Annals of the Past
"The Place Where I Was Born"
Chenango Telegraph, Norwich, NY, December 26, 1872
In the northeast quarter, so called, of the town of Norwich [Chenango Co. NY], on the road leading from near Erasmus Smith's sawmill, up the north branch of the Haddock brook to its source, about one mile west of the south end of Chenango Lake (Mathewson Pond) on a little plateau, may be seen near the road the ruins of an old chimney, overgrown with briers and nettles. This pile is the only relic of the old log house erected by my father in 1805, in which I was born; near it is standing at this day [in 1872], the figures 1808, the year in which it was built. It is rather dilapidated and rickety with age. A short distance from the barn, near where the house stood, is an old orchard, moss grown and ragged, planted and raised by my father from seeds brought from Connecticut by my mother, when they moved into this new country.
A few years of toil and privations incident to the pioneer's life, opened this little plateau to the light of the sun, till about fifty acres were cleared and utilized for the production of provisions for the family and food for the two cows that gave us milk, and the oxen that aided in the clearing, after having brought the family from day to day for two long weeks, from away "down country," with all their household goods, to this new and rugged home.
I have heard my mother often relate the incidents of her homesickness and heartsickness, sitting from day to day in their prairie schooner, moving with the snail pace of the jaded oxen, of the crossing of the Hudson river at Albany in a scow propelled by setting poles and oars, of the breakdown of the wagon in Albany just as they had crossed the river, of the kindness of strangers who had witnessed their condition; of the long day unloading and getting the wagon repaired, then off on their toilsome journey through the sparsely settled country, and at last through the woods with hardly a passable road, to their wilderness home; and then the few neighbors kindly proffered their aid to erect the log cabin, now among the things that were, the family in the mean time finding a home with a brother, a neighbor who had previously settled there.
Of this rude home my early recollections are quite vivid; the dense forest surrounding and the receding of the same as the sturdy woodman plied his axe, of the great fires produced by the burning brush and huge piles of logs, attended by my father at night to get a good burn and clear the land, of the long howl of the wolves as they came to the edge of the clearing, and so near I could almost see their glaring eyes.
This log house home was near the head of the little brook which in the spring of the year was quite a stream and filled with trout, it passed within a few rods of the house; and in that brook I caught my first trout, when I was less than four years old. The excitement of that brought is with me when I think of "going fishing" of which I was always very fond. It was an era in my young life. There was left standing near the house and right on the brink of the brook a large chestnut tree, tall and stately, from under which I gathered the first brown nuts of my childhood.
"Woodman, spare that tree"
My two sisters older than myself were big enough to get the cows from the pasture near the house, and one night I trudged along with them, and just as they were letting down the bars, the wolves acted up such a chorus of howls close by, that they dropped the bars, and we ran for the house in double quick. These serenades of the wolves were quite common. The panther and the bear were occasionally seen by the neighbors. Two neighbors, Reuben Smith and another, were chopping close by Smith's house, and heard a great outcry amongst his hogs, went to see what the matter was, and saw bruin with a shote in his arms walking off. At sight of the men with their axes, he thought the better part of valor was discretion, and so dropped the pig and made off without his supper. Another neighbor and another of the Smith family, were looking for his cows just at night and came suddenly upon a large panther sitting on a log right in his path, a few rods ahead of him, his long tail vibrating and fearful glaring eyes fixed on him as if ready for a spring. Smith, who was no coward, fixed his eyes upon those of the panther and slowly backed off till the make of the ground let him out of sight of the brute, when he made quick time for home. One afternoon my father took me with him a short distance from the house to the old clearing just across the brook, and there we saw a number of wild deer sporting among the cows on the hillside. These scenes were of common occurrence in the early settlements, always enough to keep one's nerves in full tension.
About a mile south of our home, down in the hollow by the brook on the quarter road to South New Berlin stood a schoolhouse, I think a log one, and the only one for some miles around. It was there I got the first bump of knowledge indelibly impressed on my cranium, that I remember so well. I was seated between my two sisters on a bench without a back, got asleep and fell off backwards, hurt me badly, so I fainted, causing quite a commotion in the school. One of the boys, now a resident of this village, who attended the school on that day, in a recent consultation with me remembered the incident distinctly. The teacher was a Miss Keith, afterwards the wife of Hosea Haddock, then living in that neighborhood. This was in 1810.
I well remember those early pioneers, those rugged stalwart men who lived in the neighborhood, our nearest were Ephriam Shattuck, Ehil Williams, John Dakin, Simeon Hale, Israel Hale, and Manna Case on the south, on the Quarter road, Wm. Smith and Deacon Elisha Smith his father, Seth Chapin, Phineas Graves, Squire Smith, Sr. Reuben Smith, Thomas Haddock and Edward Wait, just south of the schoolhouse; in the hollow on the side hill, were Lemuel Wells, Sr., Daniel Belden and Palmer Edmunds. Those first settlers are all gone, having fulfilled their mission on earth. A few of their elder sons who came with their fathers are now living in the neighborhood, and many of their descendants that were born there, are now living on and near the old farms taken up and cleared by their fathers.
Lost - A Boy Lost
A little later, about 1815, in the month of March, the neighborhood was startled with the cry of a child lost. With what a thrill that cry was taken up and passed from lip to lip, till it had spread through the whole neighborhood, and every man turned out in the search for the lost one. Mr. Graves who lived on the Quarter Road, took his little son four years old, to his sugar camp just south of the brook on the side hill, in the morning before breakfast (his daughter was to take their breakfast to them). They crossed the brook on a log felled to bridge the stream; after staying awhile the boy started to return to the house, in the path they had come, he went for the log, crossing the brook, and missed it, followed up the brook to find it, not succeeding he turned again to find the sugar camp, but got lost, wandered on and came to another sugar camp; a fire smoldering but nobody there, he still kept on in hopes to find the camp till night overtook him, weary and hungry, not having eaten anything since the day previous. He came to an old pine log covered with moss, crawled upon it and laid down to rest, and fell asleep, nor dreamed of the prowling wolf, the stealthy tread of the panther, or hungry bear, all denizens of our mountain forest at that time, but slept till morning. How sweet was that night's sleep on the old moss-covered log to that weary child. In the morning somewhat rested, he arose and wandered on in hopes of finding the sugar camp. Lost! He says, he knew he was lost, but did not despair, but went on, timid, half wild till the middle of the afternoon, he found himself in a dense thicket of undergrowth, low bushes that hid him from observation. When the sister went in the morning they left, to carry the breakfast to the sugar camp, on being asked if the boy had returned home, replied no. It was then the neighbors were rallied and went in search and kept up the search till night; then made fires in the woods at different points, to keep away the wolves and attract the attention of the boy. The next day the search was renewed with such additional help as could be procured, till about a hundred were out and went systematically to work at short distances apart to search the woods. While in this dense undergrowth the boy heard the men in search of him come near, crouched lower and kept still, saw a man pass close by, but dare not be seen or call to the man, was half wild and afraid.
After the man went past, he ventured out and started on again, but had not gone far when he heard someone following him. looked around and saw the man that had passed him before, he ran away as fast as he could, the man following and soon overtook him, he says he fought as hard as he could to get away from the man but was taken up and carried off. The signal was given to the other hunters and passed from one to another till all came in. The lost was found! The man after passing the bushes in which the boy was hid, was not quite satisfied with his search, returned to look again in the thicket, having a kind of premonition that he might be there, and thus found him. That man was Nathan Parker, Sr., who lived over the river, a mile from this village, long since deceased. That boy now a man of sixty-one years lives on the highest land on the road to South New Berlin, a little way beyond the old homestead and sugar camp, and near the old moss-covered pine log that afforded him so soft a bed and such sweet repose in the dark woods on the mountain, in that dreary March night, fifty-seven years ago.
I left the old homestead when I was between three- and four-years of age and came to this village, with the recollections of those early days firmly fixed in my memory.
After a period of over twenty years, in which time I had not seen the place, I returned to visit and refresh my memory, and again revel in those scenes of my childhood, again to catch the speckled trout of the brook, gather the chestnuts from the old tree, or dance after the serenade of the wolves. The house was but a heap of ruins, the barn in a tolerable good state of preservation, the orchard had grown to goodly size and bearing fruit, the brook had dwindled into a small riverlet, the bridge across it that looked so high over the stream was broken down and lay in its bed, but the woods on the north and east where the wolves held their nightly orgies was just the same as twenty years before.
And now, sixty-two years having passed on a bright autumn day on my way to the lake for a picnic, with my family, I visit again my early home. The heap of stone where the chimney fell after the log house rotted down, remains as it was when I visited before. The well had caved in and nearly filled with stone, and the remains of a cellar wall, around a little excavation in the earth. The orchard is close by, old and moss grown, some of the trees broken down with age, others standing erect but lacking the pruners care. From a number of the trees, I picked many samples of fruit, the first ever gathered by any of our family (my father having sown the seed from which these old trees sprung). Some sow, so that others may reap. I now take a look at the old barn standing where my father built it in 1808, the frame rickety and rotting, showing the ravages of time, the covering partly gone, mossey, old. On entering, I involuntarily look up to see the swallows flitting about and twittering as I had seen them when a child, but instead, I see a swallows nest on a peg that pinned the rafters together right in the ridge, just as I had seen one sixty-two years ago, could it be the same nest? Tell me, old barn! You and I were young together and have breasted the storms and basked in the sunbeam of more than three score years. Old barn, I leave you with saddened recollections. Good-bye!! On the north and east the woods stand now as they did in that early day, the same woods where I had often heard the wolves long howl, and the clearing on the west where I had seen the wild deer sporting in the field with the cows, is just the same. I looked for the chestnut tree by the brook, but it was gone, but nearby and from under other and younger trees I picked up some chestnuts as I done from the tree by the brook so long ago.
In this brief visit I was young again and living over those few years of my life spent in this rugged place, again trudging over the rough and stony road to the schoolhouse in the hollow by the brook, or riding "Old Dagon" and tumbling off as I did, my legs not being long enough to keep balance on his round back, or riding on my uncle's back in search of chestnuts around the border of the clearing, or watching the huge log heaps burning in the dark nights, and listening to the music of the wolves.
The surroundings were somewhat changed, yet enough left to remind me of the olden time and early recollections of my childhood.
N.B.H.
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