Saco Valley settlements and families. Historical, biographical, genealogical, traditional, and legendary, Part 43

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 43
USA > New Hampshire > Saco Valley settlements and families. Historical, biographical, genealogical, traditional, and legendary > Part 43

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).

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Molly as he jumped from the door. Down he goes through the pasture lane ; down behind the great boulder by the spring, where he sees the "black sar- pints " still at their morning repast. He levels his piece, braces hard, leans forward to guard against rebound, shuts both eyes, dreads what is to come, and pulls. "She" only "snapped" and he pitched headlong, driving the muzzle of the gun into the sand. Meanwhile, the crows have filled their crops, but wait and watch to see the fun. Recovering himself, the farmer cleared the gun-barrel, rubbed the flint with his thumb-nail, and kept muttering to him- self : "Confound the black sarpints! I'll give 'em Jesse this time." He raised the old, refractory weapon once more to his shoulder, a convulsive shudder followed a premonitory sensation, and he pressed the trigger. Snap-fush- whish-bang. The musket performs evolutions in the air overhead as the farmer falls backward among the stones and briers. Forgetting his morning devotions and the annoying crows, in this new predicament, he gave utterance to unlawful words as he passed his hand over his blistered face and singed whiskers; and as he regained his feet and took a hasty account of stock he exclaimed: "Je-ru-slum! Je-ru-sa-Jum!" Having finished their breakfast and being satisfied with the farmer's sunrise salute, the crows went to nest building.

Only a few weeks pass, and the farmer looks from his door and discovers the cows in his corn. Another trial of his patience. Again he must call, "Watch, here ! Watch, here!" and the lazy old house-dog comes snuffing round the corner. The farmer leads the way this time, and urges on the cur by shouting, when half out of breath, "Stur-boy there ! stur-boy there !" Away goes the dog, and the cattle dash through the tender corn, smashing down the tall stalks right and left. One old line-back makes straight for the break in the fence where she entered, another crosses the squash-patch, tearing up the vines that wind about her legs, while a third, old "Crumple-horn," steers across the meadow with " Watch " at her heels as she wallows down the heavy grass. "Watch, here ! Watch, here!" cries the farmer, as he rushes across the field to head off the wild cattle. He is red in the face, mad to the marrow, and declares: "Them critters be possess-ed with the div-il "; that they are as "kantankerous as if they had been bewitch-ed." After jumping the fence between grass-field and garden this dog driven cow tramples down the vege- tables growing there, making havoc at every leap. The farmer vainly tries to call off his dog, but on he ran. "Watch " was somewhat peculiar ; he was fat, clumsy, and hard to start, but when once his joints were limbered and lubricated, and his temper screwed up, he could not stop until absolute ex- haustion caused him to fall headlong into some ditch or mud-hole. From their owner's field, the excited cattle made their way through his neighbor's corn and grain, followed hither and thither by the panting farmer, whose patience was as crusty as short-cake. When he tried to head them off they would elevate their tails, roll out their eyes, snort defiance to all authority,

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and "go it like a hurricane." The forenoon was spent in the race, the after- noon, in mending fence. The damage to growing crops could not be repaired. We should not wish to see all the words uttered by the aggravated farmer in print.

The steam rising from the intervals along the river was a medium through which the farmer's prayers for preservation from "airly frosts " was answered on that kind of soil; but the opposite happened on other flat land. On an August evening there was a chill in the air, and the old destroyer with frosty breath walked through the bean-fields, under cover of darkness, leaving blight and death in his path. Crops that had been cultivated with care until flour- ishing with promises of reward turned black as the sun arose, and the labor of the season was nearly lost. This was a disheartening misfortune indeed.

When the young potato plants came out of the ground they were instantly assailed by the devil in the form of bugs. Mightily they grew and pushed their destructive work. They were "pizened," scalded, and crushed, and still, like the Hebrews in Egypt, they multiplied. Unceasing warfare was carried on against these tormentors, and one old farmer, of a religious turn, whose soul had been tried beyond endurance, thanked the Lord on his knees in open prayer-meeting that "there would be no tatter bugs in heaven," with a loud hallelujah on the end of it.

Thus, with torments from crows on the grain-field, cows in the corn, bugs on potatoes, "varmints" eating beans, worms in the garden, weevil in the wheat, and "airly frost" to kill what had nearly matured, the farmer needed great store of grace to oil his patience and curb his temper ; and if all the woes had fallen upon these creatures wished for by the annoyed husbandman, there wouldn't have been one of their species left on the earth. But the great truth, couched in the language of Scripture, "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till thou return unto the ground," has ever been proven true. Let us turn our attention to more pleasing scenes.

It is now midsummer, and the dreamy days find the grindstones turning during the morning hours, and the bare-armed farmers, under chip hats, away to the grass-laden meadows with their shining, keen-edged scythes. The leader "turns the double swath," and the deployed mowers follow in turn. The dew is still upon the sweet-scented clover and honeysuckle; white daisies fleck the waving grass, and freckled lillies blush and nod in the passing breeze, while the rollicking song of the bobolink floats down from the field-side. The ring of steel in the cut is followed by the lively "whichety-whet" of the sharp- ening stones in the mowers' hands.

How sweet and fragrant the new-mown grass! How delightful the odors of wild flowers and strawberries turned up in the dewy swath! But look ! A mower suddenly halts mid-field and gazes for a moment upon the ground. He now retreats and takes his stand at a safer distance. What's

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to pay now? Bumblebees, sir, a whole nest of singing birds clad in yellow and black. They are acting on the defensive; are " mad as hornets," and go circling about on vehement wing searching for him who had the presumption to disturb their honey-pot home. After a while they return to take account of stock, repair damages, or to blow up the magazine and evacuate. The mower returns cautiously, finds all quiet, goes down upon his knees, and with stone or riffe begins to crush the bees, as, one by one, they emerge from their nest. When nearly all of the colony are thus treated, one escapes, makes a dive at the mower's head, strikes him on the lip and shoots his virus into the sensitive flesh. The honey-comb is taken away and a wound received in the battle that made the spoils costly.

Midway between the breakfast and the dinner, Jennie is sent out by her mother with the daily lunch for the hay-makers; with the pitcher of cool milk, mug of home-brewed beer, and buttered bread. Under the shade of maple or apple-tree the hearty field-hands seat themselves and do justice to the welcome refreshment. They stretch themselves upon the soft grass and rest awhile; then up and at it again. A cool spring bubbles from under a boulder at the corner of an adjacent wood-lot, and thither the sweating men resort to quench their hay-field thirst.

During the breezy afternoon the great bounding loads of cured hay are moved slowly to the barn by panting oxen, and stowed away in capacious bays. But of all the hours of the long summer day in the haying time, those toward evening are the most enjoyable ; the cooler hours after supper when men, and maidens, too, peradventure, with hand rakes are rolling from the billowy windrows the dome-like bunches, which they nicely "dress down" and "cap" to resist dew and rain. An acre covered with these, if well put up, resembled a "beavers' town." When the day's task is done, the cheerful hay-makers, with rakes over their shoulders, go leisurely homeward, and stretch themselves upon the door-yard lawn to tell credulity-straining stories of feats performed in the haying time of long ago, when men could mow so far from home before breakfast that they were all the remainder of the day returning. We believe more unreasonable lies have been told about mowing feats than relating to any other subject-perhaps we should except theology- and many falsehoods to be answered for at the final judgment will have a smell of the hay-field about them.

With scarcely any intermission, the autumn harvest follows the hay gathering. The good promise of the Bountiful Giver has not failed and the golden maize and ripened grain invite the hook and sickle. If the "airly frost " was not withheld, the late one was, and all good things came into rich maturity. This is the farmer's season of fruition ; the year's gathering time of "multiplied seed sown "; the harvest home. Down on the burnt rick there are four acres of tall rye waving in the breeze like billows of yellow light, and

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here the reapers bend their backs all the live-long day, weaving in and out as each "carries his bridth " and lays his gathered handfuls down to fill the sheaves when bound. This is an attractive rural scene ; it is wearisome, but health-giving. After the bundles have stood a suitable time in the "stook " or "shock," the heavy grain is taken to the barn-loft to be ready for the threshing season.

When the Indian corn has been husked and heaped in shining piles upon the chamber floor, or hung in braided traces (tresses) over the collar-beam ; when the "murpheys " and "lady's-fingers " have been sluiced down cellar; when the garden sauce is stored and the apples gathered; when the grain bins are filled and the mows and scaffolds loaded with timothy, foul-meadow, and blue-joint ; when the cattle and sheep have left their pastures ; when the porker has been removed from the sty to the barrel, and when the supply of fuel has been piled high by the wood-shed, and the buildings battened and banked, the farmer's family are prepared for a grim New England winter. But the thrifty farmer and his household are not idle. The stock must be foddered as regularly as the family board is spread. What rattle of hoof and horn as the barn door swings on its creaking hinges ; and what expressions of hungry expectation are seen in the faces of the dependent dumb brutes ! How the stanchions creak and bows snap, as the eager cattle reach for the well-cured hay or cornstalk ! What a bleating of sheep in the fold and cackle of hens on the beams above !

If the farmer have a well-furnished tool house, he will be mending wheels, making yokes and axe-handles, " 'tween whiles, true's ye live."

How pleasant the evenings in the old-fashioned farm-house! Neighbors drop in to enlarge the circle around the hearth-stone; to chat awhile and lend a hand in cutting rings from the great yellow pumpkins for drying, or in apple- paring and stringing. What a jolly good time they all have! Ears of green corn may be roasting on the prostrate tongs, a row of sputtering apples will swell and cook upon the hearth as Ebenezer comes from the cellar bearing a tall mug of cider, and his dirty thumb, perhaps, soaking in the liquid as he grasps the handleless dish. When the indoor work of the late autumn even- ing is done, the "shelling board " will be laid across the corn-box and with chafing cob Eben will grind the kernels off to be ready for the mill on the mmorrow. Meanwhile the women will be employed with their knitting-work or sewing. Betimes the farmer reads his weekly newspaper, or studies the almanac to forecast the weather. Good health, comfort, and abundance pre- vail in the rural home. Deep snows cover the fields and pastures, the roads may be blockaded and impassable, the cold severe and protracted, but the larder is well supplied, and the farmer and family can stand the siege.

Such were the homes of the old yoemen who were willing to harden their hands with honest toil in the busy seasons; to them Providence was propi-

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tious, and prayers for abundant harvests were answered by their own good judgment and industry. There was not only food in the house, but a dollar or two always cuddled down in the old leather pocket-book "agin a rainy day." Today farmers spend their time seeing which can formulate the big- gest falsehood around the stove of the store and allow their toiling wives to earn their bread and tobacco by making "sale work " with body-killing sew- ing machine at home. And then such lazy lubbers growl and say: "Farming don't pay." Bosh! Hang up the coat and take down the rusty hoe; pitch the sewing machine out for old junk; scratch the back of mother earth and she will yield her harvests. None live as long, none so independent, none so comfortable, as the farmer who lives on good terms with Nature and keeps the incumbrance from his broad acres. Who will respond Amen to this kind of gospel ? Not a word from the drone and sluggard.

The hospitality of the old rural families was of an unassuming but cordial sort. There was health-giving cheerfulness about the festal board. What blessed, memorable seasons were the "Thanksgiving days," as celebrated in the old homesteads! That occasion had a significance higher than the meeting of relatives and old acquaintances; all hearts were drawn upward to God in profound gratitude, and this inward spirit was expressed outwardly by thanks- giving and prayer. How abundant the wholesome provisions and ample the arrangements made for the entertainment, for the enjoyment, of the home- coming children and grandchildren! With what unaffected cordiality were the invitations sent forth! How warm the greetings and congratulations be- stowed ! Perchance the parents were advanced in years and had been left alone on the farm. The sons and daughters who had one by one graduated from the cradle to enlarge the domestic circle around the hearth-stone, had flown, like birds from the nest when their wings are grown, to the distant cities, where they had established homes. Grandchildren had been born whose grandparents had never seen them. Thanksgiving time brought the separated links of the family home and reunited them. Father and mother anticipated the return of their children and children's children with great delight. Every- thing about the interior of the house was put in order by the old, careful body called mother by both husband and children. The metal dishes, candle-sticks, andiron heads, and bureau handles were polished, the floors and wood-work scoured into spotless cleanness, snowy curtains hung at the windows, a white spread laid upon the old family table that had supported food for three gen- erations, the capacious brick oven packed full of various kinds of "luscious " goodies, and every cupboard and pantry filled to overflowing. Father looks about the outdoor affairs. The fences are mended, loose clapboards and shingles nailed down, the rubbish about the house-place swept up, and new gates hung.

The auspicious morning dawns at last, and the "finishing touch " has

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been put upon everything. The dear old house looked as it used to when Phylinda and Reliance were at home to help their mother. The old couple adjust their "specks" and consult the ancient but honest time-piece in the corner; it is ten of the clock; the stage is due at the village tavern at eleven. The family mare is harnessed into a long, double-seated cutter, and away drove the old sire toward the town after his sons and daughters, after a score of little folk confidently looked for. Meanwhile, mother puts on her best lace cap, pins a broad, white kerchief about her neck, trims the hair-mole on her chin, and "primps" before the mirror until she whispers: "I look just as pert as when a gal."

A cheerful flame dances through the hickory logs on the hearth, the old, gray cat sleeps on the chair-cushion, a mouse gnaws in the partition, and anon the good dame goes to the window, looks down the road and watches for her children. At length the jangle of the great bells are heard, the front door is thrown open, and what a grand, hearty, old-fashioned hugging and smacking is carried on at the gate as the sleigh is unloaded ! Jubilant and happy, they all gabble and chatter like demoralized geese as mother leads the company to the house. Father goes laughing toward the barn, saying to himself: "A tarnation likely lot o' sons and darters; and them grandchildren, too." A blessed old-time meeting! All the old rooms are visited, boxes, chests, bureaus, and closets looked into, and all the trinkets familiar in childhood examined and handled as memorials of priceless value. They listen to the responsive verge of the old tall clock made by " Hoardly of Plymouth," and go before the gilt-framed looking-glass to mark the change that age has made. Mother shows her daughters how many rolls she has "kearded," and tells the number of skeins of yarn she has spun; shows Phylinda and Reliance her knitting-work, and tells how much butter she has made since June. Father guides "Samowell " and Lysander to the corn-chamber to see the baskets full and seed-corn tresses; down into the cellar to see the bins of potatoes and barrels of pork; away to the barn to view the "critters" and haymows, the sheep and grain-loft. His appreciative sons understand that the days of "second childhood " have been reached by their father, and they cheer him with expressions of gladness respecting his endurance and prosperity as "a man of his years." "Come to dinne-r-r-r." This is mother's voice ; she calls from the door-stone. The old family board, around which all had gathered when the children were small, stands mid-room under its snowy spread and abundant variety of steaming food. When all are seated, the white-haired father stands behind his chair and says, with great reverence: "Let us thank the Lord for His mercies." Then all bow their heads and unite in silent prayer and thanksgiving for food, raiment, and the preservation of life. How good mother's food tastes! No pudding like mother's pudding; no must-go- down like the must-go-down of mother's making; no apple-dumplings nor car-

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raway-seed cookies quite as good as those mother's hands have made. And a blush mantles her dear old cheek as her children praise her cooking. Con- versatlon runs in smooth grooves and bubbles over on every tongue. All the children talk at the same time, while father and mother listen and try to link the words together; an intricate thicket hard to get through. They don't know where to stop for everything tastes so sweet; their old, robust appetite has awoke, and proves too much for their waistbands and "busks." Mother insists that they haven't eaten "half a dinner," while they look wistfully upon the tempting surplus, and sigh for an enlarged capacity.

The day is done, the nightly chores have been attended to, and a replen- ishment of wood heaped upon the beckoning fire. Around the old open fire- place they gather and for a time they gaze upon the lively flames and golden coals in silence ; then Reliance slowly recites the words:

"We are all here, Father, mother, Sister, brother, All who hold each other dear. Each chair is filled, we're all at home!

To-night let no cold stranger come.

It is not often thus around

Our old familiar hearth we're found.

Bless, then, the meeting and the spot :

For once be every care forgot ;

Let gentle Peace assert her power,

And kind Affection rule the hour. We're all-all here.

We're not all here!

Some are away,-the dead ones dear,

Who thronged with us this ancient hearth,

And gave the hour to guileless mirth.

Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,

Look'd in and thinn'd our household band ;

Some like a night-flash passed away,

And some sank lingering day by day ; The quiet grave-yard-some lie there,-

And cruel Ocean has his share. We're not all here.

We are all here!

Even they,-the dead,-though dead, so dear,

Fond Memory, to her duty true,

Brings back their faded forms to view.

How life-like through the mist of years Each well-remembered face appears! We see them, as in times long past ;

From each to each kind looks are east ; We hear their words, their smiles behold ;

They're round us as they were of old, We are all here. We are all here, Father, mother, Sister, brother, You that I love with love so dear. This may not long of us be said ; Soon must we join the gathered dead,

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And by the hearth we now sit round

Some other circle will be found. Oh, then, what wisdom may we know, Which yields a life of peace below ! So, in the world to follow this,

May each repeat in words of bliss, We're all-all here."

Every heart is touched by these pathetic lines, and the stimulated fancy saw, as in days of yore, the familiar faces and forms of the departed who had once shared with them the blessings of the home. "It is well with our dead," said the father with faltering voice, as mother brushed the tears from her wrinkled cheek. "Let joy prevail," said the eldest son, and the cheerful con- versation was joined in by all. How swiftly the hours sped past; how early it seemed when the honest clock struck ten! There was so much to tell and so many to talk. The old, well-worn Bible was laid upon the table, and the father asked " Samowell " to read a " portion." Mother named a hymn, in which all joined. To bed they go; some to the great "fore-room," where the tall, canopied "field bedstead " stood, dressed in its tidy curtains and well-aired sheets and pillows; others went to the "corner bedroom next the orchard," while the children, "just for the fun of the thing," were tucked away in the old trundle-beds which their dear old grandmother had put in trim for them. Now all is silent in the old farm-house save the loud-ticking clock, whose verge-stroke sounded louder as it echoed through the open doors. But the place was full of dreams and they sat upon every brain, some gloomy, others woven with shuttle filled with peace.

At the morning's dawn all were astir, too glad to greet each other ; father and mother eager to see their children; the sons and daughters delighted to look into the smiling faces of their parents ; the little ones a joy to all. Old neighbors drop in to see "Samowell," Lysander, Reliance, and Phylinda; to renew the bonds of friendship and ask of life in the city. But the parting hour-saddest of hours to those who love-came, and the parting kiss was imprinted, perhaps the last in life, upon the venerable parents' withering cheeks. They all take a long and tearful look at each other, and the teams at the gate are driven away.

Meetings like that described above were of frequent occurrence in the old New England homes ; they left a mellowing influence on the heart. Such hospitality was general among the farmers and stimulated a friendly and sympathetic spirit, that is now sadly wanting in our communities. At the period of which we have written, traveling strangers were accommodated with comfortable lodgings and a bite of farmer's fare at the old homesteads without fear, and usually without remuneration. Today doors are double-bolted, and every pedestrian is considered to be a tramp of dangerous or doubtful char- acter.

Saco Valley Fireside Tales.

EREMIAH TARBOX, descended from an old Lynn and Bidde- ford family, said to have been of Huguenot extraction, married a daughter of Roger Plaisted, of Revolutionary fame, and settled on Standish cape a short time before the sad event about to be nar- rated occurred. The family consisted of the parents and five children.

The winter of 1819-20 was one of great severity in New England, and storm succeeded storm until a heavy burden of snow lay on the ground; in- deed, not only walls and fences, but the small dwelling-houses, were nearly buried under the accumulated drifts. The home of the Tarbox family was three miles from any neighbor; the roads were almost impassable and pro- visions were nearly gone. The mill must be reached. Taking a sack of corn on his shoulder, the father started on his errand. After a long, wearisome journey he reached the out-by settlement, had his corn ground, and in the midst of a blinding, whirling snow-storm started on his return. Staggering forward in a sinuous course, nearly exhausted and ready to fall under his burden, he would rally his strength by the hope of soon meeting his wife and children, but when within half a mile of his home became overpowered by the cold and fatigue and sank down to rise no more. His wife, who was anxiously watching, heard his call for help as it was borne upon the roaring wind, and leaving the small children in charge of the eldest daughter, she went forth into the dreary storm and darkness to find her husband. Finding that she could not proceed as she was then dressed, she put on her husband's clothing and made her way slowly through the deep snow to the spot where she found him whom she loved, still alive, but sinking into that slumber that comes from exhaustion and benumbing cold. Removing his frozen mittens, she put her own warm ones on his hands, and taking off her coat made a pillow with it for his head. This was all she could do for his comfort, and she left him in the snowy bed to press forward for help. She had gone but a short distance before her strength failed and she, too, sank down in the snow to die. There alone in the chilling atmosphere, amid the howling of the increasing storm, the two breathed their last.

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Saco Valley settlements and families. Historical, biographical, genealogical, traditional, and legendary, Part 43

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