USA > Ohio > Miami County > Piqua > The first century of Piqua, Ohio > Part 26
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A block house was built on what is now Water street, large enough to contain all the people in the settlement. It was so pierced with port holes that it would enable the flint locks of the men within to tell upon the Indians attempting to break through the stockade.
Afterwards Hugh Scott and Nancy Landon were married and went to begin their pioneer life together in the old home.
Did ever any old home ring more cheerfully with the sports and merriments of a dozen or more happier children?
The picture of that old homestead is a pleasant memory to one who romped through it as a little child.
It was furnished in an old-time fashion. The four-post bed- stead with its valance, bureau and stand made from wild cherry. Upon the wall a tall, slender mirror framed in darkened gilt. In the broad, old-fashioned kitchen the odd corner cupboard, the table with its toothsome burden of apples, lighted with candles, and the snuffers were there, too, which in this day would be a curiosity to many.
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In the stream at the foot of the hill the children used to wade to catch minnows in an old sieve, or they gazed longingly on the brilliant blue flags "whose banners waved defiantly just out of reach," or made mud pies at the stile.
Inside was the big fireplace, and placed upon the ponder- ous andirons the big black log. "Blazing hearthstones" had a meaning in those bygone days at which we can only guess. In the evening when the log glowed in the fireplace and flashing lights of blue and gold shimmered over the wood, we children would gather around begging for stories of the long ago. It seemed as if we must have seen it all.
The chills played up and down my back when she told how the wolves howled mournfully in the forest, and sometimes would steal into the barn-yard, and every night they would have to shut up all the creatures, for they manifested too persistent fondness for fresh lamb.
We never wearied of the Indian stories she used to tell us, and whenever she began would huddle close together with that delicious sense of danger which children so keenly enjoy, and peep furtively around lest some wily redskin might be hidden amid the deep shadows cast upon the walls and in the corners of the room by the flickering firelight. We dreaded when it came bed time and our slumbers perhaps were slightly stirred by the chant of Indian maidens or the war-whoop of the savage.
This is one of the stories as grandma told it:
In the big fireplace hung crane and pot-hooks on which were cooked the famous "boiled dinners" of our ancestors.
One can imagine the odor of the cooking vegetables as it came through the windows. The Indians lurking near must have sniffed appreciateingly the smells of good things be ing prepared for the white man's dinner, for it was a common thing for them to enter the house begging for something to eat. Some- times they wouldn't ask, but picking up the meal sack would empty it out and carry it away with them.
One big Indian was very fond of corn bread and butter- milk, but he came so often as to be troublesome, and one day my great-aunt gave him so much that he lay down on the floor and rolled in misery. Grandma was frightened, for if anything should happen to him she knew the Indians would come and kill the whole family in revenge, but after a while he went away and
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never came back again. One day, standing with her back to- wards the door, a tomahawk went whizzing through the air and fastened in the wall just above her head. Turning she saw an Indian in his paint and feathers standing in the doorway well pleased with his effort to frigten her by his warlike display.
Once an Indian pulled out her comb and then danced around her lifting up her hair and pretending that he was going to scalp her. It must have been a trying ordeal, but as she would not show any fear he went away signing his pleasure at the "white squaw's" bravery.
This is only a few of the many she told us, but we will tell you of but one more.
Some of the Indians were very friendly and often stopped at the old home on their way to and fro from their villages to Piqua.
One evening a party of Indians who had taken too much "firewater" came in and by their actions so frightened the family that they left the room. Grandfather did not dare take down his gun, for that would have been a signal for a fight, and he knew they would not hesitate to murder him, so he went out and cut a switch and carried it in and gave them a switching. They did not resent this and a few strokes from the switch soon quieted them. The next day he met the Indian chief and told him what he had done. He said "it served the dogs right."
She told us the great rejoicing over Perry's victory and in each tiny pane of glass in her home gleamed a piece of lighted candle to commemorate the victory.
A shadow lay upon Hull's name and we will never forget the contempt she manifested when she spoke of his surrender. E. G. S.
Mr. Editor: The mission of married women in the olden time was to keep the domestic wheels well oiled, and to prepare with their own hands the old-time dinner. As there were no stoves, all the cooking had to be done over the open fireplace, and it is a wonder the cooks were not often devoured by the flames. In my grandfather's home was the wide stone hearth where coals could be drawn out and the corn bread baked, and the pots kept slowly simmering away from the fierceness of blaze.
There were no matches, so it was necessary to have tinder and flint and a bit of steel with which to strike a light.
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The last thing at night was to "bury the fire" so that in the early morning they could find in the gray ashes the great bed of glowing coals which could be coaxed into a blaze with a little kindling. Failing in that the only thing left to do was to make an early journey to the nearest neighbor-perhaps a half a mile away-to ask "the loan of a shovelful of coals."
In these days of brilliant arc lights and other wonderful illuminations, it is interesting to remember that almost the only light used in the kitchen of an evening was a home-made "tallow dip."
I remember when a child of watching the fascinating process of candle-making.
Ranged along the room would be two long poles parallel to each other and supported on the backs of chairs. Across these poles rested short sticks, and doubled over these sticks were twisted lengths of candle-wick. Taking a stickful of wicks they were dipped into immense kettles of melted tallow that hung in the fireplace. They were raised again, coated with grease, and put back on the poles to cool. This process was repeated until they were of the desired size.
"Boughten" sugar could not be indulged in to any extent, so the maple tree was made to furnish the household "sweeten- ing."
The late snows were known as "sugar snows." The freezing nights followed by the sunny mornings in the early spring was good sugar making weather. Sometimes when the thaw set in traveling over the road to the "sugar camp" was much better talked about than experienced. Often it was so muddy the girls would have to walk on stilts. They had a merry time "waiting upon the trees and tending the kettles." Parties from the village often visited the camp and enjoyed the pleasure of a "sugar pic- nic"-"stirring off," as it was called.
Corn was also prepared for food by boiling it with a bag of hardwood ashes to soften and hull it.
All the clothing was made at home, and many a homespun suit was the choicest product of the wife's dye pot.
The girl who did not know something of the spinning wheel was thought to be deficient in her education. No prettier pic- ture can be imagined than that of the fair maiden who walked back and forth before the big fireplace
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"Spinning wool as white as snow, Then gathered off the fleecy yarn, In skeins upon the reel."
Married women most always wore caps, and the young faces looked very quaint framed in the white border.
Calico reticules were very fashionable. They were deco- rated with stars and figures made by first stringing cucumber or musk-melon seeds and then forming them into the shape most desired. Calico cost as much then as silk does today.
Shoes were made in pursuance of the best medical recipe ever written : "Keep the head cool and the feet dry and warm." A pair of shoes must last a year, but the material was so stout and thick that they lasted. The seams were sewed on the out- side, back and forth, with a wax end. They had leather strings. Every Saturday night the shoes were greased with tallow to look nice for Sunday. Sometimes they took the soot from the under side of the cooking vessels and mixing it with water used it for blacking.
Many carried their shoes to the church in summer sitting on a long bench outside to put them on before going inside. There were no washing machines or washboards; they always used to rub the clothes with the hands.
Grandfather made the first wash-board by hand that was used in Piqua, and people looked askance at it and laughed be- cause they thought it was a new-fangled notion.
Clothes pins of today were "clothes boys" then.
When anyone died the clock was stopped, and the looking- glass covered with a towel and turned to the wall until after the funeral.
Perhaps you may have some of the letters of old times to show. They were folded in queer shapes, with a blank page outside for the address to be written upon it, and finally sealed with wax. The mail was generally carried on horseback, but postage cost too much to send many letters.
Notwithstanding their hardships they had many merry- makings.
Sometimes the women of the neighborhood would meet to- gether for an afternoon tea. Each had her knitting work, and the long blue stocking grew apace as the shining needles flew back and forth while they engaged in friendly gossip.
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The "quilting bee" was a thing of joy in feminine circles. The housewife made a gala day for her friends, and they all gathered around the frame and quilted the livelong day.
It was considered a great compliment to be called a "good quilter."
The housewife displayed with pride her pile of quilts of many patterns; among them the "Star," the "Inn," the "Wild Goose Chase," and all declared they were "just the handsomest" they ever saw.
Then considerable romance used to attach to the husking bee. The great barn was lighted with candles, heaps of golden corn filled the floor, and many a man and women recalled with pleasure the finding of the read ear of corn and the enjoyable privilege which it insured the lucky finder.
There was no lodge or club in those days, the church was "the only thing." My grandfather was one of nine to organize the First Presbyterian church in Piqua, and he used always to "sit up front" so that he could both see and hear the preacher.
The church was a large building on the south side of Water street. The four windows on each side had the tiny panes, the regulation glass of the times. On each of the four posts in the church was a tin candlestick, the lower part like an old-fash- ioned "patty pan," the rim surrounded with scallops. There was the same kind of a candlestick between the windows, and a black streak went up to the ceiling from the smoke. The altar was rounding, the pulpit the same shape, both were painted white, then at the top was a heavy railing painted green.
The pews were one step higher than the aisle, each entered by a door that fastened with a button. One could have napped unseen in this retreat. Sometimes when there were very large families the pews were very full, then a long narrow stool was put in for the children.
The prayer was nearly as long as a sermon today. Mr. Coe would preach two hours, then say, "there would be thirty minutes intermission." Those who lived at a distance did not go home, but went out into the old grave-yard to eat their lunch.
The capacious reticules of the women contained a bountiful supply of biscuit, and maybe seed cakes, enough for all. Then they took a drink of water, drawn from the well by an anti- quated old well sweep-a long pole with a block on the end.
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The women had a few minutes of friendly chat, while the men strove to give ecclesiastical color to worldly gossip, and the young folks talked of things not in the sermon. Then they all went back to the church to listen to another sermon two hours' long. The ministers would line the hymn, then say "The clerks will raise the tune."
Instead of the light, catchy songs of the present they had the grand old hymns of Watts, and the services of the church contin- ually rang in the soul-stirring strains of "Greenville" and "He- bron."
The catechism took the place of the easy Bible lessons of today. The children were expected to memorize all the answers. Sometimes the minister would call at the home and there would be a grand review of the whole. Those children of an earlier generation were very much like those of today, for if they caught a glimpse of the minister in time they were nowhere to be found until too late for the lesson in the catechism.
It all calls to mind Adella Green's verses :
"Strict Sundays at the hill top church, Staid deacons in their pews; The preacher in his place Discoursing gospel news."
In the Presbyterian church they had a small piece of black lead which was called a "token." These were always given out the Saturday before communion, as no one could commune with- out one of these tokens.
The M. E. church gave out love feast tickets. The faithful pastor of those early days stood in small danger of a congestion of his worldly goods, with a large family and a small salary to keep them on. The members of the Methodist church gave twenty-five cents, or its value, every three months. It was called the "Quarterage."
My grandfather's home was the mecca toward which all couples on matrimony bent would wend their way. He was jus- tice of the peace for many years, and as in the early days there was no minister in Piqua who had a license to marry people, he performed that office.
Many amusing incidents happened. One day a German came and was married and just one week afterwards he came back alone and said he was tired of his wife and wanted him to "un- marry him."
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It has almost gone out of fashion to be neighborly. There is no running in for a few moments' friendly chat, and how often the assertion is made with a quite a lofty air, "I do not know my next door neighbor." In those early days there were always neighborhood ties, and the sympathies and help that those ties bring. The people were very hospitable, sharing their best with even the passing traveler. A familiar sight was wagons covered with white canvas drawn by four horses wearing bells. Trav- eling slowly westward they often stopped to camp near grand- father's home. Often he would invite them in to stay all night, giving them plenty to eat without any charge. They really had no friends. What has been said of another city can as well be applied to Piqua when it was just a little village of very nar- row limits.
"If anybody in those early days knew of little orphans, whose parents had been 'sculped by the Injuns,' or any wanderers with no roof over their heads except coonskin caps, they just took them in and made them welcome to all the side meat and 'pone' they could eat, with mush and milk and sassafras tea, and maple molasses thrown in."
One day a tragedy was enacted across the Miami river. What had been the Dillbone home was then no longer, and those who went over to investigate found only a pile of smouldering logs, but no sign of living being. Search was made and the bodies of both father and mother were found murdered by the Indians, while the children were found hidden in the bushes for safety. Kind hearts were ready to care for the homeless orphan children.
My grandfather took one of the little girls to his own home and kept her for a long time until friends came for her. Her name and age were written in the family Bible with the names of his own children.
The men who lived in the new land were friends and at all times willing and glad to help each other. When a man wanted to build a house a "bee" was made and the "raising" was an event of local importance, for all the neighbors near and far turned out and helped. A little log school-house on Water street was the temple of learning to which the children of Piqua trudged for their first days of "schooling."
My aunt, Mrs. McKinney, used often to tell in an amusing manner of her school days spent at this old school-house. She
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recited again in the old-time style her first lesson. Slowly slylla- bled this is what she said : "Let-no-man-put off the-law of God. My joy is in Him all-the-day. O may I not-go in the way-of bad men," closing with the old-fashioned courtesy before returning to her seat. A little later, at Johnston's school-house, the little ones sat under the watchful eye of schoolmaster McCain. He prayed three times a day, and always prayed with his eyes open, and many a small girl was obliged to repress her giggles as she saw the teacher seeking here and there the occasion of some rest- lessness during the long petition, and woe to the unlucky young- ster not paying attention, for he would stop praying and take after him with a sycamore switch. Always when a child met any one on the street she must make a courtesy, or "their man- ners," as it was called.
Markets were far away, and though they had been near those first settlers had little to carry them. Butter sold for ten cents a pound, eggs for three cents a dozen, and apples for a "fip" a bushel. Sometimes they made a long, weary trip in a flat- boat to the distant market at New Orleans. "New Orleans was farther away to these pioneers then, than is Australia to us."
Goods were imported in wagons from Cincinnati. The bed of the wagon was like a canoe, and each was drawn by from four to six horses. All the horses wore bells.
Blazed pathways through the forest contributed the sole avenue of transportation. Underfoot the roads were rough and beset by the perils of breakdowns and sticking in the mud, and the team that pulled the best would get an extra set of bells.
The brilliant opening of the canal to navigation was a red- letter day in the history of Piqua, for then one could take his choice, to visit Cincinnati either by stage or packet boat. The latter was considered the very acme of the luxury of travel in those far-away days, and people who wished to "broaden their minds by travel" frequently took the trip. One of the day- dreams of my childhood-never realized-was to go to Cincin- nati on the canal.
The day that the "Emigrant" made the first trip people came for miles to see the wonderful sight. Many braved the dangers of the raging canal on the trial trip. "Jimmie" Simp- son, one of the quaint, well-known characters of Piqua, said : "If the Emigrant went to the bottom he would rescue some of the ladies."
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While goods were imported in wagons, exports consisted of cattle and hogs who carried themselves to market. It would seem odd to see a drove of geese going by like cattle, but Mr. James Scott sometimes took a flock of hundreds of geese to the market at South Bend, Ind.
1840 is often spoken of as the "Singing Campaign." The famous "Tippecanoe and Tyler, too," was one of the songs, and not long ago I heard an old gentleman from Ohio singing one of the songs he learned at that time.
Then it will ever be memorable in the history of the country as the "log cabin and hard cider campaign." My grandfather was a staunch Whig, and wore a hunter's suit which was made from white linen, then colored black by Mr. Milts, the hatter. There was a procession a mile long. One canoe cut out of a tree, drawn by twenty oxen, contained forty people. Hard cider by the barrel was on the wagons and as free as water.
Years have passed since the Shawnees danced their last war dance. "The Miami murmurs its story of a hundred years' of civilization." The humble ox-cart of our forefathers has given way to the automobile; by magic transformation electricity has taken the place of candle light. The little backwoods hamlet has become the site of a beautiful city. Faster and faster are pass- ing the dear old grandmothers, in kerchiefs and caps, sitting by the fireside clicking their knitting needles in the old-time homes. We love to think of it all, but we do not sigh for the good old days, for one would find the absence of many things very inconvenient in these days of conventionalities. When you think of the trials and hardships of the pioneer days, you thank your stars that you were not "old colonial," or even belonged to the beginning of the century of which we have been telling, but live in the comfortable twentieth century, in the year 1904.
ELLA GILL SEDGWICK.
PIQUA OF 50 YEARS AGO
RECALLED BY MR. ARTHUR W. CROSBY, WHO SPENT BOYHOOD HERE
Boston, Mass., January 25, 1913.
To the Editor of The Piqua Daily Call, I'iqua, Ohio.
Dear Sir: Copies of The Piqua Daily Call sent me a few weeks ago stirred up old memories of the town, once so familiar but of which I have seen nothing and heard little in more than
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44 years. Being in a reminiscent frame of mind I am inclined to "obey that impulse" and give your readers a few impressions, as I recall them, of Piqua as I knew it in the days just before and during the Civil war.
First, as to the town itself. It was a quiet, sleepy old place in those days, the word "hustle" not having yet "arrived." I can scarcely recall any material change or improvement in the ap- pearance or condition during the 14 years that I was a resident.
On the west side of the town, the section in which I lived, there was but a narrow belt of houses on the west side of Broad- way, except along Texas street, (Park avenue), where they ex- tended farther out. Between the town and the hills were the well-tilled farms of Matthew Caldwell and Ben Merryweather.
North and northwest of the city, adjoining the corporation line, was the farm of old George Johnson, the terror of small boys and trespassers. Johnson's woods were a favorite resort on Sundays and holidays for all classes of pleasure seekers. I think I have heard that these woods now constitute a part of your park system.
Opposite these woods, on the Versailles pike, I once wit- nessed an attempt on the part of Sam Garvey, the sheriff, to ar- rest an alleged runaway slave, a stalwart young mulatto who had been in the neighborhood but a few days. The negro drew a knife and threatened the sheriff who, thinking, perhaps, that "discretion is the better part of valor," climbed into his buggy and drove back to town. The intended victim was not seen in the vicinity again and the fact of his escape was a matter for rejoicing in our family, my parents being abolitionists. This in- cident occurred about 1856, as near as I can recall, and made a lasting impression.
Many of the stirring events peculiar to the presidential cam- paign of 1856 are well remembered by the writer, who was then in his tenth year. Among the political speakers of that day I especially recall that stalwart old war-horse, Ben Wade, also John Sherman, Columbus Delano and others.
One feature of that campaign I have never seen equalled since: the matter of flag-poles. The town was full of them. From our home on the hill we could count as many as 30 or more. The Democratic poles were readily distinguished from the Re- publican by having a bush at the top.
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While goods were imported in wagons, exports consisted of cattle and hogs who carried themselves to market. It would seem odd to see a drove of geese going by like cattle, but Mr. James Scott sometimes took a flock of hundreds of geese to the market at South Bend, Ind.
1840 is often spoken of as the "Singing Campaign." The famous "Tippecanoe and Tyler, too," was one of the songs, and not long ago I heard an old gentleman from Ohio singing one of the songs he learned at that time.
Then it will ever be memorable in the history of the country as the "log cabin and hard cider campaign." My grandfather was a staunch Whig, and wore a hunter's suit which was made from white linen, then colored black by Mr. Milts, the hatter. There was a procession a mile long. One canoe cut out of a tree, drawn by twenty oxen, contained forty people. Hard cider by the barrel was on the wagons and as free as water.
Years have passed since the Shawnees danced their last war dance. "The Miami murmurs its story of a hundred years' of civilization." The humble ox-cart of our forefathers has given way to the automobile; by magic transformation electricity has taken the place of candle light. The little backwoods hamlet has become the site of a beautiful city. Faster and faster are pass- ing the dear old grandmothers, in kerchiefs and caps, sitting by the fireside clicking their knitting needles in the old-time homes. We love to think of it all, but we do not sigh for the good old days, for one would find the absence of many things very inconvenient in these days of conventionalities. When you think of the trials and hardships of the pioneer days, you thank your stars that you were not "old colonial," or even belonged to the beginning of the century of which we have been telling, but live in the comfortable twentieth century, in the year 1904.
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