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Ebook has 366 lines and 32956 words, and 8 pages

THE

NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE

AND

BAY STATE MONTHLY.

Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved to the end of the article.

Along the Kennebec

BY HENRY S. BICKNELL

The first glimpse of the Kennebec, on approaching it from the sea, presents to the stranger a barren and uninviting picture. Hemmed in on either side by low, rocky isles, studded with scraggy pines that have long defied old Atlantic's blasts, it must have been a dreary and disappointing sight, indeed, to the little band of voyagers who were seeking a home in the new world over two centuries ago. Many treacherous sand-bars reach out to the circuitous channel that extends seaward a mile or more, and numerous wrecks along shore bear evidence of their hidden dangers. Before the age of skilful pilots and steam fog-whistles, the mariner must have had a busy time with his lead in threading this watery pathway, unaided by a single sign or sound from shore. A few days' sojourn among the charming bays and inlets dispels all feelings of lonesomeness, and unfolds a scene of continued interest and keen enjoyment. On a pleasant morning, from the summit of any hilltop the view is delightful. Scores of crafts, from the saucy mackerel-catcher to the huge three-master, are leaving their anchorage under the shadows of Sequin, and the lofty white shaft of the lighthouse above looms clear and grand against the sky. At the weirs along the river fishermen are pulling in their nets, which glimmer with their night's catch. The bustling little tugs, with half a dozen "icers" in tow, are struggling nobly against the tide. The merry shouts of bathers on Popham beach mingle with the roar and rush of the incoming tide. The dark pine-clad hills trending northward form a fitting background to the scene. A fine government light on Pond Island guards the entrance to the river. The cliffs on the ocean side are quite precipitous, and rise to a height of sixty feet, over which the spray is dashed in severe storms. Why it was named Pond Island has always been a mystery, for the drinking-water even is caught from the showers that fall upon the light-keeper's roof. From the summit the island slopes to the western shore, where a small cove affords the only landing-place, and in rough weather great skill is required in embarking safely. We were informed that the island furnished pasturage sufficient for one cow, but, from a close observation, it was evident that she must be content with two meals a day, or get an occasional donation from the meadows on the mainland. Twice a year the district inspector makes his rounds, and, during the week previous to his visit, the entire family devote all their energy in scouring and polishing, until everything about the place, from the doorknob to the lenses, fairly sparkles with brilliancy. On these occasions, the light-keeper is seen in his best mood, and is the perfection of politeness and urbanity, for then a hope of reappointment is betrayed in every movement. Across the channel, Stage and Salter's Islands, and the Georgetown shore, forms the eastern boundary of the river, and is the home of numerous camping and fishing parties during the summer. Here the artist may find many rare bits of picturesque scenery that are almost unknown. Further up the river, on the left, Hunnewell's Point with its magnificent beach stretches away for miles to the west. At its northern extremity stands Fort Popham, named after the first English explorer who visited the coast. It was erected some years ago, but has never been completed, and, as proven, the government saved money by neglecting it. Imposing and impregnable as it might have been then, it would now offer but a feeble resistance to the onslaught of modern naval warfare. Numerous pyramids of cannon balls are scattered about within the enclosure, and many old-fashioned guns have been rusting away in peace for the past decade. The interior of the fortress is grass-grown, and two lonesome sentinels in faded regalia guard this useless property, and draw their regular wages from generous Uncle Sam. They are very important in their manner, and allow no intruders on the premises. A few years ago two Harvard students ventured within the sacred walls, and one of them was fatally shot by the over-zealous officer. Popham Beach has become a favorite summer resort within the past few years, and boasts two hotels, and daily mails, and steamers to the outside world.

Fishing forms the chief industry among the natives, although, in years past, when the shipping of ice became extensive on the river, and brought immense numbers of vessels here, piloting at once became a great source of profit. In those days bright visions of wealth suddenly dazzled their eyes, but the bonanza soon faded, for the advent of the tugboats dispelled their dream, and ruined their financial calculations. The fishing-smacks then tossed idly at their moorings for weeks at a time, and the straggling garden patches among the rocks passed unnoticed, while the owners were rowing seaward in search for incoming vessels. Oftentimes they embarked in their wherries soon after midnight, and early morn found them five or six miles from shore. Everybody suddenly developed into an experienced navigator, and curious schemes were originated in the endeavor to outwit each other. This vocation is no longer profitable, and the natives have relapsed into their former monotony. So far away from the sound of a church-bell, it would be no easy matter to tell when the Sabbath morn arrives, were it not for the radical change that comes over these hardy longshoremen. The clatter and jingle of the ponderous family razor, as it flies back and forth on the time-worn strap suspended from the kitchen mantlepiece, is the first signal that ushers in the day. The change is an outward one at least, for then the "biled" shirt with high dickey, the long-tailed black coat, and ancient "stovepipe" take the place of the familiar reefer and sou'wester. The low hum of hymns is heard, and refrains from "I want to be a Daniel" float out on the air. Gradually increasing in volume and earnestness, the voices swell into a quaint and weird melody. From all directions small boats are crossing river and bay to the little red school-house at Popham. Moved, we confess, more by curiosity than by any thirst for religious consolation, we joined the procession. Gathered within the cheerless room, unadorned, save here and there by wretchedly-executed prints of early patriots who would scarcely be recognized by their own friends, old and young alike presented a distressed and penitent appearance.

All thoughts of the beautiful world outside were overshadowed by the feelings of doubt and fear within. In the absence of a regular preacher, each one, beginning with the eldest and grayest of the flock, poured out a pitiful story of sins, and prayed for strength to guide their uncertain steps. The lamentations grew louder and stronger, and the tears flowed fast and free, and the little ones shook with fear at the dismal picture unfolded to their already terrified minds. Finally, overcome by their highly-wrought excitement, they subsided into a prolonged and painful silence, broken only by sobs and moans. Passing out from the dismal service to the green meadows that stretch away to the sea, our little party gave a sigh of relief, and the air seemed purer, and the sky brighter than ever. On our return we passed one of the worst self-accused sinners busily hauling in the cast catch from his weir along the shore. Tears still stood upon his furrowed cheeks, while religiously apologizing for his seeming wickedness. His excuses were lavish with regret, but we could but feel that his sincerity was less than his love of the mighty dollar.

A few years ago the natives were thrown into a state of the greatest excitement by the discovery of valuable deposits of feldspar on one of their rocky farms. The news spread quickly along the river, and the presence of capitalists in their midst lent additional interest to the prospective bonanza. The fishing business again came to a standstill, and the old settlers looked upon each other as bloated bond-holders. Such a drilling and blasting was never seen before in these parts, and soon the whole territory was dotted with huge mounds of imaginary ore. Farms that could scarcely be given away suddenly possessed enormous values in the minds of their lucky owners. Some of the mines were developed extensively, and shipments began which have continued at intervals, but only a few of them furnished the best quality. The spar is shipped to the mills in New Jersey, where it is used for glazing crockery. Rare specimens of beryl are often found by curiosity-seekers among the quartz.

About two miles above Popham the river widens into a considerable bay, which offers safe and spacious anchorage for vessels of all sizes. It bears the unpretentious name of Parker's Flats, but when a fleet of half a hundred unfurl their sails to the morning breeze, the bay becomes a stirring and imposing scene. Upon the left bank is Harrington's Landing, one of the noted landmarks in this region and the point of departure to the outside world. The elder Harrington has been something of an autocrat among the natives, and is one of the famous characters on the river. He was once elected a member of the legislature, but after taking his seat his importance seemed to be unappreciated by his associates, and he obtained leave of absence and quickly returned to this more genial spot. He was short but very portly, and his voice contained many of the elements of a fog-horn. It is related that years ago, while piloting a schooner out to sea, he fell over the stern into the river. His boys put off in a skiff to the rescue, but being so ponderous it was impossible to pull him in without upsetting the boat, so putting a rope around his body they towed him ashore, not much the worse off for his sudden bath. This colony has always been a prolific field for the census collector, and it is doubtful if any authentic figures as to the number of little Harringtons were ever obtained. They swarmed about the place like so many bees. One of them whom we had formerly noticed seemed to be missing, and on inquiring of the old man he appeared bewildered. After reflecting a few moments he exclaimed, "Oh! it seems to me he got 'schronched' last spring 'tween the wharf and schooner!"

A cold nor'easter compelled us to pass the night here, and a long wretched night it was. We encamped in a fireless, cheerless room, and fought a small army of insects and mice, till the first streaks of dawn enabled us to vacate our quarters. The tumult and squabble overhead continued at intervals through the night and rose above the howling of the storm without. Descending the creaky stairway, we found the old lady stripping fish for our breakfast. A number of pigs and fowl were rummaging about the kitchen at will. Piles of garments were stacked up in the four corners of the room, where they were sorted over and over again, as each one of the boys emerged from above. Not wishing to spoil our appetite we kept out of sight till breakfast was ready, and the ceremony of eating was performed as rapidly as possible. We were very hungry, and ate with our eyes nearly closed, and conversation was anything but hilarious. For years the huge flat-bottomed scow plied back and forth to the steamers, and the skipper enjoyed a monopoly of the business, and ruled his motley crew with an iron hand. Gradually old age began to weaken his power, and the sons overthrew his authority and pushed him aside. All hands became captain and crew at once, and amid a medley of commands and crash of baggage, embarking got to be both exciting and perilous.

The river was discovered by the French, under Du Mont, in 1604, and possession taken in the name of the king of France. They had already planted a colony at Quebec, and were led to believe, from meagre accounts of the Indians, which were strengthened by the magnitude of the river and the great force of its current, that they had found another route to their Canadian possessions. They made no extended explorations at this time, on account of the hostilities of the Indians, and resigned all attempt to maintain their claims to a region rich in furs and fisheries. Three years later the English, commanded by Capt. Geo. Popham, landed on this shore and made some attempts to form a settlement, but the extreme severity of the following winter discouraged their ambitions and caused abandonment of the project. The English, however, renewed their efforts in 1614, and sent the celebrated Capt. John Smith, with two ships, to establish a permanent colony here. He made a map of the territory and gave it the name of New England. The trade with the natives became at once of considerable value, and friendly relations were established for some time, which enabled the colonists to obtain a better knowledge of the value of their new discoveries. The powerful tribe of Canibas Indians occupied the lands on both sides of the river for a long distance. It is sometimes spelled Kennebis, from which the stream derives its name. At a point a short distance below the city of Bath, the river makes a sudden turn, which discloses the entrance to the Valley of the Kennebec. At once the scenery changes from the barren and rocky shores to one of broad and fertile acres.

This sharp bend of the river has always been known as "Fiddler's Reach." Tradition says that in early days a band of explorers, who were searching along the river, passed through the "Reach," and came upon the broad valley so unexpectedly that their joy and surprise were unbounded. One of the sailors climbed out upon the bowsprit and began to fiddle a tune in honor of the discovery. Either by the flapping of a sail or by his own carelessness he was knocked overboard and drowned. The oldest inhabitants place implicit confidence in the legend, and the title will always cling to the spot. Now and then a little neglected graveyard comes into view, and the moss-covered shafts bear quaint inscriptions. With considerable difficulty we deciphered the following lines:--

The facts were as cold as the stone on which the words were chiselled, and startling as well; so we turn to pleasanter scenes.

Several little streams flow into the lower Kennebec, on which are situated sleepy fishing villages, that once were the scenes of activity and prosperity. Upon the shores of these winding streams many a noble vessel was reared, and the light of the forge reflected the hopes and ambitions of a busy people. When the ship-building industry received its death-blow, a sudden change took place, and silence has reigned supreme to this day. The event seemed to blast the energies of the population, and a Rip Van Winkle stillness settled down upon these once stirring scenes. Scarred and weather-bronzed sailors idly dream away the passing hours, waiting in vain for a revival of the once happy days.

The light of the forge has died away, The anvil's ringing voice is still, And the bell in the church upon the hill Mournfully tolls for a by-gone day.

Where once numerous fleets discharged their cargoes from the Indies, now only an occasional "smack" is seen. Warehouses and piers alike have gone to decay, and the streets are grass-grown with neglect. As suddenly as this lamentable event occurred, another change was rapidly wrought, when the ice business received such a wonderful start, some fifteen years ago.

Although ice had been shipped abroad to a limited extent years previously, the possibilities of untold wealth had never before dazzled the vision. Rude storehouses began to rise on every hand, which have since given place to extensive and even handsome structures. A perfect furor was created along the river by the brilliant prospect of a gigantic bonanza. Hundreds of storehouses of immense proportions were erected during the summer months, and for several successive winters the river and adjacent streams were the scene of a feverish excitement. Every dollar that could be obtained was invested in a claim, and some farmers upon the shores mortgaged their possessions in the desire to embark in the enterprise. The ice-crop had sustained such a total failure upon the Hudson, for one or two seasons, that the Kennebec furnished the only extensive field for this product. In many cases later on, however, the greed for gain overbalanced prudence in holding the harvest for fancy prices; and as other sections again furnished their share of the article, many small fortunes dwindled away as rapidly as they came. The business has since fallen into the control of large companies, who own their fleets of vessels and tugboats, but reap only a moderate profit on their investment. The scenes are yet lively and picturesque, and add much to the charms of the locality.

Sufficient capital, combined with the highest skill and the widest experience, and the Kennebec would soon become a worthy rival of the famous Clyde. Ship-building has not been altogether abandoned, but it is only a shadow of its former greatness. The river at this point attains its greatest width. The opposite shore is the western boundary of the town of Woolwich, which has always remained under the quiet rule of agriculture, and made no attempts to enter the field of commerce. Capital has been sparingly invested in manufactures; and although her people have the prestige of wealth and brains, Bath will undoubtedly continue for years to come as she is to-day. She is the natural head of the lower Kennebec, which embraces so many charming nooks and corners in its winding way to the sea. The remaining beauties and spots of interest of the river will be treated in a future article, on "The Upper Kennebec."

From the western extremity of Fiddler's Reach the city of Bath stretches northward for several miles, fringing the waterfront with its scores of docks and ship-yards. Years ago nearly the entire city was hidden from view by the lofty frames and hulls of vessels upon the stocks. The air was freighted with the merry music of countless hammers, and

Covering many a rood of ground Lay the timber piled around: Timber of chestnut and elm and oak, And scattered here and there with these The knarred and crooked cedar-trees, Brought from regions far away.

Not a port or sea is there in any clime but the tall and stately ships of Bath have entered. Her name and reputation are worldwide. The onward march of steam has, however, supplanted the slower power of sails, and this, together with the growing industry of iron ship-building, has prostrated the life of the city. The representatives of Maine in the halls of Congress have striven vigorously and persistently in the endeavor to evoke national aid in securing such legislation as will enable these idle yards to compete with other more favored places.

MAPLE-SUGAR MAKING IN VERMONT.

BY J. M. FRENCH, M.D.

The poet Saxe has written of his native State, that Vermont is noted for four staple products; oxen, maple-sugar, girls, and horses:--

"The first are strong, the last are fleet, The second and third exceedingly sweet, And all uncommon hard to beat."

Whatever changes may have taken place in other respects, in maple-sugar, at least, Vermont retains her pre?minence, producing each year from eight to ten million pounds, or more than any other single State, and nearly one-third of the entire amount manufactured in the United States.

To the farmer's boy among the Green Mountains the springtime is the sweetest and most welcome of all the seasons. And however far he may wander in later years from the scenes of his boyhood, yet often, in quiet hours or when busied with the cares of life, his thoughts return to the old homestead; and, as he walks again in the old paths, recalls the old memories, and watches the old-time pictures come and go before his mental vision, he enjoys again, and with a freshness ever new, the pleasures of the maple-sugar season.

Midwinter is past. The "January thaw" has come and gone, leaving a smooth, hard crust, just right for coasting. The heavy storms of February have piled the drifts mountain high over road and fence and wall; and the roaring winds of early March have driven the snow in blinding clouds along the hill-sides, through the forests, and down into the valleys. But now the coldest days are over, and the sun, in his returning course, begins to send down-rays of pleasant warmth. The nights are still sharp, and the March winds have not yet ceased to blow; but for a week, the snow has been melting at noon-day on the southern slope of the hills.

One afternoon, when the sun seems a little warmer than usual, the farmer comes in to the house, on his return from a trip to the wood-lot, saying, "Boys, this is good weather for sap. We must get the buckets out, and be ready to tap the trees to-morrow."

The buckets are stored in the loft over the shed, or at the barn or in the sugar-house, where they were carefully laid away after last year's season was over. Now they must be washed and scalded, repaired if necessary, and carried around to the trees.

Twenty-five years ago nearly all the buckets were made of pine or cedar, had wooden hoops, and were without covers. At present many of them are made of tin, and are provided with covers.

Sometimes it happens at this stage of the proceedings that a storm comes up unexpectedly, a cold spell follows, and operations are delayed accordingly. But, if the weather continues fine, the next day the trees are tapped.

Armed each with a bit-stock and one-half or three-quarter-inch bit, the farmer and his older boys go from tree to tree, and, selecting a favorable spot a few feet from the ground, break off any rough pieces of outer bark, and bore a hole into the tree to the depth of one or two inches. Formerly a larger bit was used, and the bore was rarely more than an inch in depth; but experience has shown that the smaller and deeper bore injures the tree less and secures a larger quantity of sap.

Next the younger boys, acting as assistants, come forward with spouts and nails and buckets. The old style of spout consists of a wooden tube some five or six inches in length, tapered slightly at one end to fit the auger-hole, and with the upper half of the cylinder cut away down to an Inch from the point where it enters the tree. The new style, now largely used, is made of galvanized iron, is of smaller size, and has attached to it a hook on which to hang the bucket. Sometimes, also, spouts of tin are used, being driven into the bark just beneath the auger-hole.

After the spouts have been driven in, the buckets must be put in place and fastened there. If iron spouts are used they are already provided with hooks. If wooden or tin ones are used, instead, the common practice is to drive into the tree, a few inches below the spout, a nail made of wrought-iron, with a tapering point and thin head, and upon this to hang the bucket by means of its upper hoop; or, if the ground is level and the snow nearly gone, it is sometimes set upon the ground.

At length the trees are tapped, the spouts and nails are driven, the buckets are set, and all is ready for the sap.

I remember once to have seen in an illustrated magazine a picture, one of a series intended to represent the process of sugar-making, in which the spouts were several feet in length, and the sap poured out in a rushing stream, as though each spout were a hose-pipe, and every tree a water-main. To carry out the idea, it would have required a man to stand at every tree and empty the rapidly filling buckets into a monster hogshead.

Next the sugar-house is put in order, the arch is mended, the kettle or pan washed out, and all necessary preparations are made for boiling. The earliest method of boiling sap of which I have any recollection was in a huge caldron kettle suspended from a heavy pole, which was supported at each end by the limb of a tree or on top of a post. Then a huge log was rolled up to each side of the kettle, and the fire was built between them. This was known simply as the "boiling-place," and could be changed as often as convenient. The kettle which contained the sap was also open for the reception of the dust, and smoke, and falling leaves, and forms of dirt innumerable.

The first advance on this primitive method was made by building a rough arch of stone around the kettle to retain the heat and economize fuel. Next a rectangular pan of sheet-iron was substituted for the kettle, and a shed or rude house was built around the arch. The process of improvement has continued, until to-day in most of the larger orchards can be found neat and convenient sugar-houses, with closely-built arches of brick; while in place of the ancient caldron kettle, or the still much-used sap-pan, it is common to find the modern evaporator.

There are several patterns of evaporators in use. The most common one consists of a pan of from twelve to sixteen feet in length and four or five in width, divided into compartments by a series of partitions which run nearly across the pan, at intervals of six or eight inches, but at alternate ends stop three or four inches short of the side. Thus all the compartments are connected with each other in such a manner as to form one winding passage-way.

Back of the arch, and at one corner, stands a large hogshead containing sap, with a faucet at the bottom, and a small tube opening into the rear compartment of the evaporator. This tube has a self-acting valve, which closes when the sap has reached the proper height in the pan, and opens again when it has been lowered by boiling.

When the sap is first turned on it at once runs through the entire passage-way, and covers the bottom of the pan. Thenceforward it enters slowly, and is heated gradually in the rear compartments, while the boiling is confined to the front portion of the pan.

The density of this boiling portion of the liquid is constantly increased by evaporation; and the fresh sap, instead of mixing intimately with the boiling mass, acts as a pressure in the rear, forcing it steadily towards the front. Soon the different compartments of the evaporator present the saccharine fluid in all its phases, from fresh, cool sap, through warm, hot, and boiling, then partially concentrated, then thin syrup, then thicker, and, if the process be long enough continued, even down to sugar. It is customary, however, to draw it off through another faucet in front when it has reached the consistency of syrup.

In the smaller orchards, the sap is usually gathered in pails and brought directly to the central reservoir. For this purpose a sap-yoke is borne on the shoulders, with a large pail suspended from each end. In larger orchards, where the ground is not too rough, a barrel or hogshead is fastened upon a sled and drawn through the sugar-place by a yoke of oxen; or, if the ground slopes regularly, a system of spouts or pipes is sometimes arranged to bring the sap from convenient stations to the boiling-place.

It is roughly estimated that four gallons of sap will make one pound of sugar. But the sap varies greatly in sweetness, not only in different seasons, but in different parts of the same season, and in different trees at the same time. As a general rule, large and widely-branching trees produce sweeter sap than small and gnarled ones, as well as a much larger quantity. The first sap of the season is always the sweetest, and of the most delicate flavor, while late runs are of poorer quality, and have a "buddy" and bitter taste.

A drink from the buckets is considered a great treat at first, and, though it soon loses the charm of novelty, is always healthy and refreshing, and is the common drink of the sugar-camp during the entire season.

Sometimes, when the buckets are nearly full, there comes a cold snap, and the sap is turned to ice. But, however hard it may have frozen, there is always a central portion, small if the ice is thick, larger if thin, which is liquid still. This is pure, concentrated sweetness, maple honey unalloyed, though it never finds its way into the market.

So far all has been hard work, but now comes the boiling, and here the poetry of sugar-making begins.

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