PIONEER CHILD LIFE.
The very thought of it makes the blood tingle and the heart leap. No
element was wanting for romance or adventure. Indians, bears, panthers,
far journeys, in canoes or on horseback, fording rivers, camping and
tramping, and all in a virgin wilderness so full of grandeur and
loveliness that even very little children were impressed by the
appearance thereof. The strangeness and newness of it all was hardly
understood by the native white children as they had no means of
comparing this region and mode of life with other countries and customs.
Traditions did not trouble us; the Indians were generally friendly, the
bears were only black ones and ran away from us as fast as their furry
legs would carry them; the panthers did not care to eat us up, we felt
assured, while there was plenty of venison to be had by stalking, and on
a journey we rode safely, either on the pommel of father's saddle or
behind mother's, clinging like small kittens or cockleburs.
Familiarity with the coquettish canoe made us perfectly at home with it,
and in later years when the tenderfoot arrived, we were convulsed with
inextinguishable laughter at what seemed to us an unreasoning terror of
a harmless craft.
[Illustration: WHERE WE WANDERED LONG AGO]
Ah! we lived close to dear nature then! Our play-grounds were the brown
beaches or the hillsides covered with plumy young fir trees, the alder
groves or the slashings where we hacked and chopped with our little
hatchets in imitation of our elders or the Father of His Country and
namesake of our state. Running on long logs, the prostrate trunks of
trees several hundred feet long, and jumping from one to another was
found to be an exhilarating pastime.
When the frolicsome Chinook wind came singing across the Sound, the boys
flew home built kites of more or less ambitious proportions and the
little girls ran down the hills, performing a peculiar skirt dance by
taking the gown by the hem on either side and turning the skirt half
over the head. Facing the wind it assumed a balloonlike inflation very
pleasing to the small performer. It was thought the proper thing to let
the hair out of net or braids at the time, as the sensation of air
permeating long locks was sufficient excuse for its "weirdness" as I
suppose we would have politely termed it had we ever heard the word.
Instead we were more likely to be reproved for having such untidy heads
and perhaps reminded that we looked as wild as Indians. "As wild as
Indians," the poor Indians! How they admired the native white children!
Without ceremony they claimed blood brotherhood, saying, "You were born
in our 'illahee' (country) and are our 'tillicum' (people). You eat the
same food, will grow up here and belong to us."
Often we were sung to sleep at night by their "tamanuse" singing, as we
lived quite near the bank below which many Indians camped, on Elliott
Bay.
I never met with the least rudeness or suffered the slightest injury
from an Indian except on one occasion. Walking upon the beach one day
three white children drew near a group of Indian camps. Almost deserted
they were, probably the inhabitants had gone fishing; the only being
visible was a boy about ten years of age. Snarling out some bitter words
in an unknown tongue, he flung a stone which struck hard a small head,
making a slight scalp wound. Such eyes! they fairly glittered with
hatred. We hurried home, the victim crying with the pain inflicted, and
learned afterward that the boy was none of our "tillicum" but a stranger
from the Snohomish tribe. What cruel wrong had he witnessed or suffered
to make him so full of bitterness?
The Indian children were usually quite amiable in disposition, and it
seemed hard to refuse their friendly advances which it became necessary
to do. In their primitive state they seemed perfectly healthy and happy
little creatures. They never had the toothache; just think of that, ye
small consumers of colored candies! Unknown to them was the creeping
horror that white children feel when about to enter the terrible
dentist's den. They had their favorite fear, however, the frightful
"statalth," or "stick siwash," that haunted the great forest. As near as
we could ascertain, these were the ghosts of a long dead race of savages
who had been of gigantic stature and whose ghosts were likewise very
tall and dreadful and very fond of chasing people out of the woods on
dark nights. Plenty of little white people know what the sensation is,
produced by imagining that something is coming after them in the dark.
I have seen a big, brawny, tough looking Indian running as fast as he
could go, holding a blazing pitchwood torch over his head while he
glanced furtively over his shoulder for the approaching statalth.
Both white and Indian children were afraid of the Northern Indians,
especially the Stickeens, who were head-takers.
We were seldom panic stricken; born amid dangers there seemed nothing
novel about them and we took our environment as a matter of course. We
were taught to be courageous but not foolhardy, which may account for
our not getting oftener in trouble.
The boys learned to shoot and shoot well at an early age, first with
shot guns, then rifles. Sometimes the girls proved dangerous with
firearms in their hands. A sister of the writer learned to shoot off the
head of a grouse at long range. A girl schoolmate, when scarcely grown,
shot and killed a bear. My brothers and cousin, Wm. R. Boren, were good
shots at a tender age and killed numerous bears, deer, grouse,
pheasants, ducks, wild pigeon, etc., in and about the district now
occupied by the city of Seattle.
The wild flowers and the birds interested us deeply and every spring we
joyfully noted the returning bluebirds and robins, the migrating wren
and a number of other charming feathered friends. The high banks, not
then demolished by grades, were smothered in greenery and hung with
banners of bloom every succeeding season.
We clambered up and down the steep places gathering armfuls of lillies
(trillium), red currant (ribes sanguineum), Indian-arrow-wood (spiraea),
snowy syringa (philadelphus) and blue forgetmenots and the yellow
blossoms of the Oregon grape (berberis glumacea and aquifolium), which
we munched with satisfaction for the _soursweet_, and the scarlet
honeysuckle to bite off the honeyglands for a like purpose.
The salmonberry and blackberry seasons were quite delightful. To plunge
into the thick jungle, now traversed by Pike Street, Seattle, was a
great treat. There blackberries attained Brobdignagian hugeness, rich
and delicious.
On a Saturday, our favorite reward for lessons and work well done, was
to be allowed to go down the lovely beach with its wide strip of
variegated shingle and bands of brown, ribbed sand, as far as the
"three big stones," no farther, as there were bears, panthers and
Indians, as hereinbefore stated, inhabiting the regions round about.
One brilliant April day we felt very brave, we were bigger than ever
before, five was quite a party, and the flowers were O! so enchanting a
little farther on. Two of us climbed the bank to gather the tempting
blossoms.
Our little dog, "Watch," a very intelligent animal, took the lead;
scarcely had we gained the top and essayed to break the branch of a wild
currant, gay with rose colored blossoms, when Watch showed unusual
excitement about something, a mysterious something occupying the
cavernous depths of an immense hollow log. With his bristles up, rage
and terror in every quivering muscle, he was slowly, very slowly,
backing toward us.
Although in the woods often, we had never seen him act so before. We
took the hint and to our heels, tumbled down the yielding, yellow bank
in an exceedingly hasty and unceremonious manner, gathered up our party
of thoroughly frightened youngsters and hurried along the sand homeward,
at a double quick pace.
Hardly stopping for a backward glance to see if the "something" was
coming after us, we reached home, safe but subdued.
Not many days after the young truants were invited down to an Indian
camp to see the carcass of a cougar about nine feet long. There it lay,
stretched out full length, its hard, white teeth visible beyond the
shrunken lips, its huge paws quite helpless and harmless.
It is more than probable that this was the "something" in the great
hollow log, as it was killed in the vicinity of the place where our
stampede occurred.
Evidently Watch felt his responsibility and did the best he could to
divert the enemy while we escaped.
The dense forest hid many an unseen danger in early days and it
transpired that I never saw a live cougar in the woods, but even a dead
one may produce real old fashioned fright in a spectator.
Having occasion, when attending the University, at the age of twelve, to
visit the library of that institution, a strange adventure befell me;
the selection of a book absorbed my mind very fully and I was unprepared
for a sudden change of thought. Turning from the shelves, a terrible
sight met my eyes, a ferocious wild beast, all its fangs exhibited, in
the opposite corner of the room. How did each particular hair stand
upright and perspiration ooze from every pore! A moment passed and a
complete collapse of the illusion left the victim weak and disgusted; it
was only the stuffed cougar given to the Faculty to be the nucleus of a
great collection.
The young Washingtonians, called "clam-diggers," were usually well fed,
what with venison, fish, grouse and berries, game of many kinds, and
creatures of the sea, they were really pampered, in the memory of the
writer. But it is related by those who experienced the privations
incident to the first year or two of white settlement, that the children
were sometimes hungry for bread, especially during the first winter at
Alki. Fish and potatoes were plentiful, obtained from the Indians, syrup
from a vessel in the harbor, but bread was scarce. On one occasion, a
little girl of one of the four white families on Elliott Bay, was
observed to pick up an old crust and carry it around in her pocket.
When asked what she intended to do with that crust, with childish
simplicity she replied, "Save it to eat with syrup at dinner." Not able
to resist its delicious flavor she kept nibbling away at the crust until
scarcely a crumb remained; its dessicated surface had no opportunity to
be masked with treacle.
To look back upon our pioneer menu is quite tantalizing.
The fish, of many excellent kinds, from the "salt-chuck," brought fresh
and flapping to our doors, in native baskets by Indian fishermen, cooked
in many appetizing ways; clams of all sizes from the huge bivalves
weighing three-quarters of a pound a piece to the tiny white soup clam;
sustain me, O my muse, if I attempt to describe their excellence. Every
conceivable preparation, soup, stew, baked, pie, fry or chowder was
tried with the happiest results. The Puget Sound oyster, not the stale,
globe-trotting oyster of however aristocratic antecedents, the enjoyment
in eating of which is chiefly as a reminiscence, but the fresh western
oyster, was much esteemed.
The crab, too, figured prominently on the bill of fare, dropped alive in
boiling water and served in scarlet, _a la naturel_.
A pioneer family gathered about the table enjoying a feast of the
stalk-eyed crustaceans, were treated to a little diversion in this wise.
The room was small, used for both kitchen and diningroom, as the house
boasted of but two or three rooms, consequently space was economized.
A fine basket of crabs traded from an Indian were put in a tin pan and
set under the table; several were cooked, the rest left alive. As one of
the children was proceeding with the dismemberment necessary to extract
the delicate meat, as if to seek its fellows, the crab slipped from her
grasp and slid beneath the table. Stooping down she hastily seized her
crab, as she supposed, but to her utter astonishment it seemed to have
come to life, it _was_ alive, kicking and snapping. In a moment the
table was in an uproar of crab catching and wild laughter. The mother of
the astonished child declares that to this day she cannot help laughing
whenever she thinks of the crab that came to life.
It was to this home that John and Sarah Denny, and their little
daughter, Loretta, came to visit their son, daughter and the
grandchildren, in the winter of 1857-8.
Grandmother was tall and straight, dressed in a plain, dark gown, black
silk apron and lace cap; her hair, coal black, slightly gray on the
temples; her eyes dark, soft and gentle. She brought a little treat of
Oregon apples from their farm in the Waldo Hills, to the children, who
thought them the most wonderful fruit they had ever seen, more desirable
than the golden apples of Hesperides.
We were to return with them, joyful news! What visions of bliss arose
before us! new places to see and all the nice things and good times we
children could have at grandfather's farm.
When the day came, in the long, dark canoe, manned by a crew of Indians,
we embarked for Olympia, the head of navigation, bidding "good-bye" to
our friends, few but precious, who watched us from the bank, among whom
were an old man and his little daughter.
A few days before he had been sick and one of the party sent him a
steaming cup of ginger and milk which, although simple, had proved
efficacious; ere we reached our home again he showed his gratitude in a
substantial manner, as will be seen farther on.
At one beautiful resting place, the canoe slid up against a strip of
shingle covered with delicate shells; we were delighted to be allowed to
walk about, after sitting curled up in the bottom of the canoe for a
long time, to gather crab, pecten and periwinkle shells, even extending
our ramble to a lovely grove of dark young evergreens, standing in a
grassy meadow.
The first night of the journey was spent in Steilacoom. It was March of
1858 and it was chilly traveling on the big salt water. We were cold and
hungry but the keeper of the one hotel in the place had retired and
refused to be aroused, so we turned to the only store, where the
proprietor received us kindly, brought out new blankets to cover us
while we camped on the floor, gave us bread and a hot oyster stew, the
best his place afforded. His generous hospitality was never forgotten by
the grateful recipients who often spoke of it in after years.
I saw there a "witches' scene" of an old Indian woman boiling devilfish
or octopus in a kettle over a campfire, splendidly lit against the gloom
of night, and all reflected in the water.
At the break of day we paddled away over the remainder of the
salt-chuck, as the Indians call the sea, until Stetchas was reached.
Stetchas is "bear's place," the Indian name for the site of Olympia.
From thence the mail stage awaited us to Cowlitz Landing. The trip over
this stretch of country was not exactly like a triumphal progress. The
six-horse team plunged and floundered, while the wagon sank up to the
hub in black mud; the language of the driver has not been recorded.
At the first stop out from Olympia, the Tilley's, famous in the first
annals, entertained us. At a bountiful and appetizing meal, one of the
articles, boiled eggs, were not cooked to suit Grandfather John Denny.
With amusing bluntness he sent the chicken out to be killed before he
ate it, complaining that the eggs were not hard enough. Mrs. Tilly made
two or three efforts and finally set the dish down beside him saying,
"There, if that isn't hard enough you don't deserve to have any."
The long rough ride ended at Warbass' Landing on the Cowlitz River, a
tributary of the Columbia, and another canoe trip, this time on a swift
and treacherous stream, was safely made to Monticello, a mere little
settlement. A tiny steamboat, almost microscopic on the wide water,
carried us across the great Columbia with its sparkling waves, and up
the winding Willamette to Portland, Oregon.
From thence the journey progressed to the falls below Oregon City.
At the portage, we walked along a narrow plank walk built up on the side
of the river bank which rose in a high rounded hill. Its noble outline
stood dark with giant firs against a blue spring sky; the rushing,
silvery flood of the Willamette swept below us past a bank fringed with
wild currants just coming into bloom.
At the end of the walk there stood a house which represented itself as a
resting place for weary travelers. We spent the night there but Alas!
for rest; the occupants were convivial and "drowned the shamrock" all
night long; as no doubt they felt obliged to do for wasn't it "St.
Patrick's Day in the mornin'?"
Most likely we three, the juveniles, slumbered peacefully until aroused
to learn that we were about to start "sure enough" for grandfather's
farm in the Waldo Hills.
At length the log cabin home was reached and our interest deepened in
everything about. So many flowers to gather as they came in lively
processional, blue violets under the oaks, blue-flags all along the
valley; such great, golden buttercups, larkspurs, and many a wildling we
scarcely called by any name.
All the affairs of the house and garden, field and pasture seemed by us
especially gotten up, for our amusement and we found endless
entertainment therein.
If a cheese was made or churning done we were sure to be "hanging
around" for a green curd or paring, a taste of sweet butter or a chance
to lift the dasher of the old fashioned churn. The milking time was
enticing, too, and we trotted down to the milking pen with our little
tin cups for a drink of fresh, warm milk from the fat, lowing kine,
which fed all day on rich grasses and waited at the edge of the flower
decked valley for the milkers with their pails.
As summer advanced our joys increased, for there were wild strawberries
and such luscious ones! no berries in after years tasted half so good.
Some artist has portrayed a group of children on a sunny slope among the
hills, busy with the scarlet fruit and called it "The Strawberry of
Memory"; such was the strawberry of that summer.
One brilliant June day when all the landscape was steeped in sunshine we
went some distance from home to gather a large supply. It is needless to
say that we, the juvenile contingent, improved the opportunity well; and
when we sat at table the following day and grandfather helped us to
generous pieces of strawberry "cobbler" and grandmother poured over them
rich, sweet cream, our satisfaction was complete. It is likely that if
we had heard of the boy who wished for a neck as long as a giraffe so
that he could taste the good things all the way down, we would have
echoed the sentiment.
Mentioning the giraffe, of the animal also we probably had no knowledge
as books were few and menageries, none at all.
No lack was felt, however, as the wild animals were numerous and
interesting. The birds, rabbits and squirrels were friendly and
fearless then; the birds were especially loved and it was pleasing to
translate their notes into endearments for ourselves.
But the rolling suns brought round the day when we must return to our
native heath on Puget Sound. Right sorry were the two little
"clam-diggers" to leave the little companion of delightful days, and
grandparents. With a rush of tears and calling "good-bye! good-bye!" as
long as we could see or hear we rode away in a wagon, beginning the long
journey, full of variety, back to the settlement on Elliott Bay.
Ourselves, and wagon and team purchased in the "web-foot" country, were
carried down the Willamette and across the sweeping Columbia on a
steamer to Monticello. There the wagon was loaded into a canoe to ascend
the Cowlitz River, and we mounted the horses for a long day's ride, one
of the children on the pommel of father's saddle, the other perched
behind on mother's steed.
The forest was so dense through which we rode for a long distance that
the light of noonday became a feeble twilight, the way was a mere
trail, the salal bushes on either side so tall that they brushed the
feet of the little riders. The tedium of succeeding miles of this weird
wilderness was beguiled by the stories, gentle warnings and
encouragement from my mother.
The cicadas sang as if it were evening, the dark woods looked a little
fearful and I was advised to "Hold on tight and keep awake, there are
bears in these woods."
The trail led us to the first crossing of the Cowlitz River, where
father hallooed long and loud for help to ferry us over, from a lonely
house on the opposite shore, but only echo and silence returned. The
deep, dark stream, sombre forest and deserted house made an eerie
impression on the children.
The little party boarded the ferryboat and swimming the horses,
alongside crossed without delay.
The next afternoon saw us nearing the crossing of the Cowlitz again at
Warbass Landing.
The path crossed a pretty open space covered with ripe yellow grass and
set around with giant trees, just before it vanished in the hurrying
stream.
Father rode on and crossed, quite easily, the uneven bed of the swift
river, with its gravelly islands and deep pools.
When it came our turn, our patient beast plunged in and courageously
advanced to near the middle of the stream, wavered and stood still and
seemed about to go down with the current. How distinctly the green,
rapid water, gravelly shoals and distant bank with its anxious onlookers
is photographed on my memory's page!
Only for a moment did the brave animal falter and then sturdily worked
her way to the shore. Mr. Warbass, with white face and trembling voice,
said "I thought you were gone, sure." His coat was off and he had been
on the point of plunging in to save us from drowning, if possible.
Willing hands helped us down and into the hospitable home, where we were
glad to rest after such a severe trial. A sleepless night followed for
my mother, who suffered from the reaction common to such experience,
although not panic stricken at the time of danger.
It was here I received my first remembered lesson in "meum et tuum."
While playing under the fruit trees around the house I spied a peach
lying on the ground, round, red and fair to see. I took it in to my
mother who asked where I got it, if I had asked for it, etc. I replied I
had found it outdoors.
"Well, it isn't yours, go and give it to the lady and never pick up
anything without asking for it."
A lesson that was heeded, and one much needed by children in these days
when individual rights are so little regarded.
The muddy wagon road between this point and Olympia over which the teams
had struggled in the springtime was now dry and the wagon was put
together with hope of a fairly comfortable trip. It was discovered in so
doing that the tongue of the vehicle had been left at Monticello. Not to
be delayed, father repaired to the woods and cut a forked ash stick and
made it do duty for the missing portion.
At Olympia we were entertained by Mr. and Mrs. Dickinson with whom we
tarried as we went to Oregon.
My mother preferred her steed to the steamer plying on the Sound; that
same trip the selfsame craft blew up.
On horseback again, we followed the trail from Olympia to the Duwampsh
River, over hills and hollows, out on the prairie or in the dark forest,
at night putting up at the house of a hospitable settler. From thence we
were told that it was only one day's travel but the trail stretched out
amazingly. Night, and a stormy one, overtook the hapless travelers.
The thunder crashed, the lightning flamed, sheets of rain came down, but
there was no escape.
A halt was called at an open space in a grove of tall cedar trees, a
fire made and the horses hitched under the trees.
The two children slept snugly under a fir bark shed made of slabs of
bark leaned up against a large log. Father and mother sat by the fire
under a cedar whose branches gave a partial shelter. Some time in the
night I was awakened by my mother lying down beside me, then slept
calmly on.
The next morning everything was dripping wet and we hastened on to the
Duwampsh crossing where lived the old man who stood on the bank at
Seattle when we started.
What a comfort it was to the cold, wet, hungry, weary quartette to be
invited into a dry warm place! and then the dinner, just prepared for
company he had been expecting; a bountiful supply of garden vegetables,
beets, cabbage, potatoes, a great dish of beans and hot coffee. These
seemed veritable luxuries and we partook of them with a hearty relish.
A messenger was sent to Seattle to apprise our friends of our return,
two of them came to meet us at the mouth of the Duwampsh River and
brought us down the bay in a canoe to the landing near the old laurel
(Madrona) tree that leaned over the bank in front of our home.
The first Fourth of July celebration in which I participated took place
in the old M. E. Church on Second Street, Seattle, in 1861.
Early in the morning of that eventful day there was hurrying to and fro
in the Dennys' cottage, on Seneca Street, embowered in flowers which
even luxuriant as they were we did not deem sufficient. The nimble
eldest of the children was sent to a flower-loving neighbor's for
blossoms of patriotic hues, for each of the small Americans was to carry
a banner inscribed with a strong motto and wreathed with red, white and
blue flowers. Large letters, cut from the titles of newspapers spelled
out the legends on squares of white cotton, "Freedom for All," "Slavery
for none," "United we stand, divided we fall," each surrounded with a
heavy wreath of beautiful flowers.
Arrived at the church, we found ourselves a little late, the orator was
just rounding the first of his eloquent periods; the audience,
principally men, turned to view the disturbers as they sturdily marched
up the aisle to a front seat, and seeing the patriotic family with their
expressive emblems, broke out in a hearty round of applause. Although
very young we felt the spirit of the occasion.
The first commencement exercises at the University took place in 1863.
It was a great event, an audience of about nine hundred or more,
including many visitors from all parts of the Sound, Victoria, B. C.,
and Portland, Oregon, gathered in the hall of the old University, then
quite new.
I was then nine years of age and had been trained to recite "Barbara
Frietchie," it "goes without the saying" that it was received with
acclaim, as feeling ran high and the hearts of the people burned within
them for the things that were transpiring in the South.
Still better were they pleased and much affected by the singing of "Who
Will Care for Mother Now," by Annie May Adams, a lovely young girl of
fifteen, with a pure, sympathetic, soprano voice and a touching
simplicity of style.
How warm beat the hearts of the people on this far off shore, as at the
seat of war, and even the children shouted, sang and wept in sympathy
with those who shed their lifeblood for their country.
The singing of "Red, White and Blue" by the children created great
enthusiasm; war tableaux such as "The Soldier's Farewell," "Who Goes
There?" "In Camp," were well presented and received with enthusiastic
applause, and whatever apology might have been made for the status of
the school, there was none to be made for its patriotism.
Our teachers were Unionists without exception and we were taught many
such things; "Rally Round the Flag" was a favorite and up went every
right hand and stamped hard every little foot as we sang "Down With the
Traitor and Up With the Stars" with perhaps more energy than music.
The children of my family, with those of A. A. Denny's, sometimes held
"Union Meetings;" at these were speeches made that were very intense, as
we thought, from the top of a stump or barrel, each mounting in turn to
declaim against slavery and the Confederacy, to pronounce sentence of
execution upon Jeff. Davis, Captain Semmes, et al. in a way to have made
those worthies uneasy in their sleep. Every book, picture, story,
indeed, every printed page concerning the war was eagerly scanned and I
remember sitting by, through long talks of Grandfather John Denny with
my father, to which I listened intently.
We finally burned Semmes in effigy to express our opinion of him and
named the only poor, sour apple in our orchard for the Confederate
president.
For a time there were two war vessels in the harbor, the "Saranac" and
"Suwanee," afterwards wrecked in Seymour Narrows. The Suwanee was
overturned and sunk by the shifting of her heavy guns, but was finally
raised. Both had fine bands that discoursed sweet music every evening.
We stood on the bank to listen, delighted to recognize our favorites,
national airs and war songs, from "Just Before the Battle, Mother" to
"Star Spangled Banner."
Other beautiful music, from operas, perhaps, we enjoyed without
comprehending, although we did understand the stirring strains with
which we were so familiar.
In those days the itinerant M. E. ministers were often the guests of my
parents and many were the good natured jokes concerning the fatalities
among the yellow-legged chickens.
On one occasion a small daughter of the family, whose discretion had not
developed with her hospitality, rushed excitedly into the sitting room
where the minister was being entertained and said, "Mother, which
chicken shall I catch?" to the great amusement of all.
One of the reverend gentlemen declared that whenever he put in an
appearance, the finest and fattest of the flock immediately lay down
upon their backs with their feet in the air, as they knew some of them
would have to appear on the festal board.
Like children everywhere we lavished our young affections on pets of
many kinds. Among these were a family of kittens, one at least of which
was considered superfluous. An Indian woman, who came to trade clams for
potatoes, was given the little "pish-pish," as she called it, with which
she seemed much pleased, carrying it away wrapped in her shawl.
Her camp was a mile away on the shore of Elliott Bay, from whence it
returned through the thick woods, on the following day. Soon after she
came to our door to exhibit numerous scratches on her hands and arms
made by the "mesachie pish-pish" (bad cat), as she now considered it. My
mother healed her wounds by giving her some "supalel" (bread) esteemed a
luxury by the Indians, they seldom having it unless they bought a little
flour and made ash-cake.
Now this same ash-cake deserves to rank with the southern cornpone or
the western Johnny cake. Its flavor is sweet and nut-like, quite unlike
that of bread baked in an ordinary oven.
The first Christmas tree was set up in our own house. It was not then a
common American custom; we usually called out "Christmas Gift,"
affecting to claim a present after the Southern "Christmas Gif" of the
darkies. One early Christmas, father brought in a young Douglas fir tree
and mother hung various little gifts on its branches, among them, bright
red Lady apples and sticks of candy; that was our very first Christmas
tree. A few years afterward the whole village joined in loading a large
tree with beautiful and costly articles, as times were good, fully one
thousand dollars' worth was hung upon and heaped around it.
When the fourth time our family returned to the donation claim, now a
part of the city of Seattle, we found a veritable paradise of flowers,
field and forest.
The claim reached from Lake Union to Elliott Bay, about a mile and a
half; a portion of it was rich meadow land covered with luxuriant grass
and bordered with flowering shrubs, the fringe on the hem of the mighty
evergreen forest covering the remainder.
Hundreds of birds of many kinds built their nests here and daily
throughout the summer chanted their hymns of praise. Robins and wrens,
song-sparrows and snow birds, thrushes and larks vied with each other in
joyful song.
The western meadow larks wandered into this great valley, adding their
rich flute-like voices to the feathered chorus.
Woodpeckers, yellow hammers and sap-suckers, beat their brave tattoo on
the dead tree trunks and owls uttered their cries from the thick
branches at night. Riding to church one Sunday morning we beheld seven
little owls sitting in a row on the dead limb of a tall fir tree, about
fourteen feet from the ground. Winking and blinking they sat, silently
staring as we passed by.
Rare birds peculiar to the western coast, the rufous-backed hummingbird,
like a living coal of fire, and the bush-titmouse which builds a curious
hanging nest, also visited this natural park.
The road we children traveled from this place led through heavy forest
and the year of the drouth (1868) a great fire raged; we lost but little
time on this account; it had not ceased before we ran past the tall firs
and cedars flaming far above our heads.
Returning from church one day, when about half way home, a huge fir tree
fell just behind us, and a half mile farther on we turned down a branch
road at the very moment that a tree fell across the main road usually
traveled.
The game was not then all destroyed; water fowl were numerous on the
lakes and bays and the boys of the family often went shooting.
Rather late in the afternoon of a November day, the two smaller boys,
taking a shot gun with them, repaired to Lake Union, borrowed a little
fishing canoe of old Tsetseguis, the Indian who lived at the landing,
and went to look at some muskrat traps they had set.
It was growing quite dark when they thought of returning. For some
reason they decided to change places in the canoe, a very "ticklish"
thing to do. When one attempted to pass the other, over went the little
cockle-shell and both were struggling in the water. The elder managed to
thrust one arm through the strap of the hunting bag worn by the younger
and grasped him by the hair, said hair being a luxuriant mass of long,
golden brown curls. Able to swim a little he kept them afloat although
he could not keep the younger one's head above water. His cries for help
reached the ears of a young man, Charles Nollop, who was preparing to
cook a beefsteak for his supper--he threw the frying pan one way while
the steak went the other, and rushed, coatless and hatless, to the
rescue with another man, Joe Raber, in a boat.
An older brother of the two lads, John B. Denny, was just emerging from
the north door of the big barn with two pails of milk; hearing, as he
thought, the words "I'm drowning," rather faintly from the lake, he
dropped the pails unceremoniously and ran down to the shore swiftly,
found only an old shovel-nosed canoe and no paddle, seized a picket and
paddled across the little bay to where the water appeared agitated;
there he found the boys struggling in the water, or rather one of them,
the other was already unconscious. Arriving at the same time in their
boat Charley Nollop and Joe Raber helped to pull them out of the water.
The long golden curls of the younger were entangled in the crossed
cords of the shot pouch and powder flask worn by the older one, who was
about to sink for the last time, as he was exhausted and had let go of
the younger, who was submerged.
Their mother reached the shore as the unconscious one was stretched upon
the ground and raised his arms and felt for the heart which was beating
feebly.
The swimmer walked up the hill to the house; the younger, still
unconscious, was carried, face downward, into a room where a large fire
was burning in an open fireplace, and laid down before it on a rug.
Restoratives were quickly applied and upon partial recovery he was
warmly tucked in bed. A few feverish days followed, yet both escaped
without serious injury.
Mrs. Tsetseguis was much grieved and repeated over and over, "I told the
Oleman not to lend that little canoe to the boys, and he said, 'O it's
all right, they know how to manage a canoe.'"
Tsetseguis was also much distressed and showed genuine sympathy,
following the rescued into the house to see if they were really safe.
The games we played in early days were often the time-honored ones
taught us by our parents, and again were inventions of our own. During
the Rebellion we drilled as soldiers or played "black man;" by the
latter we wrought excitement to the highest pitch, whether we chased the
black man, or returning the favor, he chased us.
The teeter-board was available when the neighbor's children came; the
wonder is that no bones were broken by our method.
The longest, strongest, Douglas fir board that could be found, was
placed across a large log, a huge stone rested in the middle and the
children, boys and girls, little and big, crowded on the board almost
filling it; then we carefully "waggled" it up and down, watching the
stone in breathless and ecstatic silence until weary of it.
Our bravado consisted in climbing up the steepest banks on the bay, or
walking long logs across ravines or on steep inclines.
The surroundings were so peculiar that old games took on new charms when
played on Puget Sound. Hide-and-seek in a dense jungle of young Douglas
firs was most delightful; the great fir and cedar trees, logs and
stumps, afforded ample cover for any number of players, from the sharp
eyes of the one who had been counted "out" with one of the old rhymes.
The shadow of danger always lurked about the undetermined boundary of
our play-grounds, wild animals and wild men might be not far beyond.
We feared the drunken white man more than the sober Indian, with much
greater reason. Even the drunken Indian never molested us, but usually
ran "amuck" among the inhabitants of the beach.
Neither superstitious nor timid we seldom experienced a panic.
The nearest Indian graveyard was on a hill at the foot of Spring Street,
Seattle. It sloped directly down to the beach; the bodies were placed in
shallow graves to the very brow and down over the face of the sandy
bluff. All this hill was dug down when the town advanced.
The children's' graves were especially pathetic, with their rude
shelters, to keep off the rain of the long winter months, and upright
poles bearing bits of bright colored cloth, tin pails and baskets.
Over these poor graves no costly monuments stood, only the winds sang
wild songs there, the sea-gulls flitted over, the fair, wild flowers
bloomed and the dark-eyed Indian mothers tarried sometimes, human as
others in their sorrow.
But the light-hearted Indian girls wandered past, hand in hand, singing
as they went, pausing to turn bright friendly eyes upon me as they
answered the white child's question, "Ka mika klatawa?" (Where are you
going?)
"O, kopa yawa" (O, over yonder), nodding toward the winding road that
stretched along the green bank before them. Without a care or sorrow,
living a healthy, free, untrammeled life, they looked the impersonation
of native contentment.
The social instinct of the pioneers found expression in various ways.
A merry party of pioneer young people, invited to spend the evening at a
neighbor's, were promised the luxury of a candy-pull. The first batch
was put on to boil and the assembled youngsters engaged in old fashioned
games to while away the time. Unfortunately for their hopes the molasses
burned and they were obliged to throw it away. There was a reserve in
the jug, however, and the precious remainder was set over the fire and
the games went on again. Determined to succeed, the hostess stirred,
while an equally anxious and careful guest held the light, a small
fish-oil lamp. The lamp had a leak and was set on a tin plate; in her
eagerness to light the bubbling saccharine substance and to watch the
stirring-down, she leaned over a little too far and over went the lamp
directly into the molasses.
What consternation fell upon them! The very thought of the fish-oil was
nauseating, and that was all the molasses. There was no candy-pulling,
there being no grocery just around the corner where a fresh supply might
be obtained, indeed molasses and syrup were very scarce articles,
brought from a great distance.
The guests departed, doubtless realizing that the "best laid plans ...
gang aft agley."
The climate of Puget Sound is one so mild that snow seldom falls and ice
rarely forms as thick as windowglass, consequently travel, traffic and
amusement are scarcely modified during the winter, or more correctly,
the rainy season. Unless it rained more energetically than usual, the
children went on with their games as in summer.
The long northern twilight of the summertime and equally long evenings
in winter had each their special charm.
The pictures of winter scenes in eastern magazines and books looked
strange and unfamiliar to us, but as one saucy girl said to a tenderfoot
from a blizzard-swept state, "We see more and deeper snow everyday than
you ever saw in your life."
"How is that?" said he.
"On Mount Rainier," she answered, laughing.
Even so, this magnificent mountain, together with many lesser peaks,
wears perpetual robes of snow in sight of green and blooming shores.
When it came to decorating for Christmas, well, we had a decided
advantage as the evergreens stood thick about us, millions of them. Busy
fingers made lavish use of rich garlands of cedar to festoon whole
buildings; handsome Douglas firs, reaching from floor to ceiling,
loaded with gay presents and blazing with tapers, made the little
"clam-diggers'" eyes glisten and their mouths water. In the garden the
flowers bloomed often in December and January, as many as twenty-six
varieties at once.
One New Year's day I walked down the garden path and plucked a fine, red
rosebud to decorate the New Year's cake.
The pussy-willows began the floral procession of wildlings in January
and the trilliums and currants were not far behind unless a "cold snap"
came on in February and the flowers _dozed on_, for they never seem to
_sleep_ very profoundly here. By the middle of February there was,
occasionally, a general display of bloom, but more frequently it began
about the first of March, the seasons varying considerably.
The following poem tells of favorite flowers gathered in the olden time
"i' the spring o' the year!"
In the summertime we had work as well as play, out of doors. The garden
surrounding our cottage in 1863, overflowed with fruits, vegetables and
flowers. Nimble young fingers were made useful in helping to tend them.
Weeding beds of spring onions and lettuce, sticking peas and beans, or
hoeing potatoes, were considered excellent exercise for young muscles;
no need of physical "culchuah" in the school had dawned upon us, as
periods of work and rest, study and play, followed each other in
healthful succession.
Having a surplus of good things, the children often went about the
village with fresh vegetables and flowers, more often the latter,
generous bouquets of fragrant and spicy roses and carnations, sweet peas
and nasturtiums, to sell. Two little daughters in pretty, light print
dresses and white hats were flower girls who were treated like little
queens.
There was no disdain of work to earn a living in those days; every
respectable person did something useful.
For recreation, we went with father in the wagon over the "bumpy" road
when he went to haul wood, or perhaps a long way on the county road to
the meadow, begging to get off to gather flowers whenever we saw them
peeping from their green bowers.
Driving along through the great forest which stood an almost solid green
wall on either hand, we called "O father, stop! stop; here is the
lady-slipper place."
"Well, be quick, I can't wait long."
Dropping down to the ground, we ran as fast as our feet could carry us
to gather the lovely, fragrant orchid, Calypso Borealis, from its mossy
bed.
When the ferns were fully grown, eight or ten feet high, the little
girls broke down as many as they could drag, and ran along the road,
great ladies, with long green trains!
[Illustration: A VISIT FROM OUR TILLICUM]
We found the way to the opening in the woods, where in the midst
thereof, grandfather sat making cedar shingles with a drawing knife.
Huge trees lay on the ground, piles of bolts had been cut and the heap
of shingles, clear and straight of the very best quality, grew apace.
Very tall and grand the firs and cedars stood all around, like stately
pillars with a dome of blue sky above; the birds sang in the underbrush
and the brown butterflies floated by.
Among all the beautiful things, there was one to rivet the eye and
attention; a dark green fir tree, perhaps thirty feet high, around whose
trunk and branches a wild honeysuckle vine had twined itself from the
ground to the topmost twig.
It had the appearance of a giant candelabrum, with the orange-scarlet
blossoms that tipped the boughs like jets of flame.
Many a merry picnic we had in blackberry time, taking our lunch with us
and spending the day; sometimes in an Indian canoe we paddled off
several miles, to Smith's Cove or some other likely place.
It was necessary to watch the tide at the Cove or the shore could not be
reached across the mudflat.
Once ashore how happy we were; clambering about over the hills,
gathering the ripe fruit, now and then turning about to gaze at the
snowy sentinel in the southern sky, grand old Mount Rainier.
How wide the sparkling waters of the bay! the sky so pure and clear, the
north wind so cool and refreshing. The plumy boughs stirred gently
overhead and shed for us the balsamic odors, the flowers waved a welcome
at our feet.
In the winter there was seldom any "frost on the rills" or "snow on the
hills," but when it did come the children made haste to get all the
possible fun out of the unusual pastime of coasting. Mothers were glad
when the Chinook wind came and ate up the snow and brought back the
ordinary conditions, as the children were frequently sick during a cold
spell.
Now the tenderfoot, as the newcomer is called in the west, is apt to be
mistaken about the Chinook wind; there is a wet south wind and a dry
south wind on Puget Sound. The Chinook, as the "natives" have known it,
is a dry wind, clears the sky, and melts and dries up the snow at once.
Wet south wind, carrying heavy rain often follows after snow, and slush
reigns for a few days. Perhaps this is a distinction without much
difference.
Storms rarely occur, I remember but two violent ones in which the gentle
south wind seemed to forget its nature and became a raging gale.
The first occurred when I was a small child. The wind had been blowing
for some time, gradually increasing in the evening, and as night
advanced becoming heavier every hour. Large stones were taken up from
the high bank on the bay and piled on the roof with limbs broken from
tough fir trees. Thousands of giant trees fell crashing and groaning to
the ground, like a continuous cannonade; the noise was terrific and we
feared for our lives.
At midnight, not daring to leave the house, and yet fearing that it
might be overthrown, we knelt and commended ourselves to Him who rules
the storm.
About one o'clock the storm abated and calmly and safely we lay down to
sleep.
The morning broke still and clear, but many a proud monarch of the
forest lay prone upon the ground.
Electric storms were very infrequent; if there came a few claps of
thunder the children exclaimed, "O mother, hear the thunder storm!"
"Well, children, that isn't much of a thunder storm; you just ought to
hear the thunder in Illinois, and the lighting was a continual blaze."
Our mother complained that we were scarcely enough afraid of snakes; as
there are no deadly reptiles on Puget Sound, we thrust our hands into
the densest foliage or searched the thick grass without dread of a
lurking enemy.
The common garter snake, a short, thick snake, whose track across the
dusty roads I have seen, a long lead-colored snake and a small brown
one, comprise the list known to us.
Walking along a narrow trail one summer day, singing as I went, the song
was abruptly broken, I sprang to one side with remarkable agility, a
long, wiggling thing "swished" through the grass in an opposite
direction. Calling for help, I armed myself with a club, and with my
support, boldly advanced to seek out the serpent. When discovered we
belabored it so earnestly that its head was well-nigh severed from its
body.
It was about five feet long, the largest I had even seen, whether
poisonous or not is beyond my knowledge.
There are but two spiders known to be dangerous, a white one and a small
black "crab" spider. A little girl acquaintance was bitten by one of
these, it was supposed, though not positively known; the bite was on the
upper arm and produced such serious effects that a large piece of flesh
had to be removed by the surgeon's knife and amputation was narrowly
escaped.
A mysterious creature inhabiting Lake Union sometimes poisoned the young
bathers. One of my younger brothers was bitten on the knee, and a
lameness ensued, which continued for several months. There was only a
small puncture visible with a moderate swelling, which finally passed
away.
The general immunity from danger extends to the vegetable world, but
very few plants are unsafe to handle, chief among them being the Panax
horridum or "devil's club."
So the happy pioneer children roamed the forest fearlessly and sat on
the vines and moss under the great trees, often making bonnets of the
shining salal leaves pinned together with rose thorns or tiny twigs,
making whistles of alder, which gave forth sweet and pleasant sounds if
successfully made; or in the garden making dolls of hollyhocks, mallows
and morning glories.