36. HONEYMOON AT PHARAOH LAKE
Meantime, all was going well with my little church, and in May of 1910 I was successful in persuading Jeanie Holmes to become my wife. We were married in a double-ring ceremony at Wethersfield, and I added force to the vow “And with my worldly goods I thee endow” by giving her twenty-five gold pieces as a wedding gift.
On my small salary it was not possible to plan the traditional wedding trip to Niagara Falls, but I thought I knew of an even better place for a honeymoon. So after a few weeks at Berlin, Jeanie and I headed north toward Glens Falls, Brant Lake, and Pharaoh Lake. We were to spend a few days with Father at the old farm, and I had engaged my convert and friend Bill Bentley, to meet our boat at Hague, on Lake George, and to convey us by horse and wagon over the ten miles of mountain road to Brant Lake. Bill was not only prompt and accommodating, but also displayed no trace of his former rough talk. When he had got us safely over the winding, bumpy road, and had had a chance to size up my attractive bride, he extended his welcome by saying, “When you git time, come down to see us, and bring your worman with you.”
For several days we lived in a small umbrella-tent on the old farm, where Sister Clara was keeping house for Father. Then, with Clara, my nephew Frank Schneider, and his sister Josephine, we set out over the road to Pharaoh Lake. Burdened as we were with supplies, the journey seemed longer than the five miles from Warren County over into Essex, but we finally reached the Lake and rowed to Little Island, where we set up our tent.
This particular camping site was a favorite of mine, for it was partially shaded by a dozen pine and cedar trees, and afforded a splendid view of the lake and the encircling mountains. Situated as it is on state land, with free camping privileges, I often spoke of the place as our million-dollar estate. For a young bride who had never experienced roughing it, the strenuous hike into the rugged, mountainous park, and the hard mattress of solid earth for her bed provided Jeanie with a fitting initiation into the Roberts family. Moreover, the weather for the first night of our camping trip was far from cooperative. As if conspiring against us, the heavens let loose torrents of rain. The wind blew the humid sprays through the tent flap, soaking Jeanie’s feet, and rivulets pouring down the sides of the canvas formed pools under us.
The next night we camped on an island with better drainage facilities, and found for our inexperienced camper a bed of boughs and moss which a former camper must have carefully made to provide some measure of comfort. These sleeping quarters only made matters worse, however, for the bed proved to be infested with lice, which quickly found a new habitation in Jeanie’s dark brown hair. With such an initiation, one would not have blamed her for never wanting to see the woods again. But Jeanie learned to fish so well that she sometimes caught more than anyone else, and eventually became as eager as I was to turn back to the wildwood every summer.
There is an old rhyme that goes:
When the wind is in the east
It’s good for neither man nor beast;
When it’s in the south,
It blows the hook into the fish’s mouth;
But when it is in the west,
It is at its best.
How true this poem is I do not know, but I do know that in order to be successful one must fish in the right places, at the right depth, at the right speed, with the right lure, at the right time of day, and with the right muscular reaction. People who are slow in learning the fine arts of angling spend a vacation at Pharaoh Lake and go away believing that there are no trout to be caught. I remember a Labor Day afternoon when my wife and I had just landed a speckled beauty and some fishermen with flashing rods came by and called out: “That must be the last one in the lake.” Since we had been out from early morning, and since we were not at that time limited as to number of fish by law, we were able to reply: “That’s all right, we’ve brought in twenty others today.”
Even now this secluded place has not been overtaken by the inroads of civilization, and the trout have not been all caught out. Larger lake trout are caught in Lake George, but the Pharaoh trout are of superior quality.
37. THE SALE OF THE FARM
When we returned to Berlin after our honeymoon, my congregation responded enthusiastically to Jeanie, and we all worked together in church activities. The plain old building was remodeled. Art-glass windows and a pipe organ were installed to join light and music in richer harmony. Best of all, goodwill prevailed in our midst. The news of our activities spread to such an extent that we were offered another church at twice the salary, but we wished to strengthen the work where we were and decided not to move.
After several years of this pleasant pastorate, the kind hand of Providence, which I had seen manifest so many times before, began to move in my behalf again. A very wealthy man had bought all the land up the road from our Brant Lake farm, and had built a luxurious camp. To complete his estate and protect his right-of-way across our property, he was anxious to acquire Father’s acreage.
Meantime, without consulting me—or anyone else in the family—and evidently thinking that my college education and ministerial experience qualified me to handle real estate on earth as well as to preach about it in heaven, Father had deeded the farm to me. Soon a letter came to me, asking what I would take for this property. Because I cherished a desire to keep the weather-worn house and surrounding woodland for a summer camp, at least so long as Father might live, I set the selling figure at five thousand dollars. By return mail a check came to bind the bargain. Five thousand dollars seemed like a lot of money for the buildings and rocky land, and some of our neighbors thought I had asked too much, but eventually the other farms sold for good prices too. Thus our precedent proved to be of benefit to all inhabitants of the valley.
The sale of the farm enabled another wish of mine to come true, for, with Father’s ready consent, part of the money was given to my brother John, so that he could build a house in Glens Falls where my unmarried sisters could live and make a home for Father during his remaining days.
For Father, who had loved to walk in the forest and among the hills, life in the city was not ideal, but there were compensations. Seven of his children, and a number of grandchildren, now resided in Glens Falls. Even though his trapping days were ended, he still had the pleasure of reading the Bible and of telling stories to attentive young listeners. One little girl, the daughter of a neighbor, told her parents enthusiastically that she had met a fine old man with a long white beard. “He told us children how the bears live way up back of the mountains, and he talked to us about the Bible and the love of God.”
I was very grateful for the way everything had turned out for my family, and for the part that I had been able to take in helping them. However, we were soon to face another sadness.
Only a few months after Father had put his Bible, pistol, and clothes in a bundle and slowly walked away from his Brant Lake farm, I receive a telegram that he had suffered a serious stroke. When I reached Glens Falls I found him partially paralyzed, but his mind was clear and his voice unaffected. As he saw me enter his room he said:
“Well, Jesse, I’m going home. I know it, and I have known it for a long time.” He told me he was happy and asked me to read to him from his Bible. I opened to some of the passages which he especially liked, and read:
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures
He leadeth me beside the still waters,
He restoreth my soul.
and
My sheep hear my voice, and I know them,
and they follow me: and I give unto them
eternal life; and they shall never perish.
Proving that the same words which had sustained him throughout his life gave strength in the valley of the shadow of death, Father responded with a fervent “Amen.”
Ten days later, realizing that he was steadily growing weaker, Father expressed a desire to have strong hands hold his own. One son took his right hand, another his left. After a few moments of tenseness as if, like Samson of old, he was tearing up the bonds of earth that imprisoned him, Father relaxed and his spirit returned to Him who gave it.
Later, as all nine of us children gathered in the cemetery, we could see the Adirondacks to the north, and, across the plain, the Green Mountains from which Father had come over a half-century before. We listened to the comforting words of St. Paul which Father had read to us so many times, and which he had requested for this service.
For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life,
nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor
things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any
other creature, shall be able to separate us from
the love of God. . .
As I finish this book, I have a letter from a friend at Brant Lake saying that the leaves of the trees up around my boyhood home are more beautiful this year than ever. Perhaps this is because the place is being written about, and is smiling in the pleasure of being introduced to the public. I can see it all vividly through the eyes of my memory, though there is present also a lonesome feeling, because my people are not there, nor even the house which was one so full of life.
Still, as good deeds never die, so do kind souls live on beyond their graves, continuing to bless all who knew them. Grateful to the God-loving parents who, through the power of the Book they read in the back country, bequeathed to their children a rich heritage of faith, hope, and courage, I dedicate what I have written to the memory of Ann Eliza and Edwin Roberts, my mother and my father.
Meantime, all was going well with my little church, and in May of 1910 I was successful in persuading Jeanie Holmes to become my wife. We were married in a double-ring ceremony at Wethersfield, and I added force to the vow “And with my worldly goods I thee endow” by giving her twenty-five gold pieces as a wedding gift.
On my small salary it was not possible to plan the traditional wedding trip to Niagara Falls, but I thought I knew of an even better place for a honeymoon. So after a few weeks at Berlin, Jeanie and I headed north toward Glens Falls, Brant Lake, and Pharaoh Lake. We were to spend a few days with Father at the old farm, and I had engaged my convert and friend Bill Bentley, to meet our boat at Hague, on Lake George, and to convey us by horse and wagon over the ten miles of mountain road to Brant Lake. Bill was not only prompt and accommodating, but also displayed no trace of his former rough talk. When he had got us safely over the winding, bumpy road, and had had a chance to size up my attractive bride, he extended his welcome by saying, “When you git time, come down to see us, and bring your worman with you.”
For several days we lived in a small umbrella-tent on the old farm, where Sister Clara was keeping house for Father. Then, with Clara, my nephew Frank Schneider, and his sister Josephine, we set out over the road to Pharaoh Lake. Burdened as we were with supplies, the journey seemed longer than the five miles from Warren County over into Essex, but we finally reached the Lake and rowed to Little Island, where we set up our tent.
This particular camping site was a favorite of mine, for it was partially shaded by a dozen pine and cedar trees, and afforded a splendid view of the lake and the encircling mountains. Situated as it is on state land, with free camping privileges, I often spoke of the place as our million-dollar estate. For a young bride who had never experienced roughing it, the strenuous hike into the rugged, mountainous park, and the hard mattress of solid earth for her bed provided Jeanie with a fitting initiation into the Roberts family. Moreover, the weather for the first night of our camping trip was far from cooperative. As if conspiring against us, the heavens let loose torrents of rain. The wind blew the humid sprays through the tent flap, soaking Jeanie’s feet, and rivulets pouring down the sides of the canvas formed pools under us.
The next night we camped on an island with better drainage facilities, and found for our inexperienced camper a bed of boughs and moss which a former camper must have carefully made to provide some measure of comfort. These sleeping quarters only made matters worse, however, for the bed proved to be infested with lice, which quickly found a new habitation in Jeanie’s dark brown hair. With such an initiation, one would not have blamed her for never wanting to see the woods again. But Jeanie learned to fish so well that she sometimes caught more than anyone else, and eventually became as eager as I was to turn back to the wildwood every summer.
There is an old rhyme that goes:
When the wind is in the east
It’s good for neither man nor beast;
When it’s in the south,
It blows the hook into the fish’s mouth;
But when it is in the west,
It is at its best.
How true this poem is I do not know, but I do know that in order to be successful one must fish in the right places, at the right depth, at the right speed, with the right lure, at the right time of day, and with the right muscular reaction. People who are slow in learning the fine arts of angling spend a vacation at Pharaoh Lake and go away believing that there are no trout to be caught. I remember a Labor Day afternoon when my wife and I had just landed a speckled beauty and some fishermen with flashing rods came by and called out: “That must be the last one in the lake.” Since we had been out from early morning, and since we were not at that time limited as to number of fish by law, we were able to reply: “That’s all right, we’ve brought in twenty others today.”
Even now this secluded place has not been overtaken by the inroads of civilization, and the trout have not been all caught out. Larger lake trout are caught in Lake George, but the Pharaoh trout are of superior quality.
37. THE SALE OF THE FARM
When we returned to Berlin after our honeymoon, my congregation responded enthusiastically to Jeanie, and we all worked together in church activities. The plain old building was remodeled. Art-glass windows and a pipe organ were installed to join light and music in richer harmony. Best of all, goodwill prevailed in our midst. The news of our activities spread to such an extent that we were offered another church at twice the salary, but we wished to strengthen the work where we were and decided not to move.
After several years of this pleasant pastorate, the kind hand of Providence, which I had seen manifest so many times before, began to move in my behalf again. A very wealthy man had bought all the land up the road from our Brant Lake farm, and had built a luxurious camp. To complete his estate and protect his right-of-way across our property, he was anxious to acquire Father’s acreage.
Meantime, without consulting me—or anyone else in the family—and evidently thinking that my college education and ministerial experience qualified me to handle real estate on earth as well as to preach about it in heaven, Father had deeded the farm to me. Soon a letter came to me, asking what I would take for this property. Because I cherished a desire to keep the weather-worn house and surrounding woodland for a summer camp, at least so long as Father might live, I set the selling figure at five thousand dollars. By return mail a check came to bind the bargain. Five thousand dollars seemed like a lot of money for the buildings and rocky land, and some of our neighbors thought I had asked too much, but eventually the other farms sold for good prices too. Thus our precedent proved to be of benefit to all inhabitants of the valley.
The sale of the farm enabled another wish of mine to come true, for, with Father’s ready consent, part of the money was given to my brother John, so that he could build a house in Glens Falls where my unmarried sisters could live and make a home for Father during his remaining days.
For Father, who had loved to walk in the forest and among the hills, life in the city was not ideal, but there were compensations. Seven of his children, and a number of grandchildren, now resided in Glens Falls. Even though his trapping days were ended, he still had the pleasure of reading the Bible and of telling stories to attentive young listeners. One little girl, the daughter of a neighbor, told her parents enthusiastically that she had met a fine old man with a long white beard. “He told us children how the bears live way up back of the mountains, and he talked to us about the Bible and the love of God.”
I was very grateful for the way everything had turned out for my family, and for the part that I had been able to take in helping them. However, we were soon to face another sadness.
Only a few months after Father had put his Bible, pistol, and clothes in a bundle and slowly walked away from his Brant Lake farm, I receive a telegram that he had suffered a serious stroke. When I reached Glens Falls I found him partially paralyzed, but his mind was clear and his voice unaffected. As he saw me enter his room he said:
“Well, Jesse, I’m going home. I know it, and I have known it for a long time.” He told me he was happy and asked me to read to him from his Bible. I opened to some of the passages which he especially liked, and read:
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures
He leadeth me beside the still waters,
He restoreth my soul.
and
My sheep hear my voice, and I know them,
and they follow me: and I give unto them
eternal life; and they shall never perish.
Proving that the same words which had sustained him throughout his life gave strength in the valley of the shadow of death, Father responded with a fervent “Amen.”
Ten days later, realizing that he was steadily growing weaker, Father expressed a desire to have strong hands hold his own. One son took his right hand, another his left. After a few moments of tenseness as if, like Samson of old, he was tearing up the bonds of earth that imprisoned him, Father relaxed and his spirit returned to Him who gave it.
Later, as all nine of us children gathered in the cemetery, we could see the Adirondacks to the north, and, across the plain, the Green Mountains from which Father had come over a half-century before. We listened to the comforting words of St. Paul which Father had read to us so many times, and which he had requested for this service.
For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life,
nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor
things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any
other creature, shall be able to separate us from
the love of God. . .
As I finish this book, I have a letter from a friend at Brant Lake saying that the leaves of the trees up around my boyhood home are more beautiful this year than ever. Perhaps this is because the place is being written about, and is smiling in the pleasure of being introduced to the public. I can see it all vividly through the eyes of my memory, though there is present also a lonesome feeling, because my people are not there, nor even the house which was one so full of life.
Still, as good deeds never die, so do kind souls live on beyond their graves, continuing to bless all who knew them. Grateful to the God-loving parents who, through the power of the Book they read in the back country, bequeathed to their children a rich heritage of faith, hope, and courage, I dedicate what I have written to the memory of Ann Eliza and Edwin Roberts, my mother and my father.