[Illustration: EZRA MEEKER
WASHINGTON, D. C., JAN. 23, 1916. BORN DEC. 29, 1830]
THE BUSY LIFE
OF
EIGHTY-FIVE YEARS
OF
EZRA MEEKER
VENTURES AND ADVENTURES
Sixty-three years of Pioneer Life in the Old Oregon Country; An
Account of the Author's Trip Across the Plains with an Ox Team, 1852;
Return Trip, 1906-7; His Cruise on Puget Sound, 1853; Trip Through
the Natchess Pass, 1854; Over the Chilcoot Pass; Flat-boating on the
Yukon, 1898.
THE OREGON TRAIL
AUTHOR OF PIONEER "REMINISCENCES OF PUGET SOUND"—"THE TRAGEDY OF
LESCHI"—"HOP CULTURE IN THE UNITED STATES"—"WASHINGTON TERRITORY WEST
OF THE CASCADE MOUNTAINS"—"THE OX TEAM"—"UNCLE EZRA'S SHORT STORIES
FOR THE CHILDREN."
PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR
$1.50 Postpaid
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
COPYRIGHT 1916
BY
EZRA MEEKER
PRESS WM. B. BURFORD
[Illustration]
INDIANAPOLIS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
Autobiography.
Birth and Parentage—Boyhood Days—Aversion to School—Early
Ambitions—Farm Training—Life in a Printing Office—At Tippecanoe
as a Songster 7
CHAPTER II.
Time of My Youth.
Our Ohio Home—A Period of Invention—The Printing Press—Our
Removal to Indiana—Habits Acquired on the Trip 15
CHAPTER III.
Early Days in Indiana.
I'm Going to Be a Farmer—Off for Iowa—An Iowa Winter 18
CHAPTER IV.
Off for Oregon.
Preparation—Getting a Partner—First Day Out 23
CHAPTER V.
The Ferry Across the Missouri 26
CHAPTER VI.
Out on the Plains.
Indian Country—The Cholera—Extent of Emigration—The Casualties 29
CHAPTER VII.
Buffalo Chase and Stampede.
Buffalo Trails—Chase on the Missouri—Stampede on the Platte 37
CHAPTER VIII.
Out on the Plains.
The Law of Self-Preservation—Crossing the Snake River—Wagon Beds
as Boats—Down Snake River in Wagon Boxes—On to Portland 39
CHAPTER IX.
Floating Down the River 51
CHAPTER X.
The Arrival.
At Work—Moving to St. Helens—Building a Home 57
CHAPTER XI.
The First Cabin.
Home Life—A Trip to Puget Sound 63
CHAPTER XII.
Cruise on Puget Sound.
Building a Boat—Afloat on Puget Sound—A Visit to the Indians 69
CHAPTER XIII.
Cruise on Puget Sound.
At Steilacoom 77
CHAPTER XIV.
Cruise on Puget Sound.
At Tacoma—On Puyallup Bay 84
CHAPTER XV.
Cruise on Puget Sound.
At Alki Point—A Fish Story 91
CHAPTER XVI.
Cruise on Puget Sound.
Port Townsend—Building the City—Colonel Ebey 96
CHAPTER XVII.
From Columbia River to Puget Sound.
Arrival Home—Preparations to Move—The Trip 101
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Second Cabin.
The New Home—Brother Oliver Returns to the States 115
CHAPTER XIX.
Trip Through Natchess Pass.
Cross the Streams 122
CHAPTER XX.
Trip Through Natchess Pass—Cont.
Many Obstacles—Killing of Steers to Make Rope—A Brave Boy 128
CHAPTER XXI.
Trip Through Natchess Pass—Cont.
Fun with the Pony—Immigrants 136
CHAPTER XXII.
Trip Through Natchess Pass—Cont.
Desert Lands—Lost—Crossing the River—Reunion 142
CHAPTER XXIII.
Trip Through Natchess Pass—Cont.
Nearly Home—Trouble Over Titles—Parting 148
CHAPTER XXIV.
Trip Through Natchess Pass—Cont.
Home Again—Visitors—Jay Cooke and My Pamphlet 154
CHAPTER XXV.
First Immigrants Through Natchess Pass.
Hard Trip—Letter from Geo. H. Himes 161
CHAPTER XXVI.
Building of the Natchess Pass Road.
Many Obstacles—Lines from Winthrop—Receipts 169
CHAPTER XXVII.
Building of the Natchess Pass Road—Cont.
Letter from A. J. Burge—Lawlessness—A Great Pioneer, George
Bush—The Fanning Mill—The First Cougar 178
CHAPTER XXVIII.
About Indians.
Massacre—Flight of Settlers 183
CHAPTER XXIX.
Fraser River Stampede.
Excitement High—Off for Whatcom—The Arrival—Where's De Lacy? 186
CHAPTER XXX.
An Old Settlers' Meeting.
Review of the Past—Lady Sheriff—Personal Anecdotes 195
CHAPTER XXXI.
A Chapter on Names.
Seattle—Puyallup and Amusing Incidents 201
CHAPTER XXXII.
Pioneer Religious Experiences and Incidents.
Aunt Ann—Mr. and Mrs. Wickser—John McLeod 206
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Wild Animals.
Carrie Sees a Cougar—An Unfriendly Meeting 210
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The Morning School.
The First Log School House—Going to Market—Fifty Years Ago 216
CHAPTER XXXV.
An Early Survey.
The Surveying Party—The Camp—Location—Value 221
CHAPTER XXXVI.
The Hop Business.
My Hop Venture—The Curse on Hops 223
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Beet Sugar Venture 230
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The History of a History 231
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Banking.
Bank President—The Run on the Bank 235
CHAPTER XL.
The Klondike Venture.
Through White Horse Rapids—On the Yukon 238
CHAPTER XLI.
THE OREGON TRAIL MONUMENT EXPEDITION.
The Ox.
Ready for the Trip—Getting Notoriety 243
CHAPTER XLII.
The Start.
Making Camps—Out on the Trail—Centralia, Wash.—Chehalis,
Wash.—Jackson's—Toledo, Wash.—Portland, Oregon 246
CHAPTER XLIII.
The Dalles, Oregon.
Quotations from Journal—Shoeing the Oxen—Out from The
Dalles—Pendleton, Oregon—The Blue Mountains—Meacham,
Oregon—La Grande, Oregon—Ladd's Canyon—Camp No. 34—Baker City,
Oregon—Old Mt. Pleasant, Oregon—Durkee, Oregon—Huntington—Vale,
Oregon 255
CHAPTER XLIV.
Old Fort Boise—Parma, Idaho—Boise, Idaho—Twin Falls,
Idaho—American Falls, Idaho—Pocatello, Idaho—Soda Springs,
Idaho—Montpelier, Idaho—The Mad Bull—The Wounded
Buffalo—Cokeville, Wyoming 266
CHAPTER XLV.
Independence Rock.
The Rocky Mountains.
Pacific Springs—Sweetwater—Split Rock—The Devil's Gate 271
CHAPTER XLVI.
Fish Creek—North Platte—Casper, Wyoming—Glen Rock—Douglas,
Wyoming—Puyallup, Tacoma, Seattle—New Changes 280
CHAPTER XLVII.
Fort Laramie, Wyoming.
Scott's Bluff—The Dead of the Plains—The Lone Grave—Chimney
Rock—North Platte 289
CHAPTER XLVIII.
Death of Twist.
Gothenberg, Nebraska—Lexington 298
CHAPTER XLIX.
Kearney, Nebraska.
Grand Island 303
CHAPTER L.
From Indianapolis to Washington—Events on the Way 306
CHAPTER LI.
Return Trip.
Leaving Washington—Out West Again—From Portland to Seattle 320
CHAPTER LII.
The End 328
CHAPTER LIII.
The Interim and Second Trip.
Good Road Movement—The Overland Outfit in the Interim—Yukon
Exposition—The Trip of 1910-'11—Hunting for the Trail—Dedication
of the Wagon and Team to Washington—A Bill for Surveying
"Pioneer Way"—The Author's Plea Before the House Committee on
Military Affairs 331
CHAPTER LIV.
Conquest of the Oregon Country.
(1) Exploration, by Robert Gray, Lewis and Clark and Jonathan
Carver—Naming Oregon. (2) Exploitation, by John Jacob Astor, the
Hunt Party, Hudson Bay Co.—Ashley, Bonneyville and Wythe—(3)
Missionary; "White Man's Book of Heaven," Lee, Parker, Whitman
and Spaulding as Missionaries—Tribute to Pioneers. (4) Home
builders; American Settlers Outnumber English—English give up
Joint Occupancy, Withdrawal and Ashburton's Treaty—Establishment
of the Oregon Trail 1843—Emigration of 1852—Conclusions 343
CHAPTER LV.
Pioneer Life in Puyallup.
The Cabin—Stilly a Typical Pioneer—Stilly's Cabin Becomes The
Author's Home—The Ivy Vine—Dedication of the Cabin as "Pioneer
Park"—The Author's Phonographic Address 352
CHAPTER LVI.
Pioneer Life in Puyallup Valley.
The Carson Family—The Walker Family—"Good Templars
Lodge"—Holiday Celebrations—First Postoffice—Mount Rainier
Glacier—Colony of 1853—Indian Massacre and Flight of the
Settlers—Discovery of Coal—Acquiring Title of Land—Publication
of "Washington Territory West of the Cascades"—Pioneer
Socialism—Religion and Schools—Allen's Letter—Early Settlers
Meet in Puyallup's Park—Great Public Dinner—Strong Program
Speech by Ezra Meeker 360
CHAPTER LVII.
Sketches of Western Life.
"Occidental Transcontinental Oriental McDonald"—His Personal
Appearance—His Sloop—His Prophecies 375
CHAPTER LVIII.
Sketches of Western Life.
"The Prairie Schooner"—Why Wagon Body was Boat Shape—Crossing
Snake River—Moving Pictures of Crossing Loop Fork of the Platte
River—How the Teams Crossed the River 377
CHAPTER LIX.
High Cost of Living.
Cincinnati Market a Hundred Years Ago; No Middlemen—All Markets
Now, All Middlemen—Transportation, a Factor in the Cost of
Living—Causes, "High Living," Abandonment of Simple Life, Change
in Environments and Extravagant Wants 381
CHAPTER LX.
Cost of High Living.
Fortieth Anniversary Celebration of the Completion of N. P. R.
R.—Extravagance and Waste at the Celebration—Supply and Demand
Regulates Prices—Consumer Too Far Removed from Producer, Demand
Too Much Service, Buys in Too Small Quantities—Too Much
Money—Remedy, Stop Extravagance and Waste, and Buy With Judgment 386
CHAPTER LXI.
Preparedness.
Witness of Five Wars—Results, Advancement of Civilization—Wars
Cannot be Averted—Preparedness Gives Advantage—It Does Not Cause
War—The Monroe Doctrine and the "Open Door To China"—No Other
Nation Will Assert Our Rights—Preparedness Does Not Prevent
Wars, But Lessens the Danger 395
CHAPTER LXII.
How to Live to be a Hundred 399
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
The Old Ancestral Homestead, 1676 1
Mt. Tacoma 86
We Struck Rapid but Awkward Strokes 118
Mt. Rainier 139
Type of Blockhouse 185
Old Settlers Meeting 195
Group of Hop Houses 223
The Klondike Team 239
Ezra Meeker's Homestead 245
The Ivy-covered Cabin 246
Camp in Seattle 250
Dedicating Monument at Tenino, Washington 253
The First Boulder Marked 257
Baker City Monument 264
The Old Oregon Trail 270
Summit Monument 273
Devil's Gate 277
An Old Scout 284
Snap Shot on the Trail 290
The Lone Grave 294
Chimney Rock 295
Twist 298
Broad Street, New York 313
Jim 317
President Roosevelt on the Way to View the Team 317
President Viewing the Team 320
Addressing Colored School 323
At the Yukon Exposition 333
Pioneer Park, Puyallup 355
The Prairie Schooner on the White House Grounds 377
Dave and Dandy at the Panama Exposition 379
PREFACE
Just why I should write a preface I know not, except that it is
fashionable to do so, and yet in the present case there would seem a
little explanation due the reader, who may cast his eye on the first
chapter of this work.
Indeed, the chapter, "Early Days in Indiana," may properly be termed an
introduction, though quite intimately connected with the narrative that
follows, yet not necessary to make a completed story of the trip to
Oregon in the early fifties.
The enlarged scope of this work, narrating incidents not connected
with the Oregon Trail or the Ox Team expedition, may call for this
explanation, that the author's thought has been to portray frontier
life in the Old Oregon Country, as well as pioneer life on the plains;
to live his experiences of eighty-five years over again, and tell them
in plain, homely language, to the end the later generation may know how
the "fathers" lived, what they did, and what they thought in the long
ago.
An attempt has been made to teach the young lessons of industry,
frugality, upright and altruistic living as exemplified in the lives of
the pioneers.
While acknowledging the imperfections of the work, yet to parents I can
sincerely say they may safely place this volume in the home without
fear that the adventures recited will arouse a morbid craving in the
minds of their children. The adventures are of real life, and incident
to a serious purpose in life, and not stories of fancy to make exciting
reading, although some of them may seem as such.
"Truth is stranger than fiction," and the pioneers have no need to
borrow from their imagination.
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON.
PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR
Cloth $1.50 Postpaid
Address: Ezra Meeker, 1120 38th Ave. N.
Seattle, Wash.
GREETINGS
Upon this, my 85th birthday with good health remaining with me and
strength to prompt the will to do, small wonder that I should arise
with thankfulness in my heart for the many, many blessings vouchsafed
to me.
To my friends (and enemies, if I have any) I dedicate this volume,
to be known as "Eighty-five Years of a Busy Life," in the hope of
cementing closer companionship and mutual good will to the end, that
by looking back into earlier life, we may be guided to better ways in
the vista of years to come, to a more forgiving spirit, to a less stern
condemnation of the foibles of others and a more joyful contemplation
of life's duties.
Having lived the simple life for so many years I could not now
change to the more modern ways of "High Living" and would not if I
could; nevertheless, the wonderful advance of art and science, the
great opportunity afforded for betterment of life in so many ways
to challenge our admiration, I would not record myself as against
innovation, as saying that all old ways were the best ways, but I will
say some of them were. The patient reader will notice this thought
developed in the pages to follow and while they may not be in full
accord of the teachings, yet, it is the hope of the author the lessons
may not fall upon deaf ears.
Being profoundly grateful for so many expressions of good will that
have reached me from so many friends, I will reciprocate by wishing
that each and every one of you may live to be over a hundred years old,
coupled with the admonition to accomplish this you must be possessed
with patience, and that "you must keep working to keep young."
Now, please read that grand inspired poem on next page, "Work", before
you read the book, to see if you have not there found the true elixir
of life and with it the author's hope to reach the goal beyond the
century mark.
Greetings to all.
_The Outlook_, December 2, 1914
WORK.
A SONG OF TRIUMPH.
BY ANGELA MORGAN.
Work!
Thank God for the might of it,
The ardor, the urge, the delight of it—
Work that springs from the heart's desire,
Setting the soul and the brain on fire.
Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,
And what is so glad as the beat of it,
And what is so kind as the stern command
Challenging brain and heart and hand?
Work!
Thank God for the pride of it,
For the beautiful, conquering tide of it,
Sweeping the life in its furious flood,
Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood,
Mastering stupor and dull despair,
Moving the dreamer to do and dare.
Oh; what is so good as the urge of it,
And what is so glad as the surge of it,
And what is so strong as the summons deep
Rousing the torpid soul from sleep?
Work!
Thank God for the pace of it,
For the terrible, keen, swift race of it;
Fiery steeds in full control,
Nostrils aquiver to greet the goal.
Work, the power that drives behind,
Guiding the purposes, taming the mind,
Holding the runaway wishes back,
Reining the will to one steady track,
Speeding the energies faster, faster,
Triumphing over disaster.
Oh! what is so good as the pain of it,
And what is so great as the gain of it,
And what is so kind as the cruel goad,
Forcing us on through the rugged road?
Work!
Thank God for the swing of it,
For the clamoring, hammering ring of it,
Passion of labor daily hurled
On the mighty anvils of the world
Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it,
And what is so huge as the aim of it,
Thundering on through dearth and doubt,
Calling the plan of the Maker out;
Work, the Titan, Work, the friend,
Shaping the earth to a glorious end;
Draining the swamps and blasting the hills,
Doing whatever the spirit wills,
Rending a continent apart
To answer the dream of the Master heart.
Thank God for a world where none may shirk,
Thank God for the splendor of work.
CHAPTER I.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
I was born near Huntsville, Butler County, Ohio, about ten miles east
of Hamilton, Ohio. This, to me, important event occurred on December
29, A. D. 1830, hence I am many years past the usual limit of three
score years and ten.
My father's ancestors came from England in 1637 and in 1665 settled
near Elizabeth City, New Jersey, built a very substantial house which
is still preserved, furnished more than a score of hardy soldiers in
the War of Independence, and were noted for their stalwart strength,
steady habits, and patriotic ardor. My father had lost nothing of the
original sturdy instincts of the stock nor of the stalwart strength,
incident to his ancestral breeding. I remember that for three years, at
Carlyle's flouring mill in the then western suburbs of Indianapolis,
Ind., he worked 18 hours a day, as miller. He had to be on duty by 7
o'clock a. m., and remained on duty until 1 o'clock the next morning,
and could not leave the mill for dinner;—all this for $20 per month,
and bran for the cow, and yet his health was good and strength seemed
the same as when he began the ordeal. My mother's maiden name was
Phoeba Baker. A strong English and Welch strain of blood ran in her
veins, but I know nothing farther back than my grandfather Baker, who
settled in Butler County, Ohio, in the year 1804, or thereabouts. My
mother, like my father, could and did endure continuous long hours of
severe labor without much discomfort, in her household duties. I have
known her frequently to patch and mend our clothing until 11 o'clock at
night and yet would invariably be up in the morning by 4:00 and resume
her labors.
[Illustration: The Ancestral Old Homestead, Built 1676.]
Both my parents were sincere, though not austere Christian people, my
mother in particular inclining to a liberal faith, but both were
in early days members of the "Disciples," or as sometimes known as
"Newlites," afterwards, I believe, merged with the "Christian" church,
popularly known as the "Campbellites" and were ardent admirers of
Love Jameson, who presided so long over the Christian organization at
Indianapolis, and whom I particularly remember as one of the sweetest
singers that I ever heard.
Small wonder that with such parents and with such surroundings I
am able to say that for fifty-eight years of married life I have
never been sick in bed a single day, and that I can and have endured
long hours of labor during my whole life, and what is particularly
gratifying that I can truthfully say that I have always loved my work
and that I never watched for the sun to go down to relieve me from the
burden of labor.
"Burden of labor?" Why should any man call labor a burden? It's the
sweetest pleasure of life, if we will but look aright. Give me nothing
of the "man with the hoe" sentiment, as depicted by Markham, but let me
see the man with a light heart; that labors; that fulfills a destiny
the good God has given him; that fills an honored place in life even
if in an humble station; that looks upon the bright side of life while
striving as best he may to do his duty. I am led into these thoughts
by what I see around about me, so changed from that of my boyhood days
where labor was held to be honorable, even though in humble stations.
But, to return to my story. My earliest recollection, curiously enough,
is of my schoolboy days, of which I had so few. I was certainly not
five years old when a drunken, brutal school teacher undertook to
spank me while holding me on his knees because I did not speak a word
plainly. That is the first fight I have any recollection of, and would
hardly remember that but for the witnesses, one of them my oldest
brother, who saw the struggle, where my teeth did such excellent
work as to draw blood quite freely. What a spectacle that, of a
half-drunken teacher maltreating his scholars! But then that was a time
before a free school system, and when the parson would not hesitate to
take a "wee bit," and when, if the decanter was not on the sideboard,
the jug and gourd served well in the field or house. To harvest without
whisky in the field was not to be thought of; nobody ever heard of a
log-rolling or barn-raising without whisky. And so I will say to the
zealous temperance reformers, be of good cheer, for the world has moved
in these eighty-five years. Be it said, though, to the everlasting
honor of my father, that he set his head firmly against the practice,
and said his grain should rot in the field before he would supply
whisky to his harvest hands, and I have no recollections of ever but
once tasting any alcoholic liquors in my boyhood days.
I did, however, learn to smoke when very young. It came about in this
way: My mother always smoked, as long as I can remember. Women those
days smoked as well as men, and nothing was thought of it.
Well, that was before the time of matches, or leastwise, it was a time
when it was thought necessary to economize in their use, and mother,
who was a corpulent woman, would send me to put a coal in her pipe,
and so I would take a whiff or two, just to get it started, you know,
which, however, soon developed into the habit of lingering to keep it
going. But let me be just to myself,—for more than thirty years ago I
threw away my pipe and have never smoked since, and never will, and
now to those smokers who say they "can't quit" I want to call their
attention to one case of a man who did.
My next recollection of school-days was after father had moved to
Lockland, Ohio, then ten miles north of Cincinnati, now, I presume,
a suburb of that great city. I played "hookey" instead of going to
school, but one day while under the canal bridge the noise of passing
teams so frightened me that I ran home and betrayed himself. Did my
mother whip me? Why, God bless her dear old soul, no. Whipping of
children, though, both at home and in the school-room, was then about
as common as eating one's breakfast; but my parents did not think it
was necessary to rule by the rod, though then their family government
was exceptional. And so we see now a different rule prevailing, and see
that the world does move and is getting better.
After my father's removal to Indiana times were "hard," as the common
expression goes, and all members of the household for a season were
called upon to contribute their mite. I drove four yoke of oxen for
twenty-five cents a day, and a part of that time boarded at home at
that. This was on the Wabash where oak grubs grew, as father often
said, "as thick as hair on a dog's back," but not so thick as that.
But we used to force the big plow through and cut grubs with the plow
shear, as big as my wrist; and when we saw a patch of them ahead,
then was when I learned how to halloo and rave at the poor oxen and
inconsiderately whip them, but father wouldn't let me swear at them.
Let me say parenthetically that I have long since discontinued such a
foolish practice, and that I now talk to my oxen in a conversational
tone of voice and use the whip sparingly. When father moved to
Indianapolis, I think in 1842, "times" seemed harder than ever, and I
was put to work wherever an opportunity for employment offered, and
encouraged by my mother to seek odd jobs and keep the money myself,
she, however, becoming my banker; and in three years I had actually
accumulated $37.00. My! but what a treasure that was to me, and what a
bond of confidence between my mother and myself, for no one else, as I
thought, knew about my treasure. I found out afterwards, though, that
father knew about it all the time.
My ambition was to get some land. I had heard there was a forty-acre
tract in Hendricks County (Indiana) yet to be entered at $1.25 per
acre, and as soon as I could get $50.00 together I meant to hunt up
that land and secure it. I used to dream about that land day times
as well as at night. I sawed wood and cut each stick twice for
twenty-five cents a cord, and enjoyed the experience, for at night I
could add to my treasure. It was because my mind did not run on school
work and because of my restless disposition that my mother allowed me
to do this instead of compelling me to attend school, and which cut
down my real schoolboy days to less than six months. It was, to say the
least, a dangerous experiment and one which only a mother (who knows
her child better than all others) dare take, and I will not by any
means advise other mothers to adopt such a course.
Then when did you get your education? the casual reader may ask. I will
tell you a story. When in 1870 I wrote my first book (long since out
of print), "Washington Territory West of the Cascade Mountains," and
submitted the work to the Eastern public, a copy fell into the hands
of Jay Cooke, who then had six power presses running advertising the
Northern Pacific railroad, and he at once took up my whole edition. Mr.
Cooke, whom I met, closely questioned me as to where I was educated.
After having answered his many queries about my life on the frontier
he would not listen to my disclaimer that I was not an educated man,
referring to the work in his hand. The fact then dawned on me that it
was the reading of the then current literature of the day that had
taught me. I answered that the New York Tribune had educated me, as I
had then been a close reader of that paper for eighteen years, and it
was there I got my pure English diction, if I possessed it. We received
mails only twice a month for a long time, and sometimes only once a
month, and it is needless to say that all the matter in the paper was
read and much of it re-read and studied in the cabin and practiced
in the field. However, I do not set my face against school training,
but can better express my meaning by the quaint saying that "too much
of a good thing is more than enough," a phrase in a way senseless,
which yet conveys a deeper meaning than the literal words express. The
context will show the lack of a common school education, after all,
was not entirely for want of an opportunity, but from my aversion to
confinement and preference for work to study.
In those days apprenticeship was quite common, and it was not thought
to be a disgrace for a child to be "bound out" until he was twenty-one,
the more especially if this involved learning a trade. Father took
a notion he would "bind me out" to a Mr. Arthens, the mill owner at
Lockland, who was childless, and took me with him one day to talk it
over. Finally, when asked how I would like the change, I promptly
replied that it would be all right if Mrs. Arthens would "do up my sore
toes", whereupon there was such an outburst of merriment that I always
remembered it. We must remember that boys in those days did not wear
shoes in summer and quite often not in winter either. But mother put a
quietus on the whole business and said the family must not be divided,
and it was not, and in that she was right. Give me the humble home for
a child, that is a home in fact, rather than the grandest palace where
home life is but a sham.
I come now to an important event of my life, when father moved from
Lockland, Ohio, to near Covington, Indiana. I was not yet seven years
old, but walked all the way behind the wagon and began building
"castles in the air," which is the first (but by no means the last)
that I remember. We were going out to Indiana to be farmers, and it was
here, near the banks of the Wabash, that I learned the art of driving
four yoke of oxen to a breaking plow, without swearing.
That reminds me of an after-experience, the summer I was nineteen.
Uncle John Kinworthy (good old soul he was), an ardent Quaker, who
lived a mile or so out from Bridgeport, Indiana, asked me one day while
I was passing his place with three yoke of oxen to haul a heavy cider
press beam in place. This led the oxen through the front dooryard and
in full sight and hearing of three buxom Quaker girls, who either stood
in the door or poked their heads out of the window, in company with
their good mother. Go through the front yard past those girls the
cattle would not, and kept doubling back, first on one side and then on
the other. Uncle Johnny, noticing I did not swear at the cattle, and
attributing the absence of oaths to the presence of ladies, or maybe,
like a good many others, he thought oxen could not be driven without
swearing at them, sought an opportunity, when the mistress of the house
could not hear him, and said in a low tone, "If thee can do any better,
thee had better let out the word." Poor, good old soul, he doubtless
justified himself in his own mind that it was no more sin to swear all
the time than part of the time; and why is it? I leave the answer to
that person, if he can be found, that never swears.
Yes, I say again, give me the humble home for a child, that is a home
in fact, rather than the grandest palace where home life is but a
sham. And right here is where this generation has a grave problem to
solve, if it's not the gravest of the age, the severance of child life
from the real home and the real home influences, by the factory child
labor, the boarding schools, the rush for city life, and so many others
of like influences at work, that one can only take time to mention
examples.
And now the reader will ask, What do you mean by the home life? and to
answer that I will relate some features of my early home life, though
by no means would say that I would want to return to all the ways of
"ye olden times."
My mother always expected each child to have a duty to perform, as
well as time to play. Light labor, to be sure, but labor; something
of service. Our diet was so simple, the mere mention of it may create
a smile with the casual reader. The mush pot was a great factor in
our home life; a great heavy iron pot that hung on the crane in the
chimney corner where the mush would slowly bubble and splutter over or
near a bed of oak coals for half the afternoon. And such mush, always
made from yellow corn meal and cooked three hours or more. This, eaten
with plenty of fresh, rich milk comprised the supper for the children.
Tea? Not to be thought of. Sugar? It was too expensive—cost fifteen
to eighteen cents a pound, and at a time it took a week's labor to
earn as much as a day's labor now. Cheap molasses, sometimes, but
not often. Meat, not more than once a day, but eggs in abundance.
Everything father had to sell was low-priced, while everything mother
must buy at the store was high. Only to think of it, you who complain
of the hard lot of the workers of this generation: wheat twenty-five
cents a bushel, corn fifteen cents, pork two and two and a half cents
a pound, with bacon sometimes used as fuel by the reckless, racing
steamboat captains of the Ohio and Mississippi. But when we got onto
the farm with abundance of fruit and vegetables, with plenty of pumpkin
pies and apple dumplings, our cup of joy was full, and we were the
happiest mortals on earth. As I have said, 4:00 o'clock scarcely ever
found mother in bed, and until within very recent years I can say that
5:00 o'clock almost invariably finds me up. Habit, do you say? No, not
wholly, though that may have something to do with it, but I get up
early because I want to, and because I have something to do.
When I was born, thirty miles of railroad comprised the whole mileage
of the United States, and this only a tramway. Now, how many hundred
thousand miles I know not, but many miles over the two hundred thousand
mark. When I crossed the great states of Illinois and Iowa on my way
to Oregon in 1852 not a mile of railroad was seen in either state.
Only four years before, the first line was built in Indiana, really
a tramway, from Madison, on the Ohio River, to Indianapolis. What a
furore the building of that railroad created! Earnest, honest men
opposed the building just as sincerely as men now advocate public
ownership; both propositions are fallacious, the one long since
exploded, the other in due time, as sure to die out as the first.
My father was a strong advocate of the railroads, but I caught the
arguments on the other side advocated with such vehemence as to have
the sound of anger. What will our farmers do with their hay if all
the teams that are hauling freight to the Ohio River are thrown out
of employment? What will the tavern keepers do? What will become of
the wagoners? A hundred such queries would be asked by the opponents
of the railroad and, to themselves, triumphantly answered that the
country would be ruined if railroads were built. Nevertheless,
Indianapolis has grown from ten thousand to much over two hundred
thousand, notwithstanding the city enjoyed the unusual distinction of
being the first terminal city in the state of Indiana. I remember it
was the boast of the railroad magnates of that day that they would soon
increase the speed of their trains to fourteen miles an hour,—this when
they were running twelve.
In the year 1845 a letter came from Grandfather Baker to my mother that
he would give her a thousand dollars with which to buy a farm. The
burning question with my father and mother was how to get that money
out from Ohio to Indiana. They actually went in a covered wagon to
Ohio for it and hauled it home, all silver, in a box. This silver was
nearly all foreign coin. Prior to that time, but a few million dollars
had been coined by the United States Government. Grandfather Baker
had accumulated this money by marketing small things in Cincinnati,
twenty-five miles distant. I have heard my mother tell of going to
market on horseback with grandfather many times, carrying eggs, butter
and even live chickens on the horse she rode. Grandfather would not go
in debt, and so he lived on his farm a long time without a wagon, but
finally became wealthy, and was reputed to have a "barrel of money"
(silver, of course), out of which store the thousand dollars mentioned
came. It took nearly a whole day to count this thousand dollars, as
there seemed to be nearly every nation's coin on earth represented,
and the "tables" (of value) had to be consulted, the particular coins
counted, and their aggregate value computed.
It was this money that bought the farm five miles southwest of
Indianapolis, where I received my first real farm training. Father
had advanced ideas about farming, though a miller by trade, and
early taught me some valuable lessons I never forgot. We (I say "we"
advisedly, as father continued to work in the mill and left me in
charge of the farm) soon brought up the run-down farm to produce
twenty-three bushels of wheat per acre instead of ten, by the rotation
of corn, and clover and then wheat. But there was no money in farming
at the then prevailing prices, and the land, for which father paid ten
dollars an acre, would not yield a rental equal to the interest on the
money. Now that same land has recently sold for six hundred dollars an
acre.
For a time I worked in the Journal printing office for S. V. B. Noel,
who, I think, was the publisher of the Journal, and also printed a
free-soil paper. A part of my duty was to deliver those papers to
subscribers, who treated me civilly, but when I was caught on the
streets of Indianapolis with the papers in my hand I was sure of
abuse from some one, and a number of times narrowly escaped personal
violence. In the office I worked as roller boy, but known as "the
devil," a term that annoyed me not a little. The pressman was a man by
the name of Wood. In the same room was a power press, the power being
a stalwart negro who turned a crank. We used to race with the power
press, when I would fly the sheets, that is, take them off when printed
with one hand and roll the type with the other. This so pleased Noel
that he advanced my wages to $1.50 a week.
The present generation can have no conception of the brutal virulence
of the advocates of slavery against the "nigger" and "nigger lovers,"
as all were known who did not join in the crusade against the negroes.
One day we heard a commotion on the streets, and upon inquiry were
told that "they had just killed a nigger up the street, that's all,"
and went back to work shocked, but could do nothing. But when a little
later word came that it was Wood's brother that had led the mob
and that it was "old Jimmy Blake's man" (who was known as a sober,
inoffensive colored man) consternation seized Wood as with an iron
grip. His grief was inconsolable. The negro had been set upon by the
mob just because he was a negro and for no other reason, and brutally
murdered. That murder, coupled with the abuse I had received at the
hands of this same element, set me to thinking, and I then and there
embraced the anti-slavery doctrines and ever after adhered to them
until the question was settled.
One of the subscribers to whom I delivered that anti-slavery paper was
Henry Ward Beecher, who had then not attained the fame that came to him
later in life, but to whom I became attached by his kind treatment and
gentle words he always found time to utter. He was then, I think the
pastor of the Congregational Church that faced the "Governor's Circle."
The church has long since been torn down.
One episode of my life I remember because I thought my parents were in
the wrong. Vocal music was taught in singing school, almost, I might
say, as regular as day schools. I was passionately fond of music, and
before the change came had a splendid alto voice, and became a leader
in my part of the class. This coming to the notice of the trustees of
Beecher's church, an effort was made to have me join the choir. Mother
first objected because my clothes were not good enough, whereupon an
offer was made to suitably clothe me and pay something besides; but
father objected because he did not want me to listen to preaching
other than the sect (Campbellite) to which he belonged. The incident
set me to thinking, and finally drove me, young as I was, into the
liberal faith, though I dared not openly espouse it. In those days many
ministers openly preached of endless punishment in a lake of fire, but
I never could believe that doctrine, and yet their words would carry
terror into my heart. The ways of the world are better now in this, as
in many other respects.
Another episode of my life while working in the printing office I have
remembered vividly all these years. During the campaign of 1844 the
Whigs held a second gathering on the Tippecanoe battle-ground. It could
hardly be called a convention. A better name for the gathering would
be a political camp-meeting. The people came in wagons, on horseback,
afoot—any way to get there—and camped just like people used to do in
their religious camp-meetings. The journeymen printers of the Journal
office planned to go in a covered dead-ax wagon, and signified they
would make a place for the "devil," if his parents would let him go
along. This was speedily arranged with mother, who always took charge
of such matters. The proposition coming to Noel's ears he said for the
men to print me some campaign songs, which they did with a will, Wood
running them off the press after night while I rolled the type for him.
My! wasn't I the proudest boy that ever walked the earth? Visions of a
pocket full of money haunted me almost day and night until we arrived
on the battlefield. But lo and behold, nobody would pay any attention
to me. Bands of music were playing here and there; glee clubs would
sing and march first on one side of the ground and then the other;
processions were marching and the crowds surging, making it necessary
for one to look out and not get run over. Coupled with this, the rain
would pour down in torrents, but the marching and countermarching went
on all the same and continued for a week. An elderly journeyman printer
named May, who in a way stood sponsor for our party, told me if I would
get up on the fence and sing my songs the people would buy them, and
sure enough the crowds came and I sold every copy I had, and went home
with eleven dollars in my pocket, the richest boy on earth.
It was about this time the start was made of printing the Indianapolis
News, a paper that has thriven all these after years. These same
rollicking printers that comprised the party to the battle-ground put
their heads together to have some fun, and began printing out of hours
a small 9x11 sheet filled with short paragraphs of sharp sayings of men
and things about town, some more expressive than elegant, and some,
in fact, not fit for polite ears; but the pith of the matter was they
treated only of things that were true and of men moving in the highest
circles. I cannot recall the given names of any of these men. May, the
elderly man before referred to, a man named Finly, and another, Elder,
were the leading spirits in the enterprise. Wood did the presswork and
my share was to ink the type and in part stealthily distribute the
papers, for it was a great secret where they came from at the start—all
this "just for the fun of the thing," but the sheet caused so much
comment and became sought after so much that the mask was thrown off
and the little paper launched as a "semi-occasional" publication and
"sold by carrier only," all this after hours, when the regular day's
work was finished. I picked up quite a good many fip-i-na-bits (a coin
representing the value of 6¼ cents) myself from the sale of these.
After a while the paper was published regularly, a rate established,
and the little paper took its place among the regular publications of
the day. This writing is altogether from memory of occurrences seventy
years ago, and may be faulty in detail, but the main facts are true,
which probably will be borne out by the files of the great newspaper
that has grown from the seed sown by those restless journeymen printers.
It seems though that I was not "cut out" for a printer. My inclination
ran more to the open air life, and so father placed me on the farm
as soon as the purchase was made and left me in full charge of the
work, while he turned his attention to milling. Be it said that I
early turned my attention to the girls as well as to the farm, married
young—before I had reached the age of twenty-one, and can truly say
this was a happy venture, for we lived happily together for fifty-eight
years before the call came and now there are thirty-six descendants to
revere the name of the sainted mother.
And now for a little insight into these times of precious memories that
never fade, and always lend gladness to the heart.