up and Down

Including History, Commerce, Accidents, Incidents, Guide, Etc.

G. E. Colvin and G. P. Waite, Printers
Copyright, 1883, By D. B. Waite


We have but to say in conclusion, that we have aimed to arrive at facts in the preceding pages; in most of instances, memory alone has been our best guide, and that quite often proves itself to be a very poor source; may letters to those who are or should be able to give correct data, still remain unanswered, and we know of no better way than by publishing the best we have; truth will find the light, and all corrections can be properly made.

Amature printers have done the work; but all typographical and other errors found, are noticed on page 107, and the most important point, left unsaid is, how to get here. The N. Y. Lake Erie and Western R. R. runs almost parallel with it on the west of Marrowback hill, and the two Stations, Springwater at the head, and Livonia at the foot, will be the best places to stop off. The former is some four, and the latter, five miles distant here from, and conveyances usually run regularly during the summer season, from either point to the lake, on the arrival of all passenger trains.

Beautiful, lovely Hemlock Lake.
Grant me the liberty I take -
Once more I come, here to abide
Awhile by thee, and at they side,
Will wait the coming morn, -
The rising sun the hills adorn -
To pass the day in somber thought,
And view the works by nature wrought.
In shade and sunshine I will bask,
And of thee a few questions ask;
Who first upon thy shores did tread?
Was he a White man or a Red?
Was he youthful or was he old?
Was he fearful or was he bold?
Did he come from an ice-bound coast
Alone, or with a num’ous host,
With sword in hand, bearing a shield
Fresh from a gory battle-field?
Or, was he alone one coast away,
Wan’dring from morn till close of day
To find some food to strengthen life
Till his return to child and wife,
From whom at early morn he strayed,
To fill the promise he had made
To her, the choice of early youth
Who knew he spake the sacred truth;
That he for her ever would care,
The heaviest of life’s burdens bear.

If such he was, who first did tread
Along thy shores? Where rests his head
Or hers, for whom he hunted o’er
These hill and ‘long thy beauteous shore?
Rest they together side by side
Here, Close by thee, or where the tide
Beats the shore of some briny sea?
If this you know pray tell it me.

Tell it me by some little wave,
Where rest the maiden and the brave
Leige-like lord, and an only child,
Their only joy when in the wild
Wild woods, or along thy shore,
Where they’ll ne’er be seen or heard of more.

Yes, by some little, silent wave
Pray tell it me; I much do crave
To know, who first thy shore did tread,
And now where rest those silent dead.

I’ll sit alone on thy wavy shore,
And ne’er again ask thee more;
I’ll sit and sing a merry song
Till that little wave’ll come along
Bearing on it a "bubble bright".
Transparent as the purest light
That ever shone on land or sea,
On heathen slave or on the free.

If on the shore it doth alight
In all its dazzling beauty bright,
Whilst other waves do come and go,
And zephyrs pass it to and fro,
Yet still the little bubble stands
Firm and bright on little sands,
Sufficient this will be to me
They rest "long side" and by the sea.

No more I’ll question thee old lake;
In silence, leave of thee i’ll take;
On shore I’ll view thy placid face,
On which there looked a former race
Who basked along thy beauteous shore,
A long, long time, and this, before
A white man either old or young
Had joyous been or e’er had sung
Along thy lovely, sandy shore,
"Or sank in thee to rise no more."

I long to come and visit more
With friends and neighbors on thy shore,
And with me bring my hook and line
Ere I shall leave the "shores of time."
Should I ne’er come to thee again,
In mem’ry t-ou wilt long remain.

As long as life remains in me ,
I’ll ever love to come and see
Thy waves that roll before the breeze,
That "bends the oak" and all the trees
That line the beauteous, lovely shore,
And echo back the midnight roar;
And fog is seen for miles away,
A down thy shores; it seems to play
Along the hills; it meets my eyes
In clouds next seen, far in the skies.

The sun hath climbed the eastern hill,
The birds are singing lone and shrill;
Their notes are heard in distant wood
Each hunting for his daily food.

I’ll close my musings on thy shore,
And hope to see thee often, more.
It will to give me great delight,
Of thee, loved lake, again to write.