A Son of the Middle Border | Page 4

fallen into rather free and easy habits under
mother's government, for she was too jolly, too tender-hearted, to
engender fear in us even when she threatened us with a switch or a

shingle. We soon learned, however, that the soldier's promise of punish
ment was swift and precise in its fulfillment. We seldom presumed a
second time on his forgetfulness or tolerance. We knew he loved us, for
he often took us to his knees of an evening and told us stories of
marches and battles,; or chanted war-songs for us, but the moments of
his tenderness were few and his fondling did not prevent him from
almost instant use of the rod if he thought either of us needed it.
His own boyhood had been both hard and short. Born of farmer folk in
Oxford County, Maine, his early life had been spent on the soil in and
about Lock's Mills with small chance of schooling. Later, as a teamster,
and finally as shipping clerk for Amos Lawrence, he had enjoyed three
mightily improving years in Boston. He loved to tell of his life there,
and it is indicative of his character to say that he dwelt with special joy
and pride on the actors and orators he had heard. He could describe
some of the great scenes and repeat a few of the heroic lines of
Shakespeare, and the roll of his deep voice as he declaimed, "Now is
the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of
York," thrilled us filled us with desire of something far off and
wonderful. But best of all we loved to hear him tell of "Logan at Peach
Tree Creek," and "Kilpatrick on the Granny White Turnpike."
He was a vivid and concise story-teller and his words brought to us
(sometimes all too clearly), the tragic happenings of the battle-fields of
Atlanta and Nashville. To him Grant, Lincoln, Sherman and Sheridan
were among the noblest men of the world, and he would not tolerate
any criticism of them.
Next to his stories of the war I think we loved best to have him picture
"the pineries" of Wisconsin, for during his first years in the State he
had been both lumberman and raftsman, and his memory held
delightful tales of wolves and bears and Indians.
He often imitated the howls and growls and actions of the wild animals
with startling realism, and his river narratives were full of unforgettable
phrases like "the Jinny Bull Falls," "Old Moosinee" and "running the
rapids."

He also told us how his father and mother came west by way of the Erie
Canal, and in a steamer on the Great Lakes, of how they landed in
Milwaukee with Susan, their twelve-year-old daughter, sick with the
smallpox; of how a farmer from Monticello carried them in his big
farm wagon over the long road to their future home in Green county
and it was with deep emotion that he described the bitter reception they
encountered in the village.
It appears that some of the citizens in a panic of dread were all for
driving the Garlands out of town then uprose old Hugh McClintock, big
and gray as a grizzly bear, and put himself between the leader of the
mob and its victims, and said, "You shall not lay hands upon them.
Shame on ye!" And such was the powef of his mighty arm and such the
menace of his flashing eyes that no one went further with the plan of
casting the new comers into the wilderness.
Old Hugh established them in a lonely cabin on the edge of the village,
and thereafter took care of them, nursing grandfather with his own
hands until he was well. "And thaVs the way the McClintocks and the
Garlands first joined forces," my father often said in ending the tale.
"But the name of the man who carried your Aunt Susan in his wagon
from Milwaukee to Monticello I never knew."
I cannot understand why that sick girl did not die on that long journey
over the rough roads of Wisconsin, and what it all must have seemed to
my gentle New England grandmother I grieve to think about. Beau tiful
as the land undoubtedly was, such an experience should have shaken
her faith in western men and western hospitality. But apparently it did
not, for I never heard her allude to this experience with bitterness.
In addition to his military character, Dick Garland also carried with him
the odor of the pine forest and exhibited the skill and training of a
forester, for in those early days even at the time when I began to
remember the neighborhood talk, nearly every young man who could
get away from the farm or the village went north, in November,