Fortune's wheel

Contents

CHAP. ^^G=

I. The Beautiful River i

II. Joys of Childhood 12

Chapter I

Dear Reader. — Whoever you may be — I am writing this reminiscence of my childhood so you can see something of how Hfe was before and during " the Great RebelHon," in the Httle village where my childhood was passed in that long ago.

My life began nearly a half century ago in the state of New York, in a village on the beautiful St. Lawrence river, a stream no one can appreciate by written descriptions. To understand its beauty fully, one must be carried along on its bosom, through its rapids, among its islands, into its smooth water, thence onward until the great ocean is reached.

Between Lake Ontario and Ogdensburgh are the Thousand Islands, one of the most beautiful places in all the world.

Little green islands rise out of the water and lift their heads toward the blue sky, as though trying to ask the " Great World " to stop for a while and tell them the mystery of the onward rushing waters, and why they are there, hundreds and hundreds of them.

But the " Great World " passes on, drinking in the loveliness of the beautiful islands, and never once stopping, to whisper, to them, that ages and ages ago, oh, ever so many that no one knows how long it was, the continent of North America was not a bit as it is now, and the waters rested in other places or rushed and babbled over other river beds.

Then there came a change; and nature wore such a strange garb her old friends would never have known her. Many other changes came ; but we do not know how or when, the change was so mysterious, and the time so long ago.

Geology teaches many things, but the mystery of our world is locked so securely in the bosom of old mother nature, that we shall never know it all.

If you look on the map you will find that the Great Lakes form .a terrace, and that that grand cataract, Niagara Falls, is between two of them, and that the St. Lawrence river is the outlet of them all.

Well, away back ages and ages ago the water grew tired of being imprisoned on the high terrace and longed to return to the ocean, the home of all the waters; and it broke away from all restraint and rushed over the land anywhere and everywhere, in its mad race onward, digging out a channel for itself and where the rocks were too hard to be much affected by the onward rushing waters they were left ; and the river dug deep its channel right by their side ; and in time the rocks were covered with soil and verdure, and there were so many, they were called The Thousand Islands.

I wish I could describe them ; but who was ever able to describe the most beautiful things in nature? No one, so I will not try to describe them; but will only tell a few things about those beautiful, wonderful islands lying like emeralds and moss agates on the bosom of the mighty river.

Some rise right up out of the water and form a cone, others are flat and lie low as though nestling for rest and shelter in the embrace of the onward rushing waters ; some are covered with trees ; others are only velvety and green ; and on some are pretty dwellinghouses.

The Canadian shore has abrupt banks and one could see lovely homes peeping out from a wilderness of trees and shrubs, and, in some places there were steps leading down to the water, and a little wharf with a tiny skiff • moored thereby, all suggested a life of peace, pleasure and plenty. The American side looked so far away as seen from the steamer and the dark waters rushing along ; all form a picture in my memory never to be forgotten.

I am telling how it all looked to me years and years ago.

I know that many changes have come and on account of the extreme loveliness of the place there is a famous summer resort there now, and other child eyes are looking at a different dress which nature has been compelled to wear ; for all over our broad domain, people are pressing onward, building up cities and resorts and places for rest and recreation, and in a few short years places are so changed, that in going back to them we do not find the same place we left and there is something in our hearts that is akin to pain.

Between Ogdensburgh and the ocean are the rapids : three in number. In journeying down stream, the Lachine comes first. Here the waters rush along so swiftly that no steamer could ascend the river through them. But it is a pleasure never to be forgotten, to go down through them on a steamer, or small sailing craft, or better still, in a row boat; only one must have an experienced boatman to manage the boat.

I will describe the — " Rapid De Plaw " — a' localism — for I Hved by it for years and knew it well. The river was very wide at this point and unequally divided-^-by an island three miles long — into what were called the Little and Big rivers : the smaller one being on the American side. My father has told me that years before the smaller one was swifter in its race toward the ocean than the big one. But that was before my time and as I knew it it was a very placid stream.

When steamboats were invented and set afloat on our streams, they found one river that resisted their encroachments, and as they tried to steam up the rapids, the river seemed possessed with a very demon of fury and the boats were obliged to drop down stream. I remember a song my father used to sing of a boat whose boiler was blown up while trying to ascend the rapids.

Progressive man never rests, and when an obstacle comes in his way he will overcome it somehow. So men set their wits to work to outwit the river and determined to dig canals around the rapids.

The first attempt at the Rapid "DePlaw," was begun on the American side, the river being smaller at that point. But it was a failure for the engineers did not get the locks large enough to allow boats to pass, and the British government seized the opportunity the failure afforded and set men to digging on the Canadian side; and in time, but before my time, a dam was built between the island and mainland on the American side, then a drawbridge higher up, and still another bridge below the dam, but not quite reaching the island, it stopped near the old locks that were a failure — but with the dam and drawbridge the island was pretty well connected to the mainland and the turbulent waters set to rest.

This island three miles long and from one and a half wide in the widest place to only a half mile wide at a point where the earth had been worn away and formed a bay, called Ogden's Bay — was owned by Isaac Ogden an English gentleman. In the center of the island was his residence built of stone and in the style of all English manor houses. The grounds were magnificent with beautiful lawns sloping down to the river's brink, there were beds of flowers and flowering shrubs and blossoming trees and for a back ground the primeval forest reaching to the river on the west; and such a river as it was.

Away up near the head of the island the water was as smooth as glass, and one looking at it would think no ripple could disturb its surface. But just below and completely spanning the river from the island to the Canadian side were the boilers. We called them boilers because the water boiled and there seemed to be great caldrons below the surface heated by invisible fires ; and the waters boiled and twisted about like a living thing in pain. Then it leaped into the air artd tossed its spray in showers, as though in defiance of the chained demon below, who kept guard over the caldrons. Then the waters sped away down the river, leaping, tumbling, dashing and crashing, carrying everything on its bosom in a mad belter skelter, hurry skurry race toward the ocean. But below and miles down the river is the Long Sault, a rapids much more frightful than either of the two mentioned and the waters must be caught by another demon much more terrible than either of the two who keep guard over the Lachine and "De Flaw" rapids and the waters will be turned, and twisted, and tortured into agonies worse than before, then they will be released and glide peacefully on until they finally rest at home in the bosom of old ocean, the home of all the waters.

I will tell many more things about the beautiful river before finishing my reminiscence, for it played an important part in my young life. It was there a thing to dehght in. Its beauty never palled, and though we were forbidden and forbidden, we sought its cool, rippling, murmuring water every time we could steal away and get there.

When they built the dam between the island and the mainland, they left an opening near the shore of the mainland and built a canal along the shore, this gave the water an outlet through the canal and the dam was left perfectly dry and we could walk over to the island on it any time, and too, it furnished a shorter route, the drawbridge being higher up. We loved the dam much better than the bridge and never missed a chance to cross it, on our way to the island.

There was a large flouring mill at the head of the canal, and all along the canal and dam were mills, shops, factories and foundries.

We were acquainted with them all ; for we visited them as often as we could get the chance to do so. They were such curious places we were never tired of them, and wandered through them at our own sweet will — when we could steal away from parental rule.

There never was another such child's paradise as the island. It lay there like an enchanted land, resting on the bosorn of the beautiful river, a thing to allure, to charm, and to encourage disobedience in little children. For we could never resist it and went there every time wo got an opportunity. We even ran away to get there. There was a subtile something in the murmur of the rippling water lapping and caressing the shore; in the cool depths of the beautiful forest, in the orchards, barns, drives, and walks that drew us there as though a magnet were attracting us and we were helpless in its charm.

Oh, how many hours have I sat on the west bank of the beautiful island and watched the great ocean steamers, sailing vessels, and rafts of timber from the Canadian woods shoot the rapids, " De Plaw."

In life there are no such hours as come to childhood ;

no charm Hke wandering on the banks of a mighty river, one of nature's mysteries.

Now if you will come with me we will cross the dam and visit the lovely island. First we must climb these stairs for there is no other way of getting to the top. I will let you walk on the upper side where the water is lapping the very planks on which we are stepping, but it cannot come over and you need not fear.

On the other side it is many feet to the water below and sometimes folks are afraid of falling, so just walk on the upper side and look up and not down.

This large mill is a woolen factory. In there, they are spinning and weaving cloth. If we go inside we will see a spinning jenny and great looms for weaving ; but to-day we are going to the island and will not stop at any mill only the " Paper Mill ; " we never miss that. It is so curious we cannot pass it by. A door opens off from the dam and in the first room is the great vat for soaking the rags and that queer revolving thing in the center is the mill which grinds them into pulp. How awful they look and how horrid they smell? Can they really make paper from such filthy looking things ? Yes, we will go down these stairs and see the great machinery work and then we can see the paper coming out ; and it is as white as snow. There are girls to take the sheets as they are lopped off by the great knives. If we go up several flights of stairs we will see other girls sorting rags and see all sorts of machinery running, for there is a fiax mill in connection with this paper mill, though just what they do, I do not know. It is the paper making that seems to interest children more than anything else. But we must hurry away from this place and go straight to the island.

Now we are in the center of it and right before us is the manor house looking very imposing. It is four stories high. We cannot enter for it is a sacred precinct only open to the privileged few. I have been in some of the rooms. Children seem to get in everywhere. One of the housekeepers was a widow and her children lived with us a short time, and once when they went to see their mother I went too and she took me to see some of the rooms and they were very lovely with their rich hangings of silk and tapestry.

There is an excellent driveway across the island and we may stop in the woods.

What is that little enclosure? It is a cemetery where this rich and exclusive family bury their dead, and that tall monument is in memory of one son whose body lies on a Southern battle field. He was a Rebel officer and fell with the lost cause. The cemetery is beautifully kept and the large pansies look like guardian spirits keeping watch over the sleeping ones below. We will not disturb even a petal for there is something very sacred about burial places and ruthless indeed would the hand be which could remove a flower planted there by loving hands.

To-day we will journey down the island to the foot one and a half miles away. But we will see so many things of interest on the way perhaps we will not mind if we do get weary.

lo Fortune's Wheel

In going through this large orchard we may gather some harvest apples to eat: for the Bible says the stranger may gather to eat.

It was a beautiful custom the Jews had in the olden time, the planting of orchards for the stranger.

Here we find acres and acres of llax growing. How pretty it looks with its little blue blossom looking right straight up to heaven as though thanking the All Father, for tliis life of beauty and usefulness.

That red brick building is a farm house. The island is divided into three farms, and here the dairy is kept. We will ask the good girl at the door for a drink of milk. How delicious it tastes, the cows get only tamegrass to eat and there is no taint of feed. ■ Here are shade trees and places inviting us to rest. Now the path runs right by the river brink but the water down there is dark and treacherous.

Let us strike straight across the field and follow the road down ; now climb these bars and we are in an open field and just beyond, see that little house; a man by the name of Spurback lives there. He has one son, a tall, lanky, freckled-faced boy whose name is Emmanuel. When his mother took him to be christened, the good minister refused to perform the sacred rite unless she would change the name, which she refused to do. So the boy kept his name and went without the christening; that is how we children learned the meaning of the word Emmanuel, God with us.

Let us stand here at the foot of the island and look down stream. How far away the main land looks on

The Beautiful River ii

cither side and what a different appearance the river has.

On the Canadian side a turbulent flood never resting ; on the American side a placid stream inviting us to take a row on its bosom for it is at peace with all the world. Everywhere are small islands, the river is full of them and yes, I see a tiny boat wrestling with the turbulent flood. See it rise and fall on the swell of the waters ; but it won't go down for my father is at the oars, and when he comes near we will signal him to take us in.

Up go the tiny hands waving aloft the little white winged flags and father sees us and is coming this way.

He helps us in, asks how we have spent the day, tells his little stock of news — for he has been to the other side — and rejoices with us for so much of life's blessings.

An hour's ride takes us to the little wharf where we moor our boat. We scamper out and father gathers up the oars and with them across one shoulder, we clinging to the other hand — we climb the hill home. We are never afraid to enter when we have hold of father's hand.

Chapter II

I BELIEVE there was never a place in all the world that had more real good places for play than our village afforded. There was the island always, and then there was the river with its bridges, dam and canal. All along the dams were vats and flumes, mills and foundries. At some mills we played in the sawdust and at others simply watched the great machinery work. But the canal was a joy forever. There were sluices, flumes, mill races and waterfalls, for there was such a volume running in all the time, the canal was generally full and running over through the openings left for the purpose.

It was here we spent days and days never to be forgotten.

We built our tiny fleets and set them adrift in the eddies and watched their journey toward the ocean — which we had named the river. We waded and splashed water, we would get possession of some tiny boat, built by some large boy, who, like Peter the Great, aspired to ship building, said boat not large enough for one, but what cared we, the water was not deep right near the shore and if we tipped over a wetting did not matter much, so we kept near the shore and paddled about.

Sometimes these ])'\g ])oys would come upon us unawares and catch us with their boat, then we were scolded or " sassed," as the children called it. We were not afraid f(;r Seth was j^'enerally with us and every boy in the villa^i^e of his size paid him due respect. They could take their " old boat " ri^ht away and we could Iniild a raft. I rememl)er the raft wabbled about even worse than the boat and sometimes tipped up and let us in.

I suppose you think l;y tliis time that we had a very indulgent mother to let us come home in such sorry bedraj:(.L^led plight. But we did not — she always scolded and j:^enerally gave us a more lasting impression with a straj) which she had for the purpose. But she never sent us to bed without our supper as some mothers used to do.

Her punishments did not cure us of going to the river, our passion for going there was greater than our fear of mother. We used to say on the way home, when we were sure what awaited us, " A lickin don't last long and to kill us she dasent," and the very next day found us again at the river; if we could get the chance.

There were three creeks called First, Second and Third creeks; the first one being about a half mile from the village and when we had been forbidden the river for a certain time, we would get ofif and go to the creek.

The Catholic cemetery was on one side and the Protestant one on the other side, but higher up the creek. These cemeteries were a great trial to us and we regretted that our forefathers chose such a lovely spot to bury their dead; for next to the beautiful river this creek was the most charming place in our young world. The banks were abrupt and all' along were springs with tiny rivulets trickling down and, oh, the lovely flowers which grew along their banks— forget-me-nots, buttercups and violets of every wild kind.

In the summer the water was low, the bottom all rock and the creek full of fish. Bull Pouts, a funny looking fish with skin and no scales, perch and minnows are the ones I remember.

The boys caught fish. The girls waded and gathered flowers and we all sat on the mossy bank under the trees and told stories and watched the frogs play in the water.

We never went to this creek only in crowds for there were the two graveyards keeping guard on the hillside and only in numbers did we feel safe. We never entered the Catholic one, there was something so grewsome about it with its black crosses and unkept graves ; but sometimes we would climb the hill, get under the fence and enter the Protestant one. It was set out quite thickly with pine trees and the wind stirred the needles just enough to keep up that peculiar moaning always to be heard among the pines.

I never hear the phrase soughing of the wind, but I think of that little grave yard far away where many of my forefathers are wrapped in their last slumber. But the worst thing about this cemetery was a vault, a great, black, awful thing. In the early time some of these Ogdens had had it built to put their dead ones in, but it had not been opened for years. It was built of stone and was moss-grown and weather stained, the most grewsome thing that had ever crossed my young life. A place on top of the ground to put dead ones in; why not let them sleep in their natural place, the bosom of dear, old, mother earth? In my childhood I was very much afraid of the old vault. There were steps leading down to an iron door. Around the steps, was an iron railing with a tiny door-like gate ; both door and gate had great padlocks — and all were black and rusty.

The vault was about eight feet above the ground and the top covered with earth, grass, shrubs and flowers, but they were flowers born to blush — if not unseen — they were surely unsought, for I do not believe one of us would have gone up to gather them for a king's ransom. We used to say — " if we should go up to gather the flowers and the old vault would cave in " — then the awfulness would come upon us of how we would feel imprisoned there for the shortest possible time and we left the rest unsaid and hurried away as though pursued by spirits.

Down the creek the sweet flags grew and the banks were fringed with willows. In the spring we dug sweet-flag and gathered sticks covered with pussy willows. Artichokes grew in the back end of every lot and in the spring we dug them to eat.

Each season had its joys. In winter we had the ice for months; and snow and drift had each a joy awaiting us. In summer we played ball, a different l6 Fortune's Wheel

game than I see now-a-days. We called it Long Dutch. This way of playing ball was better than one and two ** old cats," for in Long Dutch every one could take a part.

Then we had marbles, jackstones, mumble peg, and kite flying. We walked on stilts, climbed trees, rolled hoops, and jumped the rope.

Our family vehicle was a big wheelbarrow and many a ride had we when father had leisure to trundle us about. When we would hear the thunder rolling and see the black clouds gathering we loved to get out the wheelbarrow, put up the wooden sides, get in and raise a big umbrella and then tell stories and riddles and repeat rhymes until the storm burst upon us, then scamper into the house.

When we played with other children, I do not remember going to their homes very many times. We usually got together out of doors and trooped off to some favorite resort and there spent the time allotted to play. There were sand hills and old ruined buildings where we spent many a happy hour.

The house where great-grandmother had lived — she was the second settler in the village — had been burnt years before ; but the old ruin was there ; for the walls had been built of stone and lime and the fire could not consume that and the walls were standing; and there was a magnificent view of the river from the old ruin, and then the lilacs and roses were running wild about the old place and the strawberries grew in abundance in the grass. So we were never tired of going out to that old ruin.

We would generally start out eight or ten of us and go right out to the old place and promise we would play there until time to return, then go straight home. But the river was so inviting and the temptation so great, we usually forgot our promise and wandered down to the edge, and finally wound up at the head of the canal. There was a bridge there, and this bridge ended at the door of a great flouring mill. Here we would stand and watch the water run into the canal; and what a dangerous place it was, there was no railing around the bridge and the water was so deep, it looked green and rushed in with a roar and splash and we could hear it rushing through to the vv^heel which turned the stones. If we had fallen in, nothing could have saved us — we would have been beyond the power and might of mortal man.

When we would grow tired of watching this, we had forgotten our promise, or, if not forgotten, had bolder grown, and went behind a foundry where there was a little fountain formed in some way, by a pipe being connected with the canal above, and by the time this had begun to stale we had lost all thought of the promise and took off our shoes and stockings and played along down the canal, wading across the mill races, hurrying by the litde waterfalls and ending in getting wet. Night would begin to settle down, and we with frocks and trowsers wet half way up, and shoes in hand, would climb the hill home; and take with what grace we could muster the consequences of our folly; and it was generally, a good strapping argument in favor of keeping away from the river.

And then we had the shop. In winter, father worked at his trade, that of cooper. He made barrels and tubs of many varieties and when he would get a good many made up, would hire a horse and sleigh and go among the farmers and exchange his barrels, butter firkins and tubs for their farm produce. F?ither was the kindest man in all the world and was never too busy to have us about him, so while he worked we played and were never in his way. There was a large old-fashioned chimney in the shop and we would pile the fire with shavings and other refuse from the work bench and do anything we wanted tq. We kept store and trimmed the two little windows with all kinds of things called merchandise. Sometimes we were milliners and then the windows looked funny enough with their display of hats and bonnets in the very latest fashion; for no one had ever seen any thing like them before.

There was one thing in the old shop that fascinated me. I will try and describe it. Over the old chimney hung one picture. I do not know why it was there unless to keep before the minds of any men who might work there the thought that death was on their track and after that the judgment. The picture was a dual one. On one side was a man with horns and long tail and something of a spike in the end of it. He had a pitchfork in his hand and was surrounded by fire and smoke. His flesh was so thin, his ribs could be plainly seen and he had the most diabolical expression on his face I ever remember to have seen anywhere in all my life. A grinning, satisfied look as though some one was suffering intense pain and he was rejoicing. On die other side was the face of a man with eyes meekly upturned toward heaven ; there was a summer sky and white clouds floating overhead. An atmosphere of peace seemed to pervade this part of the picture, but no one ever explained the picture to me and it took me years and years to grasp its full significance.