History of Macomb County, Michigan, Part 29

Author: Leeson, Michael A., [from old catalog] comp
Publication date: 1882
Publisher: Chicago, M. A. Leeson & co.
Number of Pages: 952

USA > Michigan > Macomb County > History of Macomb County, Michigan > Part 29

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).

Now the time occurred that I first saw Romeo, then the Horie Settlement; so when we had lived here long enough to have raised a little corn, a corn basket was needed, and none was known to be made nearer to us than the Hoxie settlement, so my brother and I, respectively ten and twelve years old, started for Romeo on foot, and procured a basket of one old Mr. Washburn. A frame house, I remember, was then being erected just behind a little oak tree, by one John B. Hollister, then our County Surveyor, and that same little oak tree is now standing in front of Mrs. Nelly Gray's residence.

I remember that when we got started for home the elements portended a thunder shower. We had been taught that to be in the woods at such a time was very dangerous. Soon we were overtaken by Esq. Lester, of Utica, on horseback, and to keep up with him was our aim ; therefore when his horse trotted, we trotted; but occasionally his horse would walk and then we could recuperate our wind. We heard him tell some one on the way that those were the smartest boys he ever saw, as they kept up with his horse all the way. In due time we reached home in safety.

The advantages for schooling in the neighborhood where we lived were poorer than in some other. The fourth town was then comparatively a thickly settled neighborhood, for within a mile from each other there were Geo. Hanscom, Geo. Willson, Dan'I and Jas. Miller, Elon Andrews, John Bennett, - Burlingham, Otis Lamb, and perhaps some others. When I would visit their school, I found the pu- pils much farther advanced in the rudimental branches than with us. Immediately after our arrival here, I commenced going one and a half miles to school, but with- in a month I was attacked with the ague and lay prostrate with it all that winter. A portion of one winter I remember going two and a half miles to a male teacher, Elias Scott. It was then I began to learn to write, and I think I wrote one or two

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love letters to a girl who was some years older than I was, who is now Mrs. Alvah Arnold. The last winter I remained at home, we had a school only one and a fourth miles away, taught by Miss Laura Hopkins, sister of the late Cyrus Hopkins, the veteran bell ringer of Romeo. This was in the winter of 1830-31, but my duties at home never allowed me to attend school very regular.

In June, 1831, I left home and engaged as clerk to P. & G. Leech, of Utica, who had recently come in and bought the mill property there, and also inaugurated a store. The following winter I attended a three months' school, taught by one P. B. Thurston, who subsequently became Judge of Probate for the County, and held the office a great number of years. He was counted a very worthy man and an efficient County officer. One little incident I will make mention of as occurring with some of my earliest experience after leaving home, to show the fortitude that may be cherished, and is far more often displayed in a new country than an older. one, and is probably engendered by the rudeness of a pioneer life. Early the fol- lowing spring I was sent by my employers to Mt. Clemens to collect a small account; when arriving at the North Branch I found that the bridge had been swept away, but a man with a canoe was there to ferry me across. I was directed to put the saddle in the canoe, and swim the horse ahead of us, and so save us the labor of paddling. The halter or bridle was too short to allow the horse to get be- yond the reach of the canoe, hence he was much frightened at the frequent contact with it it. The stream having extended far beyond its natural banks covered a flat of more shallow water. At this point the horse struck bottom, and made such powerful strides as to drag me from the canoe through the shallows to dry land. Now why did I not let go ? Because I feared the horse would give me the slip and be a greater hardship to recover him than to be drawn through the water, so I stuck to him and went on, made the collection in silver coin-about twenty-five dollars, and that weight of specie in my pantaloon pockets while on horseback, ap- peared to be a far greater annoyance than the wet clothes."

Mr. Owen paid a brilliant tribute to the deceased Abel Warren, and concluded his paper with a very apt reference to the pioneers of Macomb.

The following poetical comparison of the Past and the Present was written by J. E. Day, in 1874. It is a very faithful review, and must be of special interest in connection with this chapter :

In days gone by our dames and sires, Free from that pride which wealth inspires, With zeal which coming days will bless, Performed their toils in home-spun dress. The rustle of a silken gown, Was to their ears an unknown sound,

Save when some rare occasion fell As funeral or marriage bell, The rich brocade-the soft cashmere -- The glistening-flush the velvet dear, Were things of which they heard at times, By gossip brought from foreign climes.

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IIISTORY OF MACOMB COUNTY.

The matron's costume, clean and bright, Was home-spun linen, blue and white, Whose scanty folds were held in place, By linen string about the waist, Whose tidy pleats were kept in check By linen kerchief at the neck, Her feet were shod with heavy shoes, Made less for beanty than for use, Her bonnet, too, it may be said -- Was on and not behind her head.

His pants were tow and woolen mix't, In colors which her skill had fix't ; And made with all the house-wife's care, Not for adornment but to wear. His frock was made of heavy tow ; Came to the knees, or just below, Supplying place of coat or vest, Like charity, concealed the rest. Unconth in gait, or form, or looks, Untanght was he, in lore of books ; Unskilled was he, in ways to please ; Untanght in all the arts of ease ; Yet he was wise in all his toil, He knew the secrets of the soil ; He knew where best to plant his corn, He could presage the coming storm ; lle knew where wild fruits grew the best ; He knew where wild birds built their nest ; And large his heart-the poor confes't, The kindly feeling of the breast.

Yet we confess they had their pride, Thongh leaving much to virtue's side ; 'Twas his the glitt'ring ax to wield, Or daily plow the willing field. And many a rood of fertile land Confessed the power of his hand. And while he daily swung the ax, Her pride was in her field of flax ; And in her bright, well scoured room, And in her spinning-wheel and loom, And in her knots of woolen yarn, Ready to make the new or darn. For hung in festoons 'round the room, Where trophies of her wheel and loom, And still was heard, for days to come, The spinning-wheel's familiar hum. And as ber sturdy urchins grew, 'Twas all the music that they knew,

'Tis well remembered sound to me, 'Tis music of utility.

The honses which they lived in, too, No rules of architecture knew, The nnhewn trunks of trees supplied, Material to form its sides,

Laid up each other's ends across, And chinked between, with mud and moss. On these were poles, set up to take, A roof composed of " shanty shake." Two doors it had, a front and rear, A window on each side appears, And in one end-the other graced, A huge, old-fashioned, " fire-place," Whose fervent heat had often told, Expulsion to the winter's cold. And whose reflected, cheerful light, Oft changed to day the winter's night.

What fun to sit on winter days, Before that open fire-place, And see within the embers glow, Intricate fancies come and go, Or hear the crackling fagots sing The music of the Fire King, What feasts we children used to share, Acorns and chestnuts, wasted there. Or when more sumptuous feasts invite, The dancing pop-corn brown and white. Ilow oft I've thonght with childish joy, When I should cease to be a boy, When I should reach maturer life And mingle in its joys and strife. That time has come, and tanght the boy, Anticipation has the greater joy.

The hearth was stones, large, smooth and flat, And in the corner lay a mat, On which, before the blazing log, Reposed the drowsy hunting dog. And in the corner used to stand The bake-kettle, and frying-pan. The chimney-flue (for want of bricks) Was made of plastered mnd, and sticks, The floor was made of bass-wood slabs, Split ont and laid with ax and adze. The only jack-plane that it knew Was friction of the heel and toe. The only carpet at command Was daily made of soap and sand.

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The door was large, and wide, and hung On wooden hinges, creaked as it swung, Which we small youngsters hail'd as great And vainly tried to imitate, No plated knob, no shining latch, Was there the eye to catch, But if you would admittance heg The handle was a hickory peg. Hard by a string of wild deer's hide, The place of thumb-piece well supplied; Not always there as you might see, It filled the place of lock and key. For safety it was just the thing, You'd only to pull in the string.

Outside, a few steps from the door, With the hass-wood branches arched o'er, Where pig-weeds grew so tall and grand, The old brick oven used to stand. Upborn on rugged pillars three, In rude uncultured masonry. And underneath we used to keep Our treasures rare, in many a heap, It oft has been my childish care, The needed oven-wood to prepare, Four honest armfuls, fine and dry. E'er I could taste of cake or pie. Our mother then would place these sticks Within the solid arch of bricks, In order so the flames might crawl, With easy access through them all, And having fired gave no concern But let the crackling contents burn, Just twenty minutes by the clock. The fire was out, the oven hot. And, having scraped the ashes thin, The pastry ready to go in, Each loaf with skillful care was laid Upon the fire-shovel's blade, And with a firm and steady hand, In farthest corner made to stand. The loaves were placed in first of all And ranged against the outer wall, And then within this outside ring, In order ranged the smaller things, The walls threw out their ready heat The baking process was complete.

Sweet mem'ries hover round my heart, Of mysteries in the baking art,

Which under our fond mother's care, Weekly were enacted there. We knew when came the grand array For Tuesday was the baking day. Long years have come, and swiftly passed, Since Tuesday's fare was tasted last, And we may eat of viands rare, And sumptuous entertainments share, Partake of all that warms or cheers. May live to see an hundred years, Yet ne'er will taste such pies, or cake, As that old oven used to bake.

Within that arch we'd often look, And think, how in the holy book, We sometimes heard our father read,

How three just men of holy deed,

Were cast into an oven hot, And yet the flames had harmed them not.

We wondered much, yet failed to see Flow such strange story true could be. And comforting each other, said, That we were glad that king was dead.

Oh, childhood ' fraught with joy and pain, Thy years will never come again ; The joys of youth no more we see, Save in the light of memory. Yet let us keep, as best we may, These visions of the hy-gone day.

And think how in the times far back We've wandered from the narrow track, The path our infant feet have trod,

Forgetful of our fathers' God. Let's find once more the hopes, the fears, And fervency of early years, And mingle with life's sterner truth The "everlasting flowers " of youth.

Between the oven and the road, Beside the path the well-curb stood. On tip-toe raised, we used to peep Into the dark mysterious deep, And think how one poor foolish elf, Not long before, had drowned herself. Above the curb, the "sweep " was swung, On which a cedar pole was hung, With skill contrived, a strap and nail Arranged to take the oaken pail. On further end a block of wood, To keep the even balance good.

Lucy Me. Cannow

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HISTORY OF MACOMB COUNTY.

What joy 'twould be to-night to share The very best of liquor there.

Beside the well, on either hand, Large branching elm trees used to stand ; And from the lowest, largest limb With ropes and bark we made a swing. And there, on days when out of school, And when the sultry sun grew cool, Such joyous pastimes oft we had As makes the heart of childhood glad. Yet, sometimes, ere the play was done, Would sadly pause to think of one Whose tired feet had left the way In which we trod, one Summer day Had gone to find the thither shore Where childish griefs could come no more, And roam at will the happy fields Which unmolested pleasure yields.

Not dead to us, we thought that when Some days had passed, he'd come again ; And sometimes in the heat of game We would forget and speak his name ; And then, in hushed and solemn way, Would sit us down, forgetting play. And every day his merry plays, His golden hair, his gentle ways, His ringing langh, the clothes he wore, Came back upon us o'er and o'er. Oh, Mem'ry! Never weary with the past, Thy joys be mine while time shall last ; And when time's latest course has run, Thy deathless life has only just begun.

Back from the house, not many rods, Were barn and sheds, built up of logs. Whose ample floor and well-filled bay We thought were just the place for play. On one side were the stalls, where stood The meek eyed cattle, fat and good ; The other was the ample bay, Well-filled with nicely-salted hay. A row of boxes placed above, Sheltered a flock of rattling doves ; And outside, underneath the eaves, Were swallows' nests of mud and leaves.

Not all the arts which poets sing, Not all the lore which ages bring, 17

Could suit our varied wants so well, Or form a play-house with such skill. Such places in its holes to creep, Such chance to play at hide and seek, Such room our many games to play, Or jump upon the springing hay. We knew of every place where best

The cunning hen could hide her nest ; What joyous shout and sparkling eyes, When her shrill voice proclaims the prize.

With hasty step and merry din We took the glistening treasures in.

Down on a corner of the street, Where four right-angled highways meet, A few steps distant from the road, The little, old, log school-house stood ; Where, in the days long since gone by, We youngsters used to meet and try To con our various lessons o'er, The foretaste of a world of lore. The walls were low and washed with white, Four wide, low windows gave it light No " patent stove " the building graced, But a large, wide, stone-built fire-place. Whose fervent glow and steady heat Toasted our heads and froze our feet. Long desks along the walls were fixed ; No passage-ways were seen betwixt. The seats, pine slabs, with iron-wood pegs, Which answered in the place of legs. While "beating up" the lesson's track We to the teacher turned our back, At recitation, or when school was out, We'd only just to face about. The boys could easy make the change, But for the girls 'twas passing strange. The little urchins seated there Seemed high upborne into the air, From which their small feet dangled o'er In vain desire to reach the floor.

I mind me well how fared the school

· When under certain schoolma'am's rule, How oft for switches we would go, How oft the chalk-mark forced to toe, How oft the open palm extend And feel the walnut "rule " descend. And yet, what varied fun we took When she was busy with her book ;

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What skillful pictures we would make, Or draw her profile on the slate. With awful look and peaked nose, And hand upraised, as if for blows ; And sometimes, so engaged were we In this rare sport, we failed to see That the sharp schoolma'am's restless eyes Had seen, and marked it for her prize. It pleased her worst of all, we knew, Because they sometimes were so true.

Well, I am glad that in those days My feet were turned to learning's ways; Those early tasks, I plainly see, Were worth a world of wealth to me, Because they proved this precept true Ilow little of the world I knew,

And gave a quenchless thirst for more

Than shallow draught of learning's lore,

And made my wakening soul aspire To something better still, and higher.

That old log schoolhouse, rough and tried, The place of meeting-house supplied, Where weekly gathered, old and young, With sober face and silent tongue, To hear the thrilling story told, Which, oft repeated, grows not old, Forever new because divine, Of Christ, the Prince of David's line. These little temples here and there, Along our public thoroughfares, Are hot-beds, where the feeble plant Of learning gets its earliest start. 'Neath education's morning sun The budding process is begun, Till in its stretch of higher growth, It reaches to sublimer truth, Throws out the bud, the flower, the seed, Of holy thought, of noble deed. The mind of childhood can not be A long continued vacancy, There is no waste or barren soil Within the garden of the soul ; For if we fail to sow the seeds, Of virtuous thought and manly deeds, The wildest flowers will bloom within Of bitterness, and woe and sın.

Where are they now ? those girls and boys Who shared with me life's morning joys,

Alas for some, their forms are laid Beneath the churchyard's willow shade, Their footsteps now are heard no more Along Time's rocky sounding shore ; They've gone before to pluck at will The flowers that bloom on Zion's hill. Some hasted at the country's need, With willing heart and loyal speed, To help maintain the nation's laws, Or perish in the righteous cause. All honor to the " boys in blue," Who faced the breach for me and you ; The dear remembrance of the brave, Lives like the pine above their grave. Green he the grass and sweet the flowers, That wave above these friends of ours, And soft the sighing winds that surge Above their graves at Fredricksburg. Some plow in learning's classic soil, Some feel the sweat of farmer's toil, Some drive a country doctor's cart, Some drive a lawyer's plastic art. All hail ! whatever be your share In life, of labor or of care, Fresh courage take and ne'er forget That we are near each other yet. And as we gladly journey on,

Be this our purpose bright and strong,

That when life's days and nights are passed, We all may meet at home at last.

Now all is changed, no more we hear The sturdy stroke of pioneer. No more we see on morning breeze His blue smoke curling through the trees. No more in hazel brush is heard,

The shrill notes of the forest bird. Gone from the hut are dame and sire,

Quenched on the hearth their cheerful fire ; Gone is the cabin and the wood,

Gone are the elms from where they stood,

Gone is the nicely sanded room,

Gone is the spinning wheel and loom ; Sweet he their rest, since closed the strife, They heroes were in humble life. And wealth has brought in place of these The ways of luxury and ease, The thirst for fame, the love of self, The power of pride, the greed of pelf,

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HISTORY OF MACOMB COUNTY.

O'ershadow worth, and gain control O'er nobler feelings of the soul. And thus we mourn that coming days, Drive out the old simplicity of ways. We wish not for the hut again, Nor share of backwood's toil and pain ;

Vet much we wish that all might live,

Those simple rules which wisdom gives, Might see true worth more surely great. Than all the flimsy pride of State,

And then how surely should we be A race of true nobility.

CHAPTER XV.

PIONEER REMINISCENCES.

The character of the pioneers of Macomb, falls properly within the range of history. They lived in a region of exuberant fertility, where nature had scattered her blessings with a generous hand. The winding Riviere Aux Hurons, the beauti- ful forests, the fertile oak openings, the hard but happy labors of the husbandman and his family, and the bright hopes which burned, combined to impress a distinct character, to bestow a spirit of enterprise, a joyousness of hope and an independence of feeling. The community formed an admixture of many nations, characters, languages, conditions, and opinions. All the various Christian Gods had their worshippers. Pride and jealousy gave way to the natural yearnings of the human heart for society ; prejudices disappeared, they met half way and embraced ; and the society thus gradually organized became liberal, enlarged. unprejudiced, and natur- ally more affectionate, than a commune of people all similar in birth and character.

In the following pages these facts will appear more manifest. The tales of the olden time point out that time as one, where solidarity of interests marked the character of the people, and leave little doubt that the ideal of good will to man ruled in their hearts.

PIONEER MOTHERS.

What shall we say of the true woman-the pioneer woman of this country ? Ah! the Past, with its lights and shadows, its failures and its successes, its joys and its privations, is well remembered by the surviving pioneer, and happily in many instances by his children. Many a pioneer of the townships of this county has already gone to his rest on the hill, that gave to those, near and dear to him, a first outlook upon the pioneer life that was to come,-a life destined to develop these forces of the head and heart, forces, which, in the luxury and ease of an older civi- lization, rarely appear upon the surface of society.

It was not always the dark side of the facies which was turned toward the pioneer, for though many of the immigrants were rough, and in many instances un- godly ; yet manhood and womanhood were here in all their strength and beauty,

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and nowhere in the world of created intelligence did God's last, best gift to man, more clearly assume the character of a helpmate, than in the log cabin, and amid the rough and trying scenes, incidental to a home in the wilderness. Ever foremost in the work of civilization and progress, the pioneer woman-the true woman-was to-day physician, to-morrow nurse, and the following day teacher of the primitive school. Withal the woman was busily engaged in that wearisome round of house- hold work which knows no cessation. Early and late, all the year round, the pioneer woman acted her part well. From year to year, as through many privations and much new and strange experience of that necessity, which is the mother of in- vention, wife and husband joined hand to hand to work out under the green arches of the wilderness the true beginnings of Macomb County. To the pioneer mothers of Macomb honor belongs. The many who are gone to their rest left a memory to honor-treat the living mothers well and tenderly.

THE FIRST HOMES OF THE PEOPLE.

How natural to turn our eyes and thoughts back to the log cabin days, and con- trast them with the homes of the present time. Before us stands the old log cabin: Let us enter. Instinctively the head is uncovered in token of reverence to this relic of ancestral beginnings and early struggles. To the left is the deep, wide fire- place, in whose commodious space a group of children may sit by the fire, and up through the chimney you may count the stars ; while ghostly stories of witches and giants, and still more thrilling stories of Indians and wild beasts are whisperingly told, and shudderingly heard. On the great crane hang the old tea-kettle and the great iron pot. The huge shovel and tongs stand sentinel in either corner ; while the great andirons patiently wait for the huge back log. Over the fire-place hangs the trusty rifle ; on the right side of the hearth stands the spinning wheel : while in the farther end of the room is the loom looming up with a dignity peculiarly its own. Strings of drying apples and poles of drying pumpkins are overhead. Oppo- site the door by which you enter stands a huge deal table; by its side the dresser, with pewter plates and shining delf catching and reflecting the fire-place flame, as shields of armies do the sunshine. From the corner of its shelves coyly peep out the relics of former china. In a curtained corner, and hid from casnal sight, we find the mother's bed ; and under it the trundle-bed, while near them a ladder indi- cates a garret where the older children sleep. To the left of the fire-place, and in the corner opposite, the spinning wheel forms the mother's work-stand ; upon it lies the Holy Bible, evidently much used-its family record telling of parents and friends a long way off, and telling too of children

"Scattered like roses in bloom Some at the bridal, and some in the tomb."

T-

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Her spectacles as if just used are inserted between the leaves of her Bible, and tell of her purpose to return to its comforts when cares permit and duty is done. A stool, a bench, well notched, and whittled, and carved, and a few chairs complete the furniture of the room ; all these articles stand on a coarse, but well scoured floor. Let us for a moment watch the city visitors to this humble cabin. The city bride, innocent, thoughtless, and ignorant of labor and care, asks her city-bred husband : " Pray what savage has set this up?" Honestly confessing his ignorance, he replies, " I do not know." Then see the couple on whom age sets, frostly but kindly. First as they enter, they give a rapid glance about the cabin home, and then a mu- tual glance of eye to eye. Why do tears start and fill their eyes? Why do lips quiver ? There are many who know why; but who, that has not learned in the school of experience the full meaning of all these symbols of trials and privations, of loneliness and danger, can comprehend the story they tell to the pioneer ? Within this chinked and mud-daubed cabin, we read the first pages of our history, and as we retire through its low doorway, and note the heavy battened door with its wooden hinges, and its welcoming latch-string, is it strange that the outside scenes would seem to be but a dream. The cabin and the palace standing side by side in vivid contrast, tell the story of the people's progress-they are history and prophecy in one.

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History of Macomb County, Michigan, Part 29

Author: Leeson, Michael A., [from old catalog] comp Publication date: 1882 Publisher: Chicago, M. A. Leeson & co. Number of Pages: 952

Author: Leeson, Michael A., [from old catalog] comp
Publication date: 1882
Publisher: Chicago, M. A. Leeson & co.
Number of Pages: 952