And, as I sauntered along those path-ways, I read in marble letters, Of neighbors, again and again; Until it almost seemed to me. I'd be more at home up there; But God knows best the burden of years And then what a time we had, Beginning in Sixty-One; When a vacant place at many a hearth, How the cannon that boomed at Sumpter, Brought three hundred thousand men. I know I didn't go myself, But for that I wan't to blame; For I tried to pass the muster, But was too weak and lame. And that night when the boys came home from town, And said they guessed they'd go, How the incense of love on the altar we burned, To save a nation's fame from woe. I guess we know the price it's cost A crippled boy, yon marble slab, And an unknown southern grave. Yet, the fifty years we've just finished to-day, Than centuries that went before This period began. We've seen the sickle give way to the reaper, We've seen the forests melt away We've seen the oceans bound together And 'neath Atlantic, the lightning takes But Jane, they've gone and done it now, For they've got a concern, you can talk to Detroit And when I read in the papers, I said to myself, "that's nonsense, Them papers, like lawyers, are liars." But when I helloed at that hole in the box, I heard Deacon Jones, twenty miles away, But bright genius will yet pace off Greater strides, in the next fifty years, Than those now marking the long between A train of cars and the yoke of steers. But we can't plan much for days here below, SEMI-CENTENNIAL ADDRESS BY HON. CHARLES RYND Mr. Rynd spoke briefly, because of the lengthy program which preceded his remarks. He said that for men who were native to the soil, and who were thinking of their early days in this country, it seemed remarkable to him that they should call on a French gentleman who was born in Ireland to address them at this time. He spoke of the progress of our country, especially of Michigan, and eloquently referred to the ancestors of the people who had their origin in the eastern States; of the developments of the past fifty years; the sacrifices made in producing the grand present; and of the children of to-day as compared with those of fifty years ago, in educational facilities. Referring to his manuscript he said: And now, friends, as I notice in this assembly to-day the faces of some of the men and women of fifty years ago; whose faces are withered, whose hair has been frosted by many winters, who are preparing for the grave, who look forward to a grand reunion on the other side, I cannot help thinking how beautiful is old age. Beautiful as the slow drooping, mellow auburn of a rich, glorious summer. In the aged, nature has fulfilled her work; she loads them with the delicious fruits of a well-spent life, and surrounded by their children they pass away softly to the grave, followed by blessings. There is another life-hard, rough, and thorny, trodden with bleeding feet and aching brow, a battle which the grave gapes to finish before the victory is won-this is the highest life of man. Look back along the great names of history, there is none whose life is other than this. Such, in a humble way, was the life of the men and women who laid the foundations of your prosperity-the noble pioneers of fifty years ago. Part of them have crossed the flood; probably some are crossing now; the remaining few will soon pass away. May their last days be their best and happiest days. There is nothing more beautiful in human character than kindly treasuring up the memories of those who have lived before us, and who have been distinguished for the good which they have done. Call up those memories to-day. Your green fields, your beautiful homes, your thriving village, your churches and your schools, are the result of the labor and sacrifices of those who toiled before many of us were born. This is a great healer. Amidst the busy industries of life, absorbed in its cares, and harassed by its perplexities, we are likely to lose sight of the pastof those who have lived before us. Even now, the infant which was fondled at its mother's breast, the dear one clasped in the arms, the manly father, the tender mother are often too soon forgotten. Generation after generation have felt as we feel to-day, and they were as busily engaged in the activities of life as we are. They have passed away as a vapor, while nature wore the same aspect of beauty as when her Creator commanded her to be. As we think of the generations of men who have preceded us we are forcibly reminded of the eloquent and touching words of Burke: "What shadows we are; what shadows we pursue." When we are gone the heavens will be as bright over our graves as they are around our pathway now; the world will have the same attraction for offspring yet unborn, as she has had for our fathers who have passed away, and as she has for us as we mix in the busy haunts of men. Yet a little while and all this will have happened. Your fathers! where are they? The once throbbing heart is still-they are at rest. They have ceased from their labors and their works do follow them. So with us. Our funeral will wind on its way, and the prayers will be said, and the grave-clods will be thrown in, and our friends will all return, and we shall be left to darkness and the worm.* Possibly for a short time we may be spoken of the home circle, or our immediate acquaintances may think of us, but the things of life will gradually creep in and we shall be forgotten. Days will move on; the repose of night will come as before, laughter and song will be heard in the very chamber in which we died; and the eye which mourned for us will be dried, and will glisten again with joy; and even our children will cease to think of us, and will scarce remember to lisp our name. Should we leave a little property some of them will quarrel over it.-thus displaying the selfishness of human nature, and furnishing business for the lawyers, but we shall have become, in the touching language of the Psalmist, "forgotten and clean out of mind." Our duty to-day is, however, to show our gratitude; and manifest our love; to call up for an hour-if only a brief hour-precious memories, and learning from the past, from the stand-point of the present, do our work faithfully in the great battles of human life. In view of the history of the past fifty years, we will reiterate what we have already said, a history full of grand results and of tender memories. As we drop the tear of affection over the graves of the early settlers, the original pioneers; the men and women through whose thrift, industry, and economy this beautiful region has been built up; through whose sacrifices and faith you enjoy your beautiful homes; through whose intelligence your educational system has been reared; through whose piety your churches have been erected; through whose labors your trust in the future has been placed on the solid foundation of industry, intelligence, and morality, permit me to say a few words of practical importance. Life is ours; ours to enjoy, ours to improve; how shall we live it truly? We sometimes, in our short-sighted way, scan the lives of others, that we may determine whose deeds are most worthy of imitation; and we involuntarily turn to those best known and most applauded by mankind, thinking that they alone are worthy of imitation. The farmer, by his fireside, reads of those who have distinguished themselves in various ways. The printed page is laid aside, and discontent almost creeps into his heart as he thinks of his own life, which has never extended its influence beyond his native place. Year after year he has patiently sown the seed; year after year he has carefully gathered in the harvest. Naught has been done except caring for his own green fields, and tenderly loving his family. The mechanic thinks, as he walks slowly home, "What is my life worth? If I had the talents of him to whom I have listened to-day I might be useful, but I am now only a humble workman." * Dr. Rynd died suddenly Aug. 20th, 1884, while this volume was going through the press. A lady of wealth and influence passes by. A faithful steward she has been of the talents which God has given her. Her wealth has been poured out with no niggard hand, and many of the poverty-stricken ones of earth call her blessed. The weary mother from the cottage window sees her as she passes, and sighs as she contrasts her own life with hers. As she looks back at the close of each day, she can think of no great deeds, no large charities-only little duties faithfully performed. Now a broken toy mended for the baby, then a torn garment repaired, and by-and-by, at the setting of the sun, prayers listened to from lisping tongues just learning the notes of praise. Surely her life is not worth much to the world. Thus we reason as we look at the surface of things. Above these reigns a God who sees beyond all this, and who' fully comprehends our work. Not he who has done the most apparent good is always approved by him. He sees that the simplest duties of life are often performed with a patient trust and self-denying love not always found in those who occupy high places. He lives the truest life who most patiently, most faithfully labors in the sphere to which duty calls him, be it high or low. Every department of labor is useful, and when God calls his children to their home of rest above, his brightest jewels may be gathered from the lowliest homes on earth. Citizens of Quincy, as in the case of your ancestors, "Whether winning. whether losing, NOTES OF THE DAY The postoffice and Herald building and Charles Houghtaling's drug store attracted much attention because of the handsome decorations, while the postoffice interior was a marvel of beauty (this does not apply to the postmaster). The Commercial hotel and Clark's hotel wore a complete dress of flags. The dry goods stores of W. E. Goodnow & Co., W. J. Wilbur & Co., and Warner & McKay, were elaborately trimmed inside and out. The display of street flags was never equaled in Branch county. The first balloon sent up Wednesday evening, was seen by A. W. Staunton one hour and thirty minutes after its ascension, still traveling eastward. When the procession reached the residence of Samuel Morey, the pioneers cheered heartily the old gentleman, whose years and health prevented him from leaving the porch of his home. Among the prominent visitors from Coldwater were H. C. Lewis, Z. G. Osborn, William Gilbert, David Holmes, Harvey Warner, L. D. Halstead, Albert Chandler, F. S. Pratt, B. S. Tibbitts, Allen Tibbitts, P. P. Nichols, J. C. Pierce, F. D. Newberry, C. N. Legg, and N. A. Reynolds. The log cabin of the day was filled with children, who were happy in singing. Upon its top were antlers nailed to the peak, the veritable coon, and on the rear was nailed the deer hide. Judge Reynolds had command of the Coldwater light guards on Wednesday, and a creditable appearance did they make. A pleasant event of the day was the serenade given by the Odd Fellows and the Algansee band in the evening to the veteran member of the order, T. R. Rathbun, it being his 66th birthday. The Coldwater steamer was rather heavy for the well where it took water. The top caved in, but can be easily repaired. Everybody smiled. Everybody seemed happy. Everybody said "success.” And our visitors said "Quincy against the world," while the modesty of our own people only permitted a "thank you, we are here." Letters of regret, at not being able to be present, were received by the invitation committee from Hon. E. S. Lacey, Hon. E. L. Koon, Hon. Charles Upson, Hon. E. Hinebaugh, Willard Kidder, Hon. C. D. Randall and others. The wagon carrying the old time threshers (flails) also carried the operators, John Joseph, Orton Hoxie, Dennis Reynolds, and Harvy Chase, also the ancient sickle, scythe, grain cradle, and wooden fork. Also the head of a deer that was killed in 1846, the gun that did the deed, and the man who drew the trigger, Orton Hoxie. Among the ancient articles in the procession Wednesday, were two candlesticks and candles over one hundred years old, presented by Mrs. J. K. Bickford. Messrs. Moore & Nichols of the Coldwater Courier, and A. J. Aldrich of the Republican, with Jud Etheridge, of the Chicago and Detroit papers, were the press representatives in attendance. The various bands that furnished the music on Wednesday. gave the best of satisfaction. No more gentlemanly musicians could be gathered together. The special police force under command of Charles P. Shook, on Wednesday, did their work well. The following letter, received on Thursday, will be read with interest, as it is from the pen of one spoken of in the history: C. V. R. POND, Esq. Brockport, N. Y., Oct. 3d, 1883. DEAR SIR:-Enclosed please find two dollars for the HERALD. While I am writing, I am thinking three cheers for Quincy, the Semi-Centennial and the Quincy Herald. I regret that I am unable to be in Quincy to-day to enjoy the celebration with you; pressure of business prevents. I know you will have a good time, for Quincy never does anything by halves. Very respectfully Yours, The choir then sang: MICHIGAN, MY MICHIGAN Home of my heart, I sing of thee, Thy lake-bound shores I long to see, From Saginaw's tall whispering pines, (Additional Words by Milo D. Campbell.) The blazing log, the swinging crane, The rough slab roof 'neath pattering rain, The rude log cot, the falling tree, The days of eighteen thirty-three, In memory I yet can see, Michigan, my Michigan. We've seen her forests melt away, Michigan, my Michigan. Like darkness at the light of day, Michigan, my Michigan. This hallowed spot we call our own, AL. W. WILBUR. |