USA > Indiana > DeKalb County > History of Dekalb County, Indiana, with biographical sketches of representative citizens and genealogical records of old families > Part 12
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"Troy-The Burdicks, Cathers, Casebeers, Colls, Emersons, Eddys, Hel- wigs, Jennings, Kniselys, Larneds, McClures, McClellans, McDaniels, Stearns, Willards, Waydleichs and Zimmermans.
"The men whom I have named, who came here prior to January 1, 1846, came before the period of railroads, before canals were dug, and many of them before the roads were cut and bridges built. Just think of it, that thirty-five years ago the residents of our county had never seen a railroad car, and we have over a hundred miles of railroad track in the county today, and two hundred trains daily through it. There was not then in the county a steam engine; there was not one cook stove in a dozen families.
"I recollect very distinctly the first threshing machine. It indeed was a beauty. It did not even separate the grain from the chaff and straw. It was brought into the county by John Zimmerman, who then resided on the Houk farm, in Jackson township. In fact, it would now be a novelty, and, as it did then, would now draw crowds when set to work; and, to use a homely expression, it was the 'biggest thing out.' Instead of being several weeks in flailing, tramping and winnowing out a hundred bushels of wheat, the farmer, with that threshing machine, could thresh out that quantity in a day, and then take his time to run it through the fanning mill. And when he had the wheat ready for market, then he would have to take about three days to carry a load of twenty-five or thirty bushels to Fort Wayne and sell it for fifty or sixty cents a bushel. Corn had a value then proportioned to wheat, the same as now. Pork then ranged at one dollar and a half to two dollars per hundred pounds.
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"Even in early days, when the pioneers were undergoing the privations I have spoken of, they had a very large amount of the real pleasures of life; and when an opportunity afforded, it was enjoyed with a relish equally as well as now. It certainly was true enjoyment to help a neighbor raise a house or a barn, do his logging, have quilting and sewing bees, dance on the puncheons in the cabins, take your girl up behind you on horseback and carry her through the woods, six, eight or ten miles to some gathering; and she would have to hold on awfully tight or she would be brushed off the horse by the limbs or trunks of the trees. Think of the making of sugar, hunting bee trees, gathering cranberries, wild plums, cherries, grapes, crab-apples, all kinds of nuts and ginseng. Think of the excellent hunting and fishing there was here then; all kinds and in large quantities were the fish, wild fowls and wild animals."
A COSTLY TRIP.
Cyrus Smith, the hero of travels, in search of unentered land, although ill at the time, set out in December, 1837, with a yoke of oxen, for Gilead, Michigan. Rains had swollen the streams and he was obliged to lay over every other day from sickness, yet he reached his goal, got eight bushels of corn, and started for the Vermont mills or Orland. A cold spell set in, snow fell fast, the winds rose, and a tree falling before him, he narrowly escaped its limbs, turned aside to go around it, became bewildered, and for hours drove on through the openings. The clouds cleared to the west, and he saw the sun setting, and struck out in that direction. He found the road he had left in the morning three miles in advance of his unfortunate diversion, and passed the night and the next day at Deacon Stocker's. Leaving his corn at the mill, he went to Tull's mill, near White Pigeon prairie and returned with fifteen bushels of smutty wheat. He remained here three days sick, a third waiting for the grist. Finally, starting home, he had to leave his wagon when half a mile from home, turn the oxen loose and foot it in. The eleventh day since leaving home he got back his wagon. His grist, not pricing the corn, cost him in cash, forty-five dollars.
A NIGHT OF SUFFERING.
In the winter of 1837-8, a Mr. Osburn started from where Hicksville, Ohio, had just been laid out, with an ox team, to go to mill at Fort Wayne. Returning to the east side of the St. Joseph river he was overtaken by night above where Leo later stood. Having had to wade into the creeks, and break
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ice before his oxen, his clothes were wet, and it was freezing severely. On- ward, however, he made his way, through the snow and darkness, on a stormy winter night, until he began to feel that he was freezing.
Leaving his slow team in the road, he then started, hoping to reach Mr. Brant's across the river from where Spencerville now is, but soon found his legs becoming so stiff that he could no longer walk. Knowing that his life was at stake, he then crawled on his hands and knees about a mile, and until he found that his strength was too far gone to proceed in this way. He now commenced crying for help, and Mr. Brant's dog hearing his voice, com- menced barking; and some of the people going out to see what was the trouble, were led by the dog to the poor sufferer, about a mile off, and he was borne into the house.
Both of his legs had to be amputated just below the knees. He re- mained several days at Mr. Brant's, and was drawn home on his sled.
A NEW YORKER'S PARODY.
This is from the pen of Mr. Widney: "I taught several schools in an early day, and experienced the truth of Thompson's couplet :
" 'Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, And teach the young ideas how to shoot.'
"Well, a New York dandy, better acquainted with books and pavements than with the 'backwoods' life or character, concluded to visit the West and see 'the natives.' As he was riding along on a cold day in the winter, when sleighing was good, in his fine sleigh, wrapped up in his 'buffalo,' with his greatcoat on, his fur cap tied down over his ears, and his fur gloves up to his elbows, he passed one of these frontier school houses. It was 'recess', and the teacher and some of the bigger boys were out at the side of the house knocking some squirrels off a tall hickory tree with a rifle. The dandy reined! up his horse a few minutes and as he saw the squirrels drop one after an- other, perpetrated the following parody on the above oft quoted couplet of Thompson :
"'Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,
And teach the youthful Indian how to shoot!'
"The rascal! It was well for him I was not there to hear him."
. (9)
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ABRAM FAIR'S NARRATIVE.
Abram Fair, one of the eight first settlers of Butler township, writes as follows : "Our plan was to come out -- build cabins-make a little beginning, and then return to our old homes, in Montgomery county, Ohio, to winter and bring on the families in the spring. We brought provisions enough with us to last till our return, excepting meat-calculating to kill deer enough to sup- ply that. In this, however, we were mistaken. We found deed quite scarce in those woods that fall. One day, Andrew Surface found a hollow tree (on Black creek where Peter Simon's ashery later stood) filled with honey, into which a bear had gnawed a hole and helped himself to as much as he wanted. On cutting the tree we found what was left of Bruin's dinner, six gallons of honey. The first fair day after this, we found two bee trees, cut them, and took the honey. We, eight, ate all the honey we wanted for twenty days (and we had little to eat except the honey and bread) and on returning to Montgomery county, we had twenty-one gallons of strained honey left.
A COON STORY.
"After finding the bee trees, Andrew Surface found a hollow tree with two 'coons' in it, and cutting them out, he brought them to our shanty. We took the hides off, and hung the meat out in the frost over night, and in the morning, Charley Crouse, who was our cook, prepared them for our break- fast. Being rather meat-hungry, we all ate heartily of them, except John Surface, who declared he would starve first-though he ate some of the gravy. After breakfast, we all went at cutting and hewing logs and making clapboards for William Surface's cabin. John and I went to sawing a large oak for clapboards. John didn't pull the saw very strongly. 'Ah,' said I to him 'You didn't eat coon or you could have sawed better.' Presently he thought the saw went too hard and that he must have the iron wedge from the shanty to drive in the kerf. My father, Peter Fair, was lying in the shanty and John supposed he was asleep. So he went to the skillet where there was a quarter of a 'coon' left from breakfast, and taking off the lid, he took up the meat, and after smelling it awhile, applied his teeth and stripped the bone in short meter. All this time my father lay pretending to be asleep, but struggling to keep from laughing. When John returned and took hold of the saw again, I remarked to him, that he must have either been eating coon or smelling of it, he pulled so much stronger. When Crouse
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went in to cook dinner, my father told the joke, and it was some time before John heard the last of the coon story."
PIONEER DIMENSIONS.
Abram Fair, the author of the above, was a splendid type of pioneer. We read how many of the brave settlers perished under the hardships incident to opening up the country, but listen to Fair's own words of his experiences and the result : "I was twenty-two years of age when I moved into the town- ship (Butler), twenty-four years ago. I then weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, and my wife one hundred and forty. Now I weigh two hun- dred and ten, and my wife two hundred. We have had eleven children born in the township, and nine are still living. In the twenty-four years I have not lost as many hours by sickness. I am now six feet four and one half inches high, and there never has been cleared land enough in DeKalb county to throw me down on."
These words were written about the year 1859.
JOHN N. MILLER'S NARRATIVE.
John N. Miller was one of the first settlers in Wilmington township. His pioneer experiences are very interesting. Near the year 1860, he wrote the following concerning them :
"In the winter of 1836-7, I took a job of chopping for Mr. Lytle, who had sold out where he first settled, and had entered the tract of land since owned by the late William Pryor, in Stafford township. The job was on the river bottoms, where the timber was very heavy-huge oaks and elms, with enormous tops, being rather plenty to get along fast, as I had to take down all the timber, and cut it up ready for logging. I only got four or five dollars (I do not now remember distinctly the wages), and was to take my pay in potatoes, pork, beans, etc. For potatoes, I paid $1 per bushel ; for pork, 16 cents per pound ; and other things in proportion. The price of chopping was low, and that of the articles of pay high; yet I could not do better, as pro- vision must be had. While I kept busy on my job, I could just about get provisions enough to keep in the bare necessaries of life, so far as eating was concerned; but I had no time to be sick, and no rest but the Sabbath. One cold March evening, after chopping hard all day, I took a bushel of pota- toes and 17 or 18 pounds of pork on my shoulder, and started for home, about dusk. The distance I had to travel along a blind trail, through the
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darkness and brush, was about six miles. Coming to Buck creek, over which a small limber log was placed, I undertook to walk it with my load, but fell off in the water, which was high. Then I waded through the bal- ance of the creek, getting very wet. Cold, wet and tired, I pursued my journey with my heavy load, until the long miles were passed, and I set down my pork and potatoes in my cabin.
"The worst part of the tale is, that Lytle was not satisfied with my doing the job so cheap, and taking the pay in high priced trade; but he actually moved the stakes first set; so that the lines might take in several large elms that were just outside of the job; and, besides, wanted me to chop up to a curving brush fence, which ran from stake to stake, on one side of my square job, including about a quarter of an acre more than the straight line agreed upon. My job being finished, as agreed upon, including, too, to the elms fraudulently brought in, I went to Lytle in his house, to demand a settlement, and the balance of my pay ; but he refused to pay unless I chopped up to the brush fence. This, under the circumstances, with my hands cov- ered with blisters from hard and incessant chopping (a kind of labor I was not accustomed to) ; this I say, provoked me almost beyond endurance, and I told him I should take it out of his hide, right then and there. I was mak- ing towards him. His wife screamed, and Lytle turned it off with a laugh, and said he would pay me and thus the matter ended."
This Lytle was known among the settlers as a hard customer. Very profane and with little conscience, he ever failed to recognize the rights of others. Miller tells another story of the man:
"I used to go down to Lytle's sometimes on Sunday afternoon, to be there on Monday morning, to commence my job. Well, one afternoon, Lytle, being an excellent boatman, asked me to take a little ride on the river in his canoe. I consented, and tried to help him navigate the craft, but was very awkward at the business. This provoked him, and he let out such a volley of oaths at me, as I had not been accustomed to listen to tamely. In the midst of his imprecations, he set down his pole, with more than usual energy, and smack it went into two pieces, while he was leaning on it with all his weight-plunge went Lytle head foremost into the deep, cold river. I laughed, of course, and he turned in the water, and threatened to upset the canoe. I seized a paddle, and told him if he undertook it, I would split his head. Being in a cold element, he soon cooled down and came out peaceably.
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A LONG TRAIL FOR FLOUR.
"In the spring of 1837, I had lent William Rogers half a barrel of flour, for, though six miles apart, we were neighbors, as was usual at that time. I expected that it would be returned before needed; but the bottom of the flour sack stared me in the face before it arrived. Getting up one morning, I found only flour enough for one small cake. I told my folks to bake it and eat it, while I went for the lent flour. It was six miles to Rogers, and but a 'trace' for a road. I set out early, afoot, and barefoot at that, and made good speed, thoughts of breakfast spurring me on, until I came to a swamp, round which the trace wound. Thinking to gain time, I struck across, ex- pecting to find the place where the trace came round; but, the morning being cloudy, I missed the course, and the trail. I traveled on rapidly, however, in what I supposed to be the right direction, until the sun broke out, and I found that it was about noon, and I was only a mile from home! I quickly sought the trace again, and passed down it at a rapid rate, until I reached Rogers, where I got something to eat. Rogers proposed that if I left the flour, he would bring it on a horse the next day, but I knew this would not answer our wants. So I told him I could carry it, and taking the hundred weight of flour on my shoulder, I trudged back, the whole six miles, without once laying it down. On one occasion the Coatses, Roses and myself, being out of breadstuff, held a consultation as to where we should go to get corn. I was for going to Fort Wayne, but they thought best to go to the North Western prairies. They started to the prairies and I sent $10 along. They were gone ten days, and my money brought me ten bushels of corn, the mill- ing and hauling of which cost me ten more. So my meal cost me $2 per bushel, and much of it rotten, as there had been a frost on the 29th of the preceding August, killing the corn on these prairies, leaving it too green to keep without rotting.
A HARD JOURNEY.
"Mr. Altenburg and Walsworth were among the early settlers in the vicinity of Auburn. They moved in together and left Steubenville, in Steuben county, on the morning of the fourth of November, 1838, in the midst of a very heavy fall of snow, which continued all day. Having a nar- row, blind, crooked track to follow, without a house for nine miles, the snow flakes falling so fast as to bewilder the traveler, and, at some times. weighing down the bushes across the track, it became necessary for one of the men to walk before the teams, to find the way, and remove the bushes
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overhanging it. They also had some stock to drive, and their help being rather scarce, the women were under the necessity of walking, and assisting to drive them. The snow being soft, and hanging on the bushes, those on foot became completely wet. On, on the slow ox teams passed, through snow and mud, along the crooked, narrow path, until night came on, and still all around was a bleak, snow-clad forest. They began to think of lying in their wagons for the night, but having no way of making fire, and nothing for their teams or stock, and the women and children being frightened by the howling of the wolves around them, they drove on in the darkness, occasionally stalling against the trees on the side of the track. At length, one of the teams and the wagon got entirely out of the way, and so entangled among the trees and logs that the latter had to be left. Hitching both teams to one wagon, they drove on until they began to think they must be near to the only dwelling between Steubenville and Auburn, Isaac B. Smith's. Stop- ping the teams, Mr. Altenburg proposed that all should unite in one desperate yell in order to find whether any human being was near. Loud and shrill arose that cry on the midnight air, but the loud howl of a pack of wolves, whose name appeared to be legion, was the only reply. After holding their breath in silence for awhile, Mr. Altenburg proposed that they tune their throats anew, and pitch their voices a note or two higher, and even pinch the baby (later Mr. Henry Altenburg), that he might join his voice with theirs. This effort was successful, and Mr. Smith came to their rescue with a light, and welcomed them to the hospitality of his little cabin, for, although about full already, he still had room for two families.
"The next morning, bringing up the wagon left in the rear, they started on, and succeeded in driving all of three miles through mud and snow before dark, reaching a little board shanty put up by Wesley Park for two men to lodge in, who were building a bridge over Cedar creek, where Uniontown now is. During the day they caught a coon, and on it they feasted the follow- ing morning, the two families and the two bridge builders having some- how contrived to stow themselves away for the night in the little shanty. In the morning the question was how to get down the high steep bank of the creek with the loaded wagons. This feat was accomplished by running poles under the body of the wagon and between the spokes of each wheel, so as to lock them all, and then hitching a yoke of oxen to the tongue to hold back, and another yoke to the hind part of the wagon to pull back, the oxen hitched behind, making, of course, a desperate effort to prevent being dragged down.
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MORE ADVERSITIES.
"On Friday, May 27, 1837, in the afternoon, Isaac B. Smith, Cyrus Smith and Joseph Delong, with their families, arrived on the hill where Mr. Smith's cabin later stood. This was in Smithfield township. There was not even a shanty or wigwam then. To keep off the night dews, they cut forks and driving four of them in the ground, arid laying poles on them, covered them with brush. Under these they lay on the ground, on Friday night, and on Saturday put up a cabin such as three men could raise, to the joists-and again lay under the brush that night. The next morning they discovered an unwelcome bedfellow, in the form of a "massasogga," or black rattlesnake, and, not being very much disposed to share their bed with these natives, they went at it on Sunday morning, and "cobbed" up the cabin, and . covered one side with black ash bark peeled from the adjacent trees, and, fixing poles in the crevices between the logs, laid their beds some feet above the ground, so that Mr. Massasogga might have the ground to himself. On Monday they covered the other side of the cabin and the joists with bark, and carrying in some pole "sleepers," laid a puncheon floor. By the time the floor was laid, the joists were found to be so low that even a woman could not walk straight under them. Whatever may be thought of cabin raising on Sunday, it must be remembered that 'necessity knows no law.' It seemed fortunate that the cabin was finished as soon as it was, for no sooner was the bark roof laid than it began to rain, and for twenty days there was scarcely one that was not more or less rainy. In this cabin, sixteen by eighteen feet, the three families lodged together for two months, and then Mr. Delong moved back to Pleasant lake and Cyrus Smith put up a cabin for himself.
"On leaving Ohio, Mr. Smith had boxed up five bushels of potatoes, and among them had packed his pots and kettles not wanted on the road, and sent the box with other goods by public conveyance to Adrian, Michigan. He did not get them to his cabin until about the first of July, and on opening the box, found them awfully smashed up by the iron ware. He thought it was now too late to plant them, but Mr. Park advised him by all means to do so. He planted them on the 8th and 9th of July, and in the fall dug eighty-six bushels from the five bushels of mangled seed.
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A MILL TRIP WITH AGUE.
"In July following his settlement, Mr. Smith took the ague, and had it with but little intermission until the June following. In December, 1837, he had it so severely each alternate day that he was unable to be about. On his well day, he could be around, but was very weak. Getting out of bread- stuff, it became necessary that, sick as he was, he should go in quest of some. So, yoking up his oxen, he started for the town of Gilead, Michigan, six miles beyond Orland, or 'the Vermont settlement,' as it was then called. It had rained much and the streams were swollen. He made his way along, however, lying by, sick every other day, until finally he reached Gilead, where he got eight bushels of corn, and started back to the Vermont mills, in the settlement of this same name. It had now turned 'cold as Greenland,' and was blowing fiercely while the air was filled with the descending snow. It was yet early in the morning, and he had gone but three-fourths of a mile on the road to the mill. when the wind blew a tree down across the road, almost brushing the oxen's heads. To get around the trees, he turned out of the road, expecting to come right in again, but failed to do so, and, getting bewildered amid the falling snow, he drove on through the openings, as near as he could in the direction of the mills-on-on-on-for hour after hour, and still no road nor mill was found.
"Mr. Smith had on his head a palm leaf hat, that had been a fine one, but was now the worse for wear. While traveling, bewildered, through the openings, a whirling blast whisked it from his head, and he last saw it careening on the wings of the wind-rising higher and higher until it was lost to sight in a cloud of snow. Having a 'comforter' on his neck, he drew the end of it over his head, and traveled on. Thus the time passed, in continual traveling through the cold, stormy day, and the failing light told the lost man that night was near, and he began to picture to himself the long cold night that was to follow, in all probability the last that he should ever see-or, if he should survive,-a morning of distressing sickness, to follow the night of suffering; and he all alone in the snow clad forest. Just then the cloud broke in the west and he could see the place where the sun set, and striking in that direction, in about eighty rods he found the road he had left in the morning, and the bridge across 'crooked creek,' about half way from Gilead to the mills. Thus he had advanced not more than three miles during the whole day of weary traveling. Place yourself in his circumstances, reader, and imagine, if you can, his joyful feelings in seeing the road again.
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In an hour he was safely housed. at the residence of Deacon Stocker, father to Leland Stocker of Angola. Here he lay sick the next day, and on the day following left his corn at the mill, and started for Tull's mill near the White Pigeon prairie, where he obtained fifteen bushels of very smutty wheat, which he brought to the Vermont mills also. Here at Deacon Stocker's again, he spent three days, two of them too sick to travel, and the third waiting for his grist. Finally, starting for Pleasant lake, he lay there during a sick day, and on the next day, got a man to go with him to break ice in the streams. By dint of hard work all day, they got within a half mile of home; and had to leave the wagon on the trail-turn out the oxen in the woods-and 'foot it' in. The next day, being the eleventh since leaving home, he got his wagon home. His grist, not counting the price of the corn, which was paid as he moved in, cost him in cash, forty-five dollars."
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