Maine, my state

Foreword

HIS BOOK is intended primarily as a reader for the public schools of Maine and as such maintains a true historical perspective, together with an effort to present the personal and picturesque side of Maine history in a narrative form.

Much of the material is to be found only in scattered memoirs, little-known historical documents, and in volumes that may be written in quaint verbiage, difficult to comprehend and unsuited to the schools. It has been the privilege of the writers of this book to make these offerings as lucid and as direct as possible.

It is hoped that this book will teach history as well as reading; and what is of especial interest in this centenary year of the statehood of Maine, a love of the history of Maine. This, of itself, would be worth far more to the originators of this volume, the Maine Writers Eesearch Club, composed of a group of Maine women, concerned in Maine historical matters, than any other possible outcome of its publication.

Here along our coast of Maine were the beginnings of our Nation. Here were some of the first settlements of the Western Hemisphere. Here went the first of the brave voyageurs along the deeply indented coast line from Cape Cod to Newfoundland. Here the early cartographers came to make their maps. It is a rich field for study. The brave souls who lived and died here in the age long gone, should be known by every youth who attends our pubhc schools, and by every adult should be reverenced and acknowledged.

It is with these things in mind that this volume is issued — the sole object has been to make a book that should be of value to the boys and girls of Maine and thereby a book of value to future generations.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In the preparation of ''Maine, My State," the Maine Writers Research Club has received assistance from so many people that it is impossible to name them all. The committee cannot refrain from expressing in a more personal way its appreciation of those who have been untiring in their helpfulness.

Without the cooperation of Dr. A. O. Thomas, State Superintendent of Schools, this book probably never would have been. He believed in the idea and has given every stage in its realization his personal supervision and hearty encouragement.

To Superintendent Charles W. Bickford of the Lewiston schools the book committee is deeply indebted for assistance in the final editing of the manuscript to which he gave of his time, unstintingly. From H. H. Randall, Superintendent of the Auburn Schools, and John L. Hooper, Principal of the Auburn Grade Schools, who read the manuscript, the club received many helpful suggestions.

Several Maine writers of acknowledged fame have contributed stories to this book, and to them a large measure of the success which the book may win, will be due.

Col. Theodore Roosevelt responded to the request for a contribution to this book, by sending the story, and the manuscript, written in pencil by his ow^n hand, is a priceless treasure.

John Francis Sprague, editor of S Prague's Journal, not only has contributed to the book, but has given the committee encouragement and help in countless ways.

The YoittJi's Companion has been most generous in permitting the reprinting of the stories, "When John Alden Went to Jail," by John Clair Minot, and ''W^hen Hannibal HamUn Got the Jonah," by Dr. C. A. Stephens.

The story of New Sweden is told by William Widgery Thomas, who founded this unique colony in Aroostook County. Col. Fred. N. Dow of Portland has contributed a charming and vivid chapter on his father, Neal Dow, The Father of Prohibition.

10 Maine, my stATii

Dr. Stephens' story of Hannibal Hamlin is deliciously humorous. No one can tell an Indian story more graphically than Hugh Pendexter in his "Some Maple Sugar." John Clair Minot adds to the Colonial Period a forgotten chapter in the life of John Alden.

Holman Day contributes a delightful interview with Elijah Kellogg, the preacher-author, whom he visited at his Harpsv.'ell home shortly before his death. John Kendrick Bangs' poem on "The Pines" strikes a responsive note in the hearts of all sons and daughters of Maine.

Lester M. Hart's poem, "Maine," is a little gem. "The Returned Maine Battle Flags," by Moses Owen, should be known by heart by every Maine boy and girl.

To Dr, George A. Wheeler of Castine, who read the manuscript of this book, with the critical eye of the historian, the committee acknowledges its deep obligation.

Infinite pains have been taken to make this school reader accurate historically, as well as attractive in its semi-story form. It has been the careful work of two years, and a 'labor of love, with no thought of gain.

To all who have contributed in any way to "Maine, My State," the Club acknowledges its deep gratitude.

(Signed) Anna Ladd Di'ngley, Chairman, Jessica J. Haskell, Louise Wheeler Bartlett, Theda Cary Dingley, Emmie Bailey Whitney.

Contents

PAGE

My Debt to Maine . . . Col. Theodore Roosevelt ly

EXPLORATION PERIOD

Chapter I

MANY years ago in the year 1652, a little boy was born in. Oleron, France. His mother died when he was less than two years old. His father was a rich and powerful baron of the land. He owned many houses scattered through the provinces near the P^^renees Mountains. He was not an unkind father, but he was always too busy to spend any time with his children, so he left them to the care of servants, nurses and the Jesuit Priests. When this boy was very little, he trotted about the castle after his older sister and watched the w^omen em^broider and weave by hand yards and yards of glistening silk made from the worms that fed on the mulberry trees which grew around the castle grounds. As he grew to be older, that was too tame a life for him, so with his older brother, he rode on his spirited little pony, a falcon on his wrist and half a dozen dogs barking at his heels. He even followed the hounds and saw them kill the wild boar, whose fierce tusks gored the dogs as they pulled him down. In the evening, when the lords and barons joined his father at supper, he was allowed to remain and toss off liis glass of wine and give his toast to the fair ladies present, as if he were grown up.

Once his father took him to Paris, where reigned one of the most powerful monarchs of all Europe,

Jean Vincent (The Baron Castine) in Youth

King Louis XIV. Jean Vincent, for that w^as the little boy's name, was dressed in his best doublet or jacket of blue velvet, slashed on the sleeves, with white satin puffs showing through the slashes. His trousers were velvet, too, and he wore white silk

^2 MAINE, MY STATIC

stockings and pointed leather shoes witli gold buckles. His hat was of felt with a long, white ostrich feather, fastened on with another buckle, also of gold, while lace ruffles hung over his hands, — not much of a costume for a boy to wear to climb a tree! 0, yes, he wore a long pointed knife called a dagger or poinard, such as a noble wore to kill if he were attacked by thieves. Often he used it to thrust or prick a servant who did not move quickly enough to carry out his orders.

The King liked the looks of Jean Vincent and told his father that when the boy was twelve, he should be made one of the gentlemen of the court.

The next year the boy's father died. His older brother became the baron, taking, as was the custom, all the lands and houses. Then the sister married and most of the gold and jewels went for her marriage dot. There seemed nothing left for Jean Vmcent but to go up to the Court at Versailles and remind his Majesty, King Louis, of his promise. When he arrived at Court, Louis XIV. readily agreed to take him into his service, saying, *' Little Jean, I will soon give you a chance to become a great warrior in our next war with England.''

An ancient court was a bad place for a lad of twelve, for many reasons. First, in the King's household lived so many noble gentlemen that there was not enough work for half of them. They spent their time playing dice, drinking, teaching cocks to light, and ferrets to catch rats, and in doing even worse things. Jean grew very tired of it. He wanted leather buskins and jerkins and a good stout helmet on his head.

The French were having trouble with their colonies in Acadia, the new world over the big ocean. Louis and his great Cardinal decided to send one of the King's crack regiments over seas to settle all difficulties. So the Carignan Salieres were shipped to Quebec. Jean Vincent, though only fourteen, belonged to that regiment. It was a beastly trip f:i cross the ocean and even the noblemen were crowded like cattle in the small cabins of the vessels transporting them.

While Jean Vincent had a fine swagger and felt himself every bit as brave as the colonel, there were days when he could not lift his head and wished himself either back at court or at the bottom of the ocean, anything to get rid of that dreadful mal dc mer, as the French call sea-sickness.

At last Jean Vincent found himself in Quebec, glad enough to be ashore and starting real life. Like the boys of this century, he was fascinated by pirates and the Eed Man. The lure of the wild drew him and this odd little New World town, so like and yet so unlike the towns of his own dear France, enticed him.

The year that followed w^as exciting enough to suit him. His regiment was continually engaged in skirmishes around Quebec. He saw the many horrors of Indian warfare. At first, to be sure, he turned sick at the cruel practice of scalping. A painted, half-naked Indian Chief, with his snaky war bonnet of feathers waving down his back, was not a pleasant sight to see standing over some poor French soldier, especially if he raised his tomahawk to bury it in the skull of his young victim.

Chapter II

AT LAST the Indian trouble was settled. The Salieres were disbanded and that was why Jean Vincent found himself, at fifteen, left stranded in New France with little money or training for a pioneer life. In his possession was one other asset which proved to be the very best thing in his whole life. It was the royal grant of a considerable tract of land in a wild country many miles south of Quebec and no way to get there.

Other young ensigns of his regiment had been given land nearer Quebec. In the neighborhood of the fort where Jean Vincent lived, was a holy mission of the Jesuit Priests. Jean had heard them talking about this settlement which had been given him by the King. Scarcely any one lived there but a tribe of Indians called Abenakis. Jean had often been to the chapel to confess his sins, for he was a good Catholic.

One day in the late summer he gathered all his belongings at the barracks and put them in a stout sea chest which had a rude lock. He sent this over to the cabin of Father Bigot, meaning to ask him if he would send it by the first French ship sailing for Pentagoet. Jean, that youngest ensign in the Salieres, was certainly good to look at, as he stood tapping at the Jesuit 's cabin door. He had the dash and dare of youth, the ^ ' devil-may-care ' ' and imperious way of the French nobility of that date. The bright uniform of the already disbanded King 's regiment gave an added glitter and authority to his boyish figure.

At his knock the holy man opened the door.

*^Bon soir, Reverend Father," said young Jean, making the sign of the cross as he spoke.

The priest, a man of delicate frame, clad in a long black robe with a cord tied about his waist, motioned for the lad to enter. Jean Vincent stood near the table.

'^Father Bigot, they tell me in the parish of St. Anne, that you are the only one now in Quebec, who knows about the shores of Pentagoet which is to be my new home. I have come to ask you how I may best arrive at that settlement.''

^^Be seated, my son," said the priest. ^*God has directed your footsteps here at this opportune moment. Tomorrow at dawn three Algonquins who belong to the Abenaki tribe will start for Pentagoet. They are Indian runners who brought messages to our Governor that a band of the Iroquois are on the war path. I will send a message by them commending you to their powerful chief, Mataconando. They will also show you the way to your new possessions.

Jean expressed his thanks and the holy father continued:

*^My son, you are over young, yet. Carry yourself with humility, make a good accounting to his Majesty by the manner in which you rule your land and the savage tribe which is settled there. See that you lead them to God."

Chapter III

THE NEXT morning, at the first cock's crow, from the little cabin of the old Indian woman, Monique, who lived beneath the shadow of the Jesuit mission, silently started two stalwart Indians, followed in single file along the trail by two lads. The younger was Jean Vincent. He wore knee breeches of stout cloth, heavy leather gaiters with moose-hide shoes. To be sure, a soft blue silken shirt or blouse tied by a black kerchief was next his skin, but it was completely hidden by a thick leathern jerkin. He was slender, about five feet nine in height. He had good features, dark brown hair, a keen blue eye and a laughing mouth full of strong white teeth. He appeared to have the bright, joyous disposition usual with the French. On his back he wore a pack done up in a blanket, an arquebus or old-fashioned musket was slung over his shoulder. In his belt was a hunting knife and a small hatchet.

The lad walking behind him so silently, was larger, a handsome Indian of seventeen. He, too, had a pleasant mouth with big white teeth, but he marched along without saying a word or even giving a smile. He wore a full Indian suit of deer skin, slashed and fringed. Slung beside his pack was a strong bow and a quiver of cruel arrows. A scalping knife w^as iii his belt.

Only occasionally did the Indian runners ahead turn to speak to them. Most of the conversation with Jean Vincent Avas carried on by signs. They knew a few words of French and he knew some words of the Iroquois language which they understood. So they filed on through the Plains of Abraham until they reached the banks of the St. Lawrence. Quietly, the head Indian drew out his canoe from its hiding place. He motioned to Jean Vincent to take the seat arranged for a passenger. The others, kneeling, plied their paddles with swift, sure strokes, until tliey reached Port Levis, eleven hundred yards across on the bank opposite Quebec. They carried around the Falls of Chaudiere which fell, one magnificent leap of 135 feet, and began the ascent of the Chaudiere River.

The sun was bright and the September air was fresh with tonic. Jean Vincent was enjoying the canoe ride, but why such gloom? His companions made him weary. 0, for a jest with a fellow-officer of his regiment!

About sundown, they reached a small stream, branching from the main river, winding like a shining snake through fields growing sere and brown. The sheltering knoll of hemlocks and red cedars was perfect for a camping ground. The packs were unstrapped. One of the older Indians took out a line and fish hook which he had carved from bone, lighted his pipe and began to smoke as he fished from a neighboring rock. The other Red Man took two sticks which he rubbed very briskly together and soon a tiny spark fell to the little heap of dry pith he had gathered, and in a moment more a fire of bark and twigs burnt merrily.

The lad had found some saplings growing against a big boulder, facing the water. He bent these over and fastened them for an Indian shelter called a wickie-up. He cut a few boughs from the hemlocks and cedars and threw them into the little hut. At first, Jean Vincent stood doing nothing, then he began to help the boy cut boughs. When their work was done, he pointed at the Indian boy and said to him, first in French and then in Iroquois, '^What's your name?'*

Without a smile the older lad said, "Wenamouet. ' '

' ' Where do you live ? ' ' ventured Jean Vincent.

^ ^ Pentagoet/ ' said the other.

' ' I like you, ' ' said Jean, ^ ' and I am going to live there, too. Please be friends with me."

To his surprise Wenamouet's features flashed into a dazzling smile.

'^I like you now. I talk little French. Father Bigot, he told me."

Thus began their friendship.

They helped the fishermen until they had a string of perch, which they broiled over the live coals of the fire. Then they flung their tired bodies on the sweet hemlock boughs. For a moment Jean Vincent watched the twinkling stars shining between the branches of their shelter and soon was deep in sleep.