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GLEN’S CREEK.
BY
MARY JANE HOLMES.
_COMPLETE._
TORONTO:
J. ROSS ROBERTSON, 67 YONGE ST.
1878.
GLEN’S CREEK.
CHAPTER I.
REMINISCENCES.
O’er Lake Erie’s dark, deep waters,—across Ohio’s broad, rich lands, and
still onward, among the graceful forest trees, gushing springs, and
fertile plains of Kentucky, rests in quiet beauty, the shady hillside,
bright green valley, and dancing waterbrook, known as Glen’s Creek. No
stately spire or glittering dome point out the spot to the passing
traveller, but under the shadow of the lofty trees stands a large brick
edifice, which has been consecrated to the worship of God. There, each
Sabbath, together congregate the old and young, the lofty and the lowly,
bond and free, and the incense which from that altar ascends to heaven
is not the less pure because in that secluded spot the tones of the
Sabbath bell never yet were heard. Not far from the old brick church are
numerous time-stained grave-stones, speaking to the living of the pale
dead ones, who side by side lie sleeping, unmindful of the wintry storm
or summer’s fervid heat.
A little farther down the hill, and near the apple tree, whose apples
_never_ get ripe, stands a low white building,—the school house of
Glen’s Creek. There, for several years, “Yankee schoolmasters,” one
after another, have tried by turns the effect of moral suasion, hickory
sticks and leathern straps on the girls and boys who there assemble,
some intent upon mastering the mysteries of the Latin Reader, and others
thinking wistfully of the miniature mill-dam and fish-pond in the brook
at the foot of the hill, or of the play-house under the maple tree,
where the earthens are each day washed in the little “tin bucket” which
serves the treble purpose of dinner-pail, wash-bowl, and drinking-cup.
But not with Glen’s Creek as it now is has our story aught to do,
although few have been the changes since, in the times long gone, the
Indian warrior sought shelter from the sultry August sun ’neath the bows
of the shady buckeye or towering honey locust, which so thickly stud the
hillside of Glen’s Creek. Then, as now, the first spring violet
blossomed there, and the earliest crocus grew near the stream whose
waters sang as mournfully to the dusky maiden of the forest, as they
since have to the fair daughter of the pale-face.
The incidents about to be narrated are believed to have taken place near
the commencement of the nineteenth century, when the country of
Kentucky, from Lexington to Louisville, was one entire forest, and when,
instead of the planter’s handsome dwelling, now so common, there was
only the rude log hut surrounded, perhaps, by a few acres of
half-cleared land. Brave, indeed, must have been the heart of the hardy
yeoman, who, forsaking the home of his fathers, went forth into the
wilds of Kentucky, and there, amid dangers innumerable, laid the
foundation of the many handsome towns which now dot the surface of that
fair State. Woman, too, timid, shrinking woman, was there, and in
moments of the most appalling danger the daring courage she displayed
equalled that shown by her husband, father and brother. Often on the
still midnight air rang out the fearful war-cry, speaking of torture and
death to the inmates of the rude dwelling whose flames, rising high over
the tree tops, warned some other lonely settler that the enemy was upon
his track.
But spite of all dangers and difficulties, the tide of emigration poured
steadily in upon Kentucky, until where once the Indian hunter and wild
beast held undisputed sway, there may now be seen fertile gardens and
cultivated fields, handsome towns and flourishing cities.