Nestling among the timber in the valley of the Whippany River was a settler’s log-house. It stood back from the roadside and was approached by a serpentine road, crude at present, but designed some day to grace more pretentious grounds. But what a pity the settler’s axe had not spared a few of those giants of the forest, whose degradation was evidenced by the blackened stumps of the clearing.
However, the pioneer had no time to consider anything but present utility in those days, and as Barclugh turned his horse down the road toward this house, he was met in the dooryard by Benjamin Andrews, whose six feet four of brawn and sinew had unmistakable characteristics of force and endurance. Simplicity of life and hard labor developed such men.
“May I have lodging and fodder for my horse?” said Barclugh as he rode up to the settler. “I have been directed to you by Mr. Samuel Whitesides, while travelling through Trenton.”
“Wal, I b’leeve you kin, if daddy Whitesides sent you here. Thomas, take the gentleman’s horse. Bless me, come in and get warm. My Nancy will be glad to hear from daddy. What’s the news from south’ard?” were the words of welcome of the settler, as he led the way to the latched door. He pulled on the string that opened into the large room that answered for kitchen, dining-room and sleeping-room, except for the loft that was used by the children to sleep in.
As Barclugh entered the log-house, he found Mrs. Andrews standing in the middle of the room, shyly holding her apron, and shielding a four-year-old boy who was holding on to her skirt and gazing at the stranger in amazement.
“Nancy, this gentleman was sent to us by daddy,” was the introduction of the stranger by the husband, and the wife curtsied, nodding her head as the youngster began to cry. But no name was necessary to be mentioned so long as he knew daddy.
However, Barclugh accepted the native hospitality, and cheerfully took the chair proffered him before the comfortable fireplace, while the housewife went silently about her duties.
Benjamin Andrews had been on his farm in the Whippany valley nearly two years, and he had a comfortable log-house well chinked and roofed with shakes riven out of white pine. A good-sized log-barn, thatched with straw, six head of cattle,—three cows and three yearlings,—one full sow and three porkers running about the yard,—two indifferent horses worth about four guineas each, constituted Andrews’ belongings. His land was one hundred and eighty acres, for which he paid forty pounds sterling, and about thirty-five acres of which was under tillage.
With willing hands, he and his family had started in the primitive forest to make a home. They had left the parental roof with three children and about thirty pounds in ready money, saved by several years of hard labor. They had two cows and a heifer, a pair of old horses, a sow, utensils, and a provision of flour and cider to take to their new home.
That night Barclugh sat in a large arm-chair before a blazing log fire, after he had done full justice to a bowl of fresh milk and cornmeal mush, also a plentiful portion of fried pork and boiled potatoes with their jackets on. Relays of creamy bread and rich, wholesome butter had done him more service, after his weary journey, than a dinner à la carte at the Café Rochefoucauld in his native Paris.