The Scranton tribune. [volume] (Scranton, Pa.) 1891-1910, 1896-05-14
WERE OUR GRANDMOTHER HAPPIER
THAN WE?

WERE OUR GRANDMOTHER HAPPIER
THAN WE?
Our question relates. not to this i'm
mediate generation of grandmothers,
but to those remoter danes who jour-
neyed hither to establish homes in an
unhewn wilderness. They came up
from the New England States. often
on horseback, while the slow moving
wagons struggled over stony trails, lad
en- with only such Of the household
goods as We're needed for actual ex-
istence.
Evidently. tall clocks and claw foot
furniture could have found but little
part in these early outfits; whatever
the parlor splendors of the eastern
states, our pioneer ancestors left them
al behind. The grandmothers, there
lore, whose happiness We are t. con
sider, We're wonleA whCsa Iai't ir. life
comprised, Tor each u husband, anu u
tract OF wild land somewhere among
these rugged hills.
Their very log cabins were still to
build and fancy draws pleasant pic
lures Of these sylvan homes as they
rose rough hewn and wholesome un-
der the woodman's axe.
The life within their walls seems en-
viably simple and untrammeled to US
who sit In our houses today, wound
about with this network Of many in
ventions. Our homes often seem but
little more rspcseful than ocean steam
ers or railway cars, with their gas and
steam and electricity, and the voice Of
the outside world hooting upon our pri-
vacy through the telephone. Our dwell
lings become stuffed to sutfocatIon with
furniture and 1ocOra ftNy, ,lcl,
machinery Of life has grown so compll-
Gated, and the standard Of what Is suit
able and necessary has risen to such n
straining pitch, that, often the Joy of
living flags. 1t is then we turn back
to the dim, simple past and measure
its pleasures by our own.
We see matron and maid as they sit
at ease beside the clean swept hearth,
with no work more trying to eye and
nerve than the knitting.
The flame draws up brightly in the
great fireplace, fed by liberal foresticks
and the rotund backlog, while the mas
ter of the house reads the Monthly
Palladium by the added light OF a tall
low candle, hooked to the back Of his
splint-bottomed chair.
The children crack butternuts in the
ingle nook. with a pleasant subcon-
seriousness of the adjacent pantry, with
its pans Of milk, cheeses, piles Of maple
sugar and combs Of honey. The sole
machinery about this blest abode is the
pump log at the door, through which
rusheS pure stream, summer and
winter, without let or hindrance.
This description in truth is, however,
but the picture Of an hour when life
In the sylvan home has reached it's ulti-
mate Of perfection. To form q true esti-
mate Of the happiness Of those archaic
days. we must enquire much more full
ly into the nature Of old time work and
worry.
OF these things we long ago enjoyed
full testimony from an admired
grandmother in whom dwelt the spirit
of literature and recital. Her youth
was passed here when pioneer condi-
tions were at their full vigor. Her long
life closed, finally, amid prosperous
modern surroundings. She thus beheld
the beginning and the end, and was
conversant with both sides Of this ques-
ton. The account here set down was,
In fact, her reply to the longings Of O
young lady, encountered by affiuencc,
to revert to log cabin life, one open fire,
pot and skillet.
That one wood fire. responded
grandmother, how often we hear about
1t in these days, and how few people
what it really was to live by it!
My own first recollections of the old
| fireplace have fully as much terror as
pleasure in them. When we came to
the settlement we could not at first get
even an iron crane. We had to brace q
thick pole of green wood far up the
chimney. From this hung log chain,
to which we hooked the great kettle.
| This wood contrivance was called the
| ''lug pole" Whenever the pot went on
| the first duty of the whole household
was to keep an eye on the lug pole.
Some times 1t would last q week or
more before /: charred away. There
was no certainty. however, as to just
what 1t would do. from one hour to
another, and when somebody cried,
'The lug pole is atire!" how my heart
began to beat! l would spring to
snatch the younger children to the far
side of the room, lest the great boiling
pot should fall. while the elders ran
for water to dash up the chimney.
Sometimes, too, chinks would open in
the hearth, and a puff of smoke an
nounce something burning underneath,
then 'the Eastwood logs are afire,''
would be the call, and then came an
other scramble. That big pot seemed
forever on and boiling. 1t was high
holiday when we could take 1t off and
clear everything away. We were al
ways heating water, trying out lard,
hulling corn or sugaring off, to say
nothing Of the endless cooking.
That fireplace was the center Of per-
petual toll. We had no rest from II
unless when upstairs spinning and
weaving. And as for It's heat and COM
fort. for all the roaring logs, 1 have
| seen days when water froze In the
very room where the fire burned.
And how we worked in that log house!
] can tell you, when was young, girls
did not open their eyes long after sun
rise. stretch out idle arms and wonder
what they could do to fill in another
day. That question was answered for
every hour we had to live. The days