Blazing the Way; Or, True Stories, Songs and Sketches of Puget Sound

When the frolicsome Chinook wind came singing across the Sound, the boys flew home built kites of more or less ambitious proportions and the little girls ran down the hills, performing a peculiar skirt dance by taking the gown by the hem on either side and turning the skirt half over the head. Facing the wind it assumed a baloonlike inflation very pleasing to the small performer. It was thought the proper thing to let the hair out of net or braids at the time, as the sensation of air permeating long locks was sufficient excuse for its “weirdness” as I suppose we would have politely termed it had we ever heard the word. Instead we were more likely to be reproved for having such untidy heads and perhaps reminded that we looked as wild as Indians. “As wild as Indians,” the poor Indians! How they admired the native white children! Without ceremony they claimed blood brotherhood, saying, “You were born in our ‘illahee’ (country) and are our ‘tillicum’ (people). You eat the same food, will grow up here and belong to us.”

Often we were sung to sleep at night by their “tamanuse” singing, as we lived quite near the bank below which many Indians camped, on Elliott Bay.

I never met with the least rudeness or suffered the slightest injury from an Indian except on one occasion. Walking upon the beach one day three white children drew near a group of Indian camps. Almost deserted they were, probably the inhabitants had gone fishing; the only being visible was a boy about ten years of age. Snarling out some bitter words in an unknown tongue, he flung a stone which struck hard a small head, making a slight scalp wound. Such eyes! they fairly glittered with hatred. We hurried home, the victim crying with the pain inflicted, and learned afterward that the boy was none of our “tillicum” but a stranger from the Snohomish tribe. What cruel wrong had he witnessed or suffered to make him so full of bitterness?

The Indian children were usually quite amiable in disposition, and it seemed hard to refuse their friendly advances which it became necessary to do. In their primitive state they seemed perfectly healthy and happy little creatures. They never had the toothache; just think of that, ye small consumers of colored candies! Unknown to them was the creeping horror that white children feel when about to enter the terrible dentist’s den. They had their favorite fear, however, the frightful “statalth,” or “stick siwash,” that haunted the great forest. As near as we could ascertain, these were the ghosts of a long dead race of savages who had been of gigantic stature and whose ghosts were likewise very tall and dreadful and very fond of chasing people out of the woods on dark nights. Plenty of little white people know what the sensation is, produced by imagining that something is coming after them in the dark.

I have seen a big, brawny, tough looking Indian running as fast as he could go, holding a blazing pitchwood torch over his head while he glanced furtively over his shoulder for the approaching statalth.

Both white and Indian children were afraid of the Northern Indians, especially the Stickeens, who were head-takers.

We were seldom panic stricken; born amid dangers there seemed nothing novel about them and we took our environment as a matter of course. We were taught to be courageous but not foolhardy, which may account for our not getting oftener in trouble.

The boys learned to shoot and shoot well at an early age, first with shot guns, then rifles. Sometimes the girls proved dangerous with firearms in their hands. A sister of the writer learned to shoot off the head of a grouse at long range. A girl schoolmate, when scarcely grown, shot and killed a bear. My brothers and cousin, Wm. R. Boren, were good shots at a tender age and killed numerous bears, deer, grouse, pheasants, ducks, wild pigeon, etc., in and about the district now occupied by the city of Seattle.

The wild flowers and the birds interested us deeply and every spring we joyfully noted the returning bluebirds and robins, the migrating wren and a number of other charming feathered friends. The high banks, not then demolished by grades, were smothered in greenery and hung with banners of bloom every succeeding season.

We clambered up and down the steep places gathering armfuls of lillies (trillium), red currant (ribes sanguineum), Indian-arrow-wood (spiraea), snowy syringa (philadelphus) and blue forgetmenots and the yellow blossoms of the Oregon grape (berberis glumacea and aquifolium), which we munched with satisfaction for the soursweet, and the scarlet honeysuckle to bite off the honeyglands for a like purpose.

The salmonberry and blackberry seasons were quite delightful. To plunge into the thick jungle, now traversed by Pike Street, Seattle, was a great treat. There blackberries attained Brobdignagian hugeness, rich and delicious.

On a Saturday, our favorite reward for lessons and work well done, was to be allowed to go down the lovely beach with its wide strip of variegated shingle and bands of brown, ribbed sand, as far as the “three big stones,” no farther, as there were bears, panthers and Indians, as hereinbefore stated, inhabiting the regions round about.

One brilliant April day we felt very brave, we were bigger than ever before, five was quite a party, and the flowers were O! so enchanting a little farther on. Two of us climbed the bank to gather the tempting blossoms.

Our little dog, “Watch,” a very intelligent animal, took the lead; scarcely had we gained the top and essayed to break the branch of a wild currant, gay with rose colored blossoms, when Watch showed unusual excitement about something, a mysterious something occupying the cavernous depths of an immense hollow log. With his bristles up, rage and terror in every quivering muscle, he was slowly, very slowly, backing toward us.

Although in the woods often, we had never seen him act so before. We took the hint and to our heels, tumbled down the yielding, yellow bank in an exceedingly hasty and unceremonious manner, gathered up our party of thoroughly frightened youngsters and hurried along the sand homeward, at a double quick pace.

Hardly stopping for a backward glance to see if the “something” was coming after us, we reached home, safe but subdued.

Not many days after the young truants were invited down to an Indian camp to see the carcass of a cougar about nine feet long. There it lay, stretched out full length, its hard, white teeth visible beyond the shrunken lips, its huge paws quite helpless and harmless.

It is more than probable that this was the “something” in the great hollow log, as it was killed in the vicinity of the place where our stampede occurred.

Evidently Watch felt his responsibility and did the best he could to divert the enemy while we escaped.

The dense forest hid many an unseen danger in early days and it transpired that I never saw a live cougar in the woods, but even a dead one may produce real old fashioned fright in a spectator.

Having occasion, when attending the University, at the age of twelve, to visit the library of that institution, a strange adventure befell me; the selection of a book absorbed my mind very fully and I was unprepared for a sudden change of thought. Turning from the shelves, a terrible sight met my eyes, a ferocious wild beast, all its fangs exhibited, in the opposite corner of the room. How did each particular hair stand upright and perspiration ooze from every pore! A moment passed and a complete collapse of the illusion left the victim weak and disgusted; it was only the stuffed cougar given to the Faculty to be the nucleus of a great collection.

The young Washingtonians, called “clam-diggers,” were usually well fed, what with venison, fish, grouse and berries, game of many kinds, and creatures of the sea, they were really pampered, in the memory of the writer. But it is related by those who experienced the privations incident to the first year or two of white settlement, that the children were sometimes hungry for bread, especially during the first winter at Alki. Fish and potatoes were plentiful, obtained from the Indians, syrup from a vessel in the harbor, but bread was scarce. On one occasion, a little girl of one of the four white families on Elliott Bay, was observed to pick up an old crust and carry it around in her pocket. When asked what she intended to do with that crust, with childish simplicity she replied, “Save it to eat with syrup at dinner.” Not able to resist its delicious flavor she kept nibbling away at the crust until scarcely a crumb remained; its dessicated surface had no opportunity to be masked with treacle.

To look back upon our pioneer menu is quite tantalizing.

The fish, of many excellent kinds, from the “salt-chuck,” brought fresh and flapping to our doors, in native baskets by Indian fishermen, cooked in many appetizing ways; clams of all sizes from the huge bivalves weighing three-quarters of a pound a piece to the tiny white soup clam; sustain me, O my muse, if I attempt to describe their excellence. Every conceivable preparation, soup, stew, baked, pie, fry or chowder was tried with the happiest results. The Puget Sound oyster, not the stale, globe-trotting oyster of however aristocratic antecedents, the enjoyment in eating of which is chiefly as a reminiscence, but the fresh western oyster, was much esteemed.

The crab, too, figured prominently on the bill of fare, dropped alive in boiling water and served in scarlet, a la naturel.

A pioneer family gathered about the table enjoying a feast of the stalk-eyed crustaceans, were treated to a little diversion in this wise. The room was small, used for both kitchen and diningroom, as the house boasted of but two or three rooms, consequently space was economized.

A fine basket of crabs traded from an Indian were put in a tin pan and set under the table; several were cooked, the rest left alive. As one of the children was proceeding with the dismemberment necessary to extract the delicate meat, as if to seek its fellows, the crab slipped from her grasp and slid beneath the table. Stooping down she hastily seized her crab, as she supposed, but to her utter astonishment it seemed to have come to life, it was alive, kicking and snapping. In a moment the table was in an uproar of crab catching and wild laughter. The mother of the astonished child declares that to this day she cannot help laughing whenever she thinks of the crab that came to life.

It was to this home that John and Sarah Denny, and their little daughter, Loretta, came to visit their son, daughter and the grandchildren, in the winter of 1857-8.

Grandmother was tall and straight, dressed in a plain, dark gown, black silk apron and lace cap; her hair, coal black, slightly gray on the temples; her eyes dark, soft and gentle. She brought a little treat of Oregon apples from their farm in the Waldo Hills, to the children, who thought them the most wonderful fruit they had ever seen, more desirable than the golden apples of Hesperides.

We were to return with them, joyful news! What visions of bliss arose before us! new places to see and all the nice things and good times we children could have at grandfather’s farm.

When the day came, in the long, dark canoe, manned by a crew of Indians, we embarked for Olympia, the head of navigation, bidding “good-bye” to our friends, few but precious, who watched us from the bank, among whom were an old man and his little daughter.

A few days before he had been sick and one of the party sent him a steaming cup of ginger and milk which, although simple, had proved efficacious; ere we reached our home again he showed his gratitude in a substantial manner, as will be seen farther on.

At one beautiful resting place, the canoe slid up against a strip of shingle covered with delicate shells; we were delighted to be allowed to walk about, after sitting curled up in the bottom of the canoe for a long time, to gather crab, pecten and periwinkle shells, even extending our ramble to a lovely grove of dark young evergreens, standing in a grassy meadow.

The first night of the journey was spent in Steilacoom. It was March of 1858 and it was chilly traveling on the big salt water. We were cold and hungry but the keeper of the one hotel in the place had retired and refused to be aroused, so we turned to the only store, where the proprietor received us kindly, brought out new blankets to cover us while we camped on the floor, gave us bread and a hot oyster stew, the best his place afforded. His generous hospitality was never forgotten by the grateful recipients who often spoke of it in after years.

I saw there a “witches’ scene” of an old Indian woman boiling devilfish or octopus in a kettle over a campfire, splendidly lit against the gloom of night, and all reflected in the water.

At the break of day we paddled away over the remainder of the salt-chuck, as the Indians call the sea, until Stetchas was reached. Stetchas is “bear’s place,” the Indian name for the site of Olympia.

From thence the mail stage awaited us to Cowlitz Landing. The trip over this stretch of country was not exactly like a triumphal progress. The six-horse team plunged and floundered, while the wagon sank up to the hub in black mud; the language of the driver has not been recorded.

At the first stop out from Olympia, the Tilley’s, famous in the first annals, entertained us. At a bountiful and appetizing meal, one of the articles, boiled eggs, were not cooked to suit Grandfather John Denny. With amusing bluntness he sent the chicken out to be killed before he ate it, complaining that the eggs were not hard enough. Mrs. Tilly made two or three efforts and finally set the dish down beside him saying, “There, if that isn’t hard enough you don’t deserve to have any.”

The long rough ride ended at Warbass’ Landing on the Cowlitz River, a tributary of the Columbia, and another canoe trip, this time on a swift and treacherous stream, was safely made to Monticello, a mere little settlement. A tiny steamboat, almost microscopic on the wide water, carried us across the great Columbia with its sparkling waves, and up the winding Willamette to Portland, Oregon.

From thence the journey progressed to the falls below Oregon City.

At the portage, we walked along a narrow plank walk built up on the side of the river bank which rose in a high rounded hill. Its noble outline stood dark with giant firs against a blue spring sky; the rushing, silvery flood of the Willamette swept below us past a bank fringed with wild currants just coming into bloom.

At the end of the walk there stood a house which represented itself as a resting place for weary travelers. We spent the night there but Alas! for rest; the occupants were convivial and “drowned the shamrock” all night long; as no doubt they felt obliged to do for wasn’t it “St. Patrick’s Day in the mornin’?”

Most likely we three, the juveniles, slumbered peacefully until aroused to learn that we were about to start “sure enough” for grandfather’s farm in the Waldo Hills.

At length the log cabin home was reached and our interest deepened in everything about. So many flowers to gather as they came in lively processional, blue violets under the oaks, blue-flags all along the valley; such great, golden buttercups, larkspurs, and many a wildling we scarcely called by any name.

All the affairs of the house and garden, field and pasture seemed by us especially gotten up, for our amusement and we found endless entertainment therein.

If a cheese was made or churning done we were sure to be “hanging around” for a green curd or paring, a taste of sweet butter or a chance to lift the dasher of the old fashioned churn. The milking time was enticing, too, and we trotted down to the milking pen with our little tin cups for a drink of fresh, warm milk from the fat, lowing kine, which fed all day on rich grasses and waited at the edge of the flower decked valley for the milkers with their pails.

As summer advanced our joys increased, for there were wild strawberries and such luscious ones! no berries in after years tasted half so good.

Some artist has portrayed a group of children on a sunny slope among the hills, busy with the scarlet fruit and called it “The Strawberry of Memory;” such was the strawberry of that summer.

One brilliant June day when all the landscape was steeped in sunshine we went some distance from home to gather a large supply. It is needless to say that we, the juvenile contingent, improved the opportunity well; and when we sat at table the following day and grandfather helped us to generous pieces of strawberry “cobbler” and grandmother poured over them rich, sweet cream, our satisfaction was complete. It is likely that if we had heard of the boy who wished for a neck as long as a giraffe so that he could taste the good things all the way down, we would have echoed the sentiment.

Mentioning the giraffe, of the animal also we probably had no knowledge as books were few and menageries, none at all.