Grant County herald. [volume] (Lancaster, Wis.) 1850-1968, 1883-06-21
Finding themselves thus foiled

coveted meal, the wolves return 10 their
covert among the rocks, and there re-
main till nightfall, as if informed by
human reason that young Wise would
surely return that way.
| In this case, their instinct was not
at fault. The undaunted boy having
procured his supplies was compelled to
return the same road. As he approached
the dreaded spot the trepidation of his
noble horse increased and he too. felt
the blood chill in his own veins. in spite
of all his wonted courage. No sooner
had they passedthe placeof the morning
encounter than the wolves were again
upon him, their ferocity whetted By
hunger and delay, their eyes flaming
liquid fire in the growing darkness, their
tongues dripping and hanging from
their great red mouths like pieces of
red hot iron, the brush of their tails
enlarged and their bodies swollen by all
| the passions of their Internal nature
ON they came, determined not to be
baffied second time in their thirst for
blood. But the fleet-footed horse, sore
and mangled as hewas, fledlike satyre
before the wind or like Tam O'Shan-
ter's mare from the Aud Kirk of Ayre,
and was soon beyond their bloody
reach. This story may be true or false
but | have told it as it was told to me
and its parallel may be found in all
new countries, only accompanied with
more fatal results. Had the wolves
overtaken young Wise and rended him
limb from limb and drank the warm
blood of his horse, the story would
have been one of more startling interest.
But such are not the facts and scorn to
| deyiate from the truths of history to
| produce effect upon my listeners. No
one VINO has ever lived on the frontier,
especially in wild, timbered country
| like this, which is the home and natural
/ lurking place of these animals can for
! get the feelings of loneliness which their
| piercing bark and long drawn, dismal
howl produces--nor can he obliterate
from the mind the dread which came
over him when, as it often happened, on
a dark night, he was compelled to go
through some lonely, solitary piece of
woods, to reach his home. But their
race. like that of their equally stealthy
and marauding neighbor- the tawny
Indians dwindling to the shortest
span, and the wolf-hunters who would
take his scalp must travel far and long
and be content at last with his deteri-
Grated red brother, the marauder of the
prairie. They are less dangerous to So
ciety, good breeders, more easily do
mesticated, and bring just as big
bounty. But leaving the wolf and his
companions whom the advance of civil
ization has evicted from this place of
his nativity, let us venture into these
woods, without fear of molestation and
see what changes the revolving years
of time have wrought in the last four
! decades.
Here was the home of Uncle Joe
/ Bonham and his brothers Harvey, James
and Frank. Here lived Urcle John
| Taylor and his sons, Stephen b.
Irish, Hugh Herd. Hodges and genial
Tom Shanley-who have all gone to
their reward save James and Frank
Bonham. And not far off is the Meth
odist camp ground of Uncle Ed. Kilby.
Here is the old farm of Cumberland
kilby, which forty years ago was in the
heart of the wilderness. 1t is now the
beautiful home of John Duncan WHOM
a boy tnen--an orphan boy, and who by
dint OF industry, perseverance, and hard
work, has become one of Grant county's
proudest institutions honest farm
er-the noblest work of God. The
| great mammoth oaks, the tall and shape
ly naples, the aspen and the elm-these
growths of centuries, which once encir-
cled the old log cabin and covered
! these fertile fields with the shades of their
thick foliage, have, like the old cabins
and early settlers, nearly all disap-
peared, fallen prey to the woodlands
axe and the consuming torch. Here
| and there an old stump remains, burn
ed and blackened, and fast falling to
decay beneath the winds and rains of
heaven -perishing monuments of the
noble forest trees they once upbore and
true types of the generation of hardy,
stalwart men, and brave and noble
women, who once dwelt beneath their
| shade and are now passing away forever
A sight of these farms that have been
| hewn out of the Hurricane woods, as JEFF
| ferson once said of the famous rent in
the Alleghanies where two mighty rivers
unite and burst through its barriers,
is worth a trip across the ocean, espcc-
tally during those months, when the
heat and the dank, dead air of our
over crowded cities, drive their inmates
for recreation and repose, to the equal
ly noisome cities of the old world, and
the demoralizing, match making, surf
| bathing, watering resorts of the East.
Here they could drink in the fresh air,
the pure water and fresh cows milk.
| without fear of faint or of being caught
by anything more dangerous than some
charming nymph of the Hurricane
woods. There are no dudes there or
dudines; no scheming mothers who
clothe their lazy, lolling daughters in
| purple and fine linen, at the expense
perhaps of the old mans financial stand
ing thinking thereby to catch count
or prince of blood. No. none of these
traits pertain to the noble sons and
daughters of the Hurricane, they are
all boys and girls, the worthy scions of
u noble stock.
What though on homely fare they dine,
Wear holden gray and a that,
Give fools their silks and knaves their wines.
mans a man for a that.
The timber farms of the Hurricane are
certainly the most productive as they
are the most beautiful in the county.
While the bleak winds of winter sweep
resistlessly across the open prairies,
chilling man and beast with their lev
breath, and the deadly frosts of the
long mid-winter sink deep into the
bosom of earth, destroying the ten
der roots of grass and grain. and the
embryo buds of fruits and flowers:
here, surrounded by sheltering woods.
where the rude storms cannot reach
them, and the cultured fruits, shrubs.
and grain are all shielded from the rude
winds, cosy and comfortable. amid
their plethoric barns, tending their
sleek and we'll housed stock, eating the
bread of industry with their rosy child |
rem and thrifty house wives, flourish the
honest farmers. No tidier homes. no
more intelligent class of people. no
happier firesides can be found in the
whole region of the west. than here
exist, dwelling in Arcadian happiness.
IN the woods of the Hurricane God
bless the Hurricane.
But, "brevity' we are told, sis the
soul of wit, and | learned to my hor-
ror when a boy, that a long sermon
was dry one. Besides | am out of
the mines now and nearly through the
woods, and doubt not most of You are
wearving of my sylvan theme. But TO
me ! can say with Byron.
There is pleasure in the painless woods"
and | love to linger in them and talk
about them. And my love for Grant |