It was the Indian summer of the year. The foliage was bright and the
air crisp and cool. Although a child, the impression made upon me was
one that I have gone over in my mind many times, and I can see every
inch of the road, the kind people, the beautiful scenery, birds of
bright plumage, and rabbits darting across the road at the sound of
our wheels. It was late when the journey was ended, but we were made
welcome and comfortable by more pleasant faces and willing hands. The
parsonage was a large, barnlike-looking place, built partly of logs
and "shakes." There was one large room and two small ones adjoining
and a shed that extended the length of the house. In the large room
was a fine, spacious fireplace, into which had been rolled a large log
and a bright fire was blazing which sent a glow of warmth and lit up
the logs and rafters and the strips of white plaster, used to close up
the cracks and keep the warmth within the room. The floors were made
of oak and were white and clean. Several old-fashioned split-bottom
chairs graced the room, a long table was placed in the center, upon
which was spread a snow-white linen cloth of homespun, and woven by
the women. While the wraps were being removed the women had placed
upon the table the best that could be prepared for the pastor's
welcome. I'll never forget the delicious roast chicken; baked sweet
potatoes, baked in the ashes, for cook stoves were not known; the fine
hot corn pone baked in the Dutch oven, hot coals heaped upon the lid
to brown and crisp; fresh sweet butter, pickles, preserves. Generous
loaves of bread, biscuit and cake filled the pantries.
When father entered the room and saw the preparation that had been
made he was overcome with the tender hospitality of the women of his
new charge. He could not restrain his tears. As they all surrounded
the table, he raised his hands in prayer and besought God's blessing
upon the people and the charge he had once more accepted. The
congregation was scattered far and wide. Many miles separated the
neighbors and once a week was the only time when gatherings were held.
On the Sabbath the log church was filled with solemn, substantial
people, men and women in their homespun garments, healthy and robust
the men and rosy and buxom the women. Families came in their
conveyances, wagons, carts and old-style buggies; some came on foot,
others on horseback, when they did not own a wagon. Rain or shine,
the faithful assembled for two services. After the morning service the
families gathered and seated under the trees or in their wagons
lunched of the food brought along. A fire was built and a huge caldron
of coffee was made of parched wheat ground and boiled. Coffee in these
days was only for the rich who lived in the cities. Delicious cream
and milk was in abundance for all the younger people. After the noon
repast the children gathered for the Sunday school. The second service
began at 3 o'clock and closed at 4. This work continued for seven
years. During that time the log church was replaced by a fine frame
church large enough to accommodate six or seven hundred worshipers.
During the years of this pastorate my oldest brother, Rev. Phillip
Henry Kroh, was graduated from the theological seminary in Ohio and
had returned an ordained minister. He was at once made an assistant by
my father, the field being too large for him.
In 1841 father returned from the eastern Synod with the sad tidings
that he had been appointed to go to Cincinnati, Ohio. We had lived so
long here, we expected it was to be our future home. We had a
comfortable house, a maple forest, gardens and stock, and the news
came as a severe blow to my poor mother. We had been so happy among
the fruits, flowers and country freedom, we were loath to give it up
for the city. It was with a sad heart that father parted from these
good and faithful people. The only balm for this separation was to
leave brother Phillip with them as his successor. He had become
endeared to them and had done such good work among the young, they
prayed father to leave him if the family must go.
After a journey of three weeks we arrived at the parsonage. The
congregation had purchased the old Texas church in the western
addition of the city, and the parsonage was attached to the church in
the rear. It was a comfortable place of six large rooms. The furniture
had preceded the family and everything looked homelike and
comfortable, so mother had not the sadness of coming to a bare,
cheerless, empty house. We were cordially greeted by the elders' wives
and families, and when we arrived dinner was upon the table for us.
This welcome was more homelike because of our own things having
preceded us. And then we were such a busy family that we had little
time to waste in repinings. We were all put in the harness--the
Sabbath school and choir. We made visits with our parents to the sick
and the poor. Because we spoke nothing but the German language, we
were obliged to go to school. My oldest sister, Mary, was soon
established in the German department of the public school. She was
graduated from the Monticello Seminary, St. Louis, before coming
there. She taught during the week in the public school and on Saturday
taught English in the synagogue. On the Sabbath she played the
melodeon in our church. It was there that, as a child, I learned the
grand old German hymns of the church under her guidance and which
helped to make me the singer I am today.
We had now been seven years in Cincinnati and the church had
flourished so greatly that a second German Reformed church was the
outcome of father's ministry. It was built on Webster street for the
purpose of housing the overflow of the first church on Betts street.
In all this prosperity California gold and missionary fields were
opened and discovered in November, 1847. Father was chosen for
California, and the only way to go was over the plains. What a sad
family was ours while preparations were made which would take father
and brother George, who was now 17 years old, away, as we thought, to
the other end of the earth. At last the hour came and the tie that
bound pastor and people, father, mother and children was severed. My
brother George told me the story of the trip as follows:
"The party left Cincinnati down the river on the steamer Pontiac about
May 10th, 1849, arrived in St. Louis four days after the fire, May
18th, and remained four days at Weston. We purchased a yoke of oxen.
At St. Joseph, Mo., we purchased two more yokes. On the 28th we went
up the river and crossed over on flatboats. Here we camped for the
night. As far as the eye could see it was one level stretch of land.
May 29th we started on the long journey across the plains to
California. Our first mishap came in crossing over a bridge made of
logs, called a corduroy bridge. In crossing over this bridge one of
the oxen was crowded too near the edge. He was crowded off into the
water below and was drowned before we could give aid. After traveling
for seven days more, the first days in June, we came to Ash Hollow. At
this place the party came in contact with a whole tribe of Sioux
Indians. They were peaceful, and we traded with them and gave the
squaws some necklaces of bright colored beads. After passing the
Indian tribe, about five miles away, we camped for the night. We
reached Fort Laramie by noon the next day. Here we purchased a fine
cow to take the place of the drowned ox. She worked well. She supplied
the party with fresh milk as well. Fort Laramie consisted of only the
fort and a blacksmith shop. We continued next day and made several
stops before we came to Fort Bridger, occupied by the man Bridger and
his family. He had a squaw wife and six children. When he learned that
father was a missionary, he brought his whole family to our camp and
they were all baptized. This was father's first missionary work.
"After leaving here we traveled for days before we got to Salt Lake
City, passing through Wyoming. At Salt Lake City father and Brigham
Young had a long and heated argument. A number of men and women joined
in. Among the women were several who did not believe as they were
compelled to, and they were on the side of the missionary. We remained
here a week, and we drove the cattle to feed and the Mormons stole
them two different times and compelled the company to pay fifteen
dollars each time as find money. Rather an expensive stay for one
week. When the party left, the women who favored us came out with
baskets filled with fresh vegetables, pumpkins, sweet potatoes and
squash. With tears in their eyes they said farewell. When we left we
employed the services of a Mormon guide. He purposely led us on the
wrong trail for sixty miles. It was necessary for us to return and get
the right trail. When we started once more he misled us the second
time and directed us into a deep canyon. In order to get out of this
difficulty we were obliged to take the wagon to pieces and piece by
piece we carried them out into safety. His object was to tire out our
oxen and get us to desert them so he could appropriate them. At last
we discovered his treachery and dismissed him at once. Then we
continued our journey along the Santa Fe trail. This was Kit Carson's
trail from Salt Lake to Lower California. We continued our travels
until we reached Big Muddy river and camped there. The Indians yelled
and whooped at us all night long. We could not sleep, for they were
the troublesome Piutes. We did not know how to act as they kept
concealed and were in great numbers. Two of them, more bold than the
others, being also curious, crawled through the willows. We
immediately shot at them. In the morning the oxen were rounded up and
one was missing. He was driven away by the Indians and killed. We
found him several miles further along, with seven arrows piercing his
body. Our next camping place was at the foot of the Sierra Nevada
mountains. The snow was eighteen inches deep and there was no food for
the cattle. After going a mile further the cow gave out. That left us
without any means to haul the wagons. Father left his wagon and we
packed our goods on a horse, this being the only animal remaining in
father's possession. We were compelled to leave many useful things
behind. Father's feet were frozen at this place and we were obliged to
cut off his boots to assist him out of his misery. Our sufferings were
great and we nearly froze on the trail. We kept going at a slow pace
and with great difficulty until we passed the snow belt, and when we
came to the green fields or plains our joy knew no bounds. But
misfortune overtook us here, for we turned our horse out with the
cattle and that was the last we ever saw of him. We came at last to
Cottonwood Springs and we camped there for two days to let the
remaining cattle rest and eat of herbage.
"In the evening of the second day we started to cross the great
desert. We succeeded in crossing by midnight and reached the mountains
on the other side. I was so tired I fell asleep beside the trail. The
team passed me as I slept. I did not awaken until 2 in the morning. I
followed the trail and found the team, a distance of four or five
miles ahead of where I took the nap. On reaching camp, father and the
company were anxiously awaiting me. We rested for the night. Next
morning we started through a deep canyon which eventually opened into
a beautiful valley where we saw houses made of adobe. The fields were
covered with cattle. This was the first civilization we saw since
leaving Salt Lake. Starvation had almost overtaken us and we besought
the owner to sell us an ox and we had a feast and appeased our hunger.
We had lost all accounting of time until we came here. We camped for
the night, and next morning we started for Los Angeles. We arrived
there November 18, 1849. The Spaniards had taken a strong liking
toward father and wanted to make him their Alcalde, but he refused the
honor and told them he had come to preach the gospel and had to go
further. On his going they presented him with a fine horse and saddle
as a token of their esteem for him. At that time Los Angeles had only
a few adobe houses and a Catholic mission. Commodore Stockton had dug
trenches around the place as a means of defense. We slowly wended our
way for another month when we met a man who had bought a thousand head
of cattle. He told father he could earn his way up the coast by
helping drive the cattle, but he was not able to do this spirited
work, so father and son exchanged places. Father turned the horse over
to me and he drove the supply wagon. For the first time in my life I
was a real cowboy.
"We followed the coast through Santa Clara and Santa Cruz, crossing
over to Livermore and San Joaquin valley, this being the end of the
cattle drive. Here we were paid and dismissed and our employer said we
were about forty miles from Stockton and about the same distance from
the mines. We plodded slowly along, following up the Stanislaus river.
The first place we reached having a name was Knight's Ferry. We were
out of money and clothes when we arrived at this place. The ferryman
took us across without pay and bade us remain all night. Up to this
time we wore buckskin trousers. I went out hunting and the rain came
down in torrents and my trousers got drenched. They stretched so long
I cut them off so I could walk. When they dried they had shrunken
above my knees. At this place we met Mr. Dent, a brother-in-law of
General Grant. With him also was a Mr. Vantine. When these men saw the
unfortunate condition we were in, they gave us each a pair of overalls
and a hat. So we were once more a little more civilized and passable.
On our way up the coast we encountered a heavy storm. We had prepared
to camp under a fine tree, but a large dead limb hung directly over
us. I told father that we had better move as there was danger. But he
thought it safe to remain where we were. But I insisted that we move,
and finally he listened to my pleadings and we each took an end of the
bed and lifted it over to the other side of the tree, away from the
dead limb. We had hardly gotten settled into the bed before the limb
came down with a crash, immediately across the spot from where we took
the bed. Had we remained, nothing could have saved us from instant
death. The next day we left Knight's Ferry without a dollar and
reached the mines that afternoon about 4 o'clock. One of the miners
gave me a claim. The next morning I started my first gold mining.
Father was obliged to rest after all this dreadful experience of nine
or ten months. I bought myself a rocker and began to work my claim.
The first day I had washed out $9.50. In eight days I had gotten out
$650. After getting the gold father went to Stockton and bought a
supply of groceries and started a grocery store at Scorpion Gulch. I
took up another claim and in ten days' time I had taken out a
collection of nuggets and small gold to the amount of $1,600."
This was sent home to the family in the East with the message for us
to come to California as soon as we could get ready.
After father started for California we were obliged to vacate the
parsonage for the family of his successor. So the church was raised
and a fine story made under the church for our use while we remained
there. We were all obliged to work and help mother in some way. The
older ones were teaching and we who were but children sewed a certain
amount each day before our play hour came. My sister Mary now played
the organ in the Presbyterian church and Mr. Aiken was the director of
the choir. I was about ten years old at this time, and with the new
minister other changes came in our church and we left the choir to
others who came after us. Shortly after this I remember going one
Sabbath to the church to hear sister play the pipe organ. While in the
choir loft Mr. Aiken came in. He came over and asked me how I came
there. I told him I had come with my sister. "Who is your sister?"
"Miss Kroh, who plays the organ." He looked surprised. Presently I saw
them conversing. When sister came to her place she said to me, "When
the choir arises to sing you go over and stand with the alto." I
demurred and she said, "Go and sing as you have been singing in our
choir. You know the music." After that Sunday I sang with the choir
five years, until we came to California. I was then fifteen. That is
how I became a choir singer when ten years of age. Mr. Aiken used to
pick me out from among the children of the public schools and place me
in the front row in every school I ever attended while he taught the
music.
Mr. Aiken became musical instructor in the schools in 1848. It was
then I was selected to join the choral class. There were fifty boys
and girls picked from the different schools and we had a fine drilling
each Saturday afternoon in the basement of the church. One of the boys
had a high soprano voice and we all admired his singing to adoration.
He was as courteous as his voice was beautiful--unspoiled by praise.
We had one chorus we all loved, of which he was the soloist, and we
were not satisfied with the rehearsal until we had sung, and the
young master had so beautifully rendered the obbligato to the song,
"Shepherd, from your sleep awake, Morning opes her golden eyes, etc."
How well I remember the words of the song and the beautiful boy singer
that left the impression of his voice in my life, and I can see the
picture as plain as if it hung on the wall of my studio today. From
that voice and the correct guidance of my sainted sister Mary I have
been able to sing and please the many thousands of people who have
listened to me in my years of song wherever I strayed--in the East or
West.
In speaking of Professor Junkerman's work in the schools of
Cincinnati, a coincidence happened in 1906 which recalled my childhood
days with all the vivid coloring traced upon my mind fifty-two years
ago. In the number of _The Musician_ for May, 1906, I saw two pictures
that were familiar and I looked without seeing the names printed
beneath them. To my utter astonishment they were the likenesses of Mr.
Aiken and Professor Junkerman, whom I had not seen for over fifty
years and yet I knew them at sight--the moment my eyes beheld them. In
reading the article and what it contained in regard to the music and
its development, I was able to go over the whole ground of Mr. Aiken's
teaching as if I were once more a school child. All three of these
persons were in the schools--Professor Junkerman, in languages, organ
and piano; my sister, Mary Kroh, his pupil on both organ and piano,
also teacher of English and German, and Mr. Aiken, the teacher in the
public schools for voice and the movable "do" system. Was ever such a
windfall of good fortune as this proved to me? I had tried to recall
the name of the dear old professor to use it in my narrative, but my
memory was at fault. We all loved him so well. He was a thorough
musician and thoroughly appreciated by all who had the advantage of
his knowledge, either in languages or in instrumental music. _The
Musician_ contains a complete detail of these two men who were
instrumental in promoting the best music in the early years of 1839
and later in 1842 and continued until 1879 for Mr. Aiken, and
Professor Junkerman closed his public career in 1900.
[Illustration:
Rev. Phillip Henry Kroh
Geo. Z. Kroh
Olevianus Casper Kroh
Mrs. Emma Jane Kroh-Knight
Rev. Henry Kroh, D.D.
Mrs. Mary Stouch-Kroh
Mrs. Mary Matilda Kroh-Trembly
Mrs. Elizabeth C. Kroh-Flagler
Mrs. Margaret R. Kroh-Blake-Alverson
Mrs. Sarah Rebecca Kroh-Harrold
Mrs. Ann Lauretta Kroh-Zimmerman