By
META SCHOOLEY LAWS
The first volumes which the County Historical Society have published lie open before me as I write.
They are most interesting and should have a place in the library of each of us, in whose veins flow the blood of the men and women who wrestled this beautiful fertile country from the forest; who faced and overcame untold hardships, privation, danger, toil, loneliness-that you and I might reap the fruit of their labor in peace and plenty-yes, in what they would term luxury.
For, let us bear in mind, that the Battle of Ridgeway, June 2, 1866, was not only the only battle, was not even the most important battle fought on the soil of this fair country. Even Beaverdams, Lundy’s Lane and Chippawa, spectacular though they were, and important, playing their part, and no small one, in the history not only of this section but of the whole great Dominion, pale as in memory or imagination we recall or visualize the men and women whose whole lives were one long warfare; who enlisted, not under the glare and excitement of drum and fife and martial glory, but who-came in two’s and three’s; in families, in clans; sometimes, though rarely, in communities, and footsore and weary marched to and encamped in the wilderness which they purposed to conquer. Few indeed were they who lived to see their aim accomplished; but through the horrors of the hungry years-the fear of hostile Indians, and fierce wild beasts-they persevered, and we live in these beautiful surroundings, the site of their struggles. Shall we forget them? God forbid.
It is with this thought that the life-story of one such woman comes to pen today. She was not alone, but typical of those in her day, and many who may read this sketch owe, as does the writer, much of the best in them to her influence. It must be that we inherited qualities of mind and character, as well as the contour of our faces and the color of our eyes, from those who have gone before.
It was early in 1812. Some few years before that the McKays, among others, came to Humberstone. The Geady farm was their homestead. A little log cabin stood in the clearing, and a few stumpy acres were under cultivation. The mother was Christine Metlar; her people had settled in Pelham. How the acquaintance was formed, unfortunately, is not recorded. But perhaps the solder-pioneer had aided in building the military road which passed through that section and now forms a part of Provincial Highway No. 3, or one of its feeders, the old Canboro Road, the eastern section of Talbot Street, which in those early days connected this section with the far east-Detroit.
At any rate they married and around them was a family of sturdy boys and girls. But the war-cloud loomed up and Gilbert McKay buckled on his sword and bidding goodbye to wife and little ones, some of them mere babies, answered, as did all the men of his day, to his country’s call. He lived for his country-remember all these pioneers did that-and he went forth to die for it, if need be.
It was a last goodbye. After the war his sword was returned to the family and is now in the possession of a great-granddaughter.
Anna McKay was but nine years old, the oldest of the girls.
The mother and children struggled on for a few years, then she married John Steele, whose grandsons, Jefferson, O.L. and Chas. E., are well known in the county.
Anna kept house for her brothers until she was seventeen, then married J.B. Schooley, whose home was across the Fort Erie Road, little more than a trail then connecting the lake settlements. More than once has reference to her been made in these articles.
The little two-roomed cabin with its big stone fireplace and swinging crane, which J.B. had in readiness, was reached by ox cart. The old crippled uncle sat in the high home-made rocker awaiting them. The furniture, a few chairs and benches and tables, were home-made. Rough planks made the floor, but there was one luxury-glass windows.
The section was quite thickly settled and grandma told the hardships so casually and stressed the happiness of the sociability of those days, when real necessity bound people together in a sociability which was genuine. From the Indians who came to her home she learned the medicinal value of herbs, a stock of which she always dried and labeled.
The doctors were few and far between and her skill and knowledge was known for miles around. She grew flax and wove it for household linens. She carded and spun and wove the wool for dresses for herself and daughters, and made full-cloth for grandfather and the men. She helped rake and bind the grain. The little cabin in a few years was replaced by a huge-hewn log house, whose fireplace stood in the writer’s childhood just back of the “new house” built seventy years ago.
She was always interested in what she termed “the Lord’s work.” To her the minister towered head and shoulders above other men. For seventy-five years she was a member of the Methodist Church, and many a tale she told of the old circuit riders who were her most honored guests. Her home was the scene of many a service and she thought nothing of going to Morgan’s Point or MacAphie’s or even Lundy’s Lane with the baby in her arms and one child before her on the saddle and two others behind holding to her skirts. We make no such effort to go to “Quarterly Occasion” now.
When regular service was established at the Ridge, she rejoiced. Dear Grandma! Her eyes never got too weak for her to read the Psalms, or Revelations, or Wesley’s Hymns.
Well do we remember the occasion when she prescribed for the case of nerves with which she came in contact. “Dearie,” she said, “I can give you a cure, neverfailing, for I’ve tried it again and again-the Ninety-first Psalm: “He shall cover thee with his feathers and under His wings shall thou trust.” You knew the grand words. They were not mere words to her but the source of her strength through which in the toil of her early life, the sorrow and disappointment so much of which filled her later years, she kept serene and peaceful-just as the face in the picture taken fifty years ago or thereabouts.
Two of her daughters passed away in early womanhood. The rest of her children, four daughters and six sons, lived to grow old. Gilbert and Benjamin were among the first business men of Humberstone village. Two of the daughters pioneered in the west, now Middlesex county. The McKay brothers had sold the homestead and pioneered there some years before.
One of the girls knew by experience the early history of Humberstone township. On her 90th birthday, Grandma followed this daughter to her grave in the Overholt cemetery. She lived to be nearly ninety-five and in full possession of her mental facilities fell asleep. She had a personal interest in us all, her grandchildren and great-grandchildren-33 of the former and 27 of the latter then. She even knew the birthdays of most of us. Nor did she ever lose interest in life. She wanted to examine every piece of new machinery that came on the farm. Many years she had helped thresh with a flail. She could and did “rake and bind as fast as he could if the baby didn’t need to be looked after.” The cream separator was a marvel. She was always ready to admit the superiority of a new idea, demonstrated by this or that appliance, or to criticize its weak points, and she could find them if they existed.
She would contrast our winter supplies with her’s-vension and bear hams and pigeons. She cared little for squirrel, though she served it for dinner once to a visiting minister and his wife. The minister didn’t eat game of any kind, so grandfather was cautioned and warned to serve chicken from the platter. He did so the first and second helpings, but when the plate came back the third time with “yes, just a very small bit, if you please,” his memory lapsed and his guests were amazed to learn that they had eaten with too-evident relish the despised food. Grandma often laughed when she told how ill they were all afternoon, and never quite trusted grandfather with a culinary secret after that.
Then they made hundreds of pounds of maple syrup. She kept a few “loaves” of sugar for special occasions. Of course every one knows that “Sugar-loaf hill,” just west of Port Colborne was so named because it resembled in shape one of these sugar loaves.
Dried fruits or preserves in huge stone jars. She was one of the first to use glass jars, but was never wholly convinced that canning was the best method of keeping fruit for winter use. Her cheese would rival that of best factory grades of today. Her butter was always golden and firm, and kept sweet packed in stone jars in June for winter use.
Every grandchild had a quilt of her piecing. There could only have been the same number of hours in her day that we have, but how then did she do so much-bake and brew, milk and churn, sew and knit, spin and weave-and yet have time to respond to every call of a sick neighbor, for visiting and help in the field too, but not much after the boys grew up, she hastened to tell us.
Aye, there were many like her. Many of my readers could tell a similar life-story that illustrate so well the poet’s lines that –
| “A simple love and a simple faith |
| And a simple duty done- |
| Are truer torches to light to death |
| Than a whole world’s victory won.” |
Laura Secord was one of these. Her niece in telling the story of her memorable walk to Beaver Dams as it came from the heroine’s own lips, said in closing: “Aunt Laura never could understand why people should make such a “to-do” over her, because any woman of the neighborhood would have done the same; it came her way, that was all.”
All!! Their lives were so full of difficulties that they met and surmounted them quite as a matter of course. These women, and the husbands whose help-meets they were, made this country. We would not seem to belittle the part the men played, but by their own admission their wives were a never-failing source of inspiration to them in their work, and it means more to a woman to face life under pioneer conditions than it does to men. If you doubt it, meet in our own New Ontario or far Western Canada the pioneers of today, linked to civilization as they are by railroad, telephone, telegraph, and the latest wonder, radio, and learn. Then think back to your forbears, who cut themselves off willingly from all the meagre means of communication which then existed, and gather your family history, and teach your children who they are. Give to the Historical Society all possible aid as it seeks to secure and preserve these priceless records.
The Welland Tribune and Telegraph
15 July 1926
By
META SCHOOLEY LAWS
It certainly seems difficult to realize that bridle-paths were the thoroughfares in this county within the memory of any person living. Yet such really is the case.
The following incident occurred some seventy-odd years ago, and might have made a part of one of the “Point Abino” stories, since in that locality it happened.
The county-it was not a county then-was still heavily timbered.
There was a little hamlet at Ridgeway and a smaller one at Stevensville. These and the small clearings of the settlers with bridle paths connecting them were the only breaks in the forest. Deer were plentiful; wolves and bears common.
Late in the autumn six little boys started out to gather nuts. It was a beautiful day and they wandered on and on till their sacks were full. But night was overtaking them and they realized that they were lost. They had eaten all their lunch at noon and were so tired and hungry but no lights could be seen. The oldest was only twelve and the youngest eight.
On they trudged until at last they came to a small clearing with a shed. They crept into it, and in spite of their fears slept till early morning.
Then they saw near them a little cabin. The settler and his wife gave them bread and milk. One of the boys, Burton Schooley, who taught so many years in the Welland of old days, and was afterward Collector of Taxes in the (then) town, often said he never tasted anything so good as that breakfast.
They were near Stevensville, eight miles from their home, and there was no path on which to direct them. The settler had no horse.
Meanwhile the parents became alarmed, and search parties were organized. All night long they hunted and shouted.
John Cherry, tall and spare, led one party. Two of the boys were his sons. Elbert, afterward a merchant in Dunnville, was one of them.
Weary and disheartened, the men returned to the cabins in the morning where the mothers waited, hoped, feared, prayed.
“God knows-God knows where they are. May He protect them,” was all the word John had.
And the boys?
The settler took them to Stevensville. Two men were coming to Ridgeway by the bridle path and they took the boys on the saddles with them. The horses were well loaded but the boys enjoyed the ridge.
Ridgeway was nearly three miles from the home of the Schooley boys, two of whom were in the party and from there they essayed to walk home; but they were still bewildered and started in the opposite direction. However, they were put on the right trail, and reached home just at nightfall.
The parents had gathered at the Schooley cabin after a day of fruitless searching and one can imagine how the tired little wayfarers were welcomed as they stepped across the threshold.
Nearly all the boys lived to be old men, but they never forgot the experience, the terror of the night, the breakfast, the ride, the home coming.
The little boy, who was afterward Dr. Schooley, wandered off one day with his sister, Matilda-afterward the wife of George Morgan, into the woods. He was nearly frozen when they found him, for he had taken off coat and muffler to wrap around the little girl who had fallen asleep. She was too big for him to carry and too tired to walk; so he shouted and waited until he was found. They were not far from home-but the woods were deep.
Yet those mothers didn’t have “nervous break-downs.” We women of today wonder why.
When the Doans first came to the county they crossed Niagara River in a little boat and scouted around a few days and returned.
They were wanted for military service. It was the days of the American Revolution and the border was watched pretty carefully. Therefore when they decided to take their families into Canada, they decided not to trip the “easy” way, but crossed the open lake in a big birch bark canoe and landed somewhere near Loraine.
The father climbed to the top of the tallest tree to make a survey, and from there selected a knoll which he decided would be the site of their new home.
With a woodsman’s true instinct, he reached the spot and built a rude shelter of branches.
His grandson, who lives on a part of the homestead thus located, told the writer this story.
The first house in that section-a little log cabin-was built by the Doans on the site known as the “Tice Steele Farm.”
Mathias (Tice) Steele took his bride there, and their grandson resides there now.
Across on another little knoll the Springers lived in those early days. Harry Kramer is the third of his generation to occupy that farm. The Springers were related to the McKenney’s of Crowland. Melinda was Burton Schooley’s wife. She passed away only a few years ago.
Near there was another knell where the Overholts settled. Their name is preserved in “Overholt’s Cemetery” just across from the little Bethel Church in Humberstone Township.
The Chippawa Road followed an Indian trail in and our through the forest from Gravelly Bay to Chippawa.
The Garrison Road or as the western end of it came to be called “The Fort Erie Road” joined it just east of “The Bridge” or “Stone Bridge” as the old people used to call Humberstone village. I do not think the old maps so designated the little place. They called it Petersburg.
Daniel Near, the last honest-to-goodness farmer M.P.P. of Welland, lived along this road. The home is still in the family’s possession, I believe.
Father and some of the other “good Tories” had a kind of parody they used to sing, based on the old song “Dare to be a Daniel.” One stanza they thought needed no change:
“Many giants great and tall,
Stalking through the land
Headlong to the earth must fall,
If met by Daniel’s Band.”
And certainly if all our public men were as staunch and true and absolutely honorable as was Daniel Near, this land would need fear no evil days. Men like him flout the cynical British statesmen who declared that “Every man has his price.”
What splendid men and how many of them come to our minds as we write and read (?) these sketches. Perhaps not so many of outstanding or extraordinary ability or attainments, but men who compiled with Burns’ standard of nobility and greatness: you remember he says:
“A king can mak a belted knight,
A Marquis, duke and an’ that;
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna for ‘that!
And Again:
”The honest man, tho e’re sae poor
Is king of men for a’that.
So Welland County has had-has still her “kings and queens,” and these we honor above all others.
The Welland Tribune and Telegraph
1 July 1926
By
META SCHOOLEY LAWS
These articles would not really be complete without some special reference to the pretty little village of Ridgeway. It would seem to owe its name to its situation on the Ridge way, or road. Until about 1870, the post office of the village was called Point Abino, and much later the G.T.R. station was Bertie.
At the south end of the main street of the village there used to be a double curve, one, as at present to the west, the “Fort Erie Road;” the other wound in hap-hazard fashion south-easterly to the lake.
Just at this curve was the old Disher home, whose walls covered with vines still stood well within the writer’s remembrance.
The new house, still the home of a grand-daughter, was built on higher ground, a little north of the site of the old house.
There were always pretty shrubs and flowers about that home.
Ridgeway fifty years ago was never the bustling little place that its summer visitors make it, for a few months of these present years.
But it was always a dignified, prosperous little hamlet.
B.M. Disher, whose wife was Squire Dickout’s daughter, Eber Cutler and Joseph Zavitz were the general merchants, “Charlie” Girven was the tinsmith and built the block which is still used for a “tin shop.”
Zach Teal had a tiny confectionery shop, though there was perhaps more talk than business within its walls. J.A. Beeshy opened a little jewelry shop about this time.
Lambton Bowen was the harness maker. Squire Peter Learn operated a little foundry and someone had a “wagon shop.”
John McLeod, genial and upright, was the popular landlord of the McLeod House. It was his boast that he conducted his business strictly within the law. Certainly no man of the locality was more generally respected than he.
Charley Avery and Charlie Matthews, one at each end of the town, made the boots and shoes for nearly everyone.
Old Dr. Walrath was still practicing then, and Dr. Brewster, a veteran of the Grand Army of the Republic, had established a practice and opened a drug store.
Eber Cutler owned the mills, a grist mill and a saw mill and his employees lived in the little brown cottages he built.
Cordwood was the fuel for these mills, and also in the early days for the railroad engines.
With a fine agricultural country on three sides of it, Ridgeway bid fair to become a town. But the organization and centralization of industry closed the foundry, and practically closed the mills as well.
There is still a little planing mill, but the big cities have drained all such places as Ridgeway of practically everything, but the memory of what was, and the speculation as to what might have been. Those lines of Longfellow aptly describe it:
“One of those little places, that have run,
Half up the hill be neath the blazing sun,
And then sat down to rest as if to say,
I climb no farther upward, come what may.”
But in memory I sit in “our” pew in the Memorial Church, and I see them all. Rev. James Mooney, the genial Irishman whose sense of humor was so keen as to embarrass him at times, as for instance when the group of fun-loving girls presented one of the congregation with a “widow’s cap.” She just didn’t like the appearance of the contraption, and consulted Mr. Mooney as to the propriety of wearing it to church. Of course, not having seen the said cap, he assured her that it was quite proper to wear a widow’s cap to church or anywhere else. Whereupon she appeared, and her head dress could only be described as the Psalmist described the human body as being “fearfully and wonderfully made,” and the pastor found himself unable to preach in the presence of the cap and had to request the widow to retire. What legitimate excuse his ready Irish wit enabled him to give her for his request is forgotten.
Or perhaps Rev. R.J Elliot is in the pulpit, a little man, intense and active. Both men beloved by the whole congregation they served. But like so many of those who worshipped with them, sleeping their last sleep.
There were not so many “country people.” Most of those attended the “Baxter Appointment” on the Ridge, but the Sloan’s, J.J. Moore’s, the Brackbills, Sara Brackbill gave her life to China; Abe Sherk’s family, the Hauns, Quaker Wilsons and the Schooleys were almost sure to be there. Though as Grandma used to observe, “It was strange how much wetter the rain was on Sunday than on a week day.”
Then the village people, the Cutlers, Squire Peter Learn, the Disher’s, Wilson’s, Mrs. Teals, Dr. Brewster.
The M.E. Church had its congregation too, but we were “Wesleyans.” Grandmother was a member for 75 years.
Perhaps some of the faces have forgotten, these belonged to our Social Circle, as well as to the church- perhaps that is why their faces are so clear through the mist of years.
It must be nearly fifty years since A.H. Kilman brought his bride to Ridgeway and took charge of the school. He was a real teacher, and his memory is revered, we know, by many many of his old pupils.
Eber Cutler had no family of his own, at least none that survived babyhood.
But beneath a stern and somewhat forbidding exterior lay the kindest heart possible.
No one ever appealed to him for aid and was refused especially if children were in want. All one winter he fed and clothed a certain family, carrying baskets of food at night or sending his wife; for he never paraded his charity.
In the spring he offered the “feckless” father work, but the man complained of not feeling very well and added that “The Lord had provided for his family all winter, and he hoped would continue to do so.”
That day at dinner Eber told his wife that those folks must not be helped any more; but in a day or so went searching the cupboard with a basket in his hand.
When Mrs. Cutler smiled and reminded him of his “threat” he said, “Yes, yes, but those poor children must not be hungry.”
He was certainly a father to this only sister’s family, and James Morin was a protégé of his, really an adopted son, in all but name.
A volume could be written about these people, and it would make good reading, too, though it would be only a homely story of a people who in the main “did justice and loved mercy and walked humbly with their God.”
The Welland Tribune and Telegraph
27 May 1926
By
META SCHOOLEY LAWS
In our last article we discussed the subject of citizenship from a general standpoint.
Shall we this week inquire as to the part of woman’s chief organizations play in furthering our influence in the national sphere which the franchise opens to us?
We are quite accustomed to divide our lives into two distinct sections-the secular, and the sacred interests.
Yet, as a Christian nation, we, its citizens, must not stress this division too strongly, because only so far as Christian principle pervades our whole lives, are we true to form.
We will but mention the church organizations, to whose success women contribute in so large measure.
We must, however, keep politics out of religion, though perhaps few will question the assertion that a little more religion would not be detrimental to our public life.
But aside from these various religious organizations, what other organizations have we stressing the fundamental duties of citizenship.
One of the most far reaching women’s organizations is the National Council.
With it, nearly every other worthwhile organization is affiliated to some slight degree at least.
Indeed, the very work which it pursues makes it impossible for any other organization to be complete outside its influence. For the weight of the National Council is brought to bear upon all worth while endeavor or projects of a national scope, which any of us essay.
Every five years there is an international council meeting held at which women’s civic problems are discussed from the widest possible angle.
The last meeting of this sort was held in Washington in May 1925. Such questions as Women and World Peace, Personal Naturalization of Woman were fully discussed.
Educative campaigns were inaugurated. But through the discussion like a thread of gold, the relation which all these questions bear to the greatest institution in any nation, its homes, was ever in evidence.
Women and home’s home and country. Or may we say women make or mar homes; homes make or mar nations.
It is significant that at least two of the great women organizations of Ontario centre all their work around this idea. The W. L. whose motto is “For Home and Country,” the U.F.W.O. whose declaration that politics is truly defined as “the science which deals with everything which touches for good or evil, your home and mine.”
These organizations systemize their work by committees dealing with the various phases of home life. But they keep in mind always this thought, that our communities are just your homes and mine; our country the sum of all the communities. Their work is directed toward helping every home to make the needed contributions to community life; toward translating into action the theory that national ideals, national interests are but the sum total of the ideals, the interests of the people who form the nation. The interest of the individual, must, of course, be subservient to the nation. The interest of the individual, interest of the nation as a whole, yet the whole as Euclid remarked is “the sum of all its parts.” You, I are only one of these parts but we are each of us, one.
Tennyson said, “The individual weakens, and the whole is more and more”-but that does not mean that the individual may “weaken” in moral or intellectual fibre if “the whole” is to grow “more and more” worthy. Quite the contrary.
There are other great women’s organizations too, the W.C.T. U.’S the I.O.D.E’s the woman’s section of the labor movement, and others.
What is their value, any, all of them, to us women as citizens.
They must, of course, be constructive in their aims. There is an old saying that “any fool can pull down faster than ten wise men can build.”
Yet there is a constructive destruction, too. We women rip the garment which we propose to remodel. We destroy only the worn-out, useless parts. The rest we use. Men pull down a useless or unsightly building, clear away the debris, salvage all that is of value and on the site of the old, and perhaps incorporating into itself much of the material of the old, the new structure is reared.
But to destroy as a conflagration destroys, wantonly, ruthlessly, is worse than valueless.
Organizations if such there be, working on that principle will die of themselves, in any enlightened land.
Nearly everyone in this county has seen the erstwhile suspension bridges across Niagara river. The supporting cables form a splendid illustration of the value of organization. Each cable is composed of tiny tested wires. Each one separately weak; all placed side by side, no matter how closely inadequate; but woven together, the individuality of each separate wire intact, the cables supported the bridge.
Women’s work as citizens is the bridge. Each worth while organization a cable.
Many, ah, so many of our women are the tiny loose wires of splendid material, the same as that of the wires in the cable, but useless because only individual.
There is another lesson for us in these bridges.
The first suspension bridge was a wooden structure.
It became unsafe for the great traffic which crossed it- trams, vehicles, foot passengers. It had to be replaced by an iron structure.
A master mind directed the workman, and piece by piece the wooden bridge was replaced by one of iron traffic never interrupted. A wonderful triumph of constructive destruction.
But a much greater task was accomplished when around and beneath the suspension bridge the great steel arch bridge was built, with only a few hours of cessation of traffic at the completion of the work, though a complete change of principle was involved.
So may any constitutional change which comes to our beloved land be wrought.
May we women, through our organizations equip ourselves fully for our part in the work of national development.
But after all no woman’s organization is complete unless another principle which few of them make prominent is kept in view.
Woman, alone, men alone, are neither of them competent to rightly build homes, communities, nations. It is not a question of superiority. They must work together, each supplementing and complementing the work of the other.
“As the string unto the bow, is,
So unto the man is woman
Useless each without the other.”
The Welland Tribune and Telegraph
2 December 1926
By
META SCHOOLEY LAWS
What a number of years this warfare over the liquor question covers!
Wainfleet alone gave Mr. Harrison a majority in the last election, which carries our thoughts back to some of the stalwarts of years gone by.
Near Forks Road East church there is or was very recently a neat little hall, the temperance hall.
One of the last S of T lodges in the county met there regularly when the writer taught in No. 6. But likely few know nowadays what S of T meant-“Sons of Temperance”. There were daughters also, but in those days women were not persons-they had no voice in public affairs. But we surely helped to make the lodge meetings interesting.
There is no doubt whatsoever that these temperance lodges paved the way for the series of temperance laws that were enacted. The Duncan Act, The Scott Act, the O.T.A. and now the question is “Will the legislation which we on December 1 authorized Premier Ferguson to enact, wipe out all the gains of all those years?” as many fear; or will it, as the honorable gentleman asserted in one of his late campaign addresses, merely so amend the O.T.A. as to make the province in very truth temperate. We wait in hope, yes, and in fear, for the outcome. But for the reminiscences, the old stone school house on the Fort Erie Road, it was a new school house then, was well lighted that evening.
It was an easy matter to gather a “crowd” in that neighborhood for the homes were built quite close together, and the people were very social.
Old “Uncle John” and a “Doctor” had visited the school that day to see the teacher and Uncle had imbibed at the various refreshment booths on the way down.
He wore a wig and as “Doctor” and Miss H. chatted, Uncle sat on the bench, absent-mindedly twirling his wig round and round on his head. We lived just opposite the school and imagine Mothers’ consternation when one of us children, there were no “kids” then, after vainly trying to twist our hair even a little, proceeded to ask uncle how he managed the feat.
But on the black board for the evening temperance meeting was written in large letters, “Vote for the Scott Act,” and in smaller script, Squire Sloan had written, “He that overcometh shall inherit all things,” not “he that had the temptation removed” which was one of the special arguments advanced that day. How the little girl that holds this pen came to be permitted to go to the evening meeting has long been forgotten, but the discussion, friendly, yet warmly, carried on, comes back to me: The Pages, Sloans, Dickouts, Hauns, Sherks, Ellsworths, Robert Hall and our people, the men folk, only of course, had taken part in the discussion of the evening. Barnes, Johnson_____and some others gleefully listened. “May I rub this off now,” asked the speaker and Squire Sloan asserted and the meeting went on.
Strange that only one of that group of neighbors is left. How lonely she must be, Mrs. Christian Sherk, yet in her old home, with the happy memories of bygone days; with most of her children, wonderfully acute for one of her age, still enjoys life.
Only last year “the little red school house” which Duncan Schooley bought more than 30 years ago, and used as a shop, has disappeared.
J.F. Beam, the pioneer advocate of good roads brought his sister from their home on Black Creek to that little school to teach. Perhaps his experience as a boy on those roads helped to make him such an earnest advocate. How people used to laugh at his ideas, and now how far beyond his thought our present system has developed, and the end is not yet.
But he never seemed to mind the raillery. He followed the advice of the poet: Be thou the first true merit to befriend, His praise is lost who stays till all commend.”
One scarcely recognizes that Black Creek country anymore.
J.H. Allin’s old store is still there. The ’20 year ago” column mentioned that Mr. Allin was the first postmaster there. The office never really went out of the family, for his son-in-law, Charlie Jenks, and later Mrs. Jenks succeeded him.
Barnhart’s blacksmith shop is still there, but the school house dreary and forlorn, the ruins of the Quaker Church, these are all of the past.
Twice daily through the winter, and four times in summer time the whistle of Paddy Miles’ train awoke the echoes of the quiet place.
A group of us went to the Falls one Saturday and the train stopped for five minutes at the Falls View as usual.
There happened to be a passenger to whom the scene was new, that day, and he lingered gazing until Conductor Miles touched his shoulder. “I suppose this is old to you, conductor,” said the young man. “No,” was the reply; “thirty years and more every day we stop here and I always see something new.” “I wouldn’t like another route,” the old man added, “this and the view as we go down the mountain at St. Davids and Queenston , thence to Old Niagara-what a wealth there is for the Historical Society of this and every other county to gather and conserve.”
Near Black Creek, but incorporated into the Glenroe farms was the Baker homestead. Here the three brothers lived for years and tenderly cared for their aged widowed mother until she was laid to rest.
An elder brother lived a little way up the river from the mouth of the Creek, where his son still lives. For years the three lived happily.
No one owned finer cattle, or drove better horses, than they did, but they lived very much to themselves.
Then one day the two older brothers were taken ill, pneumonia developed and John died. Samuel had passed the crisis, but over hearing that John had gone, he fell back dead “of a broken heart,” the neighbor said.
Some there are still living who will remember the great concourse gathered at their double funeral, everyone surprised at the hold these quiet men had upon the whole community.
They were wealthy, and there was no will, but the family gathered. Mrs. Sherk mentioned above, is the only one left now, and quietly and amicably the real estate and personal property was divided among them, no jangling, no lawyers needed to settle disputes which were unseemly thought of.
The younger brother married later, and after his death, the homestead was sold for he had no sons.
How little the tourist, as he rushes along the boulevard, realizes that the ground over which drives, every inch of it is “holy ground,”- for let us repeat, the achievement of today is possible through incessant toil, and far-seeing sacrifice on the pioneers to whom we cannot possibly pay too high a tribute.
The Welland Tribune and Telegraph
16 December 1926
By
META SCHOOLEY LAWS
One’s thoughts go back some forty years (1886). Welland had a model school then. The building is now occupied by the Y.M.C.A.
Robert Grant was the principal. Miss Jessie Foster was one assistant. Miss Jennie Foster another and the third was a Miss Ryan. All that I recollect about her was the manner in which each little boy and girl bobbed his or her head as each formerly bade her “good-night.”
There was a little school on the West main street, just opposite the old high school where Principal Dunn still ruled supreme.
There was, too, a little one-roomed school in the garden ward. The Presbyterian Church was over there then also-a small old building. J.W. Rae who immediately preceded the Reverend Findlay McCuaig was the minister. The Salvation Army had just come to the little town.
There was no resident R.C. priest. The “new” Methodist Church had been recently built.
Only a few of the people so familiar then remain when we visit the church occasionally now, and most of those, like the writer, are grey-haired. One scarcely realizes it, but 40 years have passed since then.
H.A. Rose and The Ross Co., and “The Golden Lion” were Welland’s dry goods emporiums, and The Morwood Co. had a general business. It seems to me that some of the grocers used to give credit slips to the farmers’ wives for their produce, which were good at the dry goods stores. There was no regular market, and the farm women took “trade” for butter and eggs.
Such a thing as a creamery was unheard of, though of course, there were cheese factories, one at Welland.
Long after that we attended picnics in “Asher’s grove” which should have been but is not, a city park.
But these were not the things of which we intended to write.
Recently the Premier of Canada came to Welland.
Of course, he was accorded an enthusiastic reception, but there was not the enthusiasm that met the great Tory Chieftain, who visited Welland 40 years ago, Sir John A MacDonald. He came by special train and was met at the G.T.R. station, the old one, by the best cab in town drawn by four horses. Sir John was accompanied by Sir Geo. Foster and one other of the cabinet, and these and one man specially honored, for people honored public men then with a capital “H,” seated themselves in the carriage and started. But that was the Welland of past days, and East Main street was not paved. The mud reached the hubs of the carriage. The shouting multitude frightened the horses. They jumped, and lo, they wore free from the carriage. But that didn’t matter. A long rope was found and attached to the front axle and a dozen of willing hands grasped it, and regardless of the fact that they wore their “Sunday clothes” and the mud was deep and sticky, oh, so sticky, the carriage was drawn to the hotel.
The meeting was held in the old rink on East Main, afterward a canning factory, now removed for more imposing if less historic building.
Long before six, the street was thronged. We, twenty or more girls, got up through one of the stores, and found perhaps two or three hundred there. By and by a great shout announced Sir John’s arrival. After he and his suite were seated, the big front door opened, and a veritable wave of humanity filled the hall in much less time than one could tell it.
Miss Addie Teskey, her white dress trimmed with maple leaves, presented the Chieftain with a huge bouquet.
In thanking her, Sir John expressed his hope that one day the women would have a real place in political life-40 years ago.
Why is it that no one since his time has ever possessed so fully the hearts of the people?
Is the difference with the people or the leaders? Upon whom has his mantle fallen? We look around in vain, for to him, dear as was his party, Canada was infinitely greater, and we knew it.
Some day, some time, perhaps his like will arise, but not yet-not yet.
The Welland Tribune and Telegraph
25 November 1926
By
META SCHOOLEY LAWS
Last week mention was made of an item of ticket selling for the marsh in the “Looking Backwards” column of the paper.
A present-day advertisement was also noted in the same issue.
Driving, either on the “new road” north of the marsh, or on the road that used to skirt the southern boundary of it, one can scarcely believe that the well-tilled farms with their comfortable buildings were ever waste land.
John Misener, whose father, Leonard, pioneered on the Forks Road, just north of Marshville, told the writer, that his father believed that the one field he had cleared north of what is now the Forks Road, marked the boundary of the marsh.
The beautiful Misener homestead is still in possession of the family, though it is rented to strangers.
By the way, many farms of that particular neighborhood are still, as they should be, owned and tilled by the descendents of those who wrestled the fertile acres from forest or marsh.
But to return to the huckleberries.
The incident that comes to my mind occurred some 46 or 47 years ago.- circa 1880
The marsh was then either government property or unvalued by the owners of the farms bordering it. Berries were abundant and people drove miles to get them.
Thos. Boles was station agent at Ridgeway in those days. His wife and mother were great friends, and the two of them often drove the eight miles to “Stonebridge” and put their horse in at Uncle George Morgan’s, in the early morning. He would take a load of women and little boys out to the marsh and come for them toward evening, meeting them out on the path to help them carry their berries.
The two women enjoyed the jaunts and the berries immensely, but Mrs. Bole’s trips were ended when her husband lured by her accounts of her pleasure in them, came up on a train one evening and went to meet the women. He was used to the system of his office and its surroundings, tried to find the women, got on a bad path, lost his bearings and his temper, and vowed when he got out, that the place was fit neither for man nor beast, nor to be even mentioned to women.
But mother was not to be deterred. Many times she and Hugh went, always returning with all the berries they could carry. It sounds unbelievable, but mother always took two 12-qt. pails. Hugh had a 10 qt. and 5 qt. Each had a small pail to pick in and the pails were always filled.
Well, Aunt Mary came down from Arkona, as usual, to spend the summer, and it was agreed that on August 30th they would all go to the marsh. Oat harvest kept the men home, of course.
But an extra lunch was packed and early in the morning, Uncle George took his wife, mother, Aunt Mary, and the two little boys, Hugh and Watson.
They had not gone far from the path when they spied a big rattler, and a few steps further on, its mate. Though frightened, they kept on their way with the usual success. About four, some bewildered women came to Aunt Morgan. She directed them to the path and they came out without incident.
It was time to leave, but Aunt Mary’s pails were not quite full-berries were abundant and they stayed to get all they could carry. One of them made a bag of her apron.
Then they started for the edge, in haste, for Uncle would be awaiting them.
The path forked, and the west branch was difficult to follow. They had logs to walk on, over some boggy places, and when they reached a path, Aunt Morgan insisted that they were south of the fork in the path and must strike across the marsh to the good path. They parleyed, but finally followed her lead.
But they didn’t find the path and darkness came on. The little boys, tired and frightened, began to cry.
Uncle had been a little late and decided that they must have come out and found some other way home.
He had been up at the farm that day; so he went on home.
But the berry-pickers had not arrived, and he started back, men with lanterns accompanying him.
The women plodded on. Mother suggested throwing away their load, but the others said, no indeed. They hushed the little boys crying by inducing them to shout with them.
After each shout, they paused and listened.
The moon came out. Nothing could be seen but the dark fringe-the impassable border of the marsh.
At last they fancied they heard a faint answer to their cry. Again they called. This time the answer was certain. But in what direction? They could not be sure. So they stood still and kept calling. Then lights appeared and the replies to their shouts were clear.
A few yards further and their feet struck a path.
Mother used to say that she did not ever expect to be happier, on earth, than she was at that moment. The berries did not seem so heavy, either. In another moment they were relieved of their loads by the anxious men.
It was then nine o’clock. When they reached Port Colborne, a search party was being organized.
That ended our family’s huckleberrying. When huckleberries were on the table, father always referred to their COST, but mother always laughed and insisted that they were worth a great deal of trouble.
“But I wouldn’t want to live those two hours again for all the berries in the world,” she would add, and Hugh never failed to echo soberly: “You bet!”
The Welland Tribune and Telegraph
2 September 1926
By
META SCHOOLEY LAWS
“What is more rare than a day in June?” asks the poet. Perhaps an October day when the sun, shining through the filmy grey-blue mist that envelops the landscape, bring out the glories of the autumn woods, when the drowsy south breeze lays its spell on mother earth, so completely that the dropping of a nut to the ground by the busy little squirrels makes a noise; when the luscious grapes on vine, and rosy cheeked apples in the orchard invite. June, the month of roses; the month of promise beautiful indeed.
“Then, if ever, come perfect days.” But October, whose beauty is that of fulfilled hopes, of the completed work of Nature and her assistants, she, too, makes good her claim as June’s closest rival.
Fortunately, the great plowing match was favored with one or two real October days.
We took advantage of one of them, in the early morning, for the drive was a long one, and one ought not to hasten on days like this. Some folk drive as though speed was the only thing to enjoy!
Lundy’s Lane-and the international plowing match.
Side by side the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes floated, so close that often the breeze entwined their folds.
Side by side the cars of American and Canadian officials were parked.
Out in the fields, wearing the same uniform, the khaki overalls, once again in Lundy’s Lane, representatives of the two nations strove for mastery. But, today it would seem that here, at least, was the partial fulfillment of ancient prophecy, for “their swords were beaten into plowshares.”
Later in the afternoon we drove up the Boulevard to note the progress in the construction of the peace bridge-a fitting closing of the day.
Surely “peace hath her victories.” May no cloud ever shadow the amity which pervades the two nations: each with a great destiny to fulfill; one forging alone; the other one of a great sisterhood of nations blended in the world encircling British Empire. Yet together representatives of the Anglo-Saxon race charged with a great task of bearing what Kipling called “The white man’s burden.”
But the plowing match-
Some of men wondered dubiously whether they would ever have gotten their acres ready for seed had match methods been pursued.
But in the main, the crowd seemed to regard the work of the contestants as a demonstration of plowing, as a fine art. One woman remarked that this plowing bore the same relation to everyday work as embroidery bears to our sewing.
In the big tents, one traced the development of farm machinery, the sickle, scythe and cradle, mower, reaper, binders; the old wooden plows, and the big tractors and all the steps between; the flail and the complete individual threshing outfit; the up-to-the-minute silo filler.
The attention of the crowd was quite evenly divided between the plowing and machinery exhibits.
Then the hydro tent was very interesting, though most farm women, men also, regarded the machinery wistfully.
Why do not more farm people install hydro? my city sister asked; and someone behind us answered the question: Because the whole province pays for Toronto’s hydro.
Put hydro on a flat rate basis and see then what would happen.
“Huh,” said a pompous looking individual near, “that would mean the ruination of Toronto.”
“Possibly,” chimed in someone else, “but it would also mean industrial development in smaller centres, Welland, Niagara Falls and their ilk.”
But we didn’t wait for the rest of this “political” discussion, for we wanted to see Jesse Morningstar and his oxen. So did others. The crowd pressed so close that the patient beasts had scarcely room to walk. They drew the plow almost without effort.
We were disappointed just a wee bit, because the animals had collar and hames and bridles. They were hitched to a 1926 plow-just a wee bit incongruous. We had seen oxen working, but the young folk who had accompanied us had not.
On our return the man drew a picture of the yoke and explained how one animal was trained to stand for it to be placed on his neck and the other to come under at the word.
It so happened that he had driven the last yoke of oxen in these parts, big red and white animals weighing 2600 lbs. each. Their arched horns were about two feet long. When he came into town with grain, all the children climbed on the wagon or sleigh and rode to the warehouse. Those children are grown men and women now-for that was thirty years ago, or more. Our young guests scented a story, and waited.
I was just thinking said “the man” of the time when we had the engine for the first time to thresh our grain. Those engines were drawn by horses and some of the grain was stacked in the middle of the field we had plowed to be resown. The team got stuck in the soft ground, couldn’t draw the thing another inch, so I went for the oxen, Buck and Bright. The thresher said, “go on, but they can’t budge it, either.” Well, we unhitched the team and hitched the oxen with heavy chain traces. Then the thresher blew the whistle shrilly and the oxen having never heard such a fearsome noise before, gave one leap. The thresher jumped off the engine and rolled out of the way. Every man gave the frightened plunging beasts a wide berth as they galloped across the field, dragging the engine behind them. Then they got to the fence they leaped it; the tracts broke from the whittletree; the engine rolled on its side. The oxen were stopped one on each side of a big tree in the next field.
But no one ever doubted again that those oxen could draw.
What became of them at last? and almost sheepishly he confessed that they ended up in a butcher’s stall. Beef was low then, but the two brought nearly $300.-a lot of money in those days.
If the writer is correctly informed, Jacob Perlet drove the last yoke of oxen in Humberstone Township. They were not a matched yoke as were Buck and Bright of the story above, but perfectly trained and reliable.
But “the old order changeth.” Few indeed of the farm boys and girls of today ever saw oxen work.
Cradling grain is a lost “art” and Dame Rumor says that many of our young farmers could not make and tie a band.
However, there are many things they can do and the farm is, as he was, and must be, the mainstay of the nation-yes, of the world.
The Welland Tribune and Telegraph
21 October 1926
By
META SCHOOLEY LAWS
In the early spring, before other flowers of its kind blooms, though planted in well-cared for gardens, a clump of daffodils show bright golden at the edge of the ridge which forms a part of Pine Hill Farm, on the Chippawa Road, near the Overholt cemetery.
An old disused well, and a straggling bush or two remain too-these marking the spot to which Solomon Steele brought his bride in Humberstone’s pioneer times-before the county was organized as now.
Remains of the big stone oven were there too, when as children we played in the woods on our occasional visits.
Solomon Steele had three sons, one who died in early manhood; Jonas, who kept a store at what is now Ridgeville, then Steele’s Corners; and William, who lived on the homestead.
There were two daughters, Miranda, who became the wife of Charles Carter, and Mary Ann, an early-day teacher.
William Steele was in his younger days quite prominent in the life of the community. A quiet retiring man of sterling integrity. His wife was Lavinia Schooley of Maple Grove Farms.
He built the house, which is still as plumb as when it was built some sixty odd years ago.
An active, useful life seemed opening before him, but it was ordered otherwise, for a disease which baffled the medical skill of his day seized him. With mental health unimpaired he gradually lost the use of limbs. I can still see him as I write, a powerfully built man, tall and broad shouldered, and until the last few years sitting erect with evident effort in the wheeled chair to which his illness chained him.
For nineteen long years his wife fed him, for his sinewy arms were powerless. A platform was built from the north door to the top of the picket fence which enclosed the yard, and every fine afternoon old Alexander, his faithful servant, drove old Dick and the phaeton up and Uncle William was lifted into it and taken for a drive; sometimes to the other farm, sometimes on township business; sometimes to call at the door of an old friend.
His mother lived in the old house with Mary Ann, who cared for her despite the fact the disease which attacked her brother, marked her too for its victim. She went round the house on her hands and knees after she could no longer work, and did not lose the use of her hands until shortly before her death. She was of a literary turn, and some of the verses she composed may still be in the possession of some member of the family. I have read them-pathetic, brave words voicing hope and disappointment, of love of Nature, or in one of them, seeking half blindly for the solution of the problem of human suffering.
William Steele had no family, though an orphan niece and nephew made their childhood’s home there. But the merry laugh of childhood could never seem to drive away for one moment the cloud which hung over the home-and we always ran to the beautiful pine woods as soon as the greetings were over. There we felt free, and though I never remember being forbidden to play indoors, I have no recollection of a single joyous moment. The very air seemed heavy with resignation to weakness and uselessness on uncle’s part, and ceaseless, unremitting thought for him on auntie’s.
The last visit stands out so clearly though long years have elapsed. The daily rides had been given up. The wheeled chair stood empty. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he would say with a sigh. Brother and I tiptoed into the room where he lay, and to my father he said, “The end of the road is in sight; it will be a release to me and to her.” (William: 28 February 1879).
For many years his faithful wife outlived him, but the habit of years was hard to break. Seldom indeed did she leave her home. The books she had read to uncle, the topics in which he had been interested still filled her life. Every expressed wish of his was sacred to her always. When she passed on we could not sorrow, for she had again-who shall gainsay-her heart’s desire.
On part of the old farm groups of merry children hold high carnival. But each succeeding year the golden daffodils speak to us who can understand their language of hope and cheer and enduring achievement, despite frost and storm and all the untoward circumstances which seem to encompass some lives-and give rise to “Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
The Welland Tribune and Telegraph
24 August 1926
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