BREAK o'Day.
Break o'Day is one of the oldest villages in Jackson County. It had
its store and its school-house before the first building was erected
in Sharptown or Oakville. The derivation of its name has been the
subject of many inquiries, which have been answered by local
antiquarians. The founders of the hamlet, like the majority of
Michigan pioneers, came from New York. Four families built their
houses neat together, that they might enjoy the society of neighbors.
Others followed from the Empire State, and the neighborhood became
thinly settled. They had dwelt on the eastern hills, where,
unobstructed, a view extended for miles. They were now in the midst
of woods, where they could view no distant object unless it were
above the timber. Month after month they lived in this manner, and
daily the complaints grew louder. The women, who had been accustomed
to habits of thrift, longed to see the sun rise once more. They
declared it was nothing but laziness which allowed them to be penned
up in that fashion, that if they were men, they would chop out at
least one place wide enough to give them a sight through the forest.
Urged on by their wives, the men made a bee and hewed to the eastward
a road through which the earliest beams of the daily luminary might
shine. The next morning the entire population of the locality
gathered to witness the blaze of light which slowly appeared above
the long stretch of stumps. Shouts resounded, guns were fired, a
feast was spread, and the place was promptly named Break o'Day.
The village never grew to the dimensions which were anticipated for
it by its first builders. Twenty years ago its appearance was
substantially as it is to-day. It was built on five corners from
which ran roads, one to each cardinal point of the compass and one
southeast to Sharptown. The greater part of the buildings were on the
triangle formed by the eastern and south-eastern streets and the
cross street which connected them. These streets were named in order,
Warren, Jackson and Washington. On Warren were the church and the
school-house; on Jackson, Birch and Bigney's store and the hotel; on
Washington, the hardware store and the blacksmith-shop. Marion,
running northward, could boast only of dwelling-houses. The drugstore
of Dr. Rorus was the one building of importance on the west road,
which, on account of its shade trees, the villagers named Maple
Street, but which the farmers in derision called Scrub Avenue. This
edifice was painted yellow, had a high square front, a shed roof, and
bore the following inscription, "I. J. H. Rorus, M. D., Physician and
Surgeon."
On the morning which succeeded the night of John Wrengell's sojourn
in the swamp, Dr. Rorus opened his drugstore in good season for the
purpose of taking his indispensable dram. The doctor had won the
reputation of being always drunk, and, intentionally or
unintentionally, he preserved his notoriety.
The streets were, as yet, traversed by few people. Most of the
inhabitants were eating breakfast. The stores, however, were open,
and from the blacksmith-shop came the energetic clinking of a hammer.
Rorus went behind his counter and poured out a glass of spirits,
which he swallowed with relish. Repeating the potations at frequent
intervals, he managed to get himself well under the influence of
liquor.
His first caller was an agent who had lodged at the hotel and who was
canvassing for a paper which had recently started in Oakville.
"Subscribe for a paper in Oakville?" said the doctor. "No, sir, not
if every bottle of ink and every sheet of paper and every letter of
type and every press were concentrated in that nest of infamy,
Oakville."
"I didn't know there was such a feeling here toward Oakville," said
the agent.
"Ah, sir," replied Rorus, "you talk of prejudice. Let me recite facts
to you and history, history that shall dispel doubt 'like mists that
rise before the sun.' Like the fogs that roll upward from our noble
swamp, or mosquitoes that fly before--when there's a smudge. We
helped Oakville with her fair, and that was all right. This year we
wanted a celebration, and she said, 'We won't have any.' We got up
one, and what did Oakville do? She turned right square around and got
up too, and we couldn't get any crowd. What did she do it for? For
the money. For the trade. Think of it, speculating on the Fourth of
July. On what day? Remember, no common day, but on that glorious,
that immortal, that never-to-be-forgotten day, when American liberty
reached its culmination, its pinnacle, its apex, its--high as it
could get. What do you think of that recreant, that rascal who can on
that day even think of, or reach out his hand to clutch ten cents, or
one dollar, or ten dollars. And yet, I grieve to say that in this
land, consecrated to the rights of humanity, such men exist. They are
in Oakville. They live, they breathe, they taint the pure air of
freedom."
The drizzling rain of the preceding day had forced a temporary
suspension of haying, so that the store began to be populated by
loungers from the near farms as well as from the village.
"Doctor," said a man, who carried a large black bottle, "my wife is
sick and I'd like to get some medicine."
"Very well," replied the doctor. "These men forget who their fathers
were. They are not like the citizens of Break o'Day. Break o'Day
remembers. Do you see that street yonder? That is Warren, and Warren
sleeps on Bunker Hill."
"But, Doctor," urged the man with the bottle, "my wife is bad off,
and she's got to have some spirits."
"Yes, yes, just so," Rorus responded. "Do you see the church? That is
on Jackson Street. Break o'Day remembers Old Hickory. Oh, he was the
man for you! Well, he was. Firm, immovable, rigid, had a backbone.
Right up yonder is Washington Street. Break o'Day remembers the
Father of his Country. Oh, that George Washington, greatest man in
all history, very greatest. The French shot at him. The Indians shot
at him. The cold December and January and February (yes, at that's
the coldest of the whole), they nipped at his feet. But did they hurt
him? No, sir."
"Doctor," protested the waiting customer, "my wife is awful sick."
"I'll wait on you in just a minute," said the physician.
"Who would make a good correspondent for this place?" inquired the
Oakville agent, wishing to gain information before Rorus recommenced
his harangue.
"Well," answered the doctor, "there's Ned Sturgis over in the
post-office. He's a mighty smart fellow. Posted right up to the
handle. You couldn't do any better than to get him. Then, there's my
clerk, Fred Loomis, he's a bright one. Smart as steel. You never
noticed him, did you? He'd pick up everything there was going.
Quick-witted, you know. Catches on to anything before other folks
have a glimpse of it. I wouldn't wonder if he's the best one you'll
run across, Ned Sturgis is good. I sha'n't say which is the best. My
clerk, though, he is A number one. You don't know what the boy is
till you are acquainted with him. Now, I sha'n't say which is the
best. But, of the two, of the two, my clerk's a le-etle--le-etle--I
sha'n't draw any distinction."
"Doctor," said the impatient man, "If you can't wait on me, I'm going
over to Sullivan's. I know I can get it there."
"Yes, immediately," replied the doctor. "You are sure your wife is
sick?"
"I should think so. She like to have died this morning,"
"I have to be particular," said Rorus; "I can't sell only for
medicinal purposes."
"Sullivan ain't so particular," said the customer. "I can go there
any time an' get all the whisky I want."
"That is a disgrace to Break o'Day," commented the doctor. "That
reproach to society, that den of iniquity, that abominable hole,
should be closed up. To whom are they selling? To the merchant, to
the farmer, to the clerk, to the business man, to the mechanic, to
the laborer, to the agriculturist, to--lots of 'em. And yet,
Michigan, mind you, no common State, but the Wolverine State, has
enacted a law that no intoxicating beverage shall be sold except for
medicinal purposes."
"Say, I'd like to see you a minute," remarked a man, coming close to
the physician.
"That you can," replied the doctor. "Right this way."
"I've got the ague," said the man in a low tone, when they had gone
to the back of the store, "and I want something to break it up. I'd
like to get some quinine and whisky."
"Good idea," assented Rorus. "Grand thing for ague, this quinquina. I
have it pure, too. I'll put them up separately and let you mix them,
eh?"
The next event was the arrival of Wingscheut with his shambling limp.
"Helloa, Wingscheut," was the salutation of Jimmy Martin. "Have you
been hunting horse-thieves or bears lately? Set down and give us a
story."
"No," sturdily replied the German, "I'fe cot to see te toctor."
"Why," inquired Martin, "be you sick?"
"No," answered Wingscheut, "unt I ton't vant to pe sick. Tat's te
reason I see te toctor. I vass pit vith a massauker 'unt I must have
some visky."
"I want to speak a word with you," said a youth of not more than
twenty, after Wingscheut had obtained his liquor.
"Come this way," said the doctor, going immediately to his
consultation room.
"I'm at work on a marsh where there's lots of rattlesnakes," said the
youth. "I'm afraid I'll be bit and maybe not get help till it's too
late. I wish you'd let me have a pint of whisky."
"Can't do that," returned Rorus. "Can't do it possibly. It's against
the law."
"I know it," pleaded the youth, "but maybe I'll die if you don't. You
let the rest have it. I do my trading here, that is, everything you
keep. I'll have to go somewhere else if you can't accommodate me a
little."
"Human life," said the doctor, "must be preserved. Laws are for
humanity. Humanity first and laws afterward. You can have it. But
mind you don't lisp it outside the store."
Wingscheut, wishing a change of society, wandered to another part of
the village.
Two men in an open buggy came driving rapidly from the west. One of
them tied the horse quickly, and they entered the drugstore. The
half-drunken crowd saw nothing unusual in their haste, but Rorus,
intoxicated as he was, perceived that they had not the serenity of
the Break o'Day loungers.
"Well, Whipple," said the physician, "what's the news up your way?
Everything quiet, s'rene, like a great ship sailing peacefully along
with her sails outspread to the breeze of heaven?"
"It ain't been very quiet," responded Whipple. "My bay colt was stole
last night, that I wouldn't have took two hundred dollars for."
The loungers arose. Rorus advanced from behind the counter. The
stupor on the sottish faces gave place to excitement as Whipple
related how he had become apprised of the theft.
"I've had him locked up in the barn nights ever since last winter for
fear he would be stole. Along the fore part of the summer I slept in
the barn. But lately I hadn't heard so much about such business, so I
got of my guard. This morning I says to my hired man, 'Ben, if your
hand's sore, maybe I'd better milk and let you tend to the horses.'
'All right,' says Ben, 'my hand is purty sore to milk.' I went to the
house and s'posed everything was all right. After breakfast I says to
Ben, 'Did you turn Jack out' 'No,' says Ben, 'didn't you?' 'No,' says
I, 'I ain't been in the stable.' 'That's funny,' says Ben. 'It was
unlocked.' We went out there, and sure enough he was gone. And it's
just the same as the rest of 'em. We can't find his tracks. Something
ought to be done. We've stood this stealing as long as we can.
There's a whole gang of the thieves around, and they ought to be
broke up."
"I'd like to see one of 'em git caught," said the flaxen-whiskered
man, the same who the night of the hunt had quarreled with Ratke over
the proposed punishment of the horse-thieves. "He'd be made short
work of. The hull country's worked up, and they'd string a man, too,
quick. What are you goin' to do about catchin' your colt?"
"I don't know what to do," replied Whipple. "I thought, though, that
I'd go around and inquire and have my neighbors do the same. They've
gone now from around my way. I'll go over to my brother-in-law's Bill
Briggses, and he'll turn out. Maybe by going far enough some of us
can hear where he's gone to."
The general attention was directed to a quarrel between Jimmy Martin
and the youth who had used so much persuasion to obtain the bottle of
whisky. Martin had stepped on the toes of the youth, whose name was
Blake. Blake complained of the act and was told that he was a liar.
He demanded an apology, which Martin refused to give. Thereupon he
threw off hia coat and vest, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, unbuttoned
and turned down his shirt-collar and advanced in fighting attitude
toward Martin, who made no preparation for the attack.
Dr. Rorus passed around the large round stove to separate the
disputants. Grabbing each by the collar, he exclaimed, "What!
Gen'lemen! Quarreling in a time of public danger, when the welfare
and the safety of the community is at stake! Quarreling when our
property and our rights and our sacred honor are at stake! For it's a
question of honor, gen'lemen. You'll all say it's dishonorable to
steal horses, won't you? Then it's dishonorable to let 'em be stole.
Do you know what town you're in? Break o'Day, and Break o'Day has the
fires of patriotism. You should be ready to leave off and lay aside
and forget, you know, your little feuds and animosities. Would George
Washington have stopped for a little fuss at Yorktown? Would Joseph
Warren have paused for a racket, just a common blow up, I mean, on
the sacred soil of Bunker Hill? Do you suppose, my dear sir, that Mad
Anthony Wayne would have stopped charging up Stony Point because some
one stepped on his toe? Others may wrangle in a time of public
calamity, but," he concluded with a leonine roar, "I. J. H. Rorus,
never, no, never."
"You won't have to go to Bill's, Whipple," said the flaxen-whiskered
man. "There he comes now."
"Well, Bill," said Whipple, as soon as the new-comer was in their
midst, "I've lost my bay colt."
"I guess not," replied Briggs, at whose house Wrengell had stopped
for breakfast. "He's in my barn now."
"No," cried Whipple. "Where did you find him?"
"In my field tagging after a fellow that come from the swamp. He said
he got lost, and your colt followed him."
"I don't believe no such yarn," exclaimed Whipple. "He stole him, and
the cold got away. What did he say about it, any way?"
Briggs, with considerable exaggeration, gave an account of his
interview with John, dwelling particularly on the way in which the
latter had withheld his name and place of residence. "He was covered
with mud from head to foot," said Briggs, "and he had scratches on
his face and hands. I'm inclined to think he and his pards had a
disagreement. It wouldn't be strange if that's how he come to roll in
the mud and get the scratches. While he was eating, I skipped around
through the fields and come here."
The drugstore was in a state of tumult. The chairs were deserted, and
the men stood, some lethargic with drink, some talking boisterously
and urging immediate action.
"We'll go right down there and get him," said Whipple, "and we'll
hear what he has to say for himself. If he can't tell a straight
story, he may as say his prayers."
"That's the talk," exclaimed the flaxen-whiskered man. "We may just
as well make an example of him. That's what we swore to do with the
first one we caught."
"We ain't sure that he stole him," said Briggs, who was alarmed at
the effect his words were producing, and who that day learned to his
regret that it is easier to incite than to appease the fury of a
drunken mob. "I don't know but most any one would look suspicious if
he was mudded up and scratched up that way."
"Trot out your rope," yelled young Blake. "Less be a-going."
"Now, doctor," said Whipple, "it's my treat. I want you to set out
the best you've got for the boys, a glass around. This kind of a
thing don't happen very often, you know."
"Exceptions to all rules," commented Rorus. "Yes, I'll do it once,
Whipple. It's like violating the constitution, that grand instrument,
that bundle of wisdom, a heap in it, too. You can do that when it's a
military necessity. This is a civil necessity."
"There he is coming now," said Briggs, when the glasses which had
been set out by Rorus had been drained. "But I wouldn't be too rough
on him boys. I'd turn him over to the law."
"No law to-day," replied the flaxen-whiskered man.