Chapter XXV: Elizabeth Kenton, 428 (16)

In the course of a few months other families moved into the neighborhood; and on the succeeding Fourth of July (1824), there was a joyous celebration of the nation’s birthday. The anniversary falling on a Sunday, it was kept on Monday, having been celebrated the Saturday before at “Woodruff’s Grove,” near the site of the present village of Ypsilanti. About forty guests, among whom were the women of course, sat down to partake of the rustic dinner. It was either on this occasion, or on the anniversary following, celebrated also at Ann Arbor, that the family of Mr. White, one of the “neighbors,” were put to much inconvenience by the escape of their oxen; which calamity imposed on them the necessity of walking home in terror, for the distant howling of wolves could be heard all the way. At the assemblage on the Fourth of July, 1825, the white inhabitants of the county were present in mass--forty or fifty in all.

The howling of wolves was a species of nocturnal music often listened to by the pioneers of Michigan. A lady who removed there many years later, says that on moonlight evenings they often stood to hear their howling, some three miles distant, answered by the barking of their dogs. The sound was distinct, and appeared to be much nearer. In the early settlement of the country, a woman going one day to the spring for water, saw, as she supposed, the dog belonging to the family drinking, and finding that he did not get out of the way as she came up, struck him with her pail, which she then filled and carried back to the house. There she saw the dog lying quietly under the bed, and a sudden flash of recollection convinced her that she had seen a wolf at the spring. She roused the men, and the animal was pursued and killed. Notwithstanding the cowardice of the gray wolf, it was always, especially in packs, a terror to the women of the country. Other wild beasts were disposed to dispute with man the possession of their forest domain. A young woman in Livingston County, standing one day outside her “shanty,” fancied she heard a crackling in the boughs of the tree above her, and looking up, caught the eyes of a panther glaring upon her, as the animal was preparing for a fatal spring. With a presence of mind which the habit of looking danger in the face alone could give, she stepped cautiously backward, still keeping her eyes steadily fixed on the creature, and slipping behind the blanket which served for a door, took down her husband’s rifle, which was kept loaded and ready for use. Lifting a corner of the blanket, she deliberately took aim and fired; the shot took effect, and the panther fell to the ground in the death-struggle.

In the eyes of her neighbors, Mrs. Rumsey was a prominent female member of the community; for such qualities of mind, in a primitive state of society, never fail to exercise a controlling influence. Something of romance, too, was added to the interest surrounding her. It was said--though it might have been mere gossip--that her early life had been clouded by unhappiness consequent upon an ill-assorted marriage, and that she had little to regret in the years passed in her former home. Little was known of her story, for she never showed herself inclined to be communicative on the subject, and the intuitive delicacy of her associates forbade their scrutiny into what plainly did not concern them. Those were not the days withal when news travelled on the wings of the wind, or with the flash of the lightning; and if there had been aught in the experience of former years which she did not wish to recall, Mrs. Rumsey was in no danger of having it snatched from the friendly keeping of the past, and paraded before the curious gaze of the public. So the mystery about her remained unfathomed, as she did not choose to explain it. Her circumstances at that time were comfortable, and happy in her round of duties, it did not appear that she suffered her thoughts to dwell on the past, though once, in a moment of great distress, on the occasion of the sudden death of a beloved child, she let fall expressions which set afloat the conjectures of her neighbors, and awakened curiosity which was never fully satisfied. She was not, however, the less respected on that account. In the first stages of society, when no artificial distinctions are recognized, and social intercourse is unrestricted by form, the standing of individuals is seldom questioned if they prove useful and agreeable. Mr. Rumsey died at Ann Arbor, and his widow afterwards married a Mr. Van Fossen, and removed to Indiana, where she died.

The first sleighs used by these primitive settlers were made by bending two poles, which served for runners, a crate for the box surmounting them. The large double sleigh was an improvement pertaining to a more advanced stage. Before grain could be raised it was often necessary, notwithstanding the aid of their Indian allies, to go to Detroit to procure flour--a journey which usually consumed a week. Whenever it had to be performed, the labor of every man in the settlement was in requisition to put the roads in order. In one case, when the head of a family was detained two or three weeks by some accident at the mill, the wife dug ground-nuts and picked up every other edible thing that could furnish food for herself and children. Another woman who was reduced to her last biscuit, declared laughingly that she would not have it said they ever were out of bread in her western home, and had the biscuit placed every day on the table for a fortnight, till new supplies came. Game, particularly venison, was plenty in those days, and some of the settlers, who were excellent hunters, killed enough for the use of their families and for the demands of hospitality.

The second “Ann,” who gave the village of Ann Arbor its name, came to Michigan in October, 1824, with the parents of her husband, and his brother, James Turner Allen, who has ever since resided there and raised a large family. The Allens were from Augusta county in Virginia, and well to do in the world; they brought several horses and other stock with them, a useful accession to the means of the little settlement. The women performed nearly all the journey on horseback, Ann Allen carrying her infant child in her arms. This child is now the wife of Dr. Waddell, and is living in Virginia. Mrs. Allen entered with a ready spirit of enterprise into the laborious duties required of the wife of a settler. As the community increased, her husband was called to fill official stations of importance. He was afterwards twice elected Senator to the legislature, but the roving habits of his early life, like those of Daniel Boone, were in the way of his living contented in a settlement that could no longer be termed “wild,” when lands further west were yet unexplored. He went to California when the gold fever was at its height, and died there.

His widow returned to Virginia. Her bearing and manners were those of a well-bred lady; uniformly gentle and quiet, and marked by the ease and refinement which evince habitual acquaintance with good society. Her maiden name was Barry; she was left an orphan at an early age, and sent to Ireland to be reared under the care of a maiden aunt. Her education was completed at Baltimore, under the charge of her maternal uncle, Mr. Keim. She was quite an heiress, and was married first to Dr. McCue, of Virginia. Her many admirable qualities and winning traits of character, are remembered by all her former neighbors in the village.

Elizabeth Allen, her mother-in-law, still lives at Ann Arbor. The character of this excellent matron, who is often described as the ideal of a pioneer, is so remarkable as to call for a brief notice. Coming so early to the backwoods, she had to encounter not a few dangers as well as inconveniencies from the frequent visits of savages, as yet not used to the sight of civilization. In her youth she was eminently handsome, and even at the age of seventy-six retains a most prepossessing appearance, having a tall and symmetrical figure, but slightly bent, with a complexion showing the freshness of habitual health. Hers was a proud and happy bridal in the Old Dominion, and she was fondly attached to the country where her best years had been spent; but she murmured not when it became her duty to follow her husband to a distant land. He now lies buried near the spot he chose for his home, with many relatives around him; and by the widow’s direction, a place beside him is reserved for her. Her religious faith, always sound and bright--for she had made it the staff and guide of life--has been strengthened by the chastening sorrow she has been called to endure; and the humility with which she has submitted to every painful dispensation, offers a salutary lesson both to the afflicted and the prosperous. She has always been noted for the strong practical sense which fits its possessor for every event and vicissitude, in every station of life; yet is her heart open and kind, her benevolent impulses withal being regulated at all times by sterling judgment. She is one of those persons of whom it can be said, “Place her in any situation, and she will appear well.”

In her reminiscences of those early days, Mrs. Allen often speaks of two young women in particular, who did much to enliven the society of the place. One of them, Miss Hopy Johnson, undertook the charge of the school kept in a small log house, to which she was frequently obliged to walk quite a distance from down the river. The exposure in all weathers, and with but indifferent protection against the cold and wet, injured her health, and one evening she informed the school she should not be able to teach any longer. James, one of Mrs. Allen’s grandchildren, then under her care, came running home, so out of breath that he could hardly speak, and entreated his grandmamma to take the teacher to live in her house. She promised to decide after consulting her husband, who was then busily engaged in making “Michigan bedsteads” of tamarack poles stripped of the bark. Plenty of beds had been brought from Virginia; but some arrangement might be necessary for the accommodation of another inmate. However, the child’s entreaty was so urgent for an answer before Miss Johnson should have dismissed her pupils and gone home, that his grandmother bade him “tell her she may come and take us as she finds us.” He ran back delighted, and presently returned with the teacher, so grateful for the offer of a home which enabled her to continue her beloved occupation, that when the little boy led her in with--“Grandmamma, here is Miss Johnson,” she sank upon a seat and wept for joy. This little incident throws an interesting light on the manners of that day. When asked how they enjoyed life in the privation of so many comforts and of the society of old friends, Mrs. Allen would reply: “We were all brothers and sisters then. When my son Turner was married, he said, ‘You have always given the other children a good wedding; I want you to do as well by me;’ and so we invited everybody in the village, and had as good a supper as could be got up.”

True to the habits of a matron of the olden time, Mrs. Allen has always shown a delicate sense of propriety in her deportment and conversation. She looks back with some pride to the days of her bellehood, and speaks occasionally of the sixteen offers received before she was eighteen; but with her characteristic regard for decorum, tells of the reproof she once administered to one over forward suitor. In the mountainous parts of Virginia, where carriages were but little used, the men and women were accustomed to travel altogether on horseback. Miss Tate (afterwards Mrs. Allen) was one day in attendance at a funeral, after the conclusion of which the newly bereaved widower rode up to the side of her horse, and to her extreme surprise, expressed a wish that she might be induced to consent to fill the place of the dear departed one whose mortal remains had just been laid in the grave. The young lady regarded him with astonishment and displeasure, and sternly forbade him to name that subject to her again under a year. Just a year from that day he proposed in due form, and was rejected!

Mrs. Allen is accustomed to express herself at all times in a manner so forcible and decisive, and at the same time with so much dignity, as to evince talent of no ordinary kind. Frequently her language rises almost to the poetical, without the least design of ornamental expression. Speaking of a grandchild who was extremely cold in her manner, she said, “I loved her much, that is, all she would let me get at to love.” At another time, when a young mother, showing her little daughter, apologized for the dirt on her hands, as she had been playing in a sand heap, the matron replied, “It will do her no harm; there is always rain enough in the heavens to wash such clean;” thus unconsciously using a phrase nearly identical with the words of Shakespeare, a poet with whom she was by no means familiar. Being once asked if she had not reared a large family, she answered, “Oh, no, I have only had seven children. I laid out to have no less than a dozen; but the grandchildren left motherless whom I have brought up, perhaps make out the number.” She has reared five of these, and has lived to see the third generation.

There was a single piano in the settlement, owned by a Miss Clark, now Mrs. Kingsley; and seldom did she touch the keys without unexpected listeners. Often, as a shadow darkened the window, could she observe the form of a Pottawattomie Indian, accompanied perhaps by two or three squaws with their papooses. This patriarch of pianos is still extant, and stands as prim as ever upon its thin legs, a type amongst the scores that have succeeded it, of a bygone age, and representing something of the stately politeness and formal breeding of the ladies and gentlemen of its own date.

Some, with an obstinately rustic taste, seemed to prefer the rudest articles of furniture used in the infancy of the settlement, to the modern improvements afterwards introduced. A housewife in Michigan, finding the men of her establishment too busy _clearing_ to lend her much aid, set about contriving a press in which she could make cheese. She succeeded in making one in the corner of a rail fence; and it was observed that, thrifty as she was, she could not be induced without great reluctance, to exchange this press of her own contrivance for one of more pretension, though adopted and praised by all her neighbor.

Among the privations of the early settlers, not the least was the difficulty of hearing from the friends they had left at “the East.” Not only were the mails slow and uncertain, but the postage of a letter was twenty-five cents; a fourth of a man’s pay for a hard day’s work. So expensive a treat could not be often indulged in, and accordingly it seldom happened that more than one or two letters were exchanged in the course of a year by a single emigrant family.

The burning of the marshes often running far into the upland, which was done every year by the Indians and old hunters, was sometimes attended by accidents, the fire extending to the opening and overrunning the land to the destruction of oak-grubs and tall trees. An enterprising and industrious young emigrant had built a comfortable house in a pleasant opening for himself and his sisters, one of whom had charge of it. One day while she was alone, the brother being absent on business, she discovered that the grass was on fire, and that the devouring element was rapidly approaching. All her efforts were bent to keep it from the premises; but finding she could do nothing to check its progress, and that the outhouses were in imminent danger, she ran to the door of her dwelling for her bonnet, threw in her apron which she pulled off hastily from a woman’s instinctive impulse of neatness, and without looking back, hurried to the nearest neighbor’s, some three miles off, for assistance. As soon as possible she returned with help; but they were greeted by a melancholy sight. The burning of the grass, it was evident, had not extended to the house; but the building was in flames, and past the hope of saving even an article of furniture. The poor girl then discovered that the fire must have originated from her apron, which probably concealed a spark when she threw it in; and thus she had the chagrin of knowing that her very eagerness had been the means of depriving herself and family of the only shelter they could call their own.

The mention of fire reminds us of another curious anecdote recorded in the annals of Detroit. There was at one time a town ordinance that every house should be provided with a butt of water for use in case of fire, the owner being subject to a fine in case of disobedience. A widow whose neglect had been passed over several times by the inspectors, one day saw them coming on their usual errand, and resolved that they should not have it to say they had found her cask _empty_, jumped into it herself. The stratagem so pleased the men that, laughing heartily, they fetched water and filled the butt for her.

Some other incidents illustrative of the times, are mentioned by the old settlers. One tells how a large sleighing party went at night to Dexter, and how Judge Dexter figured as a seer, and told the fortunes of the company. They were very merry returning, though it was near morning, and intensely cold. A sudden breakdown took place, and one of the gentlemen was obliged to go back some distance to borrow an axe to repair the damage. Those left waiting, fearing that without some precaution they should perish with cold, spread the buffalo skins on the hard snow, and had a lively dance upon them; till the sleigh being mended, they returned to Ann Arbor without further hindrance.

The inhabitants of Detroit may remember a remarkable old woman, Mrs. Chappel by name, a true “Betty O’Flanagan,” who followed in the rear of Wayne’s army, and afterwards kept pushing away from civilization. At the time my informant knew her, she kept a small tavern on the Pontiac turnpike, much resorted to by the young men of the town, it being just distant enough for a pleasant ride. As the hostess was very homely, they were accustomed to call her in jest “Old Mother Handsome;” listening often to the reminiscences with which she was wont to interlard her preparations for supper. When grumbling at the trouble given her, she would declare that she should have been better off had “Mad Anthony” lived. She would have been a fine character for a romance, and deserves more than a mere mention, as a representative of the spirit of her day among the ruder class of settlers.

XXIII.

HARRIET L. NOBLE.

In 1824 there was almost as great an excitement in Western New York about going to Michigan as there has been recently in regard to California. One of those enterprising settlers, the wife of Nathaniel Noble, has favored me with some of her recollections, which present a graphic picture of early times in this State. No language could be so appropriate as her own.

“My husband was seized with the mania, and accordingly made preparation to start in January with his brother. They took the Ohio route, and were nearly a month in getting through; coming by way of Monroe, and thence to Ypsilanti and Ann Arbor. Mr. John Allen and Walter Rumsey with his wife and two men had been there some four or five weeks, had built a small house, moved into it the day my husband and his brother arrived, and were just preparing their first meal, which the newcomers had the pleasure of partaking. They spent a few days here, located a farm a little above the town on the river Huron, and returned through Canada. They had been so much pleased with the country, that they immediately commenced preparing to emigrate; and as near as I can recollect, we started about the 20th of September, 1824, for Michigan. We travelled from our house in Geneva to Buffalo in wagons. The roads were bad, and we were obliged to wait in Buffalo four days for a boat, as the steamboat ‘Michigan’ was the only one on the lake. After waiting so long we found she had put into Erie for repairs, and had no prospect of being able to run again for some time. The next step was to take passage in a schooner, which was considered a terrible undertaking for so dangerous a voyage as it was then thought to be. At length we went on board ‘the Prudence,’ of Cleveland, Capt. Johnson. A more inconvenient little bark could not well be imagined. We were seven days on Lake Erie, and so entirely prostrated with seasickness, as scarcely to be able to attend to the wants of our little ones. I had a little girl of three years, and a babe some months old, and Sister Noble had six children, one an infant. It was a tedious voyage; the lake was very rough most of the time, and I thought if we were only on land again, I should be satisfied, if it was a wilderness. I could not then realize what it would be to live without a comfortable house through the winter, but sad experience afterwards taught me a lesson not to be forgotten.

“We came into the Detroit river; it was beautiful then as now; on the Canada side, in particular, you will scarce perceive any change. As we approached Detroit, the ‘Cantonment’ with the American flag floating on its walls, was decidedly the most interesting of any part of the town; for a city it was certainly the most filthy, irregular place I had ever seen; the streets were filled with Indians and low French, and at that time I could not tell the difference between them. We spent two days in making preparations for going out to Ann Arbor, and during that time I never saw a genteelly-dressed person in the streets. There were no carriages; the most wealthy families rode in French carts, sitting on the bottom upon some kind of mat; and the streets were so muddy these were the only vehicles convenient for getting about. I said to myself, ‘if this be a Western city, give me a home in the woods.’ I think it was on the 3d of October we started from Detroit, with a pair of oxen and a wagon, a few articles for cooking, and such necessaries as we could not do without. It was necessary that they should be few as possible, for our families were a full load for this mode of travelling. After travelling all day we found ourselves but ten miles from Detroit (at what is now Dearborn); here we spent the night at a kind of tavern, the only one west of the city. Our lodging was the floor, and the other entertainment was to match. The next day we set out as early as possible, in hopes to get through the woods before dark, but night found us about half way through, and there remained no other resource but to camp out, and make ourselves contented. The men built a large fire and prepared our supper. My sister and myself could assist but little, so fatigued were we with walking and carrying our infants. There were fifteen in our company. Two gentlemen going to Ypsilanti had travelled with us from Buffalo; the rest were our own families. We were all pretty cheerful, until we began to think of lying down for the night. The men did not seem to dread it, however, and were soon fast asleep, but sleep was not for me in such a wilderness. I could think of nothing but wild beasts, or something as bad; so that I had the pleasure of watching while the others slept. It seemed a long, long night, and never in my life did I feel more grateful for the blessing of returning day. We started again as early as possible, all who could walk moving on a little in advance of the wagon; the small children were the only ones who thought of riding. Every few rods it would take two or three men to pry the wagon out of the mud, while those who walked were obliged to force their way over fallen timber, brush, &c. Thus passed the day; at night we found ourselves on the plains, three miles from Ypsilanti. My feet were so swollen I could walk no further. We got into the wagon and rode as far as Woodruff’s grove, a little below Ypsilanti. There were some four or five families at this place. The next day we left for Ann Arbor. We were delighted with the country before us; it was beautiful in its natural state; and I have sometimes thought that cultivation has marred its loveliness. Where Ypsilanti now stands, there was but one building--an old trading-house on the west side of the river; the situation was fine--there were scattering oaks and no brushwood. Here we met a large number of Indians; and one old squaw followed us some distance with her papoose, determined to swap babies. At last she gave it up, and for one I felt relieved.

“We passed two log houses between this and Ann Arbor. About the middle of the afternoon we found ourselves at our journey’s end--but what a prospect? There were some six or seven log huts occupied by as many inmates as could be crowded into them. It was too much to think of asking strangers to give us a place to stay in even for one night under such circumstances. Mr. John Allen himself made us the offer of sharing with him the comfort of a shelter from storm, if not from cold. His house was large for a log one, but quite unfinished; there was a ground floor and a small piece above. When we got our things stored in this place, we found the number sheltered to be twenty-one women and children, and fourteen men. There were but two bedsteads in the house, and those who could not occupy these, slept on feather beds upon the floor. When the children were put in bed you could not set a foot down without stepping on a foot or hand; the consequence was we had music most of the time.

“We cooked our meals in the open air, there being no fire in the house but a small box-stove. The fall winds were not very favorable to such business; we would frequently find our clothes on fire, but fortunately we did not often get burned. When one meal was over, however, we dreaded preparing the next. We lived in this way until our husbands got a log house raised and the roof on; this took them about six weeks, at the end of which time we went into it, without door, floor, chimney, or anything but logs and roof. There were no means of getting boards for a floor, as everything must be brought from Detroit, and we could not think of drawing lumber over such a road. The only alternative was to split slabs of oak with an axe. My husband was not a mechanic, but he managed to make a floor in this way that kept us from the ground. I was most anxious for a door, as the wolves would come about in the evening, and sometimes stay all night and keep up a serenade that would almost chill the blood in my veins. Of all noises I think the howling of wolves and the yell of Indians the most fearful; at least it appeared so to me then, when I was not able to close the door against them. I had the greatest terror of Indians; for I had never seen any before I came to Michigan but Oneidas, and they were very different, being partially civilized.

“We had our house comfortable as such a rude building could be, by the first of February. It was a mild winter; there was snow enough to cover the ground only four days, a fortunate circumstance for us. We enjoyed uninterrupted health, but in the spring the ague with its accompaniments gave us a call; and by the middle of August there were but four out of fourteen who could call themselves well. We then fancied we were too near the river for health. We sold out and bought again ten miles west of Ann Arbor, a place which suited us better; and just a year from the day we came to Ann Arbor, moved out of it to Dexter. There was one house here. Judge Dexter’s; he was building a sawmill, and had a number of men at work at the time; besides these there was not a white family west of Ann Arbor in Michigan territory. Our log house was just raised, forming only the square log pen. Of course it did not look very inviting, but it was our home, and we must make the best of it. I helped to raise the rafters and put on the roof, but it was the last of November before our roof was completed. We were obliged to wait for the mill to run in order to get boards for making it. The doorway I had no means of closing except by hanging up a blanket, and frequently when I would raise it to step out, there would be two or three of our dusky neighbors peeping in to see what was there. It would always give me such a start, I could not suppress a scream, to which they would reply with ‘Ugh!’ and a hearty laugh. They knew I was afraid, and liked to torment me. Sometimes they would throng the house and stay two or three hours. If I was alone they would help themselves to what they liked. The only way in which I could restrain them at all, was to threaten that I would tell Cass; he was governor of the territory, and they stood in great fear of him. At last we got a door. The next thing wanted was a chimney; winter was close at hand and the stone was not drawn. I said to my husband, ‘I think I can drive the oxen and draw the stones, while you dig them from the ground and load them.’ He thought I could not, but consented to let me try. He loaded them on a kind of sled; I drove to the house, rolled them off, and drove back for another load. I succeeded so well that we got enough in this way to build our chimney. My husband and myself were four days building it. I suppose most of my lady friends would think a woman quite out of ‘her legitimate sphere’ in turning mason, but I was not at all particular what kind of labor I performed, so we were only comfortable and provided with the necessaries of life. Many times I had been obliged to take my children, put on their cloaks, and sit on the south side of the house in the sun to keep them warm; anything was preferable to smoke. When we had a chimney and floor, and a door to close up our little log cabin, I have often thought it the most comfortable little place that could possibly be built in so new a country; and but for the want of provisions of almost every kind, we should have enjoyed it much. The roads had been so bad all the fall that we had waited until this time, and I think it was December when my husband went to Detroit for supplies. Fifteen days were consumed in going and coming. We had been without flour for three weeks or more, and it was hard to manage with young children thus. After being without bread three or four days, my little boy, two years old, looked me in the face and said, ‘Ma, why don’t you make bread; don’t you like it? I do.’ His innocent complaint brought forth the first tears I had shed in Michigan on account of any privations I had to suffer, and they were about the last. I am not of a desponding disposition, nor often low-spirited, and having left New York to make Michigan my home, I had no idea of going back, or being very unhappy. Yet the want of society, of church privileges, and in fact almost every thing that makes life desirable, would often make me sad in spite of all effort to the contrary. I had no ladies’ society for one year after coming to Dexter, except that of sister Noble and a Mrs. Taylor, and was more lonely than either of them, my family being so small.

“The winter passed rather gloomily, but when spring came, everything looked delightful. We thought our hardships nearly at an end, when early in the summer my husband was taken with the ague. He had not been sick at all the first year; of course he must be acclimated. He had never suffered from ague or fever of any kind before, and it was a severe trial for him, with so much to do and no help to be had. He would break the ague and work for a few days, when it would return. In this way he made his garden, planted his corn, and thought he was quite well. About August he harvested his wheat and cut his hay, but could get no help to draw it, and was again taken with ague. I had it myself, and both my children. Sometimes we would all be ill at a time. Mr. Noble and I had it every other day. He was almost discouraged, and said he should have to sell his cattle or let them starve. I said to him, ‘to-morrow we shall neither of us have the ague, and I believe I can load and stack the hay, if my strength permits.’ As soon as breakfast was over, I prepared to go into the meadow, where I loaded and stacked seven loads that day. The next day my husband had the ague more severely than common, but not so with me; the exercise broke the chills, and I was able to assist him whenever he was well enough, until our hay was all secured. In the fall we had several added to our circle. We were more healthy then, and began to flatter ourselves that we could live very comfortably through the winter of 1826; but we were not destined to enjoy that blessing, for in November my husband had his left hand blown to pieces by the accidental discharge of a gun, which confined him to the house until April. The hay I had stacked during the summer I had to feed out to the cattle with my own hands in the winter, and often cut the wood for three days at a time. The logs which I alone rolled in, would surprise any one who has never been put to the test of necessity, which compels people to do what under other circumstances they would not have thought possible. This third winter in Michigan was decidedly the hardest I had yet encountered. In the spring, Mr. Noble could go out by carrying his hand in a sling. He commenced ploughing to prepare for planting his corn. Being weak from his wound, the ague returned again, but he worked every other day until his corn was planted. He then went to New York, came back in July, and brought a nephew with him, who relieved me from helping him in the work out of doors. Although I was obliged to stack the hay this third fall, I believe it was the last labor of the kind I ever performed. At this time we began to have quite a little society; we were fortunate in having good neighbors, and for some years were almost like one family, our interests being the same, and envy, jealousy, and all bitter feelings unknown among us. We cannot speak so favorably of the present time.

“When I look back upon my life, and see the ups and downs, the hardships and privations I have been called upon to endure, I feel no wish to be young again. I was in the prime of life when I came to Michigan--only twenty-one, and my husband was thirty-three. Neither of us knew the reality of hardship. Could we have known what it was to be pioneers in a new country, we should never have had the courage to come; but I am satisfied that with all the disadvantages of raising a family in a new country, there is a consolation in knowing that our children are prepared to brave the ills of life, I believe, far better than they would have been had we never left New York.”

In view of the formidable journey described by Mrs. Noble from Detroit to Ypsilanti, it should be mentioned that it is thirty miles by railroad, and ten miles thence to Ann Arbor; Dexter being still ten miles further. As a confirmation of her remark about the awe in which the Indians stood of Cass, an incident may be mentioned. One summer’s day, accompanied by his negro man, he rode up, on his way from the West, to the door of one of the early settlers in this county, to get a draught of water from the well. As he was about going on, a party of a hundred Indians on their way from Detroit, stopped also, and began stacking their guns by the side of the house, evidently intending to make a long stay. The woman, who chanced to be alone, was very much frightened, and as the savages paid no attention to her request that they would go on, she begged Gov. Cass to interfere. He spoke a few words to them in their own language, and as soon as they knew him, they shouldered their weapons and were “marching off in double quick time.”

The old picturesque looking windmill on the American side of the Detroit river, is the one to which all the people in western Michigan, some thirty years ago, were obliged to come for their grinding. It is now dismantled of its wings, and the tower in a ruinous state.

The lady whose narrative is quoted is, it will be acknowledged, “a pioneer indeed.” She is, moreover, an interesting and charming woman, and admirable in all the relations she has filled. Her manner is described as being remarkably attractive, and her portraiture in conversation of the hardships and peculiarities of pioneer life, as being vivid and thrilling. “She talks with so much spirit,” says one of her friends, “that I know she can make a more sprightly narrative than any I have read.” Her children have prospered and are most highly respected, and neither they nor their descendants will be likely to forget how deeply they are indebted to a mother so enterprising and energetic, and so affectionately mindful of their interests.

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The village of Dixboro’ in Washtenaw County, Michigan, was first laid out by Mr. Dix of Massachusetts, and was once somewhat flourishing, though now a miserable looking place, owning scarce a dwelling that is not in a state of dilapidation. The inhabitants are not remarkable for superstition; yet it is curious to notice how strong is the current belief even to the present day, in an old ghost story. “To doubt it,” says a resident, “is to offer a personal insult.” The tale ran briefly thus: A new settler by the name of Van Wart, a relative of one of the captors of André, who had taken up his quarters in a house recently occupied by a widow then deceased, testified to the nocturnal visits of an apparition, whom the neighbors supposed to be no other than the woman’s ghost. From what transpired during these visitations, it was supposed she had been murdered by her brother-in-law for the sake of concealing some crime committed years before. The matter was made the subject of legal investigation, and Van Wart’s testimony taken in full, under oath, by the magistrate before a jury. The grave was opened and the body examined to ascertain if her death had been caused by poison; probably the only instance in this century at least of a corpse being disinterred upon the evidence of a ghost! The appearance of the dead was startlingly like the description given by the ghost seer, who, had never seen her living; but nothing was found to justify condemnation of the accused, who was accordingly released and left the country. The Scotch physician who attended the woman in her last illness, and was supposed to be implicated in the deed, also quitted the community. The old log house is still standing, with the room called Tophet, because appropriated to the use of the sick as a hospital--now in a sadly tumbledown condition, but once the seat of cheerful hospitality. In the olden time, many a merry company from Ann Arbor was wont to resort there, spending the evening in dancing and festivity. Ypsilanti and Dexter were also favorite places of resort for sleighing and pic-nic parties. The latter village was laid out by Judge Dexter, brother to the celebrated lawyer of that name in Boston.

Miss Frances Trask was a cousin of Mrs. Dix, and figured prominently at that day in the little community as a belle somewhat on the Amazon order. She had much talent, with a degree of cultivation that caused her to be looked up to with respect as a person of unusual accomplishments; she possessed, moreover, real worth and good qualities of heart; but her eccentricities and unfeminine defiance of general opinion in many trifling matters, often startled her quiet neighbors, and made it necessary for those who loved her most to defend her from censure. She was much admired by the men; her piquancy of wit, force and decision of character, and a sort of happy audacity, setting off to advantage her personal attractions. Yet she was not wanting in fitness for the usefulness peculiar to woman; in cases of sickness she could do more than any one else, and would watch for many nights together, bearing fatigues under which an ordinary constitution must have sunk. In emergencies that required prompt action, her energy was praised with enthusiasm by her own sex. Finally, when pecuniary embarrassments made it necessary for Dix and his family to leave their home, and the wife, a gentle, ladylike creature, was overpowered with grief, and could do little to expedite preparations, Frances was the _nerve_ of them all. She packed up everything, dressed the children one by one the last morning, placing each on a chair when in readiness, with orders not to move, and with cheerful alacrity arranged everything for their departure. She had accustomed herself to firing at a mark, and was considered one of the best shots in the country, besides being able to ride a horse with any racer. It was said she could cut off a chicken’s head at an almost incredible number of rods, and that she often went out deer hunting; but this last tradition does not vouch for. She was the life of pic-nics or pleasure parties, and seldom let pass an opportunity of making a smart or satirical speech, sometimes at the expense of delicate regard for the feelings of others. A certain Judge Thompson, who had held office at Batavia at the time of Morgan’s abduction, as sheriff of the county, and had earned a notoriety in no wise enviable, chanced to be helping her at a pic-nic on one occasion, and began to rally her on her penchant for meat; “Yes,” she retorted, “I am fond of flesh; you of blood;” a rejoinder which was keenly felt by the mortified official.

On another occasion the lady seems to have met her match, being excessively annoyed by a gallant who chose to vex her by pretending to mistake her name, calling her “Miss Trash,” and then correcting himself with an apparently confused apology. She used to laugh heartily in mentioning a speech meant to be particularly ill-natured, levelled at her at a dinner party at Ypsilanti by a lady of her own stamp, who had become irritated beyond forbearance by some of her sallies. Looking significantly at Miss Trask, she gave her toast, saying, “When Boston next takes an emetic, I hope it will turn its head towards the ocean.”

It may well be imagined that those to whom Miss Trask chose to be amiable, liked her much, while she was thoroughly detested by those who had suffered from the arrows of her wit. Strange as it may seem, she was held in high esteem by many of her own sex, notwithstanding her boldness of carriage, from which it may be inferred that she affected to be more lawless than she was in reality. She accompanied Mr. Dix and his family when they removed to Texas. Some two years since, when she returned on a visit to Michigan, the manifest change and improvement in her bearing and manners were the subject of general remark. She had grown absolutely quiet and dignified; so that those who had heard only of her early fame, expressed some disappointment at not finding her the dashing, sprightly creature she had been represented. Time and the trials and labors incident to life in a new country had tamed her wild spirit; she had mourned the loss of a brother in the Texan service, and had undergone a second term of the difficulties and privations of pioneer life. The government of Texas, however, had shown that they appreciated her services by voting her a large tract of land in compliment to her opening the first seminary for young ladies in that State. This possession, with the portion of land assigned to her deceased brother, made her a wealthy woman. Among the curiosities she brought from her new home, her Mexican blanket attracted great attention from its novelty, elegance and richness. Some said it had been valued in Boston at a thousand dollars. A story had gone about, the details of which were denied by the heroine, that during the struggle in Texas, a Mexican attempting to force his way into the house at a time when Mr. Dix was too ill to act on the defensive, had been shot by the intrepid sister-in-law.

It may be conjectured that Miss Trask had many admirers. She had been engaged at Dixboro’ to Sherman Dix, a relative of her brother-in-law, and somewhat her junior; but they quarrelled, it was said, upon one occasion when she was suffering from an attack of ague--about some trifling matter, and the suitor was peremptorily dismissed. When the family removed to Texas some years afterwards, the young man followed, and remained a bachelor; whether on account of a lingering attachment to the fair inconstant, or some other reason, it has not been recorded. Miss Trask’s matrimonial destiny at length overtook her; she married at Austin a Mr. Thompson, and was left a widow in a few months. Her nephew by marriage is Secretary of State in Texas and a son and daughter of Mr. Thompson reside at Chicago.

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Among the early settlers of Michigan who deserve a notice, should be numbered Mrs. Hector Scott, the daughter of Luther Martin, the lawyer who so ably and successfully defended Aaron Burr. She came to the State before 1837, and is still residing in Detroit. She has passed through many severe reverses and trials; but her intellectual ability, energy, and firmness of character, have sustained her, constraining the admiration and respect of all who enjoy her acquaintance. Like her, Mrs. Talbot, once a celebrated beauty, retains the dignified manners of the olden time. She was the daughter of Commodore Truxton. She still resides on her farm near Pontiac; the ancient log house embowered in eglantine, and showing evidence within doors of a refinement of taste which can invest with elegance the homeliest materials.

At Union City, in the southern part of Michigan, lives Mrs. Mosely, daughter of the missionary, Bingham, and the first white child born in the Sandwich Islands. The first child born at the Falls of St. Anthony was Mrs. Horatio Van Cleve, the daughter of Maj. Nathan Clark. Orren and Ann White, descendants of the New England pilgrims, came to Ann Arbor the second year after its settlement, and still reside on the place they purchased, about two miles from the village.

Mrs. Goodrich, one of the pioneers, who came with her husband and family to Michigan as early as 1827, prides herself somewhat on a thrifty grape vine which ornaments her beautiful garden, brought by her from New England, and a shoot from those vines at “Bloody Brook,” the tempting clusters of which enticed the unfortunate young men whose massacre gave name to the locality Miss Hoit, who lived in the northern part of Livingston County, when the country was covered with thick forests, wandered one day so far, while gathering wild flowers, that she entirely lost her way. In her distress she heard the tinkling of cow-bells, and following the sound, remained with the cattle till evening, when she went home in safety under their escort.

The wife of a pioneer who had lived in “the bush” nearly three years without seeing another white female face, has spoken of the delight with which she found a dandelion in bloom near her door-step. Probably the seed of the golden flower had been brought with that of the “tame grass,” as they called “timothy” in distinction from the native marsh grass; and its unexpected appearance brought back so vividly her old home associations and remembrance of the beloved ones there, that she could not resist the impulse to “sit down and have a good cry.” “I felt less lonely,” she said, “all that day, and ever since. My dandelions are the only ones in the settlement, and I take care that they and the white clover, which has since made its appearance, shall not run out.” Another in Illinois, who had for a long time lived without windows, found herself at last able to indulge in the luxury of glass panes, and had a small window set, so that she could see to sew in the day-time in winter. All the first day, while plying her needle, she found herself continually looking off, to wonder at the novelty of what she had been formerly used to regard as an indispensable convenience. The dwellers on the heavily timbered land, which unlike the pleasant “openings” where the sunshine falls, afforded no relief except the “clearing” marked with blackened stumps, were subjected to dangers as well as inconvenience. Mrs. Comstock, describing her primitive home in Shiwasse County, says,--“We had previously had a log house erected in the woods, but we came up in a boat by the river, and when we reached the spot, were obliged to have a road cut before we could get to our home. Here for a long time I never dared trust our children outside the enclosure for fear of the bears; for those animals would often come close about us, even to the fence.”

Many of the families who had removed to Detroit before the war of 1812, returned east previous to its outbreak, being in dread of attacks from the Indians in the neighborhood, who were known to be in British pay, and made frequent demonstrations of hostility; sometimes encamping near the houses of residents in numbers of three or four hundred. Captives brought to Detroit by the savages, were often purchased there to save them from a more terrible fate. A young girl who had been thus taken into a family, one day seeing a party of Indians pass by, uttered a piercing shriek, and fell senseless to the floor. On recovering consciousness, she declared that she had seen her mother’s scalp in possession of one of the savages, recognizing it by the long light braid of hair. Her story was confirmed by a person who had seen the mother and daughter brought with other prisoners from near Sandusky, Ohio. The mother being in feeble health, and unable to travel as fast as was required, was tomahawked, her daughter being hurried on in ignorance of the cruel murder.