History of Kalamazoo county, Michigan, Part 41

Author: Durant, Samuel W. comp
Publication date: 1880
Publisher: Philadelphia. Everts & Abbott
Number of Pages: 761

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" Oh, who can tell, from any present hour,

What future suns may rise, what storms may lower ;

* The Pottawattomie name for Prairie Ronde was Wa-we-os-co-tang- sco-tah.

155

LITERARY.

Or, from the color of his present state Predict the changing hues of the mixed web of fate ? How oft we pass along life's pleasant way And cull the fairest flowers from day to day, And little dream how soon the bursting storm May change the prospect and the scene deform ! So, too, when all around seems dark and drear, And the lone wanderer sinks in grief and fear, The parting clouds, dissolving, melt away, All nature smiles and balmy breezes play. And this vast plain which wasting fires have charred,- All life evanished, and all beauty marred,- A few returning suns and vernal showers, And lo! one broad expanse of opening flowers ! First, the blue violets ope their dreamy eyes, And bathed in purple the whole prairie lies; Alternate colors bloom and disappear In quick succession through the varying year. All earthly glories pass away at last, Faded and rustling in the autumn blast. Summer's bright children shrink and pass away,- O sad monition to the young and gay ! And where but late their sweet perfume was shed, The tall, rank spike-grass waves its bristly head.

"Such, O most beauteous prairie! such wert thou Before the white man marred thee with his plow, And, to appropriating instinct true, Long lines of barriers on thy bosom drew. Now the pleased eye o'er all thy vast domain Sees grazing herds and fields of waving grain; And thy gay, tessellated face adorn The blooming clover and the tasseled corn.

" And still the eye, in wandering o'er the scene, Delighted turns to that round, swelling green,- That grove, preserved so many rolling years ; And when the day-god in the east appears, As if rejoiced, imparts his kindling glew, Tinging with ruddy light each lofty bough; This salutation o'er, declines his rays, And bright with glittering light the village steeples blaze; And hark ! A voice the greenwood bowers among, Pours forth this rustic, dithyrambic song :

" PRAIRIE RONDE AT HARVEST TIME.

"Ye in crowded cities pent, With dust and toil and turmoil spent, In a way Heaven never meant, I am fearful. Would ye see a pleasant sight, That will give more heart-delight Than the gayest gala-night, And more cheerful ?

"Know ye aught of Prairie Ronde ? What it is and where 'tis found ? 'Tis the very biggest prairie 'Twixt Saint Joe and Sault Saint Marie. 'Tis a broad and fertile plain Where the farmer raises grain; By gay greenwood surrounded, By leafy rim adorned and bounded. Yet so distant is the fringe That it wears a purple tinge ; And when the setting sun With its softened light is shining,- Its mellow, yellow beams With the purple haze entwining,- Ye well may gaze admiring At the magic scene before ye, For the prairie seems encircled By a diadem of glory !

" How it came to be so big, Without tree, or bush, or twig,

Saving only In the very middle of it, As designed for show or profit, Stands ' the island,' grand and lonely.

Every scientific prig can solve it :- How by wonderful upheaval, In the ages medieval, Or some far-away time, now incog.,

By gradual, slow gradation To its present elevation It was raised from lake or bog. By your leave, most learned sages, The long, wonder-working ages Have performed no such marvelous luctation ; The matter in a fog ye more involve it : The land was fashioned-never doubt it-

Just like all the land about it.

A grand old forest raised its branches proudly o'er it; How the forest passed away, Never to bourgeon here again,

Leaving open to the day This broad and level plain,-

Need we seek for causes higher Than the whirlwind and the fire ?

" But see ! o'er all the extended plain See the yellow, waving grain ; And the sturdy, hardy yeomen, Like inexorable foemen, How they sweep it ! How they reap it ! How with every kind of engine That the busy brain has fashioned They attack it in their fury, Like a host of foes impassioned ! Here a band of strong cradlers, with regular sweep. See how, like a cadence, the motion they keep ; The long swath grows behind them, the grain sinks before. Oh, the band of strong cradlers! what art can do more ? And here come the busy binders ; How they toil and struggle after ! No time for merry song, No time for laughter. With ready rake and nimble fingers They tie the stately sheaf ; Ill luck to him who lingers, Little hope of near relief.

" But hark ! the rattling Reaper ; Here it comes with noisy din, And the grain sinks before it Like good intentions before sin ! One rides upon the Reaper, Waving oft the Reaper's wand,

And every pass he makes Lays a sheaf upon the land.

Now, now, O busy binders ! Now bind with might and main,

For the ground must all be cleared Ere the Reaper comes again. Thus, in ever lessening circles, Round and round the field they go, Nor must the weary, panting horses Yield a jot to failing forces, Nor slacken to a pace more slow. O, band of strong cradlers, with regular sweep, Your vocation is gone; 'tis the Reaper must reap. Now ever as the fields are shorn, And studded thick with shocks of corn, Comes and goes the laboring wain, Groaning 'neath the loaded grain ; While with heedful care, alone, The stacker builds the lofty cone; Until, complete, the tapering stack Defies the tempest and the rack.

156

HISTORY OF KALAMAZOO COUNTY, MICHIGAN.

" But yonder, lo! what huge machine? Drawn by steeds, at least sixteen ; Two by two, in lengthened line, With even step their strength combine; Four mounted drivers guide their course, And win from each an equal force.

" Now they turn the hither corner, And from the island near How the echoes of its music Strike shrill upon the ear ! What does the noisy monster Among the waving grain ? Here, step upon the platform, Where you can see it plain : A sack hangs at the hopper, And a steady stream runs in ; And the tyer must tie nimbly To be in time again.

See you what the mighty Harvester Does among the grain ? How with wide, majestic tread, Ever feeding, never fed, It moves along the plain. A waving field before it, And stubble all behind; The wheat given to the sack, The chaff given to the wind.

" Oh, Prairie Ronde at harvest time ! Is it not a merry place ?

And less so may it never be Through right and Heaven's grace !

May its peaceful fields and happy homes Remain forever, far

From the proud oppressor's step And the iron hoof of war; But yearly be the strife renewed O'er all the outstretched plain, With all the various enginery Upon the yellow grain.

"Such is the song that greets the harvest-morn When smiling Plenty fills her golden horn; So may we see, throughout this pleasant land, The rich, ripe fruits of Freedom's toiling hand."

The three following poems are by A. H. Stoddard, the Farmer Poet of Cooper.

POEM .*

"'Tis not to the victor returning from far With the spoils of the vanquished, sad trophies of war, That we come to give greeting ; we see in his train The cottage in ashes, the corse-covered plain. His God is Ambition, fierce, bloody, and grim ; We've no words of cheering or greeting for him. We come to give greeting, and honor, and cheers, To you, honored fathers, our Old Pioneers. For not like the conquering warrior you come, With flourish of trumpet and thunder of drum ; And the fields you have left are not covered with slain, But teeming with verdure and waving with grain; And the homes you have left are awake and alive With the labors of love like the buzzing bee-hive. With pride we may tell of the deeds you have done, Of the battles you've fought and the conquests you've won, For you are the men who with death-telling stroke Made war on the high-headed monarch of oak ; Who conquered, and wrought from the forest the spoil Of our beautiful fields, with your sweat and your toil ; Who laid the foundation and graded the way For all that our country can boast of to-day ;

* Read at the reunion of the County Pioneer Association, Kalama- zoo, August, 1876.

Its beautiful dwellings on hill-side and plain, Where plenty, and peace, and prosperity reign ; Its flourishing cities, our own with the rest, Fair Kalamazoo, brightest gem of the West.

" But the credit we give for this work of your lives Must be equally shared with your brave-hearted wives, For this a fact, which you may as well own, You ne'er would have conquered the forest alone ; And but for your wives you had all run away, Or perchance had gone wild and been savage to-day. When you turned from the conflict, toil-wearied at night, Who made your rude cabin look cheerful and bright ? And when you lay prostrate with sickness and pain, And your hot-fevered blood rushed like fire to your brain, Who stood by your side-do you think of it now ?- And smoothed your rough pillow and bathed your hot brow ?

"Nor yet to the pioneer farmers alone Must we give all the credit for what has been done : To all who have wrought with the hand or the head, To build up our country, or furnish it bread,- The preacher who pointed the pathway to God, The honest day-worker who carried the hod, The merchant, mechanic, aye, every one,- Let us credit them all for the good they have done. The dressmaker, even, who rigs up our wives (The stay of our homes and the light of our lives), Although in her efforts I very much fear She makes the dear creatures entirely too dear. And here 'tis but justice to mention his name Who built the first house on this beautiful plain, On soil which he gave us a tribute we'll pay To the memory of old Titus Bronson to-day.

" But where are your comrades, once trusted and tried, Who stood in this wilderness-war by your side ? Your ranks have grown thin, there are vacancies there ; Do you point to the churchyard to tell where they are ? The earth does not hold them; its mounds only show Where you laid their cold bodies to moulder below.

"You have stood by their sides in the chambers of death, When the fever-worn body lay gasping for breath, And the hand that you held grew more clammy and chill, Till the pulse ceased to beat, 'and forever grew still.' Did you catch the bright gleam that enkindled the eye With the last feeble pressure that bade you good-bye? And the quivering lip that was powerless to speak, As the dew-drops of death settled cold on the cheek ? It burned for a moment, then paled and was gone; The form lay before you, its tenant had flown ; The fire had departed forever and aye, And you carefully laid its cold ashes away. That light was immortal, that fire was divine, And will burn when yon Sun-God no longer shall shine. But where is the spirit ? Where now does it dwell ? Alas ! your sad poet is unable to tell. We hear of a land that is lovely and bright, Beyond the dark river, just out of our sight. We are nearing that river,-Time's uttermost shore,- Which sooner or later we all must pass o'er ; And we trust in that region of beauty and bliss There'll be a reunion more happy than this."

THE OLD-FASHIONED JOHNNY-CAKE.

" How sweet to my taste was the bread of my childhood, Which fond recollection recalls to my mind, When hungry I came from the school or the wildwood, An old-fashioned johnny-cake hoping to find.

" The old-fashioned fireplace, the kettle hung o'er it, Suspended by pot-hook from trammel or crane, With the old-fashioned johnny-cake baking before it, Are pictures my mem'ry will ever retain.

157

LITERARY.

" How nice from the amply-filled plate to receive it, As piece after piece took the road to my mouth ; There was no other bread could induce me to leave it, Though loaded with sweets from the far, sunny South.

"How different now from the days of my childhood I go to my dinner, dejected in mind, From my toil in the school-room, the field, or the wildwood, An old-fashioned johnny-cake never to find.

"And all they may cook of their new-fangled notions, The rarest and richest that wealth can afford, Can never awaken such pleasing emotions As an old-fashioned johnny-cake baked on a board.

"The moderns may boast of the world's onward movements, Its wondrous advances in science and arts ; And talk of refinement and moral improvement, To mend people's manners and better their hearts;

" But give me the health and the social enjoyment Those old-fashioned customs and times could afford, When men gained a living by honest employment, And fed upon johnny-cake baked on a board."

WHERE IS HEAVEN?

" Oft have I asked, as I have mused On life's mysterious round, From whence and where, and what am I, And whither am I bound ?

" There was an aged man advanced On Time's mysterious shore, Profound in wisdom, deeply skilled In theologic lore.

" The storms of more than ninety years Had fallen on his head; He seemed as one who stood between The living and the dead.

" With reverence for his hoary hair, His wisdom and his age, I sought his presence, and addressed This venerable sage :

"Canst thou not see, from thy far stand, Beyond the cold, dark wave That parts us from the unknown land, What lies beyond the grave ?

" If so, I pray, reveal to me What I so long to learn, The mystery of that bourne from whence No travelers return.

"Is there a heaven of perfect bliss Where happy spirits dwell, In some bright world far, far from this? And where, and what, is hell ?

" And tell me, oh, in mercy tell ! When Death's dark wave is crossed, Shall I embrace those friends again Whom I have loved and lost?

" The sage replied, 'Tis sweet for me To answer thy request; These things are hidden from our view, And doubtless for the best.

" But let this truth thy mind impress, Enough to know is given : Where goodness is is happiness, And happiness is heaven.

" And here, or in a future state, Wherever man may dwell, With wickedness is misery, And misery is hell."

POEMS BY GEORGE TORREY. "THE ABORIGINES.

" They passed away, that ancient race, A thousand years ago,- Swept from the earth-and scarce a trace Tells where their dust lies low.

"These prairies with their flowerets spread, These ' garden-beds' so green, These mounds of earth that hold their dead, Tell that such men have been.

" Rude, unrefined, perchance, their life Was spent in useful toil; Unskilled in arms, averse to strife, They tilled the fruitful soil.

" They reared their temples to the Sun, Their shrines to gods unknown, And ceremonial rites were done On the 'Sacrificial Stone.'

"Erewhile another race, more rude, Wild warrior-hunters, came From their far western solitude, Pursuing here their game.

" They found this peaceful, happy race Spread o'er a wide domain ; They laid their fields and temples waste, And swept them from the plain.

" Far south, beyond the mighty stream Which bore them on its tide, They passed : their history's a dream, Their name with them has died.

"No ' storied urn,' no sculptured stone, No written scroll of fame, To tell their deeds : these mounds alone Remain-without a name.

"They're gone; their untold legions swell The army of the dead. Unwept, unsung, their ashes dwell Unhonored where we tread.

" Perchance these prairies, where no sign Of tree or shrub is seen, Were covered with the oak and pine, The forest's king and queen.

" The Saxon race which came from far Beyond the dark-blue wave, Hither led on by Freedom's star, That guides the Free and Brave,

"Has grown a nation, which at length Has spread its flowing tide O'er the wide West, whose wealth and strength Fill its great heart with pride.

" And what shall be our monument When we have passed away ? What ' Iliad' shall the muse invent, Or history portray ?

" Would that some bard, like him of old Who sung of 'arts and arms,' Our nation's glory might enfold With the poet's fairy charms.

" Muse of Columbia's favored land, Some native bard inspire To wake, with glowing heart and hand, The long neglected lyre !"

"INDIAN NAMES.

"Along Algoma's rocky shore Roll the wild northern waves, Chanting sad dirges as they roar Around the red men's graves ;

158

HISTORY OF KALAMAZOO COUNTY, MICHIGAN.

And Michigan's dark bosom bears To Huron's wilder shore The mingled tide of many a stream Named by those men of yore.

" Muskegon, rolling down 'mid groves Of dark and stately pines, Where the dun deer undaunted roves Within their deep confines ; And Washtenong, whose valleys broad A golden harvest yields, Were homes where once the red man trod, Lord of these fertile fields.

" And thy sweet, sylvan, silvery tide, Ke-Kalamazoo, has seen Their clustered cabins by thy side, Their sports upon the green. Thou hast borne along their light canoe, And heard their war-whoop ring ; Did'st thou hear who named thee, Kalamazoo ? Was it chieftain, sage, or king ?

" It matters not his name or rank, Or whence thy baptism came; While thy swift waters lave their bank Shall live thy Indian name. Yes, Michigan hath many a name Graven on her virgin breast, To consecrate, for aye, their fame Whose bones are sunk to rest."

THE MICHIGAN PIONEER.#

"'Tis many a year since the bold pioneer In Michigan made his first dwelling ; And dainty and sweet was the bloom at his feet, When the bright vernal blossoms were swelling.

"The humming of bees was heard on the breeze, As through the wild bloom they were flying ; And the music of birds in the woodland was heard, Where the songsters their voices were trying.

" The wolves and the bears would start from their lairs When the partridge at sunset was drumming; And low on the ear of the young pioneer Came the drone of the May-beetle's humming.

" At sunrise their crow, sounding distant and low, Told of prairie-hens out in the gloaming ; While the turkey and deer, unaccustomed to fear, Through the glades of the forest were roaming.

"No rolling of drum to the woodland had come,- Only the brisk woodpecker rapping, As busily he drummed away on a tree And scattered the chips with his tapping.

"'Bob White' sang the quails, as the toiler split rails To fence in the field he was clearing ; And from many a tree came the wild melody Of the cat-bird and thrush to his hearing.

" He felled the great trees, and gave to the breeze Their smoke while the fallow was burning ; And plowed up the sods, and mellowed the clods, Which his teams with the plowshare were turning.

"Those teams were a sight for a poet's delight, With their long rows of horses and cattle; That with step slow and strong went a-marching along Like an army that goes out to battle.

"They all seemed to bow as the great breaking-plow Through the turf and the roots went a-cracking ; And heard the loud shout of the driver ring out, And the noise of the whip he was whacking.

* By F. Hodgman.

" At the setting of sun their labor was done, When the yokes and the chains ceased to rattle; They were off till the hum of the morrow was come, When the driver must search for his cattle.

"With the first peep of day he must hurry away Through the dew, which will give him a soaking, 'Till he finds by the bells the retreat in the dells Of the oxen he soon must be yoking.

" When his planting was done, and his crops had begun To show they were rapidly growing, He shouldered his scythe, and, with steps strong and blithe, Sped away to the marsh he was mowing.

" And there in the heat, where the snakes at his feet Oft startled his ears with their rattle, He toiled day by day, as he gathered the hay Which in winter he fed to his cattle.

"Though the prairie was fair, and the blossoms were rare, And the game through the forest was bounding, And Nature had done all she could for her sons, And her fruits all around were abounding,

"Yet trials and care found a place everywhere ; There was sickness and toil never ending ; For with hopes there were fears, and with joys there were tears, And with thanksgiving prayers were ascending.

" And worse than the snakes of the marsh were the shakes Of the 'ague,' which caught him at mowing; And each second day make him shiver away, While the ' chills' through his body were going.

" And then he must fight, both by day and by night, That his stock, and the crops he was raising, Should not fall a prey, or be taken away By the wild beasts he often was chasing.

" For the deer ate his wheat, and the bears stole his meat From the pen where his pigs were impounded ; And at even and morn the raccoons took his corn To the woods which his clearing surrounded.

" The foxes stole fowls, and often the howls Of the gray wolf were heard in his pasture, And he thought, with a sigh, of the sheep which must die, If to save them he sped not the faster.

" But as time passed along he grew rugged and strong, And conquered the foes that annoyed him ; With courage renewed the future he viewed, As he wrought out the tasks which employed him.

" He has cleared up the land, and built on each hand The school-house, the church, and the dwelling, And barns that are stored with a plentiful hoard,- All of wealth and prosperity telling.

"His voice has been heard in every good word Which has been for humanity spoken ; For justice and truth, and the culture of youth,- Its promises never were broken.

" The orchard and field now bountiful yield Him their fruitage, to add to his pleasures ; His grandchildren play at his feet by the way,- His proud, happy heart's dearest treasures.

" His tasks are now done, and at setting of sun The pioneer rests from his labors; The life he has spent is crowned with content, To the joy of his friends and his neighbors.

" All honor and cheer to the brave pioneer, Though he's turning again to his childhood ; His labors have made smiling fields of the glade,- A garden in place of the wildwood."

159

LITERARY.

AN INDIAN LEGEND .*

"On the bank of the river, about a mile below this place, t is pointed out a spot which is said to have been the scene of a battle fought near the middle of the last cen- tury between the Sioux and Ottawa Indians. According to tradition among the Indians, these tribes, after many years of feud and strife, met on the spot above mentioned, with all their warriors, to make a final decision of their difficulties. It seems that Wa-cous-ta, the chief of the Ottawas, had formed a plan of attack by night, in order that he might come upon the enemy unawares, and thus, taking them in an unprepared state, might the more easily and more securely accomplish his purpose. But the enemy learned the design through his own son, who, cherishing an affection for the daughter of the Sioux chief, ventured to the tent of her father on the night of the intended mas- sacre and privately warned the maiden of her danger, and besought her to seek safety in immediate flight. But she, considering her duty to her people and her kindred para- mount to the affections of a lover, instantly gave the alarm.

" The Sioux warriors, being put on their guard, silently awaited the approach of the enemy, who, advancing secretly and cautiously within a short distance of the Sioux tents, rushed on to their work with the soul-chilling war-whoop. But the enemy, forewarned, were prepared to receive them, which so completely surprised the Ottawas that they were compelled to retreat at the first onset ; but, being rallied by their chief, they returned to the contest, and after a long and bloody struggle succeeded in defeating the Sioux, losing, however, their chieftain, a warrior deserving the first rank among Indian heroes.

"The night wind sighed faintly its dirge through the trees, The cry of the owlet was borne on the breeze, And the scream of the eagle, in accents so fell, Intermingled its notes with the wild panther's yell. Darkly the storm-cloud was lowering around, Enshrouding all nature in darkness profound. More dreadful that hour, more dismal that gloom Than the soul-chilling horror that reigns at the tomb. But, behold ! See, the watch-fire is kindled afar ! Wacousta has lighted the beacon of war, And woe to the Sioux if the darkness of night Shall find him in slumber, unarmed for the fight ! For deep is the ire of the Ottawa chief When the hatchet is raised in revenge for his grief; And deadly the vengeance his victim shall feel When the wrongs of Wacousta have sharpened the steel.

" Ah! where is the Sioux while the death-fire burns bright ? Sees he not from the hill the red glare of its light? And where is the chief, when the foeman is nigh, Who shall rush to the fight with the dread battle-cry ? But, hark ! There's a wail of deep grief on the air,- In the accents of woe breaks that cry of despair. Say, why on the breeze comes the voice of lament, In the frenzy of anguish, from the dark Sioux tent ? Ah, list ! 'tis Wahcondah who entreats in that prayer. Wacousta, thy son is the suppliant there ; For oft he hath sworn to the bright Sioux maid The faith of the warrior, which but death shall invade. He comes to entreat that from danger afar The maiden will fly from the tempest of war.

* By Volney Hascall. + Kalamazoo.

# Mr. Hascall pronounces this name indiscriminately in one and two syllables.

But, true to her country when danger is near, She heeds not the warnings of peril or fear, And quick through the camp of the slumb'ring Sioux On the voice of the maiden the dread signal flew.

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History of Kalamazoo county, Michigan, Part 41

Author: Durant, Samuel W. comp Publication date: 1880 Publisher: Philadelphia. Everts & Abbott Number of Pages: 761

Author: Durant, Samuel W. comp
Publication date: 1880
Publisher: Philadelphia. Everts & Abbott
Number of Pages: 761