It has been interesting to see the chickens scurry for cover whenever a noisy flock of blackbirds passes overhead on its way to the southland. They seemed to think, if chickens think, that all the hawks in christendom were swooping down on their devoted heads, and stood not on the order of their going.
COLD NIGHT.
Race Place is a half mile off the road, but being garnished with a hotel I went there for the night. The village centre consists of two dwellings, two blacksmith shops and the hotel, which carries the legend "Race Place Hotel, 1700," and its interior bears out the aged suggestion. The parlor floor has sagged a foot or so, due to the crowds that have assembled here during past country balls. The ballroom is on the second floor, where one would naturally expect to find bedrooms, and the proprietor proudly announced that as many as sixty couples had danced here at once; there must have been some hearty bumps during the process. There are three bedrooms tucked away in recesses at the rear. It was my lot to sleep in a feather bed under a mountain of patchwork quilts with never a care for Jack Frost sitting on the window ledge outside. But, oh! what a difference in the morning, when I must climb out of that nice, warm nest to shut the window, catching a scrap of conversation in doing so, the burden of which was, "ice an inch thick." Think of shaving and washing in water that has spent the night in such company!
The proprietor of the hotel thinks walking through the country is all right and perfectly safe provided the traveler keeps away from those large hotels where they burn gas. Gas is dangerous. Two of his friends and neighbors went on a visit to Albany and, as he put it, came home in pine boxes. Keep away from gas-lit hotels and you are all right. The kitchen was the only place in the house where an overcoat was not de rigeur, and there the evening was passed with the family. There was much edifying conversation and considerable speculation over a stuffed olive which the daughter of the house had brought home from school; the housewife feared to taste it and the good man had no curiosity to gratify.
STONE MILL.
Stone Mill, on Claverack Creek, so named because of the old stone mill built in 1766, is a postoffice, but why, in these days of rural free delivery, is not quite clear, as the miller has but two or three neighbors who live in sight.
CLAVERACK.
Claverack, Clover-reach—the town is one of the oldest—was once the county seat, until Hudson captured the prize. With what scorn must the staid Dutchmen have looked on the hustling Yankees who almost built the greatest city of the region over night.
As early as 1629 the Hollanders looked on this land and found it good. It was part of the Van Rensselaer grants, this region in time coming to be known as the Lower Manor. The settlers here appear to have come with money and servants, and to have been better provided for than most of those who broke into the wilderness. Early descriptions suggest a land flowing with milk and honey. Deer were so plenty that one could be had from the Indians for a loaf of bread; turkeys, pheasants, quail, hares and squirrels were everywhere; forest trees were festooned with grape vines; blackberries, strawberries, wild plums and nut trees abounded, and the streams were full of most excellent fish.
The soil was fertile, and the community soon became a flourishing one, and the centre of interest and the county seat. The fine courthouse, erected in 1786 and still standing, was the scene of some notable legal contests, the most memorable being the trial of Harry Croswell, editor of the Hudson Balance, in 1804, charged with libel upon President Jefferson. The prosecution was handled by Ambrose Spencer, Attorney-General, and the newspaper man was defended by William H. Van Ness and Alexander Hamilton, whose eloquence failed to save the accused. In 1805 Hudson became the county seat, and the courthouse was abandoned to private use.