Saco Valley settlements and families. Historical, biographical, genealogical, traditional, and legendary, Part 42

Author: Ridlon, Gideon Tibbetts, 1841- [from old catalog]
Publication date: 1895
Publisher: Portland, Me., The author
Number of Pages: 1424

USA > Maine > Saco Valley settlements and families. Historical, biographical, genealogical, traditional, and legendary > Part 42
USA > New Hampshire > Saco Valley settlements and families. Historical, biographical, genealogical, traditional, and legendary > Part 42

Note: The text from this book was generated using artificial intelligence so there may be some errors. The full pages can be found on Archive.org (link on the Part 1 page).

"That boy looks just like his Grandpa Graffum," say Patience Pennell.

" Favors his Grandmarm Bradstreet," responds old Mrs. Haskell.

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AN OLD-FASHIONED CRADLE.

" A perfect picture of his father," squeals old dame Farrington.

"Has his mother's eyes"-then closed in slumber-growls Mrs. Won- derbrow.

If the blue vein which crosses every child's nose was clearly defined by reason of a white, transparent cuticle, they would put on a serious expression and whisper loud enough for the mother to hear: "That child won't live to grow up." If it exhibited an amount of intelligence sufficient to distinguish it from a blockhead, they would say: "Its doubtful 'bout their raisin' that child; he's too smart for one of his age." And then the silly old hussies must undo the blankets and look at the poor babe's toes and count the wrinkles about its ankles. Zounds! it was enough to craze one who had any respect for the rules of propriety. Well, they tumbled the "wee thing " about, pulled it, hauled it, rolled it until it was awakened, and, no wonder, screamed with great fear, when opening its eyes, to behold such an assembly of wrinkled faces above its cradle.

We have heard of one old fellow, who had endured this harassing intru- sion, year after year, until he determined to put an end to it. So, when the seventh child was born, he took his station at the outside door, and warded off every old woman who came to see Miranda, thus vouchsafing some much needed rest and sleep to his wife and child. But what was the result? Why, all the old women for miles around said he was an old brute to treat his wife like that, and he needn't think he'd have many friends in the neighborhood. One old dowager declared she never was so insulted by a man in all her days, and that Lias Protectorman wasn't fit to be a father, anyhow. Old Molly Morrison said that man was a "regular old gander." However, this invective did not, in the least, disconcert Lias; he knew he was on the right track, and conscience advised him to be vigilant for the protection of his household until the old family cradle was put away for the last time. He " stuck to his text," and preached the meddlesome old intruders a sermon, the echo and influence of which survive in that community. Lias and all the old women have been some time dead, but the tradition of the new code of rules, by which to protect a woman in childbed, restrains the present generation.

The indignation by which our pen was propelled would not admit of any pause to describe another act in the drama around the old cradle. The wise old women thought it necessary that the boy should have a regular hard- handled Scriptural name attached to him; it would be like a charm to ward off danger in time of thunder-storms, earthquakes, and other calamities; it would be taken notice of by the Lord, and cause him to regard them with a special interest if they bore the name of some of his choice patriarchs or prophets, and he would tuck them under His protective wing, when the " destruction that wasteth at noon-day" was abroad in the land. If two such hard-twisted cognomens could be hitched together, all the better-that would

AN OLD-FASHIONED CRADLE.

be a twofold safeguard-and so they cursed the boy child with such a name as Zerubbabel, Shadrach, or Abednego. The girl baby must be named for some of the "fruits of the spirit," or for one or two of the "three graces," Faith, Hope, or Charity. With such appellations inscribed upon their banners, these old-fashioned babies would be well started on the road to life, liberty, and happiness, "true's you live, Jeremiah." It was fortunate, that such children didn't have much "skulin "; that they didn't have lessons in "readin', ritin', and sipherin'"; that they only had to "make their mark " as a substitute for their autograph, for how it would have cramped their hands to hold the goose- quill while writing "Zerubbabel Harkalinden Jones," or "Shadrach Abednego Gillinderson "! As for the women, they didn't need any "eddication" in "them days"; so their pretty, New Testament names did not appear on the records, save when inscribed by the clerk or justice.

But the infant succession was often interrupted by the black-winged raven of Death, that swooped down and carried away the mother's darling. Her prayers at the cradle-side were unavailing, the hot tears that fell upon the little pillow were shed in vain, and she must keep watch and ward only to see the eyes grow dim and sunken, and the dear little face become pinched and wan; then the boatman came and the precious life went out. An empty cradle and an aching heart! Only such as have felt a loss like this can com- prehend its meaning, or realize its magnitude. The vacated cradle was sug- gestive of an occupied grave, of a desolate home, a heart of gloom.

For a time the cradle is put away and hidden from sight, but the day comes when another little form must have a place provided for repose, and, reluctantly, the old receptacle is brought forth to do its office upon the log- house floor. Rock! rock! rock! the sadness is dispelled by the new joy as darkness fades away before the morning dawn; the sigh and tear give place to the smile and lullaby, and this is well as the years wear on. From these old-fashioned cradles the world's most eminent characters have climbed upon the rostrums of enduring fame. But the home scene! Let us linger awhile and contemplate its lights and shades. A young mother's roses have grown paler by the pain of child-birth, and she bends over the cradled form of her first-born. Beautiful picture which artists have vainly endeavored to repro- duce upon canvas! the gentle flame of maternal love burning within the holy of holies of that mother's bosom is allied to the divine. The blue sky of her eyes is reflected in her child's azure orbs, and her soothing hymns hush it to sweet repose.

The history of the old cradle involves the annals of war, as well as the proclamation of peace. It had been a citadel and bore marks of radical con- flict ; many a sanguinary battle had been fought about and within its walls. Here the law of entail had been reversed and the succession fell to the young- est heir, male or female, and the senior claimant was not so easily dispossessed

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AN OLD-FASHIONED CRADLE.

of his lawful patrimony ; there was pronounced opposition, obstinate protest, absolute refusal, determined resistance. For two long, childhood years that cradle had been held in peaceful and undisputed possession ; must it now be invaded, besieged, stormed, and demolished in battle? The inheritance was valuable, and must be defended and held at all hazards; it should be against every foe. But the mother holds a life rent on the cradle; she stands guard at its portals as a faithful, vigilant sentinel to ward off danger from the new occupant. The ousted foe reconnoiters and lays skillful plans for victory. The mother makes an overture for an armistice, but the invader is relentless and spurns the thought of compromise. The works should be laid under siege; the new occupant shall be starved out-and is. Supplies run low and new stores must be laid in. While the entrenched possessor went forth to forage, the gates were left undefended, and the foe entered, barricaded every approach, hoisted his banner upon the ramparts, and proclaimed victory with great demonstration of rejoicing. But he was too hopeful. In the assurance of security, he fell asleep at his post, was removed bodily and relegated to a position outside the cradle. The baby brother is restored to proper authority and protection. The transported foe awakes, finds his old quarters re-occu- pied, and instantly renews the attack. For a moment the mother is absent from her post. A siege is no longer contemplated ; the works shall be carried by assault. Mustering all his forces, the invader scales the bulwarks and drives the intruder from the citadel, literally forcing him over the walls. The clash of arms reaches the mother's ears in the pantry; she hears the wail of the vanquished and the exultant shout of the conqueror, and hastens to the rescue. She finds the babe prostrate upon the floor, and Master Ned com- fortably fortified behind the pillows in the log cradle. And then there was a renewal of hostility every two years. Each new occupant of the cradle was championed, and battle followed battle, while the struggle for the mastery was protracted and wearying.

But the lingering years have flown. The cradle has had its day, serving a noble purpose, and is housed away in the attic among obsolete furniture. The sons and daughters, grown to the estate of manhood and womanhood, have gone forth to seek and do for themselves ; they have married and chil- dren gather about their tables. The old parental homestead still has its attractions, and each returning season finds these scattered children and grandchildren going back to visit the parents. The little folk find strange things without and within doors. One day they climb the attic stairs and find the old log cradle ; they draw it from under the eaves, brush the cobwebs and dust away, and carry it below. And the sons and daughters who within it slept the sweet, untroubled sleep of infancy gather about this old memorial of other days to replace the little pillows and cradle quilts. From this they first saw, to remember it, their mother's face, as she bent over them as they awoke

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AN OLD-FASHIONED CRADLE.

from slumber. To their own children they tell stories of the long ago, as they lovingly and tenderly linger about this rude old cradle ; then return it to its place under the rain-pattered shingles. While memory endures, pictures of the cradle rocked by a mother's hand and foot will unfold before the mind to move the heart of filial affection, and force a tear to the aged eye.

" The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world."

Rural Life and Character.

Look a-here, stranger, if once you see Pillsbury and his nankeen trousers it will be enough for one day, and you'll never think of the cataract afterwards .- Selected.

HE man constitutionally qualified to appreciate the humorous aspect of events will find in the experiences of our rural population a thousand incidents that are not only remarkably entertaining, but often immensely mirth-provoking. Such peculiar traits and habits as we may attempt to describe were more conspicuous during the tenure of the last generation than at the present, for the general circulation of literature, the influence of education, and the growing interest in travel have modified and refined that which was beforetime crude and repelling. However, one can find farming communities within a day's travel from the cities where the people are full of rusticity, and where enough of old-time fashions prevails to answer every purpose for the speculative mind. When employed about the harvest, repairing the highway, negotiating for live-stock, on the way to mar- ket, when discussing the weather or the science of town government, the average countryman will exhibit by his attitudes, his peculiar movements, his singular expressions of face and contortions of features, his indescribable pronunciation, accent, inflection, and oft-repeated exclamations of surprise, doubt, or approbation, many original, primitive, and interesting traits that afford materials for entertaining contemplation and reflection.

To extract the marrow from these one must keep his eyes and ears open and his perceptive faculties on the alert. If visiting the town or county fair, do not squander the golden October hours in viewing the products of the field, orchard, or garden, the horse-race or the exhibit of fat beeves, but stand away at a distance sufficient to gain a good perspective and keep watch and ward over those who are moving about the buildings and grounds. If your cranial shell is not too thick, or your sensibilities too much blunted, some- thing will be developed worthy of observation. In such promiscuous assem- blies, composed largely of the rustic classes, one notices many peculiarities of dress that cannot well be passed without mental, if not oral, comment. For instance, a great, broad, lumbering woman, whose facial territory, if surveyed by the compass and chain, would require a dozen landmarks to define its boundary, will appear with a hat perched upon her frowsy head about the size of a sparrow's nest. In the same group her antipode will be sufficiently atten- uated and willowy to suggest gimlet-holes and wheel-spindles, but embowered

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under a head-gear that casts a shadow over a considerable area of surrounding country. We naturally ask, why don't those women exchange hats? Such transaction would certainly be mutually becoming.

The same incongruous examples of disregard as to the fitness of things will be observed among the male persuasion. There is a tall, gaunt, long- limbed, hungry-looking man under the shadow of a broad, slouch hat that rests with crushing weight upon his ears. The antithesis of this brother Jona- than will be a corpulent, broad-shouldered butcher, or cattle-drover, with head surmounted by a thimble-crowned "Derby." Why don't these men swap hats? Hailing from the same township, a man will be seen whose pantaloons were evidently "pulled a year too soon," being so short in the leg as to expose four inches of his stockings of indigo blue. Another creeper-limbed plowman's trousers will fall in heavy folds upon his foot-wear, having been formulated for some other fellow, whose corporeal understanding was more extended. Why should these male professors thus expose their want of good judgment when by a fair exchange both would be wonderfully improved in appearance?

We have long been aware that many of the elderly yeomen do not con- sider themselves to be "dressed up" without some kind of a tall hat. No matter what the age, form, or color of the article so long as it is tall. Speci- mens have been seen at fairs, elections, and quarterly-meetings, the ragged - fur, once black, faded to a dull mouse-color, that had the appearance of an exposure to the ravages of an equinoctial gale; the crown indented and the rim warped into an abnormal twist, resembling those now displayed by the gentle sex. Some there were without any nap, and of conical form, the genuine old-fashioned "plug-hat" with a crown capacity sufficient for the mail matter of a whole community. Of course such hats were twenty years out of date, but that was of no consideration so long as they were tall.

This generation of hats, like the learned orthodox ministers of the colonial period, or the tall clocks owned by the fore-handed, were "settled for life," and the yoeman who owned one never entertained a doubt but such a head protection added infinitely to his dignity when he went abroad. We have known a few men who owned two such hats; one inherited by will from a grand- father, that had come down through the hands of patriarchal ancestors; the other, somewhat modern, purchased for a wedding occasion some time during the twenties. These varied slightly in form, and as both could not be worn with comfort at once, they were exposed to the air and public notice alter- nately ; they "took turns" on their owner's head.

There were also bonnets of "heroic size." Some were black and over- hung with heavy folds of sombre crape with which poor " widderless wimmen" mourned the loss of the "main-stay" by the yard. Another kind worn by middle-aged matrons not in " weeds " was of straw braid, deep and bell-muz- zled; it had "ruches" at the side for stuffing, or, when owned by the vain

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and simple-minded (?) a wreath of "purty posies" composed of artificial morning-glories, marigolds, and daffodils, intertwined with little rosy buds and sprigs of evergreen ; but never a feather from the tail of chanticleer or turkey; no, not a bug, butterfly, bobolink, or humming-bird could be found anywhere about such a summer bonnet. The drapery worn upon this style was of green baize, which, when not in front to curtain the face of the wearer, was folded over one side and allowed to fall upon the shawl. To see one of these at the best, the student of fashion should attend a quarterly-meeting in some "back neighborhood"; on such occasions they came forward in full bloom and undiminished circumference. Old Sister Linskitt would be there, and her little pinched face in the back end of one of these bonnets reminded one of the last shriveled apple left in the cornucopia. But when she "struck up" her pet hymn, "How arppy is the man," etc., and sang between two or three squirrel-like teeth, her voice had a far-away sound as it went round and round to find its way out of her cavernous bonnet ; when it did escape into the open air, it frolicked about like a pasture-born bossie. Such green baize veils, accompanied by a formidable pair of spectacles of the same color, invested the wearer with a verdant appearance that savored of corn-fields, or waving grass. Such women came into meeting holding a sprig of tansy or southern- wood between the thumb and finger, which, during sermon time, they carried to their nose to keep them from growing faint or from falling into " conniption " fits. With their heads canted to one side, their dreamy eyes fixed upon the perspiring preacher, and their palm-leaf fans at full swing, how soothingly peaceful and happy some of these old mothers did look! If they had a trifle of money. they carried it to church tied in the corner of a handkerchief to exemplify the sacred truth, " where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." When the boxes were passed, these conscientious old saints turned their eyes away as they dropped in their farthings, so that the left hand might not know what the right hand did. See ? Such old Puritans were ascetic to a nice degree.

A Pair of Whiskers .- When it became fashionable to wear the beard, Obadiah Jones struck out a pair of whiskers which stood forth like two great hassocks on his broad cheeks. Saul Junkins mowed over the whole acreage of his enormous face, with the exception of two circular spots in front of his ears, where modest, sandy "temple-locks " were allowed to flourish for a season as "side-lights." After a few weeks he turned another strip out to pasture, and the beard grew rank and robust, until the old lady, who formu- lated the criterion for husband's fashions, issued her mandate and declared that Saul's "Hutchins" must be cut down. It was Zachariah Simpson who could raise the most graceful and thrifty circle of neck-whiskers of any man in the settlement. Where these started from no one could tell, but the roots found good soil somewhere below light, as evidenced by the luxuriant growth

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above. This heavy fringe poured out over his turn-down collar like a silent cataract of hair. Zachariah cultivated these with much ambition, and coaxed them up from the lower regions with comb and brush until they formed a silvery ruff nearly around his neck. Several years elapsed before some of the old plowmen had the courage to leave home with a mustache. Sometimes they would allow the stubble to grow for a few weeks, "just to see how it looked," but when it had become as prickly as a teasle, they would mow it down. Many of the early settlers inherited from their Scotch-Irish ancestry a broad and long upper lip ; hence had an immense mustache capacity whereon the stubble, which long sustained right angle relations to the face, gave the wearer a repellingly savage and wolfy look. All these styles of wearing the beard were endurable, but when suffered to grow on the nose, as Deacon Decker's did, or in one's ears, as Deacon Morton's did, either nature or eccentricity had gone wild.

Farmers' Joys and Sorrows .- The farmer's life is full of variety. Monotony is unknown to the experience of the industrious husbandman; he is always in touch with Nature and sees her in her best apparel. On every side there is scenery to charm the eye, delight the mind, and enrapture the soul-from the first beams of the morning until the sable curtains of night are softly drawn over field and forest; from the moment he is summoned from his bed by the clarion hail from the barn-loft, until he is lulled to slum- ber by the far-away tinkle of pastoral bells. As he goes forth to attend to his morning work, he is greeted by the cheering voice of robin, bluebird, and the colony of martins that gabble about their house upon the barn top. The earth is fresh from its baptism of dew, and fragrant with the odors of flowers. As he approaches the farm-yard, the cud-chewing cattle are still at rest on the earth, and rise to straighten their backs and fill his buckets with foaming milk. He takes the three-legged stool from the gate-post, seats himself at the side of " Brindle " or " Brottleface," and while drawing the snowy liquid from the bountiful ndder, entertains himself by talking aloud about his plans for the day. When the milking is done, the heavy farm-yard gate swings on its creaking hinges and the lazy kine go leisurely down the lane.

From the grain-bin he brings a breakfast for his domestic fowls and counts them to see that no fox or hawk has reduced the number. Hens have features, complexions, and countenances same as other folk; in form and physiognomy they remind the observer of persons somewhere met with. From the door-stone the good wife now calls him to the morning meal, where, seat- ed by his side, she pours his coffee and passes the food betimes to tempt his appetite. Breakfast over, the "guid buik " is laid on the table, a selection read, and the two kneel to pray. Our husbandman offers thanksgiving for harvests already gathered, and prays for "sunshine, plenty of showers-no airly frost, Lord,-and an all-bountiful and a-bounding crop this year."

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It is seed-time. The furrows have been turned and the face of the up- turned ground leveled with the arbitrary harrow. With basket of golden corn or plump wheat, inspired by faith in Him who hath made promise of "seed-time and harvest," the farmer goes a-field and sings in moderate meas- ure, as he scatters the prophetic kernels upon the generous earth. The air is vocal; he sings not alone ; the loud trill of the sand-thrasher under the birch borders of the field are responded to by voice of the lonely cuckoo on the hill-side; the lowing of cattle in the pasture alternates with plaintive lamb- cry in the valley. And the farmer sows; some falls on good ground, some on stony places, some by the wayside.

Following this hopeful season of sowing there comes an experience of agricultural tribulation such as has tried men's souls since the world was made. "Consider the ravens, which neither sow nor gather into barns"; yea, con- sider their nature and thieving propensities. If any "fowl of the air" with unrelenting and persistent inroad upon the seeded field tests the farmer's patience, it is this "ebony bird." He is an accurate chronologist; remembers the day of every farmer's seed-sowing, and at his earliest opportunity swoops down upon the mellow mould to steal away the precious grain. He is also an early riser, and the watchful yeoman seldom goes forth to anticipate the break- fast time of the robber crow. As he scans his field he finds the despoiler at his work before the mists have risen from the brook-side or the valleys have been touched by the rising sun. He stands by the fence-side and raps on the boards sharply as he shouts: "Stur-boy, there! stur-boy, there!" The black thieves hear both the farmer's voice and the emphasis of his rod; they pause for a moment to listen, and with independent air move forward and tear the sprouting seed from the ground. Another expedient is now resorted to; the farmer summons assistance; he calls: "Watch, here! Watch, here! Watch, h-e-r-e-e-e!" until the excited house-dog, anticipating larger game, like coons or woodchucks, comes bounding down the lane. To his evident surprise, he hears his master's command: "Go-o-o, seek him! go-o-o, seek him!" as he points across the field. "Watch" jumps the fence, runs out upon the hill- brow, and turns about to inquire where the woodchuck is. Again his master shouts : "Go-o-o, seek him! go-o-o, seek him!" Now the old cur rushes down the hill into the low ground, jumping high above the grass to get a wider view, and seeing nothing worth noticing pauses, holds up one foot, and looks with an inquisitive expression toward his master, whose temper is now at flood tide. He forgets his morning supplication and ejaculates, angrily: "Cuss that dog; cuss him, he don't know nothin'." Something radical must be done. Neither shouting, rapping with rod, nor the dog availed anything. He rushes for the house and takes the "queen's arm " from the hook over the mantel. "She" had been loaded heavy for spring geese, and if she would strike fire he said he would "give it to 'em now." That's what he said to

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Saco Valley settlements and families. Historical, biographical, genealogical, traditional, and legendary, Part 42

Author: Ridlon, Gideon Tibbetts, 1841- [from old catalog] Publication date: 1895 Publisher: Portland, Me., The author Number of Pages: 1424

Author: Ridlon, Gideon Tibbetts, 1841- [from old catalog]
Publication date: 1895
Publisher: Portland, Me., The author
Number of Pages: 1424