In 1856 Henry Hiram Riley (1813-1888) published a book titled, “The Puddleford Papers,” in which he humorously described the characters and the antics of a fictitious community on the frontier of the then “far west,” which was Illinois in the 1830-40 period. In the following excerpt, he describes a typical family’s winter.
My little family were quietly nestled away in the log hut, and winter was now upon us. The days came and went, and were marked by light and darkness, and our own domestic joys. There were no startling events to disturb any person’s serenity–no rise or fall of stocks–no fires–no crashes in business–no bustle in the streets about the latest news–no nothing. The world moved on as monotonous as the tick-tick of a clock.
Each morning was first heralded by my rooster. He blew his clarion voice about four, and I would lie and hear its echoes wander off through the streets of Puddleford until they finally expired. He was usually answered by some half-awakened cock, whose drowsy, smothered crow was quite ludicrous. Then he would give another blast–and get, usually, a snappish answer from some quarter, saying,” Well, what of it?” Soon, a braggart would chime in–“Huh I’ve been-up-these-two-hours.” This was followed by the voice of some old fellow, away in another direction, declaring, “I’ll bet you haint!” And soon the whole orchestra were blowing their horns at the opening of day.
The blue-jays and snow birds gathered in the garden, to pick the dry seeds that the weeds were shedding. What are snow birds? Where do they live? See them chirping in yonder ray of sunlight–darting hither and thither, like dust motes in a beam of light. What are they? Do they sleep on the wings of the wind, or hide themselves in the snow? How is it that these little singing harps live on amid such dreary scenes? The blue-jays, however, were very petulant. Their gorgeous summer plumage was exceedingly mussed, and they went about from bush to bush, and tree to tree, screaming and fretting at each other and themselves.
Sometimes, a keen, frosty night would be succeeded by a still, sunny day, when the eaves pattered their sleepy drip-drip, and the cows strayed away as though they smelt approaching spring–when the cats flew out of the house, and chased each other up into the trees, and the dog went wandering along the river-banks for reasons known only to himself.
These were visiting days, holidays, jubilee days, for those animals that were housed in trees, and burrowed in the earth. You might, on such a day, see the squirrel push out his head from the door of his castle, where he has been confined for a month, and cautiously look over the landscape–then dart in again. Soon he pushes himself out farther, and farther, and timidly glides down to the foot of the tree. Then he tries the snow, and finally goes cantering to the nearest stump, and chirruping, up he goes, throws his tail over his back, sits down, and breaks forth into song.
Look a little farther–the turkey–who is busy disinterring some of the buried nuts and seeds of autumn. Such a day is a bright page in the winter life of the turkey. She comes forth from beneath the roots of upturned trees, from thickets or hollow logs, where she has been so long cowering and starving, to hail the blessed warmth. She dreamed away the summer, passing the provident squirrel often in October, and saw him gather his winter stores, but she didn’t know why; and now she is shoveling the snow, scattering it right and left with her feet, with a melancholy twit! twit! to get a kernel of food.
Indoors, however, was the domestic hearth. There were joys there that knew no winter. Wife and children and little ones about me. And then, the old dog that had been with us for years–he was one of the family. He used to escort the children a half a mile to school, and wag his tail, and bid them “good morning,” as he left them at the door. He was also there waiting at night to escort them home again. He would walk over the farm and examine this and that, as though he was the proprietor. He would sleep during the long winter evenings by the fire, his nose between his fore paws, his hind legs stretched out full length, and dream of the woods–first a tremor! then a twitch! then a bark, and a leap! and looking up and finding all watching him, would slink away under the table, overwhelmed with mortification.
Mail days were bright days in our calendar. They came only once a week–but that day always brought something. We then sat down, wife, children, and all, and posted up the books of the past. The letters brushed off the dust from the pictures of distant friends that were hanging in our souls–and those pictures talked. Some were sick; some were married; some had gone to one place, some to another. They were sailing on the great current of life same as we. We were all together, yet apart; and these letters were only a shaking of hands across the void that divided us–the shuttle that wove our passage into one.
Sometimes, when I feel overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information that’s thrown at me every minute of every day, I envy the folks of two hundred years ago, content in their lack of knowledge, not only of world affairs, but of pretty much everything that went on outside of a ten or twenty-mile radius of their own little community. Truly, ignorance is sometimes bliss.
Sam Moore
