The Story of the Toys

by Mary Harris Toy Dodge

THE HOME IN EAST WEATOGUE

How plainly I can see it now! The plain house with its gambrel roof and double front-doors kept secure by a stout oak bar resting in sockets of iron; the narrow front hall, the family sitting-room on one side, with the east door opening on the grassy yard; and the wide stone steps, our only piazza. The parlor was on the west of the hall, with its ingrain carpet and plain furniture, which then seemed quite fine to my childish eyes. The best bed standing in the corner with the heavy English counterpane was one of the conspicuous features of the room. Behind was the long kitchen with its great fireplace, my mother's bedroom at one end, and a smaller one for the children at the other. Plain and simple, indeed, and even bare as compared with the homes of these days, as was this home of our childhood, it was "sweet home" to us, for it was bright with the love that made our lives all sunshine, and peace and contentment were our constant guests.

Two large buttonwood trees stood at the front gate, up to which led some stone steps. By the street was an open shed under which wagons could drive, and beyond was the garden with the great apple tree at the top of it, flanked by peach trees, whose fruit was "sweet to our taste." Behind the house was the well with its long sweep and its "oaken bucket," which was our only refrigerator. It sometimes befell that a luckless pail of cream or butter fell to the bottom. Then one of the children was despatched in haste over the fields to borrow neighbor Bissel's iron creepers, and great was the excitement as we watched the grappling which surely brought up the pail, if not always the contents. There, too, was the old pear tree, in the back garden, whose fruit was so delicious as we ran out in the early morning to gather what had fallen during the night; and the orchard with its long grass, often trampled in our hasty search for the "golden sweets" which strewed the ground. The hill rising at the back of it was crowned with the fine spreading chestnut trees, which were such a joy to us in the autumn when the frost had opened the burs and strewed the brown nuts on the ground. Behind the house was the barn, with the cow which we early learned to milk, and the white horse which carried the family to church on Sunday, and my father on his semi-weekly journeys to the post office in Hopmeadow. For daily mails were unknown in the peaceful valley then. The yellow stage rumbled through the streets on its semi-weekly trip from Hartford and was hailed with joy as a messenger from the great world beyond.

Across the brook and farther down the street was the little brown schoolhouse, with its stiff hard benches, and open Franklin stove. Behind was an old apple tree, and a barnyard flanked it on the north side. There was a row of maples under which we played, and built stone houses in the soft sand, making wonderful china closets of bricks and shingles and filling them with bits of bright crockery laboriously gathered from the children's homes and carried to school in our aprons.

Early rising was the rule in our house, for the early breakfast was always preceded by family prayers, from which none might be excused; and after it my father went to his office and the children to school. We were happy children then; our simple sports and homely pleasures had a zest which, it seems to me, children in these days of multiplied means of diversion know little of. The free life of the fields and woods; the fun of driving the cows to and from the mountain pastures, and, in spring, carrying home pails of maple sap, and boiling it into sugar; scouring the mountain-sides and pastures for berries and nuts, picking up apples and potatoes in the fall, by which we gained a little money which was all our own; and, in winter, the joys of coasting down the steep hill and far across the fields below by moonlight. The wonderful snow-forts our brothers built and stormed, and the rides over the snow behind the frisky steers on the ox-sled they made; in-doors the home-made dolls and pleasant games, and in the evenings the delightful stories and songs with which our mother entertained us—all these were enjoyed with a relish so keen as to leave nothing more to be desired.

As was most natural, my parents immediately connected themselves with the church of their choice in their new home. The little band composing the Methodist Episcopal church, which answered to the Wesleyan they had left at home, had at that time no church edifice and were holding Sabbath services in the schoolhouses, mostly at West Weatogue, about a mile from our house. I well remember pleasant Sabbath morning walks down the village street, through the "River Lane," bordered by a tall row of Normandy poplars, over the bridge and by the sheep-fold of Squire Owen Pettibone at the corner, where we were allowed, much to our delight, to stop to look at the young lambs with their soft white coats and bright eyes. I remember, too, the weekly evening prayer-meetings held at our own schoolhouse at "early candle-light," when lamps and chairs were brought in by the neighbors, and the simple service, generally conducted by my father, was often as "the house of God and the gate of heaven" to the earnest worshippers. It sometimes happened in the spring-time, when the swollen river flooded the meadows and made the roads along its banks impassable, that the brook which crossed our street was raised to a small river, and the street could be crossed only by boats. When this occurred on a Sabbath the young men would bring a boat, and to our great delight we were rowed over, and the neighbors gathered at the schoolhouse for a Sabbath service at which my father preached.

His talents as a preacher and religious leader were soon perceived and appreciated by the people, and his services were in much demand. It is said that he preached in the schoolhouse at West Weatogue on the evening after his arrival in Simsbury. In those early days he preached frequently, supplying every alternate Sabbath for many of the weaker churches in the vicinity which could not afford a regular pastor. He preached in this way at North Canton, Granby, Bloomfield, Washington Hill, Newfield, Burlington, and many other places. He would often start off on Saturday afternoon for a drive of ten or fifteen miles, leaving his little family to get to church on Sunday as best they could. In cold weather he would wrap himself in his long cloak brought over from England, and with the faithful white horse, go forth to wrestle with the wintry winds and snows, often not returning till Monday. In 1840 the Methodist Episcopal church edifice was built, on land donated by Squire Ensign, a Congregationalist. My father, J. O. Phelps, Esquire, and Mr. Edward C. Vining were appointed building-committee. Through their earnest efforts, it was finally located at Hopmeadow, in spite of strong opposition from some of the most influential members, who resided at "Cases' Farms," now West Simsbury, and who favored its erection there. It was said of my father by his pastor, Rev. I. Simmons, "He was one of the most efficient workers and liberal givers in the erection of the Simsbury church." A contribution was secured by his efforts from the English firm to aid in building the church. It was a plain white structure with long windows and green blinds. The steeple much resembled that of the present Congregational church, but was smaller. They have been not inaptly compared to two boxes piled on one another. The pleasant-toned bell still hangs in the church tower, and it was music in the ears of the little company of Methodists, when its clear notes rang out over the meadows and hillsides, calling them to worship in a church of their own.

The interior was very simple: the plain pews with high doors; the swinging gallery at the rear with the stiff green curtains on brass rings across the front, which were drawn with all due ceremony when the preliminary sounding of the tuning fork announced the beginning of preparations for singing; the plain white pulpit with its purple velvet cushion and hangings and straight seat cushioned with green baize, its door closed and carefully buttoned after the minister had ascended the narrow stairs; the high altar railing inclosing the communion table at which it was so tiresome for children to kneel;—all these form a vivid picture in my memory. Some years later an improvement(?) was introduced which was thought to be a marvel of art, in the shape of a fresco behind the pulpit. It represented two heavy curtains, supported by pillars on each side, looped back by a large cord with immense dark tassels. This was the wonder of our childish eyes for many years. Two large box stoves stood near the entrance doors, at which I used to stand tremblingly to warm myself after our cold ride in winter, while the stalwart young sexton, whose rough manners concealed a kind heart, raked at the glowing coals with his long poker and thrust in the big sticks which soon sent a glow through our chilled hands and feet. The plain little church has been transformed into a neat modern one with a corner tower,[4] and the worshippers with whom my memory fills those pews all lie quietly sleeping on the hillside in the neighboring cemetery. Only their children remain to remind us of them and the good work they did in those early days, but their memory is green, and the fruit of their labors is enjoyed by their children to-day.

In 1844 my father served as pastor of the Simsbury church, giving his services that the church might free itself from debt, which it did. He conducted during all those years a Bible class of ladies in the Sunday School, by whom he was greatly appreciated and beloved. The Sabbaths of those early days were far from being "days of rest" to my father and mother. They were obliged to rise early to get the family ready for church, leaving home at about half-past nine for the two-mile ride to Hopmeadow. Then the two services with Sunday School between, and the drive home occupied the time till four P. M. Then my mother had to prepare the warm supper, and when all was over it was nearly time for the evening prayers, which were never omitted. Not until the restless children were in bed and soothed to sleep by the sweet hymns she used to sing to us, was there a moment of quiet rest for the dear mother. My father at that time always drove to Hopmeadow for the evening service, and later one or two of the older children were allowed to go with him. In pleasant weather, when my father was absent on his preaching tours, my mother would take such of the children as were old enough, and walk to church on Sabbath mornings, leaving the little ones with her friend Mrs. Whitehead.