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Sarah Isabelle Harlan (1832-1917), better known as Belle Harlan, lived her entire life in Washington. In 1901 she penned her recollections. Washington Rewind has excerpted her writings many times in our research articles, but we present her complete memoirs here.
My father moved from Christian Co., Kentucky, in the fall of 1833. Coming here at that early day the county was little better than a wilderness.
In recounting some of the privations and hardships incident to frontier life, the younger members of the family have evinced so much interest, and been so anxious to hear more of those early days of trial and self-denial, that I decided to commit some of them to writing that they might be preserved for their perusal, after those who participated have passed from earth and earthly scenes.
I write from memory alone, and cannot be exact in regard to dates. Indeed in many things I cannot give dates at all. It will be a plain, simple story of the early settlement of the country. I do not know as I should have undertaken it; but that several have said to me when talking of those early days, “You ought to write those things down, there are so few living now who know anything about them.”
Father (James Harlan) with his family, which consisted of himself, my mother and seven children: Elijah, Charles, Nancy, Caroline, Newton, Margaret and Isabelle or Belle, the writer of these lines, spent the winter of 1833-34 in Sangamon Co., Ill., with his brother (Uncle Silas Harlan). In March of ’34 we moved to Tazewell Co. and rented a log cabin on the Mackinaw River. In those days there were nothing but cabins to rent, moved into it and proceeded to erect a home to live in, which was built on his own land just in the edge of the timber. Said house consisted of hewn logs, clapboard roof and puncheon floor.
This was before my recollection, but I have heard mother and my older sister tell how they moved in without window, doors, or chimney. Cooked outdoors, put boards across one corner of the house and piled the bacon on them, a novel meat house. My earliest recollection of our old home is a large room of hewn logs with north and south doors and north and south windows. This was built just in the edge of the forest.
Wooden hinges, wooden latch, with a string hanging outside to lift the latch. The whole door was a rough wooden frame, with clapboard nailed on. A stick chimney at ane [sic] end of the room with a wide open fireplace, wide enough to take in a backlog three feet long and two in diameter with smaller sticks in proportion piled on in front of the andiron.
No exaggeration, those fireplaces would take in enormous quantities of wood. Their capacity seemed almost limitless. Our houses were cold. We sit by a blazing fire, with our face almost blistered, our backs felt as if encased in frost. This is a digression. An opening left in the upper floor in the back end of the room to be reached by a ladder. This upper room served as sleeping room for various members of the family. The room below contained two beds, one on either side of the ladder. Father and mother always occupied one and if a stranger came to spend the night, which was a frequent occurrence, the other bed served as a “guest chamber.” Mother always hung up curtains to ensure some privacy. Those who slept upstairs had to ascend the ladder if the President occupied the guest changer. I have often heard sister Carrie give one night’s experience in connection with having company, and her sister Nancy’s trials in avoiding scaling the ladder. She always had a hearty laugh whenever she referred to it.
Major Cullom, father of Senator Shelby M. Cullom came to spend the night; no unusual thing for a neighbor man to go several miles to spend the night with a neighbor. Nancy was bashful and sensitive, and declared she would not go up the ladder to sleep. Accordingly they carried bedding to the kitchen. We had a kitchen by this time and they made their bed and retired. The kitchen had a wide fireplace and clapboard door. Said door did not fit very close and shut from the outside. Wolves were so numerous everyone had to keep several hounds to protect their flocks. We had four. ‘Twas the fall season and they had got in the kitchen to lie by the fire. Whenever they heard a noise on the outside they dashed pell-mell over my sisters, sprung the door out at the bottom, passed out barking and howling as only hounds can. Pretty soon they would want to return to their comfortable quarters. They could push the door in so as to enter, but stood outside scratching and whining until my sisters would have to let them in or bid adieu to sleep for that night. This was repeated off and on all through the night. Carrie said she told Nancy after that time she could sleep with the hounds if she wished, but she, Carrie, would scale the ladder. This all transpired before my recollection. But this is digression number two. I will return to the house. The roof was clapboards laid out on small logs reaching from gable to gable. The boards overlapped each other. I think they were about three feet long, and were held by means of long poles or small logs laid on each lap, called weight poles. The chimney was built on the outside, composed of split sticks laid up and filled between with wet clay. A pole was inserted some distance above the fireplace to hang the pot rack on. Woe betides the housewife if the pot-rack took fire, which it frequently did and burned into, letting pots and kettles with all their contents down into the fire, upsetting the family dinner, and drowning the fire—not mentioning the temper of the cook. Oh, those were the days that tried men’s – no women’s souls. Digression number three. I want to say something about how those clapboards were made, but I fear I cannot make it plain.
A log was sought with a straight grain, sawed in suitable length. The boards were split by means of an instrument called a frow, which I shall not attempt to describe, and a wooden bench so constructed it would hold the boards while they were being shaved with a drawing knife. The bench was called a shaving horse. Shingles were made in the same way.
Puncheons were logs split, and the undersides at the ends hewn off so they would lie on a sill, making it possible to walk across the floor without falling. The opening between the logs were chinked and daubed. That is, as large a piece of wood as possible be fit in and the remainder of the opening was filled with mud. In time and not so long a time either, rain and wind would loosen the filling and would all fall out, and had to be replaced, or the inmates had to take the weather.
We sometimes got out of bed in a good-sized snowdrift. Sometimes had to cover our heads to keep the snow from our faces. We had very heavy snows in those early days, and it lay on the ground a long time. Much longer than it does now, and more of it. I once went with my father and mother to spend the day at a neighbor’s. The only window the cabin could boast was a clapboard hung on leather hinges to let down over a large opening between two logs. Being a cold day and the window at one side of the fireplace, of necessity, the board had to be let down, consequently all the light that was admitted in the room came down the capacious chimney. As the chimney was not very high, but broad, it let in more light than one would suppose. I never have seen greased paper used for window glasses as I have often heard of, and read about, neither in dwellings nor schoolhouses.
The cooking had to be done outdoors. Mother was frequently sick, therefore the brunt of it fell on sister Nancy, who was young and coming from a slave state had never had many responsibilities resting on her. I realize now how trying a time she must have had. I have heard her and Carrie laugh years afterward of how bashful Nancy was, and coming from an older settled state was not used to the primitive ways persons had to resort to here.
No doubt some who read this will think it was a hard way to have a family live as they first moved in. It was hard, coming from an older and imprecation section as they had, but they could do no better. Spring was upon them and they were compelled to raise a crop so as to have something to live on the coming year. Their own land had to be broken so they could till it the next year.
Father rented land ten miles from home to make his first crop. No tillable land nearer. By tillable land, I mean prairie that had been broken. The first breaking of the soil it raised nothing but sod corn. The farm he rented was what is now known as the Chastine Major farm a mile and a half southwest of Danvers, McLean County.
He and my two eldest brothers, Elijah and Charles took their provisions Monday morning and started for their work. Mother cooked everything she could for them. The middle of the week Father came home for a fresh supply. There was a cabin on the land, and the family who lived in it allowed them to make their coffee at their fire. During the time of their absence, Mother was left at home alone with five children, the eldest sister Nancy thirteen years of age. The county was a wilderness. The prairie had to be broken. Father secured the services of two young men named Crow to come from Sangamon Co. fourteen miles south of Springfield with their ox team and break up the ground.
The young men who broke the prairie were tired when evening came, and as soon as they ate their supper went to bed. They slept in the lower room, the family slept above. The supper dishes were washed just outside the door. Nancy would take a light in to see to put them away and one night she missed the shelf and dropped the whole stack of plates on the floor. How they must have felt the loss of those plates, for money and dishes were both hard to obtain at that time.
Cooking outdoors was no pleasure job. Just please bear in mind we had no stoves in those days. The bread had to be baked in iron skillets with iron lids. Coals of fire underneath and on top. As for boiling that was accomplished whenever a pot or kettle could be made to set over the fire without upsetting and putting the fire out.
When it rained, and I have heard them say thunderstorms were very frequent that summer, they had to turn an iron kettle over the fire to keep the rain from putting it out. Matches were unknown at that time. At least they were not obtainable where we were.
Father was an inveterate smoker, and carried fire from Kentucky to Illinois, a journey of over two weeks duration, by means of two pieces of thick bark, to have fire to light his pipe. He watched his bark, and when the under piece was near being burned through, he replaced it with a fresh one. He never neglected his fire. When he went to his work on the farm he carried a fire and gathered bark and fuel and kept it burning all day, usually against a stump or log. The matter of keeping fire was a very important one. I have known a neighbor to come a mile a morning to get a fire to cook their breakfast. My brother had a flintard by means of which they could take a bunch of tow and strike fire from the flint which would ignite as readily as powder, without the danger. They seldom had to resort to that, as they always tried to guard against losing the seed of fire. However careless they may have been in other things in that they were always careful. ‘Twas a common jest if a neighbor came in and seemed in a hurry, to ask if he had come for fire?
The privations and inconveniences endured by the frontier settlers of this state would make some of your women’s and men’s ears tingle, could they but hear them recited.
No railroad or telegraph service in the United States. The mails were carried by stage or on horseback—in some places on foot, save where they could be carried by water. Letters that will reach their destination now in two days would have taken two weeks or more then. Postage was an item to be considered, as not everyone felt able to keep up an extensive correspondence. A letter cost 25 cents, instead of 2 cents postage, and 25 cents was not always forthcoming. Postage was paid at the end of the route instead of the start. I have known persons to come and borrow a quarter to get a letter from the office.
The merchants had no way of getting their goods except by boat. Should winter set in early, and the river freeze before they got their goods, we had to do without many things which were absolute necessities. Shoes were one of the chief items. I remember having to stay out of school two winters on account of not being able to get shoes, the river having closed so early. Of course I had some kind of shoes to wear at home, but nothing fit to walk two miles through the snow, ice and mud.
Goods of all kinds were exceedingly high priced, and money hard to get. Common calico sold for 20 and 25 to 50 cents per yard, and for other goods were high in proportion. Money being so scarce we had to resort to various expedients to live and be comfortable without incurring debt, which was a hopeless abyss to fall into those days.
Father brought sheep from Kentucky when he moved here. He took that wool from the sheep’s back and converted it into wearing apparel without the aid of machinery, save getting it carded into rolls for spinning. We first washed it, and when dry picked it. That means we tore it all open and loose, picking out all trash and burrs, ready for carding it into rolls.
Many housekeepers prepared a dinner and invited their neighbors for miles around to come and help them pick their wool. This was a social treat and alas, too often, a day of gossip with some. When carded into rolls we spun it into thread, then colored and wove it into cloth, and cut and made the garments at home. They were very warm and comfortable, and when everyone dressed in homespun we thought nothing of it. All were on an equality. I have worn my homespun flannel dress to church and felt just as comfortable as I did years afterward dressed in silk. A neat calico dress was something extra, and one of silk was a height in grandeur but few could reach.
We also raised flax. Took it through the various processes (which was tedious and laborious) from sowing the seed to weaving the cloth, and made our table linen, towels, sheets and men’s wear.
This, no doubt, reads very strange, but the reader must bear in mind we had very little money to spend.
Although the ground yielded abundantly, there was no market for grain. Father and brothers raised five crops of wheat before there was any market for it. They engaged to sell it for 37½ cents per bushel in Washington. It had to be threshed with a beater, a machine that threshed it and left it in the chaff. It was then cleaned with a fanning mill, and delivered. The men who bought it went into bankruptcy, and they never received a cent for their wheat.
A few years later, in 1840 or ’41, brother Elijah in company with Abel Hingman, who lived on what is now the Eri Bogardus farm near Deer Creek, and Thaddeus Smith of Buckeye hauled wheat to Chicago, where he bought our first cook stove and various articles for the family. They each took a man and four yoke of oxen with a large wagon, and a two-horse team with a lumber wagon. They turned their oxen out to graze at night.
An ox is rather a cunning animal. It will eat all night, steal away to the brush early in the morning, and lie hidden all day. They had only been out a day or two before their oxen hid, and they came back home hunting them. Although they were belled the hunt lasted several days. However, they finally found them in sight of their encampment, early one morning before they got to the brush. I think the trip occupied almost three weeks.
The prairies were a vast uninhabitable plain. The first settlers thought and said anyone would freeze to death who ventured to build and live on those prairies. Father located just in the edge of the forest, nearly ten miles from Washington, then known as Holland’s Grove, so named for William Holland, the first settler, whose home stood where Almond Danforth’s now stands. (Peoria was known as Fort Dearborn.) There was not a house or fence from our house to Washington, and we just took a straight line across the wide open expanse of country. The grass in places was as high as a man’s head, and all stock could live well from spring until late fall. The settlers raised cattle and drovers came from the region of Chicago and bought the young stock. I have known my father and brothers to sell young steers two or three years old for $8 to $9 per head. In that way they got money to buy what they could not do without. A milk cow with a young calf sold for $7 to $9, and a good horse for $50. But $50 would buy 40 acres of the best land there was anywhere on these prairies, which now sells for over $300 per acre.
As for fruit, we had none only what grew wild—blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, gooseberries, wild crabapples, wild plums, and grapes—all pretty sour fruit. Sugar sold high, but Mother always put by some, so we were not entirely destitute of fruit. We knew nothing of canning. Our fruit was all either dried or preserved. Father kept bees, and we had an abundance of honey. Wild flowers grew in great profusion, so the bees could easily make honey.
William Holland of Washington had the first bearing orchard in reach of us. Sometimes father would bring apples home with him when he went to Washington—and with what joy we hailed them. A lump of gold of equal size would not afford me half the pleasure now that an apple did then. Father sent to Tennessee for trees and planted an orchard among the first of his improvements. How we did watch those trees when they bloomed and bore the first apples. I almost wonder we did not look the fruit off the trees before ‘twas ripe. However, we all lived to enjoy the fruit from them in great abundance. I have often thought ‘twas the best fruit, take it all though, I have ever eaten. Maybe ‘tis a childish prejudice, lingering with me yet, but I think not. But the old orchard had shared the fate of all old orchards. I visited the old homestead a short time since and only six of the old trees remain. Also, the old home so changed had I been set down there blindfolded, I would not have known I had ever seen the place.
The ground yielded rich crops. We were sure of a plentiful harvest if the seed were put in the ground. No smut, rust, cinch bug, or any of the modern plagues to disappoint the tiller of the ground. Someone has said Illinois was the garden spot of the United States, and Tazewell County the flower bed. I have often thought it was not an exaggeration. The prairies were one vat sea of luxuriant grass and flowers and did indeed present the appearance of flower gardens. But, alas, with the march of civilization, nature’s fair face becomes sadly marred. The flowers have, the greater part, been destroyed, and our forests are fast disappearing before the woodman’s axe. The wild animals some of them have become extinct. Comparatively but few of any species remain.
Our birds of all kinds, songsters along with all others have served so long as a target for the cruel sportsman gun that a large proportion of the species have become entirely extinct—not one bird now where there used to be a hundred. ‘Tis a sad commentary on man; progressiveness.
The prairies seemed boundless. Stock of all kinds ran at large feeding on the prairie grass. During the summer the farmers would set fire to the grass and make what they called a late burn. When the grass grew up in, it the stock would gather for miles to feed on the tender grass.
After the settlers began to spread out on the prairies, (the first settlements were all on the water courses) care and watchfulness were required to keep the fire from spreading and burning fences. And sometimes stockyards, and houses. Hunters from the little towns and villages would sometimes slip in and start a fire for the purpose of hunting. Game was plentiful. The whole community for miles would have to turn out and fight fire, sometimes all night. They would be scorched and blackened, and nearly exhausted when they got through. Woe betide the man or men who started the fire had they fallen into the hands of the settlers at such times. ‘Twas a mean thing to do, endangering property for miles. The grass was so luxuriant it required hard work to stop a fire when once started.
Brother Charles caught a fawn, brought it home, and raised it. What a pet it was. Whenever the table was laid for a meal, watch as close as we might, Billy would slip in and get a slice of bread. He lifted it so carefully none of the other slices were disturbed. Poor Billy, he failed to come home one evening. And that night a neighbor's dogs got after him and killed him. We mourned him sorely.
Wild turkeys, prairie chickens, and quails were abundant. Brother Newton trapped the last-named two in such numbers we grew tired of them. I have known mother to give some of them to the neighbors.
Wolves, too, were numerous, and bold—so bold they would come within a few yards of the house in the full glare of day and catch a chicken. Sheep had to be penned at night or some of them paid for the omission with their lives.
Several years elapsed before we had either school or church. I think it was not earlier than 1836 that the first schoolhouse was built in what is now called the Hardscrabble burying ground. The schoolhouse was built first—and the cemetery started afterward. Mrs. Perry, an old lady, was the first one buried there. It filled rapidly. The teacher always had the school pass out and attend a burial.
I may not be quite correct in regard to date. The [school]house was a rude structure, built of hewn logs, a stick chimney without jams (I doubt if you who read this will know what jams mean.) Said chimney rested on an immense oak beam stretching from one side of the house to the other. A dirt hearth extending entirely across the room. Puncheons formed the floor. The windows were a log sawed out on either side of the room, almost the length of the room, filled with six by eight glass, two panes deep. We did have glass, not greased paper as some tell about. The writing accommodations were a broad shelf fastened to the wall the length of the windows, made to slant slightly from the wall out.
Our seats were slabs with holes bored in each end and wooden legs inserted. Sometimes if the slab was thought to be too long, a middle hole was bored and another pin inserted to strengthen it. If the middle peg happened to not be sawed off quite as short as the others ‘tis easy to imagine the occupants of the bench in perpetual motion. One end would wriggle around to the middle of the room. The other end would be almost in the fire. We were constantly readjusting our seats. There were six or seven of those benches. Their height was such (I think about a foot and a half, maybe two feet) that the smallest children’s feet did not reach the floor by several inches. I wonder we did not everyone have spinal disease; or become humpbacked. When we wanted to write, we gathered our skirts around us, and by a dexterous movement whirled our feet over the bench and landed them beneath our writing desk. We had no steel pens. The teacher made our pens from goose quills. Sometimes we had nothing to write with.
I forgot to mention the capacity of that schoolhouse fireplace. It was wonderful. I believe a half a wagon load of wood could be, and was, piled in it many times. A huge backlog six or eight feet in length, with any amount of smaller wood in front it made a hot fire, yet notwithstanding we shivered with cold sitting so near it our faces were in danger of being blistered. And, reader, we walked two miles through snow and ice, and rain and mud to school—sometimes taught by a teacher who did not have as good an education as some of her pupils. Miss Nancy Parker, whose father lived near where the Buckeye church now stands, was the first incumbent. In the last years of my attending school there I went alone. ‘Twas a lonely road, through timber, thick with underbrush of a species of oak that does not shed its leaves until spring. I was afraid to look either to the right or left of me, for fear I might see a wolf or some other horrible thing that could do me harm. Snakes abounded, and some of them were very poisonous. Sister Margaret and I were on our way to school one morning when we saw two snakes. It was a point with us to kill everyone we saw. I stood to watch them that they did not get away, while she went in search of a stick. Before she returned I glanced to one side of the road in a little ravine exposed to the sun (‘twas early spring) and saw a pile of them. I can call it nothing else, as I remember it now, for it was as large as a bushel basket. You may think this is a pretty big snake story, but it is a true one nevertheless. We did not kill any snakes that morning but hurried on to school. They were of the garter snake species, but they are all snakes to me. When I think of it now I almost wonder anyone would send a child so far alone, but that was a part of our pioneer education—to overcome difficulties and conquer obstacles. Our motto was to go ahead.
The schoolhouse burned down one night, and as other neighbors had moved in, who thought the school was too far from them, it was rebuilt a half-mile nearer to us. However, the new neighbors would not patronize the school, so brought up a dissension in the neighborhood and started another school.
The first settlers hung together. They had passed through too many trials and hardships to desert each other then, so they tore the school house down after having one term taught in it and rebuilt on the old site. We gained what knowledge we could with such teachers and equipment we had.
There were no public funds. Schools were made up by subscription, each patron subscribing so many pupils at so much per pupil. Father always subscribed two or three more than he could send in order to raise the teacher’s salary and insure a school. Sometimes he took in the children of others who lived too far away to make the trip daily, and boarded them in his family so they could have the advantages of school.
The teachers “boarded round.” That is, they spent—or were to spend—a week with each patron of the school. Some got more than a week of the teacher’s society, while some did not get their full week. It depended on whether the teacher was favorably impressed with her or his surroundings when they went to a new place how long they stayed. And yet they had to be fertile in giving excuses, so as not to give offense.
After the first schoolhouse was built a short time, the neighbors began to think about having preaching. In the course of time two young Methodist circuit riders, as they were then called, sent an appointment to preach at the school house during the week. Father always wanted to encourage anything that was for the good of the community, and moreover he had a high regard for religion and religious services. He stopped the plows to attend the service. One of the ministers read the parable of the rich man and Lazarus. The other got up when he was through and said the brother had read an interesting portion of Scripture, but really he had not known before as it was between the lids of the Bible. Father was indignant at such ignorance traveling over the country attempting to teach the way of life to others. This is only a specimen of the church privileges the first settler had for a number of years.
The church always found a friend in my parents. Their house was a home for minister, or teacher, or any one who came to the neighborhood and was homeless. Indeed, their hospitality knew no bounds. No beggar or applicant for charity was ever turned from their door unaided. More than one destitute orphan child was taken into their family, fed and clothed and schooled, or cared for through a long lingering, fit of sickness—without compensation other than the approval of conscience.
Indeed, I have thought since reaching a more mature age that my parents were too hospitable. I think, sometimes, they almost wronged their own family in caring for those who had no claims upon them—only the common ties of humanity. Their aid was sought far and near in sickness and trouble, mother being sent for oftentimes before the physician. I remember in connection with one family in particular, who lived on the Mackinaw River, with what dread we children would see their old gray mare emerge from the forest coming to the house—fearing mother was sent for, which was often the case. She always went and remained ministering to their needs until she became so exhausted and sick that she was compelled to return home. How anxiously we watched for her coming, and as soon as she appeared we proceeded with all haste to prepare something palatable for her to eat, knowing well that rough corn bread, fat bacon, and poor coffee, or maybe sage tea, had been her fare while there. And, indeed, there were many other places where she was called to go and she went to all, aiding in every way she could. Then, when all was over, and the suffered slept the sleep of death, she furnished whatever was necessary to fit them for the grave, for we had some neighbors who were very poor. Vegetation was very rank, and consequently, there was a great deal of Malaria and such suffering from malignant attacks of fever. Fever and ague were expected each fall (especially by the dwellers along the water course) with as much confidence as the seasons were expected to roll around in due course. Physicians were a long way apart. Calomel was thought to be the sovereign remedy for an attack of either fever or ague, and the neighbors from all around came to Father for calomel. In my mind’s eye, I can see the vial, as it hung against the wall, and see him portion it out on the point of a penknife. He always gave careful directions, and I do not remember any bad results ever following his prescriptions. Happily, for the human system, the calomel age is past. Calomel, bleeding and blistering were resorted to for every ailment. I have no doubt many a life were sacrificed on account of physicians not knowing better how to treat the diseases of the country. A fever patient was not allowed a drop of cold drink of any kind but must stake his thirst with warm teas. We would think it cruel now.
The climate was very changeable, and more subject to extreme changes than now. I will mention one incident to show something of their severity. Nearly all the milling was done on horseback, with one or sometimes two sacks of grain across the horse’s back. Rain had been falling for some time, and Father feared the Mackinaw River would be so swollen it could not be crossed. He and brother Charles, accompanied by Parry Stephens, a neighbor lad, took their grain on their horses and crossed over to Ashburn’s mill, traded their grain for flour, and started home. The river had risen so fast the horses could get over only swimming. Father told the boys to hold fast to their horses, even if they had to let the flour go. He wore an overcoat with a large cape, which was drenched with rain. When about midway in the stream the wind changed to the north, turned the cape straight up at the side of his head and froze it stiff before they reached the bank. Their mittens were frozen fast to the bridle reins. They got safely to land with their flour but had to stop at Mr. Stephen’s, a distance of one and a half miles, to warm and thaw out. Chickens froze fast to the ground. That was always spoken of as the sudden change.
Farming utensils of all kinds were crude and primitive—plows with wooden moldboards and harrows with wooden teeth. Reapers and threshing machines were unknown. Grain was cradled, each cradle being followed by a man to rake and another one to bind. A good cradler could cut about three acres per day. In very early times the grain was threshed on a hard floor by horses tramping it out and then separated from the chaff with a fanning mill. Corn planters had not been heard of. One person followed the plow and dropped the corn, which was usually covered with hoes—great heavy crude things, a load to life. Many of the utensils were made at home, such as rakes, pitchforks, and harrows. The plows and everyday harness all were.
Everyone traveled on horseback. Frequently two on one horse, and occasionally three when a mother would take a child behind her and one in her lap. If a family was large—as ours was—some were elected to stay at home, as there were not enough riding bridles and saddles for all to go at one time. I well remember with what joy we children hailed the purchase of a two-horse lumber wagon (we had a four-horse wagon), and how grand we felt that we could all go to church together.
Society was as crude and primitive as the utensils for labor. My eldest brothers and sister Nancy were invited to the house of Mr. Hughes, who lived on the Mackinaw River. To be present at the marriage of his only daughter. The home contained but one room, and that had to serve, as kitchen, dining, and sitting room. The weather was warm, and the neighbor women who were preparing the supper advised the intended bride and her friends to sit out in the yard in the shade. The gentlemen's guests and the groom were already there, so the rest repaired to the yard. The bride’s father passed along and said to her, “Betsey, the place for you is in the house”. Just imagine, if you can, in this age a bride sitting out in the yard with the gentlemen's guests and prospective bridegroom. (Not so far out of the way now, however. Written in afterward).
If our surroundings were crude, and savored strongly of the backwoods, there was any amount of sociability and friendship existing between neighbors, and we were neighbors even when living eight and ten miles apart. “The latch-string is always out” was a common expression—the expression of hospitable intent and readiness to welcome all who came. It was no unusual occurrence for a sleigh load to drive several miles to spend the evening with a neighbor. No sooner did they arrive than we repaired to the kitchen and proceeded to get supper. After partaking of a bountiful supper, or the best the hostess could provide, they would start for home, but never earlier than midnight. It was rather a troublesome custom, but we did so regard it at the time, really enjoying having our acquaintances come.
The stranger who moved in, to cast his lot with those already here, was sure of a hearty welcome. All turned out with teams and axes to help him get a home for his family to shelter in; also giving them shelter in their own crowded homes until the newcomers’ cabin was completed.
I will say in conclusion that I have written only bare facts. Have not exaggerated; indeed, I think I have kept a little on the other side of the line, not wanting to overdraw the picture or color it too highly.
My parents felt keenly the disadvantages they labored under in raising their children, and always endeavored to instill in our minds the principles of true manhood and womanhood. In justice to their memory, I must add that their teaching was not in vain. My brothers and sisters were noble, honorable men and women. I will, right here, say my mother was one of the noblest of women. She had few equals and no superiors, so far as true worth and nobility of soul is required to constitute a true woman—for such she was, her children ever having cause to revere and bless her memory. And a more honorable, upright man than my father ever lived. He was the soul of honor. They rest from their labors, and their works follow them.”
Belle Harlan - March 21st, 1901
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