USA > Michigan > Saginaw County > History of Saginaw County, Michigan; historical, commercial, biographical, Volume I > Part 18
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" But, my fellow pioneers, we will not be here to see the full development of all the resources of the Saginaw Valley, for accord- ing to the common course of nature, in a few more days or years the places that knew us here on earth will know us no more for- ever; and may those days and years be so spent that, when the summons comes to call us from these scenes, which we have so loved and cherished, we shall be ready; having a well-grounded hope of meeting our dear ones who have gone before, in the man- sions above, where there will be no more parting, where our blessed Savior has gone to prepare a place for those who love and serve Him."
REMINISCENCES BY HON. W. R. M'CORMICK.
" My father removed with his family from Albany, N. Y., to Michigan, in the summer of 1832. I was then a boy of 10 years. We came by canal to Buffalo. From there we crossed the lake in the steamer 'Superior.' My father paid $50 for a steerage passage to Detroit, where we arrived the first of August. Detroit
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was then but a small place, not nearly as large as Bay City is now. Here he rented some rooms for his family until he could go into the country and find a location for a farm. By the advice of the late John R. Williams, an old Albanian who was living in Detroit, he decided to go to Saginaw. After seeing his family settled, he started with my two brothers, Robert and the late James J., for Saginaw, with a horse and wagon which we had brought with us. It was some time before we heard from them; my mother became quite anxious. At length James returned with the horse and wagon, accompanied by a young man whose name was Miller. This was the first time I ever saw the honored President of our society. My father wrote to my mother that he had bought a piece of land containing 125 acres, of a Mr. Ewing, a half- breed title, on the north side of the river and east of Saginaw street, now in the city of Flint, comprising at present a portion of the 1st ward of that city, for $125.
"My mother hired a man by the name of Mosher with his team to take the family and household goods to Flint river, as it was then called. We took our own horse and wagon, and were three days in reaching Grand Blanc. We could go no farther with the team, as this was the terininus of the wagon road. There was a bush road cut on the Indian trail down to the Flint river, by which sleighs had gone through in the winter. My mother paid off the teamster, and he returned to Detroit. We here left what little household goods we liad, and the next morning started for the Flint river, my mother and the smaller children riding in the wagon, and the rest of us going afoot. We had to cut away the brush and trees on each side of the trail to let our wagon pass through. It took us all day to reach the Thread, which is one and a half miles south of Flint river, and a hard day's work it was, although the distance accomplished was but six miles. Here we moved into a little log house until my father could build some- thing suitable to live in on the place he had bought. With the assistance of my brothers he soon built a house on the north bank of the river, and on the east side of what is now Saginaw street, near where the north end of the bridge now is. John Todd lived on the south bend of the river, and on the west side of Saginaw street. The late Judge Stowe lived about 40 rods below on the north bank of the river, in the old Indian trading house of Jacob Smith. These three houses constituted what is now the city of Flint.
" After getting his family settled, my father turned his attention to securing provisions for the winter. There was plenty of venison to be got of the Indians, but there was no pork in that part of the country; so he and George Oliver, now of East Saginaw, started down the Flint in a canoe for Saginaw, to try to buy some pork, and at the same time to see the country. They were gone 10 or 12 days. They finally bought some pork of a man by the name of McClelland, I believe. They then commenced their return, and on the way up the river camped on the old ' Indian Field,' about
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seven miles south of what is now Bridgeport Center, and about 14 miles from Saginaw City by the present road. My father took a great fancy to this old Indian field, which contained about 150 acres, without a stump or a stone and ready for the plow, where he could raise enough to support his family. The Indians had left years before because the grub worms had eaten off their corn. They said that the Great Spirit had sent them as a curse on the land. They therefore left the place, and made new corn-fields farther up the river. On my father's return, he told my mother that he would sell his place at Flint at the first opportunity, and would remove down the river on the old Indian fields, where he could raise better and more extensive crops.
" This year Rufus W. Stevens moved from Grand Blanc to Flint, and James Cronk built a log house half-way between the Flint and Thread. The late Judge Davenport, of this city, had built a small log house near Hamilton's saw-mill, but had left it and removed back to Grand Blanc. In this building the first school was started; the floor was made of split basswood logs, and the roof was made of basswood logs hollowed out, overlapping one an- other. In one end was a large stick chimney and a window; the rest of the light furnished to that primitive school-house came down the chimney. In the rear and on the river bank was about an acre of cleared land, an old Indian camping ground. This was our play-ground. The scholars consisted of Leander, Albert and Zebediah Stevens, Corydon, Walter and Abigail Cronk, Edwin Todd, Adaline and Emeline Stow, William R., Ann, Elizabeth and Sarah McCormick. The boys, as a general thing, were full of mischief and hard on clothes. Our mothers were all visiting one day at Mrs. Stevens', and they came to the conclusion that they could keep no pants on us, without they dressed us in buckskin breeches. The next week six of us came out in our new pants. At first we felt very proud of them, but the feeling of pride did not last long, for opposite our play-ground there were rapids in the river, six or eight inches deep, and in our play we used to catch the girls, carry them into the rapids, and dip their feet into the water; for we all went barefooted in those days. Sometimes the girls would get the best of us, when they would push us into the river, buckskin breeches and all.
" Any old settler knows the effect of water on buckskin, and can appreciate how we would look when our pants got dry. They be- gan to skrink until they got up to just below the knees. At the bend of the knee they stuck out as big as your two fists, but at that part, known in strict parliamentary language as the unmen- tionables, they stuck out like the hump on a camel's back ; else- where they were skin-tight. They called us the buckskin raga- muffins.
"Our teacher was once taken sick, and a young woman who had lately come into the place volunteered to teach in his stead; she weighed nearly two hundred, had a ' bran new' calico gown, and a high back comb which stuck up about six inches above her lead.
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Of this she felt quite proud. I recollect hearing the women say she was dressed too finely for a school ma'am. She was middling tall and looked like a perfect Amazon. She opened the school and said that she understood we were a hard lot of boys, but she was going to lay down her rules, and the first one that broke them should be punished. She hield in her hand a pine stick about one and a half inches square and about two feet long, something like a policeman's club, but larger. One of her rules was that no scholar should spit on that puncheon floor. This was unnecessary, as we could spit in the cracks, which were two or three inches wide. I sat next to the chimney, which, with the hearth, took up about one-quarter of the school-room. The boys were all looking at me to see how I would take the new order of things; so I made a pro- digious effort and spit in the fire. This achievement made all the scholars laugh. Just in front of the hearth and across the room was a low bench for the smaller children, on which there were some children at the time. Amazon called me up between this seat and the fire-place, and said she would teach me not to disobey her orders. She told me to hold out my hand; I did so, and when the big stick descended, I caught it and threw it into the fire. At that she seized me by the collar, when I gave her a push back. Her feet caught against the seat where the little ones sat, and over she went, down among the frightened small-fry. I am sorry to say that elegant high comb was smashed all to smithers. She was up in a minute, and when she saw the damage that had been done, her rage knew no bounds; she caught me by the collar and the ampler part of my buckskin breeches and pitched me clear across the room, my head striking against the logs on the other side, pro- ducing an astonishing astronomical revelation. I never saw more stars at one time than suddenly glimmered through those logs. I dodged her and ran out of the door. The boys always said they knew why my buckskin breeches were enlarged to such extrava- gant dimensions, so far exceeding my mother's calculations. I waited outside, and in a few minutes the scholars all came out, saying the school ma'am had dismissed school. This was the last of her teaching; so you see how I graduated with distinction.
"My father sold his place to a man by the name of Smith, son of Jacob Smith, the Indian trader, for six hundred dollars, who afterward sold it to Mr. Paine, now of Flint. My father thought he had made a great speculation. I understand this property is now worth over $200,000. We then moved down the river to the Indian field spoken of before, and arrived at that place on the second day, unloading our canoes after dark. We had no place to sleep, but we went to work and built a large fire and made a tent of blankets for my mother and the little children. I recol- lect a circumstance that night, which made me feel very bad at the time, and which I cannot even now recall without a sense of pain. My mother was sitting on a log close to the fire crying; we asked her what was the matter, she said she had never thought she would come to tliis, -no roof to cover her and her babes, for at
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that time some of the children were quite small. She had known 'better times', as they say. My father had been the owner of a handsome estate near Albany, and the home over which my mother presided was as delightful as any which at that early day graced the banks of the noble Hudson. It was a fate that a mother's heart could not easily bear,-to see that beautiful home sold to satisfy the debts of a New York broker, for whom my fa- ther had undersigned; to see the toils of a life-time brought to ruin; to see the hopes of the future all struck down by one rude and cruel blow, and to turn her face and steps toward the great wilderness of the West, there to seek, with such strength as may be left, to partially retrieve the fortunes that had been so suddenly wasted to redeem another's name and obligations. Hard, hard indeed, was it for her when the darkness of that memorable night surrounded her in the great forests, and she wept because there was no roof to shelter her from the weather!
"The next morning we all went to work and on the second day we had quite a comfortable shanty to live in. We then began the construction of a log house, which we soon finished, when we took down our shanty and moved into the house, where we lived many years. Our first year's crop was excellent. The second year we sold 1,000 bushels of corn to the American Fur Co., to be taken to Lake Superior for the Indians. The only draw-back we had was in converting our grain into flour. A grist-mill had been built at the Thread, one and a half miles south of Flint. We had to take our grain in a canoe up the river some 35 miles, and then get it drawn to the inill and back to the river, and then come down the river home. It usually took us four days to go to mill and back, camping out every night, and the hardest kind of work at that. This work always fell on my brother James and myself; for, though a boy, I could steer a canoe, and my brother could tow it over the rapids with a rope. Our feet used to get very sore walking in the water so much. When winter came on it was impossible to go to the inill, as there was no road. So in the winter evenings, we all took turns pounding corn in a mortar made in the end of a log of wood, sawed about three feet long, with a hole in one end to pound corn in, and similar to what the Indians used for the same purpose in those days.
"Many of the old settlers of Saginaw will recollect how in coming down the river they would make calculations to reach our house to stay all night, without camping out, and how happy they were when they got there, for at that time it was the only place . between Flint and Saginaw where they could stay without camp- ing out.
"There was nothing but a trail, or bush road, between Flint and Saginaw, and part of the year it was impassable, and especially for ladies; consequently most of the travel went up and down the river in canoes and skiffs.
"In 1835, my father went back to Albany, his native place, and was 11 days in reaching his destination. He considered it a
Edward O Donnell
י.
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quick passage. This was before the age of railroads. When he returned, he brought a mill something like the old-fashioned cof- fee-mill, but five times as large. The hopper would hold about a peck, and had a handle on each side. This was a great thing in those days, for with it we could grind a bushel of corn in an hour. We now threw away the old mortar, and stopped going to mill, as we had a mill of our own. This year we had two neighbors, and they used to come in the evenings to grind their corn at our mill, which was worth its weight in gold to that little settlement.
"A circumstance happened at this time that I will give, if you will have the patience to hear me. My father, being of a poetical turn of mind, the day after he came back from the East, sat down on the bank of the river and composed the following verses, which I have taken from his note book:
POEM.
" Down the banks of Flint river,- This beautiful stream Where my cottage remains, -- I've returned home again ; And who, in his senses, Can help but believe
That this was the garden Of Adam and Eve ?
" Here the fields yet remain, With the corn-hills in view,
And the bones we dig up Which Cain no doubt slew ; And the soil is so fertile We can but believe
That this was the garden Of Adam and Eve.
" Some apple-trees here yet, As relics remain,
To show that a gardener Once thrived on this plain, And in those fine days, Ere a snake could deceive, How happy here lived Old Adam and Eve!
" The natives we saw here Were forced from their plain By a curse which they say Here yet does remain ; And in all their looks We can plainly perceive
That these are the descendants Of Adam and Eve.
" Here the cherubim stood With their wings widely spread, Lest Adam should enter And eat up that bread. Here the wild sporting deer Yet the hunters deceive, That once furnished bacon For Adam and Eve.
12
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" Here the lofty black walnut With its boughs spreading wide, And the elm and the hackberry Flourished in pride ; And a mound gently rises, Whereon we perceive
There once stood the altar Of Adam and Eve.
" But far from this place Have those characters flew.
And we bid them a lasting And farewell adieu. In confidence thinking, And still shall I believe
That this was the garden Of Adam and Eve.
" In 1836 (this was the wild-cat time) the country was overrun with persons looking for land; in fact, the people had gone ' land crazy.' My father's house was crowded with land speculators, and as there were only three beds in the old log house, it was neces- sary to make what is called a field-bed, before the old-fashioned fire-place, that would hold from 10 to 15. On one occasion we had got out of flour: so my father started my brother James and myself to Saginaw, in a canoe for some. At that time there were three drift-woods in the river-one 60 feet, one 35 and one 12 rods long. Around these we had to draw our canoe, and carry what we had. At Saginaw we purchased two barrels offlour, for which we paid $18 per barrel. On our return it commenced raining, and rained all day. We paddled till late in the night up the Flint river, to find land high enough to permit us to build a fire, dry ourselves and lie down. But we did not sleep long, for in the middle of the night the water rose so that our camping ground was under water. We had to take to our canoe, and sit in it until day- light so we could see to go ahead. We soon arrived at the drift-woods. Here we had another obstacle to contend withi. How to get our flour around was a question, as the mud and water was four inches deep; and carry the barrels we could not. There was no other way but to roll them around in the mud and water. We arrived at home that night, with our two barrels of flour covered all over with a coating of mud. The next winter my father sold his crop of corn to parties in Saginaw, for $1.50 per bushel. As usual my brother James and myself drew it down on the ice to Saginaw, and got our pay in bills on the Flint Rapids Bank.
" A few days after our return home, my father started for Flint, and found after his arrival that the Flint Rapids Bank was a wild- cat concern, and had failed a day or two before. Thus was all our hard year's labor gone. In the fall of 1837, my father sent me to Saginaw to school. The only school-mates I then had, who are now within the jurisdiction of this society, were Michael Bailey, of Bay City, and Walter Cronk, of the city of Flint. The rest are all gone. I was to board with Major Mosley, and to do chores night and morning for my board. Major Mosley lived in one of the
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old block houses inside the fort. This fort was located where the Taylor House now stands, and part of the block east of it. It was then the highest ground near the river, but is now graded down. Thomas Simpson, alias Sixabogo, also lived inside the fort. I believe he has a son living here yet, by the name of John Simp- son.
"The school-house, if I recollect rightly, stood where the jail stands now. I forget the first teacher's name. He had to quit, as the boys were too hard cases and ran the school to suit themselves. Thomas Simpson, now of California, was the ring-leader. Our next teacher was Horace S. Beach. I understand he is yet liv- ing, and is a farmer on the Tittabawassee. Mr. Beach was a kind- hearted man, and an excellent teacher. He had a lot of hard boys to contend with, but he was equal to the emergency, and soon brought order out of chaos. I will relate an incident that occurred in the winter of 1838. Walter Cronk was living with his uncle, Judge Davenport, and going to school. Walter and I fell out about something while in the school-room. He said he would whip me when school let out for nooning. So while going out of the door, he gave me a kick, which pitched me headlong off the icy steps. This got my Scotch up, and at it we went. Walter was more than a match for me, but accidentally I got my hand in his neckerchief, and before he was aware of it, I had blackened both of his eyes. He got me down, and was paying me back with interest, when the master came out, and marched us both into the school-house. He told us then to go home, and he would settle with us after dinner; but Walter's eyes looked so bad he was ashamed to go home for dinner, and stayed at school. At this time, south of where the court-house now is, there was a thicket of blue beeches.
"I took a hasty dinner, and hurried back to school, where I found Walter, and made up friends; but we were, meantime, glancing out of the back window looking for the master. It was not long before we saw him coming out of the blue-beech thicket, with five good-sized blue beeches over his shoulder. The boys all shouted we would catch it. They need not have told us that, for we had found it out before on several occasions. We had learned from past experiences what kind of a man we had to deal with. The master came in, sat down, and very coolly commenced trim- ming his blue beeches. I looked at Walter, and he at me. We knew our hour had come. He called the school, and then said: 'Boys, step forward; I want to settle this little affair!' He wanted to know what we had to say why we should not be punished. By this time Walter's eyes were swollen so he could hardly see. I said I did not think I ought to be punished, for I did not begin the fight; and as for Walter, judging from the looks of his eyes, he had been punished enough already. 'Well,' says the master, 'I have a proposition to make. You see those whips, and you see those six cords of maple wood at the door; you can cut that wood at recess or noon-times, or settle things now!' I did not like the idea of 'settling things now;' I had tried that before; so I said I
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would cut the wood. Walter partly concluded he would 'settle things now;' but on second thought, as the master held up one of those blue beeches, with the remembrance of past experiences, he concluded to help saw the wood. My father had sent an Indian down the day before to tell me to come home, and help with the spring work. At recess that afternoon, we commenced our job on the six cords of wood, I sawing and Walter splitting, while the boys all stood around laughing at us. That night I got Thomas Simpson to bring my books out of school, and the next morning I started for home with the Indian. Some two months afterward, I came down to Saginaw. At noon-time I thought I would step over and see the boys. There was Walter sawing wood. He said he had jumped the job three or four times, and every time he had got a whipping. Finally he had concluded to finish it up.
"A few years ago, I was talking with an old friend in the city of Flint, and he said, 'Have you seen Walter Cronk?' Ireplied, 'No; not in over 25 years!' 'There he is now,' he said, 'coming up the street. See if he will know you.' When he came up, my friend said, ' Walter, do you know this man?' He looked at me a mo- ment, and said, 'Yes. He made me saw six cords of wood over 30 years ago, and I got three whippings besides.' Walter and I have been, and continue to be, the best of friends ever since our school-boy fight nearly 40 years ago.
"In the winter of 1837-'8, Mr. Beach, the school-master, very kindly offered to teach us to sing, evenings, if we would get up a class. We accordingly formed a class of 12 scholars, six girls and six boys. Among the girls was one whom I will call Sally. She was homely, her parents were very poor, and she could not dress as well as the rest. As a consequence, she was very much slighted by the rest of the girls. It was no more than gallant that we should see the girls home after school, but none of the boys wanted to go home with Sally. The first two or three evenings she went home alone. This we thought would not do; so we agreed to go out in the hall and draw cuts, to see who should go home with Sally; and I was the unlucky individual. We continued to draw cuts, and four times out of five it fell to my lot to go home with Sally. At last I began to think Sally was not so bad-looking after all. Then I told the boys I did not care to draw cuts any more; that I would take care of Sally. Sally is now one of the most highly respected ladies in the Saginaw Valley, and is at the top of the ladder, while most of those who felt themselves above her are at the bottom.
" My father continued to live in what was called the 'Garden of Eden ' until 1841, when he and my brother James J. bought out Capt. B. K. Hall's interest in the 'Old Portsmouth steam- mill,' formerly built by Judge Miller and others. Captain Hall had been for many years of his life commander of a packet ship on the ocean; thinking that he could make his fortune lumbering, he removed to Portsmouth, but because of hard times and want of experience, he lost all his property. He sent his family back to
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Cambridgeport, Mass., and remained all winter with my father settling up his affairs. He was of a pious turn of mind, full of fun, especially with children, and had seen much of the world. My little brothers and sisters became very much attached to him dur- ing the winter he lived with us. Many of the old settlers recollect Capt. Hall. With your permission, I will read you a letter from my father to Captain Hall, after he had returned East and taken command of his vessel:
OLD SHIP.
" On Eden's garden yet we live, Where Providence us plenty give ; I say, my children, silence all; I'm going to write to Captain Hall.
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