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The YESTERDAYS of 
 GRAND RAPIDS 
 
CHARLES E. BELKNAP 
 
 In Grand Rapids, Michigan 
 From 1854 
 
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Ike YESTERDAYS of 
 GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Bar 
 
 CHARLES E. BELKNAP 
 
 GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 THE DEAN-HICKS COMPANY 
 
 922 
 

 COPYRIGHT, 1922 
 
 By CHARLES E. BELKNAP 
 
 Made in U.S.A. 
 
 1? 
 
 With acknowledgmen) lo The Grand Rapids Press, 
 
 in which these articles appeared and from which they 
 
 are reprinted by permission. 
 
 (G)CU692856 
 
 Printed by 
 
 ±ne Dean-iiicKS Company 
 
 Grand Rapids, Michigan 
 
 DEC 2j ib^^ I 
 
 'ViO I 
 
Dedicated 
 
 To the Pioneers of Grand River 
 Valley whose kindness and :ffiend- 
 ship have given me these priceless 
 memories of a long and happy life. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 This little book of retrospection is not in 
 any way intended to be a complete history 
 of Grand Rapids, although many historical 
 events are recorded with strict adherance to 
 the facts. 
 
 These "yesterday" stories are rather the 
 personal memories of a man who has fol- 
 lowed the trails of the Grand River Valley, 
 by land and water, from the days when its 
 splendid forest was the home of the Indian, 
 to the present pa gentry of om* growing city 
 with its commercial activities. 
 
 Through the days in which it has been my 
 privilege to serve and share in this com- 
 munity's progress, my mind has received a 
 class of impressions which the passing years 
 have failed to efface, and in this book these 
 memories are given without assimiption or 
 embellishment. I may not have done full 
 justice to the noble men and women I have 
 known, people who have left me with a love 
 of my kind that even trial and misfortune 
 has not dissipated. I may also be some- 
 what of a sinner in a literary way, yet if 
 the stories are interesting and give pleasure, 
 let them stand for all the apology that 
 should be made and the author will be 
 satisfied. 
 
 CHARLES E. BELKNAP 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 At the Shipyard Forge 15 
 
 Why Men Came to Michigan 16 
 
 Indian Days 18 
 
 Shantytown and Wildcat Money 20 
 
 More Shantytown 22 
 
 The White Pine Canoe 24 
 
 The Pioneers' Winter Food 26 
 
 Recollections of Louis Campau 27 
 
 Louis Campau's Ways 29 
 
 Rix Robinson 30 
 
 "Governor" Stewart 33 
 
 Mr. Leitelt and the Telephone 34 
 
 Moses V. Aldrich 36 
 
 William Harrison 38 
 
 ''Uncle Sam" Cooper 40 
 
 The Indian Mounds — 1 41 
 
 Leveling the Indian Mounds — II 43 
 
 The Indian Plum Orchard 45 
 
 An Indian Wedding Tour 47 
 
 Indian Baskets 48 
 
 The Indian Trails 50 
 
 Where Did the Indian Go? 52 
 
 The Musk-e-Goes 54 
 
 A Day on the Olive Branch 56 
 
 The First River Steamboat 58 
 
 The Old River Fleet 59 
 
 A Honeymoon on a Raft 61 
 
 Early Council Days 63 
 
 Little Stories of Old Grab Comers 64 
 
 Grab Corners 66 
 
 Raising the Grade of Canal Street 67 
 
 Canal Street Jottings 69 
 
 Echoes of Old Dinner Bells 71 
 
 The National Hotel, the Site of the Morton House 73 
 
 The Burning of the National Hotel 74 
 
 The Public Well 76 
 
 The Fisk Lake Log Tavern 78 
 
 Fisk Lake and Pat McCool 80 
 
 The Site of Hotel Rowe 81 
 
 Shooting Under a Light on the Thornapple 83 
 
 Turkey Shooting 85 
 
 The Head and Tail of the Sturgeon 86 
 
 A Fish Supper with the Sons of Temperance 89 
 
 Winter Sports and Perils 90 
 
 The Bridge Street Toll Bridge 92 
 
 The First Garbage Collector 94 
 
 Kent County's Pioneer Jail 95 
 
 The First Sprinkling Wagon 96 
 
 The Police Patrol 98 
 
Page 
 
 Street Lights 100 
 
 Historic Railway Station 102 
 
 West Bridge Street, 1858 to 1891 104 
 
 Pearl Street Bridge 106 
 
 County Fair 108 
 
 The Old Arcade Ill 
 
 Tramps, After the War 113 
 
 The First Railway Strike 115 
 
 An Old-Time Doctor 116 
 
 Surgery at the Shipyard Forge 118 
 
 The Sons of Malta 120 
 
 When Simeon Baldwin Killed the Bear 121 
 
 The Tale of Three Bears 122 
 
 Squire's Opera House and "Uncle Tom" 124 
 
 The First Strawberry Farm 125 
 
 The Shingle Maker 127 
 
 The Islands 129 
 
 The Mission Land 131 
 
 Rafting and the Chanty Men 133 
 
 Saddle Bag Swamp 135 
 
 The Wild Pigeon 137 
 
 The Straw Man 139 
 
 Pay Days 140 
 
 The Salt Water Baths 141 
 
 Colonel George Lee 143 
 
 Lieutenant Robert Wilson J45 
 
 Colonel Christofer W. Leffingv/ell and His Troop of Cavalry 147 
 
 The Annals of Fulton Street Park 149 
 
 Annals of Fulton Street Park— II 151 
 
 Annals of Fulton Street Park— III 153 
 
 Annals of Fulton Street Park— IV 155 
 
 The Elm Trees 156 
 
 The Blendon Hills 158 
 
 The Blendon Pines and Oaks 159 
 
 The Walnut Forest __ 161 
 
 The Black Hills 163 
 
 The River Rouge 164 
 
 Prospect Hill 167 
 
 Professor Edward W. Chesebro 168 
 
 The Stone Schoolhouse 170 
 
 Rev. James Ballard, Schoolmaster 172 
 
 The West Side Meeting House 174 
 
 With the City Firemen 176 
 
 Firemen of the Fifties 177 
 
 My Fire Service Before the Civil War 178 
 
 Experience of a Volunteer Fireman 180 
 
 The Volunteer Firemen of Early Days 182 
 
 Old Volunteer Firemen __ 383 
 
 Number Three's Engine House 186 
 
 Fire Company Number Three Visits Muskegon 187 
 
 General L C. Smith's "Pony" __ 189 
 
 My Gray Fire Horse 191 
 
Iha YESTERDAYS of 
 GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 By Charles E. Belknap 
 
 At the Shipyard Forge 
 
 In the early fifties, when as a boy I came to the "faraway 
 waters/' forests covered the hills and valleys. In the wind- 
 ings of the river the steamboat passed between banks bordered 
 with wild fruit trees, fragrant grape vines and meadows of 
 wild flowers. In places the banks were blue with violets. 
 Indian pinks were everywhere. It was an enchanted land from 
 which came wild brooks, often bearing canoes loaded with 
 native Americans. 
 
 Indians were not strangers to me, my father having lived all 
 his life among the St. Regis tribe in the St. Lawrence river 
 country. I sometimes think that I breathed into my system 
 a lot of Indian spirits that float about in the maze of the 
 autumn days. I would have willingly quit the river steamer 
 for a seat in one of those canoes with its Ottawa paddler. 
 
 We came to Michigan because the government had given 
 my grandfather a quarter-section of timber land as a reward 
 for his services in the war of 1812. Father came to do the iron 
 work on the boats being built in the shipyard located where 
 the Pantlind hotel now stands. 
 
 By stage, river, canal, lake and railroad we arrived in 
 Chicago, then known to the Indians as Chi-cog — "skunk 
 water.'' In the getaway from this rightly named place we 
 secured passage on a lumber schooner for Grand Haven, sleep- 
 ing on the deck without .blankets ; then by steamer to Grand 
 Rapids. 
 
 Until the white man came with a Bible in one hand but a 
 jug of whisky in the other, the Indian was a pretty good 
 fellow. When the smithshop was in order and the fires glow- 
 
 15 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 ing with heavy forgings for the shipbuilder the Indian began 
 to come in for gun repairs. 
 
 The first work my father did for one of them was a fish 
 spear. With a grunt of approval he stepped into his canoe, 
 went away upon the rapids and soon returned with a sturgeon 
 long as a rail with which he paid his bill. North of the ship- 
 yard were sawmills, livery stables and Butterworth's foundry, 
 whose factory bell was official time. 
 
 Canal Street north was a streak of black mud. On foggy 
 days the wornout corduroy looked like alligators. Boys on 
 adventure bound rolled up their trousers when going over. 
 
 The first business place south was Bentham's restaurant, 
 then Daniel Ball's bank and beyond the tangle of streets 
 afterward known as Grab Corners, a very proper term. 
 
 The shipyard forge soon became the roosting place for the 
 loafers, traders, politicians, scandal peddlers and would-be 
 statesmen. All territory south of Monroe-av. w^as "Shanty- 
 town," north of Monroe "Kent" and west side men were "Three 
 B's". All stores were on the cash and carry plan. There not 
 being many stores on the west side of the river every man go- 
 ing to work in the morning carried a bag, basket and bottle, 
 the bottle for New Orleans molasses. The boys of these three 
 sections seldom went abroad except in gangs. Because I lived 
 on Waterloo and dad's shop was on Canal, I was neutral and 
 had a chance to save my alley. 
 
 Why Men Came to Michigan 
 
 The financial panic of 1837 was a great disaster to the en- 
 tire country and not until the Civil war did the money of the 
 people find a solid foundation. 
 
 There had been a universal suspension of specie payments, 
 the prices of foodstuffs had so advanced that bread riots were 
 common in New England cities. Every young man with brain 
 or ambition turned to the west for a home until it seemed all 
 the people in the eastern states were moving. One of the early 
 writers on the history of Michigan said that by 1837 it 
 seemed all New England was coming to the state, every one 
 singing the popular song — 
 
 16 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 "Come all ye Yankee farmers 
 Who wish to change your lot, 
 Who've spunk enough to travel 
 Beyond your native spot 
 And leave behind the village 
 Where pa and ma do stay. 
 Come follow me and settle in Michigania, 
 Yea — yea — yea — in Michigania." 
 
 There were four more verses to this siren song. The last 
 verse promised, "We have first rate girls in Michigan." 
 
 This was misleading, for all the girls in the country not al- 
 ready promised were Indians not at all broken to white man's 
 ways. 
 
 There were different trails leading to the new country. 
 Those from Ohio to the southern end of Lake Michigan and 
 by way of Detroit to the valley of the Grand were the most 
 traveled. Thousands of young men with packs upon their 
 backs and but a few dollars in their pockets left New England 
 for a thousand-mile tramp into a wilderness. The girls re- 
 mained at home until a cabin in the forest or a shelter in the 
 village was made ready for them. Then they joined parties 
 westward bound and came on either by trail, the river, the ox 
 cart, or the primitive stage to join their mates. It was from 
 such stock that Michigan was first populated and in the life 
 of every one of these people was a story of privation, adven- 
 ture and romance. 
 
 Eugene Carpenter of this city has in his home some of the 
 woolen and linen spreads and sheets that his mother made 
 during the seven years she was waiting for her lover to return 
 from his farm in the woods to claim his bride in 1839. In use 
 many years they are still serviceable. Money cannot buy 
 these treasures of pioneer days. 
 
 My father used to tell us of a celebrated preacher in York 
 State who tactfully complained to his diminishing congrega- 
 tion every Sunday that all the brain and muscle of the com- 
 munity was moving west and that only the cull timber was 
 left. It seems to me now, after living here about all my life, 
 
 17 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 that the valley of the Grand drew the cream of humanity from 
 down east and that they were predestined to people our beau- 
 tiful state. 
 
 Of course one did not expect a man to wade for days in the 
 swamps of the Maumee or the marshes of the Kankakee with- 
 out retaining a touch of malaria and we know many contract- 
 ed the whisky habit, which they imparted to the Indian, by 
 constant contact with shaking ague. 
 
 But in the nature of these early men was a wonderful broth- 
 erhood and desire to help the other fellow. When a farmer 
 "butchered" it was the custom to send every neighbor a piece 
 of meat, when the neighbor had a crick in his back all turned 
 out and helped harvest his wheat or corn; when a man staked 
 out a place for a cabin in the woods every one made a bee and 
 in a day the heavy work was done. It seems as I look back 
 that my father had an endless patience with and an excuse for 
 every shiftless coot. To be sure I have seen him express it 
 with the toe of his boot sometimes, but no one ever went away 
 penniless or hungry. 
 
 The money of the thirties had been so valueless that men 
 had little use for it. The love of it had disappeared from their 
 minds and in its place had come a feeling for the other fellow 
 and a resourcefulness and self-reliance. I reckon that is why 
 every home volunteer of the Civil war was so proud and so 
 secure when it was known that ''Michigan is on guard tonight." 
 
 Indian Days 
 
 Until the late fifties all the Indians of this section of the 
 state came to "the Rapids" to draw their payment from the 
 government. They did not receive a large amount, but it was 
 about all the good money that came into the country. 
 
 They came in the spring and bought their winter's trap- 
 ping of furs and much fine basket and bead work. They put 
 up their wigwams or tents on the islands in the river, and 
 squaws heavily loaded, went about from house to house offering 
 their merchandise for money or in exchange for salt pork, gaudy 
 calico, or ribbon for their hair. They accepted all the food 
 set before them, not expecting to pay for it, since they never 
 
 18 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 thought of pay when they shared their often scanty supply. 
 To an Indian business was one thing, hospitality another. 
 
 In physical appearance the Italian woman landing at Ellis 
 Island is not unlike the early day Indian woman, but in artis- 
 tic dress the squaw outshines her. The squaw's waist and 
 skirt for dress-up occasions was usually blue broadcloth, skirt 
 knee high, with leggings that fastened above the knee. Her 
 clothing was ornamented with beads and porcupine quills. 
 Smoke-tanned buckskin made her moccasins; and her long 
 braids of black hair were dressed with bear's oil. She was not 
 so attractive in her working garb and was often bowlegged and 
 squatty from the heavy burdens carried upon her back. Not 
 much could be expected of people who were strangers to soap 
 and who moved to a new locality instead of trying to clean 
 house. 
 
 My mother lived near Indians all her life and knew their 
 ways of living. She had a place in her heart for the Indian 
 mother. Often they came with pieces of cloth for her to cut 
 into garments "same as the white squaw wore." One morning 
 a big Indian stalked into the kitchen where mother was frying 
 doughnuts. She motioned to the panful on the table and he 
 ate about three dozen. "Heap good!" his only comment. 
 
 My mind is full of questions as I think of the Indian friends 
 of my boyhood. Why did the government not send them cloth- 
 ing instead of money? Why did we send missionaries to the 
 heathen when we had thousands of Americans in our own land 
 needing help and salvation? Why did people gather in the 
 pennies for the foreign missions and hold their noses in holy 
 horror of the depraved Indian? 
 
 An Indian with his family came up the river one Sunday 
 morning. Through the open windows of the barn-like church 
 upon the bluff, came the hymn, "Praise God from Whom All 
 Blessings Flow." The Indian, whose God created the 0-wash- 
 to-nong, leading a little fellow by the hand, his squaw follow- 
 ing with a papoose upon her arm, came to one of the open win- 
 dows. There were many vacant seats but they were not invited 
 to enter. In the shade of the building the papoose slept in the 
 arms of its sad-eyed mother. When the preaching, mostly of 
 
 19 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 the fire and brimstone variety, was over, the hymns sung and 
 the collection taken, the Indian helped his squaw into their 
 canoe and they were soon lost in the swirl of the rapid river. 
 Was that the reason that next day the wind picked up a heavy 
 plank from a lumber pile and sent it like a thunderbolt through 
 the gable of the main entrance of the church and out of the 
 gable at the other end half way across the river? It must have 
 been a hint to that congregation. They did not patch the scars 
 for a long time and eventually this old church became a cooper 
 shop. 
 
 Shantytown and Wildcat Money 
 
 From the first settlements at the Rapids in the early forties 
 to the days of the Civil war that portion of the village south 
 of Monroe-av. was known as Shantytown. Practically all of 
 the travel up to 1858, when the Grand Trunk railroad came, 
 was by stage over the plank road from Kalamazoo or by boat 
 up and down the river. The steamer winding its way in the 
 channels between the islands came to a landing at a barn-like 
 yellow warehouse located at just about the present corner of 
 Fulton-st. and Market-av. The wind south by west cleared 
 away the lowland fog and from the upper deck of the steamer 
 the passenger's first glimpse of Shantytown left him in doubt 
 as to whether he was landing in Killarney or Montreal. 
 
 In the contest for freight the two-wheeled French dray was 
 crowded by the green jaunting car of the Irish. There was one 
 thing easy to learn in French and that was the cuss words, but 
 in all the windings of Shantytown I never mastered the swear 
 words of the Irish. 
 
 Because these dray men never understood what sort of 
 names they were called, they never came to blows. Pierre 
 going away with a barrel of molasses and Mike with a cask of 
 corn whisky might collide, but there was that good fellowship 
 that never hit a man after he was down, so the town prospered. 
 
 It was natural that Shantytown should grow, situated at the 
 foot of the rapids where all boats were obliged to dock. People 
 landing here found shelter and welcome at the Eagle hotel 
 or the Rathbun house. There was keen competition between 
 
 20 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 the two and their "runners" met the boats and shouted loudly 
 the merits of their respective places. The Eagle had a darkey 
 to black your boots. If they needed a shine just throw them 
 outside your door and next morning they were ready for you. 
 There were no bathrooms. If you needed a bath there was the 
 whole east channel of the river at the back door and the 
 water always clean. 
 
 The Rathbun in order to meet competition resulting from 
 the bathing privileges, cleared away the tables in the dining 
 room and had a dance every night. Also white sugar for 
 tea and coffee, was served at the Sunday dinner. 
 
 Among the ebb and flow of people who came to these hotels 
 were many men and women who stayed to build up the city 
 and the state — men of the highest credit and industry who 
 built machine shops, stores, warehouses, schools and fine dwel- 
 lings. There might well be a bronze tablet at every corner of 
 old Shantytown to mark the trail of both the Indian and the 
 white man. 
 
 As I remember now Bentham's restaurant was to me the 
 most important place in town. It stood where the Pantlind now 
 stands and it may be the Pantlind's reputation for good things 
 to eat is an inheritance rightly handed down. Bentham spec-' 
 ialized in smoked venison. Sometimes he had boiled ham, 
 venison stew with onions; in the winter oysters that came 
 through in gallon wooden kegs; usually a kettle of pea soup 
 to draw French trade, but dried venison always. 
 
 Nobody need go hungry, for if a fellow's credit was low he 
 could set his traps for muskrat and trade the skins to Bentham 
 for his daily bread. Ice cream had not been invented, but the 
 present-day girl and boy has nothing over the boy who had 
 a chunk of dried venison to gnaw on. Molasses candy was the 
 great confection in those days, paid for with our big copper 
 cents. 
 
 The floors and table tops at Bentham's were not scrubbed 
 to excess, but all the same he liked the boys and the boys liked 
 him. We watched him grow gray and when the Indians with 
 canoe loads of bucks no longer came, the taste of the town 
 
 21 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 changed to beer and pretzels and Bentham's became a thing of 
 the past. 
 
 But of the time that I am writing the public could no more 
 get along without Bentham's than they could without the Dan- 
 iel Ball bank next door. This bank was open for business ten 
 hours each day. 
 
 One never knew where the money was printed. Paper 
 dollars changed value every time the sun went behind a 
 cloud, just as eggs do nowadays. 
 
 Father had on his desk a weekly publication called the 
 Bank Note Detector. When a customer paid his bill in paper 
 money father consulted this authority to find how many cents 
 on the dollar it was worth. Often a piece of fine picture paper 
 was valued at ten cents on the dollar. This money was called 
 "wildcat" and if a nervous person rocked the boat it sometimes 
 became valuable as wall paper, being cheaper and more orna- 
 mental than whitewash. However, the Daniel Ball bank never 
 became so demoralized. 
 
 It was reported that there was a nail keg of silver coin that 
 kept traveling about the state by various methods in order to 
 keep the paper money circulating. If by some mishap this coin 
 got a day behind the bank inspector, it came to be my duty to 
 take the gentleman out and keep him bass fishing until the 
 emergency was over. 
 
 This explains why the cashier of the Daniel Ball bank, 
 George Lee, who later became a captain and most valuable aid 
 to Gen. Philip Sheridan, and I, were such close friends during 
 the Civil war. Capt. Lee then befriended me in a hundred 
 ways. I remember Capt. Lee telling the bank examiner that 
 the Goddess of Liberty on the quarter-dollars was shivering 
 with cold she had been pinched so often. 
 
 More Shantytown 
 
 All of Shantytown was sewered and graded long before the 
 coming of Louis Campau. Grandville-av. was blazed first 
 by a homesick cow that became lost in the woods. It skirted 
 the shore of Sargeant's pond, crossed Snake creek on a log and 
 
 22 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 disappeared over the hill. There were plenty of hills in Shanty- 
 town covered with grand trees, and creeks that wandered about 
 and found their way to the river. 
 
 From the boys who sailed their toy boats on Sargeant's 
 pond grew the men who fought in the river fleets of the Civil 
 war. Today you could not locate the pond with an oil derrick, 
 for the pond went up, not down. And from this pond was 
 gathered the crew that rescued Mrs. Quirk's cow. A grand bit 
 of water came out of a hillside, ran a short race and wasted 
 itself in a swamp where the Union station now stands. Mrs. 
 Quirk's cow had a fine pair of horns and they were the only 
 part of the animal in sight above this swamp when the alarm 
 was sounded. 
 
 The boys left the pond on the run, shirts and trousers were 
 cast aside and into the mire they went. Clothes-lines were 
 gathered from all the neighborhood and victory depended most- 
 ly on the staying quality of the animal's horns. If they had 
 pulled off she would have been a total loss. But with clothes- 
 line and fence rail the cow was brought to dry land and it was 
 a grand day, celebrated by all the neighbors on their way home 
 from work. If it had not been for kind hearted helpers Mrs. 
 Quirk's hospitality could not have lasted, but each helper had 
 a little brown jug in reserve. For that locality, it was an event 
 only equaled by the dedication of the present Union station. 
 
 Men were not envious in those days. If one built a house 
 16x20 the next fellow did the same. When there came the 
 annual increase in the family a lean-to was added to the orig- 
 inal structure. The census man had only to count the lean-tos 
 to get the size of the family and study the clothes-line for the 
 sex. In those early days all Mike had to do was carry brick 
 to the top of a building and a man up there did all the work. 
 When the bell on the foundry rang six o'clock he went home, 
 smoked his pipe on the hillside and thanked God for the good 
 place he had in the world. 
 
 In a vacant lot opposite the Eagle hotel the boys and girls 
 of Shantytown staged a circus one summer. There was no 
 lack of talent in the acrobatic work and the prettiest girl on 
 Waterloo-st. gave a tight rope performance. For all that the 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 circus went busted financially and had to give way to a man 
 who put up a shingle mill. He was the inventor of a machine, 
 run by steam power, that would shave shingles out of white 
 pine blocks. That mill soon buried itself in shavings. It burned 
 shavings for fuel and gave them away for kindling and yet 
 they piled up. When the knives were not shaving, the whistle 
 was blowing, for the smokestack kindled fires on all the roofs 
 around about. Before many days the proprietor had skipped 
 for Canada and the sheriff was in charge. 
 
 So within a short time the town lost two industries — ^a circus 
 that started out to eclipse Dan Rice of national fame — and a 
 monster that fairly devoured pine trees. But nothing could 
 keep Shantytown from growing. Look at it as it stands today. 
 
 The White Pine Canoe 
 
 There are many old-time river men living in this vicinity 
 who remember my painted canoe and at least one old deck-hand 
 of the steamboat crew who threw stones in the fight with 
 the thieving band of Indians that attempted to steal it away. 
 
 I had owned at different times several fine canoes and some 
 common ones in which I picked up shingles and lumber from 
 wrecked rafts and made good money for a young boy. 
 
 One year there came to the shipyard forge an Indian color 
 maker with his squaw, who was an artist in bead work. Their 
 camp was set on Island No. 2 in a grove of water maples. 
 
 They had a very large dugout canoe of beautiful lines which 
 carried all their outfit, including an ugly dog to guard the wig- 
 wam. They were members of the Crane tribe at the Soo. The 
 man mixed colors in an iron kettle over the forge fires and the 
 woman sold her baskets and bead work to the ladies in Kent. 
 
 My father and mother were kind to them and when they 
 went away the man said, "Twelve moons, come with canoe for 
 boy." The next spring they came again and the man made me 
 understand that there was a canoe hidden in the willows at 
 Sand creek, the current in the river being too strong to tow it 
 after his heavy dugout. 
 
 I found the canoe as directed. It was made from white 
 pine, fancifully painted, and modeled after a Canadian birch 
 
 24 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 bark. It was a beauty and I kept it in the basement of the 
 shipyard forge except when in use on special occasions and 
 never loaned it. 
 
 It was but a short time before it was taken out of the base- 
 ment in the night and I began to search among the camps on 
 the islands and found it with a lot of Indian canoes. I made a 
 jump into it and started across the stream with several In- 
 dians after me. 
 
 The steamboat Michigan was just leaving the dock in the 
 east channel and I sent my boat between the dock and the 
 wheel, which was slowly turning. 
 
 The engineer shut off steam and the deck-hands began a 
 free-for-all with their pond poles. Young Indian boys on the 
 island began shooting arrows and the passengers abandoned 
 the upper deck, and when the deck-hands could not reach the 
 enemy with their poles they jumped ashore and began throwing 
 stones. 
 
 My canoe was lifted on deck and the Michigan swung 
 around in the channel and steamed away for the Haven. I 
 was afraid to be set ashore at any down river point so re- 
 mained on the boat, washing dishes to pay my freight. 
 
 On the way up next day we met the Indians coming down 
 and Tom Robbins tried to run them down, but could not fol- 
 low them into the marshes. They were just some of the riff- 
 raff and the sheriff had ordered them away from the city, so 
 my scalp was saved. 
 
 But I have only pleasant memories of the Crane and I 
 love to think of him in some glen of the woods as he dreamed 
 and worked over my canoe — a chip from the log here and 
 there and then the color design intended to portray his vision 
 of the white boy and the red man paddling a river that had no 
 end — ^their friendship would never end. Of course he expect- 
 ed a gift in return and father gave him a five-tined spear made 
 at the forge and mother made Gull, his squaw, happy with 
 turkey red cotton for a dress. 
 
 When the Civil war came Crane qualified as a sharpshooter 
 and his trail is lost in the swamps of Virginia. 
 
 25 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 The Pioneers' Winter Food 
 
 One of the serious problems of the pioneer settler of any 
 northern country is the storing of provisions for the winter 
 months. Southern Michigan offered an abundance of game 
 •and wild fruit to the man who sought a home within its bound- 
 aries. Boys then, as now, had a great capacity for food and I 
 remember my father's preparations for winter much better 
 than I do my school lessons, and the cellar of our first home 
 comes to mind more clearly than the parlor, for all its dulcimer, 
 what-not, wax wreaths, and shell baskets. 
 
 This cellar had a dirt floor and riverstone walls. Along 
 one side were the potato and apple bins ; on the other the pork, 
 beef, pickle and sauerkraut barrels and a bin for turnips, car- 
 rots and beets. Mother's spiced wild pigeons were a specialty 
 and every fall father made an outing with others to Battle 
 point down the river and put up barrels of black bass in salt. 
 It was possible to get a twenty-five pound kit of salt whitcfish 
 at the Haven for two dollars. When it was time for Thanks- 
 giving turkey we went over toward the John Ball Park country 
 and shot one. And if we got two, mother made us give one to 
 the minister. 
 
 This was long before the time of glass fruit jars or before 
 one could buy canned stuff of any kind, but all during the 
 summer we gathered the wild fruits, blackberries for jam, wild 
 plums and verily the apple of temptation must have been the 
 wild crabapple stewed down in maple syrup. During autumn 
 days the kitchen was the drying place for pumpkins. A 
 spokeshave was used to pare the rind, then they were sliced 
 in rings and hung on a pole to dry. When well dried they were 
 stored in the attic and rings were brought forth about once a 
 week to be stewed for sauce or pies. 
 
 Apples, and peaches, when we could get them, were pared, 
 quartered, strung on twine and hung to dry over the kitchen 
 stove, where they made a fine place for flies to roost. House- 
 wives who were finicky covered the stuff with netting. 
 
 Ham and shoulders — beef and venison — were dried in the 
 old smokehouse. Then the cellar had its barrel of soft soap, 
 kept well covered because for some reason or other it seemed 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 always to be a trap for the family cat; and also its barrel 
 of vinegar and cider. Beside them stood smaller kegs of wild 
 grapejuice and elderberry wine. 
 
 Some families that had a member afflicted with shaking 
 ague had a keg of wild cherries covered over with whisky. The 
 mayor of the village added some of the inner bark of the 
 cherry tree to his keg and one needed the appetite of a Geor- 
 gia goober-grabber to share in his hospitality. 
 
 In some homes these fancy medicinal barrels fairly crowd- 
 ed the pork kegs and potato bins out of the cellar. 
 
 Nearly every family had its own chickens and the price 
 of eggs did not go up every time the sun went behind a 
 cloud; it also had a cow and had a pig. The pig ran at large 
 and one year the village council found it necessary to pass 
 an ordinance restraining people from emptying the dregs of 
 their cherry whisky into the gutters. 
 
 Along about Christmas time jars of fresh lard, sausage and 
 mincemeat were added to the cellar stock. Mince pies were 
 made a dozen at a time and set out to freeze. Mother liked 
 a bit of apple brandy added for flavor, but always had a tem- 
 perance one or two laid by for the emergency of a guest who 
 had signed "the pledge." 
 
 Thinking of those days brings to mind the peach blow po- 
 tato that mother cooked in the steamer and brought to the table 
 in its pink silk coat. A helping to a mealy mound of four with 
 a generous covering of sausage sent a boy away to work with 
 sunshine in his heart. 
 
 In spite of all the preparation a hard winter often found 
 the provisions running low. Donation parties were given to 
 help the poor, the sick or the needy. Charity was an individual 
 not an institutional affair and it all came "out of the cellar." 
 
 Recollections of Louis Campau 
 
 I had as a boy — and still have — a great fondness for canoes. 
 I had one that a white man made. Only when empty would 
 it stay right side up. I kept this canoe to lend and nobody 
 ever borrowed it the second time. But Mr. Campau, Uncle 
 Louie, as we called him, helped me to buy a real one, an 
 
 27 
 
TH E YESTERDAYS 
 
 Indian dugout that sat on the water as well balanced as a 
 duck and so light that one man might easily carry it over 
 portage. 
 
 Uncle Louie had little confidence in canoes, but there came 
 a time when he needed one in his business and so helped me 
 pay for a good one. In the fall an Indian had received goods 
 and money of Campau under contract to bring in return his 
 trapping of furs and skins the following spring. However, he 
 defaulted in payment — sold his pack to Bill Roberts in ex- 
 change for goods and skipped out for a sugar camp near Haire's 
 landing down Grand River. 
 
 Campau started in pursuit with me for his paddler. On 
 canoe voyages Uncle Louie always had a place in the bow with 
 his shotgun across his knees. He made some very good shots, 
 but much of the time he was singing little snatches of French 
 song or pointing out interesting scenes and locations, talking 
 much as an Indian would — bits of story or narrative. "At 
 this place I once camped for a week," ''here I tip me over and 
 lose my gun," ''there upon the high bank an old squaw had one 
 bad fight with a bear. She take cubs out of log. Old bear 
 come back sometime, strike with paw, squaw roll down bank, 
 bear, too. In water squaw dive long way." 
 
 When we took this trip after the defaulting Indian we land- 
 ed about ten miles below town. There were still patches of 
 snow in the woods and we had no trouble in following a trail 
 to the sugar camp. There were hand-made pine sap troughs 
 under the many trees that had been tapped and near the fire, 
 over which a large kettle of sap was boiling, was a large stor- 
 age trough hewn out of a walnut tree. Nearby, an open front 
 wigwam faced the fire, its floor strewn with cedar and balsam 
 sprays. 
 
 The walnut trough was nearly full of sap. From there it 
 was dipped into the kettle — and what interested me most was 
 four little Indians having a hot bath in the contents. Stones 
 heated about the fire had been dropped into the trough until 
 the sap was of a very comfortable temperature. When the fire 
 burned low a little Indian would hop out of the bath, pile 
 more wood on the fire, add a hot stone or two to the bath and 
 
 28 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 plunge into the sap again. I never had an appetite for Injun 
 sugar after that trip. 
 
 But there was hard work as well as frolic in the sugar camp. 
 Presently the Indian and his squaw came in from the bush 
 with neckyokes on their shoulders and buckets of sap on either 
 end. Uncle Louis marched up and demanded either the pay due 
 him or the goods bought at Bill Roberts' store. To enforce his 
 claim he gathered up the clothing belonging to the papoose in 
 the bath. The squaw grabbed an ax and chased us out of 
 camp. Uncle Louie left much of the clothing he had claimed 
 scattered along the trail. I dropped the shotgun I had been 
 carrying and my feet touched only the high spots so I reached 
 the river bank a full half-mile ahead of my boss. 
 
 There was not much pleasure paddling against a strong 
 current, but resting on my knees I did not miss a stroke, neither 
 did I interrupt Mr. Campau, who expressed himself very clearly 
 in a flow of French dialect until we made our landing at a 
 dock back of the Eagle hotel. 
 
 Louis Campau's Ways 
 
 It was not difficult in the early days of the village to re- 
 tain a memory of men's faces and to assign to nearly every man 
 an occupation in the community. 
 
 In meeting a man there was time to size him up, class him as 
 a farmer, a wood chopper, a doctor or a merchant ; either a good 
 fellow to touch elbows with or to give a cold shoulder. I 
 must confess I sometimes made poor shots, but found first 
 impressions usually good to build upon. It did not disturb 
 my mind to find the man I had picked for a minister of the 
 church around the corner, to be the engineer of the poker games 
 on the steamer Olive Branch — broadcloth. 
 
 My recollections of Louie Campau are just those which 
 any boy would have of a well known business man. I had 
 sized up Mr. Campau as an Indian trader by the odor of his 
 clothing. A person cannot handle muskrat, coon or smoke- 
 tanned buckskin and not retain a bit of the Indian atmosphere. 
 MoreovOT, Mr. Campau often wore articles of Indian clothing, 
 
 29 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 buckskin coats, or in the woods or canoe beaded or quill- 
 trimmed moccasins. 
 
 Most of the merchants or traders were content to buy the 
 skins or furs brought to them, while Mr. Campau went out 
 among the Indians soliciting their furs. It was always fair 
 weather when good fellows got together and Mr. Campau was 
 a good fellow. Nevertheless he had a shrewd weather eye and 
 an anchor ready to throw — if his foot slipped he came down 
 hard. 
 
 Mr. Campau could not have talked if his hands had been 
 tied. When he had an interesting subject both hands and 
 tongue were busy and if he lacked a desired word in English 
 he substituted French or Indian. 
 
 My father often lunched with Mr. Campau in Bentham's 
 restaurant. On one occasion Campau gave a dinner at Ben- 
 tham's for a party of distinguished people from the east. The 
 menu most likely was planked whitefish, roast wild duck, stew 
 of venison ribs, French style, with dessert of wild honey, or 
 wild crabapple sweetened with maple sugar and hot biscuit, 
 washed down with sparkling apple cider fresh from the keg. 
 
 The Morning Enquirer was supposed to report the speeches 
 made at this dinner, but at 3 a. m. no copy had been sent in. 
 A. E. Gordon, the editor, was a guest at the dinner and my old- 
 er brother, James, being compositor in charge of the edition, 
 sent the office devil, a sleepy young brother, to ask him for 
 the report. The young ''devil" returned with a roast duck in 
 his hand and said that Mr. Gordon was under the table hunt- 
 ing for his collar button and had told him to go back to the 
 office and find out how a man was going to keep his shirt on 
 when the collar button was gone. 
 
 Those capitalists went back east and reported Grand 
 Rapids the best town west of the Alleghenies. 
 
 Rix Robinson 
 
 Rix Robinson was the first permanent white settler in Kent 
 county. He came to the Thornapple river in 1821 and bought 
 the trading post that had been established by the American 
 Fur Co. and was managed by Mme. La Framboise. Afterward 
 
 30 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 he established several other trading posts between the Thorn- 
 apple and Grand Haven and during his life held many positions 
 of trust. 
 
 I have a very clear memory of Rix Robinson and his wife. 
 He came often to our shipyard forge and later to the west side 
 shop. With my father I made one visit to his home near Ada 
 on a spring morning about 1855, 
 
 We followed the trail that led through a land of wild 
 flowers, dogwood, cherry, plum and crabapples. Indian pinks 
 gave a blue haze to the ground. 
 
 My dog and I chased rabbits until dad had many times 
 to whistle us back to the trail. 
 
 We passed several clearings where men were making homes 
 and at each place were urged to "sit by." One tempting in- 
 vitation came from a mother who said all she had was some 
 fried chicken and hot biscuit. My dog sniffed and I winked at 
 dad. That chicken sure smelled good. The mother was work- 
 ing salt into butter just out of the churn, and watching the oven 
 where the baking was going on. And yet you hear of the hard- 
 ships of pioneer days. 
 
 Arriving at Rix Robinson's we found the madam, who was 
 a full-blood Ottawa Indian, working in the garden. She was 
 so glad to see me that I was embarrassed. She sent me to the 
 river with a pan of potatoes to wash and back the second time 
 because I did not get them clean enough. 
 
 There was a cook stove, with the oven high up, at the end. 
 The pipe ran into the chimney of the fireplace. The table 
 of white pine had no linen. The tableware was in a home- 
 made cupboard and I set the plates top side down with a steel 
 knife and fork, and pewter spoon for each person. 
 
 Before the dinner was ready, a man, his wife and two boys 
 landed in a skiff from up river. They had all their calamities 
 in the boat and were moving to the Rapids, where work was 
 plenty. When they had made a stake they expected to move 
 back to the farm. Four more plates were set and we had a 
 dinner of boiled potatoes, fried pork, gravy, bread, butter and 
 milk. 
 
 In those spring days, the cows found leeks — ^wild onions — 
 
 31 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 so when you spread butter on your bread you had an onion 
 sandwich. This was natural food for French and Indians. 
 Others must cultivate an appetite for it. After the dinner had 
 been eaten the mother of the boat party took from the waist 
 of her dress some paper money and offered it in payment for 
 the food. Mrs. Rix said: 'Taper money no good — dinner 
 good. Sometime I sit at your table. No come — other squaw 
 come." 
 
 Many a family was helped along the trail by the wife of 
 Rix Robinson. She was too big hearted to live within the 
 fences of a city. The day we were at her home she wore white 
 woman's dress. Her hair in two twisted braids coiled about 
 her head was black as a raven's wing. I never saw her when 
 there was not a bit of ribbon or a wild flower in her hair. The 
 house was clean and tidy. On the beds were patch-work quilts 
 of a design such as only an Indian woman could make. One 
 could plainly see the Indian in everything. 
 
 I am not ready to say that there was anything striking 
 about Rix Robinson. He was just a sturdy business man, very 
 blunt and quick in his speech and positive in all he did. The 
 Indians had great respect for him. He knew the value of 
 money but it was not his god. 
 
 Rix Robinson was a part of the great out-of-doors. He had 
 all the gifts of the white man but the eyes of an Indian, while 
 Mrs. Rix had the eyes of the wh:te woman and the soul of the 
 Indian. Rix was an undeveloped naturalist. If he had put 
 in print the things he carried in his head, the world would have 
 profited as it has by the knowledge of Burroughs and Muir. 
 He did not leave with us the printed word, but as the old resi- 
 dents follow the trail to the east, those who have good eyes can 
 see in the haze of years, the figure of a Chc-mo-ka-man — a 
 white man good to look at, to hail as a fellow well met, a 
 sample of courageous men who went forth to conquer the 
 wilderness. 
 
 In a river bottom field below the village of Ada, there is but 
 the ghost — a few of the stones — that made the foundation of 
 his cabin which sheltered rich and poor, young and old, as 
 they made their journey down the river to the Rapids. A 
 
 32 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 monument at the top of the hill in the cemetery marks Rix 
 Robinson's grave, but it does not end his story, because we have 
 for all time his trail — now Robinson-rd. 
 
 "Governor" Stewart 
 
 In recent years the crowing of a candidate for governor from 
 every hilltop in the state has reminded me that in 1856 Grand 
 Rapids had a volunteer who seemed inspired to devote his life 
 and fortune as well as his two hundred and eighty pounds of 
 avoirdupois to restoring prosperity to an afflicted people. 
 
 The national issues were buried beneath state and local 
 affairs and politicians often spat on their hands and those who 
 had coats pulled them off and argued the questions in the 
 middle of the road. Some contended that money was tight; 
 others that it was loose, but that all the men on Canal-st. were 
 tight. 
 
 The ship forge and yard, at the foot of Lyon-st. were the 
 busiest places in town. Men gathered in the shop to discuss 
 politics and often dad would threaten to throw them out into 
 the basin with the driftwood they so interfered with the work. 
 
 Then along came a candidate for governor, a stranger in 
 our midst. He registered at the Bridge-st. hotel as the Hon. 
 William Stewart, wore a plug hat and a long-tailed coat and 
 hired a boy to scatter handbills announcing a public meeting 
 when he would lay before the people his plan whereby to save 
 the country. 
 
 Bill Stewart, as he was soon called, found his way to the 
 forge. He chewed navy plug tobacco and when clinching an 
 argument the overflow from his mouth was as good as the moral 
 of a dime novel to the young tobacco aspirants. He really made 
 himself Grand Rapids' candidate for governor and it is to be 
 regretted that he was not nominated. His portrait would have 
 made history in the halls of fame. 
 
 From the day of his arrival Stewart and Louie Campau 
 were at war. There was a seat by the side of an anvil, a punch 
 block, that the Hon. Bill appropriated much to the smith's 
 disgust, for it had been Uncle Louis' place. Finally, a Saturday 
 came when there was to be a torchlight parade, after which 
 
 83 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 at a bonfire in front of the Rathbun House in the evening, 
 Hon. Bill would talk. 
 
 The smith finished a bull ring for the steamboat under con- 
 struction in the yard and threw it on the cinder pit red hot just 
 as the governor, as we had learned to call him, came puffing 
 in the front door. Uncle Louie was on hand and witli a pair 
 of tongs placed the hot ring on the punch block, where the big 
 man at once sat down. Not being trained to quick movements 
 his hide had lost its commercial value by the time he reached 
 the ship3^ard basin. Uncle Louie was more speedy in leaving 
 by the front door. 
 
 There were several of us boys tinkering guns and fish spears 
 in one corner. I couldn't remember what became of Stewart 
 and so the other day I asked one of those boys, now a great- 
 granddad of the town, if he remembered. He declares that 
 the Hon. Bill left town face down on a lumber raft. 
 
 In all the days since 1856, if Grand Rapids has had a candi- 
 date for governor, some joker has placed a bull ring to trap him. 
 Mud slinging is nothing like as effectual as a hot iron. 
 
 Mr. Leitelt and the Telephone 
 
 One day in the late fifties I wandered into the forge of 
 the McCray Bros, machine shop, then on the bank of the east 
 channel of the river below the Eagle hotel. 
 
 The two young Leitelt brothers were forging a heavy piece 
 of iron, such as only strong men could handle. It was not the 
 hot metal that attracted me, for I was familiar with forgings 
 from my first days. It was the two brothers. I doubt if there 
 were two other men in the town of such fine and powerful 
 physique. Adolph guided the blows, his brother behind the 
 anvil swinging the sledge. It was toward night and the heated 
 metal and the glow of the charcoal fires lighted the building, 
 casting deep shadows all about. 
 
 I had been reading the tales of Vulcan, "God of Fire," which 
 my mother termed mythical, but here was Vulcan in action; 
 bared chest and arms, muscled and coated with hair; giants 
 midst the flakes of fire. When the heat worked off the forging 
 was returned to the fire, more coal heaped on and with man at 
 
 34 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 the bellows the anvil was soon ringing to the blows. Many- 
 passers dropped in, for the scene charmed men as well as boys. 
 
 It was thus Big Adolph Leitelt came into my life and for 
 many years was associated in my mind with the forge, though 
 he served in many capacities. In 1870 he was a city council- 
 man and chairman of the fire department committee. I was the 
 foreman of the very busy No. 3 company, for this was just 
 about the time of lumber yards, sawmills, and stove-heated dry 
 kilns, and the town fairly oozed with pitch, pine, shavings and 
 sawdust. 
 
 The possibilities of the telephone were just coming to light 
 — a few believed but nearly every one scoffed and ridiculed 
 the idea of talking by wire. 
 
 William Hovey and his able assistant, Mr. Apted, were 
 heads of the Grand Rapids Plaster Co. Mr. Hovey's office 
 on Monroe-av. and Mr. Apted's at the mills three miles away 
 were the first places connected by wire. This was an experi- 
 ment and was made largely with a view of securing quick 
 fire service. 
 
 I was eagerly watching the venture. One day Mr. Hovey 
 sent his buggy for me and on the way picked up Mr. Leitelt. 
 We entered the office to find several other men there. Mr. 
 Hovey said to the alderman: ^'Apted at the mills wishes to talk 
 with you." He placed the receiver to Mr. Leitelt's ear and 
 told him to speak up loud. Leitelt's voice was in proportion 
 to his body and when he spoke everytning in the office vibrated. 
 Mr. Apted replied with a joke that caused a roar of laughter. 
 
 Mr. Leitelt dropped the receiver, going out into the hall- 
 way. It was empty, so he explored the coatroom and every 
 place where a man might be concealed, all the time getting 
 more impatient until at last he turned on Hovey with a roar 
 that was far from a song of peace and returned to his own office 
 in full belief that he was being made the victim of a farce. 
 
 The evening after, Mr. Apted cornered Mr. Leitelt in Lep- 
 pig's coffee house in the Arcade. 
 
 Leppig's coffee was the best ever and gave men confidence 
 to meet the whirl of new events. Mr. Leitelt thereafter became 
 a power in the common council for the fire department. His 
 
 35 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 assistance was certainly needed for insurance rates had gone 
 sky high and much equipment was needed to keep up with 
 the growth of the city. These primitive telephones were in- 
 stalled in some of the engine houses, as was also the fire alarm 
 box system. The number of persons who took stock in the in- 
 novations was limited, but nevertheless it was the initial step 
 toward our present fine system. About the time these im- 
 provements were being made Gen. I. C. Smith was appointed 
 chief of the department and I was advanced to the position of 
 assistant chief. 
 
 Fire department days did not close my association with 
 Mr. Leitelt. In 1884 we were the targets for the public to 
 shoot at — the victim to fill the office of mayor at one dollar per 
 annum. I beat him to it, for size was of no advantage when it 
 was running that won. 
 
 But after all the years Mr. Leitelt comes more often to 
 memory with the glow of the forge, the ring of the anvil, the 
 swing of the sledge. I am convinced boyhood memories are 
 the more lasting. 
 
 Moses V. Aldrich 
 
 One snowy day years ago I was buying a pair of shoes in 
 the Cole brothers' store on Monroe street when Mr. Aldrich 
 came in followed by an old woman. He said to Mr. Cole: 
 **Fit this woman to a good pair of shoes; if her stockings are 
 wet get a dry pair. Send the bill to the office." 
 
 Said Mr. Cole to me: "Moses Aldrich is the best customer 
 we have. I don't know where he finds the old people that fol- 
 low him in here." 
 
 I had respected Mr. Aldrich a long time as banker and 
 business man — but this incident gave me a different slant at 
 his way of doing things. For years he gave his valuable time 
 and out of pure kindness of heart served as county superin- 
 tendent of the poor and carried the burden of the county farm 
 upon his shoulders, lifting it out of the opprobrium of "poor- 
 house," a term so terrifying to unfortunate people. When the 
 township supervisors could not be made to understand the need 
 of funds Mr. Aldrich put his own pocketbook on the counter. 
 
 36 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 He did not believe that mush and skim milk could take the 
 place of beef and cabbage on the table before men who needed 
 good, hearty food. He said to one housekeeper, "This man 
 needs food, not curses." 
 
 Mr. Aldrich earned a lot of money and always shared with 
 those who were unfortunate, but he was the happiest on circus 
 day when his funds passed the barefoot boys of the street into 
 the big tent and furnished endless rounds of lemonade and pea- 
 nuts for the gang. 
 
 Before the Civil war wild money queered the country ; then 
 during and after the war government paper money fell below 
 the water line and gold and silver disappeared. Money panics 
 followed each other so closely they often collided. Men could 
 not finance any kind of an enterprise. Many, in order to pay 
 their workmen, issued their own shinplasters and small tokens 
 redeemable in sums of five dollars. Then came a time when the 
 government issued gold notes of ten and twenty-dollar denom- 
 inations and for some years a discount of twenty per cent 
 or more was required on paper money. 
 
 The gold coin note was yellow to distinguish it from the 
 greenback. Timid people hoarded the gold notes and the term, 
 ^'Yellow-legged bankers," was quite commonly applied to weal- 
 thy widows. Gold notes circulated but were out of sight most 
 of the time. 
 
 It seemed every banker as well as politician in the country 
 had a plan to resume specie payments. The bank of Ledyard 
 & Aldrich was on the comer of Monroe and Ottawa. One day 
 there appeared in its window a brass-hooped barrel full of 
 gold eagles, lying on its side, the head removed and its con- 
 tents displayed to the delighted gaze of the people on the 
 street. 
 
 Mr. Aldrich announced that "the way to resume is to re- 
 sume," the first banker in the United States to start the game. 
 Gold, silver and yellow-legged gold notes came out of hiding 
 and the much abused greenback was placed at par. Shinplas- 
 ters and brass tokens disappeared along with fish-scale three- 
 cent coins and Canadian twenty-cent quarters. 
 
 Out of Wall street came a wail of dismay at the thought of 
 
 37 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 losing their exorbitant discounts and personal calls from its 
 magnates were made on the banker of the lumber town. 
 
 If Moses Aldrich had not been so modest he might have be- 
 come the national secretary of the treasury. Mr. Aldrich was 
 mayor of the town in 1868-69-70. He was not long with us, 
 but every day of his fifty years was a benefit to the town. 
 
 William Harrison 
 
 Seeing an occasional old farm wagon about the country 
 with the name Harrison on the side, has prompted the writing 
 of a few words regarding an early time industry — the Harrison 
 wagon works, and its interesting founder. 
 
 When Mr. Harrison, in 1856, came to Grand Rapids from 
 Kalamazoo, where he first began the manufacture of farm wag- 
 ons, he built the stone fort, as it was called, upon the river bank 
 on Front-st., near Third, which for many years was headquar- 
 ters for the Harrison wagon. This was the first building on the 
 river in that vicinity. The canal had not been built and a deep 
 basement allowed for the blacksmith shop, the main floor a 
 w^oodworking room and the second floor a paint shop, with a 
 rope tackle block by way of elevator. 
 
 Equal to the coming of a circus was the arrival of the 
 wagon train, which came over the plank road from Kalamazoo, 
 loaded with material and machinery for the Front-st. shops. 
 The railroad had not reached the town and all the freight came 
 by the river or over the ungraded highways. 
 
 Wagons were in great demand and every part of them had 
 to be made by hand. They required good material and skill in 
 making. The locality had an abundance of fine timber, but 
 it was standing in the forest and had to be cut and well sea- 
 soned before it was fit for use. 
 
 One of the first transactions of Mr. Harrison was the pur- 
 chase of the seasoned oak plank flooring from the barn of 
 Haines Edison and the oak fence rails inclosing the farm, 
 which material was bucked up into lengths and shaved into 
 spokes and felloe stock. Mr. Edison received in payment 
 the first farm wagon made in the Harrison works. 
 
 The buyers of farm wagons had very little ready money 
 
 38 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 and needed long-time credit, so the financing of the factory 
 was a far greater problem than that of building the wagon. 
 For years wagons were exchanged for lumber or anything the 
 farmer raised. The produce of the grower paid the wages of 
 the men, but the iron, paints and oils were bought in 
 outside markets and had to be paid for in money. 
 
 Mr. Harrison's motto was "More wagons." His every 
 effort was to produce more wagons than any other factory in 
 the world. Only the Studebaker factory at South Bend turned 
 out a greater number. Soon after the Civil war the govern- 
 ment backed the South Bend company in order that the great 
 west might have transportation. Mr. Harrison had no back- 
 ing other than the local bankers could give with long-term 
 farmers' notes as security. At one time Mr. Harrison had in 
 his office an apple barrel full of notes tied in alphabetical 
 bundles. 
 
 But the factory under competent management spread from 
 the old stone fort to many branches, sawmills, smith shops, 
 vast lumber yards. The manufacture of wagons became a 
 leading industry of the north; other factories sprung up and 
 competition was fierce, but still more wagons was the Harri- 
 son slogan, backed up with bulldog persistency. For years long 
 trails of wagons were a common sight on Monroe and Canal- 
 sts., the Harrison name going to every part of the world. 
 
 In later years Mr. Harrison lived on the crest of West 
 Bridge-st. hill, his great plant was moved to the north end of 
 the west side and he drove between home and factory in an 
 open buckboard wagon. He was very simple in his taste. His 
 lunch at noon often consisted of bread with a thick-cut steak 
 toasted on the end of an iron rod over the coals of the battery 
 boilers, the grimy stokers and greasy engineers sitting about 
 with their full dinner pails, enjoyed their noon-day meal no 
 more than did the "old man." 
 
 He never spent an idle day and at one time was very well- 
 to-do, but unfortunate investments in oak forests that turned 
 out to be huckleberry marshes depleted his resources and he 
 departed this life just about the time a black frost in the guise 
 
 39 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 of a gasoline smudge from the newly-invented automobile 
 settled upon the wagon industry. 
 
 "Uncle Sam" Cooper 
 
 With permission I quote from the South Bend Times-News 
 of a late date: 
 
 "Uncle Sam, the one and original, has made his debut in 
 South Bend in the person of W. E. Cooper of Pittsburgh, Pa. 
 'It's all because of my whiskers,' said Mr. Cooper, who has 
 seen seventy-nine years, and has been called upon many times 
 during the past quarter of a century to act as the famous 
 American 'uncle'. 
 
 " 'I don't use paint or powder or other fixin's, except my 
 suit and hat — that's why they call me the only original Uncle 
 Sam. It started back in Pittsburgh about thirty years ago 
 when the folks began to call me that and since then I have been 
 kept pretty busy dressing up for special occasions. 
 
 " 'During the war I did what I could to help along the sale 
 of thrift stamps and served in all the four Liberty bond drives. 
 I guess I have been in nearly every state in the Union attend- 
 ing conventions and celebrations of various kinds. It's a 
 great life.' " 
 
 People might be interested to know that Mr. Cooper was 
 formerly a resident of Grand Rapids. In 1880 he established a 
 commercial collection agency in the Ledyard, now the Kelsey 
 block, on Ottawa-st., employing ten clerks. Among the men 
 with whom he did business and whom he remembers well were 
 Allen Durfee, E. S. Pierce, Morgan and Avery, H. W. Green, 
 monument dealer; Dr. Robinson, dentist; Shellman, the op- 
 tician and A. B. Knowlson. During Home-coming week 
 in the year of 1890 Mr. Cooper represented Uncle Sam for the 
 A. B. Knowlson Co. in the street carnival held at that time, 
 attracting a great deal of attention. Mr. Cooper was also one 
 of the organizers of the Grand Rapids Humane society. 
 When the basement of the Widdicomb building was being exca- 
 vated Mr. Cooper, Dr. Maxim and Rev. Charles Fluhrer, the 
 beloved pastor of All Souls' church, who happened to be watch- 
 ing the work, were much shocked at the abuse of the horses by 
 
 40 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 their drivers. It was the finishing touch to much agitation along 
 this line and the society was formed with Rev. Fluhrer as 
 president and Dr. Maxim as secretary, and Mr. Cooper was 
 chosen special deputy sheriff and sent to Chicago to study the 
 operations of the Humane society in that city. Mr. Cooper 
 made enemies, for the work led to court where cruelty to an- 
 imal cases were often bitterly contested. 
 
 For ten years all the time he could spare from his other 
 interests was devoted to humane work with no financial return 
 for his isejrvices. 
 
 In the strenuous idays of the recent World war Mr. Cooper 
 came to his old home town and led the Liberty bond parade, 
 marching at the head of the column as Uncle Sam, but few 
 of the thousands looking on knew his history. 
 
 He is now a resident of the Elks' Home at Bedford City, 
 Va. In spite of his failing eyesight he is able to find his way 
 around and is willing to don his striped trousers and stove- 
 pipe hat to oblige his friends. 
 
 Mr. Cooper's mortal days may have an ending but the 
 wit and wisdom of the cartoonist will keep Uncle Sam on the 
 front page as a type of the great American. 
 
 The Indian Mounds — I 
 
 Who were the mound builders of western Michigan is a 
 question that has often been asked but never fully answered. 
 
 The works of the mound builders were found all over east- 
 ern America. Although simple in form they convey by their 
 contents and structure more in regard to the habits and art of 
 their authors than can be learned from all their other works 
 combined. 
 
 The burial mounds and their contents tell us of individual 
 traits, something of the social life, their tastes, and something 
 also of the diseases to which they were subject. 
 
 In 1874 a committee consisting of Edwin A. Strong, Capt. 
 W. L. Cofiinberry and Dr. Joel C. Parker explored many of the 
 forty-seven mounds then remaining in and about the Rapids. 
 These mounds varied from three to fifteen feet in altitude and 
 in diameter from ten to more than one hundred feet. 
 
 41 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 Early missionaries and traders said the Indians of their 
 day had no knowledge of the origin of these mounds. They 
 only knew they were the work of men and had great vener- 
 ation for them. 
 
 On the mission land along the river south of what is now 
 Bridge-st. stood many of these mounds, which were leveled in 
 the grading of streets in the fifties. For several summers I 
 was water boy for the men who did this grading and had ample 
 opportunity to gaither the flint arrowheads and other imple- 
 ments that were unearthed in nearly every burial mound along 
 with the bones of the vanished race. 
 
 There were three very ancient mounds at the present corner 
 of Allen and Court-sts. In one of them was a stacked mass two 
 feet in diameter and twenty inches high of jet black flints and 
 arrowheads of the finest workmanship. No flint of this kind 
 was found in any other mound. Below the original surface of 
 the ground was found a strata of human remains and with these 
 bones were earthen vases, pieces of clay pottery, bears' teeth 
 with holes drilled for stringing as ornaments and many stone 
 smokino; pipes of fine design. 
 
 In digging a sewer trench a few years later two nuggets 
 of pure silver weighing thirteen pounds and one flake of copper 
 weighing fourteen pounds, were found. These, with a great 
 accumulation of other curiosities, were sent to the Peabody 
 Museum in Massachusetts and the Smithsonian Institute in 
 Washington. 
 
 Alfred Preusser, the jeweler, bought from me quite a bit 
 of silver ornament that I had collected, which he melted to 
 use in his shop work, neither of us realizing its historic 
 value at the time. By the time of the Civil war I had accum- 
 ulated so many relics from the mounds that the attic of our 
 home was full of skulls with grinning teeth, arrowheads, bits 
 of pottery, smoking pipes of clay, and stone implements. 
 
 This stuff, with the paddles I had used in my canoes, the 
 bead work moccasins and snowshoes — souvenirs of many an 
 Indian's good will — went up in the smoke one windy night. 
 If there is a relic of this collection left it is well covered by 
 the walls of the Star mills south of Bridge-st., for our home 
 
 42 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 was located there on the bank of the river at the time I was 
 called to war. 
 
 Every state has had its students of the mound builders and 
 among the most interested here, I had personal acquaintance 
 with Capt. W. L. Coffinberry, Dr. Joel C. Parker, Dr. William 
 H. DeCamp and Thomas Porter. 
 
 The Civil war called Coffinberry and DeCamp to service 
 in the army. Every one of these men would have been a 
 treasure if paid a salary and kept in the state's historical ser- 
 vice. They did leave traces of their work in many of the 
 museums of the country, but in their days there were no sten- 
 ographers and no funds provided for this exploration. These 
 men followed the laborers who leveled the mounds and fre- 
 quently found use for a boy who should have been in the 
 old stone schoolhouse, but who found ancient history more sat- 
 isfactory if studied on the ground. 
 
 When Capt. Coffinberry unearthed a skull Dr. DeCamp ex- 
 plained how old its owner must have been. Dr. Parker judged 
 by the teeth, the kind of food he lived on, and Mr. Porter by 
 the contour how much brain power he had developed. Having 
 the last word I put the trophy in the wagon and so the group 
 worked in harmony. 
 
 Leveling the Indian Mounds — II 
 
 When there was no longer use for the Mission land on the 
 west side, it was sold by the government to eastern parties who 
 platted it for residential and commercial purposes, with no re- 
 gard for its scenic beauty. 
 
 It was a project of cutting down or filling up, and so the 
 Indian mounds, with their historic contents, were carted away 
 to fill the low places. 
 
 There was no regret over this leveling of the mounds. Even 
 the men who gathered the curios reaped considerable financial 
 benefit from their sales to museums. 
 
 There was little real money in circulation and the silver 
 coins that came from Boston to meet the pay-rolls for the labor 
 was appreciated by the business interests of the city. 
 
 This work, which gave employment to many men, was di- 
 
 43 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 rected by two brothers, Boston men — William Hovey, a fairly 
 tall man, and Albert Hovey, a very small one, whom the em- 
 ployed men tagged ''Little Britches." He was very popular 
 on pay day. 
 
 There was no school in the summer and the writer had the 
 job of carrying drinking water to the various gangs of work- 
 men. Microbes had not yet arrived in the valley, so there 
 was but one water pail and one long-handled dipper from 
 which every one drank. 
 
 The first laborers were Irish. One hardly need read the 
 pay-roll to discover this for they kissed the ''Blarney Stone" 
 every day, they talked and sang, and every Saturday night 
 a Donnybrook fair was held along Canal-st. 
 
 Two-wheeled dump carts, wheelbarrows, picks and shovels, 
 made up the contractors' outfit. A short clay pipe and an iron 
 tobacco box filled every morning, with a bit of fresh punk in 
 one corner, constituted Pat's kit. 
 
 Arrived on the ground, Pat sat down, filled his pipe, took 
 from the punk a bit, that with a puff of breath became a live 
 coal, dropped it into the pipe and with a long-drawn sigh 
 filled his mouth with smoke. Then the lighted pipe "passed 
 the loan of a fire," and all the gang spit on their hands and the 
 dirt began to fly. 
 
 These men enjoyed their work. With pipe stem clinched 
 between the teeth, they sang through their nostrils in a way 
 to charm bumble-bees out of their nests in the grass. 
 
 Half the first summer passed before they began to level 
 the grounds on the spot where the Powers & Walker factory 
 now stands and fill in Front-st. to the north. 
 
 These mounds must have been a resting place for many 
 killed in a battle. Entire cart-loads of grinning skulls and 
 ancient bones came to light and these were too much for the 
 nerves. Pat quit the job and never came back and with him 
 went the melodies that had come from overseas in the steerage. 
 
 It happened about that time that all Holland seemed to be 
 climbing over the dykes and the leveling of the mounds con- 
 tinued, but under a different dialect. 
 
 The Dutch had about the same tobacco boxes, but each 
 
 44 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 one carried a flint and steel with which, by patient practice 
 they could get a light but they never lost more than ten min- 
 utes in starting a smoke. These men wore wooden shoes and 
 corduroy trap-door trousers. 
 
 They might have remained at work had not some 
 boys — Richard Blumrich could name them — gathered the 
 bleached bones of a horse and assembled them about a stump 
 on the trail to Gunnison swamp, near where some of the men 
 were living. The ghost standing in the moonlight was one 
 bone too many. 
 
 It was coming winter and the grading was laid by for the 
 season. The tide of settlement drifted for a time to other 
 parts of the town, but many fine homes were built on the 
 Mission land, which finally has become a network of railways 
 and busy factories. 
 
 There were forty-six mounds all told on the Mission land. 
 One long, flat-topped ceremonial place was on the river bank 
 at the present western terminal of the Pere Marquette rail- 
 road bridge. 
 
 Tradition says the Pottawatomies, who came here as the 
 friends of the Ottawas, were the people of the fires. They 
 banked in earthen pots, fire that was never permitted to die 
 out. A fire always burned on this mound up to about 1840. 
 When it was carted away to fill a place in a street I watched 
 the diggers for days, hoping to find something of interest to 
 my good friend Capt. Cofiinberry, but aside from clamshells, 
 ashes and charcoal, it contained little of value. Scattered 
 bones of animals that were found well toward the bottom, were 
 thought by some to be the bones of a mastodon. 
 
 At the east end of the Lake Shore railroad bridge there is 
 a group of Indian mounds still standing. They were par- 
 tially explored on several occasions and the relics of very an- 
 cient origin taken from them. Some of these treasures are in 
 our Kent museum and others in the Smithsonian at Wash- 
 ington, D. C. 
 
 The Indian Plum Orchard 
 
 Not imtil the early seventies did the last trace of the In- 
 dian plum orchard, on the west side of the river below the pres- 
 
 45 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 ent site of the Wealthy street bridge, disappear. Then it was 
 slashed into log heaps with other bottom land trees and burned 
 in order to make pasture. 
 
 This orchard was well known to early day people. Plums 
 grew in profusion on river bottom lands — but these red, yellow 
 and blue plum trees were in circles about a moss-grown basin 
 of about two hundred feet. It was believed to be an assembly 
 place for Indian ceremonials; very early white men told of 
 corn dances held there. 
 
 I do not know who cleared away the orchard. My memory 
 is of the wonderful training place its moss-grown ring made for 
 young acrobats and of delicious plums and wild grapes which 
 we carried away by the basketful for our mothers' winter 
 supply of preserves. 
 
 Then the crabapple, a sociable little tree, had grown up in 
 any vacant spot, not particular about location; in the spring 
 its pink blossoms grew so thick that they crowded each other 
 off the branches. If a boy tore a hole in his trousers the tree 
 furnished thorns to mend the tear. The man who named this 
 fruit had never tasted the jam that mother made with maple 
 sugar and set away in jars in the cellar or he would have found 
 a better name for it than ''crab." 
 
 When I first played there in the fifties, there was under a 
 dense growth of vines, a driftwood wigwam with a hole in the 
 peak to let out the smoke. A pole bed with swamp grass, fit 
 only for a homeless dog, occupied one side. 
 
 One day there came to our home on Waterloo, now Market 
 street, an Indian woman with baskets to trade for food. She 
 told my mother that her daughter with a newly-born babe was 
 lying very sick in the plum orchard wigwam. 
 
 Mother, in company with a French woman who lived near 
 Sargeant's pond, took a basket of food and went with the squaw 
 in her canoe. 
 
 The French woman brought the little pappoose back with 
 her. Her own house was so full of children that her old man 
 slept in the stable, but other nearby mothers gave baby clothes 
 and furnished catnip tea and Van, the milkman, left an extra 
 dipper of milk every morning. 
 
 46 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 That little pappoose had lullabys in Irish, French and Eng- 
 lish and if it had stayed until it had learned to talk the dialect 
 of the neighborhood its Indian mother would have disowned 
 it. But one day when the mothers were having a quilting bee 
 she came and carried it away, strapped in a blanket to her 
 back. 
 
 Leading to and from the plum orchard were well worn trails 
 to the hills on the west and up and down the river banks. The 
 Black hills across the river, the council pine up the stream, 
 may have been the guide to the orchard, but just what was the 
 Indian belief or mystery of this place or why the trees were 
 planted in circles of red, blue and yellow, will probably never 
 be known by the white man, but it must have been common 
 ground to the Indians for long years before the first white 
 settler came to the valley. 
 
 There was no evidence that it was a ceremonial place, al- 
 though it was within half a mile of the Indian mounds. 
 
 An Indian Wedding Tour 
 
 One early spring day there came up the river a Mackinaw 
 boat with a crew of four — ^two young Indian couple — ^upon a 
 wedding tour which, as the custom was those days, would con- 
 tinue until the ice closed the lakes to navigation. 
 
 They brought a message to my father from an Indian 
 friend, and also wanted to trade some moccasins for a spear, 
 which would have to be forged. Father told me to take them 
 to see my mother, who might like some bead work they had. 
 The squaws also asked for some cloth and on the way I took 
 them into Bill Roberts' at the corners. 
 
 The store was heated from a stove in the basement. A 
 grating set like a register in the middle of the floor let out a 
 great volume of hot air. A lady came in wearing a very large 
 hoop skirt that touched the floor. She seemed to float along, 
 there being no evidence of propelling power inside or under that 
 skirt. 
 
 The young squaws were greatly interested as they had 
 never seen the like before. The lady sailed serenely along until 
 directly over the hot air register, when, like a balloon, she took 
 
 47 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 flight toward the ceiling. There was such an exhibition of 
 motive power that the lady forgot what she came to pur- 
 chase. I was told she never entered Roberts' store again. 
 
 Then I took the brides to see mother and they told her of 
 the strange sights they had seen. *'She-mo-ka-man (squaw) 
 no can walk in woods, no can go in canoe, wind no let her stay." 
 They said a lot in Indian that I will not translate. To their 
 wild-wood eyes that hoop skirt was as strange as a marble 
 Venus. Truly hoop skirts were never designed for Indian wear 
 and were no good in a sailing breeze. 
 
 Nowadays a good many go upon wedding journeys to the 
 ^'old country" and spend a heap of money. With all their 
 wealth they have not half the pleasure this simple Indian 
 party had that summer with their sailing and camping; no 
 trains to meet, no waiters to tip. If they wanted broiled 
 whitefish or barbecued venison they knew where to find it 
 without going to cold storage. Each day brought new scenes 
 and adventures. When the ice of the winter stopped further 
 travel by water they settled down with their tribes to the seri- 
 ous business of living. 
 
 Indian Baskets 
 
 One should have lived in Grand Rapids one hundred years 
 ago to have a real understanding of the artistic handiwork of 
 the Indians of this vicinity. 
 
 Basket weaving is an art in which the Indians of America 
 always excelled, but each section of the country has differed 
 in material and design. There is no disputing the claim that 
 the Indians of the great southwest were the finest weavers in 
 the world of articles for their special use, but the Indians of 
 the great lakes country were also clever and artistic in mak- 
 ing utensils. 
 
 The coming of the whites gave a new outlet for their work 
 and they used it as a means of gaining a livelihood in the pe- 
 riod of development from wild life to civilization. A student 
 of Indian life in the fifties said that the Indians of that time 
 were wrestling with problems of which they knew little or 
 nothing and often were discouraged. "It was not enough to 
 
 48 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 furnish Indians with subsistence and an agent to look after 
 them. Unless they have more than that no tribe will ever 
 make progress toward self-support. Something to do, and 
 that something to be what he likes to do, because it brings him 
 satisfaction and remuneration and nothing seems to furnish 
 this so much as basketry." 
 
 Twenty-five years ago, Mr. Mason, the curator of the Na- 
 tional museum, said: "After an almost fatal neglect patrons 
 of Indian fine art are becoming to appreciate Indian basket 
 work." 
 
 In my young days I watched the Indian chop the river 
 bank elm and roll it into the water to soak; then after days, 
 split it into sections about six feet long and with a wooden mal- 
 let pound the sections until the growth could be split into 
 splints. Then on a shaving horse with wooden vice jaws they 
 shaved it to even thickness and width and it was ready for the 
 weaver. The squaws did most of the weaving and the form, 
 pattern and idea was fixed in the imagination before the work- 
 er took the first step. 
 
 It is for this reason that basketry was most desirable for 
 the development of the life of the Indian. The baskets could 
 not be counterfeited, for there were no two alike ; each repre- 
 sented the maker in her idealism and could no more be im- 
 itated than a white man could in fact become an Indian. 
 
 No one can weave the life of created things in nature in 
 so strange and unusual manner as the Indian and no one can 
 picture the wild longings of the Indian woman with the in- 
 visible as it is shown in her work; all her soul is embodied in 
 her art. 
 
 I have watched the basket weaver, with hungry, half clad 
 children about the wigwams, as with dreamy eyes and patient 
 hands she wove in and out different colored feathers, sweet 
 grasses and fern stems, staining them with the juices of wild 
 berries. Each design possessed a meaning and gave the bas- 
 ket its own individuality. In all the colored designs that con- 
 tinue around the basket a space is left at the end as if by acci- 
 dent, yet it is done on purpose; this is the exit trail of life, 
 to close it would mean misfortune to the maker. In the mind 
 
 49 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 of the weaver every basket has life and is a part of the one 
 who created it. They can tell their own baskets years after- 
 wards and will caress them when they see them again. 
 
 And I have seen the squaws as they guided their canoes 
 to the river landing, and with pack upon their backs went 
 about from house to house in the city accepting cast-off cloth- 
 ing with which to cover their children or themselves, in pay- 
 ment for their patient labor. 
 
 Even as a boy I could not get out of my heart the feeling 
 of resentment that the Sunday collection went to buy flannel 
 shirts for the South Sea islanders when the soulful-eyed chil- 
 dren in the wigwam on the islands of our own town were hud- 
 dled in scant clothing about the fires to keep from freezing. 
 The Indian boys and girls were just like white folks and had 
 appetites and souls and bodies, and it seemed to me that some- 
 thing more than that thin soup called ''sympathy," needed to 
 be dished up at meal-time. 
 
 One day I saw a storekeeper give a squaw a small piece of 
 salt pork in exchange for a pair of beautifully beaded moc- 
 casins that he put in a showcase with a price mark of ten 
 dollars. His store was near the shipyard forge and I knew dad 
 was handy and would back me up if I got in trouble. So I 
 told the storekeeper he was a robber and would surely land in 
 hell. 
 
 He may have believed me, for he agreed to give the squaw 
 cloth for a skirt and I ran to mother, who never failed, and 
 she selected the cloth and made the skirt for the Indian woman. 
 We had many fine pieces of Indian bead work and basketry in 
 our home in the early days and regret now that they have 
 been worn out and scattered about as the years have passed. 
 
 One piece is still in good condition and that is a beaded 
 medicine pouch of smoke-tanned buckskin. 
 
 The Indian Trails 
 It is well proven that the Indians of Michigan fought with 
 the British against the Americans in the war of the Revolu- 
 tion. They assembled at Detroit, St. Joseph and Grand Rap- 
 
 50 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 ids and without other food than that found in the forest 
 and streams they joined the British forces in the east. 
 
 Those who returned brought knives, axes, some flintlock 
 muskets, copper and iron kettles. 
 
 In western Michigan the three great tribes, the Ottawas, 
 Chippewas and the Pottawatomies, made "Bock-we-ting," the 
 Ottawa term for the rapids of the "Far-away water," their 
 meeting place. 
 
 Wherever possible the Indian used the canoe for transpor- 
 tation. Often his birch canoe was the work of a year. Long 
 journeys were made for the bark and the paint or dyes and 
 the maker put his soul into the making of it. 
 
 All the country about the Rapids was blessed with brooks 
 and creeks. When the ice in the river moved out in the spring 
 these streams were alive with fish that came to spawn. An 
 Indian with an ax could in a few minutes make a trap and 
 scoop out a load. He kept only those he needed for the day and 
 put the others back. This was the reason why the Indian fol- 
 lowed the waters. It was a faithful supply train that carried 
 his food for daily use. 
 
 Then there were the forest trails that by long use were well 
 known to the Indian and followed by the whites in their first 
 days or until land surveyors blazed section lines. The In- 
 dian followed the line of least resistance. He did not climb a 
 hill when he could follow its base. He did not wade a swamp 
 when he could follow the shore line. The sun his god, the 
 moon his calendar, the tree his compass, he camped when tired 
 and he sought and ate his food when hungry. 
 
 I distinctly recall some of the trails leading to the Council 
 Tree on the west bank of the river. I followed some of these 
 trails while on errands for my father or on my own boy's 
 business and pleasure. The charm of the forest is still very 
 dear to me. 
 
 There was a trail from the Council Tree leading south- 
 west along what is now part of Butterworth-st. It wound 
 about between the hills to Finnesy and O'Brien lakes and 
 some ponds. Along this trail there were many springs where 
 a boy could lie flat on his stomach and fill his radiator and 
 
 51 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 the bank of the lake was a good place to rest in the shade 
 and enjoy spring fever. Some of the best men that came out 
 of the east settled along this trail and cleared farms. From 
 the lake the path led to the Indian village on Sand Creek. 
 
 Then there was a trail that followed the river bank either 
 way from the Council pine more miles than I know — up- 
 stream to what the Frenchmen termed the River Rouge, since 
 corrupted to the Rogue river. 
 
 On the east side of the river the Ottawa trail became 
 Grandville road and led to all southwest points. At Bass river 
 it branched to the Pottawatomie country. 
 
 Going toward the east were many trails. Monroe-av. is 
 the sophisticated offspring of a path to the Thornapple river, 
 with a branch to Ada. 
 
 The trail that followed around the north end of Coldbrook 
 hill was a puzzle to the white settler — a maze of hills, ravines 
 and swamps, tangled in forests of maples and oaks. 
 
 In marking a trail the tree was not blazed; sometimes the 
 wigwam was lost but the Indian never. If the day was cloudy 
 the tree told where to find the sun. That was the god the In- 
 dian worshipped. In many myths he is represented as follow- 
 ing the trail of the sun god. It is a fascinating trail for white 
 men to follow. 
 
 Boy Scouts and Camp Fire Girls can follow many of the 
 old trails and find happiness in the trees, wild flowers, winding 
 paths and song birds. 
 
 On the banks of the river after a dinner cooked over a drift- 
 wood fire they can partly close their eyes and see in the smoke 
 the wraiths of the rugged boys and girls of former days. 
 
 They may even, in a few places, curl up a leaf for a cup 
 and drink from a spring that has never ceased to bubble since 
 long before the silent Indian paused on his way down the forest 
 trail. 
 
 Where Did the Indian Go? 
 
 There is in Indian life a charm that town boys of today 
 like to follow and an invariable question that accompanies 
 the recital of Indian stores is: ''But where did the Indian go?" 
 
 There is in the question much that causes serious thought 
 
 52 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 and I do not like to put the white man in a poor light. Be- 
 fore the country was surveyed the white settler simply took 
 possession of the land he desired and cleared it. Then followed 
 the ceding to the government by the various Indian tribes the 
 lands of the whole territory, the individual keeping his land 
 by right of possession. As the land was gradually bought up 
 from the government by the whites, the Indians were left home- 
 less, became wanderers and under the white man's fire water, 
 a bad lot. Then the government made the effort to assemble 
 and place them on reservations. 
 
 When the Indians of this locality were gathered for the 
 west, agents were paid so much a head and all the worthless 
 whites, half-breeds, and squaw men, were inflicted upon the 
 pure bloods, who really made good farmers and high-grade 
 citizens. Many Indians of the Grand river valley were put on 
 the reservation near Pentwater, which was much better than 
 sending them west and many were able to take up lands under 
 the homestead law. 
 
 Here is what I know about the going of one, and something 
 of a few other individual Indians. There came to the Rapids 
 every spring in the fifties a full-blood Pottawatomie boy 
 about my age named Crow- Wing. He came from the Kala- 
 mazoo country by way of the Thornapple trail, which is still 
 plain today, running through Charles Holt's place near Cas- 
 cade. In the winter this boy's father set a line of traps on the 
 river and borders of the small lakes to the south and sold his 
 furs to Rix Robinson. In the summer he had a garden patch 
 and a fish-jack and spear, spending his nights on the river and 
 his days dreaming in the shade of the trees where the water 
 rippled between the rocks. 
 
 Crow- Wing wore a red bandana handkerchief for a cap — 
 so the white hunter would not shoot him for a deer by mistake 
 — large brass earrings and carried about the odor of fish and 
 muskrat blended with smoke. He was like any other boy, al- 
 ways hungry and mother's side door supply was unlimited. 
 
 In the second year of the Civil war he married an Ottawa 
 Indian girl. With a rifle made by Solomon Pierce, the best 
 gunsmith in the state, he spent several days shooting at a tar- 
 
 53 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 get on the river bank, below the city and qualified as a sharp- 
 shooter in Berdan's famous regiment. There were more than 
 two hundred Indians in the regiment. Men were proud to be 
 called a Berdan and no better Americans than the Michigan 
 and Wisconsin Indians wore the blue of the Union army. There 
 is one place where many of the Indians have gone. They sleep 
 in the southland. 
 
 Crow-Wing came home from the war and Uncle Sam gave 
 him as part pay for his service a quarter section on the plains 
 of Kansas, where there was not a tree in sight and the nearest 
 stream of water a day's journey away. There in the shade of 
 a mud-walled hut he died of homesickness. 
 
 If Uncle Sam could recall those days he would give Crow- 
 Wing a deed to a bit of land on the Thornapple, with a few 
 fish-hooks and some packages of congressional garden seed. 
 
 The white man would not then have reason to blush when 
 the school boy asks him what became of the Indian. Most 
 of his tribe have gradually faded away along with the forests, 
 the deer, the pigeon, and other free things that were so native 
 to his life. But it may be some consolation to know that of 
 those who still exist some seem on the upgrade and coming 
 back in high powered cars. 
 
 The Musk-e-Goes 
 
 It is well known, in the history of Michigan, Wisconsin and 
 Minnesota that more than two hundred years ago a tribe of 
 Indians occupied the Muskegon river country. They were 
 known as the Musk-e-goes — ^'the people of the low country," 
 or swamp people. Musk-e-go was also the name of the tama- 
 rack tree, native to the low lands. 
 
 In all there were nineteen tribes occupying the different 
 valleys about the great lakes, each one bearing a name signifi- 
 cant of its locality or its people. 
 
 Thus the Macatawas were the people of the black or dark 
 water — hence Black lake and Black river. 
 
 The Pottawatomies were "those who kept the fire." They 
 carried it about with them in compliance with a tradition that 
 God had given them the fire and told them never to let it 
 
 54 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 go out. Kalamazoo was their term for ''boiling water," the 
 rapid, bubbling river. 
 
 Man-is-tee is the Ottawa term for River of the White Trees, 
 the sycamore, birch and poplar. 
 
 It is to be regretted that we have not preserved more of 
 the Indian names. In naming new streets, locating tourist 
 parks and camping places these terms would be most appro- 
 priate. 
 
 When the white man arrived they found the Indian had a 
 name or term for all the rivers, hills and trees — in fact, a name 
 for everything good in his life. He was grateful to the Great 
 Spirit and found expression for his admiration of the things 
 created for his welfare. 
 
 The Indian of the great lakes country used only four hun- 
 dred words to express himself, the white man had thousands, 
 and yet the white man found dozens of ''Sand creeks" in Mich- 
 igan and hundreds of "Mud lakes," where fish, water lilies, 
 cattails, ducks and blackbirds lived. But the Indian, if he 
 named any or all of these, saw not the mud or sand ; he coined 
 a term — or combination of words — that conveyed a sense of 
 his pleasure or satisfaction. For instance, our various white- 
 fish lakes and rivers were to the Ojibway, Ude-Kumaigs. One 
 beautiful lake called Deer, to the Chippewa was Squaw-an-ga- 
 nong, "the water of the two hills"; our own Grand river the 
 0-wash-to-nong. 
 
 In that great waterway at Detroit is one of the grandest 
 river islands in America. The Chippewas must have had some 
 more appropriate term than the white man's curse of "Hog 
 island." Not for a hundred years did it come back to life. To- 
 day it is the glory of the river and its French designation, 
 Belle Isle, is a good term and I hope it will stick. It was a 
 sharp jump from the river and its French designation, the 
 Rouge (Red) that comes into the Grand at Plainfield, but the 
 second jump made it the Rogue river of today. There was an 
 unfortunate reason for this and it was clinched when one of 
 its sawmill villages was named Gougeburg. It was one of the 
 happiest little rivers in the state imtil the mill men came with 
 
 55 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 their canthook names and rolled all the romance out of the 
 stream. 
 
 I hope some of the nature lovers who are now building 
 homes along its winding waters will dig up an old Indian name 
 or two and so restore a little of its primitive "non-se" — "come 
 from God." Michigan will never get full value from her lakes 
 and rivers until its Indian commission renames or restores the 
 names of many lakes and streams. 
 
 A Day on the Olive Branch 
 
 One spring morning in 1857, drifting away from the pier 
 at the yellow warehouse, the steamer Olive Branch set forth 
 for the Haven with a cargo of package freight, a top deck 
 loaded with passengers, and Capt. Robert Collins, Pilot Tom 
 Bobbins and Cook Jim Dailey, with a full crew of husky 
 Irishmen. We were soon winding between banks heavily 
 wooded and bordered with wild fruit trees in full bloom — 
 plum, cherry, crab and thornapple — all festooned with wild 
 grape vines. 
 
 At the dock of Hovey's plaster mills a hundred barrels of 
 land plaster were taken aboard. Then angling across the 
 river we were against the bank at Grandville, the place nature 
 intended should be a town site. The settlement got an early 
 start with some of the best men who came out of the east in 
 those pioneer days. Here we left package freight and took 
 aboard a few passengers. 
 
 At Haire's landing we gathered up a lot of maple sugar in 
 tubs and a pile of slabwood for the boilers. 
 
 At the mouth of Sand Creek, where there had once been an 
 Indian village, we added a couple going to the Haven to be 
 married. Coming down from the upper road they crossed the 
 creek on a tree footbridge and the young lady had taken a 
 tumble and had to swim out. 
 
 They built a fire to dry out as well as to signal the boat. 
 Once aboard the women passengers fitted the young woman 
 out in dry clothing and the couple were seated at the captain's 
 table for the noon meal. The bride-to-be was game all right. 
 She had come west to teach the Sand Creek school, but the 
 
 56 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 first month she found a better job and the log shack's pupils 
 had a vacation. 
 
 At the Blendon hills two families of Hollanders all wear- 
 ing wooden shoes, were met by a man with a yoke of cattle. 
 Their goods were piled high on his cart and the boat tooted a 
 goodby as they trailed away into the forest. 
 
 It was a short run to Lamont, a beautiful place so spread 
 along the bluffs — for every man wanted a home on the river 
 front — that it looked four miles long and four rods wide. 
 
 All the morning a couple had occupied a bench on the 
 top deck in front of the pilot house. The man smoked a fancy 
 shaped pipe and they talked only in German. Lamont evident- 
 ly touched his heart and with arm outstretched he recited 
 ^'Bingen on the Rhine." I did not understand then as I did in 
 the Civil war days, when I served with men who often in battle 
 days sang of ''Bingen on the Rhine." 
 
 There have been many changes since those days, but time 
 cannot blot out pretty Lamont as it looked to me in my boy- 
 hood. 
 
 At Eastmanville Mr. Eastman came aboard with a party 
 of ladies and gentlemen. The ladies were carrying many things 
 made by the Indian women of the vicinity, beaded belts and 
 beaded money bags; some had traveling bags of smoke-tanned 
 buckskin ornamented with native dyes and woven designs of 
 porcupine quills. The freight taken here consisted of many 
 packs of ax helves shaved out of white hickory. 
 
 The long dining table was crowded at the evening meal. 
 Capt. Collins toasted the bride-to-be who was garbed in the 
 best that several "carpet sacks" afforded. 
 
 At the landing at Bass river Mr. Eastman took charge of 
 the dining cabin and with song and story the Olive Branch 
 rounded Battle point, paddling past great river bottom mead- 
 ows of cattail and wild rice, from which flocks of wild duck 
 came swirling overhead. 
 
 There were many inviting channels and waterways and the 
 pilot needed to be well informed. 
 
 As we neared the Haven the sun in the golden west dis- 
 closed smoking mill stacks, forests of ship masts and drifting 
 
 57 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 sand dunes. Beyond was a great sea of white caps. This was 
 the end of a "perfect day." 
 
 The First River Steamboat 
 
 History informs us that the first steamboat to navigate 
 Grand river was built here and launched at the foot of Lyon- 
 st. It was christened the Mason and was presented by Gov. 
 Stevens T. Mason with a stand of colors. 
 
 History and tradition both figure in the life of this boat. 
 Tradition tells that a sprinkle of whisky instead of champagne 
 wet its bow since the people of 1837 had not acquired a 
 champagne ideal. 
 
 The craft was fitted with the engine from a boat that was 
 wrecked coming around Lake Michigan. This engine was 
 conveyed from the Haven in a pole boat. The Mason's first 
 captain was William Kanouse, a Frenchman, and he had a 
 French crew. The trial trip was made to Grandville and the 
 second one up river to Lyons. Steam whistles had not been 
 invented and Alanson Crampton stood upon the deck in front 
 of the pilot house with a bugle, which was really more appro- 
 priate to the occasion. Can you not imagine how the people 
 w^ho had settled along the river and those who were coming 
 down in canoes and on rafts were startled by the notes? It 
 might have been the coming of the Angel Gabriel so far as they 
 were informed. 
 
 There is no record that the Mason paid dividends in cash, 
 but what it missed in that way it made up in development. 
 
 The first season was freighted with excitement. The 
 spring of 1838 came in with a freshet. The Mason, which had 
 wintered in the eddy of a driftwood jam near the shipyard at 
 the foot of Lyon-st., was carried down stream by the ice and 
 stranded near the present location of the Union station. The 
 water, after playing this joke, subsided, leaving the steamboat 
 among the cedars, willows and cattails. It was an invasion of 
 bullfrog territory and before the boatmen could finance relief 
 work the spring sun brought all the pests native to the swamp. 
 Many of the men who did river work had a holy horror of 
 
 58 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 snakes, also of fever and ague and even the inspiration of 
 whisky and boneset tea failed to liberate the Mason. 
 
 Every day the boat settled deeper into the mud. One tra- 
 dition that along in the fifties became history is that public 
 leaders finally made a "bee". All the men, horses and oxen in 
 the settlement were assembled and a corduroy road made 
 through the swamp growth to the river. Demi John came also 
 and a Frenchman lead the chanty that kept the workers in 
 unison. 
 
 But the Mason again afloat cut all sorts of capers ; was lost 
 once in Beech tree channel, and went astray in Pottawatomie 
 bayou, spent many nights on sand-bars and in 1840 was 
 wrecked at the mouth of Muskegon harbor. With the wreck 
 passed all but the memories of the river, the melodies of the 
 chanty man, the echoes of the bugle from beyond the river 
 bend, the glimpse of the Indian in his canoe seeking shelter from 
 the swells in the mouth of a creek, the greeting of the settler 
 who came to the landing for his mail. If he did not have a 
 shilling to pay the postage the captain trusted to his honesty 
 or accepted four-foot wood for his boilers in exchange. Steam- 
 boat life on the Grand was comparatively safe, even though 
 erratic, but in the final wrecking on open water several lives 
 were lost and as a moral we offer Mr. Drummond's advice: 
 "Now all good steamboat sailor men, 
 
 Take warning by that storm 
 
 And go and marry some nice French girl 
 
 And live on one big farm. 
 
 The wind can blow like hurricane. 
 
 And suppose she blow some more, 
 
 You cannot drown on Lake Michigan 
 
 So long you stay on shore." 
 
 The Old River Fleet 
 
 The first work my father did on coming to the Rapids in 
 1854 was the forging for five canal boats for the Illinois canal. 
 They were launched in a basin at the foot of Lyon-st. and when 
 completed towed to Chicago by way of the Haven. The boats 
 then on Grand river were the Michigan, Empire, Algoma and 
 
 59 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 Humming Bird, below the city and the Porter and Kansas 
 above. The first dam had been built and the boats below the 
 rapids came as far as the shipyard at the foot of Lyon-st. dur- 
 ing the spring months when the water was high. The boats 
 above docked at the head of the rapids about where the Grand 
 Trunk bridge now spans the river and ran upstream as far as 
 Ionia. 
 
 These boats were mostly side wheelers, flat bottomed and of 
 light draft and they burned mill slabs or four-foot cord wood 
 for fuel. They had accommodations for about fifty passengers 
 and carried a cargo of package freight. The Humming Bird 
 was a regular freight carrier built on two scows decked over 
 with the paddle wheel between. 
 
 There is a tradition that the engineer of this boat made a 
 practice of hanging his hat on the safety valve and one day 
 in a burst of speed it blew up just before it reached the city. 
 On board was a cargo of Illinois Red Eye and Cyclone Buster 
 from Missouri. Some of this stuff blazed when it came in con- 
 tact with the river water and the next run of mullet, the story 
 ran, had red noses. The fishermen claimed it was due to the 
 spread of the Humming Bird's cargo; others said it was a fish 
 story circulated by John B. Goff, a temperance advocate who 
 was stirring up the people about that time. 
 
 Later came the Pontiac, Nawbeck, the Forest Queen and 
 that floating palace, the steamer Olive Branch — a regular 
 Mississippi stern wheeler; staterooms with lace curtains, cabins 
 and carpets on the top deck and a dining room that looked like 
 a banquet hall. Jim Dailey, the chef, won the gold medal as 
 best cook on the river. The dinners he set up were a drawing 
 card that assured a capacity load nearly every summer day. 
 
 When the railroad was completed the great treat to wife 
 and children w^as a trip via the Olive Branch to the Haven 
 and back by train in the evening — an all-day excursion with 
 good dinner, beautiful river scenery, the charm of the great 
 lake and its wonderful sand dunes. If the weather was right 
 some stayed over for a moonlight ride on the lake and an up- 
 river return next day. 
 
 River steamers multiplied and prospered until Grand 
 
 60 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Rapids looked like a seaport town. One morning Shantytown 
 opened its eyes to find a full rigged sloop snubbed at its dock. 
 It had come up on high water loaded with mill machinery. 
 Shantytown bubbled over with amazement and prosperity. 
 Even the cattails along the outlets lifted high their heads. 
 
 Until the Humming Bird blew up it wintered in the eddy 
 near the shipyard. The rest of the river fleet lined up on the 
 inside channel from the foot of Lyon-st. to Robards island 
 with painters and ship carpenters busy with repairs for the 
 next season. 
 
 A Honeymoon on a Raft 
 
 In 1858, Joe Simoneau, my good friend, came out of Flat 
 river as captain of a lumber raft fleet. Joe was fond of pea 
 soup; otherwise we thought well of him. While getting his 
 fleet in sections over the rapids, which required several days, 
 he met and surrendered to Juliette LaFlambeau, who was 
 pastry cook at the Rathbun House, where her entire time was 
 given to the making of dried apple pies and bread pudding. 
 
 Travel from down east was heavy and after the supper 
 dishes were cleared away the Rathbun guests danced in the 
 dining room. Juliette was a great dancer. Besides she told Joe 
 she made good pea soup. What other good things she could 
 make €ut a small figure. She eloped with the captain and 
 the guests of the hotel were left to the mercy of stewed pump- 
 kin for dessert. 
 
 There being no school, with a boy chum I had been help- 
 ing Joe and his crew of four French raftsmen pick up stray 
 shingle packs that had washed off the rafts while coming 
 through the rapids. Joe engaged us to make the journey to 
 the Haven, where the fleet would be broken up and loaded on 
 schooners for the lakes. We were to take our blankets, shot- 
 guns, fishing tackle and canoe and make ourselves useful 
 along the way. With shingle packs we built a cabin for our- 
 selves at the back end of the fleet. The raftsmen made one for 
 themselves on the front and in the middle a fine one all roofed 
 over with lumber for the captain and his bride. 
 
 We boys admired Joe for his good sense in getting such a 
 prize, for in her pink dress Juliette was as pretty as an apple 
 
 61 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 tree in bloom. But she went about mostly in a red flannel 
 petticoat, for as she explained, she had taken no time to pack 
 her clothes, "and Joe, he would get her trunk and back pay- 
 when he returned." 
 
 The raftsmen did all the dangerous work. We boys shot 
 the game, caught fish and foraged for fruit, milk, butter 
 and eggs, while the bride wrestled with the soup kettles and 
 frying pans. A pack of shaved shingles served for plates and 
 made good kindling. Knives, forks, spoons and drinking cupa 
 were the only things to wash. 
 
 The captain had besides an extra shirt, a fiddle, one of the 
 boys a mouth organ and the other ''bones." Juliette played 
 a jew's-harp when she was not cooking, and sang a mixture of 
 French and English — lacking the proper English she filled in 
 with French. 
 
 Everything went well until a head wind tied us up at the 
 mouth of Bass river. We were as happy as a flock of black- 
 birds in a newly-planted cornfield till we foragers went to 
 a pasture and milked a farmer's cow. There was a bull in the 
 pasture. We gave him a wide leeway for he appeared not to 
 be very friendly and our judgment of him proved correct. 
 Unobserved he followed us back toward the raft, where Juli- 
 ette was dancing about in her red petticoat. All unannounced 
 there came a bellowing from the river bank and as the bull 
 charged, everybody in wild alarm made a dash for life. Juli- 
 ette ran to the far side of the raft and took a header into the 
 stream followed by the bull, but his red flag went out of sight 
 in the water and he clambered over to the opposite bank. 
 Juliette was fished out of the stream and Joe was so mad that 
 he took our shotgun and crossing in a canoe fired three charges 
 of bird shot into the brute's hide. 
 
 A few days later the fleet was snubbed at the Haven. The 
 captain gave a banquet in the railway dining room that 
 was banked up in a sand dune on the north side of the chan- 
 nel. A stiff gale blowing drifted every dish full of sand. 
 The captain and crew returned to the Rapids by steamboat. 
 We boys elected to paddle. We had ammunition and fishing 
 tackle, but no money, and needed none. 
 
 62 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Joe and Juliette made a farm up Flat river way and their 
 cabin on the river bank became famous for its pea soup. 
 
 Early Council Days 
 
 Baxter in his history of Grand Rapids says: "The common 
 council room was erratic in its wanderings." In 1853-55 it 
 was the office of Recorder Bement, in the Taylor building at 
 the foot of Monroe-st. The entrance to the council room was, 
 by the way, a narrow outside stairway running from the 
 sidewalk through the floor of a balcony. On one occasion this 
 balcony became overloaded with people and gave way, carry- 
 ing the stairs with it. 
 
 The council was to meet the following evening and the 
 clerk, Peter R. L. Pierce, was on hand early, as was his habit. 
 Taking in the situation he procured a light ladder and mounted 
 through the window into the council room. When the alder- 
 men arrived Pierce stood peering complacently through his 
 gold bowed spectacles and blandly invited them up, having 
 thoughtfully pulled the ladder in after him. There was a 
 scene of much merriment. The city fathers, seeming to be 
 impressed with the urgency of their duty as never before, were 
 equal to the occasion. They procured another ladder and 
 ascended council-ward, followed by many citizens, so there 
 was an unusually full meeting that night. I am not certain 
 whether Wilder D. Foster or Thomas B. Church was the 
 mayor. I am inclined to think it was Mr. Foster, for Mr. 
 Church was too heavy to climb ladders and enter through 
 the narrow windows of those days. 
 
 Peter R. L. Pierce, the clerk, was the wit of the town and 
 I imagine this session of the council was followed by a sym- 
 posium. At these annex meetings men could talk in the dialect 
 of the street and not be accused of lack of official dignity. 
 
 The aldermen of that time were Dr. Charles Shepard, Mar- 
 tin L. Sweet, Benjamin B. Church, E. H. Turner and Dr. 
 Phil Bowman. Imagine if you can that body of men coming 
 after midnight down a ladder from a window in so crooked a 
 locality. As there were no street lights they probably were 
 not identified by prowlers as they wended their way homeward. 
 
 63 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 Judging from Baxter's history the common council must 
 have moved its meeting place every time the rent became due. 
 The salary of mayor and alderman was one dollar per annum. 
 They were expected to do a lot of work and go to church every 
 Sunday. How a man who had spent an evening in a close room 
 above a saloon where men cast the dregs from beer mugs on a 
 sawdust carpet and smoked Kill-i-kin-ick m clay pipes, could 
 fumigate his Sunday suit was often a subject of debate. Mr. 
 Pierce, so says tradition, suggested the best way was "move 
 out before you move in." This inspired Aid. Bowman to burn 
 a cotton rag at the desk of the clerk — at that date the latest 
 fad in fumigation. The clerk replied that it might be effec- 
 tive in case of smallpox, but he had his doubts when applied 
 to the Corners. 
 
 Judge Bement's office was greatly inconvenienced by the 
 fall of the balcony, for it was this building that prevented 
 Canal-st. going further south and from the balcony he wit- 
 nessed the start of many a disturbance and was enabled to 
 decide the case before the participants had arrived in court. 
 
 Tradition does not tell what caused so large a crowd at 
 court as to overload the balcony and break down the outside 
 stairway, but the greatest loss to tha court was the judge's 
 renowned meerschaum pipe. He offered a reward for its re- 
 turn, but it must have found its way to the river for the In- 
 dians reported later finding of many deceased suckers along 
 the river bank. 
 
 Little Stories of Old Grab Corners 
 
 All the activities of the town, good, bad, and indifferent, 
 centered about Grab Corners in the sixties. There were many 
 fine stores and some very good buildings. There were also 
 two justice courts, half a dozen dives, two chuck-a-luck 
 games, some poker rooms, several basement bars where men 
 drank whisky out of tin cups and where it was the rule to 
 throw a drunk into the alley, leaving it to the police to come 
 along and pound the soles of his boots as a test of life. If 
 he kicked they carted him to the lockup, if he did not they 
 sent for the coroner. 
 
 64 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Shortly after our return from the war, Bob Wilson and I 
 were standing guard at the corners, hating Crawford Bros. 
 store with its red, white and blue checkerboard front. We 
 called it Joe Wheeler's flag because it made us fighting mad. 
 Down Monroe-st. came a farmer driving a yoke of cattle. 
 Perhaps they didn't like the checkerboard either, for they be- 
 came frightened and ran away, dumping the wagon and con- 
 tents upon Mr. Shoemaker, superintendent of the Hydraulic 
 Co., who was in a ditch mending a leaky water pipe. Warren 
 Mills, the heaviest man in the town, was bossing the job 
 and he called the farmer a ''dash fool." The farmer yelled, 
 "Well, maybe I am, but I don't like to be told about it," and 
 he applied his ox gad to the fat man's legs in a way that was 
 scandalous. Mr. Mills was not of a running build and hastily 
 found refuge in the Rathbun House. 
 
 One other summer day a farmer came down Monroe-st. 
 with a large load of hay. At the comers he unhitched in 
 the middle of the road and drove the cattle down to the 
 Pearl-st. river bank for a drink. The street was blocked 
 from three ways. Teams could not pass so they headed into 
 the hay and fed up while their drivers entered nearby places 
 to discuss the State of Maine dry laws, which many feared 
 might come this way. 
 
 That load of hay was "fed-up" about where the crossing 
 officer now whistles his "step lively." If the owner's cuss 
 words when he returned could be repeated they would keep 
 traffic in line for a week. 
 
 Then came the time when the writer was the foreman of 
 No. 3 fire company. An alarm one day brought us to the 
 comers, where we found the fire was in the attic of the build- 
 ing that blocked the way from Canal to Monroe-st. The 
 company being fire fighters, not wreckers, saved part of the 
 building. 
 
 That same afternoon we were called back. This time the 
 second floor was destroyed. A few hours later it blazed up 
 again and it looked as if all we could save would be the cellar. 
 About this stage of the game a prominent city official whis- 
 pered in my ear that the building was past repair. We fire- 
 
 65 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 men took the hint and did not exhibit our former zeal and 
 what did not burn was pulled down. 
 
 After this obstruction was out of the way street lines 
 were untangled, river channels filled up and ancient land- 
 marks disappeared, but the name the corner had acquired 
 through long years did not so easily fade away. 
 
 Grab Corners 
 
 As far back as the traditions of the Indians of the great 
 lakes country can be traced, the Bow-e-ting — the Rapids of 
 the 0-wash-ta-nong — was the land of Manito, the Great Spirit. 
 Its charm also appealed to the white man. 
 
 So far as I know Aaron B. Turner, the "Horace Greeley 
 of the West", was the earliest resident to trace and color on 
 canvas the surroundings and the outline of the first white man's 
 cabin. This painting became well known and met the approv- 
 al of those pioneers who built and lived in the cabin which 
 stood on the bank of the east channel of the river, about where 
 the National City Bank building is located. It is now hang- 
 ing in the Pantlind Hotel, the gift of Mr. Turner's grand- 
 daughter, to mark the progress from the time of the little 
 frame cabin that witnessed the first marriage of white people 
 in our valley. It was twenty years after this Burton-Guild 
 wedding that I came to the Rapids. 
 
 By that time Monroe-st. was a fair country road, slop- 
 ing enough to carry away the surface water. From Water- 
 loo-st. it assumed the line of a crescent with the river bank 
 for back water and Prospect hill for foreground. If the 
 north point of the crescent had extended one hundred feet 
 further travel would have turned into an alley and been 
 swamped in the ponds of Kent. Monroe and Canal-sts. did 
 not meet on friendly terms; in fact, they did not meet at all. 
 Canal, not so well drained as Monroe, came head on to the 
 two-story Taylor building that at long range seemed to block 
 the way, but upon close inspection one found that Pearl-st. 
 gave an opening to the east over Prospect hill, where the Michi- 
 gan Trust building now stands. Beyond was a pond. 
 
 This hill was a ridge of clay and gravel about seventy feet 
 
 66 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 in height that extended north from Monroe nearly to Bron- 
 son-st. (now Crescent) and has all been cut away. One 
 winter morning as late as the seventies I saw some young 
 society ladies sliding down the last of this hill in a wash 
 boiler. This was on the Dr. Shepard property, where the 
 Young & Chaffee store now stands. They were not conscious 
 of a spectator, but I happened to be in the bell tower of the 
 fire department that stood nearby. 
 
 To the west, Pearl-st. ended at the east channel of the 
 river opposite the north end of island No. 1. Along the river 
 bank, stopping in the shipyard, ran an alley on the north and 
 with the steamboat wharfs at the south. In this alley the 
 storekeepers emptied their waste. Dodging off Pearl-st. in the 
 bend was an alley that afterward became the Arcade. 
 
 Not until after the Civil war was the title "Grab" at- 
 tached to the corners. The city had grown about this medley 
 of roads and until the summer of 1865 nobody thought the 
 intersecting streets could be improved. Lieut. Bob Wilson re- 
 turning from three years' service found a congenial job as 
 reporter on the Daily Eagle. He fixed the term "Grab Cor- 
 ners" and all the wit, ridicule and sarcasm of his red head 
 was turned on this concentration point of village activity. 
 
 Raising the Grade of Canal Street 
 
 With the building of Pearl-st. bridge in the late fifties 
 began the raising of the grade of Canal-st., which up to that 
 time was often under water in the early spring when the 
 winter snow melted and the ice broke up in the river; some- 
 times in the freshet from June rains or even when there came 
 a January thaw. Several springs Canal-st. was left strewn 
 with stranded logs. 
 
 The street as far north as Bridge was built up with a 
 fair class of buildings, but not until 1873 was the grade, 
 which put the street above high water mark, completed. In 
 the spring of that year the old blocks and stores on Grab 
 Corners which had obstructed the straightening of lower 
 Monroe had been removed, the first to be razed being the 
 Commercial block which had been the center of trade in that 
 
 67 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 street for thirty years. Then in May followed the Checkered 
 store, the Tanner-Taylor building which had stood broadside 
 as a barrier to traffic. 
 
 Shortly after this a night fire burned several buildings on 
 either street and left the Lovett block, corner of Pearl and 
 Canal, standing alone. At this fire I had a peculiar expe- 
 rience. We worked for hours and several times I entered a bed- 
 room on the fourth floor of a building on the Canal-st. side — 
 which remained untouched by flames, though all about was 
 ruined. It was daylight before the firemen left and in the 
 final inspection I was impelled to this room again. Everything 
 was drenched with water and plaster covered the bed and 
 floor, but in the bed sat a wild-eyed child just wakened from 
 sleep. She had been completely under the bed clothes on my 
 previous trips. I lost no time in depositing her on the hotel 
 desk across the street. Before the morning was over this 
 building collapsed. 
 
 Sweet's hotel, a four-story brick structure erected in 1868, 
 was the best building on the street and in 1874 was raised 
 four feet. Hundreds of jack screws were put under it and at 
 the signal of a whistle were given a turn. Business weint on 
 inside without the loss of a guest or dish and the work of lift- 
 ing took but four days. 
 
 It was a busy time when a trainload of jack screws ar- 
 rived from Chicago, where they had been raising buildings, 
 and all the stores along Canal-st. were lifted from the mud 
 to the new grade. There were still a couple of livery stables 
 and some blacksmith shops on the west side of the street and 
 several vacant lots deep enough to retain ponds of stagnant 
 water. Mosquitoes and ague were in evidence and smudges, 
 quinine and whisky much in demand. But one or two stiff 
 fires about that time, while disastrous, cleared away much 
 that was not desirable. 
 
 Ministers used this "great uplifting" as a theme for ser- 
 mons, illustrating the power of men who by all working to- 
 gether accomplished such great tasks. On the other hand 
 many of the stories discovered about that time and still in 
 
 68 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 circulation are as extremely muddy as the clay and marl of 
 the river banks from which they sprang. 
 
 Thus the years changed the topography of the city. Pros- 
 pect hill, with other wooded knolls, was carted into the lower 
 ground. The west part of Sweet's hotel was built over the 
 east channel of the river and the islands became a part of the 
 main land. The shipyard and its forge disappeared, along 
 with the ponds which were the delight of small boys both 
 summer and winter. Springs that came out of the hills were 
 turned into the sewers and brooks of clear water no longer 
 found their way to the river. 
 
 Canal Street Jottings 
 
 Before Canal-st. was brought up to its present grade it 
 was bordered by a variety of structures ranging from a single 
 story gin mill to a four-storied brick block. 
 
 The roadway, sidewalks and buildings were all in har- 
 mony and nothing seemed out of place to the citizen who 
 daily passed that way. 
 
 About where the big Heyman store is now, there was a 
 large two-story livery and feed barn owned by Isaiah Peake. 
 The west end of the barn rested on the canal bank and all 
 the rest was on posts over a deep gully that ran between the 
 canal bank and the street for some distance either way. 
 
 Capt. Baker Borden built this barn, using walnut, hewed 
 from the tree, for all framework and had it not been for 
 fires, the building would have lasted a hundred years. Hay 
 was unloaded from farmers' wagons standing on the walk and 
 pitched through the second floor doors to the lofts above. While 
 unloading was going on the passersby walked in the street. 
 
 Theadjoining lots had no buildings for several years and 
 a side rail along the plank walk kept people from falling 
 into the ravine, which made a convenient place for the barn 
 sweepings which, had it not been for the spring freshets, 
 would in time have brought the place up to street level. It 
 also seemed for some years that there was no other place 
 handy for castaway hoop skirts. 
 
 There were also in this low ground, stray logs and stumps 
 
 69 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 which refused to burn when the ground was cleared. Con- 
 ditions generally caused people to boycott the west side of the 
 street. 
 
 Isaiah Peake, the proprietor of this stable, was assistant 
 chief of the fire department. He was also constable and had 
 many a rough-and-tumble fight with the fellows who insisted 
 on sleeping on the hay in his loft. 
 
 In the spring of 71 a fire started in Wilkins Brothers mill 
 and extended to C. C. Comstock's mill on the bank of the 
 river, jumped the canal and before it was stopped destroyed 
 more than a quarter-million dollars' worth of property. 
 
 This fire occurred in the daytime, all the people of the 
 city witnessing the spectacle and watching the firemen make 
 their desperate fight to prevent the fire crossing Canal-st. and 
 sweeping the entire north part of the city. When firemen be- 
 came exhausted volunteers took their places. 
 
 Assistant Chief Peake had more than a fireman's interest, 
 for all the savings of his lifetime were going. With a single 
 line of hose from the steamer Caswell he faced the fire at 
 the Canal-st. front of his stable. As Company No. 3 was 
 rushed from another position the men saw the assistant chief 
 who had lost his footing, with the hose pipe hugged close in 
 his arms, gamely holding to the wriggling line, which finally 
 carried him off the high walk into the basement. Citizens 
 pulled the line back to the canal bank with the assistant 
 chief still hanging on. He was rinsed off and after several 
 helpings to "refreshments" reported back on duty. 
 
 The great ramshackle barn burned for two days. Th© 
 heavy walnut sills with lo-ads of smoking hay and straw fell 
 into the bog and smudged mosquitoes for a week. 
 
 To many people this fire was a loss hard to retrieve but 
 not so with Isaiah Peake. He resigned from the fire depart- 
 ment, but retained the ofiice of constable and became recep- 
 tion committee at the popular farmers' hotel across the street, 
 where the country men arrived every morning with loads of 
 produce and were treated to a drink by way of a start and 
 Isaiah collected fifty cents each at night for giving them safe 
 conduct to the lockup. 
 
 70 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 The west side of Canal-st., filled in and rebuilt, was much 
 better for the fire. 
 
 Echoes of Old Dinner Bells 
 
 You may wonder how I recall so well some of the things 
 pertaining to the old hotels. When I came to Grand Rapids, 
 an eight-year-old boy, with imlimited demands for food, I lived 
 for three years nearly opposite the Rathbun House and still 
 retain a memory of the appetizing odors that drifted from the 
 kitchen. The Eagle hotel was also near, but the smells less 
 alluring. We had pork, cabbage and corned beef at home. 
 
 Our plajT-ground was not beyond the sound of the dinner 
 bell of the National. In fact, the meal-time of the neighborhood 
 was regulated somefwhat by the hotel bells and when George 
 of the Rathbun sounded the alarm it broke up our ball 
 game and called in the kites. 
 
 George was a colored man about thirty years old. He must 
 have drifted in on the '^underground," as there were few of 
 his race here at the time. He rather outdid the bell ringer at 
 the National and one time when a concert troupe was strand- 
 ed in the town the musical director secured a long, round bar 
 of steel from Foster's and at father's forge constructed a very 
 clever and musical triangle. This he suspended under the 
 wide veranda of the National hotel from a piano wire. 
 
 Thus the National was able to send forth a call more in 
 keeping with its delicious chicken pie. Moreover the breakfast 
 call did not awaken all the babies in the neighborhood. But 
 Capt. Shoemaker of the Rathbun was a progressive spirit and 
 startled all the street by supplying George with a gong half 
 as large as a washtub. There was no veranda at the Rathbun 
 House, but George was equal to the occasion: a few bangs 
 at the gong, then "roas' beef for dinner" — bang! ''Taters and 
 gravy," bang — bang! Then a few juba steps to several slight 
 taps before the dessert was announced. But the great event 
 was chicken dinner. Then the small boys took to the gutter 
 and George gave a near minstrel show. 
 
 The National acquired one summer a colored cook who 
 came by the underground route from Tennessee with his 
 
 71 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 weather eye out for Canada. It was rumored the United 
 States marshal was watching to take him back to Dixie. 
 The boys were much in sympathy with the runaway — 'they 
 liked his biscuit — and while waiting for the government offi- 
 cial they practiced throwing stones at a mark. 
 
 Steel's Landing (Lamont) on the river was a station on the 
 underground. One day a man with a soft hat and long whis- 
 kers took passage at the Haven for the Rapids. At Steel's 
 Landing several farmers came aboard and when near Blendon 
 Hills the stranger fell overboard. Swimming seemed to be 
 good and Bob Medler, the pilot, did not slow up. Walking 
 was not obstructed on the underground that night and the 
 National lost its cook. 
 
 Capt. Shoemaker and his wife of the Rathbun House were 
 among the very popular hotel people of a day when it meant 
 something to be landlord and landlady, when the guests of 
 a hotel were treated .Uke guests of a home. Of course they 
 did not become millionaires, but in their day people did not 
 live entirely for the accumulation of nervous breakdowns. 
 
 Canton Smith, landlord of the Natio-nal, used to tell the 
 story of a man who was worth $4,000. He was so blooming 
 rich that he ordered chicken pie for dinner every day. Din- 
 ners cost fifty cents, no tips. Once a down east boob left a 
 half-dollar at the side of his plate and the waitress slapped 
 his face. 
 
 In 1866 T. Hawley Lyon, at the time landlord of the Rath- 
 bun, entertained the survivors of the 21st Infantry. It was 
 our first reunion and it is doubtful if ever a banquet table in 
 the city was so perfect in its flowers and food. That night 
 many of us made our first acquaintance with celery. We 
 really had to be introduced to the stranger, standing leaves 
 and all in a tall vase. With comrades from all parts of west- 
 ern Michigan, music, dances and speeches, the affair did not 
 close until sunup. 
 
 The 3rd Michigan Infantry boys were also served a won- 
 derful banquet and how grateful the people were to Hawley 
 Lyon and his charming lady, who were made honorary mem- 
 bers of both organizations. 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 The National Hotel, the Site of the Morton House 
 
 Both tradition and history tell of a hotel built on this site 
 in the year 1835, the Hinsdill House, a two-story frame 
 building with a ballroom on the second floor. Four years later 
 this was bought by Canton Smith, who renamed it the Na- 
 tional and conducted it until it burned in 1855. 
 
 It was replaced by a four-story frame building painted 
 white, with green blinds, which in turn burned in 1872. It 
 was the ''uptown" hotel for many years. By this remark I 
 do not mean to cast shadows upon the other hotels of that 
 time, they had a rating as do the hotels of today, but nearly 
 all of the overland travel until 1858 came in over the Kala- 
 mazoo plank road by stage. Turning the comer of Division 
 and Monroe streets the National was the first hotel. 
 
 And just a word about those Concord stages which had a 
 nation-wide fame. The few remaining ones are traveling about 
 the country today as curiosities with the circuses and wild 
 west shows. There were relay points along the route where 
 change of horses was made. Four and often six horses were 
 used and were selected for their traveling qualities. The 
 crack of the whip, the blast of the long tin horn, the high- 
 headed horses plastered with foam and mud were enough to 
 stir the blood of any boy. 
 
 Although the ride was through forests and along the shore 
 line of lakes, and dinner stations served roast wild duck and 
 squirrel pot pie, the passengers after a fifty-mile ride in a jolt- 
 ing, swaying, cramped-up coop, were glad to clamber down 
 from the top or out of the crowded seats and find rest in the 
 hotel. It was such a home-like place and the hand that the 
 landlord extended was so cordial that few of the travelers 
 sought any other place. 
 
 The wide verandas with their chairs on summer days, the 
 great fireplace with its blazing logs in winter were the best 
 welcome the city could give. Men gathered about the fire 
 and smoked their pipes and the ladies came and listened to 
 stories or to discuss the events of the time. The firelighted 
 circle was the picture of contentment. 
 
 One winter night when the wind whipped the snow and 
 
 73 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 sleet into every hangout place for boys, Ned Buntline, writer 
 of story books for boys, was a guest at the hotel. Tlie porter 
 went out to the shops and streets and gathered in all the boys 
 and standing in the firelight with the youngsters sitting all 
 about the floor, Buntline told stories of the sea and of ad- 
 venture in strange lands with strange people. I was one of 
 the happy boys. 
 
 But the finest thing about the old hotel was its landlady of 
 blessed memory, who in all the years that her husband, Can- 
 ton Smith, was the manager, was his helpmate — a woman 
 then in the best years of life with a mother's heart and good 
 sense. ''Blessed Mother Smith," she was called. Many a man 
 and woman found with her a safe harbor until they were on 
 their feet again. The fireplace in the lobby was matched by 
 the warmth of the stove in the kitchen on which a kettle of 
 soup ever simmered and from which many a bum was fed and 
 sent away to the hay in the stables. 
 
 There were no city hospitals or refuge homes — only the 
 county house to shelter unfortunate girls from the storm — and 
 many a friendless woman was helped up the back stairs to 
 the servants' quarters and a bed. The only register of these 
 kind deeds is kept in the hearts and memories of those who 
 knew "Blessed Mother Smith." 
 
 In the city of New Orleans about that time there was 
 another Mother Smith and when she left for heaven the people 
 erected in her memory a monument of great beauty, one of 
 the glories of that city. Our Mother Smith lives on in the 
 heart of many a white-haired man of this town who as a bare- 
 foot boy played about the verandas of the old National hotel. 
 
 The Burning of the National Hotel 
 
 The period between 1870 and 1880 was one of many disas- 
 trous fires. There were but three companies of firemen, very 
 poorly equipped with fire fighting apparatus. The horses and 
 their drivers were paid by contract, but most of the men were 
 part pay volunteers, the best lot of men to be found in the city. 
 
 The west side company. No. 3, consisted of young business 
 men endeavoring to maintain the standing of that company 
 
 74 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 won by years of faithful service in the interests of the com- 
 munity. Its standing as a social organization was of high 
 grade. Pride and rivalry between the three companies kept 
 these men in service. 
 
 While the city was making rapid growth in all lines and 
 fire risks becoming greater every day the firemen were held 
 down to old methods. The papers of that period were printing 
 columns about the brave deeds of firemen in risking life and 
 health, but it seemed to the heroes engaged that the common 
 council was sleeping over a volcano that would some day rival 
 the kick of Mrs. O'Leary's Chicago cow. 
 
 The supply of water as well as hose was limited. Alarms 
 were slow in coming in. There were no reserves and if two 
 alarms came in about the same time, the second fire must burn 
 itself out. 
 
 When the alarm came in from the National hotel on Sept. 
 20, 1872, No. 1 company set their engine at a cistern at the 
 corner of Division and Monroe. No. 3 found water at the 
 corner of Ottawa and Monroe, supplied from the Hydraulic 
 pipes. 
 
 The writer was foreman of No. 3 company and when we 
 arrived the hotel was a furnace. Chief William A. Hyde di- 
 rected our line to a narrow alley between the hotel and a 
 brick building on the west, the hope and plan being to con- 
 fine the fire to the hotel building. We did not know that this 
 narrow v^^alk had no outlet until we had gained the dead end 
 at the north, a two-story wooden annex. With a four-storied 
 furnace on one side and a brick wall on the other side, the walls 
 and roof of the hotel fell and No. 3 was trapped. They had 
 a stream of water from a line of hose that could last but a 
 few minutes. The pipeman, William R. Utley, turned the 
 stream on his comrades, who were trying to break through the 
 lath and plaster of the annex walls, though its roof was al- 
 ready ablaze. 
 
 There was no panic. George Whitworth, the only man 
 who knew a prayer, used the time in wielding an ax. Where 
 he found it he did not know and to this day that ax is a mys- 
 tery. Every drop of the water coming out of the hose was 
 
 75 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 turned on Whitworth while he was chopping the hole through 
 which we crawled, one by one, and escaped to the vacant lot 
 on the north. There we counted noses and grinned smoky 
 grins ; none of us had breath to do more. 
 
 By that time the crowds on Monroe-st. were in a panic. 
 Volunteers had uncoupled the hose and put in a new section 
 and a stream was turned on the fire where we were supposed 
 to be. It had no effect on the mass of fiercely burning pine. 
 The strain was relieved when the company reported at Put- 
 nam's drug store below the hotel, where their burns were 
 coated with linseed oil. 
 
 There were nine west side business men in that party. 
 They were not so much concerned with their roasting as the 
 fact that a line of hose had been lost. It was a bit of dis- 
 grace similar to losing a flag in battle. Moreover they were 
 used to leaving by the front door and the idea of a crawling 
 retreat hurt their sensitive hides fully as much aa the blisters 
 they nursed the following month. 
 
 Among the men beside Utley and Whitworth, were Leonard 
 Bradford, Thomas R. Belknap, William Walsh, Anthony Hy- 
 dorn, Milo Markham and Charles Swain. 
 
 I recollect no passing that was so universally mourned as 
 that of the old National hotel. Its comfort and hospitality, 
 the cheer of its fine old fireplace, were known far and wide. 
 It was never quite possible to replace the old home feeling in 
 the modem structure and the growing town. 
 
 The Public Well 
 
 Some time after the building of the Hinsdill hotel on the 
 corner of Monroe and Ionia streets in 1835, a public well was 
 dug at the intersection of the streets near what is now the 
 Morton House corner. The exact date is not a matter of rec- 
 ord so far as I know. 
 
 Tradition has the well forty feet deep, stoned up with field 
 hardheads. It always afforded an abundant supply of pure 
 cold water. It was protected by a curb and wide standing 
 platform ; the water drawn up by a windlass in oaken buckets. 
 
 It is not claimed that the song, 'The Old Oaken Bucket" 
 
 76 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 had its origin here but the well was so popular during the for- 
 ties and into the fifties that the old residents may well turn 
 to it as they sing the old song at their meetings each year. 
 
 Before digging this well, drinking watter was obtained from 
 a plentiful spring that flowed from the side of the present 
 Fountain-st. hill and angled across lots into a sluice in lonia- 
 st., then open under the veranda of the hotel and into a sluice 
 thait crossed Monroe-st. 
 
 When one studies the formation of the hills, valleys and 
 trails it is easy to believel that the early fathers selected this 
 place as the hub of the wheel about which would center the 
 commercial city, but they did not have the foresight to re- 
 serve a campus, or circle, which could easily have been done. 
 About this location with the first hotel as a start, were built 
 'Stables for the stage horses, wagon repair shops, horseshoeing 
 and blacksmith shops and sheds for the Concord stages. 
 
 The natural grade of the streiets gave good drainage and 
 while the spring furnished an abundance of water it soon be- 
 came an open sewer, so this "town well" became a necessity 
 and it was one of the busiest uptown places until late in the 
 fifties. 
 
 I have no idea who paid for this well and its upkeep, only 
 for many years Mr. Wilder D. Foster furnished free of cost 
 the tin cups that Mr. Weatherly chained to the curb many 
 times each year. Even in those days some people realized that 
 if men could get a drink of cool water there would not be so 
 many of them running into "tippling" groceries and that a 
 public well was a better temperance lecture than "Ten Nights 
 in a Barroom." 
 
 Eventually the Hydraulic company began supplying water 
 to the business part of the city from the Penny springs, located 
 in the rear of where the Logan apartments now stand, on 
 Logan-st., between Madison and South Prospect-avs. 
 
 The company also curbed the spring on Fountain hill and 
 piped the water into buildings and into the cisterns that sup- 
 plied the fire department before the days of hydrants. This 
 spring was not far from the school on the hill. When Charles 
 W. Garfield was a student there he had but to step out of 
 
 77 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 the back door into a forest where the wild flowers, birds and 
 squirrels lived. How often did he get permission to go to the 
 spring for pails of drinking water, and he tells me how he 
 mom-ned when this gift from God was covered over and for- 
 ever hidden from sight. 
 
 I do not recall what happened to the town well. To the 
 best of my recollection it was filled in when the Morton House 
 was built, about 1873 or 1874. But I do know that where I 
 paddled my dusty little feet in a running brook in the fifties, 
 and stood and leisurely drank my fill from the oaken bucket 
 in the sixties, I now stop, look, listen, and then run like a 
 scared rabbit for fear of being hit by things I'd never dreamed 
 of in those days — and I am just sixty years ahead of the traffic 
 officer with his whistle, for I've stood in that very spot and 
 whistled my dog from chasing rabbits and ''chickens" in the 
 grubs down Shantytown way. 
 
 The Fisk Lake Log Tavern 
 
 From the days of the very first settlers of Grand Rapids 
 there was a forest trail from the east which, as years have 
 passed, has developed into Robinson road. More people travel 
 this road in one hour now than covered the trail in all the 
 first year of its existence. 
 
 The Fisk family were among its very first followers and in 
 1837 John W. Fisk built a log tavern on the site now owned 
 by Ben West. 
 
 The Fisk Lake House, as it was called, was made from the 
 timber growing on the high bluffs which bordered the lake. 
 Across the road, north from the tavern, was built a log stable 
 to shelter the horses of the travelers. 
 
 How welcome the blaze of the great stone fireplace must 
 have been to men and women after long miles of travel on a 
 rough road, skirting swamps, fording streams or winding 
 about the hills through an unbroken forest. 
 
 Can you not imagine this man Fisk as he came from the 
 east and looked upon the gem of a lake that for all the years 
 since has borne his name? Fisk kept this tavern for two years, 
 then engaged in other building enterprises. The two years 
 
 78 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 following James Fosget was the landlord. His ancestors were 
 soldiers from France, under Lafayette, during the Revolu- 
 tionary war. The girl who afterward became his bride was a 
 niece of President Adams and came with her parents from 
 the east; the last part of the journey down Grand river on a 
 raft of logs and lumber. She was then thirteen years old. 
 After her marriage to Mr. Fosget she became the landlady at 
 the tavern and was as fine a type of American womanhood as 
 the valley ever received, and at least one of her capable 
 daughters is living near Grand Rapids at this time. The Fos- 
 gets afterward ran the Grandville hotel and their history will 
 sometime make a story by itself. 
 
 The log tavern was in time replaced with a brick structure 
 and for two years was operated by Jerome Trowbridge, after- 
 ward by Napoleon B. Carpenter. If ever a man was born to 
 entertain people it was ''Boney" and likewise there was no 
 man, woman or child who knew her, that did not love and 
 respect Auntie Carpenter. 
 
 Along in the seventies the Fisk Lake House was a great 
 resort for saddle men and their ladies. Many of the cavalry 
 and mounted soldiers of the Civil war had kept their horses. 
 The ladies of that day rode side saddle and wore long, flowing 
 skirts, tight-fitting waists, military collars and derby or stiff 
 silk hats. They rivaled their escorts in horsemanship and the 
 straight stretches of road witnessed many a merry race ; ditches, 
 stumps, loads of hay and stray cattle were no obstacle to cav- 
 alryman speed. Many a sentimental soul lost his heart 
 along the winding Thornapple river road. 
 
 The popular stunt was to stop and leave orders for din- 
 ner, then gallop to Cascade, follow the river road to Ada and 
 back to the tavern where Pat McCool looked after the horses 
 and Boney Carpenter served chicken and the finest steaks that 
 ever came from a charcoal broiler. 
 
 Frequently the evening ended with dancing in the upstairs 
 ballroom, noted as having one of the finest floors in the city. 
 Mr. Carpenter played the ''bones" and set the pace. So here 
 is just a word of appreciation for the good old landlords and 
 their ladies — ^the Fisks, Fosgets and the Carpenters. 
 
 79 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 Fisk Lake and Pat McCool 
 
 When Boney Carpenter took over the Fisk Lake House it 
 was quite out in the country. He also took over with the 
 tavern Pat McCool, who as a landscape artist, worked with a 
 spade. When not terracing the bluffs he was looking after the 
 stables or working out the road tax. You will recognize by 
 his name that Pat had an inherited dislike for snakes. 
 
 In the swamps between Reeds and Fisk lakes there was 
 always a good crop of marsh hay which was cut for stable bed- 
 ding, cocked up in the field and left to dry until autumn days. 
 
 There was a log crib bridge over the channel between the 
 two lakes and a strip of bog which seemingly had no bottom 
 over which a floating bridge of logs had been built. This bridge 
 often sunk out of sight over night. You can identify this spot 
 now by the fine road bridge bordered on either side by all the 
 old junk and scrap iron in East Grand Rapids. 
 
 One of Pat McCool's jobs was to keep this floating bridge 
 passable. There was little travel between the lakes but it 
 was a public highway and had to be kept open. When Pat 
 'hauled in new logs to replace sunken ones he covered them 
 with marsh hay which made on sunny days a bed for a great 
 variety of crawling things. 
 
 Pat always went out to work with his clay pipe between 
 his teeth and a song buzzing through his nose. One morning 
 he had gained the middle of the floating bridge before a rival 
 buzz warned him that he was an unwelcome guest; a big rat- 
 tler disputed the right of way. Pat made a jump that un- 
 happily landed him in a wad of water snakes. 
 
 People at the hotel said he came up the hill on wings, his 
 warning shouts breaking up a crowd of the best poker players 
 of the day. This is a true snake story vouched for by the 
 landlady of the hotel. 
 
 When the autumn days came men went into the marsh and 
 hauled the hay out on sleds until the loft in the stable was 
 filled. Out of one load crawled a big moccasin. Pat was too 
 good a man to lose, so Mr. Carpenter himself had to pitch all 
 the hay out into the yard, no small task, as he also had a dis- 
 like for reptiles, especially at close quarters. 
 
 80 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 During the years the Carpenter's kept the hotel William 
 Hentig began cutting and storing ice at Reeds lake. He bought 
 from the Belknap Wagon Co. the first real ice wagon made in 
 the town. It was drawn by a fine draft horse fitted up with 
 about a fifty-dollar harness. 
 
 Pat McCool, stuck on that nice white and green wagon, 
 made application to drive, but Mr. Hentig, very positive in 
 language — he was a past master at profanity — refused, and 
 hired a Hollander, a nationality more to his liking. 
 
 Almost the first trip to the city the wagon with its heavy 
 load of ice proved too much for the floating bridge and it 
 began to sink. The Dutch driver saved himself by running 
 to the hotel for help and Pat was the first man to the rescue, 
 but the horse and wagon had disappeared. There was nothing 
 in sight but a lot of bubbles floating on a muddy pool. 
 
 I cannot tell you what became of Pat. The last I heard of 
 him he was sitting on Hentig's doorstep humming a very com- 
 mon melody of the day, *'No Irish Need Apply." It was a 
 dangerous thing to do. 
 
 The Site of Hotel Rowe 
 
 Next to Campau Square the Monroe and Michigan-av. 
 crossing has witnessed more changes than any other district 
 in the city. 
 
 On the river bank in the 50's was David Caswell's wooden- 
 ware factory, Hathaway 's edge tool works, several sawmills 
 and sash, door and blind factories. A short distance south 
 on the canal bank was Squire's grist mill — ^the stone castle — 
 copied after a mill on the Rhine, stone walls, gray and drab. 
 Only an outside overshot wheel was needed to complete the 
 effect. 
 
 This was a factory center with water power. The canal 
 and river were full of floating logs, slabs and edgings which 
 made, except for the cost of hauling, free firewood for all. 
 
 About the comers sprang up a colony of blacksmith shops 
 where everything from horseshoe nails to heavy mill forgings, 
 and from wheelbarrows to farm wagons, sleds, cutters and car- 
 riages were turned out, mainly by hand labor. 
 
 81 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 Germantown might have been a good name for the corners 
 about this time. There were Rasch, Heintzleman, Friebig, 
 Rathman, Osterle, Schaake, Emmer; with Edmonson, an 
 Englishman; Pat Cain, speaking for himself, and Gelock, "just 
 over," by way of variety. The king of them all was Charlie 
 Hathaway, whose father was one of Washington's generals in 
 the War of Independence. 
 
 In the winter evenings the blacksmith shops were open un- 
 til 9 o'clock, their charcoal fires the only lights the times de- 
 manded. The boys and girls sliding down hill always found 
 a cordial welcome in Charlie Heintzleman's shop and the little 
 girls had a special seat and corner on the forge. 
 
 Canal-st., now Monroe-av., north of the bridge, was a pil- 
 ing ground for pail and barrel staves and the east canal bank 
 a line of dry kilns. Boys earned their spending money piling 
 staves after school hours. Battles were frequent and Mr. 
 Heintzleman would leave his tire setting on open fire on 
 Canal-st. and appear with sleeves rolled up, shirt open in 
 front, and threaten to drive the whole gang back to Shanty- 
 town. Many a man had his troubles settled out of court 
 through Charlie Heintzleman's good advice. He was a 
 mighty worthwhile friend to young and old — a stalwart, two- 
 hundred pound one. 
 
 In time the smith shops were crowded out. A single track 
 street car put an end to tire setting and piling lumber in the 
 street. The Rasch shop gave way to the Rasch hotel (later 
 the Clarendon, and then the Charlevoix) which catered to the 
 log runner and mill element. Spike-soled boots made pulp 
 wood of the floors; sawdust and sand answered for rugs and car- 
 pots. 
 
 Then came the time and rule of the saloon in this locality. 
 
 The river man looking for adventure could count from the 
 northwest corner eighteen saloons, most of them with back as 
 well as front door entrances and an upstairs annex. 
 
 Fires destroyed the better part of the mills and factories 
 and things looked rookery-like and dark, even to the tunnel 
 of the old wood-covered bridge. 
 
 But through the years there has been a steady pulling up- 
 
 82 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 grade and now the Hotel Rowe, honoring the memory of a 
 grand old citizen, is a monument as well to the efforts of the 
 pioneers of the district. As a kindly suggestion to its manager, 
 whoever he may be, have the menu printed in English. Indian, 
 French, Irish and German have had their day on the corner, 
 though a horseshoe might be a fitting emblem by way of good 
 luck. 
 
 Shooting Under a Light on the Thornapple 
 
 One autumn day in 1858 I walked with Robert Reed Robin- 
 son, ten years older than myself, to the Rix Robinson home 
 near Ada, to shine the Thornapple for a deer. The country- 
 was being rapidly settled and while the deer were numerous 
 they were wild. There were no game laws and deer were hunt- 
 ed with dogs at any season of the year. 
 
 There were some sportsmen who roamed the forest not so 
 much for the game they could kill as for the freedom and joy 
 of the great out-of-doors. Robert Reed Robinson was one of 
 them and it was the promise of a night when one's blood would 
 tingle 'at the wierd sounds and hair respond to every breath 
 from the dark shadows, that called us to the Thornapple. 
 
 Many present-day hunters in violation of game laws 
 "shine" with an electric plant on their heads. Had they lived 
 in the fifties they would have made, as did the Indian, a box 
 with one open side and a hole in the bottom through which a 
 candle with a grapevine wick coated with deer tallow and bees- 
 wax, was shoved up from the under side as it burned away. 
 This box was set on a staff in the bow of the canoe, just above 
 the head of the man who was to do the shooting, the shaft 
 turning easily to cast the light in any direction. The Indian 
 hunter had many devices which were copied by the white man. 
 In the autumn the outer bark of the wild grapevine tightly 
 wound into balls, the open end lighted and placed in the bow 
 of the canoe away from the air draft, burned for hours without 
 blazing. When the staff light blew out in the wind the grape- 
 vine with a few breaths was in a blaze to relight it — then again 
 placed out of the draft. There was also an incense wafted out 
 of thiis smouldering bark that killed the scent of man, the dan- 
 
 83 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 ger signal to animals. All wild life is charmed by a light. Many 
 times have deer faced the headlight of a locomotive, with its 
 roar and rattle of cars, till tossed aside. So they stand in the 
 water or on the river bank, unless t/hey get the scent of man^ 
 their eyeballs of fire making them an easy mark for the hunter. 
 
 That night was my first under a light. Rix went with us. 
 I was only a passenger. There was not a word spoken — na 
 splash of paddle. Bits of fog lifted from the water and floated 
 away, rabbits raced about on the banks, flocks of ducks went 
 up with a whir almost from under the boat. At one place two 
 men in a skiff with a jack light were spearing bass and pike. 
 When we passed Charlie Holt's clearing his waitchdog awak- 
 ened the woods. Then we landed and waited for the moon to 
 get out of the sky before approaching the big deer lick. It was 
 near midnight when we saw two shining balls of fire and then 
 the outlines of a doe not fifty feet away, then shortly two fawns 
 standing knee-deep in a bunch of cattails. Rix never would 
 shoot a doe and how glad I was. But soon two balls of fire so 
 startled me that I did not see anything else and the crash of 
 Rix's gun nearly sent the canoe over. 
 
 Making a landing a fire was built on the bank and a buck 
 hung upon a pole, skinned and quartered and it was full day- 
 light before we started down the river. While dressing this 
 buck Rix told us an Indian never killed a doe unless compelled 
 by hunger. 
 
 It was my first experience and the memory of it has never 
 passed. Shooting under a light is an unfair sport but many a 
 night in the wild woods of Lake Superior have I "shined" with- 
 out a gun and had no end of pleasure. If the boys of today, 
 who wish to become acquainted with the wild life of the woods, 
 will use a flashlight in the bow of a canoe, with a companion in 
 the rear who knows how to paddle, they will find adventure to 
 furnish pleasant dreams for a lifetime. 
 
 In 1858 game was still abundant about the Grand river 
 valley but people were wasteful of the forest life. Venison 
 was served on hotel tables and dried venison was a specialty 
 at Bentham's restaurant. The buck we killed that night was 
 
 84 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 divided among our friends in the village and Rix added the pelt 
 ito those stretched on the side of his bam. 
 
 Turkey Shooting 
 
 In the fifties there were many sportsmen. Game was 
 plenty and nearly every man had a rifle and shotgun. 
 
 The best rifles in Michigan were made by Solomon Pierce 
 and his sons, George and Charles. Every part was made by 
 hand from the rough material and my father made their forg- 
 ings. I was delivery boy from the forge to the gunshop on the 
 top floor of a building about where the Boston store now 
 stands. Pierce's gim stocks were much more reliable than some 
 of the stocks now sold ; there was more oil in evidence on the 
 finish. 
 
 Every fall brought great fun in the way of turkey shoots 
 and raffles which took place at the homes of the farmers in the 
 vicinity. They were usually an all Saturday affair that fin- 
 ished with a barn dance in the evening. To the farmer's wife 
 belonged the poultry money. 
 
 The shooting was arranged in this manner: at the far end 
 of the back lot a pit was dug and in this pit sat the farmer. On 
 a bank above him was a box, out of which stuck the turkey's 
 head. This was the mark. There were several ranges of dif- 
 ferent distances up to eighty rods with prices ranging from ten 
 to twenty-five cents per shot. A man put down a dollar for 
 the ten shots at thirty rods. Even the little fellow with a 
 dollar had the privilege of ten charges with shotgun at the 
 old lady's chickens. 
 
 When Jim and Tom Sargeant returned from a shooting 
 match at Jenison they brought turkeys for their uncles and 
 aunts and all the poor families in the neighborhood. 
 
 My father was some marksman and my older brother so 
 accurate that he was limited to five shots for his dollar. If 
 our five boys went, it took a one-horse wagon to carry away 
 the spoils. 
 
 When it became too dark to shoot, cold roast turkey, bread 
 and butter, pumpkin pie and cider were served and the fiddler 
 played the hornpipe for the barn dance. 
 
 85 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 Not all the men danced, for some of them belonged to the 
 church and they spent the evening having a chicken raffle or 
 disposing of their surplus shooting trophies. This brought 
 about the only chance for ill feeling, some of them always com- 
 plaining that they did not get a fair shake at the dice. 
 
 When the Civil war came along there was no trouble in 
 filling the companies of Berdan's sharpshooter regiment. Many 
 of them carried into service their turkey guns. 
 
 It is said some of those fellows as a joke, whenever possible 
 ghot an enemy in the leg. This required two others to carry 
 him to the hospital. If the field was open the sharpshooter 
 would get a crack at one of the helpers and that called for more 
 'helpers and there would be a straggling line of Johnnies going 
 to the rear. But in shooting turkeys at any distance it was 
 considered a disgrace to wing a bird; heads or nothing was 
 the rule. 
 
 The business man of today chases with a club, a ball, which 
 from dyspepsia and neglect, has shrunken to the size of a crab- 
 apple. He is followed by a boy with more clubs. In the days 
 of real shooting a man had nerves and eyes and one of Pierce's 
 rifles. He needed no caddie; the bird found the ball. 
 
 I hope this may fall into the hands of Capt. Jesse Clark and 
 inspire him to raise turkeys at the rifle range. With some- 
 thing worth while to shoot at every man in the battalion would 
 get into the game. 
 
 There is nothing equal to the solid satisfaction of having 
 a fat turkey hanging from the gun at "right shoulder shift.'^ 
 
 The Head and Tail of the Sturgeon 
 
 As the whale is the monarch of the ocean, so the sturgeon 
 was monarch ot the river years ago. In the spring of the year 
 it was in the nature of many kinds of fish to come to the ''Bow- 
 e-ting" — the rapids — to spawn. At this season it was not un- 
 usual to capture sturgeon weighing one hundred and fifty 
 pounds and if Aaron Benneway was alive he could tell you of 
 one that weighed two hundred and ten pounds. 
 
 All fishing with nets and spearing was done below the dam. 
 The walks of Bridge-st. bridge were often lined with people 
 
 86 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 looking at the fish and watching the canoe men spearing them 
 in the water below. At night the scene was enlivened by the 
 torches of the fishermen who with pitch-pine jacks, set on short 
 staffs in the bow of their canoes, lighted up the shallow water 
 for many feet about. With a man behind the light and another 
 in the stern of the boat, both with heavy two-tined spears, 
 they poled up near the dam and then floated back with the cur- 
 rent. 
 
 There was one record night when Oscar Blumrich, still with 
 us, and Aaron Benneway, long since fishing in the streams ''be- 
 yond," went out under a jack light and brought in during the 
 night seventy-two of the big fish. 
 
 The sturgeon had a standard commercial value: they 
 sold for twenty-five cents, large or small. Some smart French- 
 men in Shantytown gathered the spawn, pickled it in salt 
 brine and sold it as Russian caviar in eastern cities. 
 
 When properly prepared the fish made tempting food. Farm- 
 ers bought them as a change from salt meats. Often a farmer 
 would take several and pass them out to his neighbors. To 
 dress them they were hung from the limb of a tree and skinned, 
 the offal fed to the hogs and the spawn to the poultry. The 
 meat wanted for immediate use was parboiled, to extract the 
 oil, which was rather offensive, then fried with salt pork — a 
 white, flaky fish, very good indeed. If not wanted at once the 
 fish was hung in the smoke-house over a fire of chips that drew 
 all the oil out and then put in salt for a day before the finish in 
 the smoke-house. 
 
 Today we pay large prices for smoked salt water fish not 
 nearly so good as the sturgeon. Many people utilized the oil 
 of the fish for making soft soap, for in those days it was a poor 
 cellar or woodshed that had no barrel of soft soap. Somebody 
 always had an iron cauldron and over a fire on the river bank 
 the parts undesirable for food were boiled and the oil skimmed 
 off the water. 
 
 This oil also made very good lamp oil and was often burned 
 in the torches used in night parades and even in the lanterns 
 that lighted the streets. In some cases it made the "witch 
 lights" that our mothers used ; a simple contrivance of a saucer 
 
 87 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 half full of oil and a rag wound around a hickory nut with a 
 loose end sticking above the oil. Light this end with a wisp 
 of paper started in the stove, for matches were not plentiful, 
 and you had a light as long as the oil lasted. I remember my 
 mother sewing on trouser buttons and patches by just such a 
 light after she had her five small boys tucked in bed. 
 
 Sometimes men who had no tallow to grease their boots 
 used sturgeon oil and it was the cause of many family jars 
 when the old man came home with cold feet and stuck them in 
 the missus' oven to warm. I knew one man who used it for hair 
 oil, but he was intoxicated at the time. 
 
 In one thing the sturgeon was a source of joy to the boy. 
 In its head was a semi-bone growth that had all the pliable, 
 bouncing properties of rubber. The boy chopped this out with 
 an ax, whittled it round with his knife and had a ball. He 
 wound it up to the desired size with yarn from an old sock. 
 This winding required skill that was gained only by practice. 
 Then as to the finishing touch — if he could lay hands on an 
 old bootleg of split calf or sheepskin in those days, for the out- 
 side cover, mother sewed it on — or if he could spare a quarter 
 of a dollar he went to Moses DeLong, the shoemaker on Bridge- 
 st., and came away with the finest kind of a ball, one that 
 would bound clear over the house. 
 
 Men and boys played all the ball games from ''two old cat" 
 to hotly contested games that were the big event of the Fourth 
 of July celebrations and a boy who could produce a fine ball 
 was as happy as a bob-o-link swinging on a cattail in the 
 swamp. 
 
 But to get down to the tale of our sturgeon. There came 
 from down east a fisherman who had never speared a sturgeon. 
 The Daily Eagle said he was the author of popular stories for 
 boys and his book name was "Ned Buntline." He made friends 
 with Bob Robinson, one of the best canoe men in town, and 
 they started out to do the rapids. Buntline watched the In- 
 dians standing astride the top edges of their canoes and desir- 
 ing all the thrills he tried the same. 
 
 They drew close up to the chute where the water came with 
 a rush over the dam, tumbling about in swirls of foam. Ned 
 
 88 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Buntline had been warned not to strike a fish any place except 
 close to the head, but when he saw a huge sturgeon he got 
 buck fever and struck near the tail. The electric shock that 
 came along that spear pole and the rush of the waves sent him 
 head first into the cold water. But he was a dead game sport ; 
 he climg to the pole and the fish towed him about the channel 
 until Robinson got near enough to catch into his trousers with 
 the gaff hook and pull him to safety. 
 
 A Fish Supper with the Sons of Temperance 
 The Sons of Temperance, an organization for the promotion 
 of moderation in all things, especially whisky, occupied a hall 
 on West Bridge-st. The entertainment committee planned a 
 fish dinner and two of its members, who were experts, volun- 
 teered to catch a supply of black bass. The bass were biting 
 up river at the big bend so there was no risk in making the 
 offer. The volunteer fishermen were Patterson, a well known 
 but little appreciated sportsman and Robinson, a tall, hand- 
 some, black bearded man, a graduate of the university, who 
 always wore a stovepipe hat. 
 
 They borrowed the best canoe on the river and got an early 
 start, casting anchor about four miles above the upper rapids. 
 Landing two-pound bass was exciting sport and Farmer Jen- 
 nings hoeing corn on the bottom lands, heard their shouts of 
 joy and after a time invited them to join him in the shade of a 
 river bank maple where they smoked a pipe in neighborly way. 
 Said Mr. Jennings : 
 
 "The old lady is fond of bass. If you are willing I will 
 take a couple to the house and bring back a jug of sweet cider 
 I have in the barn. It is not good to drink water these hot 
 summer days. I must tell you, I made a lot of cider last fall 
 and forgot to put it in the cellar and it froze up. When I 
 tapped the barrel all I got was a trickling stream like sap 
 from a sugar tree in the spring. I left a cup on the sunny side 
 of the bam to warm up a bit and along came a crow and dipped 
 in his bill. Then he roosted against the door sill and sang 
 like a bluejay. I filled all the jugs I could find and hid them 
 away in the basement of the barn." 
 
 89 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 So the fishermen joined the good old Irish farmer in what 
 he declared to be the dew from which wild bees made their 
 honey. Only the lure of the bass could call them away from 
 that cider jug and when they finally hauled in the anchor the 
 boat had a full cargo aboard. To be sure the silk hat had been 
 knocked into the water a few times by the fish dangling from 
 Patterson's hook, but they made the pond behind the dam in 
 safety. Then Robinson spotted the chute where all the water 
 of a busy river plunged in haste. That chute, the puzzle of 
 raftsmen, had no terror for the man with the paddle and heed- 
 less of warnings from the bow of the boat, he made straight 
 ahead. 
 
 In a twinkling the makings of the Sons of Temperance fish 
 dinner, with rods, paddles, two fishermen and a silk hat were 
 floating down stream in the mad swirls of the rapids. 
 
 Only the canoe and men were salvaged, but the women of 
 those days were resourceful. They caught a salt codfish in the 
 corner store and with peach blow potatoes and their fixin's the 
 dinner was a success after all. 
 
 Winter Sports and Perils 
 
 Before the river bed on the rapids was cleared of its great 
 hard-head boulders and narrowed by the west side canal — for 
 this canal was a part of the river and its present retaining wall 
 is entirely in the river bed — all the water of the river, except 
 the small flow that passed down the east side canal, came over 
 the dam and spread out in swirls and channels between the 
 rocks in a combat for right of way to the foot of the rapids. 
 
 In the winter these great boulders made anchorage for ice 
 formations and the entire river surface resembled islands of 
 ice with narrow glades of clear water between. 
 
 In long spells of cold even the channels would close up and 
 if snow covered the ice the canal gate would be closed and all 
 the water coming over the dam flood the ice below and make 
 it fine for the skaters. 
 
 Of all the winter sports skating was the most popular and 
 there developed many expert men and women skaters. Most 
 of the skates were home made. Factory made skates were just 
 
 90 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 finding their way into the hardware stores and were distinctly 
 American in style ; short as the boot and blunt in taper, which 
 was all right on clear, hard ice. 
 
 When the Hollanders began coming over they brought their 
 skates, long in front and gradual taper. They were an inno- 
 vation and looked odd, as did the people who wore them. 
 
 Our American girls wore long skirts and trim shoes while 
 the Holland girls dressed in short corduroy skirts, heavy wool 
 stockings and stout shoes that supported the ankle. When one 
 of these girls went down, which was not often, she made a dent 
 in the ice, but it was a modest tumble, while the home girl cut 
 capers and blushed. 
 
 One winter day when the ice was all islands with narrow 
 glades of water dividing them, that in the crisp sunlight looked 
 like liquid race courses, the weather was at its best and all the 
 skaters in town were out. It was like a carnival, except that 
 it lacked the music. 
 
 The islands within safe reach were crowded, but there was 
 one large glare place just beyond jumping distance that was 
 tempting the daring. A party of Holland girls came down an 
 open space like a whirlwind and going into the air one by one 
 in their short skirts they cleared the glade and landed safely 
 on this island of temptation. 
 
 This challenge was too much for the American boys and 
 several crossed successfully and were soon linked arm in arm 
 with the rosy cheeked, sensibly dressed Netherland girls. A 
 dark haired American girl saw her beau cutting "pigeon wings" 
 and doing the ''long roll" with a pretty blonde and she tried the 
 jump. When she left the ice her short skate caught in the long 
 skirt and she plunged head first into the water with such force 
 that she came up under the ice on the farther side. 
 
 In about a minute the crowd was frantic; all except a 
 twelve-year-old boy — a ''water rat" — ^they called him, who 
 pushed his way through the crowd and followed the girl under 
 the ice, where she could be plainly seen floating and being 
 carried along by the current. Men yelled and women fainted 
 or fell upon their knees sobbing. 
 
 Those who could see said the boy had caught her hand and 
 
 91 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 with his feet braced on the bottom was struggling for a place 
 in the open. 
 
 It was a Holland girl lying on her face at the channel's 
 edge who caught the boy's hand and pulled them out. Men 
 brought planks and bridged the glade and the unconscious girl 
 was wrapped in blankets and rushed to her home. 
 
 The boy refused to be helped out but waded to the shore 
 side of the glade and climbing up to the roadway he hiked for 
 the blacksmith shop. Here he was stripped and wrapped in a 
 horse blanket while his clothes were drying. He was sitting 
 on the forge by the fire surrounded by an admiring crowd 
 when a big hearted Irish woman came in with a stew-pan of 
 hot soup, saying, "There is nothing like hot soup to drive the 
 cold out of his insides." 
 
 That boy had made his own skates. The blades were ground 
 out of old mill files and he had worked many long evenings at 
 the grindstone. The skates were fastened on his feet with 
 buckskin laces. But Mr. Wilder D. Foster, who had a fine 
 assortment of skates in his store, sent a pair of the best he had 
 as a reward for his bravery. 
 
 In the late seventies there were several winters when the 
 ice was unusually good above the dam, mainly because the 
 drift ice was held back by the logging booms above the city. 
 Hundreds of people gathered for the skating and in the even- 
 ings great driftwood fires were built along the shore. On holi- 
 days Squire's brass band played and added to the pleasure. 
 
 To skate on Reeds lake in those days simply never came 
 to mind. It would have called for a walk of three miles before 
 one could have put on skates and was just altogether "out in 
 the country." 
 
 The Bridge Street Toll Bridge 
 
 The first bridge crossing Grand river at the Rapids was 
 built from funds derived from the sale of a grant of six thou- 
 sand acres of land given by the state. This open bridge lasted 
 about six years. In 1852, a bridge company was organized to 
 build a new lattice work, shingle roofed toll bridge. This is 
 the bridge that came within my memory. 
 
 92 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 The lattice work was built of two by ten sixteen-foot clear 
 stock white pine, pinned together by stringers of the same 
 material at top and bottom. The uprights set at an angle, 
 were pinned together where they crossed at top and bottom 
 with white oak pins two inches in diameter. The roadway 
 was sixteen feet wide and there was a sidewalk of four feet 
 each side for foot travelers. The gable ends were boarded up 
 and painted in large bold black letters, "Warning. Five 
 Dollars Fine for Driving Faster Than a Walk." 
 
 A toll gate keeper's residence was at the west end, where he 
 collected one cent from foot passengers, two cents from saddle 
 men, three cents for one-horse and four cents for two-horse 
 vehicles. 
 
 It was this toll gate penalty that divided the east and west 
 side, much the same as Mason and Dixon line divided the north 
 and south. This did not concern me personally, for I owned a 
 canoe that would float an entire family including the dog, 
 and I charged five cents for the round trip. At both head and 
 foot of the Rapids in low water, teams could ford the stream. 
 
 Van, the milkman, drove through at the lower crossing 
 until east side customers complained of finding minnows in 
 the milk. 
 
 During hoop skirt days on those four-foot walks a lady's 
 escort either dropped behind or dodged through the lattice 
 into the roadway in order to allow another lady to pass. 
 
 Nothing annoyed Mr. Faxon, the toll gate keeper, more 
 than the east side young people who promenaded the bridge on 
 moonlight evenings. Within arm's length of the toll gate they 
 would about face and two cents were lost. 
 
 For about four years the toll gate was the financial problem 
 of the town. It might have continued many years more had 
 not a fire started in Caswell's mill just at the east end and in a 
 gale of wind the flames caught the bridge. Number Three fire 
 company from the west side with their machine dashed 
 through the blazing tunnel, but stragglers following close 
 behind were obliged to jump into the river. 
 
 Peter Schickel and Lewis Martin were two of those who 
 saved their lives by a leap into deep, cold water. The entire 
 
 93 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 under roof of the bridge was a storage of cobwebs and dried 
 sturgeon flies that flashed like gun powder. 
 
 For several months after that fire the east and west side 
 were not on social terms. It happened during high water. 
 Canoes and scows ruled and even faraway Mackinaw sent 
 a fleet of fishing boats, manned by Indians, to help out until a 
 foot bridge, that staggered along in the river bed, was built. 
 
 I earned so much with my canoe at the time that mother's 
 yellow sugar bowl became quite heavy with copper cents and 
 silver shillings. 
 
 The First Garbage Collector 
 
 Everything must have a beginning and to the best of my 
 recollection this is how the collection of garbage began in 
 Grand Rapids. In the early days nearly every family had its 
 own cow, chickens and pigs and they very largely used up the 
 household refuse. Not until the 70's did the city authorities 
 make a determined effort to keep the hogs and cattle out of the 
 streets and when they began zoning the town the disposal of 
 garbage became a problem, greatly magnified because nearly 
 every voter had livestock of some kind and the aldermen were 
 taxed to the limit of their wit trying to please them all. 
 
 The first man to collect garbage had a pig yard on the com- 
 mons at the north end of Front-st. He was equipped with a 
 small two-wheeled cart with a barrel, drawn by a huge Belgian 
 dog. The barrel made a seat for the driver except when it 
 was full — then he walked. 
 
 Nearly every boy on the west side had a dog that watched 
 for the ''swill cart" and when half a dozen of them, large and 
 small, engaged the Belgian there was a riot in the garbage de- 
 partment. This man carried a whip and applied it to the dog 
 in a way that aroused the ire of the men of the Number Three 
 fire company and one day they turned on the man a stream 
 that nearly washed him into the next block. 
 
 For some time this man was followed by a trained pig 
 which ran squealing behind the cart until the marshal ordered 
 his pigship shut up. 
 
 For all this, business prospered until there were three dogs 
 
 94 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 with carts and all the people in the vicinity of the piggery pro- 
 testing. Then one day there appeared also from North Front- 
 st. a venerable old man driving a lone steer hitched between 
 the shafts of a two-wheeled cart and guided by rope lines at- 
 tached to its horns. He came from some foreign land and un- 
 hindered built a shack of sidings and tin can shingles. He went 
 about hatless and often coatless, accompanied by a daughter 
 built on solid lines, whom the boys soon named ''Sloppy Ann." 
 
 His piggery was a finishing touch to the atmospheric misery 
 of the north end. 
 
 Richard Stack, the city marshal, lived at the corner of 
 Leonard and Front-sts. He was supposed to be a peace officer 
 but affairs moved very rapidly for a time, of which no official 
 record was kept. 
 
 A string butcher bought the pigs of both parties and they 
 seem to have vanished over the Alpine hills. Later on in gar- 
 bage history when the piggery was located south of town the 
 early residents, sniffing the evening odors, sensed the ghost of 
 the Belgian dog, Sloppy Ann, and the steer, circling in from 
 the dusk, and every owner of a good watchdog had him out 
 on guard. 
 
 Kent County's Pioneer Jail 
 
 The county jail from 1852 to 1872 was on Court-st., on the 
 west side of the river. I do not remember which was located 
 first, the jail or the street. The jailer's wife's sister, the finest 
 looking girl in the city, was the only one courted there. 
 
 The jail was a large, imposing barn-like building painted 
 Venetian red; the front part a residence for James VanAuken 
 the turnkey, and the cell block a two-story affair in the rear. 
 There were no reception rooms and since there was no sewerage 
 there were no toilets or baths. 
 
 The turnkey often on summer nights led groups with ball 
 and chain attachments to the river where their outer black 
 marks were washed away in the swirls of fresh water. Each 
 cell had a straw tick on a bench, a blanket, and a bucket. 
 
 In the morning the prisoners came out in the yard with 
 
 95 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 their buckets and a scrub broom, to pump water from a well and 
 make their toilets, each man anchored with ball and chain. 
 During the day they cut with buck-saws the supply of four- 
 foot maple wood into stove length for heating and cooking. 
 
 Mr. VanAuken was a tall man with a full black beard, an 
 eye like an eagle and a pair of jaws like a bear trap. If he 
 had worn rings in his ears he would have been my ideal of a 
 Capt. Kidd. I like to recall him a few years later, leading a 
 cavalry charge through a Tennessee cornfield instead of stand- 
 ing guard over this bunch of blear-eyed stragglers. 
 
 Of course once in a while the sheriff brought in a cattle 
 thief from up Gougeburg way and that added a bit of excite- 
 ment, but no matter how high a man's standing he had to 
 clean his own bucket and buck wood until the learned counsel, 
 who would look after his interests in the next chapter of his 
 life, had time to go to court. 
 
 One summer day there was a horse thief among the group. 
 His offence was well toward the top of the list and watching 
 his chance he placed the chain of his hobble on a block of 
 wood and with one blow of the ax was free to run. Jumping 
 the garden fence he was on the road to Canada with Turnkey 
 VanAuken in hot pursuit. 
 
 At that time all the west side of the city south of Bridge-st. 
 was the Fifth ward. Chester A. Morey was the alderman with 
 a salary of one dollar per year. Between pay days he shingled 
 barns to meet expenses. From his high place on a roof he 
 witnessed the race and scrambling down rushed into the road, 
 swinging his arms as though stopping a runaway horse. They 
 met head on ; that's all the alderman remembered. Even when 
 he came to he had spun around so many times he was dizzy. 
 The horse thief made an uninterrupted escape to Canada while 
 the turnkey helped Mr. Morey over to the jail to get the stars 
 out of his head and repair the disastrous results of fulfilling 
 his aldermanic duties. 
 
 The First Sprinkling Wagon 
 
 Thomas Sargeant, one of the early residents, was the own- 
 er and manipulator of the first sprinkling wagon and the mer- 
 
 96 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 chants on Monroe and Canal-sts. paid for his service. Judg- 
 ing mainly by the memories of my early swimming experiences 
 it must have been about 1855 that Mr. Sargeant lived on Wat- 
 erloo-st. — now Market-av. — at the corner of Fulton-st. Near- 
 by was a large sandy bottomed pond of water, where boys had 
 a lot of fun with their toy sailboats and where many learned to 
 swim without the help of bathing suits. 
 
 This pond headed in a brook near Baldwin's brickyard, 
 located at the present corner of Fulton-st. and Lake-dr. This 
 brook ran a wild race between the hills across the Ransom 
 woods, now Dudley E. Waters' property, and down State-st. 
 on its way to the river. 
 
 Before it was lost in the big stream it rested awhile to play 
 with the boys. When all the other early day swimming holes 
 are forgotten there will still linger in the memory of many 
 granddads the happy hours spent in Sargeant's pond. 
 
 Mr. Sargeant had grownup twin boys. They were so near 
 alike that he could hardly tell them apart. He also had a pair 
 of horses that were the pride of the town. 
 
 When the dry summer days came, dust on Monroe and 
 Canal-sts. drifted into the stores to the great damage of the 
 stocks of goods. So about 1857 the merchants induced Mr. 
 Sargeant to sprinkle the streets. He built a watertight square 
 box, with a trap door on the top and a sprinkler spout at the 
 lower back end, and with a valve operated by means of a 
 piece of rope. 
 
 I have watched him many times as he backed down into 
 the river at the foot of Fulton-st. and filled the tank with buck- 
 ets, taking much more time and hard work than to sprinkle it 
 out on the street. Later Butterworth & Lowe put in a force 
 pump which filled the tank and was a great help for Canal-st. 
 sprinkling. 
 
 For many years the street sprinkling remained in the Sar- 
 geant family, their tanks growing from this primitive one 
 to the best modern equipment and their horses the finest in 
 the city. 
 
 In the fifties sprinkling Canal-st. was a tough proposition. 
 When the logs and stumps were put out of the way there was 
 
 97 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 nothing this side of China to which a man could anchor in 
 rainy weather and after a few days in the sun the mud turned 
 to drifting dust. Lumber being plenty the roadway was 
 planked with two lengths of eight-foot clear stock pine, which 
 in a short time was standing on edge or end. The Sargeants 
 through their years of service must have sprinkled on that 
 street everything in the way of pavement from lumber to 
 cobblestone, cedar block, pine block, cement and asphalt. 
 
 The city did not take over the sprinkling job until it had a 
 water system of its own and even then some of the Sargeant 
 family were employed. The first water pressure we had was 
 put in by C. C. Comstock. He had a line of wooden pipes 
 running from a reservoir on the hill to his pail factory on 
 Canal-st. 
 
 The Police Patrol 
 
 In the smoke of boyhood memories I see the village mar- 
 shal doing the scavenger work of our frontier town almost 
 unaided. The city jail was on the west side of the river and 
 Bridge-st. had the only bridge crossing the river. To the mar- 
 shal it was a village of magnificent distances, for his chief 
 source of supply was from Waterloo, Monroe and Canal-sts. 
 
 The men who built the plank walks on these main streets 
 graded them on the high, low, jack plan. Going north on 
 Canal-st. one went up three steps in grade in order to enter 
 the "tippling" grocery of John Davis, then down two steps to 
 reach the level of Dikeman's watch shop. So it was all the 
 way to jail. When the marshal encountered game in Shanty- 
 town that was not shot in the legs he locked arms with the vic- 
 tim and hopped, skipped and jumped to the calaboose. If the 
 victim's legs proved unreliable he was loaded into a wheel- 
 barrow of the garden variety and at the ups and downs of 
 the walk lifted by the heels. 
 
 Later an Irish buggy — or railroad wheelbarrow — came into 
 use and still later the city council bought a two-wheeled hand- 
 cart that could be pushed in the road. As business increased 
 the marshal was permitted to hire any convenient dray at not 
 more than twenty-five cents a trip. The two-wheeled French 
 
 98 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 dray with the hind end dipped low was the popular kind. It 
 was no great sin to get drunk then, but an 'elluffa joke to go 
 to jail on a French dray. 
 
 As civilization and the lumbering days advanced constables 
 were appointed to help the marshal. These guardians of the 
 peace, armed with a club, pounded the soles of an inebriate's 
 boots as a test of life and to determine whether a stomach 
 pump or the coroner should be employed. 
 
 But in the words of Uncle Jasper "the world do move" and 
 we jumped from a "twenty-five-cents-a-trip" dray to a thou- 
 sand-dollar patrol wagon with matchless team of thorough- 
 breds. I can see the street in a fever of excitement as the brass 
 trimmed chariot dashed through, its gong clanging, its bright 
 buttoned driver leaning far out and urging on the best pair 
 of horses that money could buy. For the moment business 
 on the street was suspended, dentists dropped tools into their 
 patients' mouths and ran to the windows, clerks in the stores 
 found their way to the sidewalks to see "Black Maria" with 
 its load of hard cider or ''Milwaukee champagne" deadheaded 
 to the station. Having arrived the passenger was dumped out 
 on the floor and those horses which had saved the town were 
 rubbed until they shone like silk. 
 
 Next morning the cause of all this celebration looked and 
 felt like a battlefield. The judge said "six cents and costs." 
 The clerks figured no overhead. I see in the smoke of memory 
 one fellow who made this triumphant journey so many times 
 that if overhead was counted he would owe the taxpayers 
 enough to build a schoolhouse. 
 
 After some years police headquarters was established on 
 the second floor of a building on the corner of Monroe and 
 Ionia where the Grand Rapids Savings bank now stands. 
 For ten years it was the unwelcome neighbor of the uptown 
 hotel. Grab Corners, as a matter of economy and by all the 
 laws of gravity of a wide open town, would have been a better 
 location. Headquarters was accessible only by way of a nar- 
 row stairway that unfortunates as well as the officials termed 
 the "misery trail." 
 
 James Moran was chief of police with a force of eight men, 
 
 99 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 the bravest lot of scouts to be found in the city. One of them 
 arrested a drunk at the Detroit & Grand Haven depot, then in 
 the north end — "Coldbrook," for short. He fought the officer 
 every step of the way to the station and up misery trail. Said 
 the judge: "Officer Conlon, what is this man charged with?" 
 
 ''Drunk, your honor." 
 
 "But," said the judge, "he is not drunk." 
 
 "Well, your honor, he was drunk when I arrested him two 
 hours ago." 
 
 Chief Moran was formerly a river pilot. During the Civil 
 war he served as pilot on a Mississippi gunboat. He wore a 
 full black beard, was a man of dignified ways and great deter- 
 mination and if he had been properly supported by the city 
 council would have had a ground floor lockup somewhere off the 
 main street and better sanitary conditions for the prisoners. 
 
 Street Lights 
 
 Grand Rapids' people did not vote on daylight saving back 
 in the fifties. They used all the daylight there was and longed 
 for more. In those days, girls were never seen on the street at 
 night without an escort and boys were supposed to be in bed at 
 nine o'clock. It was always nine until ten, but after that hour 
 any boy caught on the street needed a good excuse for being 
 there. 
 
 When it became dark, merchants hung lanterns outside 
 their stores and people who traveled about carried lanterns 
 with them. Prayer meeting night at the old church, on the 
 bank of the river, found almost as many varieties of lanterns 
 outside as there were kinds of people inside. 
 
 It was quite the proper thing for a beau seeing his girl home 
 to use his unemployed arm in carrying a lantern. Lamps filled 
 with sperm oil or any kind of fish oil and tallow candles were 
 used in the homes. I am not sure what the "burning fluid" was 
 made from that came to take the place of the candles and fish 
 oils. Some people said it was imported from Hades. The lamps 
 often exploded, giving employment to doctors and the fire de- 
 partment. 
 
 You will find specimens of the lanterns used at that time 
 
 100 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 in the museum or in the attics of old homes. Not long ago the 
 writer was in the sitting room of one of the popular suburban 
 hotels and over the fireplace there was hanging a nest of an- 
 cient candle molds. A young city woman present said she 
 thought it was a relic unearthed from a nearby Indian mound. 
 I did not explain that it might have been a part of her grand- 
 mother's kitchen outfit, for in pioneer days all the candles 
 were made at home and the lighting problem was a serious 
 one with the mother. 
 
 In Wilder D. Foster's tin-shop candle molds were turned out 
 as rapidly as Ford's Eliza Janes now are. There was no 
 change in style ; it was quantity production that counted. But 
 in lanterns there was a chance for the smith to show his skill. 
 There was one design that, with a candle inside, threw out 
 rays of light to rival an eighteen-carat diamond. It was made 
 of tin with conical top and punched full of holes like a nut- 
 meg grater; the idea was to let out the light without casting 
 shadows. Then an artist invented a square tin frame and put 
 glass windows in it and that was followed by all glass globes. 
 Mr. Foster also sold candle snuffers for clipping off the ends 
 of burned wicks. They were made somewhat like a pair of 
 shears, except on one blade there was a box into which the 
 clippings fell. Once I was spending an evening with Billie 
 Westerhouse; a German boy friend, when his mother could 
 not find the snuffers. The light was so poor that his father 
 gave up trying to read his paper and called, "Well, Billie, 
 come and pull off mine boots and I will go to bed. I have 
 some leetle grabble stones in that boot all day.'^ Billie strad- 
 dled the boot and with the help of the other boot against his 
 hips he pulled off the clumsy footwear — and out fell the 
 snuffers. 
 
 Later came the days when candles were made in factories 
 and sold in the stores and every home had a lighted one in the 
 window at night. 
 
 It was in the fifties that the city first afforded street lights. 
 Cedar posts were set up at street corners with a sperm oil 
 lamp at the top. They were lighted at dark by the official 
 lamplighter who went about with a short ladder. At 11 
 
 101 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 o'clock he made another round to blow them out. The coimcil 
 had to increase his pay he wore out so many trouser seats 
 scratching matches on windy nights. There was a contention 
 about the need of illumination on moonlight nights. 
 
 It was not until 1857 that a gas plant was completed and 
 several stores on Monroe-st. were lighted. Although it was a 
 November night when this was first tried out many people 
 who had never before beheld a gas light went down town and 
 gazed with wonder at the new luxury. Some old timers doubt- 
 ed the wisdom of the change. It was like shining in opposi- 
 tion to Providence and the moon. The city council studied the 
 almanac and in contract for street light cut out moonlight 
 nights and lights after 11 o'clock. The city did not save much, 
 for the old lamplighter had the habit of blowing out the blaze 
 while the gas meter remained on the job. 
 
 Between the fellow who blew out the gas and the coal oil, 
 camphene and burning fluid explosions it seemed for a time 
 that the good old sun and moon and Deacon Pengelly's ser- 
 mons were the only reliable lights along the pioneer's path. 
 
 Near the end of the nineteenth century electric lighting be- 
 came universal — so when you contrast our streets at night 
 with those of your granddads some of you at least will feel 
 glad that you did not live in the good old days. 
 
 Historic Railway Station 
 
 There is one historic building still standing in Grand Rapids 
 which will not be forgotten by old residents but is liable to be 
 overlooked by present-day people and that is the old Detroit, 
 Grand Haven & Milwaukee railroad station in the north end. 
 
 In the year 1858 the first railroad train came rumbling 
 through the hills from the east, the heavy down grade making 
 it possible to reserve steam enough to blow the whistle in long, 
 triumphant shrieks. 
 
 I remember this event so well, for half the pupils of the 
 schools were there to welcome it and the teachers were busy 
 the next day with the ruler on those who brought no written 
 excuse for absence. 
 
 I do not know which came first, the train or the station 
 
 102 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 house, but the depot is still on the job despite the ravages of 
 time and fires. It is about twenty-four by fifty feet and hav- 
 ing had several coats of paint during the last sixty-five years 
 is still in a good state of preservation. 
 
 In building this road the line of least resistance was fol- 
 lowed by the engineers and that is why the depot was located 
 at the extreme north of town. After many years the Grand 
 Trunk railroad built a spur track and its present fine station 
 down town. Probably as a matter of sentiment the old struc- 
 ture has been allowed to stand. It was so dear to the hearts 
 of the traveling public. It seemed all the outgoing passenger 
 trains departed before daylight and those arriving came after 
 sundown and before the days of the street car (1865) the trav- 
 elers rattled over the combination of river-bed stone, gravel 
 and then cobblestone in a yellow omnibus or tramped upper 
 Canal-st., which for many years was the white man's warpath. 
 
 Night trains ran on a regular behind time schedule and the 
 men hovered over the old heater stove and used the floor for 
 a cuspidor while the women curled up disconsolately on the 
 wooden benches. 
 
 In the northwest corner of the waiting room was a lunch 
 counter, where "slush and sinkers" were served. When those 
 good old-time Scotch-Canadian conductors went through the 
 train announcing, ''Grand Rapids, twenty minutes for supper," 
 everyone on the train who was not so fortunate as to have a 
 limch with him made a rush for the counter. The waitress 
 was there providing she had not been driven off by an invad- 
 ing army of cockroaches. If she had survived, the compliments 
 on the food she served usually finished her. 
 
 The only persons who really enjoyed the Coldbrook depot 
 were the Burr Watrous log runners who gathered there from 
 Flat river points, armed with peavies. They speared the sink- 
 ers from the counter with their picks and their boot spikes 
 made the floor a frazzle of pine slivers. The benches and door 
 frames were a mass of hand carving. Soft pine is so attractive 
 to the average jack-knife. 
 
 This lonely place was almost as interesting as a circus 
 when the trainloads of emigrants came in and shouldered their 
 
 103 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 calamities for a two-mile walk to Waterloo-st., where they 
 found wagons in which to continue their journey to the Hol- 
 land colony. 
 
 Through this avenue came many of our statesmen to at- 
 tend the political meetings of the day. They were met and 
 escorted down town by hundreds of mounted men, lines of 
 carriages and bands of music; sometimes by torchlight pro- 
 cessions. James G. Blaine received as great an ovation as 
 any one I now recall. 
 
 When the last soldiers came home in 1865 they were met 
 at the old depot by all the town. There was no order to the 
 reception. The mothers, sisters and sweethearts clung to boy 
 and uniform and laughed and cried by turn all the length of 
 the two-mile trail. Above all the hubbub and joy of that 
 march I can still hear the voice of my little brother demanding 
 that I go and give old John Winters, an English shoemaker, a 
 licking for being disloyal. But I had had all the fighting I 
 wanted. 
 
 Fifty years ago a ten-thousand-dollar depot, with a canary 
 bird or two by way of variety of animal life at the lunch coun- 
 ter, would have put the north end on the map, but the order 
 has been reversed. The homes, factories and business trav- 
 eled out to and far beyond the shoddy little structure dignified 
 for so many years by the name, Detroit, Grand Haven and 
 Milwaukee depot. 
 
 West Bridge Street, 1858 to 1891 
 
 West Bridge-st. from the earliest days was an important 
 highway. In the spring of 1858 unusually high water in the 
 river, backing up through the lowlands, flooded the street from 
 Turner to Stocking. I poled my large canoe for the accom- 
 modation of the public nearly five blocks, fare two cents. 
 There being no competition as much as one dollar was earned 
 some days. At that time there were few buildings on the street. 
 
 Down Stocking-st. came James Rogers, driving his father's 
 oxen hitched to a farm wagon. He objected to the fare and 
 started to drive through. Uncle George Barker, who had a 
 farm on Bridge-st. near the hill and always came to town with 
 
 104 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 a pocketful of apples, because he would rather give them than 
 have the boys coon them, and Uncle Billie Stocking, who 
 owned the farm at the end of Stocking-st. and whom everybody 
 loved, were waiting to ferry over. They advised Jim to chain 
 the cattle to a tree and get into the canoe. 
 
 But Jim used the gad on the oxen and about half way over 
 the water was in the wagon bed, the cattle almost swimming 
 and Jim sitting on one edge of the wagon box with feet raised 
 to the other side. Then one front wheel dropped into a hole 
 and Jim went backward into the flood. He did not come to the 
 surface. The frightened cattle headed for dry land, the canoe 
 turned back and Uncle Billie Stocking pulled Jim aboard. He 
 had bumped his head on a wagon wheel as he fell overboard. 
 
 A few days later Mr. Barker came to dad's shop with a 
 copper cent, which Jim had given him to pay his canoe fare, 
 saying as he had ridden only half way I was not entitled to 
 full fare. Dad said he paid too blank much, but Mr. Barker 
 drilled a hole in the coin and with a long spike nailed it on 
 the bow of the canoe as a mascot. 
 
 Thirty-three years after the flood Bridge-st. was above high 
 water and paved with Hallwood block. The city will never see 
 the like again, a pine block on a sand foundation. It did 
 not last long enough to collect the tax for its cost, but what a 
 glorious time the west side folks did have when this pavement 
 for seven blocks was opened to the public on Aug. 29, 1891. 
 
 At. White may not be guilty, but I'll give him credit for 
 this report of the opening, in a morning paper : 
 
 "West Bridge-st. was a magnificent spectacle last night 
 seen from the hill on East Bridge-st. 
 
 "It looked like a mass of solid light. Jubilant in the pos- 
 session of a pavement at least second to none in this city or 
 any other, the property owners along that thoroughfare had 
 spared neither trouble nor money to make their celebration a 
 glorious one, worthy of their street and its cost. 
 
 "Thousands of Chinese lanterns crossed and recrossed the 
 street in two zigzag lines while thousands more adorned the 
 fronts of the business blocks and were strung along the out- 
 side of the sidewalks. The effect was dazzingly, superb! 
 
 105 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 From the roofs of the buildings which line the street Roman 
 candles were shooting forth their balls of many colored fire 
 and rockets soared among the stars in every direction. Crim- 
 son lights shed their bright refulgence upon the scene and added 
 to the general splendor. In its entirety the scene was one 
 which will long be remembered by those who gazed upon its 
 glories." 
 
 There was a lot more but the procession must not be de- 
 layed. 
 
 A line of bicyclists. 
 
 Detail of Pohce. Lieut. Hurley. 
 
 Malta Castle band. 
 
 Carriages, city officials. 
 
 Polish band. 
 
 Company I state troops, Capt. Ed Bennet; Company B 
 
 state troops, Capt. John Kromer; Company K state troops, 
 
 Capt. Lampert. 
 
 Marshal of the day 
 The Hon. Aid. Doyle. 
 
 Mr. Doyle was mounted on a spirited horse. Over his shoul- 
 der, crossing his breast and about his waist a brilliant red silk 
 sash. A high silk hat and white gauntlet gloves also featured. 
 A sea of young humanity fell in behind the marshal, separating 
 him for a time from the line. 
 
 There were three speakers' stands and upon one of them 
 were Mmes. Lydia Harrington, Elmira Wheeler Dishman, 
 Emily Burton Ketcham, Elizabeth Roberts Watson and Sarah 
 Ann Davis, pioneer white pupils, who attended the first school 
 in the locality. 
 
 They related things of school days and I had the pleasure 
 of telling of canoe days and thinking it all over quite agree 
 with father when he said the copper cent was too blank much. 
 
 Pearl Street Bridge 
 From Baxter's history of Grand Rapids a brief outline of 
 the building of this bridge is taken: "A wood truss with lat- 
 tice work between the roadway and the footwalks on either 
 
 106 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 side with shingled roof — completed in the fall of 1858. This 
 spanned the main channel of the river. The island and east 
 channel were filled in to make a high embankment which 
 brought the bridge and roadway to the grade of Monroe and 
 Pearl-sts. It was a toll bridge until 1873, when the city bought 
 it, and was for those days a fine structure which aided in the 
 development of the west side." 
 
 Recollections of the toll gate at the west end may rob 
 some persons of pleasant memories of the bridge, but not those 
 who as young folks made it a happy trail on moonlight even- 
 ings. 
 
 The writer did not spend much time with the girls, but 
 some other fellows a few years older did. The walks were 
 narrow and when couples met the young men had to drop back 
 or climb through the lattice to the driveway. 
 
 There should have been an ordinance giving ''Shantytown" 
 the south and Kent the north walk. If one had been in force 
 Pat Shields would not have found reason to throw LeGrand 
 Pierce of Kent over the railing into the river channel. Le- 
 Grand's girl was game and she met him as he waded out on the 
 island below. 
 
 In the clearing up of the Mission land on the west side 
 William Hovey reserved a grove of oaks not far from the old 
 bridge and with benches, swings and tables made good picnic 
 grounds. Hovey 's grove was a fine place, but to get there 
 every one had to pay toll. It cost an east side fellow four cents 
 for a round trip with his girl. The gatekeeper was usually 
 an old man, with wornout legs and foot races were common 
 affairs. The girls in their balloon skirts were at a disad- 
 vantage on windy days and they could not jump through the 
 lattice into the driveway, but the stockholders were hunting 
 dividends and the life of the gateman was as bumpy as a cordu- 
 roy road. 
 
 When the boys returned from the south in 1865 the town 
 wanted to show its gratitude so a Fourth of July dinner was 
 planned. The only place in town to set a table of sufficient 
 length was on Pearl-st. bridge. The cobwebs and dust of six 
 years were swept into the river and two long rows of tables 
 
 107 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 placed from end to end of the driveway. They were loaded 
 with all the good things the country and city afforded, roast 
 pig, turkey, duck, chicken, cake, pie, jellies and preserves and, 
 would you believe it, beans, beans, beans, rations enough to 
 feed an army corps. 
 
 But how to get this to Sherman's ^'Bummers," Sheridan's 
 "Jayhawkers" and Grant's "Mudsills" and keep it away from 
 the home guard, had not been planned. Before noon the 
 streets at both ends of the bridge were crowded and nearly 
 every soldier had brought his family or his best girl. The 
 guards found it hard to draw the line. I was a Mormon my- 
 self and came with two sweethearts. 
 
 Sam Mapes from up Rouge river came with his wife and 
 family. Sam had the countersign but it did not pass the moth- 
 er and squad of young recruits. He was, however, equipped 
 with canteen and haversack and being the champion forager 
 of Company B, 21st Michigan, he fed up and came back 
 with rations for five days — some bits of everything on the 
 tables except beans, including a roast pig that had not been 
 carved and a hat full of cookies. I was not so slow myself and 
 with my sweethearts had a dinner, seated on the grass in 
 Hovey's grove. This homecoming was long remembered by 
 the soldiers of the Civil war and by the citizens who planned 
 and conducted it. I always thought those soldier boys paid 
 more attention to the happy, daintily dressed waiters at the 
 tables than they did to the pie that mother made. Fellows 
 of my company surrendered unconditionally. The tables 
 cleared away the couples tried to dance on the rough roadway. 
 They foimd more pleasure talking to the moon that lighted 
 Hovey's grove. 
 
 County Fair 
 
 In the year 1849 the farmers west of the village of Grand 
 Rapids, made an exhibit of their products in an abandoned 
 cornfield near the west end of Bridge-st. bridge. The ground 
 is now occupied by the street railway barns. This affair was 
 a success, and the farmers under the direction of Samuel West- 
 lake of Walker township, formed an association mainly for 
 mutual service among the widely scattered settlers. 
 
 108 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Mr. Westlake, a finely educated man who practiced what 
 he preached, was a power in the valley and under his super- 
 vision, annual fairs followed. 
 
 People from both up and down the river came in boats and 
 those away from the water, with their wagons and in the 
 saddle or on foot. 
 
 Premiums amounting to thirty-one dollars were awarded. 
 They were made up by donations dropped into a box on a 
 table imder the wide spreading branches of the Council Pine. 
 
 Some years later the court-house square, now Fulton-st. 
 park, was used as the fair grounds. The court building made 
 an exhibition hall for art — mostly patchwork quilts and bed- 
 spreads — and agriculture. The live stock was chained to the 
 trees or tied to the fence. 
 
 I well remember this fair. There were boys' footraces, 
 wrestling and jumping matches and ball games in which the 
 captains chose sides, the village against the country boys. 
 
 In 1855, the block on the west side of Division-st., north of 
 Wealthy, which had been farmed and was at the time used for 
 pasture, was taken over for fair grounds. Sheds were built 
 and entrance gates erected. 
 
 Division-st. was well graded and made a fine race track 
 open to the public. Not much better racing has been put up 
 than that which Barney Laraway and Sol Wright conducted 
 every afternoon during the fair. A three-year-old with a bare- 
 foot boy astride a sheep pelt saddle, cheering his colt while 
 switching him far back with his swinging hat, as he came 
 streaking out of the dust, gave one more thrills than all the 
 mile-a-minute races ever staged. Bets ran high and furious, 
 but the races were on the square. There were no put-up jobs 
 and no stop-watches. The colt that arrived first won. 
 
 We did not realize then that men and boys were training to 
 ride a few years later with Custer and Sheridan, and that Mor- 
 gan pure horses were being bred to mount the Second and 
 Third Michigan cavalry. "Rienzi," Sheridan's famous horse 
 of history, was one of six hundred other Morgans raised by 
 country boys in Western Michigan. 
 
 Admittance to the fair grounds was twenty-five cents. 
 
 109 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 Those who were short of the quarter could climb the fence, 
 but could not escape the wizard oil man, the soap peddler, or 
 the prize package man who gave a shoe box full of jewelry 
 for a wildcat dollar. The hot dog man had not yet arrived in 
 the community. 
 
 The furniture exhibit at this fair consisted mainly of rock- 
 ing chairs and cradles, which had ready sale as wedding pres- 
 ents. Deacon Haldane exhibited a two-story four-post bed 
 with a trundle bed beneath to be pulled out at night for the 
 children. This bed was made by hand at the bench. 
 
 George Pullman, later of Pullman car fame, another fine 
 workman, exhibited the Boston rocking chair. There are some 
 of them in the city to this day. Mr. Pullman, like most men 
 of the time, was always hard up but never refused to pay the 
 groceryman in trade from his work bench. 
 
 The great event of the fair, the giving of premiums, came on 
 the third day. About this time Squire Philander Tracey's 
 cow did not come home for milking, and after considerable 
 search he found her in the fair grounds wearing a blue ribbon. 
 
 George Pullman had collected the premium — three dollars. 
 The scrap that followed caused as much excitement as the 
 races. Bets ran about even as to whether the cow jumped the 
 fence or came through the gate. 
 
 In the end, Squire Tracey led his cow home and George 
 Pullman kept the premium. Being flush, everybody called 
 on the cabinet maker for something on account. If there had 
 been a railroad here at the time Pullman might have remained 
 with us, but while working long hours with his back to the wall 
 he may have had a vision of the city across the lake which 
 impelled him onward. 
 
 The success of this Division-st. fair encouraged the pur- 
 chasing of forty acres of ground just south of the city, Hall-st. 
 being the north line in later years. Sheds and buildings were 
 built and these in 1861 became the barracks for the Canton- 
 ment Anderson. The race track was turned into a drill ground 
 for cavalry, infantry and artillery, but was put in order again 
 after the war and used many years, developing into a West 
 Michigan exposition and moved finally to Comstock Park. 
 
 110 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 The Old Arcade 
 
 Perhaps no locality in town has so much in the way of bits 
 of history, comedy and tragedy as the short cut between 
 Pearl and Lyon-sts., known as the Arcade. 
 
 In the early days this was an alley leading from Grab 
 Corners to Kent, but along in the sixties William T. Powers, 
 who owned considerable property nearby, made it a business 
 thoroughfare. Later when Grand Rapids became a typical 
 lumbering town with everything booming, including the river, 
 there were in the county two hundred and forty- six water 
 reservoirs, and eighteen licensed rimi holes in near proximity 
 to the Arcade. 
 
 It seemed that all the awful thirsts of the valley came here 
 to slake. Orators were being imported at considerable ex- 
 pense to counteract this evil when Mr. Powers, with open eyes 
 and in face of protest and ridicule, sent a drill three himdred 
 feet into the earth on his own property in the Arcade and 
 opened up a flowing stream of pure cold water tinged with iron. 
 
 In a short time the well was called ''Iron John". Only Mr. 
 Powers ever knew what it cost, but it flowed day and night for 
 many years and was the greatest temperance reformer in the 
 valley. Hundreds paused there daily — ^the business man, log 
 runner, lumberjack, newsboy, and wandering dog, all shared in 
 the coolness of the Arcade and the blessing of Iron John. A 
 treasured visitor for a season or two was a little one-legged 
 bird. The newspaper offices of the day were all in the vicinity. 
 Hall's book store on the Pearl-st. corner; and Leppig's, where 
 one could get the best coffee in town, on the Lyon-st. corner. 
 
 But the Arcade had its shadows and Tom Traxler, one of 
 the most faithful police on night patrol, could have told you 
 the unhappy side. Many the stray boy that Tom's kind arms 
 carried from sleep in the dark corners, many the old booze 
 fighter he booted toward jail for safe keeping. 
 
 The entrance to Powers theater for stage people and all 
 their baggage, was up a stairway in the Arcade. One sultry 
 night when all the windows were open and noise of the under- 
 world drifted from the basement saloons down the block and 
 
 111 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 blended with the applause and gay music in the theater above, 
 Tom Traxler flashed his light into the foot of a dark stairway 
 and staggered to Iron John, a moment later carrying a poor 
 girl with a baby hugged in her arms. It was too late to save 
 the mother, but kind hearted chorus girls gathering aroimd 
 seemed to understand and they cared for the baby. 
 
 In contrast to this undercurrent there was a great deal of 
 neighboring and friendliness among the various business con- 
 cerns along the block. This can best be told with this true 
 story of a little dog. 
 
 Music was the name of the little beagle hound which used 
 to wander up and down the streets around Grab Corners and 
 in the Arcade along in the seventies. He would watch his 
 chance to get in the door of Fred Loetgert's dry goods store 
 and crawl into the waste-basket in Eliza Hall's millinery de- 
 partment, which was in the back of the store. This basket 
 was beside Julie, deservedly the most popular saleslady there- 
 about for she had a kind word and open hand for every stray 
 thing that drifted by. Music was all right until he got to snor- 
 ing and then he became a nuisance and when Julie got tired of 
 having him around she opened the door and told him to go 
 bother his master at the Eagle office. One day she sent him 
 forth with the following jingle tied to his neck by a piece of 
 blue ribbon: 
 
 I belong to Aaron T., 
 
 But he don't care a cent for me. 
 I wander up and down the street, 
 
 Sniff at every one I meet. 
 
 Through the dust and mud I wade, 
 
 Part the time in the Arcade, 
 Then in Leppig's stop awhile 
 
 To see Leppig's happy smile. 
 
 Then from there across the way 
 
 With Charlie Hall to have a play 
 Back again to Loetgert's shop, 
 
 There I have a happy lot. 
 
 112 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Meat and crackers every day, 
 
 Not a single cent to pay. 
 Julie gives them all to me — 
 
 Happy may she ever be. 
 
 When some day I go to sleep 
 
 In the basket at her feet 
 She'll forget to wake me up, 
 
 Then goodby to this old pup. 
 
 Music went over to the Eagle office with this card attached 
 to his neck and someone took it off and printed it in the even- 
 ing paper under the heading of "Doggerel." So here in mem- 
 ory is just a bit of the shadow and sunshine of the old Arcade, 
 
 Tramps, After the War 
 
 For many years after the Civil war, the country including 
 Western Michigan, was infested with hundreds of wandering 
 men who roamed the continent over, sleeping any place at 
 all and living on back door lunches and on the sympathies of 
 the public, until patience was exhausted and stringent meas- 
 ures were taken to eliminate their kind. 
 
 Many have the impression that tramps were mainly men 
 who had been in army service. This was true of some because 
 for years after the war the totally disabled man received 
 only eight dollars a month pension, and from that sum down to 
 one dollar for lesser disabilities. These men found it difficult 
 to adjust themselves and were often obliged to beg clothing 
 and food. After the soldiers' homes were established there 
 were few soldiers tramping. 
 
 The term "tramp" was not in use previous to the Civil 
 war. It was army slang applied to troops on the march. 
 Straggler was the term used to define a foot-loose man prowl- 
 ing about the country, and a majority of the service men who 
 became tramps were stragglers in the army. Thus right after 
 the war, it was easy enough to get a kitchen door hand-out by 
 answering, "sure I was," to the query, "were you in the army?" 
 People were imposed upon to such an extent that ultimately 
 
 113 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 they refused these appeals and the tramps began placing a 
 chalk mark code on walk or fence to indicate where one might 
 receive hospitality. Householders, if in doubt regarding the 
 wanderers deserving help, stipulated some service in return, 
 such as splitting a bit of wood for the stove, only the ax fre- 
 quently disappeared with the departing guest. 
 
 One dear old friend of mine, not liking to let a tramp in 
 the house, sent him to the wood-shed with a sandwich and to 
 put on a pair of her husband's cast-off shoes. Later she dis- 
 covered one leg of a fine turkey, which had been hanging in 
 store for Thanksgiving, had gone over the hill with the sand- 
 wich. 
 
 Of the men in my regiment I recall but one man who be- 
 came a tramp. His ancestry, not his military life, was re- 
 sponsible. Half his father's law practice was in keeping him 
 out of jail. He had the address of every man in the Twenty- 
 first and called on them all on various pretexts. The last 
 call he made on me was for a quarter to buy whitewash for a 
 chicken coop. Next day I was called to police court to help 
 get a friend out of town. 
 
 One well-educated soldier of my acquaintance never re- 
 covered from the wanderlust. I do not know where he found 
 the girl he married, but they nailed the windows of a good 
 farmhouse and gypsied forty years, traveling all over America. 
 In the Yellowstone park they cooked for the tourists and slept 
 under their wagon, with their dogs snarling in fright at the 
 bears hunting garbage. 
 
 In these stirring days when Horace Greeley urged, ''Go 
 west, young man," thousands followed his advice and without 
 a dollar drifted on over a trail blazed with chalk. To this 
 flotsam was gradually added an army of hoboes, the latter 
 the tin-can artists so much cartooned. They followed the rail- 
 way and when thrown from the bumpers took revenge by 
 wrecking the next train to come through in the night. 
 
 It took many years for the courts to discover that a job 
 behind the bars of a workhouse would rid the country of 
 tramps, also the three S's — soap, swatter and soup — ^rvere an 
 
 114 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 eliminating factor. In some districts where they used the 
 paddle first, the hobo did not wait for the soup. 
 
 In the winter the tramp had a hard time. Many a farm- 
 er's barn was fired by an old pipe, and in the town the saloon 
 was often the only shelter. For several years there was a 
 tramp's lodging house on Canal-st., now lower Monroe, where 
 for five cents a man could have two by six feet on the floor, 
 and for a dime, a blanket on a side wall plank. Often on bliz- 
 zardly nights men were turned away; no room left. To get the 
 shelter of the lockup tourists must commit some sort of crime. 
 So mother's wandering Willie had a hard road to travel. Not 
 till the supply of whisky was limited and a job breaking stone 
 provided, did the army of tramps disband. 
 
 The First Railway Strike 
 
 In March, 1858, there was on West Bridge-st., where the 
 Lake Shore freight house now stands, a rough riverstone 
 building which for some time had been known as the "stone" 
 grocery. 
 
 For some years this tippling grocery gave the last chance to 
 buy wet goods on the way out of town. The brand of the 
 whisky was labeled "Tommyhawk" and was drawn from the 
 barrel into tin cups because the ordinary drinking glass was 
 so easily broken when thrown against the stone wall above 
 the shelves, which often held as much as one hundred dollars 
 worth of groceries, including dozens of clay pipes at a penny 
 each. 
 
 After passing Turner-av., Bridge-st. for three blocks sloped 
 down grade to the level of an ancient river bed, then returned 
 to higher ground. This low land was flooded at every river 
 freshet and before a high sidewalk was built on the south line 
 of the street, boys ferried people across in canoes for a two- 
 cent piece. 
 
 This sidewalk had its perils. One night the best doctor in 
 the town, who also was the alderman of the ward, in respond- 
 ing to a call, landed on his head in the mud. Then the city 
 marshal attached a hand rail to guide men who had a filling 
 of "Tommyhawk," as well as doctors and other night prowlers. 
 
 115 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 In March, 1858, work was started on the grade of the 
 Grand Rapids & Indiana railway just north of the stone gro- 
 cery. The occasion was of great importance to the public and 
 crowds assembled to watch the gang of shovelers. And here 
 a few days later was staged the first strike in Grand Rapids. 
 
 When it had ended it is doubtful if the laborers could re- 
 call what caused it — too much Tommyhawk in the vicinity 
 perhaps. Men lost their heads, or if not lost they were sold 
 for a drink to walking delegates and the riot that followed 
 called out the sheriff, who was a full sized man, but when he 
 read the riot law to the gang they at once attacked him with 
 picks and shovels. 
 
 With his back to the wall of the stone grocery, he fought 
 single handed until a man with a long handled pitchfork be- 
 gan spearing him in the ribs. Then he used his revolver on the 
 leader and when John Burke went down the gang scattered 
 in a hurry. The coroner sat on John Burke and said it served 
 him right. The grocery held a wake that lasted three nights, 
 then business was resimied on the grade. 
 
 For a time timid people living in the west section went back 
 and forth by way of Fourth-st., the next crossing to the north. 
 
 I do not recall what became of the building, but not long 
 ago I saw a man on a Bridge-st. car smoking one of those clay 
 pipes. The stem was worn short, but the odor was unmis- 
 takably that of the stone grocery. 
 
 Anson L. Norton was the name of that sheriff and for a 
 time he was the hero of the town. He was re-elected to office. 
 Then the Civil war called and he organized and became cap- 
 tain of the Michigan company which formed a part of the 
 Lincoln cavalry regiment, Carl Schurz of New York was its 
 first and Gen. A. T. McReynolds of Grand Rapids its second 
 colonel. 
 
 An Old-Time Doctor 
 
 In the fifties there lived on the west side Dr. Blumrich, a 
 German, large, portly and with a heart so big he could not 
 get his coat to button. 
 
 Day or night was never so cold or dark that he failed to 
 
 116 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 respond to the call of the sick. Many were the stories told 
 of his kindness and one comes to my memory as I think of 
 those early days. In a modest home lived an old mother who 
 did dressmaking to keep a bone in the cupboard for the dog, 
 her only companion. When she fell sick with a misery in her 
 back the good doctor came twice a day for a long time. It 
 was a fight for life and they won, but the old woman was much 
 worried over payment for Dr. Blumrich's services. 
 
 Said the doctor: ''You will find my bill in the Bible on the 
 table." So when the doctor was out of sight she crept from bed 
 and in the good book found a ten-dollar bill. 
 
 The old doctor also spoke to Farmer Westlake on the Walk- 
 er road and he left a load of four-foot maple, and to the boys, 
 who made a bee and with their buck-saws and axes cut, split 
 and piled the wood in the shed. 
 
 A neighbor woman who had a houseful of girls, but no boys, 
 sent word that when the boys were through she would give 
 them a feed of biscuit and honey. She did not know a hungry 
 boy's capacity. They finished a tub of wild honey lately tak- 
 en from a bee tree and plate after plate of biscuit. 
 
 In the party was a red-headed boy who seldom washed his 
 neck and never combed his hair. He got an overdose of honey 
 inside and much smeared on the outside. Before the next 
 morning the doctor had been called to administer a dose of 
 castor oil and collect fifty cents. Help for two others cost 
 a dose of boneset tea and a dollar. Bless the doctor! He 
 knew when it was right to take the butter for his bread. 
 
 When the old doctor passed into the country of the ''beau- 
 tiful somewhere" the entire community mourned him. The 
 day of the funeral all business ceased. A German band led 
 the long concourse to Greenwood — then much farther out in 
 the country than it is today. 
 
 The band started from the church with customary dirge, 
 slow and solemn, followed by all the fraternal societies of the 
 town on foot, then a hundred vehicles. Any person who has 
 marched to a dirge knows how difficult it is to keep the step, 
 but away out Bridge and Stocking streets, over ungraded 
 roads deep with ruts and dust and not until inside the ceme- 
 
 117 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 tery did the band miss a note. It was a test of endurance for 
 those who marched and those who played. There was no rec- 
 ord of the time made, for in those days a trip to the cemetery 
 was a solemn, dignified and sorrowful affair. 
 
 On the return the band usually played a quick step, but 
 this time the horn players' lips were so stiff they could not blow 
 a note. It was a day never forgotten by those who took part. 
 
 That was only one of numerous records made by that Ger- 
 man band. The players put their whole soul into the notes 
 without a thought of double pay for overtime. And the good 
 old doctors, father, nurse and counselor to half the country 
 round about, God bless them ! 
 
 Surgery at the Shipyard Forge 
 
 About the year 1854 the east side of Canal-st. north of 
 Lyon was built up with small frame stores as far as Bronson- 
 st. — now Crescent-st. Back of the stores was an alley. All 
 the buildings were set on piles well above the street grade. 
 Where the National Biscuit Co. and other Bond-av. buildings 
 now stand was a pond that was the happy home of the polly- 
 wogs, flies and mosquitoes; also fever and ague. I do not re- 
 member exploring this pond north of Bronson-st., for the boys 
 of that region were hostile to the boys of Shantytown. On the 
 east the pond met the hill. 
 
 In the summer there was usually about three feet of water 
 on a ten-foot foundation of mud. Nobody had time to dig 
 a ditch or this pond might have been drained into the river. 
 Besides it made a good place to throw garbage. 
 
 Near the corner of Lyon and Canal-sts. was a grocery 
 kept by a man and his wife. Often men went there for cracker 
 and cheese lunches which they ate on the sidewalk because it 
 was the more sanitary place. 
 
 One evening the stage brought in a capitalist from the east 
 who had a carpet sack said to contain money that he was soin^j; 
 to invest in town lots and pine lands. He must have inherited 
 or borrowed this money, for he bore all the marks of a man of 
 leisure, including a silk hat and white starched shirt with col- 
 lar and cuffs. He took a look at the town and in his ramblings 
 
 118 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 came into the shipyard forge. While he was there the cracker 
 and cheese merchant and his wife indulged in their daily past- 
 time of family dispute. To the men working in the forge this 
 was such a common and fifty-fifty affair that it attracted no 
 attention, but the capitalist could not see a man beating a 
 woman and listen to her screams without a protest. So he ran 
 across to the store, caught the man by the collar and in an 
 instant they were clinched. 
 
 The moment the woman was free she ran for the cheese 
 knife and watching her chance slashed the man who dared 
 interfere in their domestic affairs. After the first slash in the 
 back the capitalist ran for the alley door with the woman in 
 close pursuit and jumped the fence into the pond. He came 
 out on the far side a plaster of mud. The woman's skirts held 
 her back so she did not get a second slash at him as he ran for 
 the forge, leaving a trail of eastern blood all the way. 
 
 The blacksmith laid him face down on a bench and some- 
 one hurried out for a doctor. The first one to arrive was Dr. 
 DeCamp, who a few years later became famous as an army 
 surgeon in the Civil war. It was his first big job and he had 
 few instruments and no needles in his outfit; so the harness 
 maker came running with a three-sided needle and a black 
 linen thread. 
 
 It was much like stitching a patch on the seat of a man's 
 trousers. Chloroform and microbes had not come into general 
 circulation, but with liberal use of court-plaster and bandages 
 the patient survived, though his groans brought in a shop full 
 of spectators. 
 
 A few days later the capitalist bought a new suit of cloth- 
 ing at Julius Houseman's, paid the doctor and hotel bill and 
 that is all this growing city attained of his wealth, so much 
 needed at that time. He might have been sold a salt well if 
 not for the interruption. 
 
 But trade at the cheese counter was great. All the men in 
 town wanted a look at the woman and the more valiant of the 
 women a glimpse at the knife she used on the peacemaker in 
 the silk hat. 
 
 119 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 The Sons of Malta 
 
 Grand Rapids had an organized Masonic lodge as early 
 as 1844 and three by 1856. The Odd Fellows were well es- 
 tablished by 1858. In 1859 there was organized in the village 
 of Grand Rapids a secret society called the Sons of Malta. 
 
 The order was understood to claim origin in the Isle of 
 Malta, but the resident branch seems to have drifted into 
 somewhat convivial mood and was the source of much jollity 
 and fun. The initiation fee was a keg of beer and when a man 
 became a member he at once busied himself to further increase 
 the membership of the lodge. 
 
 Led one evening by a German brass band imder the leader- 
 ship of Franz Blasle, the Sons of Malta came out on parade dis- 
 guised much like dismounted Ku Klux. A pillow-case over the 
 head and a bed sheet about the body completed the ghostly 
 apparel. Some folk then had no change of sheets and the 
 wives had to wait until their gay husbands came home be- 
 fore they could go to bed. 
 
 The ceremonies of initiation were mostly tricks of deviltry 
 such as only real live wires could invent. Then, as now, men 
 had confidence in their wives, and women, as today, did not 
 forget a good story. The newspapers did not concern them- 
 selves with society columns and intimate news was distributed 
 mainly through the sewing societies, which became an abso- 
 lute necessity. The Malta lodge meetings were held Tuesday 
 nights in a hall on Canal-st. The sewing circles met the next 
 day. The lodge had a tough time trying to keep its affairs 
 away from the public. 
 
 One night a high-headed candidate, thought he was being 
 made too much of a target, and when he had cleaned up the 
 hall it looked as though a cyclone had passed that way. 
 
 The members had so much to explain upon return to their 
 homes that they became discouraged. Nearly every one had 
 to account for black eyes, scalp wounds, barked skins, and torn 
 shirts. 
 
 There were no assets since the initiation fee had been 
 absorbed before the candidate came up for initiation and from 
 
 120 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 that time the Sons of Malta seemed to have vanished like a 
 fog before a gale. 
 
 When Simeon Baldwin Killed the Bear 
 
 In 1854 Simeon Baldwin had a brickyard at the "Forks of 
 the Road," where the aristocratic Lake-dr. and Fulton-st. now 
 meet. That part of the town was then mostly woods, scrub 
 oak and frog ponds. 
 
 One day while Mr. Baldwin was shoveling clay from a 
 pit into a mixer something came between him and the sun. 
 Looking up he met the open mouth grin of a big black bear, 
 who gave a sort of salute, raising on his hind legs and making 
 the high sign with his paws, saying "woof," which translated 
 meant "howdy." He only wanted to be a good neighbor, but 
 Baldwin misunderstood "the bear who walked like a man" and 
 he cast the shovel away and made fast time to his cabin. 
 
 The wild brother of the woods thought no doubt that was 
 the white man's invitation to dinner and ran a close second, 
 saying "woof, woof" at every jump. If it had been a longer 
 distance he would have been in the lead at the cabin door. All 
 the time there was running through the brickmaker's mind the 
 then popular song, "Johnnie, get your gun, get your gun." 
 The gun was hanging near the door, loaded with buckshot for 
 blue racers that abounded in that vicinity and sometimes 
 played tag with the boys when they went to drive the cows 
 home in the evening. The first shot finished the bear and 
 nearly kicked Baldwin into the next lot. 
 
 The following day the bear skin was hanging outside a 
 store on Monroe-st. The meat, dressed, weighed three hundred 
 and twenty-four pounds and found a ready sale. 
 
 Bear meat is not unlike pork and dad brought home a 
 roast, but somehow I could not eat it. I felt sorry for the 
 brother of the woods who in a spirit of friendliness had lost out 
 and became a party to a skin game. 
 
 The bear's fat was made into oil. Mixed with alcohol and 
 scented with bergamot it was quite a popular hair dressing 
 for men of early days. 
 
 I never did take kindly to hair oil, for mother made us wear 
 
 121 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 night caps if we oiled our heads and only girls wore night caps. 
 
 About that time William Haldane used to hang out at the 
 shipyard forge. He came in with a loaf of bread and a bear 
 steak to make his noon lunch. He was one of the men who 
 never had a grouch. As he broiled his meat on an iron rod 
 over the coal fire, he told us his bear story. 
 
 It was in 1837 that he made his first visit to the Rapids, 
 coming from Ohio in a single horse and buggy. Beyond Flat 
 river he met in the road a fine black dog — a very welcome 
 sight as he had driven many miles without seeing a house, and 
 a dog was a sure sign of a settlement. 
 
 So he got out of the buggy to cultivate closer acquaintance. 
 The animal disputed the right of way and when he went after 
 it with a club, clambered up a tree, sat on a limb and grinned 
 at him. Down in Ohio dogs did not climb trees. So Haldane 
 was anxious to own this one and he took one of the driving 
 lines, made noose in the end and climbed up in the tree. He got 
 the noose over the animal's head and lowered him to the buggy, 
 but there he made so much trouble that he finally chucked it 
 into an empty feed bag. This took much time and it was after 
 dark when Mr. Haldane arrived at Mr. Fisk's house at the 
 mouth of the Thornapple river. 
 
 At the stable he found a piece of rope and fastening it 
 about the neck, dragged the animal into the house, where it 
 ran under a bed. 
 
 Mrs. Fisk liked dogs, but objected to sleeping with a bear 
 in the room, so at bedtime she and her husband climbed the 
 ladder into the attic and pulled the ladder up after them. 
 
 Mr. Haldane succeeded in bringing the young bear to the 
 Rapids, where it became the playmate of all the children in 
 the neighborhood. 
 
 The Tale of Three Bears 
 
 In Baxter's history of Grand Rapids he tells of three bears 
 that came to town as late as 1870. 
 
 The people of that time were much the same as those of 
 today. They put the large berries on the top of the box and 
 Mr. Baxter at the time of his writing simply put the large ber- 
 
 122 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 ries at the top, but I will endeavor to fill in below with what 
 happened to the bears after they came to town. 
 
 There was a circus in town on Waterloo (Grandville) street 
 hill. In those days there were no billboards to disfigure the 
 landscape and every farmer's barn for miles around was plas- 
 tered with circus bills. This gayety along with the failure of 
 the blackberry crop, no doubt induced the three bears — a 
 mother and two well grown cubs — to come in by way of Walk- 
 er-av. and Seventh-st. to the river. 
 
 As the water w^as low and to avoid paying toll on the bridge 
 the bears crossed on the dam with all the small boys who had 
 not been able to "git to go" to the circus following at a re- 
 spectful distance. Bears know a lot more than they are given 
 credit for and like other fellows who live in the country these 
 bears stopped to look at the skyscrapers and other wild things 
 along upper Canal-st. There were some things on the street 
 then that were very wild. 
 
 This sightseeing was a trifle indiscreet on the part of the 
 bears, for it gave the people time to arm against the invaders 
 and make their way around by Bridge-st. bridge. There was 
 an ordinance prohibiting shooting in the city, but from all 
 about came men and boys with every conceivable weapon from 
 corn cutters to spades and pitchforks. The bears evidently 
 got the scent of one sauerkraut chopper — and quickly made 
 their way up the hill where they stopped for a few social calls 
 before vanishing in the oak grubs beyond. 
 
 It is recorded that they played tag with a pig or two in the 
 streets and tipped over a beehive while the owner thereof gath- 
 ered her petticoats and climbed a ladder to the wood-shed roof 
 and they left the locality in such a fever of excitement that for 
 several days people locked their doors and slept with carving 
 knives near at hand. 
 
 But this anxiety was needless, for all the time the bears 
 were feeding on sweet apples in Gaylord Holt's orchard on the 
 Thornapple river. Mr. Holt had a variety of sweet apples 
 that was known far and wide to bears and boys. When they 
 combined their appetites the grower got about as many as he 
 could carry in his pockets. 
 
 123 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 The section of the city that was inspected by the bears 
 went through many thrilling events but none its folk liked to 
 talk about more often. For the next ten years people dated 
 their coming to the Rapids by the year the three bears crossed 
 the river on the dam. 
 
 Squire's Opera House and "Uncle Tom" 
 
 Historians date the first bloodshed of the Civil war at Fort 
 Sumter. No one has recorded the trail of gore that followed 
 the ''Uncle Tom's Cabin" theatricals over our northern land. 
 The story of Uncle Tom was like kindling applied beneath a 
 cauldron already steaming hot. 
 
 People ^vho lived in Grand Rapids about 1859 remember 
 Squire's opera house, located on the west side of Canal-st. not 
 far from Bridge, and some may have cause to remember the 
 full week's engagement of an Uncle Tom troupe of actors from 
 way down east. 
 
 They came in by stage and with their arrival came a story 
 that the bloodhounds had captured and eaten a runaway Negro 
 at Kalamazoo. 
 
 My excuse for writing this comes from the fact that I had 
 the job of distributing the handbills on the street and helping 
 on the stage in the evening at fifty cents per day. It was good 
 summer-time work and fine work for a boy — like digging gold 
 and acquiring a liberal education at the same time. 
 
 Uncle Tom, Eliza, Topsy, Simon Legree, and Marks the 
 lawyer, were stars. Topsy, I soon learned, was an alley boy 
 in his home town. His only makeup was a woolly wig, some 
 burnt cork and a gunny-sack dress. Nature had provided him 
 the ''makeup" — a girlish form with the ugliest pair of soup 
 bone shins. With his dancing and "nigger" shines he was 
 enough for a full show. Behind the curtain Legree and Uncle 
 Tom were good friends, but in the parts on the stage friend- 
 ship was forgotten. The audience that packed the house, al- 
 ready disturbed and partisan over the slavery agitations of the 
 day, were carried away with the story. They wept over little 
 Eva, mourned for Uncle Tom and wiped their eyes for poor 
 
 124 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Eliza. They hissed Legree and somebody threw a cat at 
 Lawyer Marks. 
 
 The rear of the opera house opened on an alley that bor- 
 dered the canal. Beyond was the river. In summer all male 
 members of show companies washed up in the canal and when 
 the stage hands with Topsy and Legree, each with a cake of 
 soap and a towel, came out in the light of the lanterns that 
 were hanging at the door, they were welcomed by a gang of 
 Shantytown boys. These informed Legree that Grand Rapids 
 was no place for a nigger driver and they started to put him 
 in the swim for Grand Haven. 
 
 Legree got his back to the wall and if there had been more 
 light than from a single hanging lantern what happened might 
 better not be told. But I noticed that when Legree failed 
 to ring the bell Topsy pulled the wire. Those Shantytown 
 boys had no chance to clinch and the pile driver blows 
 knocked them off the narrow path into the canal, where some 
 of them were glad to wash the stars out of their heads. 
 
 When the battle had ended, Topsy had lost his gunny sack. 
 His white body with a black face was funnier than his make- 
 up on the stage. 
 
 The next evening the curtain rolled up before an overflow 
 audience. From the center of the stage hung a punching bag 
 and Legree came out and in a pleasant way said: 
 
 "It is the duty of an actor to give the best there is in him," 
 and added that the events of the evening before had given 
 him assurance that his part had been well taken. He laid 
 aside his coat and stripped to the waist, gave them an exhibi- 
 tion of a boxing master's skill. Then thanking the young 
 gentlemen who attended the social of the previous evening 
 the ?how proceeded before a somewhat chastened crowd of 
 spectators. 
 
 The First Strawberry Farm 
 
 There is an interesting story regarding the first cultivation 
 of the strawberry in the valley of the Grand, or at least in the 
 first commercial patch of the delicious fruit. 
 
 Once upon a time, way back east, there was a village 
 
 125 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 boy who like all boys had an appetite. During June days he 
 was chased out of every field of meadow land for miles about 
 where strawberries grew wild in the grass. Farmers said he 
 trampled down the hay. So intent was he down on his knees 
 trying to fill his little basket that often the owner of the 
 meadow caught him by the neck of his shirt and sent him over 
 the rail fence into the road. It seemed to him there was no 
 place where he could get a basketful without disaster overtak- 
 ing him in the search. 
 
 But he was encouraged by a neighbor's girl who told him to 
 go west and find a patch he could call his own and she would 
 come and help pick them. So when he was twenty-one he 
 packed all his property in a carpet sack and hiked to the Grand 
 river country. Several miles below the Rapids he found the 
 ideal place where a few acres had been cleared by the Indians 
 and planted for years in corn. He bought out the red man and 
 planted in rows the strawberry plants taken from the fields 
 along the river bank. All about were masses of wild plums, 
 crabapples, thornapples, blackberries, gooseberries and grapes. 
 The white men came that way and said, ^'Stedman, you are a 
 blank fool." But Stedman, an aggressive man with a fist as 
 large as a boxing mitt, told them to go to. 
 
 The wild berry, unlike the wild Indian, grew under culti- 
 vation. The upriver town grew also and boys and girls came 
 down in canoes and picked on shares. 
 
 The grower's half was sold in town, the picker's share made 
 shortcakes. Stedman's girl came from the east and joined 
 him and while the berry patch grew the crop of children forced 
 an addition to the house. 
 
 It was about this time the writer came into the game. He 
 had a large canoe that would carry three girls and their bas- 
 kets and all through the berry season he made daily trips. 
 
 One of the stolen pleasures of those trips was a visit to a 
 swimming hole on the far side of a willow-covered sand bar 
 while the girls toiled on. The idea that girls would like to go 
 where they could get wet all over at once, had never entered 
 the minds of people. 
 
 After many years Mr. Stedman came to my father and 
 
 126 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 said, ''Jim, I've made some money and have a lot of children. 
 I am going across the lake and spread out on a prairie farm 
 where I can raise cattle and sheep. Everybody is raising straw- 
 berries now. They have found out how good they are. I only 
 went into the business anyway to spite those hide-bound hay- 
 seeds back east." So he went away from the river farm where 
 it is said the first cultivated strawberries in the Grand river 
 valley were grown. 
 
 There are folks now who claim the wild berry has a better 
 flavor than the tame one. I wonder were they ever chased out 
 of the meadow by a farmer and his dog? There is an old 
 saying: ''That doubtless, God could have made a better berry, 
 but is doubtful if he ever did." 
 
 The Shingle Maker 
 
 One of the industries of the early days which is now almost 
 forgotten, was the making or shaving of shingles. The shingle 
 weaver, so called from the way he wove and bound the shingles 
 into bundles, was an important factor in the development of 
 Western Michigan. 
 
 The first settlers were wasters of timber and the great 
 pines were ruthlessly cut down for the first cuts of clear stuff. 
 What would not split into shingles was left to decay or burn, 
 being considered too light for good stove wood. 
 
 The great pine was really the despair of the pioneer, for 
 aside from the shingle it was hard to dispose of, it being al- 
 most impossible to burn the stumps. They simply charred 
 over. But in making shingles the settler found means by 
 which to live while clearing the land and raising a crop. 
 
 One of these shingle weavers whom it was my privilege to 
 know was Nicholas Emmons. He came from the east and 
 was one of the first men to settle on the shores of Camp lake, 
 near Sparta. To reach this promised land of the west and 
 make a home for his wife and two sons he walked several 
 hundred miles with a pack upon his back. This may seem a 
 simple matter in this day of good roads and with every con- 
 venience along the way, but I cannot adequately express what 
 it meant at that time. As one man after another passed 
 
 127 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 through the settlements to be swallowed up by the forests one 
 only knew that there was no wild life to ambush him. His 
 powers of endurance were the test. He was not unlike the birds 
 of the air in their flights each season. There was some power 
 that impelled him onward. 
 
 When Emmons arrived at Camp lake there were only a 
 few scattered settlers with their little log cabins and mere 
 patches of cleared land. With a ten-foot pole he surveyed his 
 quarter-section in the great forest and built his cabin of logs, 
 with its stone and mud fireplace, facing on the water. When 
 all was ready he went back east for his wife and boys. How 
 often have I sat before the fire in that little loghouse and 
 feasted on new maple syrup and dear Mother Emmons' biscuit 
 and fritters, for my father and mother lived only a mile from 
 them for four years after the Civil war. 
 
 The Emmons' had been there twenty years at that time but 
 had never gotten through cutting shingles. A bunch of shingles 
 was legal tender, as good as a bank account when starvation 
 was a window peeper and the cold winds of winter whistled 
 through the elbows of a worn-out coat. 
 
 To pull one end of a cross-cut saw with Uncle Nick Em- 
 mons and turn the great pine into shingles, chop, split, rive and 
 shave, then pack until there was load enough for an ox team, 
 then sixteen miles over the forest trail to the Rapids ! 
 
 It took all of a week's time to make a load of shmgles 
 and get to town and back, but it meant provisions, spelling 
 books for boys, wool cloth for a pair of pants, so dad's old ones 
 could be made over for son, and perhaps a bit of something 
 for mother. Shingles covered the cost of the absolute necessi- 
 ties until the land was cleared and crops at hand. We recall 
 the hard times and wildcat money of the town people, but 
 they always found enough to get to the circus. The weaver's 
 dollar was often as large as his cabin. I class these men as 
 the real pioneers of Western Michigan, but their only monu- 
 ments are a few pine stumps, black ghosts of the forests. Their 
 shingles floated away from the Rapids on the lumber rafts 
 and river boats, they traveled to every part of the country by 
 water and rail, they sheltered the rich and the poor, covered 
 
 128 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 the mansion and the cowshed. Personally the ones I remember 
 most clearly were those that in the hands of the school ma'am 
 landed upon my spanker beam. 
 
 The Islands 
 
 Although the Rapids was a good sized town when I came 
 here, the islands were still in the river, and known only by 
 number as one, two, and three. There was a fourth, about 
 which there was a dispute. French people called it Robard's, 
 others Robarge, but it was of little importance. The three 
 formed a beautiful river park that had it been retained in its 
 primitive grandeiu*, could not have been surpassed by any 
 work of man. 
 
 I had a love for islands, because my great adventure before 
 coming to Michigan was when my father put me in the bow of 
 a canoe and paddled to Butternut island in the St. Lawrence 
 river, where we camped out and gathered a load of hazel 
 and butternuts for the coming winter. From that time islands 
 had a grip on me that I made no effort to cast off. 
 
 The number one island began just about the foot of Lyon-st. 
 and number three terminated about where the Wealthy-st. 
 bridge now crosses the river. The three islands were divided 
 by narrow channels and rapid currents. Only small boats 
 could navigate between. 
 
 My first view was in June, 1854, when from the top deck 
 of the river steamer we came up the east channel to land at 
 the Eagle hotel dock. A few days later I was getting ac- 
 quainted with the town and near the Butterworth foundry 
 met Harry Eaton and his gang, who by way of initiation to 
 the west, proceeded to push me off a slab pile into the river 
 to see if I could swim. I could and struck out for the head of 
 Island number one. 
 
 A few Indian wigwams were under the wide branching 
 maple trees which gave protection from sun and rain, and 
 two laughing Indian boys in canoes were trying to capsize each 
 other. A solitary Indian standing like a statue under a tree 
 grunted his disapproval of the boys on the shore and dis- 
 appeared into his tepee. 
 
 129 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 Sitting on a rock in the sun to dry my clothing, I studied 
 the rapids and hundreds of large boulders of granite and lime 
 rock about which the waters rushed. Except for a little cleared 
 land where the Indians had planted corn, the west shore was 
 all a meadow of deep, rich grass and blended tints of wild 
 growth. 
 
 In after years I often thanked Harry Eaton for pushing 
 me off that slab pile, because it gave me my first day under 
 those wonderful water maples. I was somewhat older before 
 I really appreciated the great sycamores at the water's edge, 
 the island plateau of giant water elms, the almost tropical 
 mass of grape vine that festooned the trees, and in every de- 
 pression the wild plum and crabapple that crowded the 
 elder bushes and sumac, and that I came to love the tinkle of 
 bells, on cows that had waded the river to feed on the abun- 
 dant grass, blended with the music of blackbirds and bob-o- 
 links swaying about on the cattails. 
 
 On the east channel, nearly opposite the foot of Pearl-st., 
 stood the great-grandfather of all sycamores, just above the 
 low water mark. When the Indians set up their wigwams 
 there in the spring they suspended swings for the children on 
 the long angling branches, and hung baskets of food far out 
 on the limbs away from the reach of dogs. In the white man's 
 day many boats were locked to staples driven in the body 
 of this tree. 
 
 But even then the three islands were almost without a 
 blemish. Indians never built a fire at the foot of a tree and the 
 high water that flooded the islands each year washed them free 
 of all refuse of their camps. The heavy covering of grass and 
 plants prevented washing of the soil. The prevailing west 
 winds wafted the odors of trees and flowers over the village. 
 
 May not an old man of today be forgiven for a longing 
 that this beautiful playground of his boyhood might have 
 been spared for his great-grandchildren? Only men of deep 
 thinking can tell you how long nature was in creating and 
 clothing these islands, but any school boy with a piece of 
 
 130 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 chalk can figure how long man was in obliterating the last 
 trace of them. 
 
 The Mission Land 
 
 French Jesuit missionaries located headquarters at Mack- 
 inac Island prior to 1662. From there members were sent to 
 all the Indian tribes along Lake Michigan, including Grand 
 river, more than two hundred years ago, but nothing very- 
 definite has been learned from their records. 
 
 By the treaty with the Indians of the Grand river valley 
 in 1821, among other concessions, was one square mile of 
 land for mission purposes. Beside the river well-worn trails 
 led to this location which was staked to rim south and west 
 from the present corner of West Bridge and Front-av. There 
 is little in print that gives personal touch with the men who 
 selected the location, but they were wise beyond our thoughts 
 today. Besides being sacred to the Indian as the land of his 
 ancestors, the birthplace of his traditions; the scenic beauty 
 of forest and stream, its abundance of fruit, game and fish had 
 attracted the Indian for unknown ages to this place. 
 
 When the first missionaries had established their log school- 
 house, church and blacksmith shop they saw at once that some 
 day it would become a place of importance. Others saw this as 
 well; the trader quick to take advantage of the furs which 
 the Indian would trap, the speculator with an eye to the for- 
 ests of valuable trees and more important than either, the 
 settler who would populate the country with an enterprising 
 white race. 
 
 As a place where the Indian would be civilized the mission 
 was a dismal failure and by the terms of the treaty the lands 
 were eventually sold and the proceeds divided, the Baptists 
 receiving $12,000 and the Catholics $8,000 after a long period 
 of litigation. The old buildings were not totally obliterated 
 until the early sixties. 
 
 In the fifties the land was platted. A dense growth of oak 
 grubs covered most of the ground except where the Indians and 
 a few whites had grown corn and other crops. 
 
 Boston capitalists secured the land and gave to the streets 
 
 131 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 very generally the names of popular Boston avenues, having 
 no sentiment and little thought of its becoming historic ground. 
 There was no one to say a good word for the red man who 
 used such poetical and appropriate terms for every locality. I 
 know of no place in western Michigan of its size with so much 
 hidden history, tradition, myth and romance buried beneath 
 its busy life of home and factory. 
 
 The three buildings of the mission are well remembered 
 by the people of the fifties. They were by that time weather 
 beaten shacks, windowless and mere wind breaks for the cattle 
 that pastured on the commons. The beautiful bronze plate 
 placed by the D. A. R. on the street car barns on Front-av. 
 does not mark the exact location of the buildings but is as 
 near as can be and remain permanent. 
 
 The riverstone forge of the deserted smithshop had a charm 
 for small boys. It was an ideal place to roast green corn 
 "cooned" from garden patches. 
 
 One day there came to work in father's shop, Burritt, one 
 of the early mission blacksmiths. He had lived most of his 
 life among the Indians and they came from long distances to 
 get his help in repairing their guns and spears. He often 
 joined the boys at the old mission forge and they became very 
 fond of him. 
 
 One day two Indians came in a Mackinaw boat and talked 
 a long time in the Ottawa dialect with Burritt. After they 
 had gone he told father he was lonely and was going back to 
 the reservation at Pentwater because the Indians needed him. 
 Father said he was the best missionary the Ottawas ever had. 
 When Burritt took the final trail to the happy hunting ground 
 all the Indians on the reservation were there to listen to the 
 farewell tribute of an Indian preacher, given in his own im- 
 pressive way. 
 
 Personally I had no acquaintance with or recollection of 
 any of the early missionaries, but know that Chief Noon Day 
 of the Ottawas was the most prominent convert to the white 
 man's faith. 
 
 132 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Rafting and the Chanty Men 
 
 Before and for some time after the coming of the railroads 
 all the limiber made in the Grand Rapids valley, that was not 
 used to supply the local demand, was rafted to the Haven, 
 where it was loaded on ships for other lake ports. The boats 
 were usually two or three-masted schooners manned by hardy 
 sailors, whose skill brought them into port through narrow 
 channels in gales of wind and often driving snow. 
 
 There were many sawmills on Grand river and its tribu- 
 taries that had no other shipping facilities. Logs from the 
 nearby forests came in on the snow, on sleds, and were rolled 
 into the booms and ponds of the water-power mills, sawed to 
 dimension and then in the quiet water made into rafts by 
 men skilled in the business. First came long, heavy stuff for 
 a foundation, then shorter lumber for cross piling. By a sys- 
 tem of overlapping or shingling, the lumber was woven into 
 many layers. In times of good water the rafts were two feet 
 thick. Heavy pieces at the top were pinned at the ends and 
 to the bottom sills, with tough hardwood split from river bank 
 trees. All the tools needed were an ax and an auger. When the 
 raft was finished there was often added a deck-load of shingles 
 and lath. 
 
 By reason of the chute in the dam at the rapids here these 
 rafts could not be more than sixteen feet wide, but were often 
 two hundred feet in length. A long, heavy sweep at either end 
 for steering gear and then with a crew of five men the raft 
 was ready to float. 
 
 Once out of the small streams the many rafts were made 
 into fleets and floated to the quiet ponds above the dam at 
 Grand Rapids, where again they were separated into single 
 rafts in order to pass the chute and sent through the rapids to 
 quiet water below. There they were again assembled for their 
 final voyage to the Haven. 
 
 The great adventure was the passage over the dam and 
 down the narrow chute and channel of the rapids and often in 
 high water the rafts were wrecked against the boulders outside 
 the channel or swept crosswise of the current, where they made 
 a dam of themselves. One season a raft climbed the break- 
 
 133 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 water of Bridge-st. bridge and was torn to pieces. The rafts- 
 men were seriously hurt and nearly drowned. 
 
 The salvaging of lath and shingles was a source of consid- 
 erable profit to energetic boys who received five cents a bunch 
 from the owners. Drift lumber furnished material for many 
 of the farm buildings along the banks of the Grand. Stray 
 boards, like stray thoughts, could not prove their owners and 
 there were no claimants. 
 
 Rafting developed a new type of man. Almost any man 
 could run a boat down stream, but it required a peculiar skill 
 and river instinct to keep a long fleet of lumber rafts out of 
 the way of passing river steamers, to avoid sand-bars and the 
 lure of lost channels and bayous on the lower stretches where 
 the wind was apt to struggle for the master hand. 
 
 The sweeps for the steering must work in imison and so 
 the men sang or chanted as they worked. 
 
 The chanty man, as he has been called, had his beginning 
 with what is perhaps the most beautiful work of man's hands 
 — the sailing ship — and the ''chantys" are the working songs 
 of the water. Many of them have been handed down through 
 generations and followed certain haunting melodies, but the 
 songs of the raftsmen were usually improvised to suit the 
 occasion. There was hardly a duty on the floating fleet of 
 lumber which had not its own chanty to go with it, with one 
 line solo and four lines chorus, in which all the events of the 
 journey were told. 
 
 I suppose the voice of the average raftsman was on a low 
 level, but one could not be insensible to the charm of the song 
 and the swishing of the sweeps that came to one out of the 
 night or from above some river bend. 
 
 That grand old river man, Thomas Friant, could tell you 
 of chanty men who sang their way from the River Rouge to 
 the lumber docks at the Haven. 
 
 Nearly all the raftsmen were French-Canadian. They 
 worked in the lumber woods in the winter and drifted nat- 
 urally to the river in the summer. Returning from the Haven 
 to the Rapids by boat the rest of their journey to the mills was 
 on foot. The returning trip always included a day in town 
 
 134 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 and meals at the hotel. On the way down the river the cap- 
 tain bought supplies from the farms and they lived on the fat 
 of the land. 
 
 Saddle Bag Swamp 
 
 When I was a boy in young Grand Rapids it was cus- 
 tomary for the people to go out and gather the wild fruit for 
 the table and for preserving for winter use, Saddle Bag swamp 
 was the best place in all the valley for gathering the high 
 bush huckleberry. This swamp was about six miles east of 
 the city and there were two ways of getting there : By follow- 
 ing the Rix Robinson trail or over a winding, sandy road — 
 now East Leonard Street. 
 
 Ditches and drains have left but little evidence of this 
 basin of water and rich black land, the last trace of an ancient 
 lake bed. The first survey lines of the Detroit, Grand Haven 
 & Milwaukee railroad crossed this territory, but the swamp 
 hungrily swallowed the roadbed on several occasions and the 
 men who built it were obliged to turn aside to the higher 
 groimd. 
 
 The swamp was free to everybody and barefoot boys with 
 their baskets, farmers in their wagons, and the well-to-do in 
 their buggies resorted there to gather berries. In the autimin 
 it was a profitable place for the hunter. It was also the natural 
 home for many rare wild flowers, the orchids, pink and yellow 
 lady slippers and the pitcher plant, or fly trap, among them. 
 Plant lovers who ventured there in the spring days wore hip 
 wading boots — more as a protection against snakes than water, 
 for everything in the line of wiggling serpents from the harm- 
 less little garter-snake to the black water-snake, rattler and 
 blue racer might be encountered there. 
 
 I ventured into this swamp one frosty morning when on 
 the ground under almost every clump of bushes was a coil of 
 reptiles, chilled and numb with the cold. I went at that time 
 for the high bush cranberries that were ripe and bordering the 
 water pools with the glow of crimson fruit. 
 
 Not far from one border of the swamp lived a man who 
 was trying to clear a farm and make a living and that man had 
 
 136 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 a boy. The boy is now the gold braided, white haired police- 
 man, John Conlon, who has tramped his beat on the streets of 
 Grand Rapids nearly forty years. I will tell you as nearly as 
 I can a story that he told me only a week or so ago. 
 
 "It was the day before the Fourth of July, There was to 
 be a grand celebration in the Rapids, fireworks and a parade. 
 I longed to go but what could a boy do in town on the Fourth 
 without so much as one cent of money to spend and there was 
 nothing in the house or on the farm to sell. But mother was 
 my chum and she came forward with a basket and the sug- 
 gestion that I go to the swamp and gather berries and perhaps 
 I could find someone in town to buy them. I fought snakes 
 and worked until dark, but I got enough ripe berries to fill 
 the basket and my hat. At six o'clock Fourth of July morn- 
 ing I was trudging down Monroe-st. in my Sunday clothes, but 
 barefoot and carrying my heavy basket. 
 
 "On the front steps of the National hotel — right over there 
 where the Morton now stands — was the colored cook. He 
 hailed me. 'Boy, what you all got in that er basket.' I showed 
 him the berries and with a delighted grin he offered me a silver 
 dollar. I followed him through to the kitchen and he chuckled 
 all the way over the huckleberry pie his folks were going to 
 get for their Fourth of July dinner. 
 
 ''At that time there was a spring brook with its source at 
 the foot of the hills. It came in a winding, careless way, across 
 lots, then ran under the hotel porch into a sluice that crossed 
 the street. I was hungry, hot and tired and I went out from 
 the kitchen and knelt down by the brook and drank and 
 washed the dust off my face. As we stood here today I can see 
 that old National hotel with its white paint and green window 
 blinds — and the brook running into its hiding place under the 
 steps. And my silver dollar? Never did an American boy 
 get quite so much for his hard earned money." 
 
 Saddle Bag swamp in the early days was considered al- 
 most worthless ; in fact, the first settlers bought it up for some- 
 thing like a shilling an acre. As the country became cleared 
 the owners set a tax of a few cents a quart for picking berries — 
 
 136 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 no extra charge for killing snakes — and now the land that 
 is drained is the most valuable in the section. 
 
 The Wild Pigeon 
 
 Among the most wonderful of bird stories is that of the 
 wild pigeon. I am glad that there are still living many wit- 
 nesses to the facts I am relating, for otherwise I might be 
 charged with fairy tales. 
 
 At the time the first white man came to Michigan the woods 
 were filled with flocks of these beautiful birds. They nested 
 in trees, in a bundle of sticks and lived in pairs until September 
 or October when they gathered in flocks for their flight to the 
 South. Though many were killed each year they increased in 
 numbers. I recall seeing them in flocks when on windy days 
 they flew so low that they were often killed with cane fish 
 poles or long sticks. They seemed to gather in flocks as by a 
 general order and in their flight over the city, with the speed 
 and almost the roar of an airship, they made great wing 
 shooting. 
 
 A favorite stopping place with them was at the salt mead- 
 ows below the west side plaster mills. The water there had 
 a slightly salt taste, very agreeable to man, and seemed much 
 liked by the birds. They fed also on the grass and on the oak 
 ridges to the west. I have seen a hundred acres densely cov- 
 ered with flocks going and coming about these marshes. 
 
 As a food these pigeons were a great blessing to the early 
 settlers. Through several winters my mother served spiced 
 pigeon to her guests as a choice dish. In the cellar were rows of 
 stone jars packed solid with birds pickled in spiced apple cider 
 and sealed with air-tight covers. The minister never had to 
 eat woodchuck at our house. 
 
 I am permitted to use the word of Frank Chickering, a 
 long-time resident of this city, who followed pigeon netting as 
 a business for several years. Mr. Chickering says: 
 
 'T learned to catch pigeons in a net when I was ten years 
 old at Millford, N. H. When fourteen years old I went to 
 Sandy Creek, N. Y., hired a horse and wagon and drove six 
 miles to Boylston, where the birds were nesting and feeding. 
 
 137 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 I made one haul and caught forty -two dozen and two pigeons. 
 
 "I hired people in the vicinity to pick them and shipped 
 them by express to New York City, where I received four 
 dollars per dozen. That was in 1856. For many years I fol- 
 lowed the birds to their nesting and feeding places as far south 
 as the Cumberland mountains and north to many points in 
 Michigan. 
 
 "Their first nesting was in the south and their second in 
 the north. Their nests in the trees were made of a few sticks 
 to hold two eggs. The females left the nest at daylight to 
 feed, going as far as twenty miles, and the males took their 
 places. When the mother bird returned her mate went out, 
 coming back at dark. They fed upon all kinds of nuts, the 
 grass of lowland fields, and left the country entirely stripped 
 of everything green. 
 
 ''The nets were set in an open space, the operators conceal- 
 ing themselves in clumps of brush. The net was thrown by a 
 spring pole. Decoy pigeons were staked out and a few hand- 
 fuls of corn scattered in range of the net. Coming in flocks 
 with the speed of the wind the birds swirled down about the 
 decoys until the ground was blue with them. The spring pole 
 threw the wide net and the birds were captives, their heads only 
 coming up through the meshes in their efforts for liberty. Their 
 heads were pinched to kill them. They were hauled away 
 by wagon loads to the w^arehouse and prepared for shipment 
 to New York and Boston markets. 
 
 ''Many men followed the birds, netting them every year 
 until 1880, when they disappeared and never since has a single 
 one of them been seen." 
 
 Mr. Chickering says he will pay $1,000 for a pair of live 
 birds and the National Geographic society has a standing 
 offer of $5,000 for a pair. 
 
 I know that to the present generation the story of the 
 pigeon may seem a romance so I take the opportunity to quote 
 in brief from the writings of Audubon and Wilson, two of the 
 greatest observers of bird life. 
 
 Audubon noticed "a continuous flight of pigeons for three 
 days, to his calculation one billion, one hundred and foxirteen 
 
 138 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 million." As every bird consumed half a pint of food daily, 
 figure it out yourself. 
 
 Wilson gives an account of a roosting place in the woods 
 that occupied a large area. ''The ground was covered several 
 inches with their droppings, all the grass and underbrush de- 
 stroyed, the surface strewn with large limbs broken down by 
 the weight of birds and the trees for thousands of acres 
 destroyed as if girdled with an ax. When these roosts were 
 first discovered people came in the night and with clubs and 
 other implements of destruction killed them by the wagon 
 load. One of these breeding places was several miles in width 
 and forty miles in length. In many trees more than one 
 hundred nests were made." 
 
 These wonderful birds had but one enemy so far as we 
 know and that was man. There was no closed season and 
 followed so relentlessly from nesting to feeding place may it 
 not be that the same instinct that controlled their flights 
 guided them to some vast wilderness unknown to man? 
 
 The Straw Man 
 
 Along in the 1850's the mattress maker was still bunking in 
 Noah's ark and the inventor of the spring bed had not been 
 born. 
 
 Cords were the proper support for the billow of feathers 
 or straw ticks that made up the bed. In our town as in every 
 other, the rich slept in feathers and common folk on straw. 
 One way in which to detect a rich man or woman was by the 
 feathers in whiskers or hair, while the others, particularly the 
 young men, reveled in wild oats. Wheat straw did not sprout 
 so readily as oat and was cheaper. 
 
 Every good housekeeper filled her bed ticks with fresh 
 straw one a month and mother for her spare bedroom would 
 use nothing but the best oat that had been threshed by flails. 
 One time father pulled a man out of the river and he was so 
 grateful that when he threshed his oats he brought to our 
 barn a full load of straw — enough to last a year. We carried 
 out the ticks and filled up with oat straw until we had to use 
 a chair to climb into bed. Next to the hickory shirts which 
 
 139 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 men wore at that time the bed ticking was the meanest cloth 
 made. 
 
 Most of the fresh bedding was purchased from peddlers 
 who went about the streets with their wagons and horses 
 shouting ''straw, straw." In early morning the straw man's 
 call waked all the babies and in some cases ''straw" was the 
 first word they learned to say. The straw man was the nois- 
 iest thing in town and became such an irritation to the nerves 
 of the feather bed citizens that Charles Warrell, our city clerk, 
 in desperation composed a poem about the straw man which 
 was read to the city council and printed on the front page of 
 the Daily Eagle. I do not know that the poem was made a 
 part of the official proceedings, but it became the base of an 
 ordinance that muzzled the straw man. 
 
 There appeared in the society news one July day an item 
 to the effect that Mrs. Uptown, who was one of the "two- 
 hundred," had substituted straw for her feather bed. The lady 
 stopped her paper and her husband went fishing for a few 
 days. Nowadays the reporter would have explained more 
 tactfully that the lady had gone to the seashore during the 
 heated season. 
 
 All good things come to an end and some fellow invented 
 the wire springs and cotton mattress and the straw bed be- 
 came a thing of the past. 
 
 There was still some use left for straw. It served on the 
 floor as padding under the carpets and later until the recent 
 dry spell, the large, smooth specimens were used by persons of 
 discriminating taste in disposing of a concoction called a 
 mint julep. 
 
 Pay Days 
 
 Commercial credit was good along in the fifties. There 
 were two times for settlement of debts; in the spring when 
 suckers were running and sheep being sheared, and after har- 
 vest when wheat was threshed. 
 
 With the moving out of the ice the suckers came up the 
 river like rays of sunshine. They were legal tender for all 
 transactions. A second bank had come to town and fisher- 
 
 140 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 men could put up a string of suckers as collateral for a loan, 
 provided the borrower accepted the bank's "wildcats." 
 
 It must have been conditions here that gave Barnum the 
 thrill that produced that epic, ''There is a sucker born every 
 minute." Grand river speeded up and produced a sucker 
 every second. The inhabitants feasted on suckers. Fried 
 with salt pork, boiled with cream and butter dressing, stuffed 
 with dressing, the platter garnished with watercress and 
 always a few barrels salted for winter consumption. 
 
 It was claimed that old residents became so expert they 
 kept a run of suckers going in one corner and a bundle of 
 neatly tied bones coming out the other corner of their mouths. 
 And some of those old residents thought they ought to collect 
 a royalty from McCormick, the inventor of the self-binding 
 harvester. This idea came when he visited here a few days 
 and witnessed our perpetual motion machine. One of our 
 surgeons hung a sort of safety first card in his ofiice: ''Don't 
 hurry. A bone in the mouth is worth two in the throat." 
 
 The wool growers had no time to net suckers. They sheared 
 sheep to pay their store bills, then made logging bees to clean 
 up more land for pasture. Everybody was invited, a sheep 
 butchered for dinner and those "bees" became such a daily 
 event that men claimed that wool began growing between 
 their teeth. It was an act of Providence that made sheep 
 produce twin lambs or there would not have been mutton to 
 go around. 
 
 Thus the people swapped crops until the spring run of 
 suckers came again. Of course there were many other fine 
 food fish, but it was quantity production that counted. Many 
 a pair of lovers spent blissful hours on the bridge watching 
 the sturgeon and red fin mullet. 
 
 The fellow who goes casting for bass is a poet with an 
 appetite and in those days one might often meet a man with 
 the soul of a Tennyson dragging a six-foot sturgeon along the 
 board walk of the main street. 
 
 The Salt Water Baths 
 A short distance north of Bridge-st. bridge on the east 
 
 141 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 river bank along in the forties was a large, barn-like structure, 
 Truman H. Lyon's salt works. The building was over a deer 
 lick spring, the water of which was brackish and indicated 
 salt not far away. Wells were drilled and large wooden tanks 
 in the basement held the water which was pumped for storage 
 before reaching the evaporating process. 
 
 Considerable salt was made here, but financially the bus- 
 iness was not a success so along in the fifties the building was 
 remodeled into an edge tool factory, but the tanks were left 
 in the basement, the overflow going into the river. 
 
 Charles Hathaway, the proprietor and chief workman, was 
 a man well liked by all who knew him. A fact always inter- 
 esting to boys was that his father was one of George Wash- 
 ington's generals in Revolutionary days. 
 
 In the factory were heavy trip hammers and forges where 
 many kinds of edge tools of combined iron and steel were 
 welded together by a flux of borax that flashed from the ham- 
 mer blows in streams of liquid fire. The workmen wore lea- 
 ther aprons to protect themselves and the boys loved to hang 
 around and watch them. 
 
 Mr. Hathaway told the boys about the water tanks in the 
 basement. When the day's work was done the trap in the 
 floor was raised and the men washed themselves free from 
 the grime of the forge with a salt water bath and he gave the 
 boys permission to play there when the place was not in use 
 by the men. 
 
 Bathing suits were an unthought-of need then, and now 
 when I visit the bathing beaches I am wondering if we are not 
 getting back to those unblushing days. 
 
 The water was cold and frequently the fellows ran up the 
 stairway to dress by the heat of the forge. It was not always 
 by accident that some of them got a blister, for if they became 
 too numerous a spurt of hot scales and borax shot out from 
 some trip hammer, catching them amidships and sending them 
 home with their soup bone shanks resembling a case of 
 measles. 
 
 Sometimes if there were no people on the bridge walk near 
 
 142 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 by, they went from the salt water tank to the warmer water 
 of the river. 
 
 This salt water bathing had a few drawbacks. The great 
 timber supports of the basement became covered with a red 
 rust that not even soft soap would wash out of a fellow's 
 shirt. Nevertheless, it must have contributed some good red 
 blood to the community, for among the men who played there 
 as boys were Charles Leonard of refrigerator fame. Gains 
 Perkins, Sidney Stevens; Fred Church, the Artist; Le Grand 
 Pierce, Charlie and Fred Rose; Del Squires, the acrobat; and 
 Peter Weber and Charles Bolza, who went down on southern 
 battlefields. 
 
 The pleasure of the salt baths became noised about and R. 
 E. Butterworth, a wideawake man with shops at the foot of 
 the canal, drilled a well and put in modest bathtubs for those 
 who had a quarter to spare. The brine of the bathrooms was 
 all right, but the common run of boys jumped or dived from the 
 railroad bridge at the head of the rapids or to the west of the 
 islands and the Butterworth mineral baths had to be dis- 
 continued for want of patronage. 
 
 In the meantime the gang increased at the tool factory 
 and overflowed from the tanks to the river, for Mr. Hathaway 
 was mighty kind to the boys and between heats at the 
 forge told them how he ironed the battleship Morgan, which, 
 armed with six-pounder cannon, went forth to quell Lake 
 Michigan's Mormon rebellion on Beaver Island. Finally, he 
 called the boys together and told them that some of the Mor- 
 mons in retaliation seemed to be camping on the opposite 
 bank of the river armed with spy glasses, and he would suggest 
 they keep within bounds or he would have to put blinds on 
 the factory. 
 
 Perhaps after all, Mr. Hathaway collected dividends on 
 the salt wells in the fun he had with the boys. 
 
 Colonel George Lee 
 Among the first men I became acquainted with after com- 
 ing to the Rapids was George Lee, a clerk or assistant cashier 
 
 143 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 in Daniel Ball's bank, which occupied a frame building on the 
 present site of the Old National bank. Before and after office 
 hours Mr. Lee came to the shipyard and forge, where at any 
 vacant work-bench he made canoe paddles, fish rods and 
 spear poles. He never interfered with the men and they all 
 liked him. 
 
 William Renwick at the same time was trying to make 
 reels and jointed rods for bass casting and they often worked 
 together. 
 
 Grand river was the fisherman's paradise. The river bed 
 below the dam was filled with large boulders, between which 
 the waters swirled and any quiet pool behind a rock was sure 
 to be harboring a hungry bass. Men fished from a canoe, one 
 man poling from the stern and another casting from the bow. 
 This required a skill only gained by practice. 
 
 Before Mr. Lee married we went out often together in my 
 canoe in the early morning hours. Mother broiled our bass 
 and gave us hot beaten biscuit for breakfast. He was ten 
 years older than I and when he married our pleasure on the 
 river was somewhat interrupted, even before the Civil war 
 called us away. 
 
 Mr. Lee helped organize a company for the second regi- 
 ment of cavalry and as a lieutenant and adjutant began a 
 career in the army of the Cumberland in 1862 under the eyes 
 of Gen. Sheridan. 
 
 It was my fortune to serve in Sheridan's division and there 
 again our acquaintance was renewed and nearly two years of 
 my service was in close contact with Adjt. Lee. He was ex>- 
 acting but unfailing in his kindness to the home boys and gave 
 us many opportunities for service and adventure. 
 
 Lee was also popular with Sheridan who let no day pass 
 without an invitation to a test of skill with the enemy's out- 
 posts. Sheridan was very impetuous and Lee quiet and self- 
 controlled and the brigade and regimental commanders were 
 soon calling Lee the general's balance wheel. As his adjutant 
 he kept the books and the general planned the combats and 
 battles. 
 
 144 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Lee advanced in rank and the eagles of a cavalryman rested 
 on his shoulders when the scourge of yellow fever carried him 
 ofif in 1867 at New Orleans. Lee did not return to Grand 
 Rapids at the close of the war but remained in the regular 
 service as the chief of Gen. Sheridan's staff. 
 
 There might not have been a Sheridan so renowned had it 
 not been for the bank clerk, the lieutenant of the Second Mich- 
 igan cavalry, the surviving members of which are on a trot 
 down the pike and there will soon be no one to write the story 
 of this Michigan boy who rode with Sheridan from the cotton 
 fields of Mississippi to ''Winchester town," where they rallied 
 a panic stricken army and headed it back to victory. 
 
 More than thirty years ago there came to me in one of the 
 committee rooms at the national capitol a quiet little woman 
 saying, ''I am Mary Lee." 
 
 What memories the name recalled! Mrs. Lee was serving 
 as a clerk in one of the war department divisions. Her small 
 pension as the widow of this gallant officer was not enough 
 to maintain her. It became my privilege, as a member of the 
 military committee, to make a small return for all the bait 
 George Lee had cast upon the waters, and, with Uncle Sam's 
 assistance Mary Lee was made comfortable for the rest of 
 her life. 
 
 Lieutenant Robert Wilson 
 
 Because of my warm friendship with Robert Wilson dur- 
 ing and after the Civil war I feel a desire to tell something 
 of this man who, as a reporter on the Daily Eagle, tagged 
 ''Grab Corners" and made the locality a far-reaching byword. 
 
 Chicago's famous Rookery was often sold to hay seeds, but 
 I never heard of a bargain hunter buying Grab Corners after 
 Wilson advertised it in the Eagle. 
 
 Artemas Ward with his "wax figures" was not a word better 
 than Bob Wilson and his little stories of the things he saw 
 about Grab Corners, at that time the concentration point of 
 the town's activities. 
 
 But just about the time "downtown" was beginning to 
 quake under the honest truth of Bob's busy pen, the war came 
 
 145 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 our way and I touched elbows with him in days when shivers 
 chased up our spinal cords and something besides green per- 
 simmons puckered our lips until we couldn't whistle. 
 
 ril tell you of a day when his shock of red hair turned 
 pink. It was during the last days of the war when we were in 
 the tar heel country with Sherman's army. I was in command 
 of a detail from Carlin's division and Lieut. Wilson com- 
 manded thirty men from the Twenty-first Michigan. 
 
 It had been a day of combats with Dibbrell's Confederate 
 cavalry. These fellows called themselves Dibbrell's cavaliers, 
 gentlemen at the beginning of the war, for each one had a 
 contraband to pick the gray backs off their shirt collars and 
 shine their boots. Near sundown we drove the enemy away 
 from an apple jack still on the Yadkin river. There was a 
 loaded scow of barrels of the jack ready to float down the 
 stream and on to Confederate supply depots. This was why 
 the enemy was so slow in leaving. Apple jack is not sure 
 death but a pint cup of it puts a man out of the fight for 
 twenty hours. The lady of the mill told us the Confederates 
 were fairly sleeping in their saddles as they forded the stream 
 and disappeared over the hill. 
 
 My orders for the day were to exterminate the outlaw, 
 Peters, a terror to North Carolina Union men. We were with- 
 in twenty miles of his home with men and horses exhausted 
 but our only chance to win was by a night ride. Our lady 
 gave me the directions; also, "be careful to shoot first, for 
 Peters is an ornery cuss." 
 
 Then came Wilson to say that our boys were so full of 
 apple jack they could not mount, Wilson and the other lieu- 
 tenants were the only men fit for duty. While they began 
 knocking in the heads of the apple jack barrels Wilson and I 
 mounted on fresh horses and rode away in the night, comforted 
 with the thought that Dibbrell's men also were full of trouble. 
 
 We arrived at the outlaw's home after daylight. A woman 
 met us at the door. Inside there was a scurrying of feet not 
 unlike a cross roads schoolhouse at recess. We entered, Colts 
 in hand, prepared to have the first shot. On a bed in the main 
 room was an old grandmother with six frightened children 
 
 146 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 crowded against the wall behind her. No sign of a man. The 
 woman declared her husband had gone to the hills on hearing 
 that Sherman was in the state. But there was a cuiiain about 
 the lower part of the bed and we both saw it move. Bob 
 dropped on one knee and took aim, while I, with revolver in 
 hand, crept up and yanked the curtain, expecting to face a 
 gun. But there was only another half-dozen wild-eyed chil- 
 dren, clad mostly in cotton shirts. 
 
 That was a close call for both sides. With three years of 
 army discipline behind us and all sorts of warfare, we wobbled 
 out and ordered the largest boy to bring some drinking water 
 from the spring. 
 
 While the woman was baking us a pone we fed our horses 
 at the corncrib and searched the place well for Peters. It 
 was no wonder to us that he was an outlaw, for it was the 
 most forsaken spot in the world. For miles on the return 
 Wilson said not a word except "Captain, wish I had a canteen 
 of that apple jack." 
 
 Not long after this ride, Wilson, leading his command in a 
 desperate charge, stopped a musket ball that sent him home 
 to Michigan, where he lived only a few years, never fully re- 
 covering from his wounds. 
 
 In 1866 he was elected city clerk, but Mayor Wilder D. 
 Foster still hailed him as Bob, as did nearly everybody, for 
 they loved him, but those of us who slept in the leaves imder 
 the trees, drinking from the same canteen with him, knew him 
 best. 
 
 His bits of poetry, stories, sarcasm and wit, like a bub- 
 bling spring from a mountain side, ended only when he found 
 the trail's end. 
 
 Colonel Christofer W. Leffingwell and 
 His Troop of Cavalry 
 
 Col. Lefiingwell was a United States cavalryman with a 
 record of active service in the Mexican war. He had the 
 gaunt, sinewy frame that one sees portrayed by Frederick 
 Remington in his types of plainsman soldier and he was a 
 fine horseman. In the late fifties he organized a troop of 
 
 147 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 cavalry that was the admiration of all the young people of the 
 town. 
 
 There was abundant material available, plenty of willing 
 men and many fine saddle horses. Also a good drill ground 
 on the creek bottom lands on the west side of the river, south 
 of Bridge-st. A creek ran along two sides and a slight pla- 
 teau on the south made a fine reviewing stand for the public. 
 
 In the annals of the state, so far as I know, there is no roster 
 of Leffingwell's troop. There were three active companies of 
 infantry and one of artillery recognized by the state, but there 
 were two war clouds in the air — the rumblings from the Mor- 
 mons in Utah and the black cloud south of Mason and Dix- 
 on's line — and every man who had had experience in the army 
 knew that the horse must play an important part in either 
 conflict. Although assured that the state could not equip or 
 recognize a cavalry troop at the time, the colonel's first call 
 brought out thirty well mounted men. One drill brought ten 
 files of fours into line. 
 
 The colonel had sons enough of his own to make another 
 file, but lacked the mounts. The town was just of a size for 
 every person to know every other person, so we knew by name 
 every man as they formed on the north side of the field, 
 coimted fours and advanced company front toward the creek. 
 
 The colonel gave his commands in a voice that could have 
 controlled a full battalion. They were a peppery lot, too, 
 on fine Morgan horses and were soon working from the walk 
 to a trot, then fours left and gallop into line. 
 
 The town took a great interest in the troop and all the 
 ladies were on hand for drill, applauding and encouraging their 
 heroes. 
 
 One fine afternoon the command ''fours left" failed to be 
 given, but the men were game, into the creek they went, some 
 taking headers, others keeping their saddles but floundering 
 in the mire. Only a man who has been in just such a fix can 
 appreciate what took place before the troop could again be 
 lined up before its commander. Then with the colonel in the 
 lead they filed into the nearby river, dismounted and washed 
 the mud from themselves and their much loved animals. 
 
 148 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 That evening the troop held a symposium. As I was only 
 a young boy I was not admitted and to this day do not know 
 whether this charge was a blunder or a matter of discipline, 
 but since all the minor officers went into the creek with the 
 troop I imagine it was a blunder. 
 
 The people of the city did not realize that these men were 
 training to become leaders in the greatest cavalry battle 
 the world has ever known. Nearly every man of the troop 
 served either with Sheridan or Custer and they won rank from 
 lieutenant to general. Many of them went down on fields 
 where the sabers clashed. 
 
 Col. Leffingwell returned to the regular service for the en- 
 tire Civil war. His son, Henry, and I were comrades on the 
 grand review in Washington at the close of the struggle. Some 
 of the men of this troop that I recall are Miles Adams, George 
 Gray, C. P. Babcock, Herb Backus, Stephen Ballard, Guild 
 and Robert Barr, Charles Bolza, Byron Brewer, C. W. Calkins, 
 C. W. Eaton, John Ely, H. W. Granger, Birney Hoyt, George 
 Lee, Dan Littlefield, I. C. Smith, Silas Pierce, Peter Weber 
 and Don Lovell. If their tales of the war could be told there 
 would be pages of romance, loyalty to country, stories of days 
 when chivalry was in the saddle and Americans were crossing 
 swords with Americans. 
 
 Of all that troop I recall but one man who seemed to have 
 any creek bottom mud clinging to him. At home he had two 
 fine saddle horses, but on foot he could run faster and further, 
 to get away from the firing line, than any other man in the 
 regiment in which it was my good fortune to serve. 
 
 The old drill ground is now covered with factories. The 
 creek has been lost in the "big ditch" and the ditch swallowed 
 by the sewer, but the flag of the nation floats from the top 
 of the staff. 
 
 The Annals of Fulton Street Park 
 
 I have before me as I write an old-time print of Samuel 
 Dexter, who in 1832 came to Michigan from Herkimer, N. Y., 
 as the leader of a party looking for lands where its members 
 might settle and make homes. 
 
 149 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 Mr. Dexter journeyed beyond the Rapids, following the 
 river and the shore of Lake Michigan as far as Chicago and 
 then returning with his party located government land at the 
 Rapids and Ionia. 
 
 The following year he conducted sixty-one others, many 
 of whom found Ionia the more attractive locality. 
 
 Mr. Dexter's face is of a character that inspires one to 
 follow his leadership, eyes that smile and the straightforward 
 look in which one places confidence. 
 
 Many of his descendants living in Grand Rapids and in 
 Ionia county bear the same interesting features and have from 
 the first days of the settlement of the valley been prominent 
 in the development of Western Michigan. 
 
 These people did not come as traders, but to create homes 
 in the wilderness and build up the grand country we now love 
 so well. They came as workers of the soil and their descend- 
 ants are proud to say they came with Samuel Dexter. The 
 wealth of the forests, on the other hand, was responsible for 
 the speculators who flocked to Michigan for investments in 
 pine timber lands. 
 
 Mr. Dexter bought from the government a strip of land 
 eighty rods wide and two miles long running north and west 
 from the present corner of Monroe-av. and Division-av. The 
 deeds of record were signed by President Andrew Jackson. 
 
 The same year he met a commission appointed by the gov- 
 ernor of Michigan to locate a county seat for Kent. The state 
 commission selected, and Mr. Dexter and his wife, Anna, gave 
 to the County of Kent the parcel of land which for many years 
 has been called Fulton-st. park. At that time Monroe and 
 Fulton-sts. were Indian trails. 
 
 At one of the court trials years after, brought in an effort 
 to annul the county's title, Zenas Windsor testified he saw 
 Samuel Dexter drive the stake in the center of the square 
 chosen. All the vicinity then was a forest of elm, oak and 
 hickory, which in the eyes of land speculators had small com- 
 mercial value but presented a level, well drained plateau. 
 
 In this square, in the year 1838, the first courthouse was 
 built, costing about $3,000. It is described as of Greek temple 
 
 150 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 design, tall columns at the front, facing south, a cupola with 
 a gilded ball on the top and bell inside, a hall through the cen- 
 ter with a stairway at the east end leading to the courtroom 
 above. On the first floor were the sheriff's living rooms and 
 a jail room of planks and sheet iron ribbing. This building 
 with all its records was burned in 1844. 
 
 Then the coimty, being hard up, built a sort of cross roads 
 schoolhouse, so small that the rapidly accumulating records 
 were stored in any vacant room about the town until 1850. 
 
 The county held undisputed use of the square and rented 
 this building for any public gathering. One year it earned 
 fifty dollars. The supervisors sold the foundation stones of 
 the first building and until 1881 were at sea, very sick most of 
 the time, casting up resolutions and committees and always 
 too poor or timid to hazard an investment in a county court- 
 house. During this period the county ''peddled fish," short 
 changed the treasury by paying rent for a west side jail site 
 and express charges on clothes baskets and flour barrels full of 
 official records, some of which for convenience were stored in 
 basement saloons. 
 
 All thoughts of ever using the square for a county build- 
 ing were abandoned. 
 
 Annals of Fulton Street Park — II 
 
 The Samuel Dexter plat as part of the city contains much 
 besides boundaries. Its courthouse square, Fulton park, al- 
 though but a block in the heart of the city, is rich in the lore 
 of the county. Its history is a tale of entanglements well 
 told in the official city, county and court records which disclose 
 men sparring for financial and political advantage with a vim 
 that would make interesting copy for the sport page of a Sun- 
 day edition. 
 
 In the. suits that were brought by different parties for pos- 
 session of courthouse square after it had become valuable prop- 
 erty, it was testified that Ezekiel Davis, supervisor for Grand 
 Rapids, and Julius C. Abel, supervisor for Grandville, con- 
 tracted to build the first courthouse for $3,000. 
 
 But as typical of the early days the testimony of Robert 
 
 151 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 Hilton, one of the solid men of the town, is very interesting. 
 It seems the county was hard up for cash and after much effort 
 succeeded in borrowing $4,500 from the state. Mr. Hilton, 
 who owned a single wagon and horse, was sent to Detroit for 
 the money that the building might be erected. The roads 
 were poor, the days wet and sultry and Mr. Hilton was nearly 
 a week returning with the money which on arrival, was found 
 to be mildewed. Moreover it was ^'wildcat" times and during 
 the week the bank which issued the cat skins had failed. It 
 was probable the printer could not keep up with the disbursing 
 clerk. 
 
 The county tried many years to have this debt canceled and 
 more than doubled the original debt in attorney fees and trav- 
 eling expenses before the cats ceased squalling, then submitted 
 to the loss. 
 
 There were many courthouse projects that did not favor 
 this site, but the square was used for almost everything, in- 
 cluding several county fairs, and one summer the city officials 
 permitted a circus to set tents for a two days' show. The 
 circus ring was where the first courthouse had stood. Tradi- 
 tion reports complimentary tickets to the city ofiicials and 
 five dollars to the treasury. 
 
 The circus departed in the night and the nearby neighbors 
 were a year in cleaning up the refuse. They dug up the hatchet 
 for the aldermen of the west side and north ends of the city, 
 who, to quiet them, passed an ordinance forbidding cattle and 
 swine running at large in the public square. The animals 
 evidently were not notified, for the ordinance was not observed. 
 That however, was the last circus to dig a ring in the square. 
 A short time after another council voted one hundred dollars 
 to improve the park on condition that private subscription 
 should fence it. 
 
 It might have been a bit of sarcasm on the part of the 
 county supervisors aimed at the want of business sense dis- 
 played by the city supervisors which caused them to petition 
 the state legislature to locate the county seat at Plainfield, 
 then a lumber town near the mouth of the River Rouge. They 
 sent a log rolling committee to the legislature and had not 
 
 152 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Grand Rapids taken notice Plainfield would have been placed 
 on the map. 
 
 They did not get the county seat, but years later, did get 
 Bert McAuley's clubhouse, which was much better than any 
 county building for good cheer and chicken dinners. 
 
 About this time one or two county fairs were held on the 
 square. Bulls with nose rings were chained to the trees, blue 
 ribbon swine rooted for acorns, golden pumpkins were dis- 
 played under the oaks and country and city boys vied with 
 one another in gingerbread devotion to the prettiest girl. 
 
 Annals of Fulton Street Park— III 
 
 My personal touch with the courthouse square began in 
 1854 when as a boy I rambled across lots on the way to school 
 on Fountain-st. In the center of the square were the founda- 
 tion stones of the first courthouse, which had burned. 
 
 Boys pointed to the place close by where a scaffold had 
 been erected upon which a man was to be executed for killing 
 an Indian, and we discussed the need of a scaffold when there 
 were so many good oaks with low branches. 
 
 The story was told that Thomas Gilbert, the sheriff, did not 
 believe the man guilty and used his best efforts to have the law 
 of capital punishment changed. He was slow in having the 
 scaffold finished. The execution was to be a public affair and 
 many people came in from the country only to be disappointed, 
 for the governor commuted the sentence to life imprisonment. 
 Later, Mr. Gilbert foimd evidence to prove the man was inno- 
 cent and he was pardoned. 
 
 In Civil war days, rough stands were erected in the square 
 where war talks and songs inspired the boys and men. On 
 these rude platforms Mrs. Lavancha Stone Shedd, Mrs. Serepta 
 Bliss Wenham, Miss Jan Ringuette Malloch and many other 
 well known women led the singing. 
 
 There were bonfires, about which gathered the boys and 
 girls whose fathers were marching away to battle for the 
 Union. That indeed was the place where the people rallied 
 around the flag. 
 
 In the centennial year a fac-simile of the La Framboise 
 
 153 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 cabin, which in 1806 was standing near the Council Pine on 
 the west bank of the river, was built on the southeast corner 
 of the square. It was carried out in detail even to the coon and 
 fox skins tacked on the outside, but the cabin was neglected 
 and served mainly as a place for the boys to re-enact war 
 dances and shoot arrows at neighbors' pigs and chickens. 
 
 For many years the square received no attention other than 
 being a battle-ground for the city and county officials. Citizens 
 petitioned for permission to fence and clean it up, build walks 
 and plant trees. Through the determination of Thomas D. 
 Gilbert to save the park the authorities gave him the care of 
 it for two years. To him we owe the maples as well as those 
 which were about Monument park. At his own expense he 
 hired John Steketee with his yoke of oxen to plow the square 
 for two seasons, paying eight dollars each year and taking 
 great care that the trees were not injured. To subdue the 
 weeds and level the surface he planted potatoes one year and 
 sowed oats another, later plowing the oats under for fertilizer. 
 
 After Mr. Gilbert had it in good shape the council ordered 
 the marshal to repair the fence and then to put locks on the 
 gates. Young ladies with their beaus who wished to walk 
 through the park climbed the fence — no small adventure in 
 hoop skirt days. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert was an officer and stockholder of the gas com- 
 pany and about this time the council ordered the gas-meter 
 removed and substituted kerosene lamps for summer evenings. 
 
 As Mr. Gilbert could get no park seats, he paid the marshal 
 for capping the fence with strips which made a sort of roosting 
 place for young people and soon the fence was worn out. In 
 the year 1881 for some reason the county supervisors replaced 
 the fence and five days later the city marshal tore it up, leaving 
 the post holes for night walkers to fall into. Then Mr. Gilbert 
 hired and paid a man to keep cattle and swine from again de- 
 stroying the grass and trees. With his own hands he set out 
 young trees, carrying water in pails to moisten their roots. 
 They were his children and were protected and nourished with 
 every care. He had a vision of the future, the day that is here 
 now. 
 
 154 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Annals of Fulton Street Park — IV 
 
 In the early platting of the city, Monroe-st., now avenue, 
 was named as a compliment to President James Monroe, whose 
 home on Prince-st., New York City, is now marked with a 
 bronze table but occupied as an Italian rag picker's warehouse. 
 Jefferson-av. was named in honor of Thomas Jefferson, Fulton- 
 st. as a compliment to Robert Fulton, the inventor of steam- 
 boats, also a resident of New York. He never, so far as we 
 know, placed his feet on Michigan soil. 
 
 There was an early settler in the town named Fulton, but 
 since he came here after the first plats were made and was 
 noted only for the gingerbread he baked at a shop in the 
 bend of lower Monroe-av., it is not likely that he had any 
 claim on Fulton-st. 
 
 The slogan, ''Grand Rapids is a Good Place to Live," is a 
 fact. The city has been made a good place through the in- 
 fluence and generosity of its public spirited men and women, 
 some of whom we have honored. 
 
 We have the John Ball, the Garfield, Comstock, Campau, 
 Harrison, Sinclair and Wilcox parks; the Robinson road, the 
 Burton Heights, the Hodenpyl woods, the Richmond hills, the 
 Mary Waters field, the Blodgett and Butterworth hospitals, 
 the Stocking and Widdicomb schools and many other places 
 are or should be bearing the names of those who have made 
 Grand Rapids a good place to live. 
 
 It is not too late to change the name of Fulton-st. park to 
 that of Samuel Dexter and thus honor the almost first settler 
 who gave that square of ground to the Coimty of Kent for the 
 benefit of all its people. Mr. Fulton could still have his street 
 — a very creditable possession. 
 
 A simple authoritative resolution of the city commission, 
 one that would call for no appropriation of public money, 
 would be the means of preserving this name. 
 
 We have cause for rejoicing that in 1896, the bronze bust 
 of Thomas D. Gilbert, a gift of the National City Bank and the 
 Grand Rapids Gas Co., two local business enterprises which 
 he was instrumental in establishing, was placed in the park 
 
 155 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 beneath the maples which he had planted and so lovingly 
 cared for. 
 
 Hundreds of boys, young and old, listened to President 
 James B. Angell's story of the man, from the time he captained 
 a pole boat on Grand river with Indians for a crew, to the day 
 when the bronze bust was placed in the park. 
 
 I am indebted to Miss Belle M. Tower's true history of 
 Fulton-st. park, contributed to Sophie De Marsac chapter, 
 Daughters of the American Revolution, 1910, for many of the 
 facts recorded in these annals to which I have added my per- 
 sonal memories. Miss Tower is a granddaughter of Samuel 
 Dexter. 
 
 The Elm Trees 
 
 An article in one of our daily papers of recent date states 
 that no less an authority than Michaux — a tree lover of nation- 
 al fame — ranks the common white elm of our country as one of 
 its most magnificent trees. From coast to coast, from Canada's 
 border to the gulf, it is unsurpassed, whether in forest, open 
 field or at the roadside. In New England parkways and college 
 grounds they have sacred memories and are guarded with all 
 the care that man can give. 
 
 In days gone by there were some wonderful groves of white 
 elm on the west side of Grand river, extending along the river 
 from Sixth street to Mill Creek and one grove south of Fulton 
 street with both dome and umbrella tops. All about the valley 
 were groups, or single fine specimens, with the turban and 
 plume tops. 
 
 I recall the groves in the glory of their autumn yellow, 
 when their light rivaled the sun in the Indian summer haze. 
 
 In the early days of the country, the elm was often the 
 range guide to homesteader, surveyors, or the Indian. Before 
 the pier and range lights marked the channel to Black lake a 
 single huge elm guided the sailor. The Indian by the bending 
 of a branch often indicated a direction and many of the strange 
 shaped limbs of the river bottom trees were the work of sur- 
 veyors or early trail markers and have served for years to 
 indicate the boundary of a range. As the twig was bent so 
 the tree grew. 
 
 156 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Standing like a lone sentinel on the range of the Cascade 
 Hills Golf Club is a grand fountain-topped white elm and 
 we trust it will be an honorary member of long standing in 
 that organization. 
 
 More than fifty years ago when Bostwick street hill was 
 being graded there were in the roadway in front of the homes 
 of James and Ezra Nelson, two very fine elm trees. Their 
 branches entwining made wonderful shade for the street and a 
 place for swings which the firemen of the hook and ladder 
 company suspended for the boys and girls of the vicinity. 
 
 When this grading was started the city council in a fit of 
 mental aberration directed the ''highway man" to remove the 
 trees from the roadway. A storm of protest came from all 
 sides, but seemed to have little effect on the council and when 
 it came to a showdown between the highway men or trees, the 
 Nelsons, who were full sized men, loaded their guns with rock 
 salt and unground black pepper and stood guard day and 
 night. 
 
 Mr. E. D. G. Holden also came to the rescue with a poem 
 which was printed and scattered far and wide. His listening 
 ear caught the murmuring of the brother elms and this is a part 
 of what they said: 
 
 ''Why, yes, dear chum, I mind it well 
 
 With red men camping here 
 
 Beneath our shade when time had made 
 
 Our forms a landmark dear. 
 
 We saw the scalp dance and the love 
 
 Of Indian maids for braves 
 
 Who made no threats to slash us down. 
 
 Oh, it will be a sorry day 
 
 If they should cut us down, 
 
 Who are the oldest settlers now 
 
 In all the busy town. 
 
 We never yet an ill have done, 
 
 The good we love the best. 
 
 And pleased are we when children pause 
 
 Upon the walk to rest 
 
 With welcome shade caressed." 
 
 157 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 So the ax was exchanged for shovels, the ground about the 
 trees was rounded up, the roadway graded on either side and 
 today we still have the Bostwick, often termed by the old resi- 
 dents the Nelson, elms gracing the city highway. 
 
 The Blendon Hills 
 
 About eighteen miles below the Rapids, on the south side 
 of the river, are the Blendon Hills, in the early days noted for 
 their forests of oaks and pine. 
 
 The lumbermen went through the pines on some tracts, 
 selecting only the best of the trees and from these only the 
 clear stock, making a jungle with the cuttings on the ground 
 and leaving a maze of tote roads and blind trails. As if by 
 magic these cut-over lands were quickly covered with a growth 
 of high-bush blackberry brush, loaded every season with de- 
 licious fruit. 
 
 Many townspeople went berrying, paddling by canoe or 
 going down the river in the steamboats. Sometimes parties 
 formed with an outfit for camping out, and over the campfire 
 put up tubs and jars of blackberry jam; others stayed over 
 night and returned home to preserve the fruit. 
 
 One day eight or ten of us twelve-year-old boys paddled 
 away from the yellow warehouse with a two or three-day 
 outfit — one tent, blankets and baskets of rations, a butcher 
 knife or two to kill bears or maybe Indians — ^the bravest bunch 
 of boys that ever said goodbye to the mothers who had helped 
 carry the duffle to the dock. 
 
 It was afternoon when the fleet landed at Blendon and to 
 carry everything up the river bank, set up the tent and get the 
 first meal was a great event. Some of the boys ate up half of 
 their two days' rations that first meal. They were busy cut- 
 ting hemlock for beds and gathering wood for a campfire until 
 nearly dark, when an Indian we knew about town landed in 
 his canoe and while he cooked a fish over our fire for his supper, 
 told the crowd a bear story — a real thriller. He assured us that 
 bears lived on blackberries and that all the pine slashings were 
 full of them. While he talked he sandwiched in a loaf of our 
 bread with his fish. When he left, Eddie Morrison and Henry 
 
 158 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Lefiingwell fixed up the fire. We got inside, tied down the 
 flaps and tested our knives, 
 
 Billie Westerhouse was used to sleeping between feather 
 ticks and the hemlock boughs didn't appeal to him, but he 
 finally got settled under the blankets just as all the ov/ls be- 
 tween Haire's Landing and Lamont began to hoot and call. One 
 little kid began to cry for his mother, but the finishing touch 
 to the crowd was the falling of a rotten basswood tree a few 
 rods from the tent. Just why it came down on that night of 
 all others is not to be explained, but sun-up found us on the 
 way home with a fine load of stories of the bears and Indians 
 who had tried to sever our earthly connections, but never a 
 blackberry for the mothers. 
 
 The Fitch family, living at the corner of Stocking and 
 Bridge-sts., were berrying in Blendon Hills, when Cordelia 
 — as I recall, about a sixteen-year-old girl — became lost in 
 the slashings. The alarm went out and for three days all the 
 campers were searching. The steamboat reported at the Rapids 
 and every available skiff came loaded with helpers, among them 
 several Indians. 
 
 I hunted with one of the Indian boys and we got caught 
 several miles from camp as night came on. He crawled under 
 a small cedar and fastened all the boughs together and we 
 slept as comfortably as in a tent. The third day Cordelia was 
 seen by a steamboat crew on the river bank fourteen miles be- 
 low Blendon, though ''wild like deer," as one Indian explained. 
 
 She disappeared again in the forest and it was only after a 
 race that she was captured, her clothing torn to rags on the 
 brambles and briers. She lived to become the bride of Ed- 
 ward L. Briggs and to furnish our Kent Scientific Museum with 
 a fine collection of shells and rare treasures from many lands. 
 
 The Blendon Pines and Oaks 
 
 In the early days of the settlement of the Grand river 
 country, eastern capitalists were told of the wealth of Michi- 
 gan forests, to be obtained for a song. 
 
 The pine was what the speculator sought and many per- 
 sonally or through agents bought up vast tracts. 
 
 159 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 John Ball had little money of his own but was the trusted 
 agent for many. He was a born woodsman and the happiest 
 days of his long and useful life were spent in companionship 
 of the trees. 
 
 In one of his early adventures, he sought a forest of pine 
 reported to be south of the Grand river, between the Rapids 
 and Lake Michigan, which only Indians and trappers had 
 invaded; a region of rivers, lakes, swamps and level plateaus 
 where the tree tops were so dense that the sun rarely pene- 
 trated. The surveys were largely guesswork. In 1836 Mr. 
 Ball sought this tract but found a wonderful forest of oak and 
 in a three days' tramp only an occasional lonesome pine. This 
 oak covered the hills known later as Blendon, eighteen miles 
 down Grand river. Then suddenly the pines were before him. 
 
 Mr. Ball at once entered at the land office, probably the 
 one at Ionia, a claim to forty-one eighty-acre lots, paying the 
 entry fee and other requirements. He reached, however, the 
 limits of his capital and was finally compelled to forfeit his 
 payments and other parties secured the lands. 
 
 Several years later Robert Medler, ship builder, needed 
 oak for the yard at Mill Point, near the Haven. Men went 
 into this oak forest and helped themselves. Standing trees 
 had so little value that no one objected. In fact, there was 
 only the government to object and its agents were far away. 
 The logs on the high banks of the river when rolled into the 
 water sank like so much iron. To float them a pine was pinned 
 to either side and they were floated to the shipyards. There 
 the builders claimed them to be live oak and Capt. Flint, U. S. 
 naval contractor, accepted them as such in the construction 
 of the U. S. bark Morgan. 
 
 I do not know the origin of the name Blendon but the 
 Blendon Lumber Co. was formed and a rush made to secure 
 the oaks. Logging camps, sawmills, landing docks and ship- 
 yards sprang up and the entire country boomed. Pioneer 
 farmers found a ready market for everything they raised. 
 
 Two-masted lumber schooners towed up the river by tugs 
 received the lumber direct from the mill, towed back to the 
 
 160 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 lake and sailed away to the sea. Often rafts of long masts 
 were towed which eventually fitted ocean ships. 
 
 The men who came out of the east to lumber this new 
 country were equal to the trees they made war upon. 
 
 When the Civil war called, Alvin C. Litchfield, manager of 
 the Blendon company, captained one of the companies and 
 imder Custer won the star of a general. Out of this country 
 went the Brennans, Weatherwaxes, Lowings, Boyntons and so 
 many others that there were none left on the farms or in the 
 mills. The quietude of Sunday settled over the land. 
 
 After war days, the echoes of the ax and saw, the chanty 
 of the river man and the farmer were heard again until the last 
 oak and pine disappeared. In their stead came the cabin, the 
 apple tree, and the honey bee. And finally came the man in 
 the speed wagon, all unconscious of the past were it not for the 
 stump fences which say so little but mean so much to the few 
 who understand. 
 
 Mr. Foster, one of the six-foot lumbermen who served with 
 the Old Third infantry, is living in the city today. He can 
 take you to a pine stump six feet across the top, the living tree 
 of which was more than one hundred feet to the first limb. 
 
 The Walnut Forest 
 
 There were three classes of men who came from the east to 
 Michigan in the early days. The settler who came to make a 
 home — he was the man who came to stay, the foundation of 
 the state; the trader who sought a fortune in the wild life of 
 the forest, the furs of the beaver and his kin; the speculator 
 who recognized the value of the great wilderness of pine forest. 
 
 It seemed as if all the wealth in eastern money centers was 
 brought here to be invested in the pine. 
 
 River bottom lands were thickly grown with walnut, but- 
 ternut and great elms; ridges were covered with oak and 
 cherry, and the plateaus with maple and all sorts of valuable 
 trees, but the speculator saw little value in them as compared 
 with the pine. The hemlock was a poor relation and treated 
 with small courtesy. 
 
 As late as the fifties, the present site of the Wyoming car 
 
 161 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 shops was a forest of butternut trees growing so thickly that 
 often it was fifty feet to the first limb. After a sharp frost the 
 ground was brown with nuts, on the opposite side of the river 
 were forests of giant walnut. 
 
 A settler in order to clear a place to grow corn slashed 
 these walnut in tangled masses, felling them across each other 
 and, using the old term ''niggered," burned them into sections. 
 They were too large to saw into lengths. 
 
 Great clear logs were split into fence rails; others were 
 hewed into barns sills. In the tree tops were huge limb crotches 
 which had a value if sliced into veneers. Men came and 
 hewed some of these free from sap and bark. With oxen they 
 were taken to the river, loaded on scows and floated to the 
 Haven, then by other ways transported to Boston, where fur- 
 niture men worked them up. Most of the clear body of these 
 trees were burned in the fields to get rid of them. 
 
 There were several gunsmiths then in the Rapids. Soloman 
 Pierce and his sons had cords of fine walnut burl gun stocks 
 and seasoned them in the yard outside to acquire the amber 
 color so sought for by sportsmen. 
 
 But the walnut was never so grand as when it stood in the 
 green woodland, its wide spreading top far in the sky, its al- 
 most black bark coating dark against the background of an 
 oak grown hillside. 
 
 Wise men of those days warned against the destruction of 
 the forests, but the near-sighted believed Michigan could never 
 clear away the wilderness. 
 
 The Indian looked upon the waste as a crime. He inher- 
 ited a reverence for all trees, assigned to them passions and 
 believed in a close connection between human lives and trees. 
 When the wigwam was built a branch from a nearby tree was 
 placed at the doorway so the spirit of the forest would be with 
 its inmates. 
 
 In money value Michigan lost more in fifty years than can 
 ever be regained and if it was in the plans of the Man-i-to that 
 the great lakes country should make the furniture of the world 
 the early settler and the lumberjack certainly played a chuck- 
 a-luck game with the treasury. 
 
 162 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 The Black Hills 
 
 In the south part of the city is a range of hills, with the 
 river front on the west, Plaster creek, Wyoming yards and 
 their great shops on the south, the Pere Marquette tracks run- 
 ning around the base of the hill on the east, the Peaceful val- 
 ley with its many factories, the Michigan railway bridge and 
 the great hive of industry toward the city on the north. 
 
 When I was a boy this river range hill was the home of the 
 Ottawa Indian chief, Mack-e-bee-messy, which translated is 
 Black Bird. So this hill was to the Indian ''Black Bird's Hill." 
 Its wide plateau was covered with a forest of black oak and 
 the white man coming in called the range Black Oak hills. 
 From these terms it simply settled into plain Black hills, and 
 so it is known today. 
 
 The Indians had a way of burning the leaves late each 
 autumn, as they lay over the ground, the flames taking the 
 lower branches of the trees and all the summer growth. When 
 the spring rains began the new season the forest was a sylvan 
 glory. On level ground one could see any moving thing a mile 
 away. 
 
 The river bottom and all low lying places were thickly 
 grown with elm, basswood and water maple, with dogwood, 
 thorn and crabapple. The side hill facing the river and much 
 of the plateau was strewn with great water-washed granite 
 boulders, that on the northwest end, spread into the stream 
 forming "Stony Point," which challenged the canoe man to 
 combat with eddies and swirls. 
 
 Chief Black Bird, when the treaty was made with the In- 
 dians for the Grand River valley, lived in the summer in his 
 wigwam on the northwest point of the hill, far above the river. 
 In the winter he retired to the shelter of a thick grove of 
 spruce standing about where the Nichols & Cox mills are now 
 located. 
 
 After the treaty, the white man fenced in the hills with 
 black walnut rails. The granite boulders were split into build- 
 ing stone. Townspeople, attracted by the beautiful woods, 
 came to picnic and gather wild flowers or honey from the store 
 of wild bees. 
 
 163 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 While gathering mushrooms in the north woods not long 
 ago, an old-time resident of the valley said she could tell me 
 of the most wonderful place in all the world for mushrooms 
 and then explained how to reach Black hills. I could not con- 
 vince her that the city had covered the old playground. 
 
 The oaks had no commercial value and as pasture the land 
 did not pay taxes, so the man who had bought the hills from 
 the government, seeing the people congregating there every 
 pleasant day, offered it to the city for park purposes at farm- 
 land price. Our city fathers derided the owner for trying to 
 unload undesirable land on the people. Months of argument 
 failed to convince the aldermen that other years were on the 
 road to town. 
 
 Later Mr. Delos A. Blodgett, unable to stand for the de- 
 struction of trees, flowers and rocks, determined the city should 
 have the hills as his gift. The price, one hundred thousand dol- 
 lars, three times what the city previously was asked to pay, 
 was agreed upon with the agent, but the owner, sore over the 
 action of past officials or, as others claimed, profiteering, de- 
 manded fifty thousand more. The demand was so unjust that 
 it was emphatically rejected. 
 
 Then came years when the hills gave shelter to tramps and 
 hoboes and the undesirables of the country and it was not 
 safe for flower and forest lovers. 
 
 This was forty years ago. Today the east plateau of the 
 range is well covered with homes; the west has still a growth 
 of black oak, but the boulders are in foundation stones all 
 over town. The smoke of factory stacks drifts over the bluffs 
 and the haze of Black Bird's wigwam fire is only a memory. 
 
 The River Rouge 
 
 Fur traders, trappers and French-Canadians with the spirit 
 of adventure, early explored the valley of the 0-wash-ta-nong, 
 following the river and its tributaries. 
 
 Many of these men descended to the level of the Indian 
 in the habits of wild life, but retained the dialects and mem- 
 ory of home places, which cropped out in the designation of 
 
 164 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 towns and rivers. Many married squaws who were their mates 
 for life, shared in their toil and travel. 
 
 Thus the French in River Rouge or River Red, coming into 
 the 0-wash-ta-nong — ^the Grand — near Plainfield, may have 
 been inspired by the wilderness of painted foliage where each 
 tree and flower gave different tinting to the hills and river bot- 
 tom lands. 
 
 Indian traditions told of the white men who came each sea- 
 son with canoes loaded with furs from this stream of many 
 beaver ponds. 
 
 These trappers told at the Rapids of the wilderness of great 
 trees of the pine and oak, of the many lakes between the hills 
 where the wild goose nested. From its source in the rice 
 swamps the river ran a wild race between the hills to its blend- 
 ing with the Grand. 
 
 When the rush of the lumberman started toward this stream 
 it was not unlike that of the gold seekers of 1849 to the golden 
 west. River bank trees were chopped into the stream and, 
 beaver like, formed sawmill dams and ponds. Rude settle- 
 ments and lumber towns sprang up over night. 
 
 Near the river mouth, imder a wonderful bluff overlooking 
 the Grand and facing the morning sun, the Indians had a bur- 
 ial ground where the great spirit could find the dead and guide 
 them on the home road. 
 
 Here upon the high plateau the "Mon-daw-min" — Indian 
 corn — was planted, an ear being placed in the grave at the 
 burial time for food on the long journey. 
 
 Plainfield seemed the most appropriate name for the town 
 that sprang up here — and so it is today — but for a long time 
 it was called by men in sarcastic mood, Grogtown. To oblit- 
 erate this term it was given the name Austerlitz for a while. 
 
 Following the Rouge up-stream one encountered the mill 
 town of Gibraltar and then Jericho. At both places there was 
 grand water power. As fast as the pines were cut away the 
 land was cleared and platted and our leading statesmen hon- 
 ored in naming of the streets. There were several other mill 
 towns before Laphamville — ^named from an early settler — ^was 
 reached, a village of blessed memory, so beautiful in its peace- 
 
 165 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 ful valley. Before the days of highway bridges people crossed 
 the stream at the Rocky ford. Then in later years the name 
 was changed to Rockford. Although it was a mill town it be- 
 came a home place. The forest disappeared but the charm 
 of the river and the hills held captive many of the pioneers. 
 
 Following the winding river it was a long paddle to the 
 home of that good man, Dr. Sexton, who was an angel of mercy 
 to all the inhabitants of cabins and mill shacks of northern 
 Kent. A ''God bless you" often paid the bill. It was all the 
 pioneer could offer. 
 
 At the last mill site on the river sprang up the town of 
 Gougeburg. It never had or needed any other name. Besides 
 its logging crews there were two lawyers, said by the lumber- 
 jacks to be hiding from the sheriff. When not tipping the jug 
 they wove shingles and in public spirited way helped the town 
 live up to its name. 
 
 If a man succeeded in escaping from Gougeburg he reached 
 beyond to the Meyers settlement, lying between the river and 
 Camp lake ; Hiram, Tom, Ben and Andrew, four brothers, three 
 of them with large families, had come to stay and were making 
 farms. It was often said that no man ever went away from 
 Hiram Meyers' homestead hungry and that Auntie Nicholas 
 Emmons in their cabin on Camp lake served the most delicious 
 fritters and maple syrup that man or boy ever tasted. 
 
 At the far end of Camp lake was Snow's tavern. From here 
 crows flying north carried haversacks with frogs for rations, 
 for it was the jumping off place until the trail reached the Mus- 
 kegon river. 
 
 During the forties and the fifties this River Rouge country 
 was a lumberman's battlefield. Harry Ives, a Grand Rapids 
 millwright, with gangs of men packed their tools and supplies 
 from one mill site to another. 
 
 Only a fraction of the logs were sawed in the mills. In 
 one season Job Whipple, a captain of the river men and now 
 living in Grandville, floated 165,000,000 feet of logs out of the 
 river to the mills at the Haven. Many of these logs were so 
 large they were three years reaching their destination, hung 
 
 166 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 up on shoals and driftwood jams, their water bleached sides 
 like ghosts haunting the streams. 
 
 Only good grade logs were put into the streams, all other 
 were left for forest fires. From one forty-acre lot near Rock- 
 ford one million feet of logs were cut that scaled two and one- 
 half logs to the thousand feet. When the battle with the for- 
 est waii over the mill towns vanished and the river men and 
 woodsmen began hoeing corn in fields fenced with stumps. 
 
 I never climb one of these fences without looking for a cant- 
 hook or peavie, but find only bittersweet. 
 
 Prospect Hill 
 
 Prospect hill of pioneer days was a ridge of clay and gravel, 
 evidently of glacial formation, running from Monroe-st. north 
 beyond Lyon. Its height was about seventy feet above the 
 river bed, it was beautifully wooded and made a striking fea- 
 ture in the landscape. It was all leveled in the grading of the 
 city and the Peninsular club, the Michigan Trust building and 
 the City Hall are in line with and stand on what was formerly 
 the base of the hill. 
 
 Along in the fifties Prospect hill was the playground of the 
 uptown boys, even into city days, the Lyon and Pearl-sts. 
 slopes were favorite coasting places for boys and girls. 
 
 There were several ponds about its base, the best one fed 
 by springs was on the east side of the hill. Here Gay Perkins, 
 Charlie Leonard and Dan Tower skated in winter and manned 
 pirate crafts in summer, using garden gates for raft foundation 
 and fence pickets for propellers. 
 
 One of the first men to build a home on the hill was George 
 Martin, or as he was known later. Judge Martin. He had a 
 large, fine frame house on the crest of the hill with porches on 
 three sides. From the porch on the west side we could look 
 through the trees and in the evening watch the wigwam fires 
 on the islands and the jack lights of the fishermen spearing in 
 the river rapids. 
 
 The Martins had three boys, Billie, George and Charlie, and 
 one girl. May, and they were very cordial to visitors. 
 
 The house was usually overflowing with guests. The boys 
 
 167 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 made their own sleds at the shipyard forge, using scrap lum- 
 ber from Deacon Haldane's cabinet shop. If I remember cor- 
 rectly they made the first pair of bobs used on the hill, walnut 
 runners and a black cherry board, probably thrown into the 
 culls because there was a knot or two in it. 
 
 There was considerable trouble over the timber on the hill 
 and the strife over the honey salvaged from several bee trees 
 reached as far as the justice courts. Charlie Martin fell from 
 a tree where he was trying to capture a coon and broke his leg. 
 There was a near lawsuit over the girdling of some black cherry 
 trees, the fact that their bark soaked in a whisky keg made a 
 tonic for warding off ague being no excuse for the vandalism. 
 
 There were many beautiful specimens of oak, hickory and 
 basswood trees on the hill and about the base on all sides 
 many great elms and butternuts. 
 
 Among the guests at the Martin house, was Daniel Thomp- 
 son, a writer of novels. He was a lawyer, but did not work at 
 the trade. While visiting on Prospect hill he wrote ''May Mar- 
 tin," in compliment to the little daughter of the house; "The 
 Green Mountain Boys," ''The Gold Diggers" and several other 
 stories for boys and girls. Prospect hill featured in many of 
 his tales of the wilderness. He seemed to find the village full 
 of interesting people and made many friends. 
 
 Though the ridge gradually was leveled, it was 1890 before 
 the last of it was carted away. The banging of a shotgun 
 through that district today would cause more consternation to 
 the street loiterer than it ever did to the squirrels and rabbits 
 of that happy forest of childhood days. 
 
 Professor Edward W. Chesebro 
 
 There is in Oak Hill cemetery a monument erected to the 
 memory of Prof. Edward W. Chesebro by his pupils, bearing 
 this inscription: 
 
 "His was a teacher's heart 
 With zeal that never tired. 
 And thousand souls beat higher 
 By his single soul inspired." 
 
 168 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 The first school I attented on coming to Grand Rapids was 
 on Fountain-st. hill, the High school of the town. It had three 
 study and six recitation rooms. There was no basement to 
 the building. It was heated by wood stoves. Drinking water 
 was brought from a side hill spring in a pail and all the pupils 
 drank from the same dipper. 
 
 Mr. Chesebro was the principal and with rare good judg- 
 ment selected the teachers who assisted him. The years in 
 which he served were a trying time in the history of the 
 schools. The town was growing rapidly, but no funds could 
 be gained to build and equip buildings. The small salary of 
 teachers was often paid by school orders, passed at the stores 
 at a discount or in payment for merchandise at a high profit. 
 
 The country school teacher who boarded around the dis- 
 trict as part pay for service, had an advantage over the city 
 teacher. The farmer as a general rule had plenty of food. 
 
 The crowded school rooms, poorly ventilated, and heated 
 by wood stoves, with board floors where scores of muddy boots 
 left a trail of soil, were not a pleasant atmosphere in which 
 to work. The entire burden of school management fell on Mr. 
 Chesebro's shoulders. Men and women of today could hardly 
 be found to do the tasks imposed upon the principal and his 
 assistants. 
 
 He literally wore himself out in establishing the founda- 
 tion that others have built upon and was laid away in 1862, 
 not surviving the pioneering days. 
 
 The old playgrounds and my old playmates, come clearly 
 to my mind. There was only an acre of sand lot on the sand 
 hill bluffs for play groimds and half this space was piled high 
 with wood for the stoves. The girls managed to get in a few 
 swings but most of the place looked like a prairie dog village, 
 where various clans of boys dug in tunnels and made fortifica- 
 tions for their battles. 
 
 This congestion led to some of the boys going outside the 
 fence to the bluffs, even as far from school as the present site 
 of Crescent-pk. Here in a bunch of oak grubs, Richard Blum- 
 rich, Henry Lefiingwell, and Henry Rounds tunneled through 
 a point in the hill and felt they had a safe retreat from any 
 
 169 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 hostile clan. There one noon Henry Rounds, who was mostly 
 legs, was caught by a cave-in and only his feet left in sight. 
 His mates began frantically pulling at the legs. A Dutch- 
 man who owned the lot, advised them to wait while he ran to 
 the brewery for a shovel, but the boys with bare hands, suc- 
 ceeded in digging him out and by the time the shovel was at 
 hand every known way of getting sand out of a cave man and 
 air into him, was being applied. 
 
 The boys were an hour late and when they gave their 
 reason Prof. Chesebro called all the boys of the class to the 
 study room and gave them a life saving talk. He did not 
 approve of caves on the bluffs but he commended the bravery 
 of the boys who had stood by their playmate. From that 
 time on he made a stand for better playgrounds. 
 
 Grand Rapids could well afford the tribute of a Chesebro 
 avenue leading to a modern school and playground. 
 
 The Stone Schoolhouse 
 
 Along in the fifties it became necessary to enlarge the 
 schoolhouse on the west side of the river, so the wise men of 
 the school board decided to build large enough for all time. 
 River stone was plenty and cost only the digging and hauling; 
 building lumber was a drug on the market and good mechanics 
 one dollar per day of ten hours. 
 
 The school was built where the Union High now is. The 
 top, or third floor, was used for the Armory ; each lower floor 
 had a large study room and two recitation rooms. In the large 
 rooms were two box stoves — one on the girls' and one on the 
 boys' side of the room — which burned two-foot wood usually 
 carried upstairs by the boys. The tuition of the country boys 
 was often paid with wood. 
 
 The stoves were in one corner of the room and the pipe 
 ran to the other corner overhead, so no heat was lost. When 
 the men drilled in the Armory above, the vibrations parted the 
 pipe joints and the soot sifted down upon the pupils of Prof. 
 Boardman Taylor's night school; special classes for spelling 
 and penmanship were very popular because it gave the boys- 
 a chance to beau the girls home. 
 
 170 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 There was no janitor at first and when one was supplied, 
 he was known as the moderator and assisted the principal 
 when he got hold of a boy he could not manage single handed. 
 
 Everything was lovely in the spring and fall, when the 
 older boys worked outside, but in the winter when they came 
 in from the country the principal went armed with a six-foot 
 hickory pointer. The moderator earned his salary, for in the 
 battles the stove and all its pipe frequently came down. The 
 small boys crawled under the desks and the older ones tried 
 to be neutral. They wanted to see the country chaps downed 
 but could not forget that the same hickory pointer often beat 
 the dust out of their own trousers. Some of the principals 
 were short term men, the length of service depending upon 
 their muscle. Prof. Ballard, Prof. Clark, and Prof. Kent 
 stayed the longest, but they really applied tact along with 
 zeal and stick. 
 
 The schoolyard, inclosed by a board fence with a post 
 entrance at either corner — not so much to keep the pupils in 
 as to keep the cows and pigs out — was one city block in size 
 except for the home of Mrs. Stephen Cool, who owned two 
 lots at the corner of Turner and Fourth. She had declined to 
 give these up but the board was not much concerned since the 
 nearest well and supply of water was on her ground. She 
 had a fine vegetable garden and was a lover of flowers and 
 chickens. As the school grew her corner became quite a 
 problem. She was at war with the boys all the time. They 
 batted their balls through the windows, trampled the garden 
 down and that sweet two hundred-pound woman was worried 
 to a frazzle but could not be persuaded to sell out and go to 
 a quieter locality. 
 
 All the school ground west of the building was piled high 
 with cord wood for the winter fire. There on the top of the 
 high piled wood the little girls made houses and played with 
 their dolls. One of their innocent stories of a cave in the 
 wood pile revealed a fraud perpetrated by a south end farmer, 
 many cords short in his contract to the city. 
 
 West of Broadway was swamp, with a thick tangle of 
 alders and other marsh growth, through which ran a tame sort 
 
 171 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 of a creek where frogs held concerts. The boys who loved 
 adventure cleaned out the snakes, but the crop of frogs seem- 
 ingly grew no less though many found their way into the 
 schoolrooms in coat pockets and were let loose to hop about 
 on the girls' side. In this swamp the boys made robber dens 
 in accordance with the fiction of the day. 
 
 There was a woman who had a home on the bank of the 
 creek above Fifth-st. In a willow thicket below her house 
 some girls innocently built a dam which blocked the water and 
 drowned all the chickens. Of course, the engineering feat was 
 laid to boys. I always liked that woman, but not well enough 
 to give to her the names of the girls who played in that 
 heaven of mud, water and pollywogs. 
 
 It seems to me there never was a schoolhouse with so 
 many natural attractions for the boys and girls, but along with 
 the years came the big ditch and swallowed the creek and the 
 dump of the city buried the alders, willows and cattails. Mrs. 
 Cool's garden, chickens and pump were outlawed. The old 
 stone school was condemned in 1872 as a worn-out building and 
 unsafe for the increasing numbers. While replacing it school 
 was held in a long wooden shed built the length of the Third- 
 st. side. The rooms were so exactly alike that small children 
 became confused and had to be escorted to their places. The 
 third school now stands on this location and enrolls more 
 children than lived in all the city at the time the old stone 
 school was built. Above the swamp where Dick built a 
 robber's roost with a dime novel for a guide, his great-grand- 
 son is taught ''how to play" and teeters on a board with a 
 caretaker to see he does not fall off. The stone school that 
 seemed built for eternity has become but a legend. 
 
 Rev. James Ballard, Schoolmaster 
 
 Many of the ''gray locks" of today recall with great affec- 
 tion James Ballard, teacher, preacher, and orator, who came 
 to Michigan from Vermont in 1838. He started to clear a 
 farm in Paris township, but wrestling with log heaps and hunt- 
 ing stray cows was not congenial work for a college-bred man. 
 He soon became an all around man in the community — school- 
 
 172 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 master, Baptist minister, temperance orator and at one time 
 was a candidate for the legislature on a dry ticket, in a very 
 wet district, receiving sixteen votes. 
 
 In the early fifties, he became the first principal of the two 
 schools of the village, but not until 1858 did I make acquaint- 
 ance with his hickory ruler as a pupil in the stone school on 
 the west side. 
 
 In those days boys as well as steers were broken in with 
 a gad. Mr. Ballard carried his goose-quill pen behind his ear 
 and one day he caught me laughing at his efforts to keep his 
 long black hair and the quill in place while he applied the ruler 
 to Henry Goodsell. He called me out to hold the quill while 
 he finished Henry and then his keen eyes twinkled while I got 
 a bit of medicine myself. 
 
 One of his favorite punishments was to make an unruly boy 
 sit on the girls' side of the room. I don't know what I did 
 to arouse his wrath, but one day I was commanded to go sit 
 with red-headed Emily Pettibone. Emily's father owned a fine 
 piece of woods on West Bridge-st. in about the present locality 
 of the St. James' church and she of the sunset locks was one 
 of my best chums — as Mr. Ballard soon discovered, so the 
 order was rescinded to bringing a pail of drinking water from 
 Mrs. Cool's well. 
 
 For all the strict discipline he was friendly with the boys. 
 The Armory at that time was on the third floor of the school- 
 house and on stormy days the older boys, with Mr. Ballard for 
 umpire, put on boxing gloves and he played with the same pep 
 with which he ruled. 
 
 One of the interesting things I recall of that school was 
 the attendance for a short time of four Indian boys from 
 Bass River. They spoke a dialect of Indian and French with 
 very little English and it became my duty to work out on 
 the blackboard their names in English. Some of the parents 
 objected to this mixture in the schools and the boys were 
 sent to the Pentwater reservation. 
 
 Mr. Ballard taught elocution with many gestures and much 
 rolling of the r's. Every Friday afternoon was a period for 
 recitations when he endeavored to fire the sapheads who mostly 
 
 173 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 were too green to burn. He tried in vain to inspire one of these 
 Indians with the fact that the "Ragged Rascal Ran" and 
 rolled his r's all the time he was running, but finally gave up 
 and told the boy to recite his own way. In perfect imitation of 
 Mr. Ballard's most impressive gestures the Indian gravely 
 proclaimed, "The d — thief run like h — ," and the principal 
 was the first to shout his approval. 
 
 For a long time Mr. Ballard filled the pulpit of the little 
 church at Steele's landing, now Lamont. The country was 
 being rapidly settled with the best of eastern people, almost to 
 a man American bom. There were few papers to spread the 
 news and the preacher's two-hour talk was a fine treat, for he 
 went to them with head and heart full of the great events 
 of the day. 
 
 Those were abolition days and there was an underground 
 route for the black man that touched Steele's landing on the 
 way from the south to Canada. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon I was at the landing with my canoe 
 and was somewhat overawed when the preacher asked to go 
 home with me. Farmers usually gave him a lift part of the 
 way or the steamboat came along. He made himself a cushion 
 of wild grape vine in the bow with a piece of driftwood for a 
 back, talked of the river and sang, not the chantys of the river 
 man, but Scotch and Irish melodies, until he fell asleep. And I 
 knew that my schoolmaster was at heart only a boy after all. 
 
 The West Side Meeting House 
 This meeting house fronted Bridge-st. near the west end of 
 the bridge. It was there when I came to town and I had no 
 right to find fault with it, but some way it got on my nerves. 
 There was nothing about it that appealed to a boy of my build, 
 especially on bright Sunday mornings. 
 
 Painted Venetian red outside and smoke-tanned to a faded 
 olive inside, the windows were of seven by nine glass. One 
 of the deacons was known as "Old Seven By Nine." 
 
 The seats were clear stuff pine in straight lines. There was 
 no place for a shoulder blade or an angle where a fellow could 
 rest his conscience. Sometimes in summer, clouds of fish flies 
 
 174 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 swarmed outside and a few thousands were snared in the cob- 
 webs that ornamented the interior. There were two large 
 box stoves which the boys were supposed to feed on cold days. 
 
 There was nothing that would drive a boy to the woods 
 much quicker than the thought of bucking up wood on Sunday 
 morning. If the people who made up the congregation had not 
 been the best Christians in the world the ministers who came 
 there to preach would have died of homesickness. 
 
 Grand Rapids at this time was blessed with good singers, 
 men and women, and the church had its share of them. If 
 the preacher found only misery and judgment in his text the 
 choir assisted the congregation to something like happiness 
 and content. There was no organ and the belief that the fiddle 
 was a part of Satan's outfit had a strong hold on this west 
 side meeting house. 
 
 Henry Stone was an officer and member of the church. He 
 was also a fine musician and being of Revolutionary stock he 
 made no attempt to smother the fife and driun. He also played 
 the fiddle and rosined his bow for the hymns, pitching the 
 tune for the members of the choir. It was one Easter morning 
 and all the country and town folk assembled for service, when, 
 for the first time in the history of that meeting house, the clear 
 notes of a fife penetrated the peaceful atmosphere. 
 
 Henry Stone certainly made everyone sit up and take 
 notice. It was like a warning that old Nick himself had ar- 
 rived. Some of the deacons blew their noses loudly, others 
 wiped their unbelieving spectacles. Old Mrs. Weinberger, 
 whom the boys rather fittingly called "Mrs. Vinegar," grabbed 
 at her brood of four and marched out. 
 
 The following Sunday Henry came in with his fiddle and 
 the congregation gave a good imitation of bumble-bees about 
 to swarm. Some of those dear old people continued to buzz 
 until a traveling peddler came along and sold the church a 
 melodian that groaned as if it was full of pain and green 
 apples. 
 
 Thanks to Henry Stone the church began to hold some 
 interest for the boys. Also the real musical education of the 
 west side boomed that summer. At a corner bench in dad's 
 
 175 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 shop, now moved to the west side, the boys worked busily on 
 cane fish poles. Cut into lengths between joints, they made 
 good fifes and the boys also acquired considerable skill in 
 making corn-stalk fiddles. A large crop of these musical in- 
 struments were produced and some of them are today family 
 keepsakes of the old west side people. And through it all 
 Henry, unafraid, marched with his fife at the head of the 
 Fourth of July parade. 
 
 With the City Firemen 
 
 One afternoon in 1857, 1 occupied a reserved seat on the top 
 of a house on Monroe street along with some forty odd boys 
 and girls and saw twenty-five business places destroyed by 
 fire. The fire started in a drug store on Monroe between Wat- 
 erloo and Ottawa-sts. 
 
 There were three fire companies at that time and Number 
 One and Number Two were in the crater, while Number Three 
 was working to save surrounding property. It looked from 
 my position as if all the people of the town were helping; 
 throwing glass and china from upper windows and lugging 
 feather beds down stairways. 
 
 From one of the stores many large boxes of dry paints were 
 carried into the street. Every store kept whisky in those days : 
 none of them drinking water. As a result the male population, 
 thirsty and hard pressed by the flames, got a little dizzy and 
 began tumbling into the paint boxes. Yellows and greens and 
 purple began to blend with the blue and gray of smoke and 
 ashes. If any of you have a desire to know how funny a man 
 really can look, fill his inside with fire water and his outside 
 with the colors of the rainbow. 
 
 Were it not that the wind-driven fire brands threatened the 
 entire town it would have been the most successful carnival 
 the people ever put on the street. 
 
 From a doctor's ofl[ice some fellows salvaged a pickling 
 cask. It tipped into the gutter and scattered the contents and 
 an Indian with a scalping knife could not have stampeded a 
 crowd more quickly. 
 
 Number One and Number Two fire companies became 
 
 176 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 badly demoralized by evening. Overcome by spirits and 
 crusted with color they disappeared from the scene of con- 
 flagration. Number Three saved the town by working until 
 daylight next morning. The women keeping them going by 
 carrying coffee and sandwiches. The following Sunday every 
 church in town was given a sermon on temperance. 
 
 As a reward of merit to Number Three company for keep- 
 ing sober, the women of the town expressed their appreciation 
 by the gift of a beautiful satin banner, which is now among 
 the treasures of the Kent Scientific Museum. 
 
 This fire had all the thrills of a great battle. It was the 
 fireside story of the year and while it distressed many people 
 for a long time, now that the paint is washed off they can 
 smile, even at the foreman of the company, who, lying on his 
 back in a box of red paint, waived his brass trumpet vaguely 
 and shouted: ^'Play away. Number Two." 
 
 Firemen of the Fifties 
 
 Fire fighting is an inherited trait. Every boy gloried in his 
 father on parade. When the town had three fire companies 
 there was an auxiliary force of small sons following up each 
 one. The writer was a trailer of Nmnber Three and feels that 
 he would not be loyal to the memory of that west side aux- 
 iliary if he had no word for their achievements. 
 
 In the fall, ''when the frost was on the vine" and fires about 
 the stumps on vacant lots gave enchantment to the night, war 
 dances were staged. They were the only dances many of the 
 boys could have, for their parents belonged to a church which 
 prohibited such exercise. 
 
 The commons on Stocking-av. was a great congregating 
 place, stumps being plentiful. Nearby there lived a good old 
 colored mammy whose gifts as a fortune teller had brought 
 her fame and some wealth. 
 
 In the shuffling of cards she always found "a handsome 
 young gentleman sure after you, my dear lady. You keep track 
 of yoiu* steps and he sure done catch up with you." 
 
 Moreover, she found good fortune for the moderate sum of 
 
 177 . . 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 twenty-five cents. Between seasons she hung out a sign, "Goin' 
 out washun dun here." 
 
 The madam's house, a two-story structure, had so many 
 lean-tos built on that a boy could jump from the rain barrel 
 to the roof of the first and then by series of angles and climbs 
 reach the peak of the main roof out of which came the stove- 
 pipe from the lower floor. 
 
 At that date there were not many colored people here, but 
 they had a little church and every once in a while had a social 
 to raise funds for repairing the shingles. 
 
 One evening the social was at the madam's and every col- 
 ored person in town was in attendance. They were just about 
 eating up the results of the shingle collection when Number 
 Three fire auxiliary, playing about a blazing stump on the 
 commons, discovered madam's chimney on fire — a roaring 
 torch in the gloom of a cloudy night. In breathless haste the 
 boys formed a bucket brigade and, shinning up the various 
 roofs, the most daring hero reached the peak and turned the 
 first and only bucket of water into the red-hot pipe. 
 
 One must have a fireman's experience to know what hap- 
 pened to the social below; a bang like a thunderbolt, soot, 
 ashes, fire and steam. By the time the folks had the cinders 
 out of their eyes and the fear of the Lord out of their hearts 
 the firemen sensed they had stirred up something. 
 
 Faster running was done in getting away from that fire 
 than was ever done in getting to another, and all that fall and 
 winter the sons of Number Three held their war dances in 
 another place on the west side. 
 
 My Fire Service Before the Civil War 
 
 When about fourteen years old I became interested in 
 Number Three fire company. My father was a member and it 
 was every boy's ambition to run with the engine. 
 
 No salaries were paid; in fact, one had to pay fifty cents 
 annual dues and fifty cents fine for missing a fire or monthly 
 meeting. I was assigned the duty of bearing the torch, a brass 
 globe that held about a quart of fish oil on the end of a four- 
 foot staff. I must be first man at the engine house and with 
 
 178 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 the torch run ahead of the machine to light the road to the fire. 
 Once there and the machine set, I must go with the pipeman 
 and light the way into stairways and other dark places. It 
 certainly was a life of adventure. 
 
 It was my start in public affairs and caused many sleepless 
 hours, with no pay, in return. I rather think those men and 
 boys would have felt insulted if pay had been offered them. 
 
 Mother made me a red shirt and embroidered in silk on the 
 front a figure three. Every time I carried the torch mother 
 had to wash the fish oil out of my clothes. That was one of 
 the penalties she paid for the glory of having a fireman in the 
 family. 
 
 I had the trade pretty well learned by the beginning of 
 the Civil war and when the various war organizations absorbed 
 nearly every able-bodied man in Number Three company it 
 became necessary to make up a new hose company. 
 
 I was elected foreman with a silver plated trumpet as a 
 badge of authority. I had reached the top round of the ladder. 
 Boys had attained a commercial value then and the common 
 council announced they would pay five dollars each at the 
 end of a year's service. 
 
 When the year ended the city clerk, Mr. Doubleday, sent 
 each one of the company an order for five dollars, but there 
 was no money in the treasury. Then John W. Squires, the 
 miller, said he would give us a two himdred-pound barrel of 
 flour for each order. 
 
 I went to his mill, built of river stone on the river's east 
 bank, not far south of the bridge, and took my flour home in 
 my canoe to save expense. It was the proudest moment of 
 my fire fighting life when I rolled that barrel of flour into 
 mother's kitchen. My father was in the army and a whole 
 barrel of flour at one time was cause for a jubilee. I was one 
 of twenty boys who made their mothers happy that day. 
 
 I am quite certain that this was the first pay ever given 
 volunteer firemen in this city. 
 
 Hose company Number Three became a west side institu- 
 tion. The members were from the best families and were a 
 live bunch. Nearly all men of military age being in the first 
 
 179 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 call for war, the sons began to keep the home fires burning. 
 They found time to buck up wood for the kitchen stoves and 
 play man of the house. They had a regular drill night at the 
 Armory, where soldiers were made, and a weekly social dance 
 at the engine house, with an invitation list and printed pro- 
 gram. Tickets were fifty cents and there was a company fund 
 to meet expenses. 
 
 From this training, the early days of 1862 called them to 
 army service almost to a man and they stepped naturally into 
 the ranks. And though this is not a war story just let me 
 state, that of the eighteen boys who marched away from Num- 
 ber Three fire company, fourteen sleep in the ground of the 
 sunny South. 
 
 Experience of a Volunteer Fireman 
 
 There was no small responsibility attached to the job of 
 being a fireman in the early days of the town. Most of the 
 buildings were of wood and lumber yards were numerous. All 
 the fuel was wood. Fish oil, tallow candles and camphene 
 furnished light. It took very little to start a fire and there 
 was always plenty of combustible material for it to feed upon. 
 So a fireman's responsibilities were never far from mind. 
 
 One never heard, in those days, of nervous prostration. 
 When the bottom fell out of the pork barrel a man did not stop 
 to wash his face in the brine. In all their hard times those fire- 
 men kept their shirts, belts and caps on the parlor table ready 
 for instant use and while not nervous they gained a fire in- 
 stinct that many a time had them on the run for the engine 
 house before the alarm sounded. 
 
 During my ten years' experience in fire fighting I was often 
 dressed before the alarm box sounded, and once stood in the 
 street, holding my horse by the bridle, until a glow on the sky 
 gave me my direction. 
 
 The night the Eagle hotel burned, in the early eighties, my 
 gray saddle mare kicked her way out of the stable and was at 
 the fire a mile away before any of the firemen were there. No 
 one knew how long it had been smoldering, but the entire 
 building came down with a crash before half of the depart- 
 
 180 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 ment was at hand. Often when I became assistant chief men 
 came to me with their resignations and the excuse was, "It's 
 getting on my nerves. I am out before the alarm and I am 
 going to quit." 
 
 When David Caswell was foreman of Number Three there 
 was one volunteer, a leading citizen and daring fire fighter, 
 who often came to him predicting fires but not their localities. 
 So accurate were his predictions that he and other members 
 of the company sometimes slept in the engine house waiting 
 the call. 
 
 Finally this man told Mr. Caswell there was going to be a 
 fire longer than a street and threatening the entire town, and 
 for two nights men slept on the floor of the engine house and 
 those living near by, in most of their clothing. This was a 
 long time before the invention of electric fire alarms and when 
 there were no night police. 
 
 When the call finally came, the woodenware factory be- 
 longing to Mr. Caswell just at the east end of the bridge, was 
 all ablaze. With a rush Number Three machine and crew ran 
 under cover of the bridge, but so rapidly did the fire spread 
 over the bridge that men hauling the engine were scorched and 
 those following jumped into the river to save their lives. They 
 got their engine safely to the east side, but the bridge was com- 
 pletely destroyed and they had to load the engine on a scow 
 above the dam to get it back to the engine house on the west 
 side. 
 
 The man I referred to as predicting this fire became for a 
 time an object of gossip and suspicion, but loved and trusted 
 by his companions, he did not leave the company — simply 
 ceased to give his warnings because sensitive to the attention 
 being drawn to himself. 
 
 One of the most daring feats ever performed by a fireman 
 was that of Tom Bedell of Number Two company at an early 
 morning blaze that destroyed the Bissell Carpet Sweeper 
 plant. Trapped on the upper floor he dropped from a fifth 
 story window to the window ledges below, making five success- 
 ful drops and catching each ledge until he reached the ground 
 practically unharmed. 
 
 181 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 The Volunteer Firemen of Early Days 
 
 The first fire engine in Grand Rapids was the hand work of 
 one of its own citizens, WilUam Peaslee. It was made in 1846 
 and it cost sixty dollars to build an engine house to shelter it. 
 
 The engine was of the tub pattern. The tub, thirty by 
 sixty inches and fifteen inches deep, was set on dead axles and 
 on wheels thirty inches high. The water must be first dipped 
 in by buckets, often from the river. Once a red-fin mullet 
 choked the pump and before they got the fish out the build- 
 ing was a total loss to the insurance company. 
 
 In service the pioneer engine was pushed close to the fire, 
 the water turned in with buckets and pumped out by four 
 men, two on either side. 
 
 The drawback to this engine was the reluctance of men 
 and women to line up from the river to the fire and pass full 
 buckets one way and empty ones the other. Everybody wanted 
 to be near the fire and see the engine squirt. To help out this 
 laudable ambition cisterns were built at some street intersec- 
 tions. These could be filled by roof water on rainy days. The 
 public cisterns were helped out by wells and dwelling house 
 cisterns. There existed a belief in scientific minds that soft 
 rain water pumped easier than hard spring water and many 
 housewives found dry cisterns on wash-day. 
 
 Finally some public spirited men passed the hat and with 
 six hundred and seventy-five dollars secured from the same 
 builder a larger engine that required sixteen men to pmnp and 
 would throw five barrels of water a minute over the roof of 
 a two-story building. 
 
 This engine was stored in the schoolhouse on Prospect 
 hill. The town then had two fire engines — one to throw a 
 short, the other a long distance, much like the houses in 
 Shantytown that had two holes in the outside door, one large 
 to let the old cat in, the other small for the kitten. 
 
 Many of the men who manned the second engine, living a 
 long distance away, were wind-broken before they reached 
 the hilltop and seldom had a fair show at a fire. 
 
 The new engine had a suction to fill the tub when the fire 
 
 182 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 happened to be near a cistern or the river, but as the depart- 
 ment had but two hundred and fifty feet of hose the bucket 
 brigade was not disbanded. 
 
 The hose, made of heavy sole leather riveted with copper, 
 cost a lot of money. Greasing it twice a year with neat's-foot 
 oil took much of the romance out of the lives of the hose com- 
 pany. 
 
 The men who served on these engines were unpaid volun- 
 teers. Every live man wanted to be identified with the fire 
 department and the town was blessed with live men. There 
 were a scattering few known as "basswood hams" who did not 
 run with the machine when the fire bell rang. 
 
 While no one drew pay these firemen were fined fifty cents 
 if absent from a fire. In Lis uniform of red shirt, brickbat 
 hat, and patent leather belt, the fireman was the admiration of 
 the fair sex. Often when the alarm came it took so long for a 
 man to run home, slip on his red shirt and his belt — for how 
 else could he keep his trousers up — ^that by the time he 
 arrived the fire had burned itself out. The foreman with his 
 brass trumpet was the envy of the boys. 
 
 Once a week the firemen had a dance, to which only those 
 in good standing were admitted. Tickets at fifty cents paid 
 for music and invitations. Supper was extra. If a fellow came 
 in with a liquor breath they threw him out so hard he never 
 came back. 
 
 These were little sprouts leading to the growth of our de- 
 partment as we have it today. Then, if the department ar- 
 rived at the fire in thirty minutes it had made good time. 
 Today, if not there in thirty seconds it is investigated. If 
 our present fire marshal was seen running down Monroe-av. 
 with a brass trumpet looking for his fire company he would 
 land in the state hospital at Kalamazoo. 
 
 Old Volunteer Firemen 
 
 Often in dodging trafiic on Campau Square the writer runs 
 head on to Warren C. Weatherly, who fifty odd years ago was 
 foreman in a rival volunteer fire company. He boosted with 
 all his might for Number One. I pegged for Number Three. 
 
 183 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 At the present time fire fighting is a profession calling for 
 bravery and the best physical strength. The men are paid for 
 their service and sometimes earn a great deal more than they 
 receive. In the early days of the town men had the same qual- 
 ifications but were not on the pay roll. Fire fighting was a 
 public duty. Civic pride and the saving of life and property 
 were the incentives ; to many men it was a time of adventure. 
 The men equipped themselves often to the extent of paying 
 for their fire fighting apparatus. 
 
 When the first Lagrave-st. fire station, called Number One, 
 was built, Mr. Weatherly, then in the service, selected and or- 
 ganized the men who made up the company. With rare good 
 judgment he selected from the volunteer force Henry Lemoine, 
 afterward chief of the department, giving his entire life to the 
 service, and Solon Baxter, a Civil war cavalryman who for 
 many years, as assistant chief, gave exhibitions of daring 
 horsemanship through the busy streets. Then there was 
 Henry Carr, the son of a noted Civil war officer. He left the 
 fire company to become a city librarian and is now at Scran- 
 ton, Pa., one of the noted men of the country in that profession. 
 Mr. Weatherly, himself, as a sanitary engineer and builder, 
 is well known in every city of the state. 
 
 The men named indicate the caliber of Number One com- 
 pany. Their energies were directed to building up the fire 
 fighting force that the city required. One of New York's 
 famous regiments in the Civil war were all volunteer firemen 
 and so powerful were they in the life of the community that 
 city councils began to use them as a political body. 
 
 The firemen in Grand Rapids could not be handled in that 
 way. Each ward alderman worked for his own interest, so 
 everything in the way of better equipment came slowly and 
 often at the expense of the firemen themselves. 
 
 Grand Rapids was a mill town and fires were frequent and 
 often fierce because it took so long to get in the alarm. At 
 night the glow on the sky was all the guide we had. To be the 
 first to get a stream of water on the fire was a company's am- 
 bition and Foreman Weatherly of Number One began ways 
 
 184 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 to secure quick alarms for his men. There was one all-night 
 police station where the Grand Rapids Savings bank is now 
 located and there the calls were first reported. Mr. Weather- 
 ly studied out a plan to connect the Lagrave-st. fire station 
 with the police station by wire and scoop the other companies. 
 The cost of the material would be eighty dollars. He peti- 
 tioned the city council to pay half this cost. He would con- 
 tribute the labor and if the scheme was a failure he agreed to 
 stand all the expense. 
 
 He arranged an electrical alarm, a twelve-inch gong along- 
 side a twelve-inch clock dial, which in turning would make a 
 contact with round brass head nails. From the nails a wire 
 w^as to lead to the home and bedside of each member of the 
 company. The police would receive the alarm and then swing 
 the dial until the round of numbers had been called. 
 
 The plan was a success and the Lagrave-st. boys beat the 
 other companies to the fires, so these petitioned for the same 
 favor, but the council after weeks of debate decided to put in 
 six Gamewell fire alarm boxes in different sections of the city. 
 
 The firemen, disgusted with the slow going aldermen, quiet- 
 ly began a game of their own, and through legislative action 
 placed the department in the control of a commission that 
 served the entire city and in time gave Grand Rapids the best 
 fire department in the country. From Mr. Weatherly's be- 
 ginnings, the savings in insurance alone to the property own- 
 ers, has been many times the cost and maintenance of the de- 
 partment. 
 
 The surviving members of the old volunteer companies 
 will always recall with gratitude the women of their day who 
 so loyally aided them in times of unusual stress. The mill and 
 lumber yard fires were often fierce affairs and no matter how 
 bad the sleet or snow or darkness, some good woman was sure 
 to come with hot coffee, sandwiches or doughnuts. Mrs. 
 Wilder D. Foster, Mrs. Charlotte Richards, Mrs. James D. 
 Robinson and my own dear mother, come to mind as some of 
 the good angels of the day, though there were many others 
 who deserve equal credit. 
 
 185 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 Number Three's Engine House 
 
 The membership of Number Three fire company included 
 all the real live men of the community, men of all trades and 
 professions. At this date it would be difficult for me to recall 
 all the names of those leaders of thought and action, many of 
 whom in the days of the Civil war won rank and title. 
 
 Beginning in 1859 and finishing in 1860, without public 
 aid, they secured the lot and built the engine house on Scrib- 
 ner-st., for many years past occupied by the West Side Ladies* 
 Literary club. 
 
 Most of the labor on this building was done after six 
 o'clock on summer evenings. Men who had put in ten hours 
 on day jobs hurried to the engine house and worked until 
 darkness drove them home. Often the wife with a baby on 
 one arm and a basket on the other met her husband and they 
 had supper at the building so that no minute of daylight would 
 be lost. In those days the town owed no man a living. Every 
 man felt he owed the community all that he could give for 
 its advancement. 
 
 As the front of our engine house took shape, pillars of 
 Grand Rapids marble quarried in the Hovey plaster mines 
 were cut and polished for either side of the door. These were 
 the only parts of the building that proved not durable. Doors 
 and window frames of elaborate design were made by hand. 
 Fine stained glass windows were put in. The glass came 
 from Chicago and was very carefully spread out and studied 
 over before being leaded into place. The color effects were 
 highly satisfactory in the glow of the afternoon sun. 
 
 An artist lettered the wall in gold leaf ''Alpha and Omega." 
 Not many of the men knew what this meant, but were careful 
 not to expose their ignorance. 
 
 The opening night was the great event of the year. All 
 the town was there. There was the best of music by a score of 
 fiddlers and dancing kept up until daylight. Some of the good 
 church people danced and later were summoned before the 
 church dignitaries for discipline. 
 
 Never again until the great homecoming dinner served on 
 Pearl-st. bridge at the close of the Civil war were so many 
 
 186 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 beautiful ladies at one gathering. In an improvised bower in 
 the rear of the lower floor were two barrels of lemonade; the 
 one for men had a stick in it. At midnight a fine supper was 
 served. All the table silverware on the west side was there 
 and although a colored string was tied to each piece it took the 
 balance of the summer to separate and return it to the right- 
 ful owners. 
 
 Not until Civil war days was the engine house dropped 
 from the social calendar. Occasionally the rival companies 
 or a revengeful, rejected guest started a fire in a slab pile or 
 shingle mill just to break up the festivities. The firemen 
 always kept their fire shirts and rough pants ready for emer- 
 gency and if an alarm came in there was a wild scramble to 
 get out of party clothes and on the run with the hand engine 
 and hose reel. 
 
 Fire Company Number Three Visits Muskegon 
 
 Here is a word of greeting to old-time firemen of the "Mill 
 Town" on the lake, who in sawdust days of the seventies 
 sometimes called on Grand Rapids for assistance. 
 
 The Muskegon firemen, under Chief Frank Jiroch, were 
 as eflicient as America produced, but when fire started in the 
 mills or lumber yards it had the aid of the winds from the 
 lake and spread with such rapidity that often every effort 
 had to be devoted to saving life while the fire sometimes 
 spread from mills and Imnber to the entire business and resi- 
 dence section. 
 
 Grand Rapids always made a quick response to these calls 
 from neighboring towns and they were numerous. For con- 
 venience, a flat car was kept by the G. R. & I. railroad at a 
 landing platform near its west Bridge-st. station. 
 
 One wild night in September, 1874, when the wind was 
 blowing a forty -mile gale, Number Three company was called 
 to load a steamer and hose cart for Muskegon. The western 
 sky was aglow and the stars were playing hide and seek with 
 the fast flying clouds, when we cleared the junction — now Ful- 
 ler station — and headed toward Nimica, where we switched 
 for Muskegon. 
 
 187 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 I was the foreman of Number Three and felt a certain re- 
 sponsibility for the safe conduct of the expedition, but had to 
 exercise most of it in hanging to the hose cart. It seemed the 
 way that flat car jumped about that George Elliot, the engineer 
 of the locomotive, and James Bessey, his fireman, had taken 
 cross lots and were dodging stumps and cattle. 
 
 Elliot had one hand on the lever and the other pulling the 
 whistle cord, while Bessey kept a line of wood going into the 
 furnace and a swirl of coals and sparks rolling from the stack 
 over the firemen, who were clinging to the steamer and cart 
 wheels. 
 
 We were making a mile a minute and if we had struck one 
 of the cows that were running at large, the man in the moon 
 would have had cream in his morning coffee. 
 
 I tried to beg for more caution but was kept too busy spit- 
 ting cinders. Then I saw Jim Bessey, who had served in my 
 company during the Civil war, grinning at me over the top of 
 the wood pile on the tender and my confidence returned. 
 
 The track has been cleared at both switching points and 
 we arrived in Muskegon about one a. m. A nervy driver with 
 a pair of horses ran the company down a long avenue of burn- 
 ing wreckage. Even the roadway of plank and sawdust was 
 ablaze in places. But we had to make it in order to reach the 
 slip at the lake and get water. The fire had spread all along 
 the lake front. The Muskegon firemen had lost line after 
 line of hose, part of their apparatus, and with burned hands 
 and blistered faces were still putting up a heroic fight. We 
 were soon putting up about as desperate a battle ourselves, 
 for mills, lumber yards, business places and homes were being 
 wiped out over at least fifteen blocks. 
 
 Into this furnace where we were working, came a man who 
 seemed to be warped out of shape by the heat. He pleaded, 
 ''For God's Sake, save my lot. My house is gone, my shop, my 
 barn — everything is gone but the lot. Save that!" 
 
 There have been times when my head has been so thick 
 that I have been slow in catching on. I was somewhat dazed 
 and not until the fire was checked did I realize that his lot 
 was a long-time accumulation of slabs and sawdust resting 
 
 188 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 on a foundation of lily pads and cattails. We heeded his 
 prayer and flooded the place before we withdrew for another 
 location. In after years I tried in vain to locate that lot, but 
 when I see the pleasant streets, the parks and fine buildings 
 of today, I rejoice that Number Three was able at least to 
 save the ground on which they stand. 
 
 We worked steadily on that fire until late the following 
 afternoon. Citizens kept us supplied with coffee and sand- 
 wiches until we were ready to return to Grand Rapids. Then 
 we were given a dinner at the best hotel and the mayor was 
 on hand to thank us. I am sorry that I cannot recall the name 
 of the mayor, for his expressions of gratitude repaid the Grand 
 Rapids firemen many times and made us feel we had been 
 serving our own home folks. 
 
 When our outfit was again loaded upon the fiat car we 
 made George Elliot promise to stick to the rails on the way 
 home. Then all lay down to sleep on the floor of the old flat 
 car. 
 
 General I. C. Smith's "Pony" 
 
 In the seventies large droves of saddle horses were shipped 
 from the western plains to eastern markets. Many of these 
 animals had been used by the cattle herdsmen and buffalo 
 hunters and not a few in army service against the Indians. 
 Many horses were branded with the mark "U. S." and saddle 
 scars were frequent and denoted training. 
 
 From one of these droves General Smith selected for the 
 fire department, of which he was chief, a horse that responded 
 to the name Pony. Besides a ranch brand he bore several 
 scars, but none that disfigured him. He had a dark, almost 
 black, silken coat, three white ankles and a three point white 
 star on his forehead. 
 
 General Smith, noted in the Civil war cavalry for his horse- 
 manship, had also seen service on the cattle ranges of Kansas 
 and Colorado and had had experience as a buffalo hunter. At 
 first sight he bought the Pony, but was also attracted to a bay 
 horse, free from blemish except for the faint brand U. S. Baby 
 was his name and he was a garrison horse — a woman's pet, 
 excitable but kind and a perfect saddler. 
 
 189 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 The salesman was reluctant to part with him, but finally 
 did so because the general was taking Pony. These two saddle 
 horses cost the city about two hundred dollars and because 
 other horses of this lot were sold at fifty dollars or less the 
 grumbling of some of the city fathers was long and loud. 
 
 Baby was kept as an extra supply horse and we often rode 
 him to keep him in trim, but the general found in Pony his 
 ideal for speed, gait and style. About this time the buffalo 
 robe was the popular covering used by farmers, city drivers 
 or livery stables, in wagons or sleighs, and cold weather had 
 no sooner set in than the general learned that Pony's scars had 
 come from horn or hoof and gone in deeper than the hide. 
 
 The odor of the robes, even in a stable, gave the horse a 
 nervous chill and the sight of one threw him into a panic. 
 While running for a fire on North Canal street one day the 
 general cut close in the rear of a farm wagon. Pony made 
 a lunge to the side that landed his rider full length on his back 
 — fortunately on the buffalo robe in the wagon body. 
 
 Three times that winter the general was unhorsed by Pony 
 jumping from under him and finally he made a headlong slide 
 on the street car track, breaking the general's ankle and lay- 
 ing him up several weeks. 
 
 Jimmie Howell, the supply driver, took so many tumbles 
 that no count was kept of them. When the general left the 
 fire service no one was found to ride the Pony and deprived of 
 his exercise he soon had to be retired. 
 
 Baby, the supply horse, had evidently been an army post 
 pet, probably stolen by some horse thief, for it would seem 
 that no soldier would ever have parted with so lovable and 
 intelligent an animal. Neither whip nor spur was ever used 
 on him and the call of a bugle or sound of a band put him on 
 parade in an instant. 
 
 In those days there were a great many fine saddle horses, 
 several of the police officers were well mounted and riding 
 was a popular diversion with both men and women. 
 
 Every parade brought out the best the city had and the 
 fire department was always a prominent feature. On two or 
 three Fourth of July's the town staged what was very properly 
 
 190 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 termed Horribles. In 1878 an added feature of the parade was 
 an Indian pageant managed by General Smith, who imper- 
 sonated Sitting Bull. I loaned my horse Fly to a friend and 
 all rigged up as Lone Star was mounted on Baby. We were 
 the real thing; even our families did not recognize us — ^war 
 paint, feather bonnets and moccasins, riding bare back and 
 our only saddle equipment a mouth strap. 
 
 The streets were jammed with people and when the parade 
 started the profanity of the Horribles, the whooping of Indians 
 and waving of war bonnets went all right with the average 
 horse, but was too much for the nerves of Pony and the Baby. 
 Sitting Bull left very hurriedly for the east and after a rest 
 somewhere in the vicinity of Fisk lake returned to his home 
 on Lagrave street after dark. 
 
 Baby headed up Canal street, as wild a horse as ever 
 carried an Indian. How the people ever saved themselves I 
 do not know, except that the horse jumped over those he could 
 not dodge. Wet with perspiration he became slippery as an 
 eel and trained to rein by a touch on the neck the mouth strap 
 would not halt him. When I tried to hold him I slipped up 
 near his ears, so when nearing the city pumping station and 
 a clear plot of lawn, I leaned far over and gripped his nostrils, 
 choking off his wind. We keeled head over heels on the grass 
 and some time later sneaked through back streets to Number 
 Four engine house for a rubdown. 
 
 There was one Sitting Bull and one Lone Star, one Pony 
 and one Baby, who never appeared in another Indian celebra- 
 tion. 
 
 My Gray Fire Horse 
 
 From 1864, when Grand Rapids fire teams were only volun- 
 teer affairs, social organizations, kept going mainly by enter- 
 tainments and private gifts, changes came rapidly until the 
 early seventies when by a combination of events Gen. I. C. 
 Smith — new to fire work — was made chief of the department 
 as an organizer and I became his assistant because of my 
 fire service. 
 
 To facilitate the work. Gen. Smith and I procured saddle 
 horses which became as well known to the public as were any 
 
 191 
 
THE YESTERDAYS 
 
 of the men of the town. They raced neck and neck to many 
 a fire, the general's dark bay with three white feet and my 
 gray mare, and they dearly loved the cheers of the people 
 along the way. Many folks remember my Fly and have asked 
 me to tell something about her. 
 
 Julius Berkey bought this thoroughbred Kentucky colt 
 for his daughter's use. She was well broken to the saddle 
 but too high strung for city life, so Mr. Berkey offered her 
 to me for two hundred and twenty-five dollars just what he 
 gave for her in Kentucky. The city paid me a salary of six 
 hundred dollars per annum but did not figure on horse feed. 
 My first year's pay went for equipment, which included 
 saddle, bridle, a buggy, harness and blankets, and I used the 
 outfit as I pleased in my private business also. 
 
 The first man to mount Fly was going to show me how 
 to ride, but she took the bits between her teeth and carried 
 him about five blocks, dumped him headlong over a garden 
 fence and returned to the stable. 
 
 During my army life I acquired the habit of talking to my 
 horse and from the first meeting with the gray I fell naturally 
 into the old lingo. She seemed to understand and answered 
 with her ears. Sugar always brought a delighted whinny and 
 I seldom failed to share at least the core of my apple. 
 
 One unfortunate office boy, Frank Widoe by name, will 
 never forget the punishment she administered for tantalizing 
 her with an apple. When tired of begging for a bite she 
 gathered his coat collar in her teeth and shook him until his 
 cries brought the entire office force to the rescue. 
 
 I lived several blocks from the engine house and had a 
 private alarm connection in my sleeping room. It took but a 
 moment to reach the stable, throw on the saddle and be on the 
 street. Frequently my wife counted the box number and 
 called it as I dashed past, but at night the glow on the sky 
 was usually a sufficient guide and the mare covered ground 
 while I finished dressing. She seemed always first to hear 
 the bell and if I was slow in responding nearly kicked the 
 stable down. Once she made her way out a side door and 
 
 192 
 
OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 departed over a back lot fence, reporting for duty while I 
 went on foot. 
 
 One stormy winter night she shied from under me at the 
 corner of Third and Turner so suddenly that I sat behind her 
 ears for half a block. Returning later from the fire she danced 
 to the sidewalk at the same place. I dismounted to investi- 
 gate and found a drunken man stretched full length, his 
 clothing frozen stiff in the mud. 
 
 Number Three men came with lanterns, chopped him loose 
 and took him to the station to thaw out. 
 
 One other bitterly cold night when the wind whirled the 
 snow up Canal-st., crowds of men sought the shelter of nearby 
 store doorways to watch the fire in a hardware store. I dis- 
 mounted, as was my custom, leaving the horse to care for 
 herself. With open mouth she charged a doorway shelter and 
 held the fort until one of the steamer drivers came to cover 
 her with a blanket. 
 
 The wind gave the firemen on the upper floor a hard fight 
 and a little later when I was half way up a ladder I heard 
 the crowd on the street cheering and looking down saw Fly 
 with her front feet on the third round of the ladder trying 
 to follow me. 
 
 Once we were called to the Nelson-Matter furniture fac- 
 tory on Lyon-st. A fire in the basement filled the main floor 
 and machine room with dense smoke. Firemen had no gas 
 masks in those days and I was struggling through the stifling 
 air, feeling my way between machines and trying to locate the 
 source of the trouble. I heard steps behind me and thought 
 the pipemen were coming with a line of hose until the snort 
 of my horse came full in my face. I made what haste I could 
 to get her out, but we were both nearly suffocated. 
 
 For four years Fly never lost a run. Then came a fierce 
 factory fire on upper Canal-st. and in an attempt to follow 
 me she was caught on a street with fire on either side and 
 before I could mount and get away was seriously burned on 
 face and neck. For six weeks I rode a little terror named 
 Baby that the department had purchased as an extra for the 
 chief. 
 
 193 
 
THE YESTERDAYS OF GRAND RAPIDS 
 
 Long after I had my fill of fire fighting and had retired 
 from service the little mare made the most of every oppor- 
 tunity to keep in the game. 
 
 One night, excited by the glare on the sky, she kicked the 
 stable door open and was about the first on the scene at the 
 burning of the Eagle hotel. I followed with the saddle on my 
 shoulders and the old comrades gave us a hearty cheer. Twice 
 the mare took the bits in her teeth and ran away to fires when 
 my wife was driving, and one evening when my young daughter 
 was in the saddle she made a record run to the south end of 
 town. 
 
 When James G. Blaine came to the city for a great politi- 
 cal gathering I loaned Fly to a friend and rode the supply 
 horse. We paraded down from the old Grand Trunk station. 
 Fly loved to play in the water and while passing a watering 
 trough at Coldbrook crossing she ran her nose to the bottom 
 of the tank, blew water in every direction and then jumping 
 from under my friend left him lying in the mud while she 
 made full speed for the head of the column. 
 
 During old age Fly was retired to the farm of George 
 Stage, on the Alpine town line north and was finally wrapped 
 in her blankets and buried under a clump of maples. 
 
 I'll say for my little gray horse, she was one of the most 
 faithful scouts the fire department ever had. 
 
 194 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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