My mother, this summer, had a dreadful alarm, which she used to describe to me with great feeling many years after.  My little brother (George), for whose sake she had encountered all the privation and hardships of an early settler, gave rise to numerous fears and anxieties if he was out of her sight a few minutes.

Endless misfortunes might befall him; he might be eaten up by wild beasts; or, he might be stolen by the Indians (their stealing of children not being a very uncommon occurrence in those days, and during the summer there used to be hundreds encamped on the beach); or, he might be drowned; or, he might wander away and be lost in the woods; and he would steal away and follow the men in the field when not closely watched.

One day George was missing, and great was the commotion.  Search was made everywhere, and George’s name sounded through the forest in every direction.

At last his hat was found in the creek.  My mother sat perfectly quiet on the bank, with feelings not easily described, while my father probed the deep holes, and thrust his spear under the driftwood, expecting every time he drew it out to see George’s red frock rise to the surface, when she heard with delight a little voice say "Mamma," from the opposite side of the creek.  And there was George, with his little bare head peeping through the bushes with his pet cat by his side.

The reaction was too great for my mother; she fell fainting to the ground.  George had lost his hat walking over a log which the men used as a bridge.

The settlement was now considered in a most prosperous state; in a half-circle of twenty miles, probably there was a population of a hundred.  People had ceased to count the families on their fingers, but no census was taken.

The mills were fast advancing toward completion.  Some few of the settlers grew wheat sufficient for their own consumption, and a little to sell; but the squirrels, racoons, and pigeons were very destructive to the grain of the early settlers.

A dog that was trained for hunting the racoons, or a "coon dog" as they were called, was of great value, and the young lads, for many years after, used to make coon parties on fine moonlight nights, and go from farm to farm, killing those animals; and, although the necessity has long passed away, these parties still continue; and, though a virtue and a kindness in the commencement, have ended in vice, and the coon parties now meet together to rob orchards and gardens of their best fruit and melons.

One bitter cold night in February, 1798, the household was alarmed by the announcement of my mother’s illness.  No assistance was to be had nearer than three miles; no horses, and no roads — only a track through the woods.

Mr. Powel, who just secured a lot near us, volunteered to go in search of Granny McCall, with the ox-team.  After some weary hours’ watching, the "gee haw!" was heard on the return in the woods, and Mrs. McCall soon stood beside my mother, and very soon after the birth of a daughter was announced.  That daughter is now making this record of the past.

 Continued....>

Copyright 1994-2014 John Cardiff and Port Ryerse Environmental and Historical Society

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