ML\'U r'TrlL,fV')^frr 
 
©optooti 
 
 eminisicenceg 
 
 1855 ss DANSVILLE, N. Y. « 1865 
 
 By 
 H.%.beLONG 
 
 1913 
 
 F A. OWEN PU B. CO. 
 DANSVl LLE. N. Y. 
 
r— 
 
 
 THK REMINISCER 
 
 
To My Friend 
 
 Mrs. Alfred K. Killam 
 
 One time my little schoolmate Lizzie Wallace 
 
 This small volume of Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 is affectionately dedicated by 
 
 The Reminiscer. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 They say that when a man develops reminiscent tendencies and makes 
 the past the burden of his thoughts and conversation, while the avid 
 present and future are crying for attention, it is a sign of approaching 
 age. Be that as it may, I am going to take the risk of being classed as 
 "venerable" and give to those who care to read, a few personal remin- 
 iscences covering boy life in Dansville during the decade from 1855 to 
 1865. These ten years cover that period of my life, from five to fifteen 
 when the brain takes new impressions from day to day and stores them 
 away for future dissection. These impressions are indelible and it is a 
 recognized fact that the aged to whom the events of yesterday are a blank, 
 are constantly recurring to the things that happened in childhood. Now 
 these phonographic records stored away in my brain cabinet for more 
 than half a century I am going to take down and grind out for my own 
 pleasure mainly, but if they interest the older people at all and show to 
 the young what we boys and girls did away back in the middle of the 
 19th century I shall not consider my labor in vain. It is a fact that 
 from the time the brain cells begin to take and hold impressions at the 
 age of five and so on to fifteen when the normal youth begins to put off 
 childish things, is the most important period in the life of a man. It is 
 during this time that the seeds of good and evil are sown, and as they are 
 sown even so shall the future develop the individual. 
 
 In offering these sketches, the writer warns those who read that their 
 actual historical value may not be very great. These notes are simply the 
 digging up of mental data stored up for many years and no responsibility 
 will be taken for errors in dates, names and local events. Remember that 
 the author was only a boy, with a rapidly developing sensitive brain, quick 
 to take impressions and often no doubt taking them incorrectly. His radius 
 of observation was also a small one, centering at the home and growing 
 fainter and less obvious as the circle developed, so criticism is not invited. 
 The truth shall be strictly adhered to and the pardon of any descendants 
 of those who may be mentioned in a possibly humorous — never unkind — 
 way in these papers, is solicited in advance. 
 
 Let no one imagine who reads these random reminiscences that the 
 author is seeking a place as a local historian, for it is not so, neither he 
 nor his parents before him were born here and that fact is sufficient to 
 bar him from that honorable role, and besides neither he nor his forbears 
 ever attained distinction worthy of note along the lines of wealth, culture 
 or education, in fact were neither rich enough, or poor enough, good 
 enough or bad enough, wise enough or simple enough to even rise above 
 the simple plane of just average citizens. 
 
 Let my love for the town that nurtured me be my apology for these 
 sketches and the blessed memories of a most happy boyhood atone for the 
 many apparent trivial and juvenile incidents that will appear; remember 
 that once they seemed vital and the passing years have only added to their 
 vitality so I will give them to you just as I recall them. 
 
 H. VV. DeLong. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 We move to Dansville ; The town in the late 50's as seen through 
 6oyish eyes. 
 
 It was in October, 1855, that father, mother, sister and myself came 
 to Dansville from Honeoye Falls, Monroe Co., to make a new home for 
 ourselves. I was but four years of age, but strange to say, I have a fairly 
 clear recollection of the journey, the fascination of the railroad ride to 
 Rush Junction, then to Wayland, being so great that it left an impression 
 that has always stayed by me. Aside from that the first year of our stay 
 is a bit hazy; I do recall, however, that we rented the house on upper 
 Main street now owned by Dr. Kuhn, and that the Aldrich family lived 
 across the way. What impressed the latter fact on my mind is due to a 
 big Newfoundland dog they owned that came out on the walk one day 
 while I was playing on my own walk. I had never seen the old fellow 
 before and his great size and leonine appearance, even with the whole 
 width of the street between us, made me think of the pictures of "Daniel 
 in the lion's den" and Sampson operating on the jaws of a big one as 
 portrayed in our family Bible, and I was terribly frightened. I fled shriek- 
 ing with terror to the gate, only to redouble the outcry when my little 
 trembling fingers could not compass the catch. My shrieks soon brought 
 mother who quickly opened the portal of safety, while the dog sitting on 
 his haunches gazed across at us in mild canine wonderment. 
 
 My father had bought out the sash, blind and door business of a Mr. 
 Young, located in an old building just west of the present planing mill 
 on upper Main street. The proposition was badly run down and had been 
 shiftlessly carried on for years, but this was a white pine country and the 
 region roundabout was settled by a thrifty class, and that was enough 
 for dad. With a strong body and a cheerful, industrious disposition to 
 back him he went in to make good — but more of my father hereafter. 
 
 After a j-ear's work things looked good enough for a permanent settle- 
 ment ^and the house now known as the Traxler place on Main street was 
 purchased by father of a Dr. Bristol and we were soon comfortably housed 
 in a home of our own. This was in 1857, when I was six years old, and 
 my realization of things dates from this time. I was a sturdy youngster 
 of active body and brain, and the impressions of my home and town 
 beginning now are as clear as those of yesterday. 
 
 Dansville in 1857 was nearly as great in population as it is to-day, 
 and I imagine it was rather in advance socially and in point of wealth 
 of other towns in Western New York approximating in size. There were 
 five flouring mills, three paper mills, two furnaces, two tanneries, and all 
 along the canal slip was a wilderness of lumber yards. The nursery busi- 
 ness was in its infancy but gave rich promise of that future greatness 
 that has since so signally materialized. Main street as a highway for 
 
6 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 traffic was no muddier or dustier than it is to-day, but the sidewalks were 
 board, gravel and tanbark affairs, oftentimes perilous and always incon- 
 venient. There were no street lights, no water except from wells and 
 cisterns, no gas or electricity, the only means of lighting being whale oil and 
 camphene lamps and the old reliable tallow candle. There were a few 
 good houses in town, many of them standing to-day, but the majority of 
 the people were domiciled in small inferior wooden houses, put up quickly 
 and cheaply at the time the coming of the canal in the middle forties 
 boomed the place. There was no railroad nearer than Wayland, six miles 
 away, where the recently completed road from Corning to Rochester gave 
 inlet and outlet twice a day through the medium of a well equipped stage 
 line over a plank road. The public schools as compared with our present 
 system were something dreadful, and still there would be an occasional 
 teacher who in spite of his or her environment would do excellent work 
 amongst the youngsters. There was no anthracite coal used in the town 
 and furnaces and base burners were unknown ; wood, good solid beech 
 and maple, was the only source of warmth and cookery, fireplaces had 
 largely gone out of use, and the elevated oven "bang up air tight" domi- 
 neered the kitchen and the sheet iron "regulator" made comfortable the 
 sitting room and parlor. It was quite a sight to see the loads of wood 
 on Main street in the fall and winter and watch the citizens dickering 
 with the drivers for possession at a price, for it seemed that this most 
 necessary commodity had no regular market value, but went according 
 to the persuasiveness of the buyer and the pressing needs of the seller. 
 About every fifth citizen kept a cow and supplied a few nighbors, and one 
 milkman only existed, Mr. George Diamond, who drove down from Stone's 
 Falls every morning with one can of milk that he ladled out to a few 
 customers, always giving an extra dip for good measure I presume, but 
 as some folks said, to compensate for the evident short gauge of his 
 alleged pint ladle. Almost my first duty was going after the milk and 
 for several years every evening found me with my tin pail wending my 
 way to Mrs. Calvin Clark's, Mrs. Abraham Dippy's, Mrs. John Littles' 
 or Mrs. Dr. Cook's as we were patrons at different times of all these good 
 ladies. Oftentimes the cow would be late, and while waiting I would de- 
 velop very friendly relations with these several households, relations that 
 often blossomed out into such material things as cookies, doughnuts and 
 generous slices of cake. All of these ladies were well along in years and 
 knew Dansville in pioneer days. They loved to talk and I loved to listen 
 and ask questions, and many a story of early days did they tell me ; of 
 Indians coming into the house at night and sleeping by the big fire place 
 wrapped in their blankets, leaving in the morning without a word; of days 
 when bears and deer were plentiful, and speckled trout crowded every little 
 run, only waiting for the most primitive tackle to take them out. Mrs. 
 Dr. Cook would talk to me of my Grandfather DeLong, who as a pioneer 
 in Indiana in 1820, died of a fever at the age of 27. She knew him when 
 she was a girl over at Allen's Hill, Ontario Co., and he was a young 
 carpenter lately emigrated from the east. This was about 1815 and she 
 would tell of the parties and dances and singing schools where she met 
 him, and once she said, "Why, Hermie, your grandfather was the hand- 
 somest man and the best singer I ever saw," and sitting on a kitchen chair 
 
H. W. DeLong 7 
 
 waiting for the cow, I would swell up with pride tinged with regret that 
 I had never seen this paragon progenitor. Everybody stocked up in the 
 fall with potatoes, apples and cider to last all winter, and our cellar showed 
 massive rows of apple and potato barrels with a corner devoted to beets 
 and turnips. Mother made soap in a big kettle in the back yard and one 
 of father's unwilling duties was "setting up the leech." A pig was "put 
 down" and when cold weather really settled down, a quarter of beef was 
 hung up in the woodshed and contributed to the family larder all winter. 
 The flouring mills did a large business. All the grain product for miles 
 around was brought direct to them and bought for cash. In the season 
 the plaza in front of the Stone mill would be filled with wagons loaded 
 with grain waiting their turn at the scales and the same conditions pre- 
 vailed at all the other mills. Wheat was the staple product and a large 
 amount of capital was required to handle the thousands of bushels brought 
 to Dansville. "How is your wheat doing"? was the vital question among 
 the farmers, and the assertion "I'll pay you when I sell my wheat," was 
 the stock e.xcuse for credit with the merchants, and it always prevailed. 
 Grocerymen did not sell flour as they do today, nearly everybody went 
 direct to the mill and bought what they wanted although there were one or 
 two flour and feed stores in the street representing some of the larger mills. 
 The business part of Main street covered practically the same territory 
 as it does today only the low wooden structures predominated, the only 
 brick buildings as I recall them were what are now the Dyer building and 
 on south to Dr. Fairbanks residence on the east side, and what was known 
 as the Dorr block and Hedges block on the west side and the Dansville 
 Bank building. Farther down on the east side was the block now ex- 
 tending from Ossian street to the Public Library. Where the Maxwell 
 block now stands was a row of wooden shacks and the residence of Squire 
 Day. From the Dansville Bank south and extending round the corner 
 of Exchange street was a row of wooden stores and from the Dorr build- 
 ing to the Hyland House corner was another wooden row, part of which 
 was the American Hotel, the main hostelry of the town where all the 
 stages started and arrived with a great flourish of horn and whiplash. The 
 row of shanties (they were nothing more) from the corner of Ossian street 
 north to the Dansville House was called "Chicken Row" and represented 
 the slum center of the town. On the west side of Main street from Ex- 
 change south was a row of wooden sanded stores and a big three-story 
 hotel called the National. The sidewalks were mainly plank laid endwise 
 from the sills to the gutter, great wooden awnings extended over the walks 
 to upright posts connected by rails for hitching horses, and these rails were 
 often covered by sheets of tin to prevent their being gnawed in two. You 
 had to step up a rise or two above the sidewalk to get into the stores and 
 every night the clerks had to put up heavy shutters at the windows. All the 
 drjr goods stores handled groceries, hats and caps and boots and shoes, al- 
 though the latter were largely dealt in by custom merchants who took one's 
 measure and produced footwear of the best. There were several of these 
 places in town employing a good many journeymen and doing a large busi- 
 ness. There was no such thing as a ready made harness, all were made to 
 order, and although the cost was much greater than the ready made stuff 
 of today, it was well worth the money. The drug stores also kept gro- 
 
8 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 ceries and one small bakery got its chief business from making crackers 
 and feeding incoming farmers on cookies and pie. People did their own 
 baking in Dansville fifty years ago, paper bag food stuff and Fleishmann's 
 yeast were unknown, but there was a brewery and one of my weekly 
 duties was to go to Schario's distributing dispensary and buy a penny's 
 worth of yeast. Sugar came in big loaves done up in blue paper and every 
 merchant had a sugar mill to reduce the mass to a saleable product. A 
 Mr. Goodrich had a place in a basement on the east side where he dis- 
 pensed fish, lobsters and oysters, the latter in tins and fat little kegs. There 
 was great rejoicing at our house when father brought home one of those 
 delectable kegs, for when he knocked out the big bung the boquet of those 
 oysters would fill a church, nothing like it now days, no sir ! Goodrich, 
 also kept fruit and sugar cane and I remember gazing with awe on the 
 first bunch of bananas I ever saw, another boy having told me about them 
 and advising me to go and see them. "They call 'em nannies," said he. 
 Dansville was a wonderful place to six year old me as with father and 
 Uncle Edward Palmes I would go down town of an evening occasionally. 
 Uncle Ed belonged to the Canaseraga Light Infantry, the Odd Fellows 
 and was a Deacon in the Presbyterian church. He owned a successful 
 tailoring establishment, was friendly with everybody and exceedingly fond 
 of a joke. Armed with these virtues he had the entree to everything in 
 town and we would go to a band rehearsal where nearly stunned by the 
 volume of sound I would watch Lucius Brown pound the base drum that 
 looked as big as a hogehead, while Cap. Stout, Ed Tiffany, Alanson Hall 
 and other artists added their terrifying quota on the brass. Canaseraga 
 Hall and the contiguous armory were great places of wonderment to 
 me and Uncle Ed's uniform as he took it from the locker and displayed the 
 big epaulets and beaver shako with its towering white pompon seemed a 
 garment fit for kings. During the summer time when the days were long, 
 every Friday after supper the Canaseraga Light Infantry to the music of 
 the band would give dress parade on the public square until dark. The 
 whole town would gather and the sight was a stirring one. The square 
 was even more circumscribed than it is today, for a picket fence extended 
 north and south in front of the Methodist, Presbyterian and Episcopal 
 churches and an engine house and lockup appropriated space in the rear of 
 the Lutheran chapel, but all the rest was level sward and here the C. L. I. 
 ("Consummate Large Ideas" Uncle Ed said those initials on the shakos 
 meant) in all the glory of full dress and shining equipment would go 
 through every facing possible and the manual of arms according to Hardee 
 for two thrilling hours, while the band played industriously and sweetly 
 and Captain Timothy B. Grant noted carefully that every man came quite 
 up to the proper standard or he heard from him. These drill nights were 
 great nights for the boys of Dansville. We would crowd up to our favorite 
 bandsman, happy if he only gave us one look. Jack Brown was my beau 
 ideal and he sometimes for a thrilling moment would hand me his horn to 
 hold, and once I got in a scrap with Charley Sylvester between pieces and 
 I being the under boy Jack kindly lifted Charley off my person by the 
 slack of his pants and set me free. I have always been thankful to Jack 
 for this timely interference. Military spirit ran high in Dansville in the 
 late 50's. One Harry Page, a hustling young man had enough vim left 
 
H. W. DeLong 9 
 
 over after editing and publishing the Dansville Daily Sentinel to organize 
 a company called the Continentals, clad in the buff and blue of 76 with 
 cocked hats and flintlock muskets ; it was a stirring sight to see the two 
 companies deploying on the square before admiring crowds. We boys 
 really imagined we lived in a Mihtary Center and when the Canaseragas 
 made their annual trip to the state encampment how proud we were of 
 them when they came home loaded with laurels for proficiency in this 
 and that military attribute. The boy of today is no more interested in 
 the success of his home ball team on tour than were we. Once upon their 
 return from Oswego we heard the boys singing regretfully: 
 
 "I wish I was in Oswego sitting on the grass 
 In my hand a bottle of wine and in my lap a lass." 
 
 and our hearts went out in sympathy to them. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 We buy a home ; Some of the boys of the neighborhood and what 
 they did ; How Main Street looked, the business places and business 
 men. 
 
 The six jears we lived in the little house on Main street I count the 
 happiest of my life. Everything was absolutely all right. No fear of harm 
 with an invincible father and a loving mother to protect me. It is won- 
 derful how the most mediocre every day people can become full tiedged 
 heroes and amazons in the eyes of their offspring. I have heard boys in 
 heated argument over the virtues of their immediate family assert in shrill 
 treble "my dad can lick your dad, my mother can lick your mother" 
 sometimes going so far as to endow tottering grandfathers with powers 
 of muscle, length of purse and generosity so far in excess of the other 
 fellow's progenitors that comparisons were odious. Parents should appre- 
 ciate this virtue in their offspring and make the most of it, for most of 
 us will never wring from a critical world the recognition of those tine at- 
 tributes our children so freely exploit to their fellows. 
 
 Every day was a perfect day now, come sunshine, come rain, it made 
 no difference, the outlook was always fair. It was a pleasant little home 
 we had and it was great fun settling down to harmonious living. There 
 was lots of room for the four of us with a spare chamber for company. 
 My own little room had a sloping ceiling that angled down so close to 
 my trundle bed that when I felt extra bully of a morning I could kick it 
 with my heels. High up in the gable was a little long window facing west 
 that used to let in the morning light and the songs of birds. Up to this I 
 would mount on a chair and look out upon the blessed day before dressing. 
 I could see Ossian hill bathed in sunlight and clothed in big tracts of 
 virgin forest. The old shoehammer tree, so called from its resemblance 
 to that useful tool, lifted its head above the surrounding woods like a 
 guarding sentinel, and as I looked I resolved that sometime I would stand 
 under that big tree and see just how it looked close by. In the fore- 
 ground I could see Mill creek and the paper mill with the open fields 
 stretching away from the foot of our garden to the west. Over the wood- 
 shed was a little room isolated from the rest of the house and reached by 
 a narrow stairway from the kitchen. This sister and I named "The Wood- 
 shed Chamber" and I immediately appropriated it for my own particular 
 den and play room. In moving out, the family before us left many things 
 in this woodshed chamber that appealed very strongly to me. There was a 
 pair of old fashioned turnover skates, an ancient hair covered trunk with 
 J. P. B. studded on the lid in brass headed nails. An old Negro song 
 book (I wish I had it now) filled with the real old fashioaed product of 
 early negro minstrelsy. How I speUled out and studied those uncouth 
 
H. W, DeLong II 
 
 rhymes, fitting tunes from my own musical nature. How well I remember 
 them and I wonder if any of my readers ever saw this : 
 
 "Kick the bone, chew the meat. 
 
 Go to bed and go to sleep. 
 
 Den get up and look so neat. 
 
 Take a walk along de street. 
 
 Who do you t'ink I chance to meet? 
 
 Massa's darkey, sleeping Pete, 
 
 Standing corner of de street, 
 
 Pickin' de banjo berry sweet, — 
 
 Take care ma honey." 
 Or this: 
 
 "Forty weight of johnny cake 
 
 And fifty pounds o' cheese, 
 
 A great big pumpkin, 
 
 A band box of peas. 
 
 An Indian pudding 
 
 And an ear of corn, 
 
 I never felt so good since I was born." 
 
 "Massa bought a colored gal. 
 He bought her in de souf, 
 Her hair was curled so very tight 
 She couldn't shut her mouf. 
 He took her to the tailors 
 To have her mouf made small. 
 De lady took in one long bre'f 
 And swallowed tailor and all." 
 
 Then there are little fragments I recall. One was : 
 
 "Mose he went to college, 
 'Thought he was a poet. 
 Went off down to Mexico, 
 Made Santa Anna go it." 
 
 Or this : 
 
 Another ; 
 
 "De old jaw bone in the kitchen hall, 
 De sea bass shine on the whitewashed wall. 
 
 And others so faint in memory that I can't get them down. The old 
 chamber gave evidence of boyish occupancy in the past, the walls being 
 covered with all sorts of bills advertising political caucuses, auctions, land 
 sales," and one circus poster highly recommended its "ground and lofty 
 tumbling and fancy balancing" besides "sentimental singing and fairy danc- 
 ing." Another bill was headed "Obsequies to the memory of Henry Clay." 
 I can't give the wording of the body of the poster but it was to the effect 
 that the people of Dansville were invited to attend the First Presbyterian 
 church on a certain evening and join in suitable exercises in memory of the 
 great Kentucky statesman. In the hair trunk we found a faded American 
 flag on which was lettered the legend "Jessie and the Baby." Just what 
 that meant we didn't know but father said it had something to do with an 
 incident of the late presidential campaign with John C. Fremont as an un- 
 
12 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 successful candidate. Then he sang us a song that was popular when the 
 great pioneer was campaigning for votes, the refrain of which was "Fre- 
 mont and Victory." Another treasure of the old trunk was a leather, fire- 
 man's belt on which in white raised letters were the words "we are ready." 
 Sister and I got a long edging for a flag pole nailed on the banner and 
 the next Fourth of July planted it in the yard, while beneath its folds 
 decorated with my great belt I fired salutes with old time fire crackers. 
 
 The location of our house was ideal for a boy who loved the big out 
 doors, the lot was deep running way back to Oilman's field. Next the 
 house came the garden with the big asparagus bed, strawberry bed and the 
 rows of currant and gooseberry bushes. The barn was a dandy and placed 
 conveniently on one side so as not to disturb the continuity of the back 
 yard from the house to Oilman's field. O, that barn was my delight, two 
 stories with a leanto, there was room for any kind of a show and all the 
 boys in the neighborhood could gather under its friendly roof without 
 crowding. The departing tenant had left a goodly supply of old hay in 
 the loft, through which it was a keen delight to burrow, coming out at the 
 further end with hair and mouth full of delicious musty chaff. At the back 
 end of the lot was the raspberry patch and a half score fine apple trees, 
 one or two peach trees and in the midst of the berry patch a big wild plum 
 tree, the fruit of which after the first frost was great. A high, unscaleable 
 picket fence protected the rear of the lot and a tight six foot board fence 
 separated us from our neighbor on the north. Fences were considered ab- 
 solutely essential in Dansville 55 years ago, both in front, rear and on 
 both sides of lots. Lumber was plentiful and cheap, and there being no 
 law regarding cattle these fences seemed quite necessary. Oate hangers of 
 many designs, were sold at the hardware stores, but my recollection is that 
 nine out of ten gates sagged, and the more elaborate the hanger the worse 
 they sagged. Still the old front gate used to play an important part in the 
 social status of old Dansville, its resonant click announced the coming of 
 visitors giving time to straighten up a little before leting them in. It also 
 was most convenient for young lovers to hang over of an evening, and as 
 a vehicle on which to swing was greatly enjoyed by the youngsters 
 
 I have spoken of Oilman's field reaching from Oilman's garden on 
 Knox street north to the old burying ground. Our lot abutted on this 
 field and a missing picket in the line fence gave me free access to this de- 
 lightful territory. West of this field and the burying ground was Faulk- 
 ner's field, a great tract of land extending from Knox street clear to the 
 gardens on South street and running west to the race. When the robins 
 appeared in our apple trees and the first bluebird was trilling over head 
 with its call of spring, when the view from my little chamber window 
 showed the snow all gone from Ossian Hill except along the fence rows, 
 then I would push my new made kite through the gap in the fence and 
 join the ranks of the kite fliers in Faulkner's field. This sport was followed 
 in those days by the boys much more than now. I have seen the upper 
 air actually crowded with kites on a brisk March day, and every one home- 
 made. The foolish little Japanese bird contrivances of today would have 
 seemed futile and silly beside those we felllows used to hoist fifty years 
 ago. Some of them were very pretentious, six feet high with a tail of 
 heavy rope, and clothes line of string. Aerial accidents often occurred, and 
 
H. W. DcLong 13 
 
 with fifteen or twenty boys scattered over the field each one steering an 
 ascension there would be much uncomplimentary talk when strings crossed 
 and tails got tangled. Occasionally would come the cry "string's broke !" 
 and away would go the released kite before the wind, bobbing and ducking 
 a wobbly farewell, while the frantic owner rushed madly after the derelict 
 winding up his string as he ran. 
 
 Having got settled in the home with my bearings well taken I must 
 tell of those about me within the radius a six year old would naturally 
 compass. Next south lived Uncle Ed. and family and next to him Squire 
 Wilkinson, whose son John, a little older than myself, became my fast 
 friend and champion. Next on the north was the home of Henry Heck- 
 man, whose son Jacob was just a little younger, and two doors below was 
 E. G. Buells, whose boy Marcus was one of my best boyhood friends. Then 
 came Milan Durkee, and scattered around within "hollerin" distance were 
 Frank Fenstermacher, Albert Oilman, Will Stanley, Frank Horton and 
 the Hall boys. I became acquainted with these boys in the usual way, 'a 
 mutual grin through the fence, the turning of a cart wheel or standing on 
 one's head as a challenge at once accepted, possibly a "rassle," maybe a 
 fight, and the walls of boy etiquette were broken down and we were friends. 
 I was fortunate in getting John Wilkinson on my list early and in speak- 
 ing of him above as my champion I mean it in the fullest sense. Where I 
 was mild and a bit timid John was pugnacious and aggressive where his 
 own or his friend's rights were concerned, and as my defender he saved 
 me many a scrap. These faculties combined with a wonderful mind stood 
 him in good stead later and one of the most promising legal lights this 
 county ever produced was quenched when he died at the early age of 
 26. The Heckman home was always a hospitable and open one to me. 
 Jacob and I were the best of friends. The house was a big one and the 
 family large and industrious. The old Pennsylvania German style of 
 abundance at table prevailed and when I would happen in at meal time 
 there was always room at table for the little boy next door. I can never 
 forget the fragrance of the home cured ham and the big triangles of the 
 mother's crumb pie, the schmeercase, blood pudding, liverwurst and other 
 delicious dishes foreign to my Yankee palate. Every one had his or her 
 part to perform in this family, even little Jake would mount a box and 
 fearlessly curry the fine black pair of roadsters Nutchie and Britchie, while 
 I would gaze in wonderingly from the safe precincts of the stable door. At 
 times the team would be hitched to the family carriage on a fine spring 
 morning and Jake and I would joyfully occupy the back seat while Mr. 
 Heckman drove to the big farm six miles away on the Arkport road. 
 What fun we had all day at the farm, exploring the great barns and fields, 
 worrying the Magins and their big boy Mike, who were the tenants. How 
 hungry we would get, and one day at dinner Jake in his eagerness at- 
 tempted to bolt a mouthful of ham without sufficient chewing, with the 
 result that it lodged in his throat and he nearly choked. His father re- 
 sorted to the old first aid to the choked, viz., a vigorous pounding on the 
 back with such good success that the meat flew clear across the table 
 and Jacob was led away in tearful disgrace. Then there was Marcus 
 Darius Buell, or "Mickey" as I called him, who lived just three doors 
 away. Marcus' father was a Methodist preacher and taught the district 
 
14 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 school on "The Square." An air of religious calm pervaded this little 
 household, albeit a bit depressing to my joyous nature at times. In my 
 eagerness to see my young playmate of a morning I would occasionally 
 arrive at the Buells so' early that my impetuous rush in the door un- 
 announced would find them kneeling at morning prayers and before I could 
 back out Mr. Buell would stop long enough to motion me to my knees 
 before a convenient chair where I would be forced to stay all through the 
 petition which was never a short one. Looking back I can see how this 
 good man physically rent by dyspepsia for which he was constantly chew- 
 ing smellage, mentally harrassed by the uncertainties attending a day with 
 the unruly crowd at the school and spiritually troubled over a partly com- 
 pleted sermon due to be delivered on Sunday next at some country church, 
 was justified in a good long season of preparation on his knees. And I 
 recall with pleasure when I would be invited to go with the family to 
 Wayland on an occasional Saturday all packed in an old buggy to spend 
 the day with Marcus' uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. James Bennett. What 
 fun it was to see the cars and have the free run of the depot of which Uncle 
 Jim was station agent. I was sure Marcus would turn out a great inventor 
 instead of the eminent Greek professor he is today for he was always 
 rigging up machinery, and at seven years made a cylinder head bean sheller 
 that would actually shell, he also constructed a telegraph consisting of a 
 string stretched from the rear upper window of his house to my woodshed 
 chamber window (never asking the right of way of the intervening neigh- 
 bors) and by an ingenious contrivance so hung a loose nail in contact with 
 the glass than when the string was vigorously thrummed at one end im- 
 mediately the nail would click at the other end of the line. Imagine what 
 fun this was, wireless telegraphy never brought greater delight to Marconi. 
 Then came the Panorama, pictures from the illustrated papers pasted to- 
 gether and put on rolls in each end of a cigar box and twisted back and 
 forth. This worked so fine that Marcus and I decided we ought to give 
 a public exhibition. To me was given the task of getting out the hand bills 
 which I did with a lead pencil and some scrap print from the paper mill. 
 Here is a copy verbatim : 
 
 GREAT PANORAMA MOVING 
 
 AT M. D. BUELLS IN THE 
 
 AFTERNOON IN THE 
 
 WOODSHED TEN PINS FOR 
 
 CHILDREN AND FIFTEEN 
 
 FOR FOKES 
 
 These we distributed among a few people we knew, and many years 
 after Robert Dippy showed me his in a good state of preservation. I don't 
 recall the exhibition. Our most daring scheme was the building of a rail- 
 road from my back door through the lot and under the high fence by tunnel 
 thence north along Oilman's field skirting the line fences to Buell's lot, then 
 another tunnel under the fence and straight away to Mickey's back door. 
 How simple it all was to carry out to completion as we planned each detail 
 
H. W. DeLong 15 
 
 in our woodshed one rainy day. Father had just sent home a big load of 
 pine kindling from the shop and there lay our rails and cross ties all ready. 
 An old paint keg mounted on a suitable truck would be filled with water, 
 a small hole bored in the bottom and fitted with a hollow quill would allow 
 a stream to fall on a fan wheel fastened to one of the truck axles, the force 
 of the water would turn the axle and away the thing would go dragging 
 as long a train of cars as we cared to construct. The main objection was 
 the fact that it didn't look like a real engine but we thought we might 
 remedy that in time. Talk about the faith that can remove mountains, 
 we had it then and whisperingly we talked of the delight of lying in the 
 grass one at each end of the line and shipping to one another surprising 
 things while we watched the coming and going of our magic train. We 
 started in enthusiastically, but somehow we got on a new tack and com- 
 promised by building a line through our raspberry patch, the cars moving 
 by push power and the paint keg put in service as a water tank. 
 
 I have spoken of our barn with its roomy upper chamber, here Marcus 
 and I hung up old carpets making a most fascinating sleeping apartment, 
 on the floor we piled hay and with quilts loaned us by mother made a very 
 inviting bed. We decided it would be great fun to sleep there and to our 
 great surprise our parents readily consented that we might. We could 
 hardly wait for the long summer day to end, and the tardy sun had hardly 
 got out of sight before we were undressed and under the quilts. But some- 
 how as the shadows deepened and darkness closed about us we noticed that 
 the charm of our upper chamber so evident in the light of day was quite 
 different, soon it was black as pitch, a hot musty smell pervaded the air and 
 as we snuggled together for mutual protection, mysterious rustlings and 
 squeakings filled us with nameless terrors. What we little seven year olds 
 endured during the half hour we laid in that chamber of horrors I cannot 
 describe. I only remember that I had a grim determination not to be the 
 first to squeal, and so I waited trembling, and I had not long to wait. 
 (My readers are referred to Dean Buell of Boston for the truth of this 
 statement.) Soon a faint voice at my side shaky with terror piped out, 
 "Hermie, let's go in," this was enough, grabbing our clothes we streaked 
 down the stairs in our night garments and never let up until safe in our 
 well lighted sitting room where Mrs. Buell and mother sat calmly ex- 
 pectant, and the clock showed just half past eight. 
 
 Milan (or Met as we called him) Durkee lived just next north of 
 Buell's and was the youngest of a family of husky boys and girls presided 
 over by a big, kind, determined mother. Met was a couple of years older 
 than I but he overlooked that and we were jolly good friends. After the 
 orderly semi-religious quiet of the Buell household it was quite a change to 
 climb the fence to D'urkees and watch the mother at work at her loom, 
 where with vigorous arm and deft hand she would reel out yard after 
 yard of good rag carpet, directing the girls meanwhile in their household 
 work. At times Met with a sly wink at me would sneak down the little 
 outside cellar door and when his mother was intent on her work sneak 
 up again with three or four big fat yellow cookies that he would gen- 
 erously divide with me and we would devour them in the safety zone of 
 the foot of the garden. They kept a pig, and Met's chief duty was feeding 
 it. I thought he had a pretty hard stunt with that big swill barrel in the 
 woodshed to keep full. But Met was a good sport, he kept a big turtle in 
 
16 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 the barrel and went uncomplainingl)- to mill after canell for old "bristles" 
 with his little iron wheel wagon, finding time to fly an occasional kite and 
 practice on an old fife in the evening. He had a book of adventures among 
 the early settlers detailing in the most blood curdling way Indian massacres 
 and forays, tales of captivity among the savages, and other fierce trials of 
 the pioneers. At leisure times, between ministrations to that old pig, he 
 would read to me these stories and he found a breathless auditor ; today 
 I can recall "The Bloody Blockhouse," "Brady's Leap," "Sam Ellerson's 
 Race" and others of those old stories, and I would pay well for a book 
 right now that would hand me out a line of thrills as did tliat old volume 
 more than fifty years ago. 
 
 My impressions of the business places of Dansville when I was six 
 years old are naturally based on those that interested me most. For in- 
 stance there was the Empire Store on the corner of Main and Exchange 
 Streets where now is Kramer's Clothing store. This was a large Dry 
 Goods, Clothing, Boots and Shoes, etc., place that I recall because it was 
 owned by the Ehle boys' father and they lived above us on Main street, too 
 far away for close social relations, but still close enough to demand a cer- 
 tain amount of neighborly interest. Then there was George Steinhardt's 
 grocery with a splendid display of firecrackers in season, (Mickey and I 
 were sure Mr. Steinhardt's packs had more yellow and green ones in than 
 any other dealer) and a pair of goats always in evidence. "Johnny Gilder," 
 everybody called him, had a grocery where my people used to trade, and 
 one day mother took me there. Tommy Gallagher had just a few days be- 
 fore started a long, successful business career as Johnny's assistant. Even 
 as he is now, he was then, a quick, active broth of a boy, anxious to please 
 his employer as well as the customers. Tommy was waiting on mother 
 and among other things was a pound of coffee he was doing up with a 
 lightning like rapidity that fascinated me, but his speed forged ahead of 
 his deftness and in sliding the coffee from the scale pan to the counter the 
 paper broke and the slippery berries flew in every direction and mostly 
 landed on the floor. Boy that I was I felt sorry for Tom and neither he 
 nor I have ever forgotten the incident. Then I remember Brown & 
 Grant's and Stephan's hardware stores for here father bought his glass, 
 putty, sashlocks, blind staples, hinges and other small hardware necessary 
 to his business. George Beebe, a handsome young fellow whom I greatly 
 admired, was a clerk for Stephan and he was always good to me when I 
 sidled in and said, "George, gimme a penny's worth of nails to build a 
 railroad," and when dealing me out a generous quantity would ask all about 
 the proposed line, the price of shares and tickets, seeing me afterwards he 
 would always ask how the road was progressing. Wetmore's drug store 
 was another interesting place, for the proprietor, C. G. Wetmore, was the 
 father of my pal Billy of whom more later. Besides drugs and such things, 
 this store sold candy, books and toys, and I remember once before Christ- 
 mas of going in there with my great Aunt Susan Palmes and buying a little 
 red painted ship with a man on deck, for a cent. 
 
 A word about Aunt Susan. She was father's aunt and a sister to Uncle 
 Edward. She was a tailoress of great skill and was always busy, a perfect 
 example of the last century type of old maid that in these degenerate days 
 has become extinct. She lived in a little house around on Adams street all 
 by herself, and I loved to go and see her. She was very good to me and I 
 
H. W. DeLong 17 
 
 had free range whenever I came. Everything about the house was diminu- 
 tive, the cookstove was almost a toy it was so tin}', the rooms were little 
 anc neat as wax, and a china statuette of Napoleon (possibly it was Well- 
 ing:on) on the mantel shelf beside the clock gave a touch to the interior 
 of her workroom that suited me exactly. She had a footstove that on cold 
 Sunday mornings she would carry to church, this filled with live coals would 
 keep her feet comfortable, for the big wood stoves only heated the upper 
 air and that very imperfectly. When she ventured forth of an evening to 
 deliver finished garments, make a social call, or feed her soul at prayer 
 meeiing she would carry a queer lantern made of tin and perforated all 
 about with small holes that let out the light of a tallow candle to show 
 her the way. Aunt Susan was fat and jolly, with all the Palmes love for a 
 joke 5o long as it wasn't on her. She and Uncle Ed. were always exchang- 
 ing si afts of wit and the latter would chuckle mightily when he got a good 
 one 01 Susan before folks. 
 
 T'.ien there was a store that I think was Mr. James Krein's and on each 
 door post was a large green and black T painted that as I was studying 
 one day suddenly blossomed out into the fact that inside those portals 
 they sold green and black tea and I felt mighty smart to think I had com- 
 passed 5o difficult a rebus. A. Schario's place on the corner of Main and 
 Chestnut was a fascinating place to me. It was in a little wooden building 
 and the interior was so small that it seemed more like a play store than a 
 real business place. Looking back today I wouldn't consider the invoice 
 value or" Mr. Schario's stock as more than one hundred dollars. But there 
 are stocks and stocks you know and this suited me exactly and how often 
 I wished I owned it. With his big steel glasses shading his benevolent 
 old face as he lovingly pulled sturdily at his big porcelain pipe he beamed 
 forth from behind his little counter a perfect picture of placid content- 
 ment. His shelves showed jars of bullseycs and striped candy and in his 
 windows were hanging mops, brooms and other practical things inter- 
 spersed with crucifixes and gaudy valentines in their season. On the 
 counter was a pitcher of yeast and it is possible in a cool little back room 
 beer was served to thirsty ones from great stone bottles, but I really can't 
 say. Then there was Foster & Puffer who kept the Boston Store, cloth- 
 ing, hats and caps, etc., remembered on account of the boy Wilbur, a son 
 of Mr. Foster whom I knew by sight. Then there was Baker Brown's 
 where I spent many a penny, Meng's hat store and Leonard's leather store. 
 Niles' drug store everybody young and old, was familiar with and later I 
 came to knoA^ it better. All the saloons were underground, approached by 
 a flight of steps from the sidewalk, and some of our Main street basements 
 today show traces of former occupancy along this line. 
 
 Our house seemed to be the logical center for the gathering of the 
 boys right from the start, there was the big attractive barn full of juvenile 
 delights, the woodshed where there was always plenty of good, soft, clear 
 white pine to tempt the edge of every fellow's knife. What fun to sit here 
 and fashion things of wood and talk and plan of tomorrow, or next Satur- 
 day, never doubting the full consummation of our wishes. From here we 
 would start for the creek and if the time was summer (even very early 
 summer) make for a favorite swimming hole called "The Stump." No 
 one else but we little chaps could dignify this little eddy with the name of 
 swimming hole but it was just the place for beginners, absolutely safe, for 
 
18 
 
 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 it was only midriff high on a seven year old in its deepest spot and we 
 all learned to swim here. Not far aSove us was the paper mill and we 
 always imagined that Mr. Woodruff or Mr. Bagley might come and drive 
 us away, but they never did. Just above the Woodruff paper mill was an 
 old wooden structure that I imagine must have been built as a paper mill 
 early in the century, the building was partially demolished but there still 
 remained some old vats and a lot of wooden shafting and pinions showing 
 that at the time of construction iron was scarce and hard to get in Dans- 
 ville. Down the stream where the bridge on South street crossed the creek 
 was a big tannery, a place of awful smells, surrounded by great piles of 
 bark. I never really got familiar with the interior of this place, boys ivere 
 not welcome here for it was full of vats with narrow walks between and 
 they said if a fellow fell in he was pickled instanter. Auxiliary steam 
 power was not necessary along Mill creek then ; about the head waters of 
 both branches were extensive forests and swamps that conserved the water 
 supply and kept the stream in good tide the year around. Joseph Tomp- 
 kins was the head miller at the stone mill and a most kind hearted man. I 
 wonder at his long suffering patience when a lot of boys would invade the 
 mill, appropriate handsfull of wheat and wander about among the unpro- 
 tected gears, and one day I recall his exhausted forbearance gave way and 
 he asked me as the ringleader, "if we boys hadn't watched the elephant 
 about long enough?" I took the hint and we filed solemnly out. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 Father's shop and some of the workmen ; Other tenants of the build- 
 ing; Mary Oilman's school ; The Old Burying Ground ; Grandma and 
 the boy's first letter. 
 
 Father's shop was our chief stamping ground, and when all else failed 
 this was an exhaustless mine of fun. Down on the ground floor Mr. 
 George Fisk had a wonderful planer that would by a system of stationary 
 knives and feed rollers, peel off thin shavings the whole width of a board. 
 It was a keen delight to watch this monstrous machine at work and the 
 long pliant shavings made jolly playthings. Meanwhile the new shop was 
 being built and every move was watched carefully by us. Father did not 
 stay long in the old building but I remember the interior quite well. On 
 the second floor the shop was located and when the old overshot wheel was 
 plunging on its round, and the saws were buzzing, and the sticker and 
 tenoner lending their voices to the racket, the old shop would shake and 
 vibrate as if about to fall to pieces. The new water wheel being installed 
 by Henry Capell was a marvel to our boyish eyes, every part fitted like a 
 watch and the ponderous thing was as nicely balanced as a fly wheel. Soon 
 the transfer was made to the new building and business went merrily on. 
 The new shop was quite extensive and a large addition was soon built 
 and another water wheel installed to accommodate the several tenants. 
 Our shop occupied the second floor of the main building and the third floor 
 also for a paint shop and storage. Abner Rowland had a turning lathe in 
 the small room at the south and O. B. Johnson a carding and fulling mill 
 in the ell facing the street while on the ground floor John Wagner had a 
 shingle machine. It was no trouble making friends with these tenants, 
 they were all good, long suffering men and like Joseph Tompkins of the 
 stone mill, would stand a lot of annoyance without retaliation, still I am 
 quite sure father through me, gave mild warnings that I repeated to my 
 friends and they had the good sense to heed them. Abner (or Pappy) 
 Rowland's turning shop was a most fascinating place. "Pappy" was a 
 gentle white-haired old man, skillful at the lathe, and always kind and 
 courte'ous. At work he wore an apron of striped ticking that covered him 
 from his neck to his knees thereby protecting his immaculate white shirt 
 front from flying oil, and shavings from his chisel to say nothing of to- 
 bacco stains for he was a great consumer of the weed. I have seen him 
 more than once essay the substitution of a pungent oak or pitch pine shav- 
 ing for his beloved quid, but boy as I was, I could see it didn't touch the 
 spot, and when I frankly told him so he would flash his white false teeth 
 in a friendly smile and say his box was ernpty and he would have to get 
 along on shavings until he went home at dinnertime, but he never could 
 last through, and before long he would wend his way to our paint shop 
 and borrow a chew of Horace Miller. What fine ball clubs he would turn 
 
20 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 out, so neat and tapering and clean, just like himself when he appeared on 
 the street in gloss}' black attire and always a stove pipe hat. 
 
 Father had a number of men working for him, a few of whom were 
 with him for years. His half brother, William Willis, was his foreman 
 early in the history of the shop and stood by faithfully until father's re- 
 tirement. William was a capital foreman and a skilled mechanic, he could 
 take in the intricacies of machinery at a glance and he it was who kept the 
 knives sharp and true, mended the belts, and set the machines so a green 
 hand could run the stuff through. Father was no mechanic, machinery 
 was not in his line, but he made up in energy what he lacked in skill, and 
 his stunt was hand work, smoothing up doors and sash and running the 
 sandpaper block, and how often he would take a load of finished blinds in 
 the democrat wagon and with me beside him on the seat start early in 
 the morning perhaps for Wayland or Perkinsville, where we would be the 
 guests for the day of some good German whose house father would beau- 
 tify with a complete set of green blinds. No matter how many pairs there 
 might be he would get them all on by night. He had to hustle sometimes 
 though when he would strike a lot of misfits, or the casings wouldn't be 
 square, but he always got there. Today in traveling over the Rochester 
 Division of the Erie railway I always notice a house north of Wayland 
 near the line, where father took me one bright June day more than fifty 
 years ago and put on a set of blinds and they are there yet, and as we 
 rush by I catch a fleeting glimpse of the field where the little boy of the 
 house and I picked wild strawberries and a little stream where we built a 
 dam and sailed boats. Nicholas Drehmer was another of the old standbys 
 and an excellent workman. Nic. was a bit erratic and quick tempered, 
 but he had a great regard for "the old man" as he called father, and when 
 he would return to his bench after one of his unfortunate lapses, would 
 pitch into his work like a steam engine, glancing now and then toward the 
 boss to see if his extra efforts were having the desired conciliatory effect. I 
 liked Nic very much for he had a gun and a fund of stories interesting to 
 boys. Connected with his little place on Gibson street was a garden that 
 was always prolific, a fine strawberry bed, fruit trees that always bore 
 and never failing hens' nests. T used to go over occasionally after some of 
 these products for our household and I remember that he had a patch of 
 tobacco growing that after curing it he used to smoke over at the shop. 
 When he would light up his pipe the rest of the men would sniff and ask 
 innocently "who's using disinfectant?'' or "if anyone had seen a skunk 
 hanging around?" These sly innuendoes would rouse his ire but he would 
 say nothing and keep right on smoking. Then there was David Shull, a 
 quiet, efficient man, who said little but wrought well. He was a good snare 
 drummer and had a fine instrument that I think he made himself. Later 
 when the war broke out and the call for volunteers was emphasized by 
 strains of martial music on our streets I used to watch David handle the 
 sticks and revel in the thought that he worked for my dad. Melvin Sutton 
 and Marion Owen, young fellows, also worked in the shop at this time, 
 and when we boys had enough of the noisy down stairs we would ascend 
 to the paint shop to be entertained by the main artist, Horace Miller. He 
 surely was a whole show. Happy, irresponsible Horace, nothing ever 
 fazed him. With his deft left hand he would spread the paint evenly 
 and rapidly over a window blind covering every spot and setting the 
 
H. IV. DeLong 21 
 
 finished work up before an ordinary painter would get fairly started. 
 Meantime he would talk to us, telling us where to go fishing and reeling 
 off wonderful tales of his prowess as an angler. Horace had a musical 
 ear and a good voice, as a boy he used to go to the good old Methodist re- 
 vivals where he had learned the words and music of the warning hymiis 
 of that period, he also had a keen sense of humor and considerable dramatic 
 ability and his imitation of a good old elder filled with enthusiasm, was 
 very taking to we lads as he would shout at the top of his voice : 
 
 "Stop, sinner, stop and think 
 
 Before you further go. 
 Why will you sport upon the brink 
 
 Of everlasting woe? 
 Then stop, O stop, and think. 
 
 For unless you warning take, 
 O beware, or you will drop 
 
 Into a burning lake." 
 
 Horace would picture that "burning lake" so vividly in his rendition, 
 that we could almost see the lurid waves and smell the sulphur, but once 
 outside, practical John Wilkinson, in view of Horace's shortcomings, 
 snorted out contemptuously "that Miller is a darn hippercrite." 
 
 One spring morning after a heavy freshet three or four of us started 
 for the shop by the "back way"' as we called it. Starting in at the paper 
 mill we would follow the creek watching the rushing waters with de- 
 light. On this particular morning we had reached a point above the stone 
 mill dam when I noticed an object floating and tossing in midstream that 
 looked so peculiar that we investigated and discovered it to be the body 
 of a child anchored to a stump by its clothes. Filled with horror I ran for 
 the shop with my comrades at my heels yelling, "O Pa ! O Pa !" at the top 
 of my voice. Incoherently I explained the situation and a lot of men, 
 among whom I remember Mr. John Squires, took the lead, ran to the spot 
 and forming a line by holding to one another's hands drew the little body 
 out. It proved to be a four year old girl that in crossing a log over the 
 creek at Stone's Falls the day before had fallen in and was carried away 
 by the flood. Searchers had been up and down the creek all night, but it 
 was left to the little boy to discover by accident what the grown-ups had 
 looked for in vain. 
 
 Father's shop was heated in winter by a big box castiron stove, the 
 fuel was shavings and sawdust, and one of the miracles was how that old 
 bo.x was used for so many years without burning down the shop. How 
 she would roar and radiate heat and the old stove pipe would take on a 
 cherry red and the sparks would fly out the chimney in clouds! The light 
 fuel used would soon burn out and then what fun for us boys to take the 
 old scoop and fill her up to the top with a fresh dose of sawdust. One 
 morning John Wilkinson and I had left our job of whittling pins, and 
 shoveled in a big charge on top of the smoldering embers of the last heat, 
 but somehow it seemed slow in starting, and finally getting impatient we 
 opened the little slide damper in front and got down to give it a little 
 forced draft from our lungs. Meantime the gas in the sawdust had been 
 quietly accumulating and just about as we were in the midst of our greatest 
 
22 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 bellows efforts it took fire and exploded, blowing off the top griddle and 
 shooting a solid mass of fire into our faces. Over and over we went and 
 while the men were busy stamping out the sparks that flew all over the 
 shop, we picked ourselves up minus eyebrows and a good share of our 
 front hair. There was nothing but unsympathizing laughter for us and we 
 were mighty careful how we tackled that old Franklin bomb again. 
 
 O. B. Johnson's wool carding and cloth dressing shop was, I imagine, 
 one of the last of its kind in this section. In those days people washed and 
 sheared their own sheep and the double process was quite an event in the 
 spring about Dansville, for many sheep were raised on the farms, and I 
 remember one man, Mr. James McCurdy, had at one time on his different 
 farms more than three thousand head. Every farmer had a flock more or 
 less and the wholesale buying of unwashed clips by speculators as prac- 
 ticed today was only in its infancy. A farmer would bring his clean washed 
 product to Mr. Johnson where it would be carefully weighed, then 
 cleansed and picked and run through those wonderful carding machines 
 coming out at the end in light fluffy rolls about the size of one's finger 
 all ready for the spinning wheel. The machines were quite complicated but 
 they ran noiselessly and smoothly and there was Httle danger to the ad- 
 miring boys so long as we kept out of the way. It was great fun to watch 
 the soft white rolls drop regularly and evenly into the trough, and some- 
 times when the automatic click announced the quota was filled we would 
 be allowed to gather up the take and carry it to "Bub"' for packing. Mr. 
 Johnson was a good neighbor and a friend to the boys. A bit rough in 
 speech at times, his heart was always in the right place. When I think of 
 some of his stories of fishing and hunting that at leisure times he would 
 regale our youthful ears with, I can see that he realized his full duty as 
 a story teller when his audience was of the age that believed everything. 
 I think one Saturday, perhaps we overstepped the bounds of propriety a 
 little for he sent us off to pick thorns in the woods, offering us ten cents a 
 quart and assuring us there was big money in it. These thorns were used 
 I believe in pinning up wool sacks but I don't remember that our quest 
 resulted in anything more than pricked fingers and only thorns enough to 
 furnish a toothpick apiece. Mr. Johnson's main helper was his son Syl- 
 vester or "Bub" as everybody called him. "Bub" was the funniest fellow 
 on our list, a natural born humorist, he always saw the comic side of every- 
 thing and some of his sallies would make a stone image laugh. He was a 
 good fellow too as I have reason to remember, for having reached man's 
 estate he gave me his boyhood sled, and a bully one it was, named "Jessie," 
 and the speediest craft on Bunker Hill. "Bub" had his faults the same as 
 other folks but he was loyal to the boys and later to his country as a 
 soldier. There was a real pond above the shop, the banks protected by a 
 growth of big willows, and a waste weir where the fishing was pretty fair 
 at times. On "the island" so called we couldn't tell why, father had his 
 lumber piled. He was a good judge of lumber and used to buy largely of 
 Elias Geiger and Reuben Whiteman. There were not so many grades then 
 and one could buy for twelve, fifteen and twenty dollars a thousand feet, 
 clear pine that today don't exist in this region and when found the price 
 is prohibitive. In times of high water the "island" would be threatened 
 by the rising tide but I don't remember that it ever quite reached the 
 lumber piles. The tail race was such a troublesome factor in our business 
 
H. W, DeLong 23 
 
 that I can't well pass it over in this story. (I presume it is equally trouble- 
 some today.) Running from the wheel pit to the stone mill dam with very 
 little fall it was constantly backing up causing our water wheels to wade 
 and practically destroying the power. This backing up would be caused by 
 a bar forming at the mouth of the race and raising the water, and again 
 at high tide when the stone mill shut down there would be another back 
 up. Then above us the same thing would occur when we shut down, our 
 surplus would back into Readshaw's wheel and there was trouble all 
 around. Fortunately the heads of all these industries were sensible men 
 and a way was always found to an adjustment without any rancor, but 
 though a small pitcher I had large ears, and to hear the men talk at the 
 time of one of these crises — not in father's presence you may be sure — 
 filled me with forebodings, for a bloody vendetta seemed to be the only way 
 out. When I see the efficacy of the electric motors in running our wood 
 working industries today, I think what a blessing those things would have 
 been to father back in the old shop. Winter was the season of his dis- 
 content. He could get work enough and was anxious to keep his men go- 
 ing, but when on going to work some cold January morning he would find 
 the wheel a mass of ice and the tail race frozen to the botttom he would 
 look mighty solemn, for it wasn't a paying proposition to put all hands at 
 cutting ice on full pay for the sake of getting out a little jag of work he 
 had promised, but he had promised and that was enough. One of the best 
 business assets my father possesssed — and he only considered it a duty — 
 was his never failing to live up to his promises. If Mr. Rowe or Mr. Shafer 
 hauled in a load of lumber to be made up into flooring or sash, blinds and 
 doors and father agreed to have it ready at a certain time, it was always 
 ready and it didn't take the people long to find it out. There are people 
 living today who can testify to the fact of this unusual attribute in him, 
 and I am proud to mention it and do so without egotism or apology. 
 
 I was in my sixth year when I began my educational career at the select 
 school of Miss Mary Gilman in the Lutheran church chapel. I already 
 knew my letters and a few short words and could also evolve a sort of 
 composite chirography of print and script letters with a stubby lead pencil. 
 One of my first recollections is lying on my stomach on the floor and pick- 
 ing out the letters from a newspaper so I was fairly well equipped for 
 school. Miss Gilman was a placid, patient, young woman, well fitted to bear 
 with the vagaries of a lot of little ones. The real work done at this first 
 school of mine is not at all vivid, and I can recall but a few of the scholars. 
 I do remember, however, Henry Capell and his sister, Hattie, George 
 Wheaton, Anna Hassler and the Doty boys. Henry and I would occa- 
 sionally arrive a little early when we would amuse ourselves smelling 
 the various ink bottles to find which had the best flavor. A favorite 
 amusement at recess was trying to walk around the church on the same 
 projecting ledge that exists today, hugging the wall and inching along from 
 window to window. Our playground was the square and once in a while 
 the sexton of the church would give us a peep at the wonderful mechanism 
 of the town clock. One day we had speaking exercises and all the mothers 
 were there including my own. She had drilled me on a little piece until 
 we both thought I was letter perfect. I have forgotten the piece except 
 that it began with O. I went blithely to school holding her hand and abso- 
 lutely sure I would do her credit. As I think of it today I am inclined 
 
24 Bo}fhoo d Reminiscences 
 
 to question mother's entire faith in my ability to make good on the stage, 
 for as she gave me my parting instructions she promised me a cent if I 
 did my duty. When my turn came and my name was called no acknowl- 
 edged hero ever advanced to certain victory with more confidence than I. 
 It seemed I couldn't reach the little platform quick enough so sure was I 
 of success. I had never heard of "stage fright" then and when I turned 
 confidently upon that little audience and looked into those smiling faces 
 something seemed to clutch at my infantile throat and suddenly I was 
 stricken dumb. I tried to speak twisting my mouth in horrible shapes in a 
 frantic effort to expel that opening "O" and so get started. I writhed and 
 wrestled with that elusive vowel but with no avail and I had to give it up 
 and return ignominiously to my seat where mother consoled me and did 
 not withhold the coveted prize. Next after me came George Wheaton who 
 rushed to the platform, turned and repeated glibly : 
 
 "See the chickens round the gate. 
 For their morning portion wait, 
 Throw out crumbs and scatter seed, 
 Let the hungry chickens feed." 
 
 Then rushed back again to his seat, the whole operation not taking 
 over thirty seconds. How I envied George and I wondered if the time 
 would ever come when I would shine like that. 
 
 The old burying ground was a favorite resort of our little crowd. 
 When I first knew it, it had already been abandoned for more than ten 
 years. Municipal pride did not figure largely in the affairs of Dansville 
 before 1860 and this plot was indeed the acme of neglect, and it was just 
 this fact that made it so attractive to us boys. I was not familiar with 
 Gray's Elegy at that time but when today I read : 
 
 "Beneath those rugged elms that yew-tree's shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap. 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid 
 
 The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep" 
 
 I think the poet might have gotten the same inspiration leaning on 
 the dilapidated fence of our old burying ground that he found so positive 
 at Stoke Pogis. The plot occupied the ground that is now the park in 
 front of the Owen Publishing Company's building. There was the semb- 
 lance of a fence along Liberty street and the remains of what might once 
 have been an entrance gate, and just inside this entrance were two mag- 
 nificent oak trees. The whole enclosure was grass grown, and in spots 
 would flourish, great beds of myrtle set out by loving hands many years 
 before. On the west side was a sort of cellar-like excavation that in early 
 days I imagine contained a receiving vault but it was all grass grown now 
 and made a lovely hiding place during our games. Along the west fence 
 dividing the plot from Faulkner's field was a regular jungle of under- 
 growth, alders, ivy, wild cherry and best of all wild plums, off which we 
 feasted in the fall. This fence ran along the crest of a steep bank that 
 circled out into Faulkner's field making a deep grassy amphitheater shaded 
 by splendid oaks, and inuch frequented by the district school scholars at 
 recess. Criss-crossing the plot at all angles were footpaths worn by the 
 
H. W. DeLong 25 
 
 feet of the workmen employed at the mills along the creek who made a 
 convenience of the burying ground as a short cut to and from their labors. 
 These well worn paths intersecting one another here and there we magni- 
 fied into railroads with stations, switches and junction points, and to see 
 Mickey, Jake and the rest of us scooting over them with arms churning like 
 piston rods and every fellow contributing his "choo-choo-choo" and "Toot, 
 toot, toot," was a great sight for the living but lacking a bit in respect for 
 the tenants of our playground. There were a good many tombstones left, 
 mostly broken and standing awry, one with a little lamb carved on the top 
 that we fancied very much and an iron grill enclosure that we often peeped 
 through and spelled out the inscriptions. Then there was a sort of table- 
 like mausoleum with a flat marble top from which the letters had been 
 nearly obliterated by the weather and under it the earth had caved away 
 leaving a chasm down which we would peep shudderingly. I was too young 
 to make much of a study of the inscriptions, but I do remember one 
 "sacred to the memory of the wife of Moses VanCampen." This im- 
 pressed me no doubt through the fact that among the treasures found 
 when we moved in our house was the book of the life of the doughty 
 Indian fighter and I spelled out enough of its contents to be an ardent 
 worshiper of his memory. I also recall that popular epitaph of early days 
 repeated on several stones reading : 
 
 "As I am now so you must be, 
 Prepare thy soul to follow me." 
 
 But these evidences of mortality were lost on we boys. Familiarity 
 soon bred contempt and we romped and shouted over this God's acre with 
 perfect freedom and stood by at the frequent exhumations without a 
 tremor. 
 
 In the meantime life was going on smoothly with me at home, pros- 
 perity and thrift and an ever increasing happiness prevailed. There were 
 little troubles of course, but soon forgotten. Old Kate, the partnership mare 
 of Uncle Ed's and father's, had a little colt that was kept in a fenced off 
 portion of Uncle's back yard and sister and I considered it the most won- 
 derful product of the animal creation and we were constantly running out 
 to feast our eyes on his lovely proportions as he staggered about on his 
 wobbly legs. But one morning he lay stark and stiff, victim to some in- 
 fantile horse ailment and they buried him where he fell while we children 
 were disconsolate. Another time we dropped a pig's tail in the cistern and 
 had an awful time recovering it through the trap door that was so popu- 
 lar and death-dealing to children in those days. Then came the death of 
 auntie's little baby Eddie, and I was broken hearted. This was the first 
 time death had come so close to me and after looking at the still little form 
 I went into the back yard all by myself wondering at it all, trying to figure 
 out in my childish way why this terrrible thing I couldn't understand, had 
 come into our happy lives so brutally, so uncalled for? As I stood utterly 
 crushed under an old apple tree a phoebe bird in the branches above 
 sounded its plaintive note and my sore little heart interpreted it into 
 "baby, baby," and ever since that bird note bears the same message. 
 
 Grandma Ostrander's visits were always a delight to me and she was 
 nearly eighty when she first came to see us. Born in 1779, the year General 
 
26 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 SulUivan drove the Senecas from the Genesee country and right in the 
 midst of the Revolutionary war she v^as indeed a link between the past and 
 present. A good old Methodist was she and constant in prayer. But 
 don't think grandmother was misanthropic or a killjoy; she was quite the 
 contrary, full of jokes and stories, she was most interesting to a little boy. 
 I remember her telling me of her aunt taking her in her arms one day 
 when she was a little child and taking her over to the battlefield of Prince- 
 ton in New Jersey near which they lived. It was not so long after the 
 battle and Grandma could not remember the occurrence but she said her 
 aunt told her afterwards that while she was carrying her along grand- 
 mother suddenly said 'O, aunt, see that big red coat," and her aunt stoutly 
 held to the day of her death that little Nancy saw the ghost of a Hessian. 
 Grandma had the habit so common among old ladies of those times of 
 using snufif and smoking, and I well remember how interested I was in 
 the process of burning out her clay pipes in the kitchen stove. Occasionally 
 she would at my earnest plea give me a pinch of maccaboy and shake her 
 fat sides with mirth to see me strangle and sneeze. We had a railroad in 
 the back yard and she would come out where we were playing at times and 
 make a great ado in crossing the track for fear she would get run over. 
 When grandmother died at 95, among her little effects was found the fol- 
 lowing letter which was returned to the writer and I have it today : 
 
 "Dansville, Oct. 29, 1860. 
 Dear Grandma : 
 
 I thought I would write a few lines to you to inform you that we are 
 all well and hope that you are all well I go to school to mister buell My 
 studis are arithmetic geography writing reading and spelling. The boys 
 have got a company of young wideawakes. I am one of their numbers 
 thare are sixty four of us But grandma I think lincoln will split rails 
 in the white house Don't you think so But grandma I will tell you one 
 thing that is true that lincolns on a white horse Douglass on a mule lincoln 
 is the Best man Douglass is a fool But grandma you must excuse all my 
 mistaces for it is the first leter i have ever wrote please write Soon from 
 your affectionate Hermy Delong." 
 
 It was a boast of mine to the other boys that I had two grandmothers, 
 a fact none of them could duplicate. Grandmother Willis was father's 
 mother and she and my step grandfather would visit us at times before 
 they settled permanently in Dansville later. Grandma Willis made most 
 delicious ginger cookies and like her brother, Edward Palmes, had a keen 
 sense of humor. On one of her visits it so happened that I had just had 
 my first tooth extracted by Dr. Bristol the local dentist and I was full of 
 the novelty of it. Of course I told Grandma Willis all about it and wound 
 up by saying I would like to be a dentist when I grew up. She listened 
 to me and said "That's a fine idea. I believe you would make a fine tooth 
 puller, suppose you begin on me. I've got a tooth right in front that ought 
 to come out." I agreed enthusiastically and she designated the tooth on 
 the upper jaw, saying that it was so loose I needn't bother with the 
 forceps but pull it out with my fingers. False teeth were rarer then than 
 now and I had never seen such a thing. So when I grabbed the tooth and 
 gave a yank out came the whole ghastly plate and I was scared to death and 
 it took all grandmother's diplomacy to soothe me. Grandpa Willis was a 
 quiet man but he and I got along finely together. I remember one Fourth 
 
H. W. DeLong 27 
 
 of Jul}^ he and grandmother were at our house. By 10 a. m. I had used 
 up all my firecrackers and with my last cent had pooled with Henry Capell 
 and bought a cocoanut that we soon devoured. I was strapped and there 
 was a long day before me. Father had given me a quarter in the morning 
 considering it ample for the dissipations of a seven year old and I thought 
 so too at the time, but the attractions of Main street had proved so allur- 
 ing that the boy and his money were soon parted. As I wandered along 
 disconsolate I met grandfather taking a stroll and a happy thought pos- 
 sessed me. "Grandpa," I said hesitatingly, "I wish you would lend me 
 three cents and I will pay you back." "Alright my boy," said he kindly 
 handing me a dime "and say, between you and me, you needn't bother about 
 paying it back." So I was in funds again without the humiliation of ap- 
 pealing to dad. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Leading citizens of Dansville as the boy observed them ; Primitive 
 fire apparatus ; Old Lockup ; Big Fire of 1858 ; Swearing in Dutch. 
 
 Old people are not usually interesting characters to small boys, they 
 pay very little attention to them, in fact look upon them as creatures of 
 another world in which they can see no use. No doubt I was that way 
 myself, and yet there were a few old people walking our streets in my early 
 boyhood who made an impression on me that has been permanent. Be- 
 tween 1855 and 1860 there were men living here who were identified with 
 Dansville from its very foundation, men who fought in the war of 1812, 
 voted for Madison, Monroe, John Quincy Adams and Andrew Jackson. 
 Saw General LaFayette in Rochester when he went through that town in 
 1825 on the Erie canal. Men who still wore bell crown beaver hats, high 
 stocks and blue broadcloth coats with shiny brass buttons. I might hunt 
 up contemporaneous history and make out a list of all these old worthies, 
 but as I said at the outset, this is not a history, only just the recollections 
 of a little boy living in a little circle and absorbing just those things alone 
 that came under his limited and unmature observation. There was Abra- 
 ham Dippy and Moses George, both veterans of 1812. These old soldiers 
 would talk with me on occasion and I used to be glad I knew them when 
 they sat in state in the carriages reserved for them in the Fourth of July 
 parades. I remember Jonathan Barnhart as he made his way feebly down 
 the street from his residence on upper Main street. Then there was an old 
 Mr. Bradley who lived near the paper mill. On my excursions to Mill 
 creek I used to often see him tottering along the path on Knox street with 
 a green patch over his eye and feeling his way with a heavy cane. Colonel 
 Samuel Smith always appealed to me as a fine figure in his blue coat and 
 white waist coat. He always seemed so neat and dignified standing before 
 his brick house in the business part of Main street as I would be passing 
 on some errand farther down. Dr. William Reynale was an ideal exem- 
 plar of the old school doctor. He wore a stovepipe hat in making his calls 
 about town and carried a pair of well worn saddlebags over his arm. These 
 contained a goodly supply of primary remedies and first aid surgical in- 
 struments, for in these days country doctors supplied the bulk of the medi- 
 cines they prescribed. Dr. Reynale was a most kindly man and when with 
 my little companion, his grandson, I would occasionally be at his house he 
 and his good wife would make us stay to dinner and I know he enjoyed 
 our boyish talk. Other old men I used to see in our neighborhood were 
 Obed Aldrich. Mr. Brace, Mr. Oilman, Calvin Clark, Mr. Fenstermacher 
 and others. Some of them we feared and others we liked just according 
 to how they treated us, for boys are excellent judges of human nature. 
 Aunt Nancy Pickell was a dear old lady and I well remember the stories 
 of early Dansville she used to tell me, (how the Indians used to come 
 
H. W. DeLong 29 
 
 hunting about here and exchange venison for pork and flour with her 
 people. The men in active hfe in my radius were all good people, generally 
 fathers of my playmates, so I knew them well, and I can say with truth 
 that every mother of the whole crowd was my personal friend and remained 
 such through all their lives. 
 
 I don't think business was carried on quite so strenuously then as now. 
 Without the impulse of the telephone, the railway and the electric light to 
 spur them on, our business men went slower and more leisurely. Once 
 a year a trip was taken to New York to buy stock. All heavy goods came 
 by canal and credits ran a whole year. It cost very little to live comfort- 
 ably and the man who worked for a dollar a day lived better than his 
 descendant does now at double those wages. Men took time to visit and 
 discuss the topics of the day, interchange of courtesies between merchants 
 were common, and the rivalry that exists today so strongly was hardly 
 noticeable. Business men took time to go hunting and fishing on week 
 days using Sunday for a real day of rest. Our lawyers were a dignified, 
 scholarly lot, evidently appreciating their true position in the community, 
 and still they were not above mingling in the social pleasures of their 
 fellows. The names of Esq. Wilkinson, Benjamin Harwood, Judge Hub- 
 bard, D. W. Noyes, Gershom Bulkley, Robert Dorr, Judge VanDerlip, 
 Joseph W. Smith and others were always the synonym for the best in 
 citizenship to my boyish ears. Dr. James Faulkner I feared a bit on ac- 
 count of his wealth and dignity, and when father sent me down to his 
 house one morning to collect a bill, I went with fear and trembling. I 
 found the doctor at breakfast all by himself in the big dining room, and 
 having in a faint voice told my errand he bade me sit down and wait 
 until he had finished. My timidity didn't prevent my lookmg around and 
 noticing the doctor was eating heartily of good home-made sausage and 
 buckwheat cakes, (it was winter time) I took heart of grace and wisely 
 concluded that Dr. Faulkner was made out of about the same sort of clay 
 as I was. for I surely loved buckwheat cakes and sausage with all a small 
 boy's ardor. Having finished he paid the bill and sat down and talked 
 business to me, asking among other things the price of raw blinds per run- 
 ning foot? Of course I didn't know and frankly said so. "Well, you ought 
 to know," said he gravely, "every boy should make it a point to know his 
 father's business." When I got home I asked father the price of raw 
 blinds per running foot and he told me "thirty cents." Now, thought I, 
 the next man who asks me that I will be ready for. The question was 
 never asked me again, but I have never forgotten the quotation. After this 
 my feelings toward the doctor softened and when I got acquainted with 
 his grandsons and granddaughters as my radius enlarged I used to think 
 I wouldn't mind such a grandad myself. 
 
 In those days Dansville's only protection against fire was a series of 
 cisterns at the street corners, just pits covered with heavy planks into 
 which the ditch water drained, and a couple of hand engines. One of 
 these was quite a pretentious machine named Phoenix that had room for 
 twenty men on the brakes, the other was a small affair that got its power 
 by cranks at either end. There were red shirted firemen to man these 
 primitive apparatus and a strong spirit of rivalry existed. We boys had 
 our favorites and the cry among us would be 
 
30 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 "Phoenix number one 
 Can make Hope run." 
 
 Or 
 
 "Hope number two 
 
 Can put Phoenix through." 
 
 These machines along with a hook and ladder truck so long it could 
 hardly turn a corner without capsizing and had to have a room by itself 
 were housed in suitable buildings on the square with the square stone 
 lockup for company. The lockup with its squatty solidity, bolt studded 
 door and one small grated window overlooking an enclosure about ten 
 feet square surrounded by a high board fence was a most sinister looking 
 place to our law abiding crowd, and the simple mention of it to us in 
 times of insubordination or mischief meant a speedy return to goodness 
 and obedience. I remember one morning on my way to Mary Oilman's 
 school of seeing a crowd of men and boys excitedly buzzing around the 
 lockup like bees about a hive, some had climbed on the roof and were 
 examining a ragged hole that looked as though it might have been made 
 by a bombshell. It seemed a burglar named Pennoyer, who had robbed 
 Stedman's store and been caught and incarcerated in the lockup, had been 
 furnished by outside friends with suitable tools and sawed his way through 
 the roof in the night to liberty. As I recall it a posse was organized headed 
 by A. B. Toles. They tracked Pennoyer and brought him to bay south of 
 town. He was a big muscular fellow and despairing and harrassed would 
 not surrender or allow himself to be taken. Toles was a small man but full 
 of expedients and when he found he couldn't get his man peaceably he 
 solved the problem by a well directed stone planted squarely in the back 
 of Pennoyer's head. Subsequently it was said, they found Stedman's goods 
 and many more in a cave just below the rim of the bank of one of the 
 highest points in Stony Brook Glen, and we boys when at the Glen after- 
 ward fondly imagined we could see the black mouth of the robbers' cave 
 two hundred feet above us. 
 
 The first fire I remember was, I think, on South street. Sister and 
 I holding hands, joined the crowd as they swept down Main street by our 
 house. Across the square we cut and I remember we were joined at the 
 point by the Capell girls with their hair flying in the breeze and their 
 brother Henry toiling on behind. Some one said it was Jim Boone's house 
 and that is all I can recall of the fire, possibly I was forcibly recalled at 
 this point by some one sent to bring me back home. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon, I think it was in 1858, I was in our woodshed 
 whittling a stopper for a bottle in which I had put some bits of orange 
 peel and filled with water, hoping the combination might result in a spicy 
 essence. I was working with a troubled conscience trying to justify myself 
 in this Sunday labor. In the midst of my doubts and perplexities the 
 Presbyterian church bell began to clang, clang, in a very unsabbathlike 
 manner and small as I was I knew it meant a fire. Dropping the half 
 finished stopper I rushed into the house where I found the whole family 
 in commotion roused by the clanging bells and cries of "fire" that began 
 to sound on the street. Out of the house we all ran and a single glance 
 down Main street showed that it was a big fire and under furious head- 
 way. A strong west wind was driving a great cloud of flame and smoke 
 
H. W. DeLong 31 
 
 across just below Chestnut street and as we looked the buildings on the 
 east side ignited and flared up like tinder. Heckman's people were also 
 out in their yard manifesting great excitement and Jake seeing me cried 
 out tearfully through the line fence, "Its the Natiolon, its the Natiolon," 
 he meant that it was the National Hotel, a big three story structure that 
 his father owned, and at that time the biggest tavern in Dansvillc. I 
 remember the Heckman children were all crying and I felt awfully sorry 
 for them. Of course Jake and I wanted to go down and see the lire but 
 we were ordered to stay at home, and soon people came hurrying back 
 saying that the town was doomed and we frightened youngsters could 
 only watch the flames eating their way easterly and listen to the faint 
 shouts of the fire fighters and the clank, clank, of the brakes of Phoenix 
 No. 1 as it poured a feeble little stream on the flames. People up our 
 way began moving out some of their valuables into their front yards, 
 preparatory to taking them to places of safety when, whether owmg to 
 the wind slackening or changing, or the flames being checked by a provi- 
 dential gap in its course, I can't say, the fire was brought under control 
 and by evening had burned itself out. But what devastation it left, the 
 whole block from Exchange street south to where Dr. Andrews' residence 
 now is on the west side of Main street -and on the east side clear to the 
 house now occupied by F. A. Owen, while the thickly built squares back 
 to Elizabeth street were swept clean with the exception of two or three 
 houses. It was a great sight for me the next morning, when I was taken 
 to look over the ruins. It seemed so strange, so terrible, as though I was 
 looking at another town. I think it was about two years after that we 
 had another big fire, burning from the Bank of Dansville clear around the 
 corner of Exchange street to where is now St. Patrick's school. This 
 fire I saw from a near by vantage point and I remember a boy I knew 
 yelling to me as he rushed by "Old Woodruff's house has got to go." 
 I also recall how the paint on Steinhardt's grocery and the Sam W. 
 Smith house all blistered and peeled off from the heat across the way. 
 But fires and floods and moving accidents made small impression on our 
 juvenile minds, the sorrows of yesterday were swallowed up in the joys 
 of today, and tomorrow was only the dawning of another day of delight. 
 
 No matter what his bringing up may have been there conies a time in 
 every boy's life when he longs to swear. Jake and I had been taught 
 both at home and Sunday school that swearing was a most pernicious 
 habit, not practiced by good people and carrying with its indulgence social 
 ostracism on earth and a sure hot penalty hereafter. I am sorry to say 
 that among our acquaintances both great and small there were those who 
 used apalling oaths not only frequently but with a gusto that seemed to 
 be very satisfactory to them. Some of them were pretty good fellows, too, 
 and we felt as though we were being denied a great privilege in not being 
 allowed to indulge. But our training stood by us, we just simply dassent. 
 In talking it over one day, Jake and I hit on what we thought a most 
 happy solution of our trouble. Every season the Heckman family made 
 a pilgrimage to Northampton County, Pa., on a visit to their relatives and 
 friends. While there the language of the lowlands commonly known as 
 Pennsylvania Dutch was used entirely and Jake could speak it like a full 
 blood Amish. All of the good Pennsylvania people he saw and heard 
 were not of the strictest adherents of Martin Luther and some of the 
 
32 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 picturesque oaths they used he stored away in his mind, so now he sug- 
 gested that we try a few and see if they wouldn't fill a long felt want. 
 We talked the matter over seriously and came to the conclusion that the 
 Lord probably did not understand Pennsylvania Dutch and we might 
 carry out our scheme without endangering our future. So we went out 
 into Jake's garden and began yelling out a series of Northampton County 
 oaths at the top of our infantile voices. Whether the powers above under- 
 stood our words or not we never found out but Jake's good mother from 
 the open kitchen window heard, and hearing, understood, and that job of 
 swearing in a foreign tongue fell flat before her righteous indignation. 
 She told us plainly that no such tricks as that would work successfully 
 before a higher tribunal and we boys had to fall back on such old thread- 
 bare makeshifts as ''thunder, darn and cracky." 
 
 These annual visits to "Pennsylany" as Jake called it were great events 
 and I loved to hear him tell about them when the family returned. I 
 knew all about Grandma Hartsell and Cousin Joe and all the rest of the 
 kin and really felt a sort or proprietary right in them. One time I remem- 
 ber some kinsman of Jake's had raised a crop of tobacco that he had made 
 up into cigars. Jake was only eight years old but he had made a little 
 money and was always looking for the main chance, so when this kins- 
 man offered him some of these cigars at a nominal price he clinched the 
 bargain and brought home several hundred. He had his eye on father 
 (who fortunately was not a discriminating smoker) as the one on whom 
 he could unload his goods, and the scheme worked and father, tempted by 
 the price, bought largely. I never heard him praising them very loudly. 
 Jake would tell me what good things they had to eat down in Bethlehem 
 and he taught me the song of a Colonel whose war record in Northampton 
 County was as follows : 
 
 "Old Colonel Yohe with his one thousand men 
 Marched down to Hagerstown and marched back again. 
 He saw the rebels coming, he was afraid to fight. 
 So he got behind a straw stack and there he stayed all night." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Mrs. Stanley's School ; Old Circus Days ; Old Time Fairs. Fourth 
 of July; Canal Boats; Captain Henry's Stage Line; Some of the 
 old Jehus. 
 
 I was seven when a new view of life was opened to me through the 
 medium of Mrs. Stanley's school. The fact that the public schools of 
 Dansville were so inadequate to the needs of the people in the middle of 
 the last century made the select school a necessity. There were several 
 in the town adapted to different ages and purses and they filled a vital 
 need most practically. Mrs. Stanley's school was on Elizabeth street in 
 the front room of that good lady's house. Looking back through^ the 
 years I would call it a sort of magnified kindergarten run on no definite 
 plan, but producing results for good that I fail to see duplicated in the 
 primary departments of our public schools today. I well remember the 
 morning mother took me to this school. It was winter and on the benches 
 of the little porch entrance were the boy's caps and mittens and the girls' 
 hoods, while under was piled the sleds. Through the closed front door 
 came a confused babel of sound that burst into a mighty roar as the portal 
 was opened to us by Mrs. Stanley herself. It was the children studying 
 "out-loud" as we used to call it, and it seemed somewhat apalling to me 
 but the kind reception of the teacher put me at my ease and I was soon 
 seated in the midst of the scholars adding my strong young voice to the 
 general hubbub. Mrs. Stanley seemed like a very old lady to me with her 
 sleek gray hair drawn tightly back and fastened in a little knot at the 
 back of her head, her large white false teeth that were greatly in evidence, 
 when she smiled, her big silver bowed glasses and her sober Quaker garb. 
 I don't think she was more than fifty, neither do I imagine she taught 
 school because she loved the work, but for the needful money it brought 
 her, but be that as it may, she certainly possessed an adaptabihty in hand- 
 ling children that was amazing. She was kindness itself and never lost 
 patience with the unruly and dull. Selfishness she would not counten- 
 ance and the child who brought the big red apple, willingly allowed her 
 to cut it into thirty-two slices and give each schoolmate one. Every child's 
 work was given it on the basis of its needs and ability; she studied us in 
 units and she could gauge what we could do well to a fraction. I am 
 frank to say that in the three years I was a pupil at Mrs. Stanley's from 
 seven to ten I laid the foundation for more real knowledge than in all my 
 school years subsequent, and I am quite sure there are a goodly number 
 of the alumni of Mrs. Stanley's living today who will confess the same 
 thing. And yet when I think of this school it seems my sojourn there was 
 one long summer holiday. I can't recall of ever dreading or hating to go, 
 possiblv I did, but if so time has kindly effaced the fact. Every morning 
 we would stand in rows, the giant class in front and read from the New 
 
34 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 Testament. I had no trouble reading and I used to wonder at some of 
 the boys stumbling along as they did over the words, and one morning 
 in reading about Paul at Athens, Cal. Dunham called the town clerk the 
 "town clock." The multiplication table we would sing every day and in 
 the "fives" having sung along to "five times four are twenty" on the same 
 old tune, we would break into "Yankee Doodle" with great gusto and 
 carry the "fives" through to the end. In geography we fastened the capi- 
 tals of states firmly in our minds by repeating them over and over in a sing 
 song tone, "Maine, Augusta, New Hampshire, Concord, Vermont, Mont- 
 pelier," and so on through the list. I did not like arithmetic and I remem- 
 ber how Charley Campbell, the Presbyterian minister's son, did a little 
 sum in a minute that I couldn't see through at all, and I wept with vexa- 
 tion. But in geography, reading, spelling and writing I never faltered. 
 What a delight the reading class was with its little old fashioned stilted 
 stories and sad depressing poetry. But some of the stories would grip 
 me, particularly those pertaining to the Revolutionary war. My great 
 grand-father Palmes was a soldier of 76 and the story of his trials on sea 
 and land, his wonderful escape from a British frigate off the coast of Cuba 
 where with two companions he swam ashore and eventually reached his 
 home in Connecticut, had been told me many times by those who had 
 heard it from his own lips, so the story in the old Town's third reader of 
 the adventures of a Revolutionary soldier seemed so like the one I knew 
 that I often wondered if it wasn't really the tale of my grandfather. Then 
 there was another story of a young girl whose people were entertaining a 
 party of British ofiicers, the girl was true to the American cause while 
 her parents were Royahsts. While at the house the officers held a con- 
 sultation and formed a plan to capture Washington of whom they were 
 in pursuit. The girl hid in an adjoining closet, overheard the scheme and 
 when night came hurried off to Washington's headquarters and warned 
 him of his danger, then hurried back home and reached her room through 
 the window. The scheme failed and next morning at breakfast one of the 
 officers in telling the story wound up with, "When we got there we found 
 the bird had flown and we marched back like a parcel of fools." The boy 
 or girl who was fortunate enough to have this closing sentence to read al- 
 ways made the most of it and rolled it out with great emphasis. O, we 
 little chaps had quite a bit of the spirit of '76 in us then for there were still 
 left a few rusty links unbroken in the chain connecting those "days that 
 tried men's souls" with the middle of the last century. One of my chief de- 
 sires was to kill a red coat, and as school artist my slate pictures of the 
 battle of Bunker Hill with the British grenadiers being mowed down by 
 the Continental troops were much admired. Then there were simple little 
 stories pointing a moral that we did not heed. One of Charlotte Walden, a 
 little girl with an insatiable curiosity who after several minor mishaps 
 brought on by listening at door cracks and open windows to the conver- 
 sation of her elders was at last cured of the vice by being precipitated 
 into the coal hole. Other little stories I recall are "The Discontented Pen- 
 dulum," "Harry and Jack," "The Captive Children," "The Little Merchant," 
 and "Hafed's Dream." A sad little poem called "Little Oscar's Grave," 
 always affected me, and another one, 'The boy who never told a lie" after 
 I had read it Mrs. Stanley asked me if I knew who that boy was? I had 
 just been reading of the virtues of the little boy who lay in his little grave 
 
H. W. DeLong 35 
 
 confined while I had the whole bright world about me. I was full of 
 sympathy for him and while I knew that "George Washington" was the 
 proper answer, I promptly thrust the father of his country aside and said 
 "Little Oscar." 
 
 Mrs. Stanley had two young lady daughters and they had a piano in 
 the parlor so we had plenty of music at our school. How well I remember 
 the little songs we used to sing, "We delight in our school," "Good Morn- 
 ing," "Woodman, Spare that Tree," etc. (Whenever Mrs. Killam, an 
 honored alumnus, and I meet we get ofif by ourselves where nobody can 
 hear us and sing over these old songs,) and how exciting was the "last day 
 of school" with its varied exercises, and every child in its best raiment. 
 All mothers would be there sitting in a circle on the lawn and we young- 
 sters waiting in considerable trepidation for our names to be called. Fred 
 Noyes would glibly recite a long list of "Geographical facts." Ed Niles 
 and the writer would repeat the dialogue from the second reader called 
 "The Little Philosopher." Frank Rice read an original composition on 
 Spring. Charley Sylvester repeated "How do the waters come down at 
 Lodore?" with much enthusiasm followed by merited applause. Pauline 
 Seyler surrounded by a group of very little girls listened in a motherly way 
 to their complaints and answered them in a verse beginning: 
 
 "Hush ! hush ! you little rattlers. 
 You know not what you say." 
 
 George Croll would spout: 
 
 "There was an honest fisherman 
 I knew him passing well 
 Who lived nearby a little pond 
 Within a little dell." 
 
 Joe Burgess would favor the audience with 
 "Thomas was an idle lad. 
 He lounged about all day." 
 
 Willie Wetmore would assure all present that 
 "Old Rover was the finest dog 
 That ever ran a race." 
 
 While Charley Stacey introduced 
 
 "The boy stood on the burning deck." 
 
 Tfiere were others too but the above is enough to touch up the lagging 
 memories of any of the "old uns" who may chance to see this. It is strange 
 how the back yard we used as a play ground has shrunken since those old 
 days. The big apple trees are gone, and the old low barn over which we 
 used to play "ante ante over" has been supplanted by a modern structure. 
 The row of big cherry trees inside the front fence to which we had free 
 access in fruiting time were cut down long ago and an up-to-date porch has 
 been installed where the old stoop used to stand. 
 
 I won't try to give a list of the scholars of Mrs. Stanley's school fifty 
 odd years ago, but I could name a lot of them were I so inclined, and I 
 often wonder where they are today, if still alive. There was Clark Wool- 
 
36 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 ever, he grabbed my knife one day and ran away with it. We chased him 
 and treed him in the willows way up to father's shop and when we searched 
 him we couldn't find the knife. He said he threw it away, but couldn't show 
 us the place, so I never saw my knife again. Then there was Willie 
 Karcher, Cora Owen, Valeria Velder, Charlej' Curtis and many more who 
 slipped from my ken when I left this school. One day Almira Kershner 
 burst out into a loud fit of weeping due to the fact that she had swallowed 
 a hair and feared it would turn into a snake. Willie Brown came bellowing 
 in to Mrs. Stanley saying that "Hermy DeLong threw me down right on 
 my sore leg now ! now ! !" Charley Stacy whose father kept a store, occa- 
 sionally brought a small vial of cinnamon essence and a lick at the cork 
 was the height of joy and we would all gather around him and in our 
 most insinuating tones say "Aw Charley, you know me." Then there were 
 the tragedies, the sorrows that come to all. One morning Mrs. Stanley told 
 us that our little schoolmate Chettie Leonard was dead, and we looked at 
 one another in awed silence hardly comprehending. And one day Mrs. 
 Stanley came to us after answering a call at the door, with a white trou- 
 bled face and going up to Lizzie Wallace whispered something in her ear 
 and led her out tenderly, a wondering, dazed look on the little girl's face. 
 Her father had been drowned while fishing in the FitzHugh (Fontaine's) 
 pond in Ossian. How well I remember the funeral, the first fraternity 
 one I had ever seen. It seemed a great pageant to me and I am quite sure 
 the whole school was allowed to go to the corner of Liberty and Main 
 and watch it pass. So passed the days at Mrs. Stanley's school, halcyon 
 days, the memory of which are the sweetest of my life. I can never forget 
 them and although the softening touch of years may have idealized them 
 somewhat yet I feel quite sure that they represent the nearest to perfec- 
 tion of anything in my experience. 
 
 Even as it is today, Dansville fifty odd years ago was a good show 
 town. In those days all the big circuses traveled overland hauling all their 
 complicated paraphernalia in wagons and the arrival of the circus in the 
 early morning was something no live boy could afiford to miss. They all 
 came to Dansville then as there was no better stand in Western New York. 
 I remember one joyful season, when seven big circuses visited our village. 
 The first great aggregation I recall was Van Amberg's circus and men- 
 agerie with their big tents pitched on "Irish Square" as we called it. Talk 
 about street parades, there was nothing ever equal to it in Dansville before 
 or since. Through my boyish eyes the Occident and orient were revealed 
 in all their savage splendor as the great gilded band chariot drawn by 
 fourteen elephants headed the procession through Main street followed by 
 herds of camels, zebras, emus and sacred cows, and the long seemmgly 
 endless train of cages, many of them open, containing every known wild 
 beast on earth. O, it was a gorgeous sight, one never to be forgotten. 
 The menagerie end of the show made it possible for all to go, and every- 
 body did. Preachers and teachers and Sunday schools flocked to the big 
 tent that summer afternoon, father and I among them. How amazing and 
 charming it all was to me perched up high on the bleachers with pa, crack- 
 ing peanuts and holding my breath at the daring acrobatic feats and laugh- 
 ing at the antics of Joe Pentland the great clown. I remember how my 
 staid unemotional father laughed at the clown's song: 
 
H. W. DeLong 37 
 
 "My name it is Joe Bowers, 
 
 I got a brother Ike, 
 I came from Old Missouri; 
 
 Yes, all the way from Pike. 
 The reason why I left there 
 
 And why I came to roam. 
 And leave my poor old mammy 
 
 So far away from home. 
 
 I once knew of a gal there, 
 
 Her name was Sally Black, 
 I asked her if she'd have me. 
 
 She said it was a whack. 
 Says she to me, Joe Bowers 
 
 Before we hitch for life. 
 You'd better get a hovel 
 
 For to keep your little wife. 
 
 Says I to her, dear Sally, 
 
 If you will only wait 
 I'll go to Californy 
 
 And try to raise a stake." 
 
 And SO on through half a dozen verses. But Sally proves false to Joe 
 and he dolefully sings : 
 
 "And what do you think 
 
 Did happen then? 
 'Twas enough to make you swear, 
 Why Sally married a boocher. 
 
 And the boocher had red hair." 
 
 But when the final ending came and Joe tearfully sings the last line : 
 
 "And Sally had a baby and the baby had red hair." 
 
 My father along with all the rest of the good people simply shouted 
 with laughter. 
 
 The old time fairs held on the grounds at the foot of Franklin street 
 were days of delight to we youngsters. They were very like to the country 
 fairs of today in the matter of floral and pomological exhibits, pens of 
 cattle, sheep, and swine, coops of chickens, and housewives' triuinphs in 
 cookery and preserving. There was horse racing and the man with the 
 shell game had already been born and other fakes were in evidence to trap 
 the unwary. What fun it was for two or three of us chosen spirits capital- 
 ized to say about a total of thirty-five cents to roam about the big enclosure, 
 soak in the sights and figure on the wisest investment of our money. Old 
 Mr. Doty would be there with his barrel of pop corn balls fresh and crisp, 
 and perhaps a stock of home-made molasses candy laid in penny sticks on 
 clean, white paper, good wholesome stuff. Then there w^as always lemon- 
 ade and root beer and peanuts, and speaking of peanuts owing to a short 
 crop in Virginia and the possibility of a blockade, these delectable necessi- 
 ties were very small, very scarce, and very high priced. They were still 
 sold at five cents a cup, but the cups were pitifully small, so when Jake 
 and I made a joint investment in a cup we resolutely ate them shucks and 
 
38 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 all. There was a local exhibitor, Thompson by name, having on view at his 
 booth, "ten living rattlesnakes, nine old ones and one young one," and a 
 chap who cried before his tent among other curiosities ''a chicken with four 
 legs, a dog with two legs, all stand erect and walk the same as a pusson." 
 The races we watched with great delight, the only drawback being the 
 tedious scoring. A little short barrelled stallion named Bumblebee was our 
 favorite, he looked so little and out of place among the big husky held 
 lined up before the judge's stand that our sympathy was enlisted and 
 finally when they got off, the little chap took his place and led his big 
 brothers to a triumphant finish, and to our great delight. One time right 
 in the midst of the races a tremendous thunder storm cam.: up from the 
 west, so sudden was the attack that the crowd was caught unprepared and 
 such a scurrying and rush for the exits I never saw. I remember father 
 had "Old Kate," the partnership mare with the top buggy in which he had 
 brought the whole family to the fair, and we all piled in and started pell 
 mell for home. We took the road across the canal by the McWhorter 
 farm to the foot of Ossian street to avoid the crowd of vehicles and so by 
 the back streets home. I imagine the survivors of the fair will never for- 
 get that storm. The rain came down in buckets full, the lightning was in* 
 cessant and struck in many places, while the thunder was appalling. I 
 was almost frightened to death but still had sense enough to notice Met. 
 Durkee sitting on the little trunk seat at the rear of our carriage with the 
 rain pouring off his bedraggled straw hat in torrents. He grinned up at 
 me fearlessly which did much toward restoring my confidence. 
 
 Probably the lapse of years has a lot to do with it, but it seems to me 
 now that the Fourth of July meant a whole lot more to we boys in those 
 days than it does to the present generation. We didn't have the whole 
 long list of noise makers that the boys of today have. Dynamite crackers, 
 toy pistols and other thunderous explosives had not been invented, and we 
 had to content ourselves with ordinary Chinese firecrackers, paper torpedoes 
 and an occasional pinwheel, roman candle and skyrocket. But what the 
 stores could not supply we used to invent ourselves and accidents were 
 not uncommon. Gunpowder was indispensible and every boy included a 
 good big bottle full in his Fourth of July supplies. A good solid chunk of 
 .stove wood bored to a proper depth with an inch auger with a suitable vent 
 and fuse made a very satisfactory report with a generous charge of powder 
 rammed down and held in place by a chunk of blue clay. Old anvils were 
 brought into play, guns and antiquated pistols lent their voices to the melee 
 and amidst it all the old brass sixpounder boomed at regular intervals, 
 making the hills echo and the windows rattle. The Wilkinson boys had a 
 cannon they made themselves, how well I remember it : it was a piece of 
 rifle barrel about a foot long octagonal in shape, plugged at one end 
 with a piece of rat-tail file, a vent had been laboriously filed in the breech 
 and the whole affair was mounted on a block of wood. We neighborhood 
 boys took great pride in this piece of ordinance and on the morning of tht; 
 Fourth we took it down Knox street gleefully for a supreme test. We 
 loaded her properly to the muzzle, filled the vent with powder, laid a paper 
 fuse and lighting it, took to our heels for places of safety. Breathlessly 
 we watched the flame creep toward the powder, saw it flicker and flare 
 up then apparently go out. Slowly and cautiously we advanced from our 
 hiding places, approaching step by step but it didn't go off. "Probably 
 
H. W. DeLong 39 
 
 the paper was damp, she's out all right, come on, boys, let's fix her again." 
 Billy Wilkinson as chief cannonier was in advance, bending over the vent 
 to investigate, there was a flash, a stunning report, the cannon went one 
 way and Billy another, and when we in terror gathered him up his face 
 was black as an Ethiopian's and he could hardly see. Fortunately his eyes 
 were uninjured but his face was full of powder grains and the rest of his 
 Fourth was spent at home with his face done up in oiled cloths. I don't 
 think all those powder grains are out yet. 
 
 The Wetmore boys and Ed Shepherd made a fire balloon of tissue 
 paper. They generated the aerial power through the medium of a wad of 
 cotton, wired to the base of the balloon and saturated with alcohol ex- 
 tracted from the stock bottle in the drug store of the Wetmore boys' 
 father. The ascension was made from the corner of Chestnut and Eliza- 
 beth streets. The boys held the wobbly bag upright, lighted the alcohol 
 and the hot fumes filling the bag, it became more and more buoyant and 
 finally arose and sailed gracefully into the air amidst the delighted shouts 
 of the onlookers, but alas ! arising to a splendid height in the still air the 
 balloon with the alcohol still blazing descended on the shingles of the 
 Baptist church and in a minute the roof was aflame. Then was the boys' 
 triumph turned to alarm and there was a hurried rush for ladders by the 
 neighbors. Fortunately they were in time and a few pails of water settled 
 the matter, while the boys got a good scolding for their trouble. 
 
 What a busy day was the Fourth, beginning with the ringing of bells 
 and a bonfire at midnight. We boys were too small to participate in those 
 early demonstrations our parents thought, but somehow we didn't harbor 
 the same idea. Permission was given us to erect a tent of carpets in 
 Uncle Ed's back yard and sleep there the night before the Fourth as com- 
 pensation for our not going down town at midnight. Crafty little wretches 
 that we were, we went to bed early and the first tap of the midnight bells 
 found us sneaking out the back way and shaping our truant course toward 
 the center of excitement, where after exhausting every illicit joy we sneaked 
 back to our carpet tent and slept until the sunrise gun roused us to the 
 opening of the great day. There was always a civic and military pro- 
 cession traversing the street and bringing up at Harwood's grove, a fine 
 hickory grove between Chestnut and Liberty streets and facing Cottage. 
 Here a platform was erected and the whole town, great and small would 
 gather around and listen to the Declaration of Independence read by some 
 rising young lawyer, to be followed by a patriotic speech by some leading 
 and eloquent citizen. These exercises would last until noon, then the after- 
 noon would l)e devoted to general celebration business and in the evening 
 there would be a grand display of fireworks on the public square. Most of 
 the available funds of the day would be invested in the fireworks and they 
 were fine. What "Ohs" and "Ahs" would rise from the assembled multi- 
 tude as piece after piece interspersed with swishing rockets, would be fired, 
 and when came the great closing masterpiece of the ship of state with a 
 picture of Washington above it, we would go home, O ! so tired but 
 happy in the thought of a day well spent. 
 
 The lack of a railroad in E)ansville was oneof the chief regrets of my 
 boyhood. Practically the only roads then existing in Western New York 
 were the Erie and Central, and Dansville's nearest station was Wayland, 
 six miles away. So anxious were the boys to see the iron horse that on 
 
40 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 holidays they would get up a crowd and walk to Wayland just for the 
 sake of seeing the trains go by. But as I think of it now perhaps it was 
 better so, for had we had the railroad we would have missed the good old 
 coaching times that this condition of things made necessary. A few years 
 before I came to Dansville the canal packet was the popular way of getting 
 to the world outside. These boats were finely fitted up with a big main 
 saloon and comfortable sleeping bunks. Drawn by four horses they would 
 leave Dansville at the upper basin dock at 7 p. m. arriving in Rochester 
 next morning in time for breakfast. I remember one or two old packets 
 lying in the lower basin that I used to look at and wish I might have taken 
 a journey in in the days gone by. But with the building of the Erie road, 
 the packet's occupation was gone, and the traveling public was carried back 
 and forth to Wayland by means of the stage coach. I have heard there 
 were competing lines when rival coaches carried passengers for nothing 
 and even offered bonuses to travelers to take seats with them, but my only 
 recollection goes back to the days when Captain Henry owned the whole 
 outfit and the fare was sixty cents to Wayland, children half price. Cap- 
 tain Henry earned his title through the medium of a canal boat he owned, 
 but he certainly merited it as a captain of industry. To carry on this stage 
 line in connection with a big livery stable meant a large investment in 
 horses, coaches, and stable room and the employment of a large number of 
 men. But Captain Henry was equal to the occasion. He was shrewd, 
 resourceful and conscientious. His horses and coaches were the best and 
 on his trips he always held to a strict schedule time. His drivers were re- 
 liable, skilful reinsmen, all of whom took pride in getting through on time 
 in spite of the worst possible conditions. There was a plank road from 
 Dansville to Wayland maintained by a private company, with a toll gate 
 at the foot of the big hill. Everything being in good shape, it was a fine 
 sight to see one of these big thorough brace coaches drawn by four good 
 horses and loaded with passengers outside and in, tooling along between the 
 stump fences at ten miles an hour. The drivers, I remember, were George 
 Disbrow, Ev. White, Spav Clark and Jim Slayton. Every one was an old 
 timer, brought up on the box and a master hand. We boys were rather in 
 awe of these dignitaries, but after I had taken a trip or two with Jim Slay- 
 ton and found how genial he was and how careful of his charges in the 
 coach I got quite chummy with him and could ride in the boot without 
 fear of that long curling whiplash coming over the back when I least 
 expected it. He would let me and my friends hitch our sleds to the rear 
 of the coach and haul us up to the toll gate from which elevation we could 
 slide almost all the way back to the California House. It was always a 
 great day for me when mother and I would take the stage of a morning 
 to go to Rochester or Honeoye Falls on a visit. How eagerly I would 
 swallow my breakfast and take my post at the front door to hear the first 
 rumble of wheels announcing the arrival of the coach, and then the ride 
 through the sweet morning air to Wayland, the impatient waiting for the 
 train (it was always late) the ride on the cars, the visit and the home 
 coming again in the stage. Captain Henry also carried the express maTtcr 
 and newspapers, and about by the big elm on upper Main street, Henry Tnft 
 would meet us with a light wagon and collect the fares and transfer the 
 express matter. Henry Taft was a bit older than me, but I well remember 
 how I envied his job and wondered if I would ever be big enough or wise 
 enough to tackle it. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 Some Odd Characters; District School; Presbyterian Choir; Sunday 
 School Days and Picnics ; War Rumblings ; Shows in the Barn ; Young 
 Merchants ; The Joke on ' ' Fatty. ' ' 
 
 There used to be a lot of odd characters in Dansville when I was a 
 boy, that is they seemed odd to me looking at them through childish eyes. 
 I presume they were mostly normal every day folks, but my impressions 
 of them were such that they excited different phases of fear, wonder, con- 
 tempt, and respect according to circumstances. Boys always pick out the 
 odd people and from hearsay, observation and fancy make a wonderful 
 character often times out of a very ordinary individual, so it was with us. 
 
 There was one woman we knew as Dutch Laney, who she was or what 
 she was I never knew, but we youngsters endowed her with certain quali- 
 ties, the chief of which was a hatred of children, so we watched her fear- 
 somely as we would a witch, passing by on the other side when we saw 
 her coming and hooted and jeered when at a safe distance. One of the 
 boys told us she stole a parrot of his people and with shrill cries we would 
 brutally charge her with the theft and she would chase us, protesting mean- 
 while in broken English, "Parret, parret, me no steal parret, you steal 
 parret." 
 
 There was a man of mystery known as Wash. Glenn, a tall, very spare, 
 austere individual. He never noticed anybody as he walked the streets, 
 and a physical peculiarity made him interesting to us. As he strode along, 
 every few seconds he would jerk his head, sometimes so violently as to 
 displace his stovepipe hat and cock it over his ear and on occasion tip it 
 clear off his head to the ground. Of course we little wretches would laugh 
 at these (to us) antics, never considering that the man was suffering from 
 a nervous disorder and should have had our sympathy. O, we were little 
 savages, sturdy and full of vigor, just the age when physical weakness in 
 others is nothing more or less than crime. Wash. Glenn used to be poking 
 around the woods most of the time, and we used to hear wonderful tales 
 from the older fellows of his skill as a trout fisherman. They claimed they 
 had watched him on Mill creek and saw him apply some subtle oil to the 
 bait, taking the same from a small vial he carried in his pocket. How we 
 longed to know what the stuff was and we guessed anise seed oil, oil of 
 pennyroyal and all sorts of things, but we never found out. Horace Miller 
 said he always applied a good lubrication of tobacco juice to the bait, for 
 it proved to be very effective and he always had a supply. 
 
 Joseph Leiter was then in his prime and as his journey ended not so 
 many years ago the present generation are generally familiar with his 
 career as horseman, cattle raiser, cow doctor, and general funmaker. He 
 lived just across the Mill creek bridge on the road to Stone's Falls, and his 
 coming to town driving his old cream horse toggled up with ropes and 
 
42 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 scraps of old harness to a shakj- and decrepid buckboard was the signal 
 for a lot of fun making for the men and boys on the street. Joe would 
 discourse from his wagon to the gathering crowd and while one group 
 would take his attention on one side, another would deftly unfasten his 
 harness on the other and as he would attempt to start up, the old cream 
 would calmly walk out the shafts leaving Joe swearing furiously in the 
 wagon. The funny side of Joe Leiter was the vernacular; no one could 
 hear him talk without laughing, he had a sort of impediment in his speech 
 that was irresistible and the gravest citizen would stop and listen and 
 chuckle as the old man would get off his shrewd, comical, albeit profane 
 witicisms. One day Pat O'Brien finding the old cream in front of Angell 
 & Hall's grocery where he was clerk, took the marking pot and painted on 
 the ribs of the attenuated beast, "oats wanted within." Joe was furious 
 and offered ten dollars (it might as well have been a hundred) for infor- 
 mation leading to the culprit, and although he had strong suspicions, he 
 never found out. 
 
 Then there was old Black Kate, an ancient and guileful negress, who 
 with her son George, lived in the alley. Being the only representative 
 Africans in town these two made the most of their privileges, and they 
 were many. Liquor was Kate's solace and later her son's undoing. The 
 boys thought it great fun to jeer at the poor creature as she stumbled along 
 in her wretchedness, but when she turned in a rage with her basilisk eyes 
 glowing, there was a scampering for she would hit right spiteful if she 
 caught a fellow. Kate never forgot that she wasn't a southern darkey and 
 there was no color line for her. She used to work for the best people and 
 her plays for social equality made lots of fun for the ladies employing her. 
 Uncle Edward Palmes offended her very much one day when she was work- 
 ing for my aunt. He came into the kitchen where Kate had just finished 
 an especially good job of blacking the cook stove. "That's a fine piece 
 of work, Kate," he said, "that shines like a nigger's heel." Another lady 
 for whom she was cleaning house complained how her laces turned yellow 
 lying in the presses. "Just de same way wid mine, Mrs. Johnson," sympa- 
 thized Kate. "I hab dat same sort of trouble ebery spring." Her son George 
 was a great whistler, never missing a note of the most complicated music, 
 but how he did stutter. He came to our house one day in cherry time, 
 and asked mother if he could "pip, pick our ch-ch-cherries on ch-ch-chairs?" 
 George's social qualities were such that we boys used to let him into our 
 games occasionally and one time as we were playing together, his mother 
 passing in an elevated condition looked on disapprovingly. No doubt she 
 saw in her hopeful son a scion of a long race of African kings for she 
 screeched out, "George Washington LaFayette, come out o' dat white trash, 
 j'ou'll be ketchin bugs of 'em." After his mother died George drifted to 
 Rochester and became a human derelict, tossed to and fro between the 
 streets and the Monroe County Penitentiary. One day while out of jail 
 he went into the large fashionable store of a prominent citizen of the 
 Flower City who was an old Dansville boy. The gentleman was engaged 
 with a committee of ladies from the Brick church that morning, but 
 George, relying on the past, ignored the fact and broke in on the confer- 
 ence with "Hello, Lanny, ju-ju-just dropped in to a-a-ask you if you mem- 
 mem-bered when we used to set to-to-gether to old Buell's school up to 
 D-D-Dansville and see if you c-c-couldn't lemme have a qua-quarter?" 
 
H. W. DeLong 43 
 
 He got the quarter with a strict warning to in the future "let bygones be 
 bygones." 
 
 Frederick Decker, the Ossian giant, was a great wonder to me and 
 well he might be. He was a giant indeed, seven and a half feet tall, if I 
 remember rightly, and barring a stoop, well proportioned. He was on the 
 road part of the time traveling with a sideshow, but when the show season 
 was over he would live on a farm in Ossian. When he came to town the 
 word would be passed among the boys and we would stare in astonishment 
 at his mammoth figure as he shambled along Alain street with his wife, who 
 seemed like a pygmy beside him. We used to hear great stories of his 
 wonderful strength, how he could lift great saw logs at the Ossian mill 
 where he worked and put them on the carriage after half a dozen husky 
 fellows failed, and one time while in Dansville he saw a couple of Canallers 
 down on the wharf clinched in a fierce fight. Grasping each man firmly by 
 the collar he tore them apart and flung them aside with the admonition, 
 "boys, you musn't fight." The Ossian baby, another name for Decker, used 
 to get his footwear at C. Dick's shoe store. Mr. Dick had special lasts 
 for him and when a pair of shoes or boots were finished, would exhibit 
 them in his show window. They were a great ad for Mr. Dick as there 
 would be a great crowd around the window all day looking at that rnon- 
 strous pair of boots. They were certainly great, and there was very little 
 display room in the window for anything else. Like most giants poor Fred 
 succumbed early to tuberculosis. 
 
 George Lookins lived over by the Deer Park in a little brown house 
 since torn down. He was an eccentric old man and his little place had a 
 great fascination for us boys. There was a pond and woods and a Httle 
 brook where chubs and horned dace lurked and my first experience fishing 
 was in this same brook along with Met Durkee, when we angled with 
 thrums from his mother's loom for lines and bent pins for hooks. Like 
 the disciples of old, "we toiled and caught nothing," but this initiation into 
 the mysteries of the gentle art bore fruit that still develops when the spring 
 time calls. Mr. Lookins never interfered with us so long as we behaved 
 ourselves, in fact he was kind and loquacious, talking to us in a friendly 
 way and inviting us in to see the monkey brought hirn from South America 
 and other curiosities. He was a man of decided opinions and one time in a 
 religious argument with a friend he stoutly affirmed that God had nothing 
 to do with created things, it was "just natur." He thought a great deal of 
 that monkey, and he was a cute little fellow, but one day in his playfulness 
 Jocko dropped on the head of a neighbor who was chopping in the ad- 
 joining woods, so startling him that he whirled with his axe and laid the 
 monkey lifeless. It was a severe blow to the old gentleman and Jocko was 
 given a decent interment and a suitable headstone on which in verse was 
 recorded his virtues and a pathetic account of his taking off, embellished 
 with a free hand picture of the axe that laid him low. We boys loved 
 jocko, too, and often we would make pilgrimages to his grave and read 
 with mingled feelings his touching epitaph. 
 
 Old Bob Day was a character that while we never knew him intimately 
 he commanded our respect and admiration from the fact that he was one 
 of the last of the race of hunters that in years gone by shot deer and bear 
 about Dansville. If I remember rightly he lived in an old shack along the 
 creek above the stone mill. Here he kept his hunting and fishing gear. 
 
■44 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 among which was a great pigeon net that during the flight he would set in 
 some favorable place, perhaps in Ossian or Pine Swamp. Here he would 
 build his bough house and bring his stool pigeons and camp out through the 
 season. Only a few of the faithful would be allowed to share the sport and 
 see old Bob's methods. Fortunately his confreres took in one or two of 
 father's men, so pigeon pies were on the bill of fare at our house while 
 the flight lasted. I never saw pigeons so plentiful that their flights darkened 
 the sun and the sound of their wings was like rolling thunder. Neither do 
 I remember seeing the good people of Dansville armed with long poles 
 knocking down the low flying birds, but I used to hear such stories from the 
 older people, and actually saw many large flocks flying over Dansville, and 
 later when I owned a gun, had more than one good day's sport shooting 
 them in the Ossian woods. 
 
 Then there was an old fellow known by all as "Old Blodgett." He 
 came to town driving an old mule, but where he came from I cannot tell. 
 His home did not interest me but his antics did. I remember he was always 
 in his shirt sleeves and wore a vest with a red flannel back. This flaming 
 talisman was very conspicuous on Main street as Old Blodgett tore up and 
 down. Still, I don't recall that his eccentricities were anything more than 
 a vivid display of a playful nature and did nobody any harm. 
 
 There were other old men I recall, not so much because of their pecu- 
 liarities but simply from the fact that they were within my circle of obser- 
 vation and left an impression that has stayed by me. There was Noah 
 Smith, venerable, white-haired and deaf as a post, he used to go by our 
 house perched on a load of empty flour barrels piled up to a peak on his 
 one horse rack. He looked to me to be fifty feet in the air and today I 
 wonder how he ever got down. 
 
 Daddy Luther kept a little cobbling shop back of the ^Methodist church 
 in a little brown weather-beaten building about 12x18. He was a gentle old 
 Methodist and an excellent workman. His shop was of a type now obso- 
 lete and we little fellows enjoyed looking in the door and watching the old 
 man work. He had a little sign over his door, evidently home made, on 
 which was scrawled "Mending boots & soes." We boys thought the omis- 
 sion of the h from the last word a very funny thing. 
 
 Paul Kanouse was a fine type of the old fashioned Pennsylvanian. He 
 lived in the big house where you turn off the main highway to go to Poag's 
 Hole valley. He was a man of substance and leisure, and I often with other 
 boys used to go there in company with his grandson, Eugene Sprague. 
 Mr. Kanouse's recreation used to be presiding at funerals and his big family 
 carriage with its team of white horses was always in evidence at these 
 solemn functions. Don't think that his predilection for funerals was due 
 to a morbid or solemn mind ; on the contrary he was one of the jolliest 
 of men and enjoyed life to the full. It was said of him that one time 
 while officiating in his capacity of general overseer at a large funeral, im- 
 mediately at the close of the sermon he took his place at the head of the 
 casket and proclaimed "the diseased friends may now view the corpse." 
 
 I wonder if any of the boys of long ago remember old General Stark? 
 There was such a person, at least that was what he called himself and we 
 boys accepted him. He claimed to be a lineal descendant of the old Green 
 Mountain boy himself and sometimes we almost believed that this tattered, 
 battered old derelict was the real old General Stark masquerading and 
 
H. W. DeLong 45 
 
 hiding his identity in shreds and patches. Maybe he was, for so far as I 
 ever knew he came unheralded from nowhere and disappeared as mys- 
 teriously. 
 
 Then there was Father Dorry, John Fitts, Kerrigan, the lame tailor, 
 an old man by name Jesse Witter, who had a pair of useless legs and 
 pushed himself about in a little four-wheel wagon, going up stairs daily to 
 his work, wagon and all, William Ingraham who moved houses with a 
 wonderful machine that had a way of snapping its cable occasionally and 
 spreading consternation all about. Memory also recalls Daddy Lynn, Roob- 
 choob and Anthony Jordan. The latter came into Squire Wilkinson's office 
 one day with a sad countenance and asked, "Squeer, if my wife dies am I 
 entitled to pay her dits?" There were others but these are the prominent 
 ones engraved on the reel of childhood and I recall them with the liveliest 
 feelings of pleasure. 
 
 Having exhausted the curriculum of Mrs. Stanley's school after three 
 years of joyful experiences in that happy-go-lucky temple of learning, my 
 parents not considering me quite ripe for the seminary concluded to let me 
 try the public school for a season, hoping the seeds sown at Mrs. Stanley's, 
 under the more serious cultivation of the public, would bear fruit meet 
 for the seminary. I was anxious to go, a lot of my friends were there, 
 and I looked forward to a blissful time. I stayed just half a term but it 
 was a strenuous half and I have never forgotten the experience. Isaac 
 M. Lusk was the principal, he was a good teacher and a good man, but the 
 proposition he was up against over in that old wooden shack on the square 
 that it were base flattery to call a school house, would have caused a 
 stouter heart than his to quail. Everybody who could afford it sent their 
 children to the seminary, the balance went to the district school. Fresh 
 from the tuition of the kind and motherly Mrs. Stanley who condoled with 
 my occasional sick headaches and gave me hot water and laid me out on 
 the comfortable lounge, let me do as I pleased, and whose most formidable 
 weapon of punishment was a whalebone from her stays that she snapped oc- 
 casionally on little refractory tow clad legs, it was a decided change to be 
 made to toe the mark, keep quiet, never whisper, and rise when spoken to 
 by the teacher, the whole irksome round being backed up by a formidable 
 array of gads on his desk. My seat mate was Millard VanDuzee whose 
 sister was assistant to Mr. Lusk and presided over the primary department 
 in the smaller building. Millard was a good partner and we got along 
 finely. How I happened to be among the big boys I don't know, but there 
 I was, I remember seeing all around me fellows like Frank Toles, Bill 
 Cook, Dave Ensign, Gus and Tave Arnold, Percy Jones, Tommy Mc- 
 Neese, Pinky Woodruff, Barney and Bill McVicker, George and Ed. Gross, 
 Fred Brown, Frank Dorman, Dem DuBois and other young men as old 
 again as L Mr. Lusk's energy seemed to be largely laid out along the 
 lines of enforcing order with the birch. He had an unruly crowd imbued 
 with the old-fashioned idea that the proper attitude toward the teacher was 
 a hostile one and the acquiring of knowledge only a side issue. I am sure 
 Mr. Lusk did the best he could in his dual capacity of imparting knowl- 
 edge and corporal reproof. I was soon one of them and could make as 
 good a fly trap in the soft pine top of my desk as my expert seat mate 
 VanDuzee. When a tightly corked bottle of ink was surreptitiously placed 
 on the big box stove the experiment in physics it illustrated when the 
 
46 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 stopper blew out depositing the fluid on the ceiling was all to the good. 
 When Tave Arnold for some offence was reprimanded and he bawled out 
 "Mr. Lusk, I am not to be trifled with," emphasizing the remark by firing 
 his slate at Mr. Lusk causing that dignitary to dodge most undignifiedly, 
 I joined in the laugh with the rest, little wretch that I was. But when at 
 a recitation in Miss VanDuzee's room and she had a free-for-all with 
 George Gross in which he snatched her watch from her belt and smashed 
 it against the wall, I began to wonder what sort of dreadful place I was 
 frequenting and was frightened into wishing myself out. New scholars 
 were treated boisterously and when Jim and Silas Roberts came one day, 
 the shrinking Silas was hustled and prostrated on the ground while Jim 
 in agonized tones cried out, "Siley's dead, let's go home." Barney Mc- 
 Vicker would sit under the eaves of the Catholic church surrounded by an 
 admiring group, and gathering a handful of pebbles would deliberately 
 swallow them one after the other. The boys used to vary his diet by 
 bringing live minnows in a pail and he would take them down like oysters. 
 Pinkey Woodruff observing this abnormal appetite one day was filled with 
 sympathy for the swallower and called out to a confrere: "Say, Tawm ! 
 Tawm ! you putt in two cents and I'll putt in one and we'll buy poor Barney 
 a piece of pie." 
 
 Speaking days were part of the order of things on the square and I re- 
 member it was a good deal more of a trial for me to face those grinning 
 chaps from the bare rostrum than from the pleasant environment of Mrs. 
 Stanley's front yard. The good old lady had taught me word for word 
 Daniel Webster's speech "A century from the birth of Washington" and I 
 could rattle it off without a hitch, so I gave it to them straight sand- 
 wiched in between "On Linden when the sun was low" by Percy Jones, and 
 a dialogue between two boys from Perine Tract that went as follows : 
 
 First boy — "Tommy, can you tell me how to make a cannon?" 
 
 Second boy. — "Sure, I cannot, can you?" 
 
 First boy. — "Indeed I can." 
 
 Second boy. — "Then tell me how. 
 
 First boy. — "Why, just take a little round hole and pour melted iron 
 around it." 
 
 I was quite satisfied with my piece and by the way it stood me in good 
 stead in all my after school days for I exploited it in five or six different 
 schools and in after years it would not down. At the meeting of the old 
 seminary students on the campus during Old Home Week in 19U, I spoke 
 it as glibly as I did in 1858 in Mrs. Stanley's front yard, with mother 
 listening. 
 
 At the end of the half term I graduated and for a short time attended 
 a select school taught by E. G. Buell on Canal street, but the Buell family 
 moving away broke up the school, and it was decided that I should go to 
 the seminary. 
 
 As had been our wont before, the whole family upon coming to Dans- 
 ville went to the Methodist church. Of course father's fine tenor voice 
 was discovered at once and ha« was translated to the choir and took me 
 with him. My impression is that Mr. Mandeville was the preacher at that 
 time, but I was too small to recall very much of the general facts regarding 
 the church, still I do remember peering fearfully into the classroom after 
 service and holding tight to father's hand as the, to me, lugubrious sounds 
 
H. W. DeLong 47 
 
 of Mr. Pearsall's vocal efforts as class leader smote the quiet Sunday air. 
 I think I must have been a Sunday school scholar for a short time for 
 while I can't recall the inside facts regarding it, I do remember a Sunday 
 school picnic at Aldrich's Grove where Mr. Thorn Carpenter patted me 
 on the head and there was lots of cake brilliant with sugar sand and emit- 
 ting a most delightful smell that I have never forgotten. 
 
 Our friends being mostly Presbyterians we soon shifted to that church, 
 my parents taking letters from their home church at Honeoye Falls. Of 
 course father went into the choir and as I was yet rather small and rest- 
 less to sit below with mother and sister he took me into the loft with him. 
 The church then was a modest wooden structure with the gallery at the 
 east end and the pulpit opposite. The heating apparatus consisted of two 
 big square stoves at either side with long stove pipes traversing the upper 
 air. Rev. Dr. Campbell was pastor, and Sunday school services were held 
 in the main building, there being no chapel then. My memory is quite clear 
 regarding the choir. There was no organ only an old-fashioned melodeon 
 supplemented at times by sundry flutes, bass viols, violins, and "other kinds 
 of musick," operated by Mr. Pierson, Squire Bulkely, Henry Clark and 
 other musically inclined people. I recall the members of the choir of 1860 
 as Minerva and Jennie Brown. Elizabeth Dippy, Mrs. George Smith, An- 
 drew Brown, Robert Dippy, William Lemen, John Canfield and father. 
 It was great fun for me to sit and watch the people down below, and tiring 
 of that I would embellish the fly leaves of the hymn books with original 
 drawings in lead pencil. Andrew Brown always had a supply of licorice 
 drops that he dealt out generously to me, and when the perfumed summer 
 air, the nodding branches waving at the windows and the somnolent mono- 
 tone of the preacher invited slumber then would the hospitable laps of the 
 Brown girls be ready to my little drowsy head and I would peacefully 
 sleep out the service. O, it was an ideal choir, but like all singers there 
 were times when a little spirit of jealousy would crop out. One time over 
 some trivial matter everybody got out with everybody, except dad ; he 
 positively refused to have anything to do with the scrap, and come Sun- 
 day morning he was on hand, the only member in the gallery where sup- 
 ported by me on the side he sang every hymn all by himself. Father was 
 a very retiring, modest man, so much so that some people thought him 
 austere, which was far from the fact. He could not say a dozen coherent 
 words on his feet when stern duty called him to testify at prayer meet- 
 ing but put a page of music in his hand and he was at once transported 
 into a realm where he was at home. That page of music was as an open 
 book to him, he comprehended every phase of it at a glance and a choir of 
 archangels lined up before him in critical attention would not have made 
 him hesitate a moment in rendering it, and rendering it absolutely correct. 
 
 Horace Miller was the sexton and as he worked for father I knew him 
 well and had no hesitation in presuming on our intimacy. He would take 
 me up into the steeple to see the big bell, and down into the cellar where 
 all the old relics of former times were stored. Horace made an excellent 
 sexton, sliding about noiselessly in his prunella gaiters and assisting grace- 
 fully in seating the people: he was so full of music too that often during 
 the singing of the hymns I have seen him take up a position at the open 
 door of the gallery where unseen he would life up his melodious voice in 
 company with the choir. Shortly after my installation into the Presbyterian 
 
^8 Bo})hood Reminiscences 
 
 church it was decided to enlarge it and the Wheaton brothers cut off the 
 west end and moved it back bodily twenty feet, then built in between, then 
 a chapel was built on the south and eventually connected with the main 
 building by a corridor. A few of the older people I used to look down 
 upon from my vantage point in the gallery were Deacon Lemen, Peter 
 and William Ferine, Matthew McCartney, Mr. Goundry, Calvin Clark, Dr. 
 Reynals, Dr. Shepherd, D. D. McNair, Deacon Palmes, Mr. Niles, Dr. 
 Faulkner, James McCurdy, Mr. Edwards, D. W. Noyes and other worthies 
 who in those days considered going to church as a necessary part of the 
 week's duties. 
 
 My Sunday school days were very happy ones and to recall them is a 
 keen delight. I had many teachers and all good ones. Mrs. Brown, Mrs. 
 Oilman, Mrs. J. W. Smith, Chas. Hall who I remember one Sunday dur- 
 ing the first Lincoln campaign in 1860 in expounding the lessons spoke of 
 the Publicans as the Republicans. James McCurdy who offered a prize 
 to the boy who would learn and repeat the Sermon on the Mount, and I 
 won the little red leather testament fairly. The superintendents who offi- 
 ciated during my early Sunday school career were Deacon Palmes and 
 Dr. Shepherd with Henry Sedgwick then and many years after the effi- 
 cient secretary. When the church was remodeled in 1890 I was on the 
 building committee and in cleaning up I found a S. S. Register for 1860-1. 
 I have it yet and prize it very much for there recorded are the names of 
 nearly every boy and girl I knew in early childhood. 
 
 The first picnic I remember was in Bradner's grove and the big carry- 
 all in which we smaller ones were transported to the grounds got stalled 
 on the steep pitch at the head of Leonard street and we were in dire 
 jopardy until Ev. White, the driver, got a stone under the wheel and made 
 a lot of us get out and lighten the load. Mrs. Moses Oilman had a special 
 fizz for her class that she called cream of nectar. It was awfully good and 
 I have never had any drink since that could begin with it for real satisfy- 
 ing lusciousness. The library was a bit tame for me although there were 
 two books I remember that I enjoyed, "Opposite the Jail" and "Freddy, 
 the Runaway or the Lost One Found." In looking over the catalogue one 
 Sunday I discovered the title "Wallamanumps." Ha ! I thought an Indian 
 story, but alas when I got home I found it the dry annals of a missionary 
 station in India. 
 
 We were still living in the comfortable little house on Main street 
 when two great events occurred in my career, leaving impressions that are 
 as clear as yesterday. I refer to my begiiming at the Seminary and the 
 opening of the Civil War. But these things, momentous as they were, did 
 not materially change the tenor of my life or that of my associates. 
 Father, Uncle Ed. and I would of a pleasant summer Sunday morning get 
 an early start and go down to Slate Bottom for a swim before church. 
 Just once father essayed to cut my hair on a Sunday morning, and al- 
 though he made a good deal of a ceremony of it, taking me out on the 
 side lawn and sitting me in a high chair with a towel tucked about my 
 I'.eck, the job was far from satisfactory and he never tried it again. 
 
 Meantime we prospered in a quiet way. Panics, hard times and kin- 
 dred evils never bothered our bread winner; his inflexible rule was "pay 
 as 3'ou go and buy nothing until you have the price," he had no use for the 
 installment sharp. I remember when he bought my sister a piano. It was 
 
H. W. DeLong 49 
 
 made by D. L. Fry & Co. of Syracuse and was as good as money could 
 buy at that time. No one in the household felt the uplift of that instru- 
 ment more than myself, and I was puffed up with pride and almost arro- 
 gant with my unfortunate fellows who had no piano or at best only a 
 squeaky melodeon. Shortly after its installation, one day mother had a 
 caller, a lady of high social position on whom she wished to make a good 
 impression. They were visiting away in the parlor and from what I could 
 gather from surreptitious peeks, the new D. L. Fry wasn't getting the 
 share of attention so magnificent a structure deserved. I just couldn't 
 stand it, so without any ceremony I stuck a touseled black head in the 
 door and said, "Ma, didn't our piano cost four hundred dolllars?" That 
 piano came down to the level of just an ordinary piece of furniture when 
 mother got through talking to me after her caller had gone. 
 
 There were no Movies in those days, of course, and Uncle Tom's Cabin 
 had not yet been dramatized, but there were shows enough at Canaseraga 
 Hall to satisfy any reasonable boy. James G. Clark, quite a noted balladist, 
 visited Dansville often. He carried a small melodeon on his tours and 
 with that before him he would delight an audience for a whole evening. 
 Small boy as I was I loved to hear him sing "Minnie Minton," "The 
 Beautiful Hills." "The Ivy Green," "Mrs. Lofty and I," and the ballad 
 of "Old Ironsides,'" beginning: 
 
 "Old Ironsides at anchor lay 
 In the harbor of Mahon, 
 A dead calm rested on the bay 
 
 And the winds to sleep had gone." 
 
 In this song little Jack, the captain's son, climbs unnoticed to the main 
 truck where he can get neither up nor down. His father seeing the boy's 
 danger seizes a rifle and pointing it at his son orders him to jump into 
 the bay. He obeys and is saved. I remember how vividly the singer in- 
 terpreted the scene and how I thrilled with happy horror as I seemed to 
 see the boy leaping through the air and splashing into the quiet water. 
 
 The Peak family of Swiss Bellringers used to delight we boys on the 
 front seats. They were the real imported article, dressed in native cos- 
 tumes and used silver bells. I have heard nothing since in the same line 
 to compare with them. Then there was Signor Blitz the wonderful presti- 
 digitateur and ventriloquist. He would always draw on our row and select 
 a couple of grinning boys to assist him. How we would laugh as he would 
 draw rabbits and watches from the abundant red crown of Theodore 
 Chapin. Tom Thumb and Minnie Warren used to delight us at times and 
 I remember seeing the tiny man before the performance one time with 
 a big cigar in his mouth looking into a Main street window with a bored 
 expression on his wizened face due to the admiring crowd of youngsters 
 that surrounded him. The glassblowers were rather tame but we all went 
 for everyone got a souvenir. 
 
 What pleased our crowd the most were the Indian Shows. They were 
 the real thing. Indians, implements, songs, dances and language. At that 
 time the border was near enough so a supply of uncontaminated red men 
 could be obtained. The idleness and squalor of the reservation had not 
 destroyed the last trace of the original Indian and I am quite sure we 
 
30 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 boys got an insight into real savage life that the modern wild west outfit 
 fails to portray. Every boy of our crowd made it a bounden duty to note 
 carefully every detail of the performance, for the first thing we would do 
 after the show would be to organize a tribe and perform the whole thing. 
 The realistic act of Pocahontas saving the life of Captain John Smith 
 was accurately noted. And the speeches of the braves before the war, 
 green corn and scalp dances were memorized as nearly as possible in 
 the original Seneca. There was an interpreter along who in a sing song 
 voice gave an English translation of the speeches, one of the boys imi- 
 tated him splendidly and it was great fun to hear him quote from the 
 burial scene. "Brother, thou hast gone to the happy hunting ground. The 
 war path shall know thee no more and thy lodge is desolate. We place 
 beside thee this piece of venison to feed thee, and thy bow, arrows, and 
 knife, to defend thee on the way, etc." Then the interpreter would describe 
 the journey, its perils by the way and the final arrival at a deep, swift 
 river that lay at the border of the Happy Hunting grounds. In his sing 
 song he would say "Over this river is a small log over which the soul 
 of the deceased warrior is supposed to pass," and we boys could almost 
 see the aborigine balancing on that teetering sapling and at last disappear- 
 ing in that wonder land beyond. 
 
 About this time Blondin made his famous tight rope wal-k over Niagara 
 gorge and the whole country rang with his fame. Walking the tight 
 rope became all the rage. Mons. Gillette from Livonia spanned the dizzy 
 chasm of Main street and did many hair-raising stunts in midair. Ira 
 Allen, then a young fellow of nerve and daring, stretched a tow line from 
 the warehouse across the upper canal basin and although some mis- 
 chievous chap cut his guy ropes dumping him into the water he persisted 
 and became an excellent performer. We boys got the fever too and I well 
 remember taking a fall from the giddy height of six feet while showing 
 my skill to a crowd of mothers and sisters and heartless boys. These latter 
 made me laugh while midway of the rope causing me to lose my balance 
 and tumble ignominiously and disastrously, to the unfeeling jeers and 
 laughter of my audience. 
 
 No show came to Dansville so complete or inimitable that we didn't 
 try to reproduce it up in the old barn. Uncle Ed. had a cloth map about 
 6x12 feet showing the two hemispheres and every missionary station up 
 to date, there were convenient rings at the top and by stretching a cord 
 across the barn and stringing on this map we had a fine curtain. The drop 
 from a sacred to a common use didn't deter Uncle Ed. from loaning us 
 the map, for he was a good sport and we always gave him a free pass into 
 the shows. Then there was an element of interest and education about 
 this map too, for an impatient audience waiting for the curtain to rise 
 could amuse and instruct itself studying the different heathen areas on the 
 earth's surface. 
 
 Lent's great circus had just exhibited in Dansville and we were full of 
 a desire to emulate the show, so we went to work and got out the tickets 
 and sold them for a starter, making the price ten pins. As the day of 
 the performance drew perilously near we began to cast about for attrac- 
 tions to make good our loud and glittering promises to our patrons. The 
 curtain was strung up, the cow's halter was purloined for a slack rope, a 
 bean pole horizontal bar was erected, and a tent made from an old sheet 
 
H. W. DeLong 51 
 
 was put up in the back yard for a side show. Requisitions were made on 
 mothers and sisters for long stockings for tights, and everyone went prac- 
 ticing for the event. I invented a contortion on the slack rope and named 
 it the Gigamawhirl. John Wilkinson not wishing to be outdone by a boy 
 a year and eight months younger, invented another that he put down on 
 the bills as the Trigamawhirl. Sleight of hand stunts were introduced 
 such as baking a cake in a hat, sword swallowing, etc., and everything 
 was in shape but the side show. We couldn't devise a single novelty for 
 the little tent in the back yard. I painted a sign "Sircus" and John 
 threatened to withdraw in the face of such orthographical ignorance. I 
 managed to appease him, however, by scaring him half to death when the 
 slack rope let go when I was practicing precipitating me down the stair- 
 way to the imminent danger of my neck. The circus came off as ad- 
 vertised and the audience was highly entertained. Tickets for the side- 
 show sold rapidly and at the close of the main performance I was forced 
 to make a speech as follows : "Ladies and gentlemen, somehow or other, 
 we couldn't find nothin for a side show but you can go out and look at the 
 tent." This was perfectly satisfactory to the mothers and sisters as- 
 sembled, but a lot of unruly boys who had paid their pins, led by Frank 
 Fenstermacher, would not stand for this base subterfuge but insisted on 
 getting their pins worth. The mothers and sisters had gone, the mob 
 outnumbered us two to one, a riot was imminent. "Wait a minute, 
 fellows," I pleaded and rushing to the house I grabbed one of my sister's 
 dolls, a little nude china thing about three inches long, hastily tying a 
 string to its neck I put it in my pocket, hurried back to the tent and amidst 
 the jangling of the mob slipped it unseen through a hole in the top of 
 the tent retaining my hold on the string. "The show is all right Penny," 
 I yelled out, "step up and have a peek." Stooping down one after the 
 other they looked through the entrance while I dangled the china baby up 
 and down in a sort of Tango turkey trot dance. After this honest effort 
 on my part they couldn't demand their money back, but they were far 
 from satisfied and Frank did not hesitate to proclaim loudly to another 
 boy as they left the field, "Well, that was a pretty darn poor show." 
 
 The show business getting tame we would try merchandising, and the 
 lower floor of the barn would be cleaned out, counters erected, a pair of 
 wooden scales made and a store be opened. Our stock consisted of green 
 apples and small pies our mothers baked us. We put up a sign : 
 
 NO NOT RUST PAYT HEMONY 
 RITEDOWN. 
 
 When trade was slack we had a forced clearing sale eating up the 
 stock and starting over again. Then we started a tobacco store making 
 our cigars from dried grape leaves, these looked quite like the real thing 
 and we called them cigarees, then we made another brand using hay for a 
 filler and newspaper for wrappers all held firmly by flour paste, these we 
 called Papierees. About this time a new boy came to visit his aunt on 
 Knox street. His name was Fred Gillette, nine years old and weighed 
 113 pounds. We at once dubbed him Fatty and he became a patron of our 
 cigar store, his favorite brand being the Papierees. He was from the then 
 far west, and his stories of that fabled region held us enthralled. One 
 
52 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 simple tale that he told was of rescuing two beautiful squaws from a river 
 where they had fallen in. "I was on the bank fishin'," said Fatty, "when 
 I saw 'em tumble in, they seen me and yelled 'taw-taw-taw.' that meant 
 they couldn't swim, so I just jumped in and swum out with 'em." Fatty's 
 stories palled on us after a while and we resolved to get even. Finding 
 a fat cigar stub in the street we wrapped it carefully in newspaper and 
 sealed it with paste poking a little hay in each end to make it look like a 
 genuine Papieree. The next morning on his way to school Fred dropped 
 in for his morning smoke and was served the awful imitation. He went 
 away cheerfully puffing through Oilman's field and the grave yard, sitting 
 down behind a convenient headstone to pufif the last delicious morsel. 
 When the bell rang and he went in, the nicotine had just got nicely at work 
 on his fat little stomach and his experience was something I imagine he 
 has never forgotten. He never knew what ailed him and his story of his 
 illness was sweet revenge to the crowd. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 Dansville Seminary ; The Teachers ; Incipient Orators ; The Lyceum ; 
 Muskrats; The Incubus of War; War Meetings; Picking Lint; The 
 Old War Songs ; High Cost of Living, 
 
 It was a great transition from the primitive surroundings of the old 
 district school to the thoroughly up-to-date equipment of the Dansville 
 Seminar}'. Here were fine desks, clean tinted walls, large airy study and 
 recitation rooms, a well stocked Library and Laboratory, a large dignified 
 chapel, and a corps of teachers that all respected and obeyed. On the 
 whole the general air of the Dansville Seminary in 1861 was thoroughly 
 educational and the students who prepared for their life work got good re- 
 turns for their labor and never had cause in after years to regret their 
 Alma Mater. It was in 1861 that I was enrolled a student. I was fairly 
 well advanced for a ten year old and although I disliked study, somehow 
 I managed to pull through without downright disgrace. 
 
 We boys who foregathered at the Seminary in a specially close coterie 
 as I recollect were John Wilkinson, Ed. Niles, Henry Capell, Jim Edwards, 
 John McCurdy, Reynie Smith, Will Wetmore, Theodore Chapin, Charhe 
 Snyder and other choice spirits. There were plenty of fellows two to four 
 years older who looked on us as little chaps and had very little in common 
 with our crowd and were always ready to jeer at our shortcomings. I 
 was assigned to Dr. Seager's room along with the rest of the crowd men- 
 tioned above. The good Doctor was very charitable with our weaknesses 
 and as I recollect had a sense of humor that good old Methodist 
 preachers of those days were not supposed to develop. The first day, I lost 
 my spelling book and after the manner of Mrs. Stanley's school I pro- 
 claimed the fact loudly to the head. "Have you looked for it carefully, 
 sir?" he asked kindly. "Yes, sir," I answered, "I went where it was and 
 it wasn't there," then everybody laughed including the Doctor, and I 
 shrank in my seat wondering why they laughed. 
 
 Professor Brown I rather feared at first, he seemed so silently im- 
 pressive with his physical rotundity and gold spectacles, but when I came 
 to know him better as I sat under his teachings in physics and kindred 
 studies, I found him a most remarkable man in his knowledge of the stars, 
 the rocks and other natural phenomena. He enjoyed the funny side of 
 things in a quiet way and I have seen him get the class in Natural Phil- 
 osophy in a circle, hand in hand, and discharge a heavily laden Leyden jar 
 through the bunch, while a quiet grin would light up his face as the whole 
 class would squat suddenly to the floor under the shock. I never quite 
 forgave Prof. Brown for one thing he did to me. The first declamatory 
 exercises I participated in at the Seminary, I used my good old standby, 
 "A Century from the Birth of Washington." It was in the big chapel 
 with the faculty sitting in solemn state across the back of the rostrum. I 
 
54 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 gave them the IMrs. Stanley salute consisting of a deep low bow accom- 
 panied by a courtly wave of the hand, and turning repeated the innova- 
 tion to the audience. A disconcerting titter followed, but nothing daunted, 
 I launched into the familiar lines. One phrase of the oration was, "It 
 has been the era in short when the social system has triumphed over the 
 feudal system," and as I was leaving the platform Prof. Brown said, 
 "DeLong, do you know what the feudal system is?" That was a stumper 
 to put to a ten year old, and I modestly murmured, "No, sir," and took my 
 seat completely abashed. I have been figuring out for more than fifty 
 years why he did it. 
 
 Then there was Philo and Alva Dorris, D. D. VanAllen and Prof. 
 Bayer, with six or seven languages at his tongue's end, Miss Budlong, 
 whom the girls loved and the boys adored, Alice and Emma Hubbard, 
 Susan George, and Miss Wyman, and possibly others I have forgotten 
 for I am quoting from memory not catalogues. Speaking of catalogues I 
 remember a few of the stilted phrases in the one of 1861 : "Playing at 
 games of chance in the walls of the Seminary is strictly forbidden and 
 elsewhere disapproved." A few bad big boys in spite of this article had 
 a game going in an unoccupied room on the third floor most of the time. 
 Another by-law warned out of town students to be in their rooms by 9 
 p. m., which warning was strictly disregarded. Monday morning roll call 
 every student had to answer "church" or "absent," according to the facts 
 of the day before, and it was quite amusing to hear some of those 
 degenerate Episcopalians howl out a defiant "absent" as their names were 
 called. 
 
 There were some good speakers among the older fellows and I used 
 to delight in listening to them in the chapel. Amos Kiehle was a natural 
 orator and developed a style at the old Seminary that he holds today. A 
 young man by the name of Price was a sharp incisive orator leaning 
 toward the comic in his speeches. Once I heard him in an oration to young 
 men use the phrase, "Take time by the forelock lest she turn her tail," 
 and I have never forgotten it. George A. Sweet and his brother Edwin 
 were fine easy speakers, the dramatic way in which the latter quoted 
 "Brutus was an honorable man" impressed me strongly. George A. had 
 just returned from a trip abroad with his father and aside from his regu- 
 lar orations would read an occasional essay on his travels. Trips abroad 
 were not so common then as now, and George was an interesting narrator. 
 Will Wetmore and I used to enjoy them hugely and every declamation 
 day we would say to one another, "I hope George Sweet will have another 
 'Father and I' story today." Joe Harris used to speak, "Who was Blen- 
 nerhassett," in a way that made that adventurer's career plain to all, and 
 a big chap with a roman nose whom the older girls called the "Bald 
 Eagle" wound up an original oration with 
 
 "Then let the eagle flutter. 
 And those who hate him sputter. 
 And eat corn bread without any butter." 
 
 Steve Brown and Henry McCartney were anxious to go into the show 
 business. After my transfer down stairs to Prof. Dorris' study room, their 
 seat was just across the aisle from mine, and after I had showed them 
 
H. W. DeLong 55 
 
 some of my freehand illustrations and fancy lettering on the fly leaves 
 of my Mitchell's geography, they offered me, in spite of my extreme youth, 
 the responsible position of advertising and advance agent, which I gladly 
 accepted, although I have never learned just what kind of a show they 
 were figuring on. 
 
 The Seminary was full of students and a large number were from out 
 of town. There was Tommy Gray, who was janitor, and the two Paine 
 boys that we called "Big and Little Pleasure" ; Rush Brown and Austin 
 Ames from Addison; McKevious (called "Mischievious") Wells, Tatlow 
 Jackson, Jim Wadsworth, Chapman, and a lot of nearby farmer boys from 
 Ossian, the Spartas and Wayland. We town boys rather looked on these 
 chaps with contempt until they would prove up by beating us in everything. 
 I remember when George Whiteman came to school from the home farm 
 on the Wayland road, he used to keep his horse in a barn on Knox street 
 and although a husky boy, John Wilkinson and I decided we could and 
 should lick him, so we laid for him in John's yard and as he passed by on 
 his way to the stable, we heaved a choice lot of juvenile epithets over the 
 fence at him, winding up with the assertion that for two cents we would 
 lay him out in the dust of the roadway. But this strong young descend- 
 ant of good old Pennsylvania stock did not tremble and turn pale as we 
 hoped and expected he would, he simply faced about, began pulling off his 
 coat and calmly said "Maybe you would like to ondertake that." Some- 
 how it didn't seem so easy with that hardy young farmer standing there 
 at ready, so we changed our tactics, and assuming a friendly air said, "We 
 were only just fooling, you know," and afterwards were the best of friends. 
 Charley Snyder says that when his father first brought him to the Sem. 
 we boys were all lined up on the steps and he heard me whisper to the 
 next fellow "Who is that little sawed off snip?" bu tl can't remember it. 
 
 The Lyceum was the boys' literary society and a room was assigned 
 them that suited their purpose well. The sessions were held weekly in the 
 evening during fall and winter terms. I was a student for two or three 
 years before joining the Lyceum and I can't recall that I ever derived 
 much benefit from its classic precincts. Afraid to get on my feet and talk, 
 my efforts at debate were something pitiful but if there was any fun going 
 forward, I became at once a very active member. "The Tatler" was the 
 official journal of the Lyceum and was the most interesting part of each 
 session to me, as the contents were read by the editor. Contributions were 
 submitted by the members and some of them were very good. I remem- 
 ber one funny one called "A Hen Convention," that was a burlesque ac- 
 count of an effort on the part of the girls to organize a literary society. 
 The author did not divulge his name, but in the opinion of the members 
 it lay between Charley Reeve and Ed. Niles. It was really clever, and 
 the girls when they heard of it through their brothers and friends were 
 very much put out. But in spite of the fervid eloquence of Tom Shepard, 
 Henry Capell and John McNair on political questions, at that time the 
 burning questions of the day, interest in the Lyceum flagged, the entries 
 in the secretary's book "Stormy night, no quorum" became more frequent 
 and by the time I left, in 1865, the old society was only a memory. The 
 Lyceum did do some good however in bringing a number of the eminent 
 lecturers of the day to Dansville, Petroleum V. Nasby, Wendell Phillips, 
 Josh Billings, Henry Ward Beecher and others, and Canaseraga Hall 
 
56 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 would be crowded with the results of the member's efforts in canvassing 
 for tickets. 
 
 The Seminary being a Methodist school a part of the curriculum 
 about every year was along evangelistic lines. The ordinary pursuit of 
 knowledge would be put in the background for a time and strict attention 
 paid to the spiritual welfare of the students. The other denominations 
 didn't like this but they had to stand it. When I began my tuition I used 
 to go up what we then called the 'back way," that is Seward street. The 
 great maples now bordering this street had just been set out and a tan- 
 bark walk extended along the north side. There were no houses from Miss 
 Ada Smith's clear to Health street, except a nursery office and barn where 
 the Stephan house now stands. There was a little house corner of Cot- 
 tage but it faced that street. All the land along Seward street today cover- 
 ed with houses was then devoted to farming and nursery stock. Where 
 the little creek crosses Seward street a man named Carter had an old canal 
 boat pump rigged that he used for filling a small one-horse sprinkler, 
 this water he distributed on Main street. Carter wasn't much of a 
 hustler, and what with pumping the tank full by hand he made very few 
 trips in the course of a day and Main street was never much better for 
 his efforts. Discovering a muskrat hole just above this bridge, four of us 
 boys bought a steel trap and set it in the mouth of it. Next morning 
 on our way to school we found a fine muskrat in the trap; that night we 
 set it again and the next morning we had the mate. Flushed with success 
 we were sure we would catch many more, but we didn't, those two repre- 
 sented the total results. So after drying the pelts I was delegated to sell 
 them. So I went into Mr. George Hyland's store and asked him timidly if 
 he bought muskrat skins ! "Yes, sir," he answered pleasantly. "How many 
 you got?" "Two, how much do you pay, Mr. Hyland?" "Twenty- 
 five cents for prime pelts." "Well, well, now," said I, "one of these skins 
 we cut down the belly, would you give fifteen cents for that?" "Yes." 
 "Would you give twenty cents?" "Yes." I think he would have given 
 twenty-five if I had asked it. but I was glad to get the forty-five cents for 
 the two, so I handed over the pelts and took the money. I remember we 
 had eleven cents each and the surplus cent we invested in "Lady lickrish" 
 that we cut in four equal parts and joyfully devoured. 
 
 One need not be a grown-up to imbibe the peculiar feeling that hangs 
 over everything in time of war. I can't describe it, it was something like 
 that sensation that goes about when a contagious disease suddenly breaks 
 out in a peaceful community and the infected houses are placarded and 
 streets barricaded. Young and old felt it weighing down like an in- 
 cubus, and. when here in Dansville we heard the news that Sumter had 
 been fired upon and the blank walls were covered with calls for volunteers, 
 our happy town seemed suddenly to grow grim and forbidding. We were 
 far from the seat of strife, there was little danger from invasion, but all 
 the same Dansville stepped into the arena and picked up her sword as 
 defiantly as though the boom of battle was echoing from her protecting 
 hills. 
 
 We ten year olds felt the shock keenly but met it bravely. While the 
 fact remained uppermost in our minds that the nation was in danger, still 
 we could not, brimming over with life and health as we were, help rising 
 above the prevailing depression and being just boys. The quiet of our 
 
H. W. DeLong 51 
 
 streets was broken by the inspiring strains of the fife and drum before the 
 recruiting offices, young fellows we knew, were enlisting and awkward 
 squads drilling on the public square. The war meetings were great fun 
 for the boys, and we were always there, the serious aspect was not evi- 
 dent to us, in fact there was a difference that even we boys could dis- 
 cover between the chaps who put their names down at the beginning 
 through pure patriotism, and the reluctant fellows at the war meetings 
 who needed the stimulus of a big bounty to screw their love of country up 
 to the point of putting down their names. These meetings would be held in 
 Canaseraga Hall, the band would play and fervid speeches by our most elo- 
 quent citizens be made, a certain bounty would be offered that would be 
 gradually increased as the signers became more reluctant. I remember at 
 one of these meetings when several hundred dollars was offered to a young 
 married man, who while tempted by the money hesitated on account of his 
 wife. "Don't let that worry you, young man," shouted Major Beach, the 
 village auctioneer and joker, "I'll take care of your widder." Later, when 
 the passing years saw no end in sight, and the black pall of war settled 
 down thicker and closer a branch of the sanitary commission was formed 
 and young and old would meet and pick lint and sew bandages, singing at 
 our work those sad old war songs : "Tenting To night," "Dear Mother, I've 
 Come Home to Die," "One Vacant Chair," "All Quiet Along the Potomac 
 Tonight," enlivened occasionally by a quartette consisting of Philo Dorris, 
 Dr. Daboll, Wesley Aldrich and Jack Brown, who would sing "Music in 
 the Air," "Fairy Bell," "Sweet Evelina," "Dixie," and other lively melo- 
 dies. At one of the war meetings old Mr. Pearsall delivered an original 
 poern with great dramatic effect. The old man limped in his walk and 
 carried a heavy cane to help him get along. He stood on the platform re- 
 peating his lines with great vigor, supporting himself on his cane. Sud- 
 denly he came to the culmination which as I recollect was : 
 
 "Go, strike the traitor down !" 
 and suiting the action to the word, he grabbed a small boy, George Simon 
 by name, whom he had concealed behind him, and hauling him out before 
 the audience made a pretence of whacking him with his cane, the boy fall- 
 ing all in a heap, even as the poet hoped the Confederacy would collapse. 
 But somehow the Confederacy would not collapse. We boys went down to 
 the basin and saw a company of a hundred young fellows part tearfully 
 with mothers and sweethearts and take a canal boat for Portage where 
 their regiment was forming to go to the front. The next year I gave up a 
 balloon ascension to bid another company God speed as it departed for 
 Wayland by wagons. 
 
 When the telegrams came with news from the front, the office as I re- 
 member was where Ripley's jewelry store is today. The bulletins would be 
 posted on the door post and we boys would read them to the eager crowd 
 assembled. When Captain Henry's stage would arrive in the evening it 
 would bring a big bundle of Rochester Unions that the people would clamor 
 and fight for at five and even ten cents a copy. Everything was very high 
 priced, the necessities of the government put a tax on almost everything, 
 and currency practically disappeared. Any old thing in the way of copper 
 tokens, medals and weird foreign coins passed current and postage stamps 
 at one time were about the only circulating medium. Coffee became prac- 
 tically unknown and parched peas, barley and chicory were used as sub- 
 
58 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 stitutes. I remember Mrs. Heckman used to make a fine barley coffee that 
 with real cream and possibly maple sugar for sweetening made a fine 
 drink along with one of her fat crumb pies. Peanuts were rare and 
 wormy, and sticks of candy were reduced to the size of pipe stems, while 
 "judy paste" was nothing better than poor glue slightly sweetened. 
 
 Politics ran high. We boys were about equally divided between the 
 Democrats and Republicans. We used to call one another Black Aboli- 
 tionists and Copper Heads, and some of the girls had the Indian heads 
 cut out of big copper cents and fitted with pins, these they wore defiantly 
 as ornaments. We Republicans had a big marching organization called 
 the Wideawakes, all fitted out with caps, capes and torches. Will Wet- 
 more and I were the smallest members and there was great rivalry be- 
 tween us as to which one should march next to the tail end with the 
 other fellow behind him. Charley Reeve was one of the junior officers and 
 an appeal to him usually settled the matter for he would give honorable 
 position to us alternately. 
 
 It seemed as though everybody went to war, but still the cry was for 
 more men. Then came the conscription and Dansville had to furnish her 
 quota. We boys up in Wilkinson's big black cherry tree discussed the 
 matter as we filled up with luscious fruit. Most of us had relatives and 
 friends that were liable to be drafted. False teeth, the loss of a trigger 
 finger, defective eyesight and other physical ailments meant exemption. 
 Father was just forty-five but he was sound as a nut, and the consensus 
 of opinion was that he would have to stand the draft. I was very much 
 troubled but my sister solved the problem very innocently. A man called 
 at the house one day and she met him at the door, he talked very pleas- 
 antly to her and finally asked, "What is your father's nearest birthday?" 
 Thinking he meant next birthday she promptly answered forty-six and 
 the man went away. So dad's name never got in the box. I remember 
 very well when Mark Bunnell was wounded. He was one of the big 
 fellows I knew well enough to address by his first name when I met him 
 on the street and he always answered pleasantly and called me by my 
 given name, and he does it yet. The story of his terrible suffering came 
 very close to me, and I was glad when he got safely home. When Cap- 
 tain Job Hedges' body was brought home to his mother's house and laid 
 out in state we boys were invited in by his mother to look at him, for 
 in the midst of her grief there was a strong Spartan pride in the sacrifice 
 she had made and she knew the lesson to we young Americans would be 
 a good one, and it was. Col. Chapin's funeral was a great event in Dans- 
 ville. He was buried with full military honors and I clearly recall the 
 solemn procession marching to the beat of muffled drums with the war 
 horse led behind the hearse. 
 
 O, those were solemn times, and their influence was felt keenly by 
 the boys through those long four years. But in spite of it all things went 
 on the same, people married and were given in marriage, business throve, 
 and we boys kept right on with our tasks and sports. Our bodies and 
 our minds developed with the passing years and all political dift'erences 
 were buried when we met on the ball field, at the swimming hole or at 
 )ur homes. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The Boy's First Party; Swimming; Move into the new House; What 
 the Boys Read; Hunting and Fishing; Indians; Chief of Police Jim 
 Murdock ; The boy begins to put away childish things and tries poetry ; 
 Lee's Surrender; The Death of Lincoln ; The Fourth of July with Dad. 
 
 What a time it was when I went to my first party and what a season 
 of preparation I went through. The function was given by Aggie Wisner, 
 a little girl who lived only two doors below, and I was very much excited. 
 Cousin Susie Ostrander, from Honeoye Falls, was staying with us and 
 going to school and she and sister fixed me out in good style. My boots 
 were several sizes too large and had a tendency to turn up at the toes, so 
 sister loaned me her new gaiters that by stuffing bits of cotton in the toes 
 did finely. Susie knitted me a new blue necktie and mother did the rest 
 with a fine white waist and my Sunday breeches. The party was a great 
 success, and my initiation into the games of "Pillow," "Spat out and Spat 
 in," "Postoffice," "Oats, peas, beans," and others was a bewildering delight. 
 Henry Fenstermacher was one of the big boys at the party and seemed 
 to have an endless lot of games at his command. I watched him with 
 delight as he introduced them one after the other and marveled at his 
 versatility. The one that impressed me most consisted of standing the 
 bo\s and girls in a row facing each other and singing: 
 
 "Walk up, ray dear partners. 
 
 And join heart and hand. 
 I want me a wife 
 
 And you want you a man, 
 And we will get married 
 
 If we can agree, 
 And march down together 
 
 So happy are we." 
 
 Then the first couple would join hands while the row of children 
 would make an arch of their arms, and march down the length of the 
 row singing, 
 
 "Oh, here comes my true love. 
 
 And how do you do? 
 And how have you fared 
 
 Since I parted with you? 
 The wars are all o'er 
 
 And secure from all harm. 
 Now tell us your joy 
 
 By the raising of the arm." 
 
60 ' Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 I never saw the game before or since and my only recollection of it 
 is based on Henry Fenstermacher's version of it at Aggie Wisner's party. 
 
 School went right along in spite of the war. We all studied Latin and 
 higher English, Chemistry, Physical Geography, and an occasional dab 
 at the classics. We played base ball and organized a club we called the 
 Actives. The Cumminsville boys wanted to play us and sent an informal 
 challenge by one of their number, but we would not recognize it, telling 
 the emissary that only a formal challenge in writing would be considered. 
 So at our meeting Friday evening at the law office of Smith & VanDerlip 
 a note was handed the secretary that read as follows: "Tomorrow if 
 the lords willin we will play you a game of ball." That was all, no head- 
 ing, no signature, but we accepted it and the game came off. We used 
 to have great fun going in swimming after school. We would resort in 
 flocks to Slate bottom, Jackson hole, the Rocks, and other places in the 
 big creek. We would strip and sport a while in one hole then gather 
 up our clothes and make for another farther up or down the creek. One 
 day all the boys rushed away from Jackson hole leaving Bradley Clark, 
 a big fellow from Sparta, and me alone in the water. Clark couldn't 
 swim and just as they left he slipped off into deep water and began going 
 through the movements of a drowning person, rising and sinking and 
 struggling to get out. I yelled to the boys but the noise of the water 
 prevented their hearing me. I saw something must be done at once and 
 with a care I never gave myself credit for I swam out to Clark and as 
 he thrashed about with his hands I grabbed at him and fortunately got 
 him by the thumb. Being a sturdy swimmer I turned on my back and 
 gradually drew him out where he got a foothold and was safe. Many a 
 time in after years he spoke to me of this incident. But this was long 
 ago before the days of Carnegie medals. 
 
 When I was twelve we moved from the little house where we had 
 lived for six happy years and occupied a new house father had built farther 
 down Main street. This was a larger, more convenient structure but as I 
 look back to my life there it lacks the charm of the old place, still we were 
 very happy and during our two years of occupancy I unconsciously drifted 
 away from those childish things that sufficed in the past and began to 
 look at life through different eyes. But I was just a boy and our crowd 
 all kept together as boys, sharing our sports in common and strengthening 
 our friendships as the years flew by. Of course we had all the juvenile 
 ailments going, and I can see John Wilkinson hanging on to a fence in 
 the throes of whooping cough. The mumps I considered quite a joke 
 until 1 had them, and the measles were not so awful bad. But when the 
 real old fashioned itch laid hold on us, at once there was trouble in many 
 households. When the tell tale pustules showed up between my fingers, 
 mother called in Dr. Blakeslee who immediately prescribed homeopathic 
 remedies, but the malady only grew worse and mother took the case in 
 her own hands, anointing me thoroughly from head to foot with sulphur 
 and lard which she heated in by turning me about before a hot fire. One 
 application was enough, the microbes departed in disgust and I was free 
 again. During my isolation the muse descended upon me and I brutally 
 paraphrazed that beautiful song then so popular "Tenting tonight" as 
 follows : 
 
H. W. DeLong 61 
 
 "Many are the boys that are scratching tonight 
 Wishing that the itch would cease, 
 Many are the boys digging at their hides 
 And dobbing on the grease." 
 
 There came a time when that dread scourge diphtheria raged fright- 
 fully. It seemed as though nothing could check it. The Doctors did their 
 best but ordinary remedies seemed to be of no avail and the present day 
 effective treatment was unknown. Whole families were depleted and 
 sadness and trouble hung black over the village. What a relief it was 
 when the awful malady passed on without a break in the ranks of our 
 little crowd. 
 
 It was always fun for me when we had company come from Honeoye 
 Falls, Lima or Richmond Mills. It meant a bustle and freedom that I 
 loved, to say nothing about extra good things to eat. One time, when 
 Aunt Eliza, Uncle William and Aunt Amelia were visiting us father 
 stopped work and we all took a trip to Portage Bridge. Aunt Susan, 
 Uncle Ed and family and we children all went and we had a great day. 
 We took the stage to Burns and then by rail to the bridge. I well remem- 
 ber the great wooden structure that spanned the gorge with the canal at 
 the bottom. The design of the bridge was made by a boy of sixteen and 
 every timber was interchangeable. Steps led up and down through the 
 wilderness of uprights and criss-crosses and our party took it all in. 
 Coming home it was late at night and dark as pitch. Big hill was a terror 
 to us and father kept up our courage by singing "The Cork Leg," and 
 "The Fine Old English Gentleman," as the old coach pitched and tossed 
 down the mountain. 
 
 Now came the period in our lives when fancy runs riot. The world 
 was our oyster and all that was necessary was to open it and partake. 
 We would take long Saturday excursions finding places in the woods 
 where we would solemnly declare "the foot of white man had never trod 
 before." Along the banks of Mill creek we discovered an Indian burying 
 ground (we were sure it was anyway), and some of our incantations over 
 those old potato hills were touching. Poag's Hole we explored as far 
 as our young feet would carry us, and Pine Swamp would yield us black- 
 berries in due season. Bradner's woods and pine grove we frequented 
 after school hours and the many chestnut trees on the Bradner and the 
 Rothe farms gave toll to us. Then we began to read and nothing was 
 too classical for us, although the dime novel was our chief literary food. 
 Reynie Smith lived next door and his father had an excellent library. 
 From it I read Thackera}^ Scott, Smollet, Cooper and Fielding, but in 
 this strong stuff did not lose my taste for matter suited to my age. I 
 think the Beadles dime novel of the early sixties was better trash than 
 the paper covered dreadfuls of today. How well I remember some of the 
 titles I reveled in, "Seth Jones," "Malaeska," "Massasoit's Daughter," 
 "Bill Bidden," "Hidden Lodge," 'Maum Guinea," and others. O, we had 
 plenty of books. Mayne Reid, Sylvanus Cobb, Captain Marryatt, Jacob 
 Abbott, and Kingston were at their best, and what one boy didn't have 
 the other did and every book went the grand rounds. 
 
 Will Wetmore's people moving to Rochester, it was arranged that 
 Will should live at our house for a time and continue his schooling at 
 
62 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 the Seminary. This was great fun for both of us, as we were fast friends 
 and our tastes were similar. Billy Opp was home from the army on sick 
 leave and one day he brought to father's shop an ancient and dilapidated 
 shot gun that he offered to dad for twenty shillings ($2.50), declaring in 
 a whisper that it was a good shooter and just the thing for me. To my 
 3'outhful eyes it looked, in spite of its thin oak stock and wobbly hammer, 
 a perfect fowling piece and I plead — and prevailed — lugging the venerable 
 antique home proudly on my shoulder. Mother looked very doubtful 
 when I marched in and I don't think she quite approved my father's pur- 
 chase. Will and I tried the piece and it made good and I had it for many 
 years. By the rule of boyhood Will was allowed a gun because I had 
 one, and what jolly hunts we used to have on Saturdays. Game was 
 more plentiful then than now and we often saw black squirrels and grouse 
 as close as Bradner's and Morey's woods. One day in the fall we went 
 up to Shoehammer woods and had the joy of shooting a big black squirrel 
 out of the old Shoehammer tree itself. Then we crossed the field to 
 Bryant's farm house and Kittie Kuhn invited us to dinner and cooked 
 a special chicken for us. We nearly always got some game and how tired 
 we would be when we reached home at nightfall. Shearer's gully. Hog's 
 back, way up beyond Clark's, and Geiger's woods and along Big creek 
 were favorite hunting grounds and all paid toll to our prowess. 
 
 Will's best hold was fishing and for a boy he was an artist and could 
 give all the rest of lis points. Once we walked up the plank road to 
 Bullhead pond and caught sixty little fellows about four inches long. 
 Reaching home we decided the fish were too small to clean, and, as after 
 the manner of bullheads, they were all alive, we dumped them down the 
 well of the vacant lot adjoining. Another time we toiled up Little Mill 
 Creek coming out at last to Rowe's meadows, stealing up to a hole one 
 peep over the bank showed the bottom literally black with eight and ten inch 
 trout. Drawing back we baited anew and cast our lines carefully into the 
 pool, but they wouldn't rise. Billy tried every device at his command and 
 they were many, but nothing doing. Finally he took me back from the creek 
 and with a knowing grin took a little coil of fine brass wire from his 
 pocket, "I forgot this," said he as he deftly straightened out the wire and 
 made a slip noose at the end, "Now you stay here," and he crawled up to 
 that hole and before the trout tumbled to his scheme he had several fine 
 ones flopping on the bank. John Wilkinson also had a gun, a smoothbore 
 rifle, that would throw shot very accurate, but it was a cumbersome affair 
 and he had Steinhardt, the gunsmith, make him a combination rifle and 
 shot gun. It seemed to me then a wonderful weapon, but as I think of 
 it now it was most unsafe, the hammers were on the side and both worked 
 from the same spring and about the first time he took it out I was with 
 him. We were sitting on a log, the gun was across John's knees with 
 both hammers up, the muzzle was pointed across my heart and as John 
 attempted to let one hammer down the fool mechanism unhitched and off 
 went the other barrel right across my front. Of course we were scared 
 and learned a lesson, but imagine a gun like that in the hands of boys 
 
 Hunting and fishing in fact, was so good about Dansville fifty years 
 ago that there were quite a lot of people who made a recreation of field 
 and stream sports on all their holidays. There was a dam way up the 
 
H. W. DeLong 63 
 
 gorge of Little Mill that backed the waters up a goodly distance making 
 a long still pool. This was called Westerman's pond and to it just before 
 twilight on quiet June evenings, Squire Kern, Jos. W. Smith, Chas. Sedg- 
 wick, Chas. Leonard, John Hyland and other experts would repair and 
 have great sport. These men scorned the plebean worm for a lure and 
 after we boys had thrashed all day up and down the creek they would 
 come on with their delicate tackle and gauzy flies and take out the big 
 fellows to our great wonder and disgust. There were a number of keen 
 hunters too, among whom I recall Robert Nichoson, Mr. Ogden, and 
 Elijah Wetmore. The latter was a fat puffy man but a keen sportsman 
 and a good shot. He persuaded father to go squirrel shooting with him 
 once and when a black or gray was treed he would send dad around on 
 the other side to scare the game in sight and he would shoot it. Father 
 was long suffering and stood it for a time, but patience ceased to be a 
 virtue with him at last, and the next squirrel treed, he said, "Now Lige, 
 I've played dog long enough, it's your turn," and Lige played. Melvin 
 Sutton was a good hunter and used to take me out with him. One day 
 in early spring we got a fine bag of pigeons up in Shoehammer woods. 
 Nick Drehmer and Horace Miller took me once up to Perkinsville Swamp 
 and we fished Big Mill crossing over to Little Mill, and what a fine lot 
 of trout we got. I well remember that the creek ran through dense woods 
 and the trees were alive with pigeons. 
 
 Up Main street lived Osk-ya-a-wah (called Skinnywa) with his wife 
 Marleah, real Indians. The former with another brave, Laton Kanisten- 
 eaux by name, made bows and arrows and sold them to us boys. They 
 would work out on the lawn using peculiar crooked knives in making 
 their wares and we would sit and watch them. About that time a specially 
 interesting dime novel was going the circuit in which a Canadian Indian 
 called Nockwynee figured very prominently. Learning that Skinnywa was 
 from Canada we fellows thought it our duty to ask him if he knew 
 Nockwynee. I was delegated to propound the question, so with fear and 
 trembling I approached Skinn3'wa. Coming up to his bench my courage 
 oozed out and turning my back to him, I mumbled out, "Did you ever 
 know an injun in Canada by the name of Nockwynee?" Glancing through 
 the tail of my eye at the Red man I waited for an answer, but he never 
 said a word. 
 
 There were a couple of old fellows, at least they seemed old to me, 
 who used to enliven the war depression occasionally, by appearing on the 
 street in a hilarious condition and singing old songs to the great edifica- 
 tion of the bystanders. I remember them as John Dorman and Cal. Dun- 
 ham. One of them would go back to the days of 76 and sing: 
 
 "I was almost twenty-nine 
 I remember well the time 
 When our country was invaded 
 By the British." 
 
 I wish I could recall the balance of the song, but I can't; I only know 
 it was intensely patriotic and the singer waxed more and more enthusiastic 
 as verse followed verse. Then together they would sing: 
 
64 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 "O bury your toenails in the ground 
 O bury your toenails in the ground 
 O bury your toenails in the ground 
 For when they're there 
 They can never be found." 
 
 And 
 
 "O keep your money in your pocket 
 O keep your money in your pocket 
 O keep your money in your pocket 
 For when it's there 
 You know you've got it." 
 
 And SO on through several verses of equally good advice. Futile and 
 unmusical as were their songs I am sure these old chaps did a good bit 
 toward cheering us all up. 
 
 Jim Murdock, our chief of police, was a valuable check on law breakers 
 and bad boys in Dansville during war time. We boys feared him, not 
 because he was cross or surly, for he was not, but there was an air about 
 his portly figure and broad genial face that commanded our respect, and 
 a single look from his keen blue eyes was enough for the boldest. If a 
 fellow did anything wrong the first thought following the act was "Jim 
 Murdock," and that boy was mighty certain to keep out of the Chief's 
 sight for some days. We gave him credit for a general knowledge of 
 crimes committed and the criminal, that as I think of it today was a great 
 compliment to him. One morning on my way to the Seminary I was 
 carrying a small pine bat that I had whittled out and a bootleg ball also 
 of home construction. It was early and I was batting the ball ahead of 
 me in a leisurely way, picking it up after every whack and giving it 
 another drive onward. At Chestnut street I turned to pick up Will Wet- 
 more who lived at the next corner and prepared to give the old bootleg 
 a hard rap and send it as far as possible toward Will's house. I gave 
 my bat a mighty swing when it flew out of my hand and crashed squarely 
 through the glass transom over the door in the Altmeyer building. Well, 
 I was frightened, looking around I saw no one had witnessed the catas- 
 trophe but George Dippy who stood in the door of his flour and feed 
 shop opposite. George was a young man I knew very well so I ran over 
 to him with an idea of giving myself up to the proper authorities and 
 going to jail for life. "O, George," I whimpered, "what shall I do?" 
 George grinned and said "Do? do nothing, only cut for school as fast as 
 you can," then he gave me a reassuring look as much as to say, "I'll never 
 tell." Acting on his advice I legged it up the back way. never stopping to 
 call for Billy, but the agony I endured that forenoon I can never forget. 
 My seat in the study room commanded the approaches to the Seminary 
 and every minute I was expecting to see the burly form of Jirn ]\Iurdock 
 grinding up the graveled path with a pair of handcuffs hanging on his 
 arm for me. But he didn't come and I have an impression (mind this is 
 only an impression) that I told father and he fixed it up, etc. There are 
 two things I do remember positively though, that the broken transom 
 stared me in the face for a long, long time, and that George Dippy never 
 told. Another time a lot of us boys were having all kinds of fun on Main 
 street just at dusk chasing one another and hallooing in that "don't care 
 
 J 
 
H. W. DeLong 65 
 
 for anybody" way that boys have. In the middle of a most exhilerating 
 screech suddenly a heavy hand was laid on my shoulder and turning 
 around there stood Jim Murdock beaming down upon me. Very kindly 
 he said, "Hermie, don't you think mother wants you at home?" I knew 
 she did and it was home for me at once. The lesson was never forgotten, 
 and years after I talked it over with the kind old Chief and he remem- 
 bered it too. 
 
 When, after the lapse of years, I meet an old boy friend again, gray 
 haired and dignified perhaps, the first thing that enters my mind is his 
 nickname. Strange, perhaps, but as I call up the boys of fifty years ago 
 and marshal them before the lens of memory I extract the film and read 
 such names as these: Pid, Snoots, Kippy, Plug, Penny, Yopa, Moddy, 
 Sock, Boove and Rummy. Strange pseudonyms perhaps but there they are 
 and there they will stay to the end. Among the girls of my boyhood the 
 simplest names prevailed : Lizzie. Mary, Ann, Maria, Alice, Gertrude, 
 Jennie, Carrie, Rosa, Clara and the like. My sister's name was Theodosia 
 after my paternal grandmother who was named after Aaron Burr's sister 
 who when a young girl often held my grandmother on her lap down in 
 Connecticut. Sister's name was considered unusual by the other girls, 
 and the daughters of a Mr. Arnold named respectively, Alfaretta and 
 Tomaroo were only accounted for on the grounds of eccentricity, for he 
 had two sons named Gustavus Adolphus, and William Erastus. All this 
 was before the days of Gladys, Kathryn, Mayme and Marguerite. 
 
 I was now fourteen, growing bigger and stronger every day, childish 
 things were sloughing off and I was counting the years when I would 
 be a man. One day father said, "In three years I will be fifty, I used to 
 think when I was young that when I hit the fifty mark I would be able 
 to retire with a competence, but I can't." This set me thinking, and 
 figuring out that I would be seventeen when he reached that helpless age, 
 I comforted myself with the thought that I would be a mature man, able 
 to assume all the cares and responsibilities of life and so lessen, in fact, 
 shoulder all the burdens of my aged parent, but somehow I didn't have 
 the nerve to tell dad of his good fortune. 
 
 I was getting blase, and reveled in the thought that I was growing 
 old. I even became reminiscent and one day dashed off the following 
 that the boys in the shop declared was "darn good poetry" : 
 
 "The days of my childhood have left me forever 
 But their fond recollections remain with me still. 
 And when I think they'll return to me never, 
 Bitter tears come unbidden my old eyes to fill! 
 
 I remember distinctly the cot I was born in. 
 
 In Honeoye Falls, near the central dee-po, 
 How eager I'd watch for the trains from the junction 
 
 And shout as they passed on their way to and fro. 
 
 And well I remember a boy, Johnny Barry, 
 
 He's dead now and gone to the other world far. 
 We'd stuff with green plums, all that we could carry, 
 
 Then scud for the cars and get covered with tar. 
 
66 Boyhood Reminiscences 
 
 But these days are all past and I'm left sad and lonely, 
 With no one to cheer me down life's stormy way, 
 
 I'm fourteen years old and am getting quite bony, 
 
 Hundred twenty-three pounds is the best I can weigh." 
 
 Yes, my taste for barn shows and commercial emporiums was gone, 
 the dime novel lost its attractiveness. I went to singing school to Mr. 
 Burger and tried to develop a bass voice. Used to walk home with Jettie 
 Austin after singing school and considered that the best of all. I could 
 sing, yes, I could sing like a bird but I could never read notes like dad. 
 Began to buy paper collars by the box, and O, unfailing sign of waning 
 childhood, began to fall in love with the big girls. Rose Brown, Charrie 
 Aldrich, Carrie Dyer and Susan George came and went in quick succes- 
 sion. Prayer meetings were attended with unfailing regularity that I 
 might go home with the girls afterwards. And say ! don't think I was 
 alone in all this infamy, every boy in the crowd mentioned in these reminis- 
 cences was doing the same thing. 
 
 One morning in the spring of 1865 we boys were all busy at our tasks 
 at the Seminary, when the bells down town began to ring a joyful peal 
 and a boy came in and handed a note to Prof. Alva Dorris who had charge 
 of the study room that day. Reading it he arose and said briefly, "Gen- 
 tlemen, Lee has surrendered, you are excused." With a whoop we all 
 started for town, some jumping through the open windows and others 
 falling over their comrades down the front steps. Flags were waving, 
 people were shaking hands and the bright April sun looked down on a 
 perfectly happy Dansville and nation. It was a glorious day, how well 
 I remember it. That night the rival torch light companies of the preceding 
 fall election amicably joined forces making a tremendous procession. At 
 the close of the parade the boys grew reckless and hooking their torches 
 together would playfully jerk off the lamps and scatter the burning oil 
 over the street. Henry Capell and I after hooking our lamps together 
 instead of giving the final and destructive jerk stole quietly into the alley 
 and hid them under the fence where we recovered them next day and they 
 served us both for many years as destroyers of worms nests. 
 
 Of course the close of the war stirred my poetic soul and I emitted 
 the following: 
 
 "Peace spreads its wings once more over our land; 
 The ploughshare has taken the place of the sword; 
 No more will be heard the loud voice of command 
 Which so often has scattered Secessia's vile horde. 
 
 The boys have come home with a kiss for each one 
 And a tear for their comrades who gloriously fell. 
 
 No more will they wake to the beat of the drum, 
 The thunder of cannon, the shriek of the shell. 
 
 Yes, peace, welcome peace, has come to us once more. 
 And the old flag still o'er us in triumph does wave. 
 
 While the eagle, our emblem, O long may it soar 
 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave." 
 
H . W . DeLong 67 
 
 It was only a few days after, that Jake and I were down to the creek 
 looking at the high water of a recent ilood when we heard the Presby- 
 terian beU boom slowly and solemnly above the noise of the rushing creek. 
 So solemn was the peal that we were frightened and ran up Knox street 
 to find out what was the trouble. Arriving at Mr. Wilkinson's we found 
 the family out in the yard with white faces and streaming eyes. "Lincoln's 
 shot,'' called out John. "Shot at Ford's theatre in Washington last night 
 and a telegram just came saying he was dead." I can't describe the sad- 
 ness that prevailed in Dansville and that was duplicated through the whole 
 nation. Better men than I have tried to do it but it was simply beyond 
 description. How bitter, how angry we boys felt, one fellow, a strong 
 Democrat, hinted in a cautious way that " he didn't care much if Abe 
 Lincoln was shot" but he took it back mighty quick when he found a half 
 dozen boys on top of him ready to administer punishment. What joy 
 when the assassin was run down and killed, that helped a little. I know 
 1 ran home under a boiling inspiration and wrote this : 
 
 "The fourteenth of April eighteen si.xty-five, 
 Is a day to be remembered as long as memory lives 
 'Twas then our noble president was murdered in cold blood 
 'Twas then that o'er him came death's cold and icy flood. 
 
 Ah, then a cry of vengeance went up from all the land, 
 
 And people who were one time foes now joined with heart and hand, 
 
 In searching for the murderer of that noble and good man. 
 
 To bring him to justice and the gallows if they can. 
 
 And large rewards were offered which many tried to get. 
 But the only one who got them was Boston John Corbett. 
 He shot the foul assassin and brought him to the ground, 
 .'\nd his name as the avenger shall be strictly handed down." 
 
 And so I take down the last "record" and reel off my closing reminis- 
 cence. 
 
 July 4th, 1865, father and I walked to Wayland in the early morning, 
 took an excursion train to Rochester and spent the day like a pair of 
 school boys. We went to the best hotel and got dinner, rode to the lake 
 and took an excursion on the steamer Norseman. Saw the great parade 
 and witnessed the arrival of a regiment home from the war as they flocked 
 from a train at the Erie depot to be gathered into the arms of waiting 
 mothers, sweethearts and wives. Then we saw the firew^orks on Crouch's 
 island and about 2 a. m. started for home arriving in W^ayland after day- 
 light. We walked home and reached there O, so tired, and often conies 
 to me the thought, will dad and I ever take another trip like that together? 
 
 The End 
 
LIBRARY OF 
 
 CONGRESS 
 
 014 220 
 
 793 A #