety, were six inches high. The corn was
up, and belligerent scarecrows stood on guard among
the green sprouts. I was particularly impressed by one
of these fake sentinels a trowsered creature adorned
with a woman's hat. What could be better calculated
to carry dismay to every crow beholder than this
militant suffragette?
By and by the road entered a ragged tract of forest,
and the woodland was so forlorn and apparently un-
ending that I at length turned back. When I was again
among the farms I observed two women visiting on a
home piazza. I stopped for a drink of water and
lingered to chat with them. They addressed each other
as Emma and Harriet. The latter was making a neigh-
borly call. The house was a bare, rusty-looking struc-
ture, and there was brushland across the road and close
2IO Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
behind the dwelling. Yet the women seemed to admire
the environment and called my attention to the beauty
of the brushy ridge beyond the highway.
"That was burnt over a few years ago," Emma said.
"Oh my! it was a bad fire. You see that there oak tree
in the corner of the yard. The fire killed the half toward
the road, and we did n't dare stay here. From the next
house we could n't see this one through the smoke.
When the fire got to the swamp wo-o-o-o! it made a
great racket.
"In one way the forest fires are a great help. The
year after a tract is burned over you find the black-
berries and huckleberries growing there to beat the
band. The children all go out in the woods to pick 'em.
That's a way they have of earnin' pin money.
"Cranberries are quite a crop here. The Eyetalians
pick most of them. When they get good pickin' they
sing all day long. But if the pickin' is poor they do
more talkin' and less singin'. They're the happiest
people on earth."
"One of 'em had an adventure with a snapping
turtle last fall," Harriet remarked. "He was tellin'
me about it just after it happened, but he could n't
speak English very well and did n't know the name for
turtle. So he imitated its motions to show what animal
he meant and called it a son of a gun. He said: 'That
son of a gun, he got hold of my pants right here above
my shoe, and I try to pull him off, and the more I pull
the more that son of a gun won't let go. I pulled till
Reflections
Along Shore in Jersey 211
I tore my pants, and that son of a gun, he got a piece
of my pants now.' His way of tellin' it was so funny
that I laughed till I thought I'd bust."
"I don't know anything about snappers from my
own experience and don't want to," Emma commented,
"but if one once gets hold he never lets go, they tell
me. You can't even pry his jaws apart, and if you kill
him he'll live two or three hours afterward. They're
very good to eat. Snapper soup is considered the
thing, you know, among the high-toned city people."
"Shoo! shoo!"
This exclamation came simultaneously from both
the women. A crow flying past had made a downward
dip toward the chickens in the back yard. "The
hawks and crows have lifted quite a number of my
chickens this spring," said Emma.
"My place is in the woods," Harriet observed, "and
I'm more troubled by the tramp dogs. They're dogs
that don't belong to nobody, and they go in the swamps
and run the rabbits. You can hear 'em yelpin' all night
long. But no matter how much chasin' they do, nothin'
is said; and yet if one of your own dogs was to get
after the rabbits the game warden would arrest you,
and you'd be fined twenty dollars. There's seven of
them tramp dogs. I know because I've counted 'em
till I've got sick of lookin' at 'em. They took twenty-
two of my chickens one night, and they took my full-
blooded cochin rooster. All I could find of him was a
few of his tail feathers. Last night I lost six eggs right
212 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
out from under a settin' hen. Probably rats took 'em.
Yes, chickens are quite a care, but when you look to it
the exercise you get makes it worth while. Keeping
the big ones from fighting the little ones, scaring off
the hawks and other enemies brings more stiffness out
of your joints than anything else.
"We all raise chickens. When they get growed, if
prices are high, we sell 'em, and if prices are low we
put 'em in the pot for our own eatin'. Same way with
eggs. We eat 'em when the price is down, and stop
eatin' 'em when the price is up. At present feed for
the chickens costs enough to drive you to the poor-
house. But no matter how poor we are we all manage
to have washing machines and a good share of the other
latest conveniences. You may not find us a beautiful
people here in Jersey, but we're substantial."
"I've only heard the Bob White four times this
spring," Emma said. "Looks as if there would n't
be many for the hunters in the fall."
"Well," Harriet said, "just the same, every man
who's got a dog and can handle a gun will be out the
first day of the gunnin' season to see what he can get.
Rabbits are plenty. There's no end to 'em. They eat
off the bark from the young trees and ruin 'em, and if
you have sweet potatoes or peas near the woods they'll
clean 'em right off. Out there in my walk I see 'em
early every mornin' and after four o'clock in the
evenin' playing tag."
"Tonight there'll be lots of mosquitoes," Emma
Along Shore in Jersey 213
remarked. "The wind is in the south, and they'll
blow up from the salt marshes where they breed.
They're hateful things, but people who live here get
used to 'em and ain't affected by the poison so as to
get all blotched up as strangers do."
"The first crop of mosquitoes are big ones this year,"
Harriet observed," and their instruments are long and
sharp. Emma, ain't you goin' to have this porch closed
in with mosquito netting? Most every one is doing it
now."
"What troubles me most is the pine flies," Emma
said. "They're no larger than a house fly, but when
they get onto you they're enough to make you say your
prayers the other way; and they're awfully tormentin'
to the animals. Another pest is what we call the green-
head fly. It's much larger than the pine fly, and its
bite is like the cut of a knife. They don't bother much
on cloudy days."
"There's lots of treetoacls around my house," Harriet
said, "and they sing lovely when it's goin' to rain.
Some claim they're as poison as a rattlesnake if they
bite you."
"I wish our place was within sight of the ocean,"
Emma remarked. "The hill back of us hides it, but
we can hear the roar of the waves when there's a north-
east storm. In some respects, though, we've got ad-
vantages that can't be beat. We're so placed that we
get three different kinds of air sea air, inland air, and
air from the pines. It's a good region for invalids.
214 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
Those who're afflicted and ain't benefited in one spot
can move a little way and get another sort of air that'll
help them. The balsam from the pines is just what
some of 'em need, and often a person who can't sleep
has a pillow made of pine needles to put under his head.
Our climate is goin' to build up this section wonderful
in the next few years. There's that big brushy tract
across the road it was all sold off for building lots
once. The promoters drew a map, like they all do
when they're boomin' such property, and they put
avenues on it, and had pictures of a hotel on the land
with trolleys runnin' in front, and their advertising
told what splendid railroad felicities we have here. The
people up in New York bought the lots like hotcakes,
but they lost all they invested, for the fellows who did
the selling did n't own the property; and the chief man
in this hoax business was sent to jail."
While we were talking a young man who was board-
ing at the house joined us. He was introduced to me as
a person who was staying there a spell to recover from
an attack of malaria. " But he ain't got it the way they
used to have it," Emma affirmed. "They had it so
they'd shake when I was a girl."
"I been consultin' a doctor," the boarder said, "but
he's like all the rest of 'em now prescribes the fresh
air cure for everything. There's nothin' worse in the
world, I believe. It stands to reason that when you're
sick you ought to keep out of a draught, not get into
one."
Along Shore in Jersey 215
"Old-fashioned people used to doctor themselves a
good deal," Emma observed. "To break up a cold
they'd get you into a perspiration with hot poultices.
But of course you ought to take doctor's medicine, too,
even if it don't seem to make a great sight of difference."
"I'm a draughtsman for a real estate concern," the
boarder said, "and I was interested in hearin' what
you said about the sellin' of this property across the
road. You was talkin' about it when I come out of the
house. The head of my firm is one of the pillars of the
church he attends, and he claims a man can be a good
church member and sell real estate, but I don't believe
it. I've seen too much of their doin's, and the fancy
literature they send out. Even the best of 'em do some
things that are a little off color. My firm has photo-
graphs made of their properties and then tell the
photographer what trees, pavements, and other im-
provements they want put in before the final prints
are made to sell from.
"At one time the firm advertised a property near
Elizabeth in this state, and said it was within sight of
New York. Well, it was, if you went high enough in
the air. They sold to customers in Canada and all
around. The lots looked like good investments if you
believed the promoters' statements. Some of the lots
were right in the middle of a swamp where the water
stood a foot deep after a rain."
"I read in the paper," Harriet said, "that a rich
philanthropist had bought thousands and thousands
216 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
of acres in Davenport just east of here and proposes
to start a prosperous farm settlement there of poor
people from the cities. It tells how attractive the region
is, and says the land is first-class. That's a big He.
It's the most deserted, God-forsaken sand-place you
ever saw."
"If they want to get crops," Emma said, "they'll
need to put other soil over that there land. It won't
hardly grow sandburs, and they say that even the
mosquitoes starve to death there."
When I rose to go Harriet asked me to notice a large,
old-fashioned house I would pass on my way to town.
"It ain't built straight with the road," she said, "but
is placed so the sun at noontime shines straight in the
front door. There's lots of houses through the woods
here that have real Dutch doors in 'em doors that are
divided across the middle, and you can open the upper
half and look out."
By the time I was back in the town it was dusky
evening. A full moon in the east was gradually grow-
ing golden as the twilight deepened. Swallows were
twittering and darting above the village roofs and trees.
Here and there were people strolling on the walks or
loitering in front of the stores. On the piazza of my
hotel the landlord and some friends were talking
politics. The landlord's manner was impressively
assured, and he offered to bet on the Tightness of his
opinions a generous portion of a roll of bills he had
taken from his pocket and was waving about.
Along Shore in Jersey 217
A little later I called on a retired sea captain of whom
I had heard. I found him in his parlor a man of more
than fourscore years, but erect and vigorous playing
cards with his wife in the waning light. It was a pleas-
ing sight to see their companionableness as they sat
there by the window in the serene twilight of the day,
and the no less serene twilight of their lives.
In response to my questions he recalled conditions
in the vicinity as they used to be in his youth. "This
is naturally a wooded country," he said, "and used to
be covered with heavy pine timber, as pretty as ever
was seen. The tree-trunks were as big as beer kegs;
and there was fine cedar in the swamps. Some good
cedar is still left over near Double Trouble. That's a
name was given to the place because the dam they first
put in there went out right after it was finished and
they had to rebuild.
"Perhaps you wonder about the name of this place.
Some say it comes from an Indian named Tom who
lived here, but that's not certain. This used to be a
great resort of the Indians. They came long distances
to get fish and oysters. I've ploughed up a many of
their spear heads and pieces of pottery, and dug up
skulls. Now and then I'd find axe-heads, but I did n't
think anything at all of 'em then and would throw
'em up side of the fence. They'd be quite a curiosity
now.
"Before coal became the common fuel they loaded
vessels with cordwood at our wharves to go to New York.
21 8 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
I was a good-sized boy before I ever saw coal. We
shipped away timber and cordwood, and we made
charcoal, and the fires run over the old forest lands and
left nothing but desert. The topsoil has been burned
off so that such timber as grew here in the past won't
be possible again under the most favorable conditions
for hundreds of years.
"My father had about fifteen cows. In the early
morning they fed on the salt meadows; but by ten
o'clock the mosquitoes was usually bad and the cows
went to the swamps. Animals get fat on that salt
grass. It's clean, with no garlic into it, and makes the
nicest kind of butter. Plenty of cattle have never e't
any hay but that from the salt meadows. People mow
what they don't pasture, but it takes three acres to
produce now what one formerly did. They cut it too
late. They'll go right onto the meadows with their
mowing-machines in October, and that leaves the
ground bare to freeze in winter.
"Our cows were always milked by she-males. The
generality of men did n't milk then, but they have to
now. A girl would feel insulted if she was asked to
milk a cow in these days. That's what she would, and
I don't believe a cow would let a girl come near her.
"All the women and girls were workers when I was
young, and in planting time and haying and harvest
they'd turn right in and help a few days outdoors. A
girl of twelve could drop corn as well as a man fifty
years old. The housekeeping was simpler then than
The Scarecrow
Along Shore in Jersey 219
at present, or the women could n't have managed it.
Houses averaged smaller, and contained less furniture,
and there was n't so much ceremony about serving
the food. Anyone coming to the table after others had
got through would eat off the first one's plates. That
would n't do now, but if in some way we could make
our modern homes less of a care I don't doubt that the
women's health would be better. They'd feel more
comfortable in mind and body, too, if they could work
a part of the time in the open air. But the human
animal is naturally lazy, and as a rule we all avoid
tasks that we're not forced to do by necessity or
fashion.
"When I began voyaging, about 1850, the New
Yorkers who wanted to come to the shore in this direc-
tion would rarely go farther than Long Branch, and
none of the other resorts were much developed. I'll
be darned if there was a single hotel at Atlantic City,
and it was a lonely coast all along. Men who came
gunning got any quantity of game snipe and ducks
and geese. I've seen the ducks fly up so thick they
almost hid the sun. That would n't be just one time,
but day after day for three or four months. Now you
would n't see more than one or two game waterfowl in
a week. The trouble is they get no chance to breed in
a region so thickly populated. There's seldom a mile
of coast without its residence, and if you sail along of
an evening you find it lighted the entire distance from
Cape May to New York."
22O Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
NOTES. The most conspicuous feature of the northern Jersey
coast is Sandy Hook, which forms one of the portals of New York
Bay. It is occupied by an old stone fort, 3 lighthouses, and a United
States Army Ordnance Station where guns are tested.
An automobile route from New York follows the coast, as closely
as the inlets and marshes will permit, even to Cape May. The roads
are generally excellent. Near Highlands, at the southernmost
nook of New York Harbor, is Water Witch Park, which takes its
name from Cooper's "Water Witch," a novel that has its scene laid
in the vicinity.
A seaside resort with an individuality of its own is Ocean Grove.
It was established in 1870 by a Methodist association, and is now
frequented yearly by over 20,000 people, both young and old, who
elect to spend their summer vacations under a religious autocracy.
The grounds have the sea on the east, lakes north and south, and a
high fence on the west. At 10 in the evening, daily, the gates are
closed, and they are not opened at all on Sunday. No Sabbath
bathing, riding, or driving is permitted, and no theatrical perform-
ances are allowed at any time. Drinking of alchoholic beverages
and the sale of tobacco are strictly prohibited. Innumerable re-
ligious meetings are held daily. The chief place of assemblage is a
huge auditorium that can accommodate 10,000 people. The annual
camp meeting is the great event of the season.
Those who prefer a more free and easy enjoyment of their vaca-
tions can find plenty of opportunity at the other coast resorts.
There is Long Branch, for instance, with a permanent population
of 12,000, and a summer population of 5 times that number. It
occupies a seaward facing bluff which rises to a height of about 30
feet above the beautiful sandy beach. At Elberon, the fashionable
cottage part of the resort, can be seen the dwelling in which Presi-
dent Garfield died.
Atlantic City, the most frequented of all American seaside re-
sorts, is on a sandstrip separated from the coast by 5 miles of sea
and salt meadows. In August the visitors who flock there from all
Along Shore in Jersey 221
over the country swell the number of inhabitants to about 200,000,
and more than 50,000 have bathed in the sea there in a single day.
It attracts visitors through the entire year, for the climate is com-
paratively mild and sunny even in winter, and the air is exceedingly
tonic. The beach is surpassingly fine, and is bordered by the
famous "Board Walk." This walk is 40 feet wide and over 5 miles
long, and is flanked on the landward side by hotels, shops, and
places of amusement.
Cape May is a rival of Atlantic City in its natural attractions,
but is not quite as easily reached.
A favorite inland resort is Lakewood, 63 miles south of New
York. It is in the heart of the pine woods, and on account of its
sheltered situation and mild climate it is much frequented in winter.
X
A GLIMPSE OF DELAWARE
THE landscape had been freshened by showers
the previous day and now was smiling in the
caresses of the bright sunshine. A brisk breeze
wafted the grain in the big wheatfields into long green
waves, and brought in at the open car windows the
odor of strawberries and clover blossoms. The level
farmlands looked fertile and well-tilled, and the farm
homes had a pleasing aspect of prosperity and com-
fort.
"Delaware farmers are more industrious than when
I was a boy," a train acquaintance remarked. "These
are nice places we're seein', and kep' up in good style.
Corn and wheat used to be about all the farmer raised,
but now they put their dependence more on berries
and early produce. It's a good place for a poor man to
raise everything he wants to eat with very little exer-
tion and have some to spare.
"See those pine logs lyin' there by that freight sta-
tion. We would n't use to ship such like stuff we
would n't touch it. It's bull pine, and that's nothin'
more than a tree weed, and is tough and warps around
so you can't hardly manage it. But if you want to
put up a barn or a shed it does for a makeshift.
A Glimpse of Delaware 223
"They're gettin' to have very good roads. I can
remember when travellin' on 'em was a hardship.
They were all standin' water in the winter time. Farm
work used to be done by cattle power, and if a man
wanted to go to a place that was farther away than he
could walk he stayed at home. Many a man had no
horse at all and lived and died without ever owning
one. Log houses were common till after the war, and
the people were land poor. The principal part of the
young men went to sea, but by and by they came home
tired of that and bought land. That air cut the farms
up, and they've learned to make the land profitable
so that I bet you now two-thirds of the farmers have
bank accounts. You ask 'em how they're gettin' on
and they'll say, 'Oh, we're a-livin', but we ain't a
makin' much.'
"Then you ask if they've got a bank account, and
they'll acknowledge they have. All the towns have
banks these days, and they take in money hand over
fist. New York and Philadelphia always used to be
afraid to trust any man livin' in the state of Delaware
for a five cent piece, but I guess they're changin' their
minds now. It looks that way to me."
I went as far as Lewes at the mouth of Delaware
Bay. It was here that the first settlers of the state
from across the Atlantic established themselves. The
place has never grown rapidly and is still half rustic,
and abounds in delightful old mansions that are hu-
manized by their association with past generations,
224 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
and that nestle amid a charming luxuriance of greenery
and blossoms.
The dwellings on the seaward borders of the town
stand on ground that drops abruptly away to a wide
level of salt marshes, and the homes on "the bank"
are commonly spoken of collectively as "Pilot-town,"
because so many pilots live there. The situation is
peculiarly satisfactory to them, for they like to live
where they can "spy out on the water." At the far
edge of the marshes are sand dunes, one of which rises in
a vast yellow ridge that is slowly enveloping a pine wood.
"Sand is always in motion," a local man observed
to me. "It's as unstable as water. You sit down to
eat a lunch off there on the shore, and you may think
there's not any wind at all, but you'll find that sand
gets into your bread and butter just the same. I've
known of a long row of bath-houses that in a single
winter were nearly all buried out of sight by the drift-
ing sand."
One day I followed a roadway across the marshes
to the shore of the bay. Vessels were coming and going
on the misty gray waters and, northward, twelve miles
away, was Cape May, a low blue streak in the dim
distance. I went along the beach toward the ocean.
At one spot were a few fishermen's shacks on the dunes,
and farther on was a factory that made a business of
extracting fish oil from "porgies." During the season
a fleet is kept on the sea catching the fish, and thou-
sands of barrels are filled with oil each week. I thought
A Glimpse of Delaware 225
the vicinity was odorous to the limit of endurance,
though it was affirmed that the season's work had not
yet begun, and that I only smelled the ghosts of last
year's oil-extracting. "Besides," this informant said,
"they say the smell is healthy, and you get used to it
and don't notice it after a while. But it went pretty
hard with the town folks when the factory was first
built. The smell blows right over there when the wind
is to the east'ard. One lady said she had to get up in
the night to perfume herself."
At length I crossed a sandy point where the bones of
many a staunch ship lay imbedded, and had before
me the restless billows of the open ocean, and could
hear a bell buoy tolling its somber, warning notes.
Where sand and water met was a recent wreck with
most of its masts still standing. But the hull was
badly broken, and the waves were roaring and dashing
about it like ravenous beasts. For a considerable dis-
tance I continued to stroll along the shore, just out
of reach of the slither of foam that each breaking wave
sent far up the incline of the beach. When I presently
turned my footsteps toward the town I decided to
make a short cut across the marshes. But as soon as
I left the dunes and was down on the low ground I
stirred up a horde of mosquitoes in the coarse, thin
grass. They settled on my clothing and clung there,
and made such savage assaults on my face and hands
with their poisoned lances that I shifted my course to
the sandhills where these pests were comparatively few.
226 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
It was supper-time when I reached my hotel, and
most of the guests, and the proprietor and his family,
had sat down to eat. As I took my place the landlord
remarked to a lady at a table adjacent to his, "It's
blustering this evening."
"Oh, yes," she responded, "the wind comes up every
evening and blows like the dickens. You know that,
don't you?"
"Well," he said, "I don't know much of anything,
and half I do know ain't so."
"Did you go to that dance last night?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, "and my girl was the best lookin'
girl there. The only fault I had to find was that she
would n't stand straight. We all have our troubles.
I hearn one feller complain that his girl could n't dance
without steppin' on his feet. Then there was a girl
from Wilmington that I tried to be pleasant to; but
she was mad because she'd sat on a strawberry and
spotted her dress. So she would n't talk."
In the lingering twilight that evening I visited a
negro cemetery. The graves clustered about a plain
little church. A few of them had headstones or
wooden markers, but evidently there was nothing to
show the location of most of them when the mounds
disappeared. The two most conspicuous headstones
were flat slabs of cement, each with a heart incised
near the top. The lettering had been roughly cut into
the cement before it hardened. Here are the inscrip-
tions :
The wreck
A Glimpse of Delaware 227
ELIZABATH CELE BURTON
W. MAULL BORND IN 1891
DIED IN AUG. 8 DIED 1903
1896 DEC. MAY 19
9 AGE 44 SOON TOO MY
SAFTE IN SLUMBERING
THE DUST SHALL HEAR
ARMS OF THE TRUMPHETS
JESUS IUECKING SOUND
That peculiar word in the final line of the Burton
stone is probably meant for "quickening."
While I was looking at these cement works of art a
negro laborer on his way home from the fields came
through the cemetery, stopped, and said: "A colored
boy described those out and made them himself. He
was only about fifteen, but he did a right good job."
Along the path that led from the street to the church
were many seemingly new-made graves. I fancied an
epidemic had been sweeping off the negro dwellers of
the town, but the colored worker said: "Oh, no, sir,
the graves have been renewed and freshened up for
Decoration Day. They look neater to keep the grass
off, but we only trouble to do these along the walk.
That's the oldest part of the cemetery over there next
to the dividation line. Often when we are digging a
grave there we find skull bones and leg bones and arm
228 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
bones. Of co'se we naturally did n't know any one
was buried at the spot we'd picked out. Ginerally we
put the bones back right where they were and dig in
another place.
"A good many have died this past year. For one
thing we've had a fearful winter the worst in thirty-
five years. It's the coldest we ever experienced I
don't except none. You just bet you had to keep as
near the stove as you could without gettin' burnt. I
hearn sev'ral talkin' of a man who suffered with cold
feet. It seemed he could n't get 'em warm nohow,
and finally he pulled off his shoes and slapped his feet
up on the stove. That way he got 'em a little warmer
than he wanted to, and they held so much heat that
afterward he could n't get 'em cool.
"You mought think that lots o' the houses you see
was so poorly built or in such bad repair they would n't
be much protection, but it's my idea that most houses
are too tight to be healthy. I know a white gen'leman
who lives in an old house that's never been fixed up in
years. If he goes to bed at night and there comes a
snow, he feels the flakes droppin' down on his face from
the leaky roof; and in the mornin' he jumps right out
of bed into a snowbank. He has six or eight children,
and he says to me, 'They never have had a day's sick-
ness. But I confess,' says he, 'that many a time I
would n't have cared if the house had been a little
tighter.'
"The crops are lookin' very prosperous this season,
A Glimpse of Delaware 229
ain't they? Last year we had n't broke up any ground
at this time it was so dry. You could n't get a plough
point into the clay land. But at last, some way or
'nother, most men managed to get a little seed planted.
The wheat was n't putt in early enough though for it
to git a holt, and the dry weather just killed it dead.
Our corn was so parched up we did n't have none
noway, and the strawberries dried and cooked right
on the vines, and wa'n't anything. We did n't have
no luck with our potatoes either. Gosh! the for'ard
potatoes was nothin', and the late crop was a failery,
too. We was cut short on everything. Oh, the farmers
was torn all to pieces last year."
Another negro who furnished me enlightenment of a
picturesque sort was a gray, elderly man whom I
accosted the next day as he was hoeing a little patch
of potatoes beside his house.
"Potatoes are not up where I live," I said.
"Where do you come from? he inquired.
"From Massachusetts," I replied.
"Good land!" he exclaimed, "you're a long way
from home, I reckon. Is Massachusetts in the north
part of the climate or the south part?"
"The north," I said.
"How long does it take to come from there to here?"
was his next question.
When I had satisfied him on that point he remarked
that he did not usually hoe his garden except in the
evening. "I'm hired out to work durin' the day," he
230 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
said, "but this mornin' I been helpin' my wife to wash
some. She's kind o' been paralyzed.
"See, there's some potato-bug eggs on that leaf.
About a thousand bugs would hatch out of them eggs,
so I'll just pinch 'em with my fingers. Along about
the last o' March the bugs are flyin' all over this
country. If there's easterly weather at that time
vessels meet great rafts of 'em on the water, and you
find 'em heaped up on the beach. That shows they
come from some foreign place where it don't freeze.
But a good many of 'em stay in the ground here all
winter. I've dug 'em out in February, and they were
as much alive as ever they are. You plant your pota-
toes, and the bugs come right up with 'em ready to
begin eatin'. Most people fight 'em with poison, but
I don't keer to do that. I think some of the poison
might get in the potatoes. So I go to work and ketch
the bugs and pull their heads off. Then I know they're
done. If I pick 'em in a bucket and undertake to
mash 'em with my foot I'm satisfied that some of 'em
live. They're pretty tough. I wonder that they don't
try to get away by flyin'. They've got wings. But
they act like a possum soon as you touch 'em they
drop and act as if they was dead ha-ha-ha-ha! They're
jus' tryin' to fool you. Everything has to have its
little smart ways. I keep pickin' 'em off, and 'bout the
time I think I'm cle'r of 'em the eggs are comin' on to
hatch. I don't know what them bugs ever originated
from, but I've always kind o' thought in my own mind
Setting the net
A Glimpse of Delaware 23 1
it was from guano. We never had no such thing be-
fore the guano and stuff began to be brought across the
ocean here.
"There was a different kind o' bugs on the potatoes
when I was a boy a-comin' up, and I'm somewhere
about sixty-five years old now. Those bugs were slim
most like a big ant, and they had shell wings that were
black with a little white streak. There were lots of
'em, but you could drive 'em off with a switch. You
can't drive these bugs. There's no drive in 'em.
"Things change, don't they? Even the weather
ain't what it used to be. Every year the season gets a
month later it 'pears. If we'd ketch a good open spell
in the old times we'd get all our ploughin' done in
March. But sometimes we'd have snows and blowin'
and freezin' chuck down to the last of the month.
Many a time I've been ploughin' and had to knock off
on account of a storm. I'd leave the plough, and the
snow would kiver it up. But we used to be through
thinnin' our corn by the last of May, and we'd com-
mence to lay by the crop right after the Fourth of
July quit work into it, you understand. Before the
end of September the harvest would be all in, and winter
begun and we'd have little scuds of snow. Now winter
don't start so soon, but you got to look out for hard
weather later in the spring, and you can sleep with all
the covers on till June. Take it weather, bugs, and all,
the farmin' man ain't got but a very little left when
he's paid his help and his fertilize bill. He has to sell
232 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
off all he's raised, and that leaves him down with
nothin'."
This colored man could hardly be vouched for as a
competent authority on agriculture, and I quote with
more confidence a town farmer with whom I later
became acquainted. "Land sells higher and higher
all the time," he said. "Well, sir, the farmers are
wakin' up, and we get more out of an acre raisin' vege-
tables and small fruits than we used to get out of a half
dozen acres of corn; and I'll tell you another thing,
Mister, that is drivin' the price of land way up people
with capital are not foolin' with coal and oil stocks as
they did once, but if a man has a few thousand dollars,
he says, 'I'll loan it out here on farm property where I
know what I've got.' Farmin' has become profitable
because the cities have grown so enormously. They
look to us to supply 'em with food. We could n't do
it by the old methods. In my early days we cut all
our wheat with a cradle, and it was pretty near a day's
work to cut an acre. Now we go in with a reaper and
cut twenty acres in a day. Then we cut all the hay
with scythes, and raked it up by hand. Riding-
machines are common on the farms now, and the work
is far less laborious. Fifty years ago oxen were the
farmers' usual draught animals, but now they're too
slow and have nearly disappeared.
"Most of us are descendants of the old-time inhabi-
tants and have been around these diggings all our lives.
There's very few furriners, but we have a good many
A Glimpse of Delaware 233
negroes, and they're a very prosperous people. They've
got schools, and they've got churches, and where a
colored man ten years ago could n't pick up a dollar
he can now pick up five.
"When I was a boy this town had about a thousand
inhabitants, and there was only two free schools in
the place, and those two did n't amount to a great
deal. We had 'Select Schools' that were better, but
if you went to them you had to pay tuition every
quarter. I'd venture to say that the little clapboarded
free school buildings did n't cost over three hundred
dollars apiece. The seats had no backs, and they were
too high for the small children. So the little ones would
sit with their feet dangling and kicking. Oh, mercy!
we did n't have much comfort in them times. We
were expected to be on hand to start the school day at
eight in the morning and were n't turned loose till
five in the evening.
"School commenced in the fall in September and
went on about six months. Out in the country they'd
have only a three months' winter school with possibly
another month in the summer if they could raise the
money to pay the teacher. People had to have their
children to work. Wood for the schoolhouse stove
was furnished by the families that sent children. It's
pretty skearce around here now, but 't was plenty then,
and each family give a load. We had men teachers
who were paid twenty-five to thirty dollars a month.
They were men who followed teaching for a business,
234 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
and often were well advanced in years. They did n't
teach much but 'rethmetic and history and grammar and
writing, and the books was few and poor; and yet if I
only knew all there was in them books I'd be satisfied.
"Most of the teachers were pretty severe. Generally
they taught for what there was in it, and as a natural
consequence they were cross. If a boy did n't behave
the teacher would take him by the hand and rule him.
I used to be punished that way or switched pretty
often, and I needed more punishing than I got, but I
did n't think so then. Some boys were always in
trouble and they'd get terrible whippings. There was
no inducement to study nothin' to interest them, and
they were much inclined to play truant. They'd sneak
around and go fishing, even if they knew they'd be
corrected for it. 'Tain't so now. The boys want to
go to school, they have so much fun there. But, as
the feller says, 'You can never tell much about a boy.'
One of the most ornery boys that ever lived in this
town is now captain of a big ship that makes voyages
out to Chiny."
On another day, in my quest for information, I spoke
with a woman who was feeding some chickens that were
in a coop near the street fence. She was proud of her
chickens, but was still more proud of the garden back
of the house, which she presently invited me to visit,
so she could show me all the varied growing things that
crowded its narrow limits. Her remarks ran on some-
thing in this wise:
The pump at the back door
A Glimpse of Delaware 235
"See that little cherry tree. She's loaded full and
she bears every year. Next beyond is a dwarf apple
tree, and that never fails to have fruit on it either,
though we're too bleak here for apples to do first-rate.
Most of what we raise we use in our own family, but
I'm always sellin' a little somethin' or 'nother. Last
spring I sold enough kale and mustard greens from the
garden to buy a barrel of flour. I scatter the seed
around in the fall, and it keeps coming up all the time.
I'll give you some and you can sow it in your garden.
"We've got a nice soil to work in hereabouts. You
can't hardly find a stone large enough to throw and
scare the birds away in this part of Delaware. My
husband does the heavy garden work. That's him
hoeing over by that grapevine. Here 's a bunch of
ribbon grass, and it's a curious thing that you can't
find two blades striped alike. That's a mystery, ain't
it? And yet it's the same with people. As many as
there are in the world no two look exactly like each
other.
"Next to the ribbon grass is an old-time lily. It
used to belong to my great aunt, who died when she
was in her eighties. The root is good for a salve, and
people come to me from way back of Georgetown for it.
"I'm a great hand for herbs. I guess I inherit my
liking for 'em from my mother. She was a regular
herb doctor, and they would send for her from far and
near.
"I work in the garden just about all the time in
236 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
pleasant weather, even if I neglect things that ought
to be done in the house. For thirteen years I had dis-
pepsia and was troubled with heart trembling. My
stomach was always cold and I was so weak I could n't
walk across the floor without holding on to a chair or
table. I nearly wore out our carriage going out riding.
Somebody had to help me in, and I would sit with a
pillow at my back, and yet I could n't bear to have the
horse trot. It would shake the wind all out of me. One
night I dreamed I saw our doctor just as plain as I see
you now. He stood lookin' at me, and I said, 'Why
ain't you givin' me some medicine?'
"Go out and feed your chickens,' he says, and went
away.
"Next day I remembered my dream, and I said to
myself: 'That meant something. It meant for me to
cure myself by outdoor exercise and air.'
"I begun at once, and now I'm a well woman. I'm
gettin' so stout I can't wear hardly any of the clothes
I've got, and I can eat most any food except of course
something like boiled cabbage late in the day. No-
body ought to eat that then.
"I was raised on a farm, and I think I'm naturally
active, but I don't work the way my mother did. She
was very industrious, and though the family was large
I never knew her to have a servant in her life. There
was n't an idle minute about her. We'd make as much
as sixty dollars some seasons knitting in the long even-
ings after the farm was laid by. We grew sheep, and
A Glimpse of Delaware 237
mother handled the wool and spun it into yarn. While
I was still very young I used to get my little straight-
backed chair every evening and place myself right by
her to pick wool. She learned me to knit my own
stockings when I was eight years old."
The woman's husband had now joined us, and he
remarked: "Things were much like that in all the
farm families. Where I lived the boys as well as the
girls learned to knit and darn their own stockings.
Everybody had homemade clothing that the women
cut out and sewed by hand. The cloth for the men's
clothes was what was called fustian, and for the wo-
men's clothes it was linsey-woolsey. I would get one
suit a year just before Christmas, and it did n't matter
how it fitted if 'twas so I could get it on. There was
no such thing as a vest for young boys 'just pants and
a jacket. Neither did we have an undershirt or drawers.
I never wore any till I was grown up, and I did n't
wear stockings except in winter. The boys in a family
that lived right along side of us did n't wear either
shoes or stockings the year through. Their feet would
turn purple in winter and sometimes crack between
the toes and bleed, but they claimed they did n't
suffer from the cold any more than if they'd worn shoes.
"Every fall the shoemaker came to our house to
make us a pair of boots or shoes all around. I used to
have little low shoes with just four eyelets in 'em for
lacing, and they were lined with red sheepskin. The
soles were pegged. The shoemaker would punch holes
238 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
with his awl and drive in two rows of pegs right around
the edge. We never had a box of blacking, but we'd
turn the stove lid over and rub on soot from it with a
brush. That made our shoes black, or at least they
was n't white, you know. I would carry 'em under
my arm on the way to Sunday-school to save 'em.
Just before I got to the church I'd sit down in some
pines that grew by the roadside and put the shoes on.
I never wore 'em in the spring longer than I could help.
The country then was all in timber and more protected
than now, and as early as March we'd strip off our
shoes and go for the woods and crawl in the hog beds
in the pine shats. It was nice, in a sunny place where
the wind did n't hit. We preferred to go barefoot even if
we did have stone bruises and what they call cowitch."
"The way my father had me wear my shoes," the
wife said, "was to change them to the other foot each
day so as to keep 'em from getting' lopsided. They
were rights and lefts a little bit, but you would n't
hardly know it.
"Fashions did n't change much, and all of us, rich
and poor, wore about the same kind of clothes. The
women wore sunbunnets and aprons to church. I've did
it. I used to think our linsey-woolsey dresses were beau-
tiful, but when I was seventeen I wore mine to church
in town, and they made fun of it because it was
sheep's wool. So I would n't wear linsey-woolsey again.
"We used to walk to church in the morning, but it
was too much to walk again in the evening, and we'd
A Glimpse of Delaware 239
put the oxen to the cart and ride, and perhaps take
along some of the neighbors."
"I was a bound boy," the man resumed, "but I was
treated same as the man's own children except that I
did n't get much schoolin'. I stayed at home and
worked when the weather was fit, and at the time I
went into the army I could n't read or write. The
man I worked for was kind o' rich, for he not only had
a pair of oxen but he kept a horse. Oh, laws, yes!
anybody that owned a horse was somebody. But most
of the people around here was poor, and all they cared for
was a little something to wear and to eat. Ther build-
ings were very common. Cattle sheds, for instance,
were roofed with brush on which pine shats were thrown.
The shats would shed rain if there was enough of 'em, but
they'd rot in two or three years, and then we had to take
the oxen and haul more. The sheep and cattle in them
days stayed outdoors mostly, and after a heavy snow
we'd have to dig 'em out from where they'd crowded
up to the hayrack or some other slight shelter."
"At our place," the wife remarked, "we used to
thresh our wheat in the cattle pound, or barnyard as
some would say now. We'd rake everything off as
clean as we could and then lay the wheat bundles in a
circle, heads in. Oxen that the men would drive were
used for treading out the grain, or perhaps two or three
horsebackers went around on it. I've rode one of the
horses threshing wheat a many a time. In the center
stood some of the men with turning-forks keeping the
240 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
wheat bundles stirred up. After a while they'd take
the stock all off and upend the bundles and turn 'em
right over. Then there was more treading. It was no
long job. We did n't raise much. Why, my dear man,
if we had ten bushels we thought we had a big crop.
There's more raised now on one farm than was grown
then in the whole county. Any bread made of flour
we called cake, but we had plenty of cornbread. There
were no stoves then with us, and we placed the corn-
bread on a board and baked it on the hearth in front
of the fire.
"If my father went visiting after church, or most any
time, the people he visited would probably send the
children a little something to eat, and often, if he come
home and did n't say nothing about what he'd brought,
we'd wait till he took his coat off and search his pockets.
Sometimes he'd carry around a biscuit two or three
days before we got hold of it. By then it was right
dirty and black, and so hard we could n't break it. But
that made no difference. We'd take a hatchet, and
chop it up, and it tasted good to us."
After I parted from these friends I wandered out
into the farming region that lies back of the town. Its
fertility was very evident, and its flourishing crops were
a joy to behold. Often there were hedgerows between
fields or along the roadsides. These were decidedly more
pleasing to the eyes than fences, but a man whom I
accosted as he sat on the edge of his piazza, and who
whittled the piazza, floor very industriously while we
o
r-
A Glimpse of Delaware 241
talked, said: "They ain't puttin' in no new hedges,
and they're tearin' up the old. People are kickin'
against 'em on account of the snow. We have a good
bit of snow here some years, and the hedges ketch the
drifts. I've walked from here clean in town on snow
that blew in and filled the roadway up even with the
tops of the hedges that were on both sides. We had
to cut a road through for the teams same as a canal.
"Another thing we got against the hedges is that
they're wasteful. Take that field yander the wheat
next to the hedge is mighty slim. It's like havin' a
field long side of the woods the hedge roots take all
the substance and moisture out of the ground. You
lose more or less on a strip ten or twelve feet wide."
But I found one advantage in the hedges they
protected the wild strawberries, and the berries were
so abundant and delicious that I lingered picking and
eating them a long time, and was tempted to continue
in Delaware till the strawberry season was past.
NOTES. An automobile route goes down through Delaware
from Wilmington to Cape Charles, a distance of 212 miles. The
roads are macadam and dirt. Wilmington, the largest city in the
state, has extensive manufactories and considerable historic inter-
est. About 13 miles to the northwest Washington was defeated by
the British in September, 1777, in the Battle of the Brandywine.
Dover, 47 miles south, the capital of the state, was founded in
1700 by William Penn. Between it and Felton, 12 miles farther on,
are immense apple orchards.
Old Lewes and some of the other towns at the mouth of the Dela-
ware have a good deal of attraction as vacation resorts.
XI
ROUNDABOUT THE NATION S CAPITAL
THE District of Columbia at first included a tract
on each side of the Potomac, but that on the
southern side was later relinquished, and the
present District has an area of sixty-nine square miles.
It has been the seat of government since 1800. At the
end of the first decade it had a population of eight
thousand and for a long time grew very slowly. Even
down to 1870 the city was in a very backward condi-
tion, but since then improvement has been rapid, till
now it is one of the most comfortable and beautiful in
the world. Both in itself and in its surroundings it is
superlatively interesting. To be sure it is a made-to-
order place that was carefully and formally planned
at the very start, and this has inevitably resulted in its
losing some of the piquancy that a more harum-scarum
growth would have given it. Moreover, it still has a
little of the aspect of a boy in clothes purposely made
too large for him in order to provide for his prospective
increase in stature that is, the city as a whole does not
yet match up to its splendid public buildings, and the
amplitude of its parks, and the breadth of its avenues.
But its rawness in this respect is now only incidentally
apparent, though formerly it was a perfect scarecrow
Roundabout the Nation's Capital 243
and was called the "City of Magnificent Distances,"
its framework seemed so unnecessarily large for any
prospective growth. The phrase continues in use but
gradually has come to be applied in a praiseworthy
sense as indicating the width of the city streets and the
spaciousness of the parks and squares.
The prosperity of the city depends on the fact that
here are the government offices and the meeting-place
of Congress. There are probably forty thousand army
and navy officers and civil servants in Washington, and
these with their families make a large proportion of
the population.
Of the government buildings the Capitol is very
fittingly the most imposing in size. It is no less impres-
sive in its grace of design and situation, and it is set
amid grounds whose extent and arrangement add much
to its architectural effect. With the crowning glory
of its great dome it is surpassingly beautiful, no matter
whence you see it. The main building with its original
low-crowned dome was completed in 1827, and the
wings and the present dome about forty years later.
It covers three and a half acres and is on a hill ninety
feet above the level of the Potomac.
On this same height is the Library of Congress, a
building capable of accommodating four or five million
volumes, and of special interest to the sightseer be-
cause of its sumptuous adornments of painting, sculp-
ture, colored marbles, and gilding. These are often
not all they might be in conception, execution, or
244 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
arrangement, but the effect as a whole is decidedly
imposing.
The White House, a trifle over a mile distant down
the straight, wide Pennsylvania Avenue, is as satisfying
as the Capitol in its stately simplicity, and its generous
grounds, seventy-five acres in extent. This was the
first public building erected at the new seat of govern-
ment. George Washington himself selected the site.
He laid the cornerstone in 1792 and lived to see the
building completed. During Madison's administration
it was burned by marauding British soldiers, but the
stone walls remained standing, and when it was restored
the stone was painted white to obliterate the marks
of the fire. It has commonly been known as~the White
House ever since.
Near by is the treasury building, as if under the
special guardianship of the president, with the expecta-
tion that he would protect the garnered wealth of the
people from the spendthrift inroads of Congress which
meets in the Capitol.
The vast structures necessary for carrying on the
nation's business abound on every hand, but, aside
from the Capitol and the White House, the most
widely-famed architectural feature of the city is the
Washington Monument. I fancy its fame is chiefly
due to its tremendous height, for it is an absolutely
unornamented, tapering marble shaft, more severely
plain than a factory chimney. The obelisk was begun
in 1848, but work on it was presently abandoned and
Roundabout the Nation's Capital 245
was not resumed until 1877. It was finished in 1884.
From the floor to the tip it soars up 555 feet, and until
certain recent skyscrapers in New York were erected it
was the highest work of masonry in the world. It can
be ascended either by a fatiguing climb of its nine hun-
dred steps or by elevator. The walls are fifteen feet
thick at the entrance, but gradually thin to eighteen
inches at the top. It cost over a million dollars. The
immensity of the monument is only fully appreciated
when one stands right at its base, but it is seen to best
advantage from an island park that borders the adja-
cent Potomac.
This park is a favorite resort of fisherman. I have
seen them there before five o'clock on a summer morn-
ing, and only a storm, or darkness when the day comes
to an end, sends them home. Carp seemed to be the
fish most commonly caught, and some of these that the
anglers secured were surprisingly big fellows.
Across the river on the Virginia hills, within sight of
the city, is the Arlington National Cemetery, and any
one with a belligerent inclination to settle disputes
between countries, or between masses of people in the
same country, by resorting to war would do well to
visit this spot where most of the graves are those of the
silent hosts who died in the war for the Union. The
headstones stretch away in seemingly endless lines, for
here lie buried sixteen thousand men, and this field of
the dead is only one of many that the Civil War filled
with the soldiers who succumbed to either bullets or
246 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
disease. Among the various monuments probably the
most impressive is that inscribed to the Unknown Dead.
The letters chisled on the granite inform the onlookers
that "Beneath this stone repose the bones of two
thousand one hundred and eleven unknown soldiers
gathered after the war from the fields of Bull Run and
the route to the Rappahannock." . In the southern
part of the cemetery are buried the sailors who lost
their lives at Havana in the blowing up of the Maine.
Within the limits of the cemetery, on the brow of the
hill that slopes away to the Potomac, a half mile dis-
tant, is the fine old mansion that was the home of
Robert E. Lee when the Civil War began.
But the most interesting home in the vicinity of the
Capitol is that of George Washington at Mount Vernon,
sixteen miles to the south. It is easily accessible by
trolley. The intervening country is rather common-
place, except that half way you pass through quaint
old Alexandria with its cobblestone streets and numer-
ous ancient buildings.
Mount Vernon itself is a paradise. It suggests the
home of an English country gentleman of large estate
and refined tastes. The house is large, serene, dignified,
and looks down from a steep, terraced hill on the
lordly Potomac. Everything is on a generous scale
there is unstinted lawn about the dwelling, and many
venerable trees, and there is a big garden abounding
in ornamental hedgerows and flowers in their season.
The interior of the house is less delightful than the
:
-
Roundabout the Nation's Capital 247
exterior; for it is a formal showplace in which the
imagination finds it difficult to restore the animation of
life. Nevertheless, as a museum of articles connected
with the life of the Father of his Country, and illustra-
tive of well-to-do household appointments of the
colonial period, it is extremely valuable.
The house was built in 1743 by Washington's half-
brother, Lawrence. When you observe it close at hand
you become aware that its wooden sides are dominoed
to imitate stone, a pretense that one can not help re-
gretting in a building that otherwise is so admirable.
Lawrence died, and Washington at length inherited
the property. He came here to live and carry on the
farm soon after his marriage in 1759. During the
Revolution and his presidency of the new republic
Mount Vernon saw little of him, but on his retirement
from public office he came back to his farm, and it was
in the beautiful old mansion beside the Potomac that
he died in 1799, and his remains repose in a tomb in a
quiet nook of the grounds.
In this desultory account of the Capitol and its
vicinity I only attempt to deal with a few salient fea-
tures, but I would include among these, because of its
picturesqueness, a canal that comes into the city from
the west, high up on the north bank of the Potomac,
and descends to the river by a series of locks. Just
above the locks is a place where the boats tie up to
await their turn for unloading. Sometimes a boat will
be there a week or ten days before it can proceed.
248 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
Usually a sail-cloth awning is put up to protect the
cabin from the hot sunshine, and a plank is adjusted
to serve for passing to and from the shore. The mules
on the bank are tied to feed boxes built there for their
accommodation. It is a sort of amphibian gypsy en-
campment. Coal is the ordinary cargo, and the boats
commonly go back light to the mines in the Cumber-
land Mountains.
Another feature of the Washington vicinity that
appealed strongly to me was the Great Falls of the
Potomac, fifteen miles by electric line from the city.
The route is in the woods much of the way, and you
see little of the river, and nothing of the falls until you
reach your destination. Then you pass through a
pleasure resort grove, and there are the falls before you.
The pavilions and other buildings of the amusement
park are back out of sight among the trees, and the
artificial music of the merry-go-round cannot be heard,
so much more powerful is nature's music of the roaring
waters. The river channel is a chaos of jagged ledges
amid which the stream has worn various tortuous
channels, and the water surges down through the rocks
in a smother of white waves, and then makes a sudden
leap to a lower level. In floods the rocks are buried
from sight, and the river tears along in a wild torrent
that fills the narrow chasm below and obliterates the
falls entirely. Above the rapids is a dam, but it is low
and unobtrusive, and one sees the falls almost as much
in a state of nature as when the aborigines possessed
Roundabout the Nation's Capital 249
the country. Indeed, I met one enthusiastic onlooker
who declared that because of its unspoiled scenic
setting the Potomac Falls was superior to Niagara.
Besides the pleasure-seekers from Washington, who
come to listen to the melody of the waters and watch
their mad struggle down the rocky channel, there were
quite a number of local farmers, who had resorted
thither to fish for shad in the swift rush of the stream
just below the falls. Here they have come ever since
the region was settled, and no doubt it was a fishing-
place of the Indians for untold years before that. The
rocks in the steep ravines where the fishermen descend
to the stream are worn smooth with the footsteps of
those who have toiled up and down, and bear mute
testimony to the attraction of the spot. You find the
fishers busy on both sides of the river. They are
armed with long-handled scoopnets, and dip and dip
from the several points of vantage, making a slow sweep
down stream. The rocks do not furnish many foot-
holds suitable for the task, and at each dipping-place
there is pretty sure to be a group of fishermen waiting
their turn. A few townsmen also come to fish, but
they use pole and line, and instead of shad they get
occasional cat fish and sun fish.
I clambered down a gulley and joined one of the
scoopnet squads. In the intervals between fishing
they retired from the water's edge and sat in a shadowed
spot on the rocks talking, chewing tobacco, and spitting.
Rubbish and fishscales were scattered about, and it
250 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
was no more savory in its odors than are most fishing-
places.
One of the fishermen was a thin, spectacled old man,
very quaintly rustic, with long white hair hanging in
ringlets about his shoulders. This patriarch was the
acknowledged scoopnet champion. To quote one of
his companions "He knows just how to do it, and
he's mo' likely to get shad than any of us. Uncle Jim
was an old fisherman when I was a boy, forty odd years
ago, and he's caught mo' shad in this river than all the
rest of the crowd here put together. Oh, my, yes! yes
indeed! He never does anything else but fish in the
fishin' season, and he can make a livin' and a half at it.
He'll be here every day for the next month.
"This is as far as the shad go up the river. They
can't get over the falls. It's heavy exercise handling a
scoopnet, but we don't keep at it continuous. Every
man follers around and takes his turn. He dips a
hundred dips, which takes about fifteen minutes. I
believe Uncle Jim was the starter of that plan in his
young days. If we get suspicious that a feller is not
stopping when he ought to stop, some one sits back and
counts to make sure whether he's cheating or not. I
see a big fight about that one day over where them men
are fishin' on the rocks opposite. But mostly those
who scoop for shad are neighbors who live right around,
and they are all honest.
"Once in a while we scoop up a carp here, and it's a
tolerable good fish if it's cooked right. You want to
At the fishing-place
Roundabout the Nation's Capital 251
boil it with a little vinegar in the water. Then it tastes
first-rate, but it's a very rich fish, and while it does
well enough for a mess or two you soon get sick of 'em.
Take shad though, and its good any old way. The only
fault you can find is that it has a whole lot of bones,
and them bones are stiff, too.
"Hurrah! Uncle Jim's got one."
There was a general shout of congratulation from the
group, and we could hear the faint cheers of the men
across the river, who had likewise observed Uncle
Jim's success. A man in our group scrambled down
and took the flopping, silvery captive from the meshes,
and Uncle Jim, after one exultant smile, stolidly re-
sumed his wielding of the scoopnet, and only stopped
when he had finished his hundred dips. Then he gave
way to the next man and came up the rocks, got out
his knife, and dressed the shad.
"The scales are right loose when the fish is first taken
from the water," he explained, but they get tight if
you let the fish dry. Shad are a pretty fish, ain't they,
they look so nice and white? When I get enough
of 'em to make it worth while, I take out the back-
bone and salt 'em up so they'll keep till they're
wanted. They're a whole lot better that way than
fresh. But we don't scoop many here now. We
used to get a thousand to one that we ketch late
years.
"Hello, Joe! caught any?"
This greeting was to a new arrival.
252 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
"No," Joe responded, "I been down to the riffle.
Two was caught there, but I did n't get either of 'em."
"The water's too muddy," Uncle Jim commented.
"It was cl'ar early in the week, but every rain
muddies it."
I asked him if he could see the shad before he scooped
them when the water was clear.
"No," he replied, "muddy or not, we never can see
down into the water enough to have any idee whether
we're goin' to get a fish till the net brings it to the
surface."
The day was waning, and I at length climbed back
up the rocks, marvelling that so primitive a scene as
is presented at the Great Falls of the Potomac in early
summer should be found within an hour's trolley
journey of the big modern city of Washington, the
nation's capital.
NOTES. Climatically Washington is most delightful in May or
October. If possible, be there when Congress is in session and see
the Senate and the House of Representatives at work.
Some of the features of the city not mentioned in the body of this
chapter, yet which have exceptional attraction, are the Botanic
Gardens; National Museum; Smithsonian Institute; the Bureau
of Engraving and Printing, where visitors can see paper money,
bonds, and stamps in the process of manufacture; the Corcoran
Gallery of Art; Ford's Theatre on loth Street, where President
Lincoln was shot, and the house opposite to which he was carried
to die, and which contains a collection of Lincoln relics; and the
Union Railway Station, which in size and architectural charm is a
fitting companion to the best of the government buildings.
Roundabout the Nation's Capital 253
Automobile routes radiate in all directions, but many of the roads
are very poor. The road to Mt. Vernon, for instance, is so bad that
it is well to make the trip by trolley, or, better still, by boat. One
can, however, motor to Alexandria, 10 miles, without great discom-
fort, though the dirt road is very rough. At Alexandria, which at
one time aspired to be the nation's capitol, the traveller should
visit the wharves and the marketplace, see the Marshall House
where Colonel Ellsworth, the first man to die in the Civil War, was
killed, and go into Christ Church where Washington and General
Robert E. Lee used to worship.
There is a good macadam road to Great Falls, 15 miles. Half
way it crosses Cabin John Creek by a bridge that has a span of 220
feet and, with one exception, is the longest stone arch bridge in the
world. It was built to carry the Washington Acqueduct. Jefferson
Davis was Secretary of War at that time, and his name was cut
into one of the stones. When he became president of the Con-
federacy his name was chiseled off, but many years afterward it
was restored by order of President Roosevelt. The water supply of
Washington comes from above the Falls.
XII
MARYLAND DAYS
I WAS in that part of Maryland which Whittier
describes in his "Barbara Frietchie" a region of
"meadows rich with corn," of "green-walled hills,"
and of orchards "fair as the garden of the Lord."
Nevertheless, when I rambled out from one of the
larger places into this bounteous farm region, I felt no
especial disposition to linger, but went on and on until
I came to where the billowing fields of wheat and corn
began to merge into woodland, with a sturdy mountain
ridge rising in the near distance. Here was a quaint,
scattered, old-fashioned village, Smoketown by name,
and I fell in love with it at first sight. Many of the
houses were of logs, and certain of the rickety sheds
and barns were thatched with rye straw. The public
buildings included two plain, spireless churches, a
schoolhouse, and a store.
I had loitered along through the village to its farther
borders when a dash of rain made me hasten to seek
shelter in an adjacent log house. A sunbonnetted
woman welcomed me into the kitchen and gave me a
chair which I took care to place near the open door, for
the odors of the apartment were rather dubious. There
was one other room on the ground floor, and some sort
Maryland Days 255
of a low, cramped sleeping-place over head. Out in
the yard were two small children. The increasing rain
had put a stop to their play and made them want to
come in, but they regarded me as an ogre in their path
and stood looking from a safe distance. Nor would
they come in when their mother ordered them to do so,
and she had to go out and fetch them one at a time.
The storm soon became quite fierce, rain fell in tor-
rents, and there was an ominous gloom brightened
momentarily by flashes of lightening, and the thunder
boomed and muttered, while through it all the numer-
ous flies in the kitchen buzzed monotonously. The
furnishings of the room were meagre and the walls
unpapered. A board partition separated it from the
next room. There were three carpet-rag rugs on the
floor. "I hooked them when I was at home before I
was married," said the woman, by which she did not
mean that she had stolen them, but referred to the
process of making.
On the walls hung a lantern, a broken mirror, an
advertising calendar, and two patent medicine al-
manacs. The older child climbed on the table and got
the almanacs, whereat the younger protested vehe-
mently that one was his.
"Now you get down there," the mother ordered,
and she restored quiet by seating herself in a rocking-
chair, taking in her lap the baby, as she called the
smaller urchin, and giving him his almanac.
"Solly can't have your book," she said.
256 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
I could look out of the door and see a long line of
crocks turned bottom upward on the garden palings,
and I made some comment on them that elicited the
information that the family kept their "spreadin's and
such things in 'em."
"And what are spreadin's?" I inquired.
She glanced toward me, surprised at my ignorance,
and said: "Why! them are apple butter and peach
butter and jellies and preserves. Yes, sir, we spread
'em on our bread, but we use cow's butter, too, usually.
Some of 'em we put in glasses, but if you want to make
right smart, glasses cost too much. The crocks hold a
gallon. Do you make apple-butter where you live?
No? What do you do with your specked apples then?
"We raise lots of peaches. My! we had an awful
crop last year and cleared eleven hundred dollars, but
we had to give half of that to the man who owns the
land. Fruit and berries are the main crops here on the
mountain. You'll find very little wheat, and we only
grow enough corn to fatten our hogs in the fall. Our
peach trees got quite a setback last winter. It was so
everlastingly cold the bark was bursted off of 'em, and
a good many was killed dead.
"Land is sellin' terrible dear around here. The man
who lives jus' down the road from us asks three thous-
and dollars for that place of hisn, and he'll get what he
asks one of these times, too. Somebody will come along
and buy it. There's forty acres, but it's growed up bad
to briars and bushes, and the buyer'll have to clear off
Maryland Days 257
a mess of rocks and blast out stumps or plough around
'em. The house is a little old log house like this one,
and the stable is ready to fall down any time 'tain't
no good.
"Mrs. Cromer sold her place the other day. She's a
widow woman. Her man died long ago. There was
only a small house, and not more than an acre of land,
and you could n't farm all of that it was so wet, and
yet she got nine hundred dollars. A man who cuts
tombstones bought it. He said rents were so high in
the town he could live cheaper out here, and, besides,
his children would have a chance to earn something
pickin' berries.
"When the black raspberries are ripenin' fastest we
pick fifteen or twenty crates every other day, and they
raise lots of 'em on the mountain farms all along. We
have to board our hired pickers, and some keep 'em
over night yet. Often we get men from the railroad.
They could earn two and a half and three dollars a day
harvesting wheat, but they'd sooner pick berries. We
have to pay the pickers a cent and a half a basket and
furnish their dinner. It's kind o' hard farmin' when
help is so dear. You can't get hands any more at less'n
a dollar a day. Most men would sooner work in a shop.
I have to get three breakfasts when we have hired help.
The regular time for breakfast is five o'clock, but we
are all done with ourn and ready to go to the field before
the hands come for theirn. After they finish I have to
get breakfast for the children. We have dinner at
258 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
half-past eleven, and supper at half-past four. It's
very seldom that the big ones eat again until the next
morning, but the children gen'rally have something
just before they go to bed.
"The men you hire are always ready to quit at sun-
down, but a man that's workin' for himself has to put
in a good deal longer day than that, specially if he's
going to market. There's three market days each week,
and we start at midnight, or by one or two o'clock.
You see we got eight miles to pull. The load has to be
made ready, and a man don't get much sleep the night
before a market day only an hour or hour and a half.
It's a lonesome road, though of course lots of wagons
travel it on the way to market, and may be five or six
will string along together. At one place on the pike a
good many people have been robbed. It's in between
two hills where there are no houses. One time a cousin
of mine Charlie, his name is was going to market,
and he was asleep on his wagon. It was Monday night,
and on the night before he'd been to see a girl; so he
had n't had much sleep for quite a while. His horse
stopped, and he woke up, and there was a man standin'
right at the horse's head. Charlie said it looked like
the man had gray hair and a gray beard. The horse
Charlie drove was blind, and if she was hit with the
lines she'd jump, and away she'd go. It did scare
Charlie like sixty, and he hit the horse with the lines,
and off she went like a streak, and you betcher he got
to town pretty quick.
In the garden
Maryland Days 259
"The earlier you hit the market the better it is for
you. Seems like the rich people and all try to get down
on the market as early as they can to have first choice
from the produce before it's been picked over, and lots
of farmers are sold out by seven o'clock. The buyers
are there as soon as it gets good daylight. Everything
is fixed so the market is the best place to buy the nicest
produce. Wholesale men dassen't come to buy there.
It's against the law; and the farmers are not allowed
to go and peddle the town from house to house until
after ten.
"An inspector is there every market day, and your
butter can't be under weight not a wee bit or he
takes it.
" I never was on the market but seven or eight times.
I don't like it. I don't like the way people does you.
Often sales are slow, and you have to stand a long time,
and you feel sleepy and cranky from losin' so much of
your rest the night before. It may be that one day
you'll get a good price and people will buy straight
along, and the next day the price is perhaps most
awful low. I've sold berries for five cents a quart,
a'ready. The customers want to make out they're
poor and ain't got money to pay what you ask. They
tell you some other person has got the same stuff
cheaper or nicer. Very few will pay your price until
they go up and down the market a couple of times.
They'll stand there five minutes and jew you and
root all through your produce, and even then won't
260 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
take anything, but will turn up their snoot and go
along.
"Sometimes they want you to trust 'em, but by
Jiminy! if you do they tell one another, and they all
want to be trusted. The trouble is you don't get your
money for so long. We trusted a couple last year a
storekeeper and a woman and we've run after 'em
and run after 'em. We did get a dollar out of the
woman, but she still owes another dollar. The store-
keeper died in the spring and his business broke up.
We tried to collect from his widow, but she said she
did n't pay his debts.
"You can sell most anything at the market don't
matter what it is. We make potato chips and these
hyar what you call crullers to sell, and we bake bread
to take, and we sell buttermilk. Saturday is a great
day for selling flowers. We carry garden flowers, and
we pick wild-flowers and make bouquets. When the
arbutus is in blossom we can sell it at five cents a
bunch as fast as we can hand it out.
"One man here makes a business of getting things
out of the woods, and he's at the market with 'em every
Saturday. He don't raise none of the stuff, but gathers
it all up wild. His name is Bud Lester. He lives in
what used to be a schoolhouse, but he has divided it
off so there's three rooms in it now. People along the
mountain don't care much what sort of a house they
live in just so they keep dry and warm. Bud has got
ten children and they're pretty near all small, but he
Maryland Days 261
dresses 'em real nice for that many. Oh, he makes a
good living. He'll dig the horse radish that grows wild in
the little meadows and grates it and puts it up in baking
powder tumblers. Sassafras is another thing he gets.
He digs that there in the woods. Even freezing weather
and snow on the ground don't stop him. He digs it
anyhow. Late in the year he makes laurel wreaths,
and cuts small cedars for Christmas. I've seen him
sellin' mistletoe, but I don't know just edzactly where
he gets it at. I saw him come down with a bagful of
fern last week. It don't take a very large bunch for
five cents. He digs 'em up root and all so people can
plant 'em in their yards, and for the biggest and nicest
bunches he gets forty or fifty cents. He sells bouquets
of black-eyed Susan, and wild carrot, and dogwood,
and such flowers. All winter he picks watercress that
grows on the spring branches. There's plenty of it
now, but it's gone to seed and has too many snails and
bugs on it. He can't get much from the woods right
in the dead summer time, and he has to hire out some
then. You'll find him doing odd jobs around till after
corn-cutting and husking are done. But he's a man
that wants to make money without workin', and often
he's goin' through the mountains huntin' gold when he
might be earnin' good wages."
By this time the storm had passed on, and the sun
began to glimmer through the breaking clouds. I
called the woman's attention to the jubilant singing of
the birds.
262 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
"Them birds are in our cherry trees," was her com-
ment. "That's the reason they are singin' so. Up the
hill we've got some of these hyar white cherries, and
they're nice. There's a whole lot of meat, and only a
little bit of a seed. But the birds take nearly all of
'em. Are you thinkin' of startin' now?" she asked,
as I rose to go. "Well, the shower is over, but they say
if you get a storm in the morning you'll get one in the
afternoon. That pretty near always comes true, too."
The outdoor world was thoroughly watersoaked.
However, a breeze soon shook the lingering drops from
the tree foliage, and a hot, bright sun dried off the grass
and the ground, and only in the ruts and hollows of the
road did there continue to be pools and mud.
I presently left Smoketown and betook myself to a
byway that skirted the mountain. It was a narrow,
unfenced road through a park-like forest of stately
oak, hickory, and chestnut trees. After tramping
several miles I suddenly emerged in a forlorn little
hamlet, which, with its small log houses huddling close
along the stony main highways and half-wild lanes,
seemed a remnant of some former rude civilization.
Back of the village loomed the highest part of the
mountain, crowned by a gloomy ledge known as Black
Rock. The hamlet itself was called Bagtown. One of
the men I met told me how it got its name. "This has
been an old settled place for years," he said, "and every
fellow who lived here in the early days, when he went
to Beaver Crick, where the nearest store was, brought
Maryland Days 263
home some provisions in a bag. There was n't nobody
hardly kept horses, and they went back and forth on
foot. A stranger happened to be here one time, and
he see that all the men comin' from Beaver Crick car-
ried bags, and he said, 'Well, this is certainly Bag-
town;' and it has gone by that name ever since. The
next village north on this mountain road is Jugtown.
There they used to come home carrying jugs instead of
bags."
The afternoon was drawing to a close, and I re-
turned to the lowlands and began to seek lodging for
the night. My appeals at the farmhouses met -with a
cold response. The people were wholly unsympathetic
and took not the slightest interest in my plight. They
would go right on with their work and scarcely bestow
a glance on me or offer any help in the way of suggestion.
The truth of the matter was that, though their environ-
ment was seemingly secluded, and their homes primi-
tively rustic, the people were rich. They had no fellow-
feeling for a roving stranger.
I was plodding on discouraged by continued rebuffs
when I observed a young fellow, a little aside from the
highway, watering a horse in a stream that flowed
through an outlying portion of a barnyard. Once more
I ventured a request for lodging, and this time the
response held a ray of hope. They sometimes kept
travellers, and perhaps they would keep me, but I
would have to go up to the barn and ask "Pop." I
went through the straw-strewn yard to the barn and
264 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
interviewed "Pop," who in turn referred me to the
women at the house, and they, after warning me that
"everything was all torn up" in house-cleaning opera-
tions, agreed that I might stay.
The house was a massive structure of stone backed
up against a steep hill, and its surroundings were quite
idyllic. Several enormous, thick-foliaged willows shad-
owed it, and it had a very inviting aspect of cool com-
fort and repose. In front was a narrow, grassy yard,
across which a roughly flagged path led through a gate
to the same stream that a few rods farther on invaded
a corner of the barnyard. At the edge of the stream,
beyond the gate, was a platform, and a dam just below
made a pool which served as a washing-place. Along
the pool's muddy borders were some lively colonies of
polliwogs, or "mulligrubs" as they were called locally.
Close by was a bench with soap and a basin on it, but
the men and children preferred to resort to the platform
and stoop and wash their hands and faces with a
copious splashing of the water. The women used the
bench, as a rule, though they often did minor washing
of garments right in the pool.
For drinking water they depended on a wonderful
spring that came forth from the earth at the foot of
the hill, between the house and the barn, and flowed
away a full-fledged crystal brook. The spring's broad
expanse was stoutly walled about, and two or three
steps led down to it. On the verge of the brook was the
springhouse in which the milk, cream, and butter were
Maryland Days 265
kept in stone or metal receptacles standing right in the
cool water. In this vicinity, too, was the washhouse
with its ponderous chimney at one end and an open
fireplace inside. After the heat and stress of the day
it was delightful to sit on the porch of this pleasant
old mansion and hear the murmur of the stream, and
the clear call of a Bob White off across a neighboring
pasture field, and the domestic sounds indoors and out,
and to watch the bevies of twittering swallows darting
hither and thither above the trees and roofs, and the
fowls and dogs and cats with which the place was popu-
lous, and the workers coming and going about their
tasks.
The family consisted of a man and his wife, their son
and daughter-in-law, and two small boys and a baby.
By and by the farmer came to the house and brought
out a United Brethren religious weekly for me to read,
but its pages looked so glum and serious that I did
little more than glance it through. Now and then I
had a chance to chat with the women as they were
getting supper.
"It's nothing but cook and eat, cook and eat," the
older woman said with a sigh. "There's lots of work
on a big place like this, and it keeps a body hustling
around. We've got a good bit over two hundred acres,
and we harvest nice big crops of corn and hay and
wheat. Oh my! we're goin' to have a fine crop of wheat
this year if nothin' happens to it. This farm dates
back an awful ways. The house was built when there
266 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
was only woods here. It's very well situated to be
comfortable no matter what the weather is. Last
winter was won'erful cold colder than was ever known
by any of our old people; but we were protected by
this hill on the north side of the house. In summer the
water and the willow trees help to keep us cool. I have
a heap of company then. Saturday week we're goin'
to have a little setout here for our Sunday-school.
Well, supper's ready."
After considerable effort she got the members of the
family together, and we ate. Then the women took
their pails and went to the barnyard to milk, and I
soon followed them and looked on from outside of the
high rail fence. The two small boys lingered at the
gate. The lesser one was a little toad of a fellow who
was always tumbling down, and he was tired and sleepy
so that he often had a spell of squalling, and his mother
had to give him her attention to comfort him. The
youngsters wore shoes, but no stockings. Overalls,
shirt, and a straw hat turned up behind made up the
rest of their costume. Presently the larger boy took
off his shoes and amused himself by throwing them
around till one of them went down the hill into the
stream, whence I rescued it.
The sun had set, and the dusk was thickening into
night. Two turkeys flew up with a great flutter to
roost in one of the trees. Several of the neighbor's
boys were wandering about in the pasture meadow
opposite the house. "They're lookin' for their gos-
Coming from the spring
Maryland Days 267
lings," the shoeless boy said, "but I reckon the goslings
have gone up the crick."
There were five cows chewing their cud in a corner
of the barnyard near a dilapidated but still sizable
straw heap. The older woman stood and leaned against
the cow she was milking. The younger sat on her heels.
They put their pails on the ground.
"Very few men around here does any milking," the
former said. "Lots of 'em don't know how. Just after
we were married we spent a year in Illinois and hired
out on a farm. The men there thought it was a terrible
thing for a woman to milk, but I said to 'em, 'I don't
want any milk that you fellers milk.' I did n't like
the way they slopped and sloshed around; and they'd
curry the horses and go to milking without ever wash-
ing their hands. There were no boys in my father's
family, and we girls did the housework and helped Paw,
too. I could drive a six horse team. I wa'n't the sort
to lay around not doin' anythin', but, my goodness!
them Illinois women looked lazy to me. The farmer
we worked for was an old bach, and he said to my man,
when we left him, 'I'll give you a horse and buggy and
ten dollars if you'll git me a wife like yours. " :
This evening her man had driven away on some
errand. Harry, the son, busied himself feeding the
horses and the "shoats." Alice, his wife, called to him
that she had cut her finger and wanted him to take her
place, but he did not. She only milked one cow, and
that an "easy" one. Her energetic mother-in-law
268 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
milked the other four and then hurried down to the
springhouse, where six cats were awaiting her coming.
They purred ingratiatingly, and she "slopped off"
some of the warm frothy milk from the top of one of
the brimming pails into a dish for them. The pails
were soon emptied into the proper receptacles, and
she swashed them in the brook and hung them on some
pegs to dry. That done, she went to the house and
tidied herself up. "I'm goin' over to our church at
Smoketown practisin' tonight," she said. "We're
gettin' ready for a special service next Sunday."
Three young people had come in from the neighbors,
and one of them, a young woman with a music book
under her arm, went with the farmer's wife to the
practisin'. The others were a neat young girl and a
barefooted boy in overalls. Alice showed them the
baby. "He's got Harry's frown and my complectiorv,"
she said; "and just look at how big his feet are ten
cent shoes won't do for him a great while. I've just
got the two boys off to bed. I tell you what, I'm kept
busy now. Clarence ain't much more than a baby,
and it's about all one person wants to do to look after
him. Perhaps you think he can't travel fast, but he's
out of sight in no time. Yesterday he and David were at
the spring suckin' water through straws, and he fell
in head over heels. The water was just up to his neck."
"Who does the milking at your house now, Grace?"
Harry inquired.
"I milk three cows," Grace replied, "and Maw milks
Maryland Days 269
three and Tommy here milks one. Wes' used to help,
but he's got above milkin' since he put on long pants
and joined the church. You know he got religion lately
at the big meetin' at the Beaver Crick Disciples Church.
We all went every evenin' and I'd go to bed so tired
they'd have to call me 'bout a dozen times before I'd
get up in the mornin'."
"What is a big meeting?" I asked.
In response Alice said: "It's a revival meeting
that's the right pronounciation of it. 'Twas only last
Sunday night that it broke up. They'd been havin'
it for two weeks."
"There was fifteen converts, I think," observed
Tommy.
"Naw, sir, more than fifteen," Harry declared, and
he named them one by one and counted them up on
his fingers.
"I'm goin' up home to stay a while soon," Alice
remarked. "They want me to help pick berries."
"Her father's a trucker and lives on the mountain,"
Harry explained to me.
"He says he don't know where he's goin' to get
pickers at," Alice continued, "but there's a good many
just in our family, and it's our way to all take hold and
help. Even my brother Ned's little girl helps. She
was only three last year, but she would pick right along
with her mother, two boxes in the forenoon and two
in the afternoon. That was her idea of what she ought
to do, and as soon as the two boxes were full she'd quit.
270 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
I picked one hundred and forty-three quarts of black
raspberries one day. Ned picked the other side of my
row, and he carried out all my berries with his'n, or I
would n't have picked so many. I commenced that
morning 'bout five o'clock and kept at it on into the
evening till I could n't see to pick a bush clean. It
threw Ned back carryin' out the boxes or he'd have
picked more than I did. He can beat me all to pieces.
He's got a sleight of hand at it, but, as papa says, his
berries don't look as nice as mine. In his hurry he
grabs off red ones, and he don't fill up his boxes like
mine.
"Papa ain't one who makes you work too hard.
You don't have to get back to pickin' tireckly after
dinner, but can rest half or three-quarters of an hour
while the men are takin' the berries into the smoke-
house. But of course we don't stop if it looks like a
gust was comin' on. After supper some of us have to
wash the dishes and take care of the peepies and milk
the cows, and only a few go out picking.
"Last year papa's raspberries were like good big
marbles. I'd rather pick 'em than strawberries. You
don't have to stoop so much and don't get so wet in
the dew. We don't have many strawberries on this
place, and today we bought some. I'm kind o' sorry
we did. We got 'em of a Bagtown man, and every
time he says a word he spits. I'm afraid the berries
are not clean."
Harry had taken up a local paper and was reading it.
Maryland Days 271
Alice asked him for the middle sheet. "They always
tell about the weddings and parties on the inside," she
said, "and that's what I like to read about."
But Harry was loth to part with that interesting
portion of the paper, and his wife induced him to sur-
render it by snapping him playfully with a toy whip of
the children's.
Soon afterward I retired, and then the young people
gathered about the family organ and enjoyed them-
selves singing hymns.
At half-past five the next morning I was aroused by a
rap on my door and the announcement that breakfast
was ready. The work day of the older members of the
household had begun some time before, and, when I
descended to the kitchen the women were carrying the
food for the morning meal to the dining room. In the
latter apartment I could hear the farmer reading in a
mumbling monotone. Once he came out to the kitchen
bringing a Sunday-school lesson paper in his hand and
pointed out to Alice some religious statement that
seemed to settle to his satisfaction a point on which
they had differed. Then he went back and resumed his
mumbling.
I washed my hands and face at the pool in the crick,
and wiped on a towel in the kitchen. When I finished,
Harry said to me, "We're goin' to have pra'rs;" and
the several members of the family who were scattered
about the two rooms kneeled while the head of the
house prayed long and fervently.
272 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
As soon as breakfast had been eaten the men went
off to the barn, and Mrs. Farmer remarked to me that
she did n't get home from the practicin' till after eleven.
"They was all talkin' about you there," she said. "The
way you looked around and talked with 'em made some
of 'em think you was takin' a census of the world, and
others thought you was workin' for agriculture."
I expressed surprise that she was able to start the
day's tasks at the usual early hour after being out so
late. "Well," she said, "if you've got a big lot to do
like I have you must go at it whether you want to or
not. I've sat up many a time sewing till twelve and
one to have clothes for the children. We need an extra
helper in the house, but hired girls are pretty dear.
You have to pay 'em two dollars a week, and you can't
hire a woman by the day for less'n fifty cents."
She took up a pail and went out to fill it at the spring.
I was looking in that direction from an open window
when she observed a cat prowling in the chicken yard.
"Scat cat!" she cried. "If I ketch you ketchin' the
peepies 'twill be the worse for you;" and she heaved
several stones at the creature, which scampered off in
a panic.
A few moments later she came in with the pail of
water. "Daddy's goin' to plough the preacher's truck
patch this mornin'," she said. "That truck patch is
where the preacher of our United Brethren church
grows his potatoes, and Lima beans, and the like o' that.
He takes good care of it, but don't work in it every day.
Maryland Days 273
Some days he works out at carpentering. The United
Brethren have two churches at Smoketown. One is
radicals and one is liberals. All the difference in 'em
is that the liberals allow their members to belong to
lodges, and the radicals don't. The radicals contend
that to belong to these here lodges and secret societies
draws away a person's attention from religious things,
and their support from the church. I was only a girl
when they had their split on that subject. The church
pretty near went under. Oh, they had bitter feeling
at first, but now they're about ready to make up."
When I left the old stone house where I had been so
hospitably entertained I continued for some time my
wanderings in the vicinity, for the region seemed to me
particularly delightful. The highways were very narrow
and were flanked by gray fences of post and rails or
quarterboards, with sudden transitions to whitewashed
palings in front of home premises. Life here was evi-
dently quaint and quiet, like a leaf out of the past. It
was a nook uninvaded by modern conditions an eddy
in the current of national progress undisturbed by the
hurrying tides of business. Year after year the land
produced great crops to feed mankind, and the money
returns were generous. The people worked persistently,
and their days of labor were long, yet they did not lack
incidental breathing spells, and had the pleasures of
prosperity, of interest in the neighbors, and of religious
recreation and contemplation.
At one of the old wayside homes the farmer showed
274 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
me about the place. Among other things he called my
attention to a great ash tree and said: "Ain't he a
bird? ain't he a dandy? How fur do you guess those
branches spread? I think seventy feet anyhow. Yah,
you bet! You see this grindstone? I fixed those cog
wheels myself to make it go fast. But the stone is most
worn away. I'm goin' to get a new stone and then I'll
cut the buck (do rapid work). There's a lot of goslings
yust goin' into the crick. Them's ourn. That hen
hatched 'em out. Hear her cackle. Now she flies over
the stream. She has a big time with 'em all right. They
don't give her any peace, and she's runnin' around
a-cluckin' all day long. She's afraid now they're goin'
to drown, I reckon.
"Look into this holler tree, and you'll see an old
goose settin' in there. She found the place herself and
drove out some tame rabbits that had been living in
there with their young ones.
"My wife's been makin' butter this mornin' her
'n' our oldest girl. Hyar's the churn in front of the
springhouse. Yust step through the springhouse door.
The water comes in at that little hole no bigger than
your thumb, in the corner. Yah, and you may think
I'm lyin' to you, but it always flows yust the same, no
matter how dry or how wet the weather is. Last year
eighteen pounds of butter that we had in hyar was
stolen. A huckster had engaged to take it, but he was
beat out. When he came there wa'n't none for him.
I keep everything locked now. Ha, ha! There's a
The wash-house
Maryland Days 275
clique of fellers up along the mountain who would help
themselves a little too often, if I did n't. A short time
ago one of the neighbors was goin' to have company for
Sunday, and he shut up some chickens intendin' to eat
a chicken dinner with his visitors. But Saturday night
the chickens were stolen. We think we know the thief.
He's got a wife and children, and they live good and
dress good, and yet they don't work none at all. This
feller goes in town every market day and he comes out
with a whole big basket full of stuff. I been talkin'
to the sheriff about this hyar feller. 'You folks in
town,' says I, 'have got loads and loads of police. Yust
watch the roads on market days and see what that
feller brings to market.'
"But the sheriff wouldn't do anything, and I'm
goin' to see what I can do myself. If I ketch him
stealin' on this place I'll fix him all right. I've got the
guns, and I've got the ammunition. Come in the house,
and I'll show 'em to you. I've spoken about my inten-
tions to the preacher, and he wants me to use a shotgun
and only yust burn the feller a little. But that would
make him mad, and like enough he'd come and burn
my buildings. No, I ain't goin' to shoot to scare. I'm
goin' to shoot to kill, and he'll never trouble us any
more. A man that steals is too ornery to live.
"There's no need of stealing in these days. Every
industrious man around hyar does well, and this is an
awful rich settlement. The man I rented this place
from seven years ago was worth nearly a hundred
276 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
thousand dollars. I'd been living in another town, but
I came to see him when I heard that the place was for
rent.
" 'Ach!' he says, for he always grunted every time he
started to speak, 'I don't know nuttin' about you.
What sort of a reputation have you got?'
"'People talk about me yust like they do about you,'
I said. 'Some'll tell you I'm a blame rascal, and others
that I'm all right.'
"'Ach!' he says, 'how many children have you got?'
"'Six,' I says.
'"Ach! that's too many,' he says.
"'How many have you got?' I asked him.
'"Ach! two,' he says.
'"You're luckier'n I am,' I says. 'But what'll I do
with mine kill 'em?'
'"Ach! well,' he says, 'I think you're a pretty good
feller,' and he rented me the farm.
"But for all he was so rich he was greatly worried
for fear he was goin' to get poor and have to work for
somebody, and at last he committed suicide. He was
one of the nicest men I ever knowed. The landlord I
had before I came here was rich, too, but he was
grabbin' and scrapin' after every cent, I tell yer, and
he was always gettin' into a splutter, with his mouth
runnin' like a bell clapper. He thought it was yust
throwin' away money when some of his relatives made
a trip to California.
"But what's the use of bein' so chinchy? Men come
Maryland Days 277
along asking for food or lodging and they may be
tramps or beggars, but whatever they are, we never
turn 'em away. If a man is too dirty to sleep in the
house we let him take a blanket or something like that
and sleep in the barn. It's curious, but some of those
fellers with no place to lay their heads except what the
Lord gives 'em seem perfectly contented; and after
all, what does it amount to, if you have this whole
world and ain't happy?"
This man's attitude toward the stranger and the
unfortunate was akin to that of the family with which
I had lodged. I suppose it was a matter of religion
with them. They belonged to the sect of United
Brethren or Dunkards. The latter word is derived from
a German word meaning to "dip," and the Dunkards
were originally German Baptists. They are particularly
numerous in Maryland and the several states adjacent.
They accept the Bible with extreme literalness and try
to follow the example of Christ with technical faith-
fulness. Their garments are very plain, yet are not
so peculiar as to attract marked notice except in the
case of the women, who, when they don their best
clothes, wear a queer little bonnet without any trim-
mings.
One day I had a chance to observe a considerable
number of Dunkards on a train. They were returning
from an annual conference in a Pennsylvania town. I
sat in the same seat with an elderly Dunkard who told
me something of their beliefs. He acknowledged that
278 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
the trend away from simplicity was irresistable, and
said: "I don't think the men need to have clothes
just alike. If your heart is all right, you can put on a
good suit, and it ain't goin' to hurt you. But you can't
go too far. You see the women's bonnets they can
have 'em any color and different in shape, if only the
bonnets are modest and small. About the next thing
they'll be after will be flowers and ribbons on the bon-
nets. We'd feel obliged to take a woman to task if she
was to put on one of the big hats that are fashionable
now. As a preacher said at the conference, 'A woman
with her heart full of Jesus Christ would n't run around
with a dishpan on her head.'
"I don't believe a man who chews tobacco ought to
be a delegate to the conference. The church don't
approve of tobacco, or whiskey, or neckties, and we
think dancing and all such stuff is wrong. I used to
drink whiskey, but I knowed it was n't right, and I
just made up my mind to give it up. How can you
jump on a man for wearing a necktie if he can pick on
you for chewing tobacco or drinking whiskey?
"Parents are supposed to instruct their young ones,
and train 'em, and keep 'em under if they can, but what
the older one are used to don't always content the young
ones. Some want an organ in the church, and we're
fightin' that. Our churches are plain and substantial,
with no spire, and I never see one that had a bell on it.
"Every three months we have a council at which
we're supposed to tell on one another if we know any
Maryland Days 279
have done things that ain't proper. A person who's
shown not to have done right has to promise to do
better, or out he goes.
"If one of the brethren lends money to another he
don't charge interest, but he expects to be paid back
at the time agreed on. Perhaps the debtor don't do
that. Then the other can tell some of the deacons,
and they talk with the man, and if he still won't pay
they throw him out. After than he can be sued.
"We have a love feast every fall, and you've got to be
pure, or you don't feel like steppin' up there and takin'
the loaf. If I'm mad at you, and you're mad at me we
have to make up. But in other denominations people
can be so mad they won't speak to each other and yet
will go through all the church ceremonies just the
same."
Some other details that I gathered from an outsider
may be of interest in this connection. " I like to go to
their fall meeting," he said. "It's worth while just
for the singing. When all those Dunkards cut loose
singing I'd as soon hear 'em as a crack band.
"They go through the Lord's Supper just as it's
described in the Bible. A mutton has been killed and
a big kittle of soup made, or perhaps a piece of beef has
been boiled because some don't like mutton. They sit
down on benches along either side of tables in the
church, and each person has a bowl of the broth. You
ought to see those old fellows go down into it. You
can hear their lips sippin' all over the church, and they
280 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
take bites of bread big as my fist. After they finish
eating they wash each other's feet. The men have
their tub, and the women have theirs. A man will sit
down and put his feet in the water, and another man
with a towel fastened around his waist washes and wipes
the brother's feet. Afterwards they kiss yes, kiss
right square in the mug and distribute their germs. It
makes a sound about like slapping two shingles to-
gether. They kiss and smollok too on Sunday when
they meet at church. Seems kind o' queer, don't it?
That reminds me of old man Broil. He always took
the contrary side in an argument. He'd argue with
the preacher till he had him wound up so tight it was
like havin' him down with Broil's thumb on his mouth.
Well, Broil said it would be a pity to have everybody
believe alike. 'Why,' said he, 'if they did that, all the
other men would want my wife and there'd be a dickens
of a time." :
MARYLAND NOTES. A number of good pikes radiate from
Hagarstown and make sightseeing easy for the motorist, and rail-
roads and trolley lines are available to visit many interesting places
in the region. The rude mountain settlements are only a few miles
away. Twenty-six miles from Hagarstown, on the route to Wash-
inton, is Frederick, the scene of Barbara Frietchie's exploit with the
flag and Stonewall Jackson. Frederick, too, is of interest as the
burial place of Francis Scott Key, author of "The Star Spangled
Banner."
The great battle of Antietam was fought 12 miles south of
Hagarstown, and the battlefield of Gettysburg is 28 miles north.
Two places in the eastern part of the state that are particularly
Maryland Days 281
worthy of a visit are Baltimore, the "City of Monuments," and
Annapolis, the capital. The former is one of the chief Atlantic sea-
ports. Before the days of railroad transportation it was the princi-
pal center for the trade with the West. Goods and produce were
carried across the mountains in huge broad-wheeled wagons, usu-
ally covered, and especially adapted for travelling in soft soil.
On the road to Washington, 10 miles from Baltimore, is the town
of Relay, so named because here horses were changed that drew
the coaches on the first railroad built in America. The cars were
shanty-like structures, 12 feet long, with 3 windows on each side,
and a table in the middle.
The first American telegraph line was built from Baltimore to
Washington, 42 miles, in 1844.
In 1904 a conflagration swept over an area of 150 acres and de-
stroyed property to the value of $70,000,000.
On Monument Street are the buildings of Johns Hopkins Uni-
versity, founded in 1876 by a bequest of $3,500,000 from a Balti-
more merchant, whose name the institution bears.
Among the former residents of the city was Francis Scott Key
who wrote "The Star Spangled Banner" while a prisoner on board
one of the British men-of-war which were bombarding Fort Mc-
Henry at the entrance to Baltimore harbor in 1814.
Edgar Allen Poe, another poet associated with Baltimore, wrote
"The Raven," one of his most notable poems, while living here,
and his tomb is in the graveyard of the Westminster Presbyterian
Church.
Quaint old Annapolis is 27 miles south of Baltimore. Its chief
industry is oyster packing. In the grounds of St. John's College
here is the famous "Tree of Liberty," with a girth of 30 feet and
an estimated age of 700 years. Under it a treaty is said to have
been made with the Indians by the early settlers. The town is best
known as the seat of the United States Naval Academy, founded
in 1845, the buildings of which are picturesquely located on the
Severn River.
XIII
BESIDE THE RAPPAHANNOCK
I WENT into northern Virginia with the especial pur-
pose of visiting the Wilderness of Civil War fame,
but on the way thither spent considerable time at
the old town of Fredericksburg where another of the
great battles of the war was fought. One of the first
things to which my attention was called was a scar on
a building near the railroad station "made by a South-
ern bumbshell," and the town looked as if it had never
wholly recovered from that battering of a half century
before. It is high on the west bank of the muddy
Rappahannock, and is a trading center for the farm
country around. The long Main Street is lined by two
and three story brick buildings with roofs that pitch
toward the street and massive chimneys. In the
residence districts are beautiful homes environed by
a wealth of trees and vines, and many quaint or shabbily
picturesque dwellings of both white and colored folk
of the humbler classes. On the June day that my
acquaintance with the place began a light breeze
fluttered the leafage, and now and then a puff of wind
stirred the dust in the streets, but the heat was never-
theless oppressive, and everyone who could do so kept
to the shade.
Beside the Rappahannock 283
Tn my leisurely rambling I came across an old colored
woman sitting in a broken-backed chair in front of a
low-eaved brick house where poverty and squalor were
very evident. Some of her one-garmented little grand-
children were playing contentedly in the dirt before the
door. I spoke with her and learned that she had lived
in the vicinity all her life, and that at the time of the
battle she had occupied a house five miles from the
town "right up the plank road."
"Me 'n' my children and husband lived there,"
she continued. "The house was a log cabin with one
room downstairs and one upstairs. We wa'n't slaves.
My foreparents was Injun people, and we was jus' as
free as you are. I hearn my ol' gran'mother tell where
they come from, but I done forgot.
"T'other day they were blastin' up rock back of the
town, and I says, 'My gracious alive! puts me in mind
of war time.' That was a great old time, I tell yer. The
shells was flyin' over the top of my house zee! zee!
My Lord! I had a narrer escape, yes, sir. I would n't
like to see that time no mo' if I could possibly help. I
disremember what season of the year it was. It's been
a right smart while since then, and I've been through so
many hard, rough roads and seen so much trouble some
things have gone off my mind. But I think it was cold
weather and that there was snow on the ground. My
husband was scareder'n I was. He run, but I hid. I
went down to a neighbor's house where they had a
cellar all bricked up, and I stayed underneath there.
284 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
"After they got done fighting I saw the wounded
soldiers layin' up in the bushes moanin' and groanin',
some with their legs shot off, and some with their arms
gone. The next day I was out in the woods on one of
the little bypaths, and I heard groans and saw a man
lyin' in a holler with his feet right in the branch. I was
scared nearly to death, and I took off and run as hard
as I could go and hollered and told some soldiers. Yes,
war time is an awful thing.
"We had the armies here a long while, marching
and camping. Some of the troops was colored, and
when they got here I thought the world was comin' to
an end they were so hard and so fiery. Perhaps a rush
of soldiers would come at night and surround your
house and order you to give 'em what you had or they'd
take your life, and you'd give 'em the las' crumb to
save yo'self. But gin'rally the soldiers was mighty
good to me. If I was short of food they'd give me
hardtacks and beef, special when they saw I had a
parcel of little children. They all treated me very
polite, both sides. Some low character might go off
and get liquor and then be dangerous, but if a man was
steady and had any principle he'd not trouble you,
unless you was kind o' for'ard and frisky and encour-
aged 'em. That wa'n't my way. I never had anything
mo' to say to 'em than I could help.
"They hired me to wash, and I did washing for one
soldier who was a big rascal. He paid me off with a
ten dollar note that was the prettiest thing I ever laid
Beside the Rappahannock 285
my eyes on, but 'twa n't any account. I was ve'y
glad when they all went away, and I got shut of 'em.
Some went on such sudden notice that they had to take
their clothes wet right out of the wash. Often they
could n't carry all that belonged to 'em. They'd have
the greatest quantity of things pants and shirts and
such like sent from home and they'd leave 'em behind.
There was a big waste that time, but I saved right
smart.
"It look like war was comin' ag'in times are so rough.
A dollar's worth of groceries used to last half a week,
but now won't last a day. Why, jus' the common white
meat I mean hog what we call fat back, that you
never see no lean in costs fifteen cents a pound; and
the idee of people havin' to pay a dollar a bushel for
corn meal! My goodness, if they don't poke it onto
you here!"
A young negro who had his chair tilted back against
the housewall a few paces away made the comment
that, "There's nothing cheap now but soap and coal
oil; and you can't eat the soap, and you can't drink the
coal oil."
"The worst of it is that they're knockin' down wages
instead of raisin' 'em," the old woman resumed. "You
hear the men grumblin', and sayin' they don't see how
they can live. If a man with a family gets a dollar and
a half a day, that'll only pay for their grub, and all
the time he jus' gets right where he started at. On
the farms the day wages are only sixty and seventy-
286 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
five cents, or if it's a dollar you got to do two men's
work."
"They have to work from six to six," the young
negro said, "and that's a long day you bet it is!"
"I went to Washington once," the old woman said,
"and I stayed three weeks. But I was raised here, and
it seem I would n't like no other place. My daughter
was in Washington, and she was sick. She did n't
'cease while I was there, but got better and so I came
home, and the next day she died.
"The only other time I been off was one day when
I went across the river 'bout ten miles. I visited rela-
tives who live over that-a-way, and they were mighty
frien'ly and kind, but it wa'n't natural to me there.
I won't go out of Fredericksburg again. Let me stay
here and die. It won't be long, now. I suffer with a
misery in my head. Some nights I have to get up and
bind my head with a cloth dipped in vinegar, or else I
could n't stand it till next day. That's made me lose
my hair. It used to be real long, but now there's not
much left. Yes, it's the same with me as with other
people we have so bad feelin's in this world sometimes
it look like we can't live, but we get along tolerable
well things could be worse."
About this time two of the younger members of the
household returned from an excursion in the fields. One
carried a pail of cherries, and the other a handful of
daisies.
"That's the way I used to do," the old woman said.
Beside the Rappahannock 287
"I'd climb the trees to pick cherries; and I'd pull the
flowers and have 'em on the mantelpiece or bureau,
and they looked mighty nice."
One of the youngsters made some remark to her that
she thought was not properly considerate, and she
said: "Old people ain't much in the children's eyes
now. Things are turned around altogether late years
from what they used to be. When I was comin' along
up, if a grown person spoke to me I'd mind without no
jawin', and I never had to be told to do a thing but once.
I see little small boys goin' along these days with a
pocketful of cigarets and a box of matches. Smokin' has
got common among the women, too. They use pipes.
Befo' the war ve'y few women smoked, but they used
snuff. They put it inside their under lip, and I thought
that was the dirtiest-lookin' trick I ever saw.
"We all worked hard then that was able, and if yo'
was to go to our homes durih' the day yo'd find no one
there but the old ones takin' care of the little children.
I worked in the corn and wheat fields, and I grubbed,
and I split rails. I'd help saw trees down, and bark
'em, and split 'em to make bar'l timbers. I did n't use
to turn my back to anything. But now I can only
jus' sit around. It's hard scuff, certainly."
A spectacled, middle-aged colored man from across
the street had joined us. He came ostensibly to ask
the people of the house if "you-all were going to Sunday-
school tomorrow," but he soon observed the trend of
my conversation with the old woman toward events in
288 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
the past, and remarked: "I think you'd like to strike
up with oP man Grierson. The old-timey people have
mostly died, but he was here when Noah built the ark;
and he ain't dumb either. He'll tell you all that ever
happened in these parts. I was born just before the
war began, myself. My home was at Chancellorsville,
and the soldiers came there and fought one day and
then went away. What a change that one day did
make in the look of the country! You would n't know
it, everything was so torn to pieces. It was the awful-
est sight I ever saw in my life. We could hardly realize
what had happened. I went out into the woods with
my mother, holdin' on to her dress, and we saw the
limbs and trees and bushes all cut down by the chain
shot that had gone slingin' around through 'em; and
there were great piles of crackers, knee-high; and there
were guns and harness and clothes strewed about; and
there were breastworks that I'd climb up on and jump
down from. I told my mother I wanted some of them
guns, but she did n't know whether they were loaded or
not, and when I picked up one she'd say: 'Put that
down. It'll kill you.' But I took some of the bridles
home and made a swing.
"I was still only a little boy when several of the
neighbors come hurryin' into our house in great excite-
ment and said that Richmon' had gone up. So I ran
out and looked up hopin' to see it. I thought it was
some cur'us sort of buzzard or alligator I did n't
know what it was. Well, I never saw nothin', and I
Beside the Rappahannock 289
went back and spoke to 'em about it; but they told
me I did n't have no sense and to go and set down.
"That was a great war. There was no jokin' or
foolin' about it, and, by comparison, our war with
Spain was nothin' at all or only a sporting thing that
did n't amount to the crack of your finger.
"The war made a great change in the condition of
the colored people. Way back yonder, in the ol' time,
when we had slavery, if a white man found a nigger
had any learnin' he did n't have any use for him at all.
If he caught you with a book in your hand he'd give
you a thrashin'. But now you can't go and get any
good job unless you have some learnin'. You take
forty years ago, and we all had to dig in the ground, and
work was done with only the roughest sort of tools.
You did n't need any education to handle them. But
that ain't so with all the sulky ploughs and machines
they use now; and yet there are still men who don't
know enough to be dissatisfied with their ignorance. I
could show you a man in this town who works with a
shovel digging sewers. He can't read or write, and
shovelling is about all he's good for, but you ask him
what he does for a living, and he'll tell you he's working
in the sewer business, and he's as proud of it as the
man that's bossing him.
"We all send our children to school, but I don't
think they have much liking for it. When the school
year is about to start they'll bust their brains out gettin'
ready to go, but they soon get tired of attending day
290 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
after day. It's the nature of some of 'em that you can't
learn 'em nothin' nohow, and they can't get to recog-
nize A from a cornhouse top. They've just got the Old
Harry in 'em and go off fishin' or something of that
sort when they ought to be in school. Very likely
others in the same family will be perfectly steady and
grow up smart as a steel trap. I've got six children,
and I understand 'em. When they make believe
they're sick and want to do this, that, and the other
thing instead of goin' to school I have to foller 'em
up pretty close. I say to 'em, 'You've got to go to
school and behave yourselves, or I'll whip you and
write the teacher word to whip you again when you
get there." ;
Another negro with whom I talked was a dilapidated
individual who was loitering at the back door of his
home in a different section of the town. His trousers
were patched and ragged, his suspenders were broken
and pieced out with string, and his shoes were so worn
and tattered it was a wonder that he could keep them
on his feet. His house was as shabby as the man him-
self, but it was rather pleasantly situated, facing a park
where the trees stood as thick as in a wood. "This is
the tightest time I ever knew," he said in a discour-
aged tone. "It makes a man feel bad when he can't
get money to pay his debts, and people are after him all
the time. I used to raise most of the meat we needed,
but they've kind o' cut out hog-raisin' in the center of
the town. They told me to quit on account of this
A farm gatt
Beside the Rappahannock 291
hyar little park, because people settin' down thar
would n't like the smell.
"Whether I'm earnin' anything or not the man that
owns this house wants the rent every month, and I
have to give him half of what I raise in the garden. I
been renting this house for four years now, and in all
that time I don't believe the owner has spent five cents
on it. I've had to do all the repairing myself. I wish
you could see this back room when it rains. The water
po's in hyar so you could jus' as well be out doors. The
worst of it is that I've lost a child every year since I've
lived hyar. They've put a sewer in this street, and I
believe that creates disease. If it was forty or fifty
feet underground like it is in the big cities it might be
all right, but hyar it's only five feet. Still, you've got
to go when your time comes. We all live as long as we
was intended to live.
"Do you see those big sheds beyond the park?
That's where the people from the country put their
wagons and horses. They get hyar one day and go back
the next. Among the sheds is one building where they eat
and sleep. They take in a blanket and lie on the floor.
There's a cookstove in it they can use. They bring
their own eatin', but buy feed for their teams. Some
come forty or fifty miles from way up in the Blue Ridge
Mountains. I've seen as many as twenty-five wagons
in the sheds. There's always lots of 'em Chuesday
nights, but by Friday morning all the fur people have
done wound up their business and started for home."
292 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
While I was in Fredericksburg I attended a Sunday
morning service in a negro church, and though there
were certain crudities and peculiarities it was in most
ways a credit to the intelligence of the people and their
preacher. In the afternoon I mentioned this service to
an elderly white man with whom I chatted as he sat
on the sidewalk in front of his house. When our con-
versation first began his wife had opened the blinds of
a window and looked out to see who was talking to him,
and presently a youthful daughter came out and sat
down at the foot of an adjacent tree.
"The nigger meetin's ain't what they used to be,"
the man commented. "I've seen 'em jumpin' up and
knockin' over the benches when they were gettin'
religion. You don't find much of that now except out
in the country. They've got a little mo' sense. But
time was when we'd pass by a white pra'r meetin' to
go to the colored church and see the darkies carry on.
Yo'd kill yo'self laughin' at 'em. I've got so blamed
weak laughin' I could hardly stand up. I lived for a
while down in Caroline, and one night I and a feller
named Gid Ashley went to a darky meetin'. The
preacher, he got preachin', and the people begun
hollerin', and some of 'em would drop down, and yo'd
think they was dead. Gid was scared, and he said,
'Let's get out of here,' but I made him stay. The
friends of those that had fainted would rub 'em and
pat 'em and shake 'em, and as soon as they forgot their
religion they'd come to.
Beside the Rappahannock 293
" In a business way yo'll find that as a rule the colored
people are prosperin'. A country darky who has a
little farm is apt to buy more land, a small amount at
a time, until he gets a good big farm; or at least he'll
stir around and take care of what he's got. Here in
town most of the darkies own the houses where they
live. The men work, and the women work, too. Sup-
posing a woman cooks at some white man's house
she'll get pretty good wages, and they'll give her the
leavin's from the table. Bigbugs don't want food
brought on a second time. So the cook gets it, if she
has a family, instead of its bein' dumped out into the
slop barrel for the hogs, or taken down to the river.
She'll carry it home in a basket every night, and the
family'll never have to buy a mouthful to eat. That's
how a good many darkies get up in the world; and
I'll say this for 'em that some of their women here
dress better'n the whites and are a good sight prettier.
But I don't like their mixin' in with us, and wish they
was somewhere by themselves.
"I was raised out in the country, and my great ambi-
tion, when I was a chunk of a boy, was to become an
expert horseback rider. But our place was small, and
we only kept one little mar'. Father hired the plough-
ing done in the spring, and kept the mar' to look at.
You never saw no one so choice of a horse as he was.
Wunst in a while he and mother drove up to visit her
folks, or they might drive to church, but he was so
careful of the mar' she never had to raise a trot that
294 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
would be too fast and if she was goin' down a slant
he held her in as tight as yo' please. He never took
her out for fun, and in cold weather, if there was ice or
crusted snow that might cut her ankles, he would n't
even drive her to mill, but would put the bag up on his
own back and carry it. We had to have the corn ground
to make our corn bread. We would n't eat wheat
bread more than once a day in. old times, and we'd
never think of havin' any when we had b'iled victuals.
We used to have ash pones common befo' the war, and
if they are baked right there ain't no better bread made.
Mother would get the corn pone ready, scratch a hole
in the fireplace ashes, and brush that part of the h'ath
clean. Then she put the pone down there on two or
three big cabbage leaves, covered it with other cabbage
leaves, and drew the ashes and coals out over it. The
pone would bake as brown as if it had been in a stove,
and if yo' ate it in milk it was first-rate. I'd like it yet
if we had a fireplace to bake it in.
"But I was speakin' about father's mar'. He kep'
the stable door locked. Bless your soul! he thought
she was too good for me or anybody else to ride horse-
back. But after a while I made up my mind I'd ride
whether or no. So one day when father was away I
drew out the staple and got the door open. I wa'n't
big enough to reach up to the mar's head, and I had to
get into the trough to put on the bridle. Then I climbed
up on the side of the stall and got on her back, and,
unbeknownst to mother, went out and rode up and
Beside the Rappahannock 295
down the pike. But father came home sooner than I
expected and caught me at it and thrashed me. That
did n't do no good. I kep' on takin' rides, and so
finally he sold the mar'."
"He was mean to you," the man's daughter com-
mented. "I don't believe he went to heaven."
"After I married," the man resumed, "I come to live
here in Fredericksburg, and pretty soon the war begun.
In the battle that was fought here there was lots o'
destruction Lord-a-massy! chimbleys knocked off,
roofs broken in, and some houses so smashed up that
afterward they tore 'em to pieces and used 'em for
firewood. At first the troops fit across the town for
a while. Then our force fell back on the heights and
the Yankees follered us. But there we had the advan-
tage of 'em pretty smartly and soon run 'em back into
the town. They were often rather rough to the people
who lived here, but perhaps that was partly because
the Secesh wa'n't very polite to 'em. They'd come
right into the kitchen huntin' for somethin' to eat, and
they'd take the corn bread off the griddle with only one
side done and eat it just as it was. My shack wa'n't
bothered much by 'em. Four or five did start for to go
down cellar where I had a good bit of harness and grub
and tools packed away, but a feller in the Northern
army who knew me come along just as they was pryin'
open the cellar door to begin their ransacking. He
reported to an officer and got a guard appointed to see
that no harm was done on my place. A good many of
296 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
my neighbors had run off and left their houses, and.
they lost most all they had, but I reckon the citizens
got as much as the soldiers did."
On the opposite side of the street was a small, low
building a few paces from the rear of a house. It had
a great outside chimney at one end, and its mossy
shingles and weatherworn walls proclaimed its age.
"That's an outdoor kitchen," said my companion in
response to a question of mine, "and it's been standin'
there at least a hundred years. In the old ancient days
all the well-to-do families had 'em. The poor could n't
afford such a luxury. Everything for the family table
was cooked in it both winter and summer. Perhaps
you don't think a kitchen outside of the house is con-
venient, but the goin' back and forth was just as handy
to the older heads as takin' a drink of coffee. Yo'd
find the most comfortable little room you ever see in
there, with brick laid up between the studding to make
it cool in summer and warm in winter. They use a
stove now, but the joists and floor of the little loft above
are all blackened with smoke from the old fireplace."
The man's wife had come to the door. "It looks like
we was goin' to have a storm," she said. "Well, that's
what we expect when the weather is as hot as it is now.
Late in the summer we have a storm mighty near every
evening, and if the whole heft of it don't hit us we at
least get the tail-end of it. We have lots of hailstorms,
too, that tear up trees and everything."
As I strolled back to my hotel the clouds gradually
Beside the Rappahannock 297
covered the sky with a threatening gloom. Presently
night came, and I could see the lightning blinking in
the distance and hear the grumbling of thunder. Then,
after a prelude of gusty wind, the rain came driving
down, and the people who were walking on the streets,
or sitting on porches and sidewalks to enjoy the cool air,
scudded to shelter.
The next day I went ten miles west on a narrow
gauge road "a little old one-horse affair" to Alrich's
Crossing. Here was a board shed that served as a
station shelter, and some straggling piles of sawed
lumber. Not far away was a poor little house with a
small clearing about it, and the rest was ragged forest
from which all the large timber had been removed.
But I did not have far to go to strike a main highway
that was bordered by occasional farms where the land
had been long cultivated and chastened into productive
smoothness. In one of the yards was a colored woman
washing clothes in some tubs set in the shade of a tree,
and I inquired of her the way to the Wilderness Battle-
field.
"This hyar is whar the battle of Chancellorsville was
fought," she said, "but yo' keep right on up this pike
road till yo' come to a li'l' oP log cabin. Then yo'll be
up in the big woods, and thar was fightin' all aroun'
thar."
I tramped on into the big woods. The day was
warm, but a light breeze was stirring and served to
temper the heat somewhat. Cloudships were sailing
298 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
across the blue sky, and up there where the misty fleet
drifted so serenely I now and then saw a buzzard soar-
ing on tireless wings. Birds were warbling in the trees,
and grasshoppers thrilled the air with their strident
notes. The road was one of those semi-barbaric thor-
oughfares of red clay which get deeply rutted while
watersoaked in winter and spring, and later dry to
adamant. Where the mud had been of the bottomless
variety a rude sort of corduroy had been put in. The
bordering woodland had been devastated by the lum-
bermen, and in places fire had nearly completed the
wreck. Evidently the cattle were allowed to browse
in its unfenced tangles at will, and I often saw some of
them among the trees or nibbling along the shaded
borders of the roadway.
Within a mile of Chancellorsville is a monument in
the woodland beside the pike marking the spot where
Stonewall Jackson was fatally wounded by his own
men. The woods were not continuous, for every little
while I would come to a scattered group of houses,
mostly of logs, and these simple, unpretentious old
log dwellings made the finicky new frame houses seem
ugly by contrast. At one place was the little, barn-
like Wilderness Church, and in an adjoining field a
man and a barefooted boy were planting corn. The
man said some sharp fighting had occurred in the vi-
cinity, and that they often found bullets. "I've seen
some this mornin','' he added, "but I just let 'em lie
where they was."
The Wilderness Church
Beside the Rappahannock 299
Bullets were less commonplace to the boy, and he
fumbled in his pocket and showed me several that he
had found within the last hour or two.
"This fight was only a small affair," the man said.
"The Yankees were down along a little branch near
the church. It was in the evening, and they'd butchered
quite a lot of beef there and was cookin' it. Jackson
come in behind and surprised 'em. I guess old Jackson
was pretty slick. They did n't know he was anywhere
around, and they'd stacked their arms. When the
Rebs come whoopin' and yellin' the Yankees left every-
thing and run. But the Rebs did n't pursue 'em. They
were so near starved that they stopped right there and
e't up the meat in a hurry. An old lady lives in the
next house up the road. She can tell you all about it,
for she was here at the time."
I went on, and at the next house, inquired for the
old lady of a little girl who was sitting in the yard under
a big cherry tree. To my' surprise a voice responded
from the tree, and up there among the branches I saw
a sunbonneted woman picking cherries. "You're
askin' for that little girl's grandmaw," she said, and
directed me to the house.
The walls of the house were of logs which had been
hidden from view by weatherboards. When I went in
I found the floors very uneven and sagging, and there
seemed to be a bed or two in nearly every room, but
all the appointments of the dwelling were very clean
and tidy. In one room was a fireplace, still used in cold
300 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
weather. As I saw it, however, it had been put in
order for the summer. The andirons had been carried
out to the shed and the stones of which it was made had
been given a coat of whitewash. Apparently there had
been a sort of whitewash carnival recently on the place.
They had gone over the room-walls with it, and the
outside walls, and the barns, the sheds, the fences, and
even a row of stones beside the path that led from the
house to the highway.
The old lady and I were soon discussing the war.
"From the time it began," she said, "there were soldiers
goin' up and down the road all the time, and by and by
a Union army come here, and General Devens made this
house his headquarters. Well, one afternoon, a deer
ran out of the forest and jumped right over a soldier
and ran on across the field. Then there was a great
commotion and yellin', and the soldiers tried to kill
the deer, but I don't think they got it. 'T would n't
have been much good if they had for 'twas May, and
the animal would have been right lean, I reckon. Deers
were plenty then, but it seemed strange this one should
come runnin' out of the forest the way it did. I was
always anxious for fear something would happen to my
husban', who was a guide for Jackson, and when I
heard the shouting and firing I did n't know but they'd
caught him. It scared me most to death, and I hurried
to the do' and just then a spent ball struck the facin'
of the do' and fell at my feet. I've thought since that
ought to entitle me to a pension.
Beside the Rappahannock 301
"Some of the Yankees got up in the tall locust trees
that grew in the yard spyin' the country over in the
direction the deer had come from, and General Devens
said there was goin' to be fightin'. He was very kind
and had one of his men take me and the children to a
neighbor's house where there was a cellar we could go
into. We stayed there over night and till near the end
of the next clay without anything happening and I
begun to think of goin' home. 'Bout six o'clock in the
evenin' we was havin' supper, and everythin' was so
peaceful, when they commenced firm' up in the woods.
A little Northern boy a drummer was in the kitchen,
and he jumped up trembling. He knew there was goin'
to be trouble, and he said, 'What would I give to be at
home ! '
"I couldn't help but wish he was there with his
mother, he was so small. He grabbed up his drum and
ran out. But he had n't got across the yard before I
thought he was killed. A piece of shell broke his drum
all to pieces and stunned him. By then thousands of
bullets were flyin', and we all went to the cellar. When
the fight was over, and we come out, the drummer boy
was gone. He wasn't killed, and after the war he got
home and married and had a large family, so I was told.
"It was lucky that I was at a neighbor's where there
was a cellar, for the house here was right in the midst of
the fight and was hit by a good many bullets. You can
see the holes in the clapboards yet. The war ended
finally, but the place was stripped of nearly everythin',
302 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
and I hope and pray there'll never be another raiding
through here."
NOTES. Fredericksburg is 54 miles, from Washington, half way
to Richmond. It is interesting to the visitor as a quaint old South-
ern city, and still more so as the scene of a fiercely-fought battle in
December, 1862. Back of the town is a huge national cemetery in
which are 15,00x3 graves, and near by is a large Confederate
cemetery.
Washington spent his boyhood near Fredericksburg, where his
father was agent for some iron works. The family dwelling was a
four-room house with outside chimneys, just below the town on
the other side of the river. It is said that Washington distinguished
himself as a boy by throwing a piece of slate across to the opposite
bank. Here his mother died in 1789.
The battle of Chancellorsville was fought in May, 1863, u miles
to the west, and a few miles farther away in that direction occurred
the Battle of the Wilderness just a year later. The Wilderness
battlefield can only be reached with some difficulty.
XIV
JUNE IN THE SHENANDOAH VALLEY
MOST of my time in the valley was spent at
Luray, not because that particular vicinity is
superlatively attractive, but because I wanted
to see the world-famed Luray Caverns. The town is in
a region of big, sweeping hills, and its chief street climbs
an especially steep slope. At a little remove, to east
and west, are long ranges of lofty mountains, some
bulwark-like and level-topped, but the majority running
up into rounded or sharp-pointed peaks. They are
tree-clad clear to the summits, and as I saw them in the
warm, hazy days of early summer they were always
dreamily blue and serene. . Indeed, the region had an
almost Swiss-like charm in its combination of pastoral
lowlands and ethereal heights.
The caverns are a mile east of the town beneath the
summit of the highest hill in the neighborhood. They
are remarkable for their size, but still more so for the
wealth of the calcite formations they contain. In the
latter respect they are unexcelled. The circuitous
course over which visitors are taken is a mile and a half
long. As soon as you go down the entrance stairway
into the depths, no matter whether there is summer
heat outside or the frosty keenness of winter, you are
304 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
in a cool, pure atmosphere that remains always at
about fifty-four degrees. Stalactite and stalagmite
ornamentations abound everywhere in the labyrinthine
passages and chambers, and a system of electric lighting
makes it possible to see this to admirable advantage.
It is a weird place so silent and so fantastically decora-
tive full of impenetrable shadows, chasms here,
gloomy rifts there, and now and then a pool of water
that seems like liquid air it is so clear. You go on
with resonant footsteps, your guide's voice and your
own echoing in the stillness. You gaze on the pend-
ants from the roof and their reverses rising from the
floor, the fluted columns and draperies, and the stony
cascades with their marvellous variations in color,
and you feel that you are in the royal chambers of
the monarchs of the underworld. The formations
often strikingly resemble animals, vegetables, and
other objects of the realm above ground, and the
guide calls them all faithfully to your attention un-
til you get the impression that you are in a petrified
museum.
Somewhere in the journey the guide allows you to
learn what absolute darkness is like by turning off the
lights. The gloom was not simply black it was blank,
and I stood in an illimitable void so far as the sense of
sight was concerned.
"There was one time," the guide said, "that I took
a visitor through here, who was a great large Dutch-
man about the type of man you see driving around on
June in the Shenandoah Valley 305
a brewery wagon, and when we had made the rounds
he asked, 'Was it made, or did it come so?'
"Another visitor would n't go in the cave at night
because he said he'd rather see it by daylight."
Just then the guide halted and threw the light of the
oil torch that he carried down into a depression beside
the path. "Look," he said, "and you'll see the bones
of an Indian boy almost imbedded from sight in the
lime. They must have been there for at least one
hundred and fifty years. Thirty-five feet above us
another passage opens into the one we are following.
No doubt the boy was groping along that passage, and
when he stepped off the edge of this wall up there he
fell to his death."
One of the chambers to which a sentimental interest
attaches is the ballroom. "This is where we have
weddings," the guide explained. "There've been
seventeen of 'em. It's just .a freak idea, and started
with the wedding of a girl who wanted the ceremony in
the cave because she'd promised her mother she
would n't marry any man on the face of the earth."
The discovery of the caverns dates back only to
1878, and the story of it as commonly related in the
town runs about like this:
"On the far side of the hill east of the village was a
cave the existence of which was known from pioneer
times. The Ruffner family were the first settlers of
the valley, and one day a member of this family went
out hunting and failed to return. Searchers scoured
306 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
the region for nearly a week and then found the missing
man's gun and powderhorn at the mouth of this cave,
and rescued from the cave itself the almost famished
hunter.
"The years passed, and there at length drifted to
Luray a wandering school-teacher and photographer
named Stebbins. His photograph outfit was in a wagon
to which a pair of horses could be hitched and draw it
from town to town. He would maybe stay two or three
months in a place as long as he could do well estab-
lished on some vacant lot. Stebbins knew something
of geology, and he thought there was likely to be
caverns of considerable extent in the vicinity of the
old Ruffner Cave. This impression he confided to
Andrew Campbell, a native of the town who had been
all over the country hunting and fishing, and was a
keen and capable woodsman, but who got along from
day to day with very little provision for the future.
He accumulated an interestering fund of information,
but while he was out roaming around perhaps his wife
was at home wondering what the family would have
for dinner.
"The upshot of the consultation with Stebbins was
that Campbell and his brother Williams and the school-
master started out cave-hunting. Sink holes draining
into underground cavities were common in the region,
and the three men ranged about examining them for
possible openings. At last, one August day, they
turned their attention to a sink hole in a wheat field
The Shenandoah River
June in the Shenandoah Valley 307
on the north slope of Cave Hill. It was some fifteen
or twenty feet across and twelve deep, and was over-
grown with briars and bushes. When a man had a
sink hole like that in cultivated land he woulji use it
to get shut of a lot of stumps and stones. It served as
a kind of dump, and a good deal of refuse had been
thrown into this one in the wheatfield. Formerly it had
been much deeper. The men were poking around in it
when one of them exclaimed, 'Why, here's cold air!'
"The air was coming out of a hole about four inches
in diameter, and the men worked with a will to clear
out the rubbish. As they went deeper they used a
bucket attached to a rope to pull up the dirt and stones.
In five hours' time they had made an aperture large
enough for a man to crawl through. This gave access
to a black abyss below, and Andrew Campbell, clinging
to the rope, descended till he found a firm foothold.
Then he let go of the rope; lit a candle, and looked
about him on the unexpected splendors of the chamber
to which he had gained entrance. He left his com-
panions so long to their conjectures that they became
uneasy at his absence, and his brother presently de-
scended in search of him. Together the two went on
for several rods to where they were stopped by water
water so cle'r you'd hardly realize it was there. This
has since been called Chaplin's Lake, because a fellow
of that name stepped into it up to his knees. The
Campbell brothers agreed to keep quiet about their
discovery and when they came up to the surface they
308 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
told Stebbins and some loafers who'd gathered around
to see what was doing, 'Oh, there's nothing in it!'
"But when the three partners in the exploring enter-
prise were by themselves the facts were revealed to
Stebbins, and later they returned to make a more ex-
tended exploration of the caverns. The land under
which the caverns lay was a bankrupt property soon
to be disposed of at a sheriff's sale, but the three ne'er-
do-wells who knew the secret of the cave had no money.
Probably not a man among 'em could raise twenty-
five dollars. So they divulged their discovery to another
man who had means, and persuaded him to back them.
Such land was then worth eight or ten dollars an acre,
and they bid it in for about twice that to the great
surprise of the townsfolk. Their friends naturally
guyed them a good deal over their bargain, and they
could not stand the ridicule and prematurely revealed
their reason for buying. That roused the heirs of the
bankrupt property to start a lawsuit, and two years
later the property was restored to them. It was then
disposed of a second time, but instead of bringing
about three hundred dollars, as it did before, the
seventeen acres this time sold for forty thousand.
"Meanwhile the three discoverers had opened up
the caverns and exploited them with some success, and
enjoyed the only period of prosperity in their lives. A
spirit of adventure had led to the finding of the caverns,
and the management of them afterward by Stebbins
and his comrades was simply childish. If a man came
June in the Shenandoah Valley 309
to see the caverns, as like as not Bill Campbell, who
was supposed to act as guide, would be lying on a
bench feeling too lazy to make the trip, and he'd put
the man off. It seems a pity that the discoverers should
not have had larger returns, but doubtless the public
fared better for the shift to another management."
The geologist of the trio "drifted around from pillar
to post," and died in a neighboring town a public
charge. Andrew Campbell is still a resident of Luray,
and I met him. He was evidently confident that he
knew the caverns much more thoroughly than those
now in charge. "They'll tell you there's practically
no life in the cavern," he said, "but I've seen tracks
of coons, 'possums and bears in there thousands of
'em; and I've seen places where animals have stayed,
most likely to get away from the cold above ground in
winter. Rats and mice live in there. I've set traps
for 'em, but they were too slick for me. A very little
fly, and a spider, both almost microscopic, are found
in the caverns, and I've come across bats hangin' upside
down. Where the animals come in, or where the air
comes in, no one can tell, but it's plain that the en-
trance we found ain't the only one."
Another subject which loomed large in Mr. Camp-
bell's experience was the Civil War. "I was a Union
man who fought on the Southern side," he said. "Just
before Lincoln was elected I raised a flag in this town
to show my sentiments. On the cloth was painted an
American eagle as big as a turkey, and he had a scroll
310 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
in his mouth that bore the motto, 'The Union must be
preserved.' I hoisted the flag on a spliced hickory pole
that was one hundred and fifteen feet high; but after
the state seceded the pole had to be cut down.
"Then they conscripted me, and I volunteered to
go as a musician. They kept me three years. At first
I played the fife, and later a tenor drum. I was with
Stonewall Jackson. Yes, old Jackson heard me beat
the drum many a time. We made some great marches.
He did n't let much grass grow under his feet while he
was on the move; but I did n't like him. He was a
regular tyrant, and he did n't care how many of his
men were killed if he only carried his point. That's
the kind of a hairpin he was. Generally the discipline
in the Southern army was not very strict, and if a man
thought he ought to go home for a while he went. But
he wa'n't a deserter, because by and by he'd come back.
That way of doing things did n't suit Jackson, though,
and if a man from his command was caught goin' off
home he'd order him shot. I've beat more'n one man's
dead march on the way to the spot where they was
goin' to seat him on his coffin and shoot him.
"People don't realize what war is. Some of 'em
ask me about my drummin' along in front of the troops
and leadin' 'em into battle. But that would be a
ridiculous thing would n't it? Each side wants to get
in the first lick, and they try to steal up and take the
other by surprise. When there's likely to be fighting,
the troops make a little noise as possible, and if it's a
A jerry
June in the Shenandoah Valley 311
dusty time they march in the hollow at the side of the
road, as they approach the enemy, lest the dust should
be seen and betray them. No I did n't furnish music
durin' the fightin'. I helped in the field hospital."
The region that environs Luray is decidedly at-
tractive to a rambler, and I made several interesting
excursions into the outlying districts. One day I came
to a grist mill, which I was informed was "tolerable
old," but it had been built since the war to replace one
that had been burned by Yankee raiders. It was
primitive in itself and in its surroundings. A big out-
side overshot wheel furnished power, and near by was
a ford where the creek in the hollow encountered the
highway. Vehicles and equestrians went right through
the stream at the ford, but foot-travellers crossed on a
slender bridge high up above the water with steps giv-
ing access to it from either side. In the shade of some
trees at the door of the mill several teams were hitched,
and there I came across a burly farmer lounging on his
wagon seat, waiting for his grist. We were soon dis-
cussing the characteristics of the countryside, and he
said: "I reckon harvesting will be in full blast in about
two weeks. Thar's a heap of wheat raised in this
country hyar. Some of these fellers will raise thirty-
five acres or more, but others raise as low down as half
an acre. A man with just a little patch will cut it with
a cradle, but most use a binder.
"Round hyar now the crops are just as fine as a man
would want to look at, but last summer we had an
312 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
awful drought. Usually we raise a little bit of corn to
sell, but not any was shipped away last year. It was
the poorest corn year I ever remember indeed, it was.
Some of our best farmers had to buy corn.
"The people through this section are right smartly
mixed up, but they used to be all German and Dutch.
You'll find those who can talk Dutch even yet. There's
a good many poor people with only an acre or two of
land. They have to work out for a living. But thar
ain't any great difference between the comforts enjoyed
by the man who hires and the man who is hired. They
eat 'bout the same food and wear 'bout the same sort
of clothes. In some cases the hired man don't work so
hard as the feller he's workin' for does gettin' him to do
things. Some hands takes interest in their work and
do as much alone as when the farmer is with 'em. Others
try to beat all they can. They fool around and want
the sun to go down as soon as possible. On the farms
near town they work on the ten hour system, but out
in the country it's from sunup to sundown, and in busy
times they work as long as they can see. The farmer
boards his hands, and pays 'em fifty cents a day as a
general thing, but during haymaking, harvest, and
thrashing you have to pay a dollar a day.
"I've got two men a-workin' for me. They live half
a mile away and come for breakfast about sunup. I
get up at daylight. That's half after four now. If I
want to make an early start I get up at four; and even
in winter I'm hardly ever up later than five. But every
June in the Shenandoah Valley 313
farmer works accordin' to his own notion, to suit him-
self, and some are mo' rushing than others. They can
keep body and soul together if they work hard. Yes,
thar's opportunity to make dollars now whar thar was
to make cents when I was a boy. It's a man's own
fault if he suffers. Mostly the farmers are a pretty
industrious people, always a-goin'. But thar's excep-
tions. Some are almost too lazy to move.
"The first thing in the morning the men go to the
field and bring the horses in, give 'em a little grain,
curry 'em, and gear 'em up, and we give the hogs some
corn and slop, and perhaps we grease a wagon. We
do that while the women folks get breakfast. When
we've eaten, we put the bridles on the horses and go to
work, but we don't work hard and steady all the day.
The horses get tired, and we stop every couple of hours
or so to blow 'em that is, we let 'em stand and rest;
or perhaps we'll stop on our own account and go and
get some water to drink. But under the ten hour
system the workers keep movin' along and ain't sup-
posed to sit down to rest at all.
"I unhook at half after eleven, and if thar's a right
smart distance to go it may be half after one when I
get back. 'Bout the time the sun is goin' behind the
mountain I quit, take the horses home, and turn 'em
into the field, but in winter they stay in the barn and
I give 'em hay and bed 'em.
"After supper a man will go to the sto' if thar's a
sto' anywhere near. I loaf at the one near my place a
314 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
good bit. We talk about the weather and about our
wheat and grass and corn, and if thar's any gossip in
the country we talk about that. Sometimes we talk a
little politics. I advocate the men I think the most of,
and others advocate the men they think the most of,
but politics ain't run right high for ten or twelve years.
"Sometimes we take a day off and go on an excur-
sion, or a circus may come through hyar, and we go to
that. A good many of the boys shoots marbles or
plays ball, and on Sunday, these late years, the ma-
jority of the youngsters goes courtin'. They start in
courtin' at an earlier age than they used to. Nearly
every young feller has a buggy that he'll be sportin'
around in every pleasant Sunday. He'll drive to church
.if thar's preaching somewhar not too far away, and
after the service he'll take a little ride with his girl.
In the evening the youngsters will gather in one of the
homes to talk and laugh and carry on. When the
gathering breaks up a feller that has a girl is likely to
sit up with her till midnight, and if the case is very
serious he'll be mighty apt to stay longer.
"We have plenty of different churches. Thar's New
School Baptist, and Old School, and Methodists, and
Dunkards, and the Campbellites who call themselves
Christians or Disciples, and the Seventh Day Ad-
ventists, and the Faith Healers who are right strong
in places. A man ought to be able to choose something
to suit him among them all. Thar's very few infidels
but now and then you'll strike a man who talks that-a-
The great chimney
June in the Shenandoah Valley 315
way. He's as likely to go to church as the rest of us,
though I s'pose it's out of curiosity and to get some-
thing to argue about. In our country churches we
generally have preaching once a month. Each preacher
has several churches in his charge and takes 'em in
turn. Most of us goes quite regular, and on Monday
when a couple of fellers get together you'll hear one of
'em say, 'Well, what'd you think of the sermon yester-
day?' and perhaps the other'll say he don't believe that
way, and they'll have considerable of a discussion."
Just then the miller came to the door and announced
that the grist of my farm friend was ready. So the
farmer loaded his wagon and drove away, and I re-
turned to the town. As I was loitering through one
of its outlying streets I stopped to speak with a young
man who was sitting on the shady side of his house in
the narrow front yard. I commented on the pleasant
farming country I had been seeing. "Yes," he re-
sponded, "the farmers are prosperous and they live
good. They raise their own fowls, and if they feel like
havin' one they know where to get it. They grow their
own fruit, and they're sure to have a good bunch of
cows, so they always can have nice milk and butter and
cottage cheese, and the like of that. I was raised on a
farm, and it kind o' goes tough to live in town. But
we're not so badly off as we might be. D'you see those
big earthenware jars hangin' in the sun on the fence
pickets? Those are preserve jars, and we're gettin'
ready to fill 'em, and they're hangin' out there so if
316 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
there's any germ about 'em the hot sun'll kill it. You
take the people in this country, they don't buy pre-
serves. No, they get the stuff out and put it up them-
selves. They don't think they live if they don't put up
their own fruit. In our family there's just me and my
wife and two children, but we put down twenty-five
jars like those. We generally make eight or ten gallons
of apple butter; and we mus' have at least a couple of
each of all kinds of berries. The season is just on now,
and we'll soon be putting down our strawberries and
cherries and currants.
"When we make apple butter all the neighbors come
in to help us peel the apples. They make a frolic of it,
and are here through the afternoon and on into the
night till ten o'clock. We do the peeling and coring
with a machine, and finish by hand. It takes quite a
number of bushels; and we plan to make enough of
the apple butter so we can send messes around to the
folks who came in and helped. That's like when people
butcher in the country they do it at different times,
and send meat to each other. In that way they have
fresh meat all the fall."
The next day I made an excursion that took me
through the negro quarter of the town, and among its
various phases of picturesqueness I recall a sign ex-
tending across the sidewalk which read
GEN. ULYSSES SIMPSON GRANT FRY
RESTAURANT
June in the Shenandoah Valley 317
Another local sign which I found quite fascinating
was this:
CONCREATE
BLOCKS FOR
SALE ALKIND
I went on over the hills and down to where the limpid
Shenandoah flows through the depths of the vale. The
region had become increasingly wild, and the houses
few and far between. The final dwelling on the road
to the river was a big, neglected old mansion that was
little more than a gaunt timber skeleton. Most of the
roof was gone, and the building was plainly a rotten
wreck not worth repairing. Yet a colored family that
included numerous children lived in it. A man I met
on the highway said in explanation: "Last spring we
had a right hard wind hyar that taken off part of the
house, and dog-goned if I don't believe that the darky
who's rentin' the place would rather get wet than work
a little mendin' the roof."
The meandering road at last brought me to a ferry,
and on the opposite side of the river was a rude, flat-
bottomed scow, but there was no sign of a ferryman.
While I was considering the possibility of getting across
a buggy arrived from the direction I had come, and a
man got out and remarked: "When the boat is on that
side a skift is generally left on this side so a man who
wants to cross with a team can go over and get it. The
318 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
ferry is free, but you have to manage gettin' back and
forth yourself. Sometimes the water floods the bottoms
and we can't cross at all. One feller, who wa'n't as
keerful as he ought to 'a' been, tried it when the water
was a little too high, and the rope broke the rope
that goes from the boat to the cable that you see up
thar in the air swung across the stream. He drifted
down mighty near half a mile befo' he got to shore. It
skeered him some. I live right over thar not far from the
landing. I'll see if I can make any of the folks hear me."
He called again and again with a clear, high-voiced
whoop, and by and by there was an answering call,
and a boy came down to the boat and poled it over to
us. On the other side were a few farms scattered along
the base of a mountain range that rose in a steep and
lofty wooded height close behind, and there were log
houses, and the conflict with the wilderness seemed
still not ended. There is something peculiarly delight-
ful about a region where the over-refinements of civiliza-
tion have not penetrated. Closeness to nature and
simplicity and the necessity of rough living appeal to
one's own primitive humanity. I found the people very
generously sociable, and on the most slender acquaint-
ance they would show me freely about their premises
and urge me to partake of such fruits as were ripe.
On my way back a friendly farm family who were
just sitting down to supper invited me to share the
meal with them. The man ushered me into the dusky
rag-carpeted sitting-room where we waited while the
June in the Shenandoah Valley 319
women got ready a few extras for their guest. Fried
eggs and pork were the mainstay of the meal, but they
set forth a most impressive array of jellies and pre-
serves, and cut an extraordinary cake, six stories high, in
alternate layers of pink and white. The heartiness and
warmth of their hospitality won my affection, and my
visit with them will always remain one of my pleasant-
est memories of the charming Shenandoah Valley.
NOTES. The Shenandoah Valley is a part of the so called Valley
of Virginia which stretches between the Blue Ridge and the Alle-
gheny Mountains southward from the Potomac for about 300 miles.
It has much natural beauty, and the added interest of the campaigns
of Jackson, Sheridan, and other leaders here in the Civil War.
The Caverns of Luray furnish the greatest attraction in the valley
to tourists, and are justly ranked among the most wonderful natural
phenomena of America. They are unequalled for their profuse
decorations of stalactites and stalagmites. Five miles to the east
is Strong Man, one of the highest summits of the Blue Ridge. A
trip to its top makes a pleasant one-day horseback excursion, and
the fine view from its top is an ample reward.
The scenery of the valley as one travels south is increasingly
picturesque, and 100 miles from Luray in this direction is the famous
Natural Bridge.
From Hagarstown, Maryland, to Staunton, Virginia, at the head
of the Shenandoah Valley, 134 miles, there is a stone road all the
way. But 19 tollgates occur in this distance, and a toll of 15 cents
is collected at each. Winchester, 42 miles from Hagarstown,
changed hands 70 times during the Civil War. Four of the changes
took place in a single day. Sheridan's ride was from Winchester
south along the Valley Pike to Cedar Creek. Luray is 14 miles east
of the main route. Go to it from Newmarket. The road passes
over Massanutton Mountain, and is difficult in wet weather.
XV
WEST VIRGINIA RAMBLES
I HAD followed up the south branch of the Potomac
to a region where the narrow valley was hemmed
in by mountain ranges. Woodland predominated
on the steeps, and the green forest billows often heaved
skyward in uninterrupted succession. But many of the
milder, nearer heights had been shorn of their natural
tree growth, and formal peach orchards had been
started. These orchards occupied the topmost slopes
and summits and made such mountains look as if they
had been scalped. As seen from the valley the peach
trees appeared very diminutive, even when full-grown,
and you might fancy you were looking at a potato
patch. The slopes on which the trees grew were often
surprisingly precipitous. Any grade that would hold
soil was practical, and it seemed quite possible in places
to stand on the uphill side of the trees and pick fruit
from their highest branches.
Here and there the valley was invaded by a big hill
that the road was obliged to climb directly over, and
on the crests of these hills the highway in some instances
crept along the verge of a bluff with the river directly
below. Then I could overlook the irregular valley in
either direction and see the patchwork of farmlands
West Virginia Rambles 321
where the corn and wheat and grass crops were growing,
and where the sleek cattle were grazing in the generous
pastures.
It was early in June, and the farmers were harvesting
their first crop of alfalfa. "That air alfalfa is fine
stuff," one man said to me. "We get three and four
crops a year."
He was in his barnyard, which adjoined the road
with the barn and a medley of sheds. That was a
usual arrangement of the farm premises. They pre-
sented their most unsavory aspect to the passer on the
highway, and the house was in the background pleas-
antly environed in foliage. Several of the farm house-
hold were giving a horse an antidote for the distemper.
They had a little bellows smoke-making apparatus, and
used portions of a big hornet's nest for fuel. The smoke
was blown up the nostrils of the horse, who submitted
more amiably than one would expect, though with
evident disgust. She was a very pretty, light-footed
creature, and the farmer said: "She's a saddler from
way back never was hooked up, never has had a
harness on. If you'll look over that-a-way you'll see a
horse in the pasture. He's a driving horse and ain't
any good to ride. He trots so solid you can't hardly
sit on him. It's seldom a horse is good for harness and
saddle both."
Horseback riding was a common mode of locomotion
throughout the region. So it is in all parts of the rural
South, probably because of the scattered population
322 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
and poor roads. The road I was travelling dipped into
a hollow just beyond the barnyard where I had stopped,
and the strewing of stones in this hollow showed that a
torrent of considerable size coursed down it after heavy
rains. My farm acquaintance said that occasionally
the stream swelled to such proportions that it could
not be forded, and he called my attention to the
"watering-gates" in the fence on either side. These
gates were sections of fencing made fast at the top so
that the rising water would swing them upward, and
they would not dam back the water, catch rubbish, or
be carried away. When the water receded they would
fall back to their original position.
As I was about to start to go on, the farmer said,
"What is your name, if I may ask?"
I told him, and he remarked: "I'm a Pancake.
Funny name, ain't it? We're all Pancakes along this
valley for ten miles or more. Over the mountain to
the west they're all Parkers for about the same dis-
tance."
"How can I get over there?" I inquired.
"The best way from where you are at now," he said,
"is to keep on along the road to the next big pasture.
You go across that and the cornfield beyond, and in the
farthest corner of the cornfield you'll find a path that
will take you through the trees on the river bank to a
footbridge. Right on the other side of the river is a
road that goes over the mountain."
I decided to visit the land of the Parkers and was
A log house on the mountain
West Virginia Rambles 323
presently crossing the pasture and cornfield, avoiding
as well as I could the muddy spots and the tangles along
the fences where poison ivy lurked. When I reached
the river the bridge proved to be a suspension affair
made of wires with a slatted footway. It served chiefly
to give the farmer owner access to such of his fields as
were on the opposite side of the stream from his resi-
dence. Beneath my footsteps the bridge teetered and
wobbled and creaked rather alarmingly, and I was
thankful when the passage had been safely made. On
the bank was a lonely farmhouse and a small store. A
man was just coming out of the door of the latter with
a plug of tobacco he had bought, and I asked him for
directions. After he had got a quid in his mouth and
spit once or twice he pointed to a gate and told me to
go through that.
Appearances suggested that the road did not lead
anywhere except to some woddlot, but I went through
the heavy gate past a group of mildly curious cows and
on up the steep hill and through another gate into the
woods. The road, with many a twist and turn, fol-
lowed up a ravine that partially cleft the mountain
barrier. At one place another road parted from it, and
there, just aside from the wheel tracks, stood a little
white schoolhouse. Roundabout rose the green-walled
forest, and the woodland birds sang, and a light breeze
whispered in the upper foliage of the trees, but I could
hear no human sound nor see the least indication that
any habitations were near. The door was locked, and
324 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
the building vacant, for it was vacation time. I looked
in at a window and observed the rude, unpainted box
desks. Conspicuous on the walls hung two mottoes
"Never be Idle" and "God Sees Me."
I resumed my upward climb and at last reached the
summit of the mountain where I found fencing and
another ponderous gate. Soon there began to be clear-
ings and farmhouses at intervals along the slender
descending highway. I stopped at one of these dwell-
ings. It was of logs and was typically Southern, with
whitewashed walls, a porch extending across the front,
and a great chimney built up against one end. The
adjacent road was hemmed in by zigzag rail fences, but
there was no gate or barway to give entrance to the
yard, and every one came and went over a low place
where two or three of the top rails had been taken off.
A request for a drink of water served as an introduction,
and then I sat down on the porch, and the family gath-
ered there to visit with me. Through the open house-
door I could see a fireplace filled with laurel, and a
ceiling of whitewashed floor boards and supporting
crosspieces that was so low the farmer had to stoop as
he walked through the room. He had to stoop still
more to come out of the door.
"The best time to see this country," he said, "is
when the peaches are ripe. They raise some of the
nicest peaches here you ever laid your eyes on. We've
got a small orchard on this place about a thousand
trees. That's only a garden patch compared with the
West Virginia Rambles 325
hundreds of acres some have. It'll give you a notion
of the scale they work on here when I tell you that this
spring I saw seven four-horse wagon loads of trees
goin' to a single orchard to be planted. There's a lot
of work in the business, but most of the year five men
can take care of a hundred-acre orchard, but thirty or
forty men are needed to pick and pack the fruit.
Peaches run four months or more here. I've seen lots
of 'em ripe by the Fourth of July, and we can keep the
last ones up to Christmas by wrapping 'em. One thing
I don't like is that we have to pick 'em before they're
good and ripe in order to get 'em to market. You
could n't handle 'em to ship 'em on the railroad if you
let 'em get ripe. It looks curious to see the orchards all
up on the mountains. The land in the valleys is just
as good for 'em, but the tree would run too much risk
of freezing. The cold settles in the hollows. You go
through a low place on a cool, 'still night, and the frost
will pinch your nose, but you'll feel the air grow warmer
as soon as you strike a rising grade."
"If you'd come along this morning," the housewife
said, "I could have shown you a wild turkey. It was a
young one that Will caught right in the middle of the
field where he was ploughing potatoes. He heard the
old bird call tereckly in the woods close by, and it must
have had a nest there. Will brought the small one
home, but the poor little thing was so scarey it could n't
eat. If you took it up in your hands it would blow like
a snake, and jus' as soon as you let it go it would creep
326 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
around wild-like and get into some hole. Toward noon
it died, and the boys buried it. Turkeys are pretty
delicate things, I tell you even the tame ones. If a
little wild turkey grows up with our tame flock it gets
very wild in the fall, and when it eats it'll never give
mo' than three or four picks without putting up its
head and lookin' in every direction."
"I killed a wild turkey last Thanksgiving Day,"
Will said, "and I got another the day before Christmas.
They're darker than tame turkeys and their feathers
don't have quite the same markings. They can make
a good strong flight, but it ain't easy for 'em to rise
out of the hollers. They need to start on an elevation.
The large males weigh anywhere from twelve to twenty-
five pounds. We used to could ship them to the cities
and get a fancy price, but that's against the law now.
"I take my gun along when I'm goin' out to chop in
the woods or when I go of a morning to shuck corn in a
field surrounded by heavy timber. The turkeys come
into the cornfield to eat. I go quiet, and they're hungry
and so don't notice me as quick as usual. Sometimes
I scatter a trail of corn and hide in the brush by a rail
fence. That gives a feller a chance to get mo' than one.
I've seen as high as forty in a single drove. Since the
game laws have been made strict they're gettin' mo'
plenty. They stay in the mountain all winter, and feed
in the grainfields, and at the cornstacks, and they eat
sumac seeds and dogwood berries and wild grapes. We
often hear them gobbling in the spring. Once in a while
West Virginia Rambles 327
a man will take one of the wing bones and go out in the
woods near some high place, and put the bone in his
mouth and imitate the gobbling. That'll bring the
turkeys near enough for him to get a shot."
"I had an adventure the other day," the housewife
said. "Will had borrowed a lantern of a neighbor when
he was out one dark evening, and I was going along a
woodroad taking the lantern home. I was thinkin' of
snakes. The children's grandmother has always
warned 'em to carry a knife to defend themselves with
if a snake tried to wrap around 'em, and she'd tell 'em
an awful story about a woman that was crushed to
death by a snake. I decided that if a snake coiled
round me I'd take a rock and use it to cut off the
snake's head.
"Jus' then something dashed up into my sunbonnet
with a great flutter and tried to pick my face. Until I
could get my eyes clear I thought it was a snake, and I
struck at it with the lantern. It did n't fight me very
long, and as soon as it quit I saw it was a pheasant, or
what you people up North call a partridge. Right beside
the road were as many as fifteen of its young ones, but
they all scattered and hid under leaves, and in a few
moments I could n't see a one of 'em. The old bird ran
away with its feathers all standing out as if it was some
furry animal, and it was cryin' so pitiful I was sorry
for it. 'You need n't be afraid, little bird,' I said. 'I
won't hurt you;' and I went on about my business."
"Grandma and Aunt Jane won't either of 'em travel
328 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
up this holler alone," the man said. "They're afraid
of snakes, bears, mountain lions, and I don't know
what. So they always go in pairs."
"Well, they do say there are wildcats around here,"
his wife remarked.
"Yes," Will agreed, "there's some few, but not
many. Our next neighbor up above told me that the
first day this season when he took his cattle through
the gap to the mountain pasture they were frightened
and ran up into the woods, and he heard a wildcat
scream. It's a shrill, unpleasant sound that makes a
feller feel bad when he's out in a lonely place."
On a shed in the yard was a coonskin stretched dry-
ing. "The boys and I got that coon one night last
week," Will said. "We'd been to the creek giggin', and
was comin' home along a run that's the name we
give to a small stream what you can step or jump over
when the dog got after a coon. They had n't run far
before the coon went up a sycamore tree, and I climbed
up after it. The tree was full of seed fuzz, and when I got
to shaking it back and forth I could only cough and
sneeze. But I dislodged the coon, and by the time I
climbed down, the dog had killed it. I'm goin' to take
the hide to the tannery and have it made into gloves."
The company. on the piazza included a young woman
relative of the family whose home was in town. "I
went giggin' with 'em that night," she said. "Will had
on these here gum shoes to keep from slippin', but
the boys was barefoot. The water was cold, and yet
West Virginia Rambles 329
Will went out cle'r up to his middle. The gig was a
pole with a four-barbed prong on the end. We had a
lantern, and we had a great big wire basket full of
blazing pieces of fat pine. The basket was fastened to
a pole that Will held out in front of him in his left hand
with the help of a strap from his shoulder, and he would
gig with his right hand. The fire made such a bright
light he could see the fish a-layin' restin' right at the
bottom of the crick. I took the fish off the gig, and I
was jus' crazy to gig a snake I found, but they would n't
let me run the gig into it, for fear it was poison and the
gig might afterward poison the fish so we would n't
dare eat 'em. We got sunfish and bass and suckers
thirty-four in all and the largest ones weighed as much
as two pounds. Besides, we gigged three eels and ten
frogs. You know frog legs are quite a delicacy. They
certainly were fine. Yes, and we ate our coon, too.
You betcher we did. I'm a great lover of wild meat.
Why, I like ground hog. You first boil 'em till they're
tender, then roll 'em in flour and fry 'em in butter, and
they're as nice meat as you could ask."
"Not for the one that cooks 'em," the housewife
said. "They're the fattest things I've ever seen, and
when you get the smell of 'em while they're cooking
that's all you want. One whiff is enough for me."
"You must have cooked an old one," the other
woman retorted, "and naturally that was strong and
didn't eat very good."
"We have cold winters here in the mountains," the
330 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
farmer observed. "But I knowed a man whose home
was within two miles of here who told me he never wore
shoes till he was ten years old. He'd run out barefoot
in the snow, and yet he was always hearty and lived
to a ripe old age. He was a regular old-time man. It
was his way to be very stingy and close, and he got to
be worth right smart of money, for he never spent any
foolishly. He was in a constant worry about the affairs
of other people, and when a young couple married and
their families thought they was makin' a fine match
he'd shake his head and say, 'Time'll tell.' If the mar-
riage was among the poor mountain people he'd say,
'I wonder where they'll squat at.'
"He was fretting as to how this one and that one
would get along, and was always foreseeing difficulties.
Really, those he pitied got more out of life than he did,
and so it is generally. The poor are the happiest people
we have. There's lots of 'em up in the mountains who
don't know what they'll have to eat from one day to
another, and at the same time they are enjoyin' them-
selves.
"The old man I was speakin' of used tobacker. He'd
take some and chew it a while and then put it in a box
to keep it for further use. He'd chew it again and
again, adding a little nip of unchewed to freshen it up
now and then, and he would n't throw it away till it
was white."
"He sure got all the good out of it," the housewife
commented,*" or all the bad."
Worm fences
West Virginia Rambles 331
"As long as he lived he economized in just such ways
as that," the man continued; "and he left a fortune to
his nephew who's spending it jus' as fast as the old
gentleman saved it, and maybe faster. The nephew
don't chew his tobacker more'n once. His uncle was
a bright old feller to talk with and a fine man to work
for; and though he was close in a deal he was straight
up and down in business and perfectly honest.
"He never married, but there was a lady that he
courted, and three different times they set the day for
the wedding, and each time he made some excuse for
delaying the ceremony. All his life he was attentive
to her, and he was doubly so if any one else came around
with an appearance of wanting her. Well, you can't
see the heart, and I don't know whether she suffered
or not. She always thought he would remember her
in his will, but he did n't."
"Those two boys have got to pick some strawberries,"
the housewife said, indicating a couple of youngsters
who were playing with the dog in the yard. "I sent them
a while ago to pick four baskets that I've promised to
a neighbor, but they did n't fill the baskets good and
full."
I said I would go with them, and the man went along,
too. We went through a gate into a pasture, and on
the far side of the pasture passed through a second gate
into a field, and a little farther on we climbed a high
fence and were in the strawberry patch. This was on
such a marvellously steep slope that the grip of the
332 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
plants' hold on the earth seemed decidedly precarious,
and you could fancy that a picker in an unguarded
moment might lose his balance and roll down and get
a new pattern on his clothing. The man said he had to
work the land with a mule, and I could readily under-
stand that a horse would not be sure-footed enough for
so steep a slant.
"I've got much better soil than this for berries,"
the man remarked, "but on rich ground the weeds whip
you out."
He called my attention to a heap of brush just over
the fence. "I killed a rattlesnake in there last year,"
said he. "I was digging sprouts and disturbed him,
and the first thing I knew I heard the old feller rattle,
and I smelt his poison. Then I tore the brush heap to
pieces, and suddenly he made a dive for me. But
luckily he did n't get me, and I killed him with my
hoe. He had nine rattles and was fully six feet long.
I saved the hide. Ladies like to have belts made out
of a snake-hide. The skin is very thin and has to be
stretched on to leather, and after that buckles can be
sewed on."
It did not take us long to gather the few berries that
were needed, and then we returned as we had come.
But when we got to the highway I went on down the
mountain until I had left the woodland behind and
was in a fertile, well-tilled valley. Toward night I
stopped at a farmhouse and engaged lodging. Behind
the dwelling was a broad level of luscious fields. In
West Virginia Rambles 333
front was a little strip of steep pasturage and an abrupt
wooded ridge. I sat down on the piazza where a
ponderous elderly man was perusing a newspaper. He
nodded to me and said: "The weather's quite cool for
this time of year. We had a frost last night, but it's
in the dark of the moon, and so our crops wa'n't hurt."
Just then a small boy came running around the
corner of the house. Another boy, uttering cries of
wrath, followed in hot pursuit. It seemed that the
former was running away with the latter's hat; but
my companion brought the chase to a close by crying
out in a voice that had a thunderous rumble in it:
"Give your brother his hat. I'm goin' to git a holt of
you, sir, unless you do."
Presently a younger man joined us. His hobby
appeared to be automobiles. The highway was much
frequented by them, and he commented on every one
that passed told what make it was and its faults and
virtues. "The fact is, I don't like farmin'," he ex-
plained, "and I've got a little repair shop and do con-
siderable work tinkerin' mobubbles in it. They're
always gettin' out of whack, you know, and their
owners often only have gumption enough to start and
stop 'em and keep 'em in the road. There's another
one passing. What a racket it makes! reminds me of
a manure-spreader. I'll show you my shop if you care
to see it."
So I visited the shop and saw its varied tools and
mechanical devices. In an adjacent shed the young
334 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
man was making an automobile out of an old gasoline
engine combined with parts of a sewing machine and
mowing machine and other worn-out farm machines.
There were ingenious contrivances also whereby the
engine could be made to run a churn, a band saw, a
corn sheller, and a grindstone.
"I've monkeyed with a little bit of everything," the
young man remarked when we returned to the piazza.
"Lately I've been thinkin' I'd try raising ginseng. It
grows wild in the mountains. I found quite a patch of
it once up in a hollow on our land, and I was intending
to dig it after a while. But we had a couple of men
cutting pulp wood, and they run into it and dug it up
on our time. They got eighteen pounds of dry roots
that they sold for something like six or seven dollars a
pound. We did n't know what they'd done till several
months later. I could have shipped it myself and got
twenty dollars a pound. It's a rich lookin' plant, as
you- see it in the woods, with dark green leaves. There's
nothin' else like it. I can tell a bunch of that amongst
a thousand other plants. The mountaineers trail these
mountains all through and hunt wild animals and dig
out ginseng. They begin digging along about May or
June, and keep on up to the time that the frost bites it.
What they get is all shipped to China, where the people
have a superstitious idea that it is a good medicine.
There's lots of herbs growing in our mountains that are
of some use, such as lady slipper and coon root and May
apple I've e't a many of them apples rattleweed,
West Virginia Rambles 335
elecampane, peppermint, calamus they make a tea
out of calamus which they claim is good for the colic
sassafras, wild hyssop, and sarsaparilla that there is
a blood-cleanser.
"You'd be surprised how ignorant the mountaineers
are. They say 'fernent' for opposite, and 'outen' for
out, and all that sort of brogue. The children grow up
just as ignorant as their parents. They have enough
natural ability and are good workers, and have reasona-
ble horse sense, but they get no schooling and are
heedless and dull. I knew an old feller who had eighteen
children, and he said he did n't want none of 'em to
learn to read or write. 'I did n't have any education,'
he said, ' and there ain't a blame bit of use in it. There's
too much readin' goin' on, and that's what makes so
many rascals and thieves.'
"He entertained himself chiefly by chewin' tobacker
and cursin'. He's dead now, and the devil's keepin'
him company maybe.
"There's an old woman of that class of people who's
livin' on a side road not a mile away. She talks like a
lion a-roarin' and looks vicious. It would n't take her
long to tell you that you were an infernal fool, and yet
she don't know A from a haystack. Her parents were
first cousins, and there was something the matter with
all their five children. Every one of 'em had a room to
rent in the upper story. But this woman has a son
who's all right. He's sharp as a tack. That fellow has
always got an answer for you."
336 Highways and Byways St. Lawrence to Virginia
In the pasture across the road milking had begun,
and I went to watch the process from near at hand.
The milkers included the household grandmother, a
recently adopted orphan girl, and the hired man.
Grandma spent much of her time giving directions to
the orphan, who was making her first a
