Valley of the Butternut, 1871

 Morris Chronicle, Morris, NY, August 30, 1871

We take the following from the Lansingburgh Gazette.  It is one of several articles written by William H. Winans, who at one time published a paper in Morris [Otsego Co. NY].  It has greatly amused, and we have been benefitted too, in reading his reminiscences. After trying in several places in the State to run successfully a country paper he arrives at the --

Valley of the Butternut

I had paid in advance for the transportation thither of my goods and chattels, including press, type, &c, &c.  Arriving at my destination, I was disappointed in the size of the village (now Morris) which had been represented to me as much larger.  My informant, however, explained afterwards, by saying he intended the number as that of the township - a considerable difference when taking into account the publication of a newspaper.  Here a new and unlooked for trial awaited me. The parties who started with the printing material at the same time with myself, although some six weeks had elapsed, had not yet put in an appearance and it was fair to presume that they did not intend to.  An examination into the existing state and condition of my finances, and an exploration of the subterranean recesses of my trousers' pockets, revealed a distressingly embarrassing position of momentary status.  I had announced a paper, and the citizens were agog for the forthcoming novelty and what was to be done.  Many began to whisper that the whole thing was an imposture. Without means to move in the matter and knowing not what to do nor whither to go in search - for the first time in my life I was completely non-plussed.  In my dilemma (a stranger as I was, among strangers) one, who trusted my statements, came to my relief with means and advice, whither to go, and after a week's absence I was enabled to find the missing goods stored in a barn, but 30 miles from my former location, by the scoundrels who had been paid in advance for moving them the whole distance.

I saw at a glance as soon as I entered this beautiful and fertile valley, that however much the inhabitants might be disposed to accord support to a newspaper, that they were too few in number to render it a paying concern, while there were but four or five stores for which to get advertising support.  But I was welcomed with an unanimity and supported with a cordiality that I never can forget. every merchant and trader gave a helping hand. Those who subscribed for the paper, paid for it, but there existed at that time a jealousy between this and a rival village in the same county and thus the circulation was confined to a circumscribed area, but for which fact the two villages might have comfortably supported the enterprise.

The liberality of this people could never be obliterated from my memory.  They were all seemingly prosperous, but too few in number to sustain a paper. There lived at a short distance from the village, a farmer named Dr. Y---.  He was eccentric and kind-hearted, in the extreme, and particularly to anyone whom he fancied. Those whom he did not fancy, he would most studiously avoid.  On the appearance of the second number of the paper, the office was filled with visitors, witnessing the operation of printing, for it was a new thing to most people in that section.  Suddenly one of them remarked "there comes Dr. Y---," when there was an immediate retreat of all but one, who tarried long enough to remark  "Don't look at the old man when he comes in, but keep right on with your work." the old gentleman entered and i could not but glance at him, for I was bewildered at the sudden and unexplained retreat of the party.  The old Doctor paused at the door as I glanced towards him saying "don't look at me!"  which request was obeyed, and he proceeded to the back room.  Upon his return from the room, he walked up to me and said, "Put a few papers into my coat pocket when I'm not looking."  His request was complied with and he left saying, "Look in the back room when I'm gone."  He had left but a few minutes and I had not recovered from my bewilderment, when the party returned and asked what the Doctor had left for me.  "Nothing," I replied.  "Oh, that cannot be," was the reply of some half dozen.  "he certainly has."  I remembered his entering the back room and concluded to look, and behold my surprise upon finding, covered with several exchange papers, the finest leg of lamb I ever dissected.  Week after week would the kind old gentleman serve me with different articles of food, always requesting me "not to look at him"  an injunction I always faithfully obeyed, until he had deposited his gift, where it best suited him and then with his back towards me, I would stuff his old white coat side pockets with papers, until they could hold no more.

On one occasion, he entered and after his usual request, proceeded to the stand whereon rested the cases filled with type.  I could but feel uneasy as I saw him handling the type but thought it best not to disturb him.  I stuffed his pockets with papers as he left the office and upon going to see if he had done any damage, imagine my surprise in finding a silver quarter of a dollar in the boxes obtaining the vowels and a dime in each of the boxes containing other letters. This performance was frequently repeated, and he is the only one not acquainted with the business of printing that I would look upon with indifference when handling type in the manner in which he was wont.  Then this beautiful valley there is none more beautiful or fertile in the State of New York and could I have lived and thrived there, even though it had produced me but a bare pittance beyond my living, I could have been content.  The voluntary offers of assistance, tendered by several of its young men in order to induce me to remain can never be forgotten, while memory lasts, nor can the novelty of an old-fashioned donation visit accorded to me such as is usually bestowed yearly upon the clergy, be obliterated from my mind.  Relics of this "feast of season and flow of soul" are still among the articles that go to make up the possessions of a "man of family."

I had fully made up my mind after a year's experience, that the country village afforded me no trolling place for my ambition, and I made up my mind to bid adieu to editorial life - at least so far as the country was concerned, and return to the city, where I had reason to believe that with a fair chance for the display of what little ability I might have in that direction, added to my knowledge of the art of printing, a better subsistence could be gained than had been mine to received during a six year's experience in catering to the public through the columns of a country newspaper,