When neighbors were neighbors; a story of love and life in olden days

Front matter

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Foreword

I WROTE this book because I did not see how I could help it. I had long possessed an intimate knowledge of at least one rural community, which I knew, not as an outside observer, but from personal experience. I was born there, was a pupil in its schools, attended its churches, shared in its sports, took part in its industries, and entered into its political, social, and religious life. It and like communities have already quite passed away. I felt irresistibly impelled to give to others the vivid picture of my boyhood home, which still glowingly lingers within my own mind, lest in an unexpected moment it should perish forever.

So I have as faithfully as possible transferred that picture to the printed page. I have tried to present every phase of the life of that primitive country neighborhood, all of its industrial, intellectual, social, political, and religious activities ; all of its sturdy virtues, and, as charitably as I could, its petty faults, some of which were as ludicrous as they were vexatious.

Had I the power. I would immortalize the love that united forever the hearts of John Erskine and Aunt Lucy. It shines out in every part of my story, and vi FOREWORD

lights up the close of it with a more than earthly radiance. Nor should we fail to note that in neighborhoods like this we discover the rugged foundation virtues from which is derived all that is most valuable and stable in our national life.

Hoping that my story may be both instructive and entertaining, I commit this child of my brain and heart to the public, whose verdict, in the long run, is always just.

Galusha Anderson.

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Chapter I

In the first quarter of the nineteenth century, in a new and straggling village of what was then regarded the far west, although it was east of Lake Erie, there lived a sturdy young man by the name of John Erskine. His health was perfect. He stood full six feet in his stockings, was broad-shouldered, with muscles like iron. His great frame was compact and symmetrical, his under jaw square and strong, his hps straight and firmly set, his hair coarse and black, and from under his heavy eyebrows gleamed small, bluish-hazel eyes.

Of the pioneer community to which he belonged, he was one of the most energetic and enterprising. He was able and ready to do whatever was demanded. His ringing ax drove back the primeval forest. He plowed and planted, and reaped the abundant harvests that grew from the virgin soil. He split rails, made fences, laid stone walls, dug and stoned wells and built log houses.

But while he worked incessantly, he accumulated little or no property for himself. He was one of nine children. His father, a sort of happy-go-lucky Scotchman, a Presbyterian elder, a justice of the peace and a cobbler, needed what his children could earn to meet the multiplying necessities of his numerous family. Still, John did not rebel against his lot. Endowed with large benevolence, the service that he rendered his father's household was always free and hearty.

United with his benevolence was unflinching courage. No difficulties daunted him. no dangers terrified him. While he feared God, he never feared the face of clay. Near the close of the Avar of 1812, just as soon as his age permitted, he enlisted as a private in the army, marched Avith his regiment to RuflFalo, but before he had been under fire in the field, peace was declared. He laid down his flint-lock musket with deep regret that he had been denied the privilege of taking part in at least one pitched battle.

In enduring the manifold hardships of a frontier life he was greatly helped by his abundant humor. This he seemed to have inherited from his father. He saw the ludicrous side of the most adverse circumstances. While naturally sedate, some humorous suggestion would call forth his hearty laughter. In later life his reminiscences were largely of the humorous incidents and situations that had been woven into his experience, and he so portrayed them that all who heard shared in his contagious mirth.

His educational advantages were very poor. He had the privilege of spending only a few weeks in the school of his pioneer settlement. The elementary books studied were crude and the teacher was still cruder. He did however, in school and out — chiefly out — learn to read and write, to add, subtract, multiply and divide. During his whole life he read but a very few books. Among his favorites were the Bible and Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. He at times dipped into Josephus and the State statutes. He read, not very diligently, a weekly religious, and a weekly political paper. But scant as his education was he spoke his mother tongue, with the exception of a very few words and phrases, quite correctly. In fact, in the best sense he was an educated man. He thought consecutively and expressed his thought clearly. But his discipline of mind was acquired in mastering the things that he was called upon to do, rather than in learning the contents of books.

Feeling his deficiencies, he was unusually modest. He often deprecated his lack of ability and knowledge. Over and over again he said, and meant every word of it, "I never knew much." Unused to society, he was awkward, bashful and reticent when by chance he found himself drawn into some social gathering. While he had native talent, which, under more favorable circumstances, would have enabled him successfully to command an army, or adorn a judgeship, he shrank from the society of his peers, and when thrown among them was usually only a silent listener ; but that in intellectual insight and grasp he was at least their equal was evident from his just and lucid criticism of their views, when without restraint he conversed with those whom he loved under his ow-n roof.

Now there came into the pioneer village, where John Erskine lived, an attractive and efficient young woman by the name of Lucy Webster. She like John was ready for any service at home, and also often took responsible positions in the households of her neighbors. She was expert in all kinds of housework. She washed, cooked, baked, spun and wove, and whatever she did was thoroughly and neatly done. Her education in books like John's was meagre, but she was more self-confident and self-assertive than he. Without conceit, she was conscious of her own power, and so felt quite at home in any society. Easy and graceful in manner, she became the favorite of the village.

She and the bashful John chanced for a few weeks to be serving the same family ; he in work on the farm, she in the house. During the day they occasionally met, and at meal-time sat at the same table. Though embarrassed he always greeted her with genuine courtesy, for deep down in his heart he was a true gentleman. Her winsomeness somehow caught his eye and touched his heart. He said but little, but she chatted freely while he listened with feelings which to him were altogether strange. He grew unusually self-conscious ; he keenly felt his awkwardness ; he hardly knew what to do with his hands and feet, and when he spoke he scarcely appreciated what he was saying. To him the meals became a fascinating ordeal. He came to them with misgiving, but he would not have missed them for the world. What the spell was which had fallen upon him he did not yet know. She had observed his coyness and embarrassment whenever they met, and understood it.

An incident connected with her service now revealed to John for the first time her native shrewdness, tact and hatred of injustice, and awoke within him the most ardent admiration for her. Their employer was a slaveholder. The gradual emancipation act of the State had left him still one poor negro slave. When in a passion, as he often was, he was bitterly cruel to his helpless chattel, whipping him with a large rawhide till his back was welted and bleeding. The suffering slave told Lucy Webster his doleful tale. She at once said, " When you get the wood ready for heating the brick oven, put the rawhide with it and your master will never get hold of it again." " But," said the darky, " I'se 'fraid he'll kill me." But she said, " You needn't be afraid ; I'll stand between you and all harm." So on baking day that dreaded whip went ifp in flame and smoke. Soon after the master in hot wrath, wishing to castigate his black slave, fussing and fuming, looked in vain for his cruel whip. In his long search, his anger gradually cooling, he left Sambo unchastised. Lucy and John knew and kept the secret and rejoiced together over at least the temporary defeat of oppression.

Weeks passed by. John Erskine had at last found out what ailed him. He loved Lucy Webster and lonsred to tell her so. Still he feared that that might be presumption, so he kept what he thought to be a secret locked up in his heart. He lay awake nights and thought about her, and when through sheer weariness he fell asleep she illumined his dreams. Every time he saw her the fire in his heart became hotter. One evening, when their day's toil was over, they met, as if by chance, under some locust trees near the house. The air was deliciouslv cool, the heavens were cloudless, and the full moon shone brightly. They talked of what they had been doing, and spoke of the village gossip. To converse with each other even about such commonplace things gave them unwonted pleasure ; still it fell far short of satisfying the deep craving of their hearts. It was growing late. Their conversation must soon end. The earnest, hesitating John, summoning all the powers of his will, by a tremendous effort, declared to Lucy his tender passion. But this did not surprise her ; for weeks she had been hoping and expecting that he would make this confession. She was no flirt ; but sincere and straightforward in every fibre of her being. So at once she frankly made known her love for him.

Their love now projected itself upon every object around them. The moon never before looked half so beautiful and the leaves of the trees took on a brighter sheen. They were in paradise, for true love is paradise. Their lips somehow came together ; it ,was the spontaneous seal of their mutual confession. There was one warm embrace and then softly spoken came the reluctant good night.

Two more souls had been united and forevermore were one. How hearts are blended God only knows ; it is a secret beyond the ken of mortals. But the joy that flows from it is by far the most exquisite that earth can yield. And these two lovers on that night could not for a time from very gladness sleep, and when at last soothing slumber softly shut the doors of sense upon the outer world, they sank into elysium. When they awoke to the duties of the next day, they found their toil lightened and sweetened by a new and mighty motive. Old things had passed away, behold all things had become new.

But who was Lucy Webster? Her father was of English, her mother of Dutch, descent. She was one of fourteen children, thirteen of whom grew uj) to manhood and womanhood and had households of their own. In the round of the years she had more than fourscore nephews and nieces. There was no race suicide then. Her father, a man of wonderful vitality and exhaustless energy, was a blacksmith, wagonmaker and farmer. Her mother was his equal in strength and resourcefulness. Both were Christians of the downright sturdy sort, who always advocated righteousness and scrupulously practised it.

Whep the oldest daughter, Lucy, fell in love with John Erskine and was betrothed to him. she was only eighteen years old. She was five feet seven inches tall, plump and strong, well proportioned, her neck rather too short for ideal beauty, nose somewhat prominent with its lines sharply cut, red lips firmly closed, a high forehead, soft, silken black hair and full black eves. If she could not be called a beauty, she was so sprightlv and graceful in movement, so sensible and vivacious in conversation, that she was a universal favorite. And when the people of the village learned of her engagement, many wondered that she should have fallen in love with that bashful, awkward John Erskine, who was eight years her senior ; but she was able to look beneath the surface, and discern his rare nobility of character ; and she had made no mistake.

After mating came nesting. John had always intended to be a farmer. He had heard of land many miles away that could be bought on credit. Thither, ax in hand, he went on foot. Walking was easy since his feet were winged by love. As he trod the rough paths, blazed through the primeval forest, he thought of Lucy, now the mistress of his heart, and in imagination painted over and over again the place where they should live. He selected a farm covered with a great forest of beech and maple, basswood, ash and elm. He bought with merely a promise to pay one hundred acres. It was a brave act. All that he had in the world was two young steers, a yoke, a log-chain, an ax, and two dollars in money. To clear away the giant trees and coax the virgin soil to pay for itself and also support his anticipated family was a task before which the stoutest heart might have quailed. But he faced these formidable obstacles without a tremor. Not even a suggestion that he might fail entered his mind. His natural fearlessness reenforced by his new love made him invincible.

He felled the trees on the spot chosen for his future home, dug a cellar, built a comfortable log house of three rooms and an attic with a great open fireplace, dug and stoned a well, and cleared the forest from three adjacent acres of ground, one of which he plowed and sowed to winter wheat, reserving the other two for planting in the following spring. And while he accomplished all this single-handed and alone, he did odd jobs for some neighbors a mile or more away to pay for his lodging and meals. He had no luxuries ; his fare was of the plainest ; he lived perforce the simple life. But his coarse food and hard work were a genuine joy, since every stroke of his ax and every burden borne was for the bright-eyed, sensible girl in the pioneer village miles away.

Two or three times during that summer of heroic toil, on Saturdays he excused himself to those that lodged and fed him, saying that he should not be back till Monday, since he had urgent business at home. With what an easy, elastic step he walked those long miles through the woods ! The anticipated meeting at the end of his journey well nigh annihilated time and distance. We need not peep behind the curtain. Everybody knows what happened when he arrived. But late in the autumn he came home to spend the winter. He did such work as came to his hand, and was constantly busy. He and his betrothed often spent the long evenings together. The winter quickly glided away. The months " seemed unto him but a few days for the love he had to her."

In the meantime Lucy Webster was dihgently getting ready for the happy event so nearly at hand ; providing such clothing for herself and furnishings for her forest home as the limited means at her command would permit. She could have neither silks, nor satins, nor laces, yet even such attire never graced a lovelier girl. If she had had them in profusion, they could have added little to her charms and nothing to her worth. Besides two or three plain but neat dresses, a few sheets and pillow-cases, a half dozen blankets and bedquilts and a great, luscious feather-bed were in process of making. Then, in the most meagrely furnished homes, the fathomless feather-bed was regarded a prime necessity, though now, except in some back towns, it is quite discarded.

At last the wedding day dawned. The nuptials were celebrated in the evening under the roof of the bride's father. He lived in a roomy log house. Being a popular man and widely known, and the bride and groom being general favorites, hosts of friends longed to attend the wedding, and more were generously invited than could comfortably get within doors. The betrothed couple were plainly but tastefully dressed. There were however no frills either in costume or ceremony. The bashful groom was self-conscious and embarrassed, but the self-possession and ease of the bride helped him pass the ordeal creditably. Some of the young people present, having- observed his evident confusion, told him that it was quite excusable, since never having been married before, he had not quite got the hang of it.

When the newly married pair had received the congratulations of their numerous friends the wedding feast was spread. The beverages were water, tea, coffee and cider. Some of the guests were disappointed that there was nothing stronger ; but John Erskine, though living in a community of hard drinkers, was a total abstainer, and Mr. Webster, thinking that his new son-in-law was about right, had furnished the feast to his liking. As to edibles, the tables were loaded with all that the new settlement afforded, roast pig, luscious chicken pie. venison and wild turkey ; bread and butter, cheese, doughnuts and great frosted cakes stuffed with raisins. There was more than enough for all, and the good cheer continued till ten o'clock or later ; but by eleven all the guests were gone. The happy couple spent the first nicfht of their married life at home in the room set apart to the use of visitors.

The next day they took their wedding trip. At four o'clock in the morning they were astir. They breakfasted at the gray dawn. And then — O ye who ride over paved roads in carriages trimmed with broadcloth and silk, and drawn by ])rancing steeds, or in hixurious automobiles and Pullman cars, look upon this scene of bygone days — and then a great two-wheeled ox-cart, drawn by slow-footed Buck and Bright, was backed up to the door ; and in it were soon placed a hair-covered trunk and boxes filled with clothing, bed and table linen, blankets and bedquilts, steel table knives, two-tined table forks, and a few spoons of solid silver. To these were added some dishes of earthen ware and tin, some kitchen utensils, wooden pails, washtubs, kettles, a wrought iron spider, and a Dutch tin bake-oven. Then the bride brought to the cart a flax-wheel, made seventy-five years before, a present from one of her aunts. It now adorns the parlor of one of her sons. When it had been carefully stowed away, John slipped in some iron wedges, presented to him by his father-in-law, an iron-bound beetle, two hickory ax-helves and a log-chain. On the top of the whole was laid a bedstead tied on securely with a long cord. At the front was a narrow board seat for the bride and bridegroom, over which Mrs. Webster had thoughtfully thrown a plaid shawl. Now came the adieus. Of course all were happy, but when the father and mother kissed their departing daughter tell-tale tears, even w^hile they spoke words of cheer, somehow stole down their cheeks, and some glistening drops furtively slipped from Lucy's eyelids as if in contradiction of her fun and frolic. Both the smiles and tears were true exponents of their feelings. Sadness and joy were contending with each other, but joy won, Lucy with the spring of a cat chmbed to the seat in the cart, while John slower in movement took his place beside her. " Good-by ! " " God bless you ! " was mutually spoken, hands waved parting salutes and that unique wedding tour began.

John Erskine was now supremely happy. He had won for his bride the brightest and most winsome girl in that pioneer village. He sat beside her in an ox-cart, driving on toward their new home. The oxen and cart were all his own. By his industry during the winter he had added the cart to his possessions. It was brand-new and filled with the dowry of his bride. This was its pristine service. Did a cart ever receive a more sacred and romantic dedication? Bride and bridegroom, jolting over the new and rough road, were in the third heaven. Everything around them reflected and enhanced their 1)liss. It was early spring. The forests through which they slowly rode — and they did not wish greater speed — were bursting into leaf. Here and there they saw the dogwood starred over with blossoms. The mated yellow birds, bluebirds, and robins filled the wood with their sweet, passionate songs. Wild flowers were peeping out from their wintry beds. The bride, ravished by their loveliness, pointed them out to her husband and descanted on their fresh beauty. While with her he delighted in the birds and flowers, still to him her face and voice were lovelier than they. So, enchanted by what they saw and heard, and filled with the deep satisfaction that flowed from their mutual love, their bridal tour in an ox-cart was well nigh a delirium of joy.

But this could not last forever. Late in the afternoon they arrived at the log house that the bridegroom had prepared for his bride. It was in a dense forest. While the bride now saw it for the first time, from her lover's description of it she had often painted it in her imagination. On seeing it she felt no disappointment ; it was even better than she had anticipated. And John had for her some little surprises. He had never told her that he had built for his oxen a good log barn a few rods from the house and had put into it sufficient hay and provender for immediate use. So when the cart was backed up to the door of the house the tired oxen were unyoked and fed in the new bam. Then together bride and bridegroom looked over the house; she admired it and, to the joy of John's heart, praised the skill and thoroughness of its construction. She was specially pleased with the great, open fireplace with its huge iron crane. This crane had been made at a blacksmith shop about two miles away and John had brought it to his new home on his shoulder. Wood, which he had thoughtfully brought in last fall, now well seasoned, lay near by in the corner. The house needed to be warmed and dried out, so he proceeded to make a fire. As matches had not tlicn been invented, he took a small bunch of tow, a tlint and a piece of steel, and striking the flint with the steel, a resultant spark ignited the tow, which in turn set fire to the kindling wootl. Abundant dry beech and maple was laid on the great andirons and the hot flames were soon leajiing and roaring up the widethroated chinmey. And this was their only housewarming.

The cart was now unloaded. The articles brought for housekeeping were put in their appropriate places. The bedstead was corded — there were no bed-springs then. The tick, which has now been replaced by the moss or hair mattress, was stuffed with oat-straw, which John by his kind forethought had provided months before. Such unexpected previsions added much to the bride's happiness. The feather-bed surmounted the newly stuffed straw tick ; on it were spread immaculate linen sheets and a handsome bedquilt ; the pillows were soon in place and the marriage bed was ready.

Kitchen and dining room were one. In it they stood the plain basswood table on which they put the foodleft over from the wedding-feast and thoughtfully sent along in the cart by Mrs. Webster. The teakettle was hung on the crane over the blazing fire, and while they waited for it to boil, just as the glowing sunset lighted up with its splendors the great forest of beech and maple, they walked out to view the surroundings of their humble home. At the first glance the bride had another pleasant surprise. To the left of the house was an oven, built of stone and brick, large enough to bake bread, and pies and puddings for a numerous family. The bride had often used such an oven in the village that she had just left and was happy now in the consciousness that this one was her own. John now showed her the ground staked out for a vegetable garden and an orchard, and the acre of wheat that he sowed in the autumn. It was green and growing and had in it the promise of an abundant harvest. As they returned to the house the singing teakettle began to boil, the pot of tea was soon ready and with glad hearts they sat down to eat their first meal under their own roof.

All of English or Scotch descent rejoice in being the possessors of houses and lands. They are never quite happy till they own in fee simple estates large or small. Oh the solid comfort a man has in sitting under his own roof, by his own fire and putting his feet under his own table ! This consciousness of ownership enhanced the joy of the bride and groom as in their new house they ate together for the first time. It was the crown of all the exquisite pleasures of the day.

These brave, sturdy pioneers in that dense forest were almost as much alone as were Adam and Eve ;

but they did not feel this isolation. Their mutual love banished loneliness. Full of hope and gladness, they gave themselves to their daily duties. At the early dawn John's ax woke the echoes of the woods, while Lucy with equal zeal did the work of the house. Neither for a moment doubted that by their united efforts they should be able at last to pay for their farm. So they made a garden, and set out apple, peach and plum trees, quince, gooseberry and currant bushes. The productiveness of the soil, enriched for unnumbered years by leaf-mold, was simply marvelous. The garden produced abundantly, and John's acre of wheat yielded almost fifty bushels. What he did not need for his own use he sold. The money that it brought him gave him increased assurance that his farm in due time would pay for itself. Still he knew that to attain this, incessant hard work would be required ; so with amazing push, without any help from others, he added, during the first year of his married life, ten more acres to his clearing.

A swarm of bees from a great hollow limb of a towering basswood lighted on a low bush near John's door. He made for it a rude but capacious hive, into which he allured the bees. While he toiled they gathered honey for him and for his bride. So the bees of the wood became their helpers.

Finally, to the unbounded gratification of husband and wife, just before they reached their first wedding anniversary, a daughter appeared under their humble roof. Never was a babe more welcome. She was a priceless gift from God and they hailed her as the crowning joy of that happy year.

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Chapter II Prosperity And Drawp.acks

As the years rolled by John Erskine prospered. He cut the forest from four fifths of his farm and divided what was cleared into lots of a few acres each. These small fields he carefully cultivated. By a rotation of crops and frequently ]:)lowing- under luxuriant growths of clover he kept up the fertility of the soil. No harvests in the ncit^^hborhood were more abundant than his. He often had from two to three tons of clover and timothy to the acre and forty to sixty bushels of wheat, and other crops in proportion. His sheep and swine and cattle multiplied. He paid for his farm, abandoned his log house, built a capacious frame house and a great barn, which, when crammed from foundation to ridgepole, was often too strait to receive his great harvests, so that at times he was compelled to stack in the field some of his hay and unthrashed grain.

To be sure there were some years when his crops were cut short by frosts or drought. Once when the early rains had not fallen and the grass of his meadow was short, thin and wiry, I met him as he was raking up by hand his meagre harvest — there were no horserakes then. When he had raked along to the end of the field, he said to me, " This hay is like selfrighteousness, the more you have of it, the worse you are off." Thus in a single sentence he preached a sermon of mighty import that I could never forget.

In 1836 there was a cold summer. Every month there was frost. Corn and all the more tender plants were either greatly damaged or killed outright. John Erskine, still considerably in debt for his farm, was unusually sober and silent. Like many of his neighbors, he could not clearly see his way. Pay-day was coming and how with' an empty barn and granary and corn-crib could he meet its just demands? But at times he heartily enjoyed the humor of the strange situation. The hogs having no corn, nor little of anything else to eat, were very poor. A wag said, " They are so thin that you can read Watts' psalms through them." Another remarked : " Over in our end of the neighborhood they are so lean that we have to buy salt codfish to fry the pork in." Still another declared : " Our pigs are so thin and slender that we have to tie knots in their tails to keep them from slipping through the fence." Such preposterous exaggeration provoked mirth, relieved the mental strain and helped to tide over the general disaster. The universal suffering made creditors considerate, and honest John found his creditor ready to accommodate him. So his craft weathered the financial storm and finally with flying colors sailed triumphantly into port.