Denny Emily Inez
Blazing the Way; Or, True Stories, Songs and Sketches of Puget Sound
But the rolling suns brought round the day when we must return to our native heath on Puget Sound. Right sorry were the two little “clam-diggers” to leave the little companion of delightful days, and grandparents. With a rush of tears and calling “good-bye! good-bye!” as long as we could see or hear we rode away in a wagon, beginning the long journey, full of variety, back to the settlement on Elliott Bay.
Ourselves, and wagon and team purchased in the “web-foot” country, were carried down the Willamette and across the sweeping Columbia on a steamer to Monticello. There the wagon was loaded into a canoe to ascend the Cowlitz River, and we mounted the horses for a long day’s ride, one of the children on the pommel of father’s saddle, the other perched behind on mother’s steed.
The forest was so dense through which we rode for a long distance that the light of noonday became a feeble twilight, the way was a mere trail, the salal bushes on either side so tall that they brushed the feet of the little riders. The tedium of succeeding miles of this weird wilderness was beguiled by the stories, gentle warnings and encouragement from my mother.
The cicadas sang as if it were evening, the dark woods looked a little fearful and I was advised to “Hold on tight and keep awake, there are bears in these woods.”
The trail led us to the first crossing of the Cowlitz River, where father hallooed long and loud for help to ferry us over, from a lonely house on the opposite shore, but only echo and silence returned. The deep, dark stream, sombre forest and deserted house made an eerie impression on the children.
The little party boarded the ferryboat and swimming the horses, alongside crossed without delay.
The next afternoon saw us nearing the crossing of the Cowlitz again at Warbass Landing.
The path crossed a pretty open space covered with ripe yellow grass and set around with giant trees, just before it vanished in the hurrying stream.
Father rode on and crossed, quite easily, the uneven bed of the swift river, with its gravelly islands and deep pools.
When it came our turn, our patient beast plunged in and courageously advanced to near the middle of the stream, wavered and stood still and seemed about to go down with the current. How distinctly the green, rapid water, gravelly shoals and distant bank with its anxious onlookers is photographed on my memory’s page!
Only for a moment did the brave animal falter and then sturdily worked her way to the shore. Mr. Warbass, with white face and trembling voice, said “I thought you were gone, sure.” His coat was off and he had been on the point of plunging in to save us from drowning, if possible. Willing hands helped us down and into the hospitable home, where we were glad to rest after such a severe trial. A sleepless night followed for my mother, who suffered from the reaction common to such experience, although not panic stricken at the time of danger.
It was here I received my first remembered lesson in “meum et tuum.” While playing under the fruit trees around the house I spied a peach lying on the ground, round, red and fair to see. I took it in to my mother who asked where I got it, if I had asked for it, etc. I replied I had found it outdoors.
“Well, it isn’t yours, go and give it to the lady and never pick up anything without asking for it.”
A lesson that was heeded, and one much needed by children in these days when individual rights are so little regarded.
The muddy wagon road between this point and Olympia over which the teams had struggled in the springtime was now dry and the wagon was put together with hope of a fairly comfortable trip. It was discovered in so doing that the tongue of the vehicle had been left at Monticello. Not to be delayed, father repaired to the woods and cut a forked ash stick and made it do duty for the missing portion.
At Olympia we were entertained by Mr. and Mrs. Dickinson with whom we tarried as we went to Oregon.
My mother preferred her steed to the steamer plying on the Sound; that same trip the selfsame craft blew up.
On horseback again, we followed the trail from Olympia to the Duwampsh River, over hills and hollows, out on the prairie or in the dark forest, at night putting up at the house of a hospitable settler. From thence we were told that it was only one day’s travel but the trail stretched out amazingly. Night, and a stormy one, overtook the hapless travelers.
The thunder crashed, the lightning flamed, sheets of rain came down, but there was no escape.
A halt was called at an open space in a grove of tall cedar trees, a fire made and the horses hitched under the trees.
The two children slept snugly under a fir bark shed made of slabs of bark leaned up against a large log. Father and mother sat by the fire under a cedar whose branches gave a partial shelter. Some time in the night I was awakened by my mother lying down beside me, then slept calmly on.
The next morning everything was dripping wet and we hastened on to the Duwampsh crossing where lived the old man who stood on the bank at Seattle when we started.
What a comfort it was to the cold, wet, hungry, weary quartette to be invited into a dry warm place! and then the dinner, just prepared for company he had been expecting; a bountiful supply of garden vegetables, beets, cabbage, potatoes, a great dish of beans and hot coffee. These seemed veritable luxuries and we partook of them with a hearty relish.
A messenger was sent to Seattle to apprise our friends of our return, two of them came to meet us at the mouth of the Duwampsh River and brought us down the bay in a canoe to the landing near the old laurel (Madrona) tree that leaned over the bank in front of our home.
The first Fourth of July celebration in which I participated took place in the old M. E. Church on Second Street, Seattle, in 1861.
Early in the morning of that eventful day there was hurrying to and fro in the Dennys’ cottage, on Seneca Street, embowered in flowers which even luxuriant as they were we did not deem sufficient. The nimble eldest of the children was sent to a flower-loving neighbor’s for blossoms of patriotic hues, for each of the small Americans was to carry a banner inscribed with a strong motto and wreathed with red, white and blue flowers. Large letters, cut from the titles of newspapers spelled out the legends on squares of white cotton, “Freedom for All,” “Slavery for none,” “United we stand, divided we fall,” each surrounded with a heavy wreath of beautiful flowers.
Arrived at the church, we found ourselves a little late, the orator was just rounding the first of his eloquent periods; the audience, principally men, turned to view the disturbers as they sturdily marched up the aisle to a front seat, and seeing the patriotic family with their expressive emblems, broke out in a hearty round of applause. Although very young we felt the spirit of the occasion.
The first commencement exercises at the University took place in 1863. It was a great event, an audience of about nine hundred or more, including many visitors from all parts of the Sound, Victoria, B. C., and Portland, Oregon, gathered in the hall of the old University, then quite new.
I was then nine years of age and had been trained to recite “Barbara Frietchie,” it “goes without the saying” that it was received with acclaim, as feeling ran high and the hearts of the people burned within them for the things that were transpiring in the South.
Still better were they pleased and much affected by the singing of “Who Will Care for Mother Now,” by Annie May Adams, a lovely young girl of fifteen, with a pure, sympathetic, soprano voice and a touching simplicity of style.
How warm beat the hearts of the people on this far off shore, as at the seat of war, and even the children shouted, sang and wept in sympathy with those who shed their lifeblood for their country.
The singing of “Red, White and Blue” by the children created great enthusiasm; war tableaux such as “The Soldier’s Farewell,” “Who Goes There?” “In Camp,” were well presented and received with enthusiastic applause, and whatever apology might have been made for the status of the school, there was none to be made for its patriotism.
Our teachers were Unionists without exception and we were taught many such things; “Rally Round the Flag” was a favorite and up went every right hand and stamped hard every little foot as we sang “Down With the Traitor and Up With the Stars” with perhaps more energy than music.
The children of my family, with those of A. A. Denny’s, sometimes held “Union Meetings;” at these were speeches made that were very intense, as we thought, from the top of a stump or barrel, each mounting in turn to declaim against slavery and the Confederacy, to pronounce sentence of execution upon Jeff. Davis, Captain Semmes, et al. in a way to have made those worthies uneasy in their sleep. Every book, picture, story, indeed, every printed page concerning the war was eagerly scanned and I remember sitting by, through long talks of Grandfather John Denny with my father, to which I listened intently.
We finally burned Semmes in effigy to express our opinion of him and named the only poor, sour apple in our orchard for the Confederate president.
For a time there were two war vessels in the harbor, the “Saranac” and “Suwanee,” afterwards wrecked in Seymour Narrows. The Suwanee was overturned and sunk by the shifting of her heavy guns, but was finally raised. Both had fine bands that discoursed sweet music every evening. We stood on the bank to listen, delighted to recognize our favorites, national airs and war songs, from “Just Before the Battle, Mother” to “Star Spangled Banner.”
Other beautiful music, from operas, perhaps, we enjoyed without comprehending, although we did understand the stirring strains with which we were so familiar.
In those days the itinerant M. E. ministers were often the guests of my parents and many were the good natured jokes concerning the fatalities among the yellow-legged chickens.
On one occasion a small daughter of the family, whose discretion had not developed with her hospitality, rushed excitedly into the sitting room where the minister was being entertained and said, “Mother, which chicken shall I catch?” to the great amusement of all.
One of the reverend gentlemen declared that whenever he put in an appearance, the finest and fattest of the flock immediately lay down upon their backs with their feet in the air, as they knew some of them would have to appear on the festal board.
Like children everywhere we lavished our young affections on pets of many kinds. Among these were a family of kittens, one at least of which was considered superfluous. An Indian woman, who came to trade clams for potatoes, was given the little “pish-pish,” as she called it, with which she seemed much pleased, carrying it away wrapped in her shawl.
Her camp was a mile away on the shore of Elliott Bay, from whence it returned through the thick woods, on the following day. Soon after she came to our door to exhibit numerous scratches on her hands and arms made by the “mesachie pish-pish” (bad cat), as she now considered it. My mother healed her wounds by giving her some “supalel” (bread) esteemed a luxury by the Indians, they seldom having it unless they bought a little flour and made ash-cake.
Now this same ash-cake deserves to rank with the southern cornpone or the western Johnny cake. Its flavor is sweet and nut-like, quite unlike that of bread baked in an ordinary oven.
The first Christmas tree was set up in our own house. It was not then a common American custom; we usually called out “Christmas Gift,” affecting to claim a present after the Southern “Christmas Gif” of the darkies. One early Christmas, father brought in a young Douglas fir tree and mother hung various little gifts on its branches, among them, bright red Lady apples and sticks of candy; that was our very first Christmas tree. A few years afterward the whole village joined in loading a large tree with beautiful and costly articles, as times were good, fully one thousand dollars’ worth was hung upon and heaped around it.
When the fourth time our family returned to the donation claim, now a part of the city of Seattle, we found a veritable paradise of flowers, field and forest.
The claim reached from Lake Union to Elliott Bay, about a mile and a half; a portion of it was rich meadow land covered with luxuriant grass and bordered with flowering shrubs, the fringe on the hem of the mighty evergreen forest covering the remainder.
Hundreds of birds of many kinds built their nests here and daily throughout the summer chanted their hymns of praise. Robins and wrens, song-sparrows and snow birds, thrushes and larks vied with each other in joyful song.
The western meadow larks wandered into this great valley, adding their rich flute-like voices to the feathered chorus.
Woodpeckers, yellow hammers and sap-suckers, beat their brave tattoo on the dead tree trunks and owls uttered their cries from the thick branches at night. Riding to church one Sunday morning we beheld seven little owls sitting in a row on the dead limb of a tall fir tree, about fourteen feet from the ground. Winking and blinking they sat, silently staring as we passed by.
Rare birds peculiar to the western coast, the rufous-backed hummingbird, like a living coal of fire, and the bush-titmouse which builds a curious hanging nest, also visited this natural park.
The road we children traveled from this place led through heavy forest and the year of the drouth (1868) a great fire raged; we lost but little time on this account; it had not ceased before we ran past the tall firs and cedars flaming far above our heads.
Returning from church one day, when about half way home, a huge fir tree fell just behind us, and a half mile farther on we turned down a branch road at the very moment that a tree fell across the main road usually traveled.
The game was not then all destroyed; water fowl were numerous on the lakes and bays and the boys of the family often went shooting.
Rather late in the afternoon of a November day, the two smaller boys, taking a shot gun with them, repaired to Lake Union, borrowed a little fishing canoe of old Tsetseguis, the Indian who lived at the landing, and went to look at some muskrat traps they had set.
It was growing quite dark when they thought of returning. For some reason they decided to change places in the canoe, a very “ticklish” thing to do. When one attempted to pass the other, over went the little cockle-shell and both were struggling in the water. The elder managed to thrust one arm through the strap of the hunting bag worn by the younger and grasped him by the hair, said hair being a luxuriant mass of long, golden brown curls. Able to swim a little he kept them afloat although he could not keep the younger one’s head above water. His cries for help reached the ears of a young man, Charles Nollop, who was preparing to cook a beefsteak for his supper – he threw the frying pan one way while the steak went the other, and rushed, coatless and hatless, to the rescue with another man, Joe Raber, in a boat.
An older brother of the two lads, John B. Denny, was just emerging from the north door of the big barn with two pails of milk; hearing, as he thought, the words “I’m drowning,” rather faintly from the lake, he dropped the pails unceremoniously and ran down to the shore swiftly, found only an old shovel-nosed canoe and no paddle, seized a picket and paddled across the little bay to where the water appeared agitated; there he found the boys struggling in the water, or rather one of them, the other was already unconscious. Arriving at the same time in their boat Charley Nollop and Joe Raber helped to pull them out of the water. The long golden curls of the younger were entangled in the crossed cords of the shot pouch and powder flask worn by the older one, who was about to sink for the last time, as he was exhausted and had let go of the younger, who was submerged.
Their mother reached the shore as the unconscious one was stretched upon the ground and raised his arms and felt for the heart which was beating feebly.
The swimmer walked up the hill to the house; the younger, still unconscious, was carried, face downward, into a room where a large fire was burning in an open fireplace, and laid down before it on a rug. Restoratives were quickly applied and upon partial recovery he was warmly tucked in bed. A few feverish days followed, yet both escaped without serious injury.
Mrs. Tsetseguis was much grieved and repeated over and over, “I told the Oleman not to lend that little canoe to the boys, and he said, ‘O it’s all right, they know how to manage a canoe.’”
Tsetseguis was also much distressed and showed genuine sympathy, following the rescued into the house to see if they were really safe.
The games we played in early days were often the time-honored ones taught us by our parents, and again were inventions of our own. During the Rebellion we drilled as soldiers or played “black man;” by the latter we wrought excitement to the highest pitch, whether we chased the black man, or returning the favor, he chased us.
The teeter-board was available when the neighbor’s children came; the wonder is that no bones were broken by our method.
The longest, strongest, Douglas fir board that could be found, was placed across a large log, a huge stone rested in the middle and the children, boys and girls, little and big, crowded on the board almost filling it; then we carefully “waggled” it up and down, watching the stone in breathless and ecstatic silence until weary of it.
Our bravado consisted in climbing up the steepest banks on the bay, or walking long logs across ravines or on steep inclines.
The surroundings were so peculiar that old games took on new charms when played on Puget Sound. Hide-and-seek in a dense jungle of young Douglas firs was most delightful; the great fir and cedar trees, logs and stumps, afforded ample cover for any number of players, from the sharp eyes of the one who had been counted “out” with one of the old rhymes.
The shadow of danger always lurked about the undetermined boundary of our play-grounds, wild animals and wild men might be not far beyond.
We feared the drunken white man more than the sober Indian, with much greater reason. Even the drunken Indian never molested us, but usually ran “amuck” among the inhabitants of the beach.
Neither superstitious nor timid we seldom experienced a panic.
The nearest Indian graveyard was on a hill at the foot of Spring Street, Seattle. It sloped directly down to the beach; the bodies were placed in shallow graves to the very brow and down over the face of the sandy bluff. All this hill was dug down when the town advanced.
The childrens’ graves were especially pathetic, with their rude shelters, to keep off the rain of the long winter months, and upright poles bearing bits of bright colored cloth, tin pails and baskets.
Over these poor graves no costly monuments stood, only the winds sang wild songs there, the sea-gulls flitted over, the fair, wild flowers bloomed and the dark-eyed Indian mothers tarried sometimes, human as others in their sorrow.
But the light-hearted Indian girls wandered past, hand in hand, singing as they went, pausing to turn bright friendly eyes upon me as they answered the white child’s question, “Ka mika klatawa?” (Where are you going?)
“O, kopa yawa” (O, over yonder), nodding toward the winding road that stretched along the green bank before them. Without a care or sorrow, living a healthy, free, untrammeled life, they looked the impersonation of native contentment.
The social instinct of the pioneers found expression in various ways.
A merry party of pioneer young people, invited to spend the evening at a neighbor’s, were promised the luxury of a candy-pull. The first batch was put on to boil and the assembled youngsters engaged in old fashioned games to while away the time. Unfortunately for their hopes the molasses burned and they were obliged to throw it away. There was a reserve in the jug, however, and the precious remainder was set over the fire and the games went on again. Determined to succeed, the hostess stirred, while an equally anxious and careful guest held the light, a small fish-oil lamp. The lamp had a leak and was set on a tin plate; in her eagerness to light the bubbling saccharine substance and to watch the stirring-down, she leaned over a little too far and over went the lamp directly into the molasses.
What consternation fell upon them! The very thought of the fish-oil was nauseating, and that was all the molasses. There was no candy-pulling, there being no grocery just around the corner where a fresh supply might be obtained, indeed molasses and syrup were very scarce articles, brought from a great distance.
The guests departed, doubtless realizing that the “best laid plans … gang aft agley.”
The climate of Puget Sound is one so mild that snow seldom falls and ice rarely forms as thick as windowglass, consequently travel, traffic and amusement are scarcely modified during the winter, or more correctly, the rainy season. Unless it rained more energetically than usual, the children went on with their games as in summer.
The long northern twilight of the summertime and equally long evenings in winter had each their special charm.
The pictures of winter scenes in eastern magazines and books looked strange and unfamiliar to us, but as one saucy girl said to a tenderfoot from a blizzard-swept state, “We see more and deeper snow everyday than you ever saw in your life.”
“How is that?” said he.
“On Mount Rainier,” she answered, laughing.
Even so, this magnificent mountain, together with many lesser peaks, wears perpetual robes of snow in sight of green and blooming shores.
When it came to decorating for Christmas, well, we had a decided advantage as the evergreens stood thick about us, millions of them. Busy fingers made lavish use of rich garlands of cedar to festoon whole buildings; handsome Douglas firs, reaching from floor to ceiling, loaded with gay presents and blazing with tapers, made the little “clam-diggers’” eyes glisten and their mouths water. In the garden the flowers bloomed often in December and January, as many as twenty-six varieties at once.
One New Year’s day I walked down the garden path and plucked a fine, red rosebud to decorate the New Year’s cake.
The pussy-willows began the floral procession of wildlings in January and the trilliums and currants were not far behind unless a “cold snap” came on in February and the flowers dozed on, for they never seem to sleep very profoundly here. By the middle of February there was, occasionally, a general display of bloom, but more frequently it began about the first of March, the seasons varying considerably.
The following poem tells of favorite flowers gathered in the olden time “i’ the spring o’ the year!”
In the summertime we had work as well as play, out of doors. The garden surrounding our cottage in 1863, overflowed with fruits, vegetables and flowers. Nimble young fingers were made useful in helping to tend them. Weeding beds of spring onions and lettuce, sticking peas and beans, or hoeing potatoes, were considered excellent exercise for young muscles; no need of physical “culchuah” in the school had dawned upon us, as periods of work and rest, study and play, followed each other in healthful succession.
Having a surplus of good things, the children often went about the village with fresh vegetables and flowers, more often the latter, generous bouquets of fragrant and spicy roses and carnations, sweet peas and nasturtiums, to sell. Two little daughters in pretty, light print dresses and white hats were flower girls who were treated like little queens.
There was no disdain of work to earn a living in those days; every respectable person did something useful.
For recreation, we went with father in the wagon over the “bumpy” road when he went to haul wood, or perhaps a long way on the county road to the meadow, begging to get off to gather flowers whenever we saw them peeping from their green bowers.
Driving along through the great forest which stood an almost solid green wall on either hand, we called “O father, stop! stop; here is the lady-slipper place.”
“Well, be quick, I can’t wait long.”
Dropping down to the ground, we ran as fast as our feet could carry us to gather the lovely, fragrant orchid, Calypso Borealis, from its mossy bed.
When the ferns were fully grown, eight or ten feet high, the little girls broke down as many as they could drag, and ran along the road, great ladies, with long green trains!
We found the way to the opening in the woods, where in the midst thereof, grandfather sat making cedar shingles with a drawing knife. Huge trees lay on the ground, piles of bolts had been cut and the heap of shingles, clear and straight of the very best quality, grew apace.
Very tall and grand the firs and cedars stood all around, like stately pillars with a dome of blue sky above; the birds sang in the underbrush and the brown butterflies floated by.
Among all the beautiful things, there was one to rivet the eye and attention; a dark green fir tree, perhaps thirty feet high, around whose trunk and branches a wild honeysuckle vine had twined itself from the ground to the topmost twig.
It had the appearance of a giant candelabrum, with the orange-scarlet blossoms that tipped the boughs like jets of flame.
Many a merry picnic we had in blackberry time, taking our lunch with us and spending the day; sometimes in an Indian canoe we paddled off several miles, to Smith’s Cove or some other likely place.
It was necessary to watch the tide at the Cove or the shore could not be reached across the mudflat.
Once ashore how happy we were; clambering about over the hills, gathering the ripe fruit, now and then turning about to gaze at the snowy sentinel in the southern sky, grand old Mount Rainier.
How wide the sparkling waters of the bay! the sky so pure and clear, the north wind so cool and refreshing. The plumy boughs stirred gently overhead and shed for us the balsamic odors, the flowers waved a welcome at our feet.
In the winter there was seldom any “frost on the rills” or “snow on the hills,” but when it did come the children made haste to get all the possible fun out of the unusual pastime of coasting. Mothers were glad when the Chinook wind came and ate up the snow and brought back the ordinary conditions, as the children were frequently sick during a cold spell.
Now the tenderfoot, as the newcomer is called in the west, is apt to be mistaken about the Chinook wind; there is a wet south wind and a dry south wind on Puget Sound. The Chinook, as the “natives” have known it, is a dry wind, clears the sky, and melts and dries up the snow at once. Wet south wind, carrying heavy rain often follows after snow, and slush reigns for a few days. Perhaps this is a distinction without much difference.
Storms rarely occur, I remember but two violent ones in which the gentle south wind seemed to forget its nature and became a raging gale.
The first occurred when I was a small child. The wind had been blowing for some time, gradually increasing in the evening, and as night advanced becoming heavier every hour. Large stones were taken up from the high bank on the bay and piled on the roof with limbs broken from tough fir trees. Thousands of giant trees fell crashing and groaning to the ground, like a continuous cannonade; the noise was terrific and we feared for our lives.
At midnight, not daring to leave the house, and yet fearing that it might be overthrown, we knelt and commended ourselves to Him who rules the storm.
About one o’clock the storm abated and calmly and safely we lay down to sleep.
The morning broke still and clear, but many a proud monarch of the forest lay prone upon the ground.
Electric storms were very infrequent; if there came a few claps of thunder the children exclaimed, “O mother, hear the thunder storm!”
“Well, children, that isn’t much of a thunder storm; you just ought to hear the thunder in Illinois, and the lighting was a continual blaze.”
Our mother complained that we were scarcely enough afraid of snakes; as there are no deadly reptiles on Puget Sound, we thrust our hands into the densest foliage or searched the thick grass without dread of a lurking enemy.
The common garter snake, a short, thick snake, whose track across the dusty roads I have seen, a long lead-colored snake and a small brown one, comprise the list known to us.
Walking along a narrow trail one summer day, singing as I went, the song was abruptly broken, I sprang to one side with remarkable agility, a long, wiggling thing “swished” through the grass in an opposite direction. Calling for help, I armed myself with a club, and with my support, boldly advanced to seek out the serpent. When discovered we belabored it so earnestly that its head was well-nigh severed from its body.
It was about five feet long, the largest I had even seen, whether poisonous or not is beyond my knowledge.
There are but two spiders known to be dangerous, a white one and a small black “crab” spider. A little girl acquaintance was bitten by one of these, it was supposed, though not positively known; the bite was on the upper arm and produced such serious effects that a large piece of flesh had to be removed by the surgeon’s knife and amputation was narrowly escaped.
A mysterious creature inhabiting Lake Union sometimes poisoned the young bathers. One of my younger brothers was bitten on the knee, and a lameness ensued, which continued for several months. There was only a small puncture visible with a moderate swelling, which finally passed away.
The general immunity from danger extends to the vegetable world, but very few plants are unsafe to handle, chief among them being the Panax horridum or “devil’s club.”
So the happy pioneer children roamed the forest fearlessly and sat on the vines and moss under the great trees, often making bonnets of the shining salal leaves pinned together with rose thorns or tiny twigs, making whistles of alder, which gave forth sweet and pleasant sounds if successfully made; or in the garden making dolls of hollyhocks, mallows and morning glories.