USA > Michigan > Barry County > History of Barry county, [Michigan] > Part 5
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There was considerable excitement here at the outbreak of the Mexican War, and John VanArman opened a recruiting office here. Among those who enlisted were Levi Chase, proprietor of Chase's tavern, and his brother Charles; William Boorum, who died in the Soldiers' Home several months ago; William Seavey, who died a year ago, and a man named Tabor. Tabor and the Chases died either of spotted fever at Detroit or in the service. Tabor's clothes were sent back packed in a bee hive. In addition to these men was Harvey Horton. When the load of recruits passed Fuller's hotel on their way to Battle Creek, a man came out of the hotel with a decanter of whiskey and treated them to a farewell drink.
Shortly after they left Mr. Horton regretted enlisting, and returned, and there was excitement in town soon after. The men here were thoroughly in sympathy with his decision not to go to Mexico. When an officer arrested and took him away, a number of Hastings men made their way through the woods, and headed them off. They seized Mr. Horton and brought him back. Later when another officer came for him Mr. Horton happened to be in a room in Barlow's hotel. Word of the officer's arrival spread
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rapidly, and again Mr. Horton's friends came to his assistance. They crowded into the room and about the officer, until Mr. Hor- ton was able to escape into the woods. After these two experi- ences in trying to take him into custody the officers gave up trying to get him.
Amusements during the early days were few and far between. Occasionally some enterprising manager would bring to the settle- ment a puppet show, and dancing images, Punch and Judy, and Babes in the Woods. The residents were fond of dancing and the shows would be followed with dances in Barlow's hotel. In this hotel there was an excellent floor for dancing. It was called a "swinging floor" and the joints rested on tamarack poles.
One particularly well known entertainer who came to Hast- ings was named Carey. In those days they were boosting the western country just as they are doing today. Carey had a show here, and one of the songs with which he made a hit ran thus:
Come all you that are not faint hearted and are bound for the west In search of the country that you would like best.
Come and go along with me after those that have gone And we'll settle on the banks of the pleasant Oregon.
A big event happened in Hastings in 1850 and many of the folks were looking forward to it with great pleasure, and so were the boys who could afford to go -- Van Amberg's Circus and Men- agerie was coming to Yankee Springs. then the principal settle- ment in the county. Flaming posters in Hastings announced the wonders that were to be seen. Oscar Young was then ten years old, and he gazed in wonder at the posters but had no idea that he could go. But there was one kind-hearted man in the settlement who knew the longings in a boy's heart. Early on show day Henry Hoyt saw Oscar and William Hitchcock and his brother standing near his store. Mr. Hoyt, who was afterward County Clerk and afterward well-known resident of Kalamazoo, married the daughter of William Lewis, proprietor of the Yankee Springs hotel. Mrs. Hoyt is still living in Kalamazoo. Mr. Hoyt and his brother were engaged in dry goods business in part of Barlow's hotel.
"Well, Oscar," said Mr. Hoyt, "aren't you going to the show?"
"No. I haven't anything to go with," replied Oscar.
"Well, run home and have mother put on your shoes and wash
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your face and comb your hair. Come back and then we'll see what we can do for you."
Manning Doud, still a resident of Hastings, was preparing to take a load to the show for 25 cents per head for the round trip. Into this wagon Mr. Hoyt placed Oscar. With the kind heart of a man who knows what a boy needs when he starts out for a good time, Mr. Hoyt said, "You'll want something to eat. Hold on! a boy never goes to a circus without a glass of lemonade. You'll need money for that."
Provided with funds by Mr. Hoyt, Oscar took his place in the wagon, and eagerly waited until the big tent west of the Yankee Springs tavern came into sight. He immediately jumped out of the wagon and joined the crowd. About the first thing he heard was a barker presiding over a lemonade stand. He was at once attracted to the "barker" in charge of the stand. What he said Mr. Young has always vividly remembered, and he says that he has never since heard a man in this business repeat a lingo any- thing like it. This is what he heard:
"Right this way for your cool ice lemonade. Cool as the ice from a frozen ocean. Made by the light of a diamond 75 feet under the ground and sweetened by the kisses of Jenny Lind."
Oscar could not withstand such an appeal and he at once in- vested in his first glass of lemonade. He had never before imag- ined anything which tasted as good. After drinking his lemonade he strolled about the hotel with its "seven stories all on the ground." Here he saw "Yankee Bill," the famous landlord, whom he remembers as a red-faced, portly man. Here were gathered a great crowd of people gathered from all directions. Some came with horse and ox teams, and others came on horses. As often happens, there was a brawl between some of the persons present and the show men. When the fight took place, Constable Edge- comb attempted to arrest one of the show men. The men con- nected with the circus rallied to the support of their companion. They seized the constable, lifted up a rail fence, placed him under it, and let the fence down upon him. While he was engaged in the difficult task of extricating himself, the man whom he attempted to arrest galloped away over the hill on a white horse en route to Grand Rapids. After a fine dinner on gingerbread sold on the grounds, Oscar was ready for the sights.
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He enjoyed the circus, its acrobats and animals. Many of the young ladies present had the privilege of riding on an elephant. A ladder was provided, and they took turns in climbing upon the back of the animal and taking a turn about the ring. If the name of one of these ladies, now a well-known resident of this city, were published there would be a great deal of amusement. He returned late in the evening to Hastings, very happy over his day of pleas- ure, and during the life of Mr. Hoyt he never forgot the kindly feeling for the man to whom he was indebted for one of the most pleasant experiences of his boyhood days.
One of the Springs that gave Yankee Springs its Name. Two Great Grandsons of "Yankee" Lewis in the Foreground
YANKEE SPRINGS
(An article on this famous half-way house, written by Mrs. Mary Hoyt of Kalamazoo, in 1894.)
On the afternoon of a summer's day, August 26, 1836, nearly fifty-eight years ago, there might have been seen a covered wagon containing a stalwart man of thirty-five years and five children, between the ages of eleven and two years, driving through the then unbroken wilderness of Barry County, in the Territory of Michigan.
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Accompanying this wagon was a woman on horseback, care- fully guiding her gray saddle-horse over the rough roads of the new country. She had in this way performed nearly the whole of the journey, we having started from Weathersfield, Wyoming County, New York, three weeks before, taking in Canada on our route, and expecting to settle in South Bend, Indiana, where my father had bought a tract of land of 160 acres.
This party consisted of my father, William Lewis, and Mary Goodwin, his wife, three daughters and a son, also an adopted daughter, Flavia Stone. We were at this time about to spend the night with an older brother, Calvin Lewis, who came to Michigan a few weeks in advance of us, and settled at Yankee Springs, but the result was that we settled there also. I was a child of four years at the time, so the words of my mother will best describe our coming into Michigan:
"After leaving Detroit the road was mostly through dense woods, Marshall, Battle Creek and Kalamazoo being marked by little clusters of houses surrounded by forests. After leaving Bat- tle Creek we passed through Gull Prairie, now Richland, and there met Leonard Slater, located on the Indian Reservation as a mis- sionary to the Pottawatamie tribe of Indians. Leaving this place we plunged into the wilderness and, the road having disappeared, we followed an Indian trail marked by blazed trees and journeyed eighteen miles farther through the woods without seeing a single habitation. Tired and travel-worn, weary and hungry, we halted at nightfall in a lovely valley in the wilderness, where a log house was in process of erection. Living springs of clear cold water were gushing from a bank, and on a nearby poplar tree someone had fastened a shingle marked Yankee Springs.
"In 1835 a young man by the name of Chas. Paul, in company with the family of Henry Leonard, were eating their luncheon under the trees beside one of the springs. A stranger joined them and it came out in conversation that they were all from New Eng- land States, and one of the party said, 'We are all Yankees.' At this suggestion Charles Paul hewed the bark off the side of an oak tree and cut the words 'Yankee Springs' on it. The name clung to the place and was finally adopted by the township."
A welcome was given us by our relatives, and the log cabin of two rooms was shared together. A quilt was hung over the
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door space and the windows were boarded. A supper was served and we settled down for the night. Dismal tales have come to me of those first nights in the forest; that the barking of wolves broke the stillness of the hours and that the glittering eye-balls of the panther looked down upon us with no friendly gaze.
My father located 1,000 acres of land there and it soon grew to be an attractive place. We endured in common with all the early settlers the trials and privations of pioneer and frontier life, and lived to see the wilderness subdued, and surrounded by all that pertains to a later civilization. Here in this thick forest, the land entirely unclaimed, we settled. The woods were filled with Indians, and our nearest white neighbor, Calvin G. Hill, was eight miles distant from us. From Middleville to Ada, the direct route to Grand Rapids, was a dense forest, an unbroken wilderness without an inhabitant. We were on the direct line of the great Indian trail running from Detroit to Grand Rapids, which passed directly through Barry County. But we were not long alone. The fur trader and the speculator were abroad in the land, and to fill the increasing demands of the weary traveler, our little cottage of two rooms was extended, building after building, until we occu- pied "nine stories on the ground," seven distinct buildings in a row in the front and two additional in the back. They presented neither an imposing nor a graceful appearance. but were the hur- ried creation of backwoods life, when there was no time to waste on architecture, symmetry or beauty.
The fame of the place spread throughout the country and so brisk was business at the old "Mansion House," as it was called, that it was no uncommon thing for one hundred people to tarry there for a night, while sixty teams were often stabled there between sunset and sunrise.
The extreme ends of the old house were named. The one farthest north was "Grand Rapids," and the extreme south was "Kalamazoo." The Kalamazoo was considered the "best room" and was furnished rather better than the others and the better class of people occupied it generally, bridal parties, etc. All the other buildings have tumbled to ruin. This building alone stands out all by itself. It is close to the road down in the hollow, seemingly proud of the fact that it has survived all of the changes of the last century and inviting admiration and respect because of it. If the
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old building could speak what stories it could tell, what historical information it could impart that would be of interest and benefit to future generations.
Together this husband and wife labored and toiled, their chief desire seeming to be to give happiness to those about them. With a hospitality that was proverbial and a generosity that can not be measured by ordinary methods, they greeted all who came. The man without money was treated as well as the man whose pocket bulged with the currency of that day. Ministers of all denomina- tions, irrespective of creed, were entertained free of charge, but were expected to hold an evening service in our large dining room, and men were sent out to notify the neighbors to that effect. The first Episcopal service I ever heard was rendered there by Dr. Francis Cuming, who was journeying to Grand Rapids to settle over St. Mark's church in that city.
We were in very close touch with the people at Grand Rapids in the early days and visited often in their families. Much of our trading was done there and, although thirty-eight miles distant from us, we made frequent journeys there. I remember seeing Louis Campau and Rix Robinson-those grand pioneers-the earliest. Their names should never be forgotten by us. They were here in the early 20's and none who came after exceeded them in powers of endurance, or the cheerfulness with which they bore the hardships and toil of that period. The name of Louis Campau is reverenced by older Grand Rapids people, for he came there first. He once owned the whole village of Grand Rapids. In the old days all knew of his tender heart-all who met him received some kindness at his hands. We used to hear how, when his bank failed, he brought home armfuls of wildcat money and papered his cupola with it, saying ,"If you won't circulate, you shall stay still." I recall the Withey family, the Moreaus, the Godfreys, Morrisons, Richmonds, Whites, Henry R. Williams, the Almys, P. R. L. Pierce, Canton Smith, an early hotel keeper of that city; the Rathbones, early settlers there, who built a large hotel and opened it with a big dance. I was there and danced all night. Mrs. T. B. Church, that noble pioneer woman, who played the organ of St. Mark's church for fifty years and is still living in that city, her gifted son, Frederick Church, then a babe whom I often carried in my arms, now celebrated world-wide as an artist-
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all these and many more were household names with us and went to make up a part of our family life in a time when there were few social barriers and man felt and needed the sympathy and encour- agement of his brother man.
Lewis Cass was twice our guest. Ex-Governor Felch, ex- Governor Ransom, United States Senator Zach Chandler, Senator Chas. E. Stuart, Judge Pratt-and, indeed, all men of note who traveled in those days were at some time or other entertained there in the primitive style of the day. Royalty was once entertained
Mrs. Mary Lewis, Wife of "Yankee" Lewis
at the Mansion House, and this occasion was memorable as being the first time that the table was set with napkins for each guest, word having been sent in advance of his coming. Almost the first guest I can remember was Douglas Houghton, then a young man. He was first appointed State Surveyor and later, as we all know, filled the office of State Geologist for many years.
Thefts and robberies were unknown, although large quan- tities of money were carried by travelers and it would have been an easy matter for it to change hands had there been the desire for it by designing persons. For example, every year large quan-
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tities of money were carried through from Detroit to Grand Rapids to pay the Indians at their annual payments. This money, $15,000, was conveyed through in an extra stage by a man named Lee, accompanied by an Indian interpreter named Provonsol. The money was all in specie and was carried in boxes about a foot square, very heavy, as I remember hearing. These boxes were all set in the room at the south end of the old house. There was an outside door with an old lock and key to it. Two old guns they had were set up in one corner of the room and those men probably slept without a care or thought of being robbed and went safely through from Detroit to Grand Rapids in this simple and easy way.
My father was a man of indomitable courage and persever- ance-never discouraged-always happy and with a fund of humor, wit and story-telling rarely excelled. He was just the one to lead in settling and establishing a new country. He planned largely and liberally, and was able with his perseverance and strong health to carry out his plans, and by his personal mag netism encouraged others to work and persevere also. He was the first to contract for carrying the United States mail through that portion of the country. In the first contract he was assisted by General Withey, of Grand Rapids. This route was from Battle Creek to Grand Rapids. Later a contract was taken to carry the mail from Kalamazoo to Grand Rapids. Lines of stages were put on and several coaches a day were started from these points, all meeting at Yankee Springs-the "half way house"-for refresh- ment of passengers and change of horses. For many years this was the only route through the woods from Battle Creek and Kalamazoo to Grand Rapids, and until other roads were opened up it made very lively times at the old house. The Yankee Springs postoffice for a long time supplied the adjacent country. Letters were luxuries in those days, rare and costly. Envelopes and postage stamps were unknown. We wrote on three pages of the paper, folding it so the name could be written in the middle of the fourth, and sealing with a wafer, directed it and then paid our 25 cents postage on it or left it to be collected by the person to whom it was addressed, just as we chose. Sometimes it was difficult for the old settler to produce the 25 cents to pay postage and he had to earn it before he could claim his letter.
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My father and Rix Robinson built the first bridge across the Thornapple River in 1838. The road then ran on the old Indian trail, across Scales Prairie. In 1838 my father also built the first bridge across the Coldwater Stream on Section 35, in Caledonia. Split logs were used for flooring, pinned down by wooden pins. He, in company with some others, started in 1849 to build a plank road that was to run from Galesburg to Grand Rapids. A good deal of time, energy and capital was expended on this scheme, but it was finally abandoned.
There was a period when the Yankee Springs property was considered very valuable, and the Rathbones, in Grand Rapids, wished to exchange their hotel property for our own, we to retain the farm lands. This Grand Rapids property is now worth sev- eral hundred thousand dollars, and is the present location of the Widdicomb building, corner of Monroe and Market streets. The other, deserted and forsaken, requires a stretch of the imagination to believe that it was ever of great importance.
Wheat and potatoes at this early date brought fabulous prices, but the table was always well supplied with the essentials and with many delicacies. Great care and attention were given to the large garden of several acres that lay across the road from the old house. No vegetable or flower then heard of but was grown there. The light soil, highly enriched by muck taken from the marsh, was calculated to bring them forward to speedy perfection. The most luscious fruits, melons and vegetables were grown in abundance, all luxuriating in the new, warm soil of the valley. Arbors were filled with choice grapes, peaches ripened in the sun, and flowers, the good old-fashioned flowers of that day, grew in abundance. Celery-the first grown in Barry County and perhaps in the State-was raised there. Tomatoes were raised. They were first called "love apples," and we grew them for their beauty, but soon learned to eat them. Men were constantly employed in caring for the ground. Water was supplied for use by wells dug on the grounds. My father was a skillful caterer. Each guest who came was made to feel at home under that hospitable roof. The first Thanksgiving celebrated at Yankee Springs tavern was in the fall of 1838. My father sent out invitations to all the new settlers for miles around and later sent men and teams to gather them in. My mother meanwhile was superintending the first Thanksgiving
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dinner in the new country, which consisted of wild turkeys brought by the Indians from Gun Lake woods, two immense spare ribs cooked to a turn before the great open fireplace, as were also the turkeys. Mince pies such as only my mother could make, also pumpkin pies and puddings, were baked in the large brick oven by the side of the kitchen fireplace. Cook stoves there were none. The turkeys and ribs were suspended by stout tow strings and slowly turned before the open fire and some one had to burn their face while continually basting the meats with their rich gravies, brought out by the heat of the fire. Cranberries were brought by the Indians and was about the only fall berry. Not a fruit tree or berry bush had yet been planted.
The tables were spread and the guests came from their homes in the woods to enjoy this banquet prepared for them in so hos- pitable a manner and, while all must have remembered the parents and homes so recently left by them, it was not their way to mourn for what they had not, but to enjoy fully what they had, which they did in a way that would astonish the dyspeptic of today.
It began to snow, the first of the season, but the harder it snowed the livelier grew the party. An old violin was pulled out of some corner and all began dancing and kept it up until morn- ing, when breakfast was prepared for them, after which they were conveyed back to their homes, and so passed our first Thanksgiv- ing in the old Mansion House at Yankee Springs.
The political campaign of 1840 made a hot time in the old house, as I well remember. Pole and flag raising and stump speaking were the order of the day, but the doings on the Fourth of July, 1846, beat everything on record before or since, so far as I can remember. A tamarack pole was spliced until it was of the desired length and a flag was flung from it to the breeze with much hurrahing from the crowd that had collected from everywhere and filled the road-front before the old house from hill to hill. Twenty- six girls, all in white, representing the states-then twenty-six in number-and a Goddess of Liberty in red, white and blue were loaded into a monster wagon drawn by twenty-six yoke of oxen. A girl for each state and a yoke of oxen for each girl! We went above the hill to form the procession and came down into the crowd in fine style.
We were ten years in advance of the Michigan Central Rail-
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way. We heard rumors of its approach, but so slow was it in coming that the old stage coach kept right along its undisputed way for many years. The road started from Detroit in 1836, when Michigan was a territory. It reached Kalamazoo February 21, 1846, and six years later, May, 1852, the road reached Chicago.
It has been said "there is no good Indian but a dead Indian," but in our experience we did not find in them the treachery and deceit they are usually credited with. They had great respect for my father and we lived in peace and harmony. The woods were full of them, but we did not fear them and I believe they were our friends. They were strict in their deals and if they made a prom- ise they kept it. They brought us berries of all kinds from the woods and constantly supplied us with fresh venison, never bring- ing any part of the carcass but the hams, which were always twenty-five cents, no more nor less. They brought us fresh fish from the lakes, and the muskallonge from Gun Lake were enor- mous. They made a great deal of maple sugar. In 1840 these Pottawatamies were removed by the United States Government beyond the Mississippi, and very reluctantly they left their homes among the lakes and oak openings and the silver streams of Michi- gan. Noonday, the chief of the Pottawatamies, greatly impressed me by his dignified bearing. Six feet tall and well proportioned, he was at that time nearly 100 years old. His face was painted and a great circlet of eagle feathers was around his head. He looked kind and he laid his hand on my head. He died soon after and was buried in Richland cemetery by the side of his wife. He, Noonday, assisted in the War of 1812 and witnessed the burning of the city of Buffalo.
Ye say they all have passed away, That noble race and brave; That their light canoes have vanished From off the crystal wave; 'That in the grand old forests There rings no hunter's shout, But their name is on your waters And ye may not wash them out.
There were poets in those days and frequently the old place was sounded in story and song, and occasionally one was found whose "feelings" overflowed to the extent that he published his production. Such an one was George Torrey, Sr., who, coming
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