402 Ohio Arch. and Hist.
Society Publications.
6. Stuart, James-"Three Years in
North America." (Edin-
burgh, 1833.) Vol. II.
7. Shirreff, Patrick-"A Tour
through North America." (Edin-
burgh, 1835.)
8. Steele, Mrs. Eliza R.- "A Summer
Journey in the West." (New
York, 1841.)
9. Buckingham, J. S.-"Eastern and
Western States of America."
(London, 1842.) Vol. II.
10. Godwin, Parke-"Prose Writings
of Wm. Cullen Bryant." Vol.
II; Bryant Wm. C.--"Illinois Fifty
Years Ago." (New York, 1901.)
11. Dickens, Charles-"American
Notes." (London, 1903.)
12. Fordham, Elias Oym-"Personal
Narratives of Travels in Vir-
ginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, Ohio,
Indiana, Kentucky." (Cleveland,
1906.)
NEWSPAPERS.
1. Niles Weekly Register.
2. "Liberty Hall." 1811-1812;
1814-1815.
3. "Liberty Hall and Cincinnati
Gazette." 1816 on.
4. "The Western Spy."
1820-1822.
THAT OLD LOG HOUSE
WHERE USED TO BE OUR
FARM.
BY D. TOD GILLIAM, COLUMBUS, OHIO.
They ain't no houses anywhere what makes
a feelin' so warm,
As that old house, up 'mong the trees,
where used to be our
farm.
That house wer' built of logs, an'
chinked an' daubed all 'roun',
Inside them logs wer' one big room, what
kivered lots o' groun'.
The clapboard roof, held down by poles,
as ev'rybody knowed,
Wer' proof agin the rain an' snow, 'cept
when it rained or
snowed.
The doors was paw'ful hefty, an' hung on
hick'ry wood,
An' opened with a latch-string; special
them what front-ways
stood.
The winders wern't so many, nor wern't
so awful bright,
They stood 'longside them front-way
doors an' guv but little light.
The floors was made of puncheon, the
hearth wer' made of clay,
That Old Log House. 403
The chimbly wer' a whopper, an' leaned
most ev'ry way.
The fire-place wer' a whopper, an' took
a six-foot log,
An' the way that fire clum up that flue
wer' pleasin' to the dog;
Likewise to us, what set aroun' an'
talked an' drunk an' eat,
I tell you, them was good, old times,
an' mighty hard to beat.
In the darkes', furthes' corner wer'
pap's an' mam's old bed,
With ticks of straw an' feathers,
stacked higher'an your head.
Them days, they hadn't mattresses, nor
sich new-fangled things,
But jist them ticks an' bedcords, what
was better'n any springs.
Behin' the flow'ry valances, the
trundle-bed by day
Wer' hid, an' trundled out at night, to
stow the kids away.
Us bigger ones, slep' in the lof', an'
when the rain would pour,
It soothed us with its patter, an'
drippin' on the floor.
An' when it snowed in winter, an' sifted
through the cracks,
It powdered floor an' kivers, till they
was white as wax.
Then in the mornin' early, when the
cocks begun to crow,
We'd pelt each other lively, with the
siftin's of the snow.
Purty soon, we'd hear the cracklin' of
the fire down below,
An' we'd jump into our clo'es, an' down
the ladder go.
An' we'd see the old, dutch oven,
glowin' red with livin' coals,
An' we'd git a whiff of corn pome, an'
coffee in the bowls,
An' we'd smell the sausage fryin' an'
'twer more'n we could
stan',
An' we'd rush into the open, to wash our
face an' han's,
An' we'd crowd aroun' the table, an'
we'd pitch into that pome,
An' we'd gulp that steamin' coffee, an'
send that sausage home.
It wer' sure enough inspirin' to see the
way we eat,
I'm doubtin' where you'll find 'em, what
kin duplicate that feat.
But them is carnal pleasures, as the
preacher do allow,
An' 'monished higher pleasures, as what
I tells you now:
Sometimes we'd peel the apples,
sometimes we'd shell the corn,
An' after all wer' over, we'd dance an'
dance till morn.
It wern't no dreamy glidin', like the
dancin' of to-day,
But a real, rip-snortin' hoe-down, what
fiddlers likes to play.
I'm thinkin' how its certain, they's no
sich times no more,
That old, log house makes feelin's, what
I never had afore.