The Author & Publisher
A
family tree can wither if nobody tends its roots
Last updated May 28, 2008
A Brief Family History:
The author, Scott Hazelwood, is a grandchild of Herbert Spencer
Hazelwood & Esther Ellen Munro and Levi Byers & Agnes
Jane McConnell.
The Hazelwood Story:
My
great-grandfather Herbert Edward Hazelwood, was born on February 9,
1870 in Matching, Essex County, England. The family lived on a grain
farm, but when the price of grain went so low, the family moved to the
city of London. In his teen years, Herbert worked after school in a
haber dashery in London (thought to be Harrod's) selling men's wear
where he remembered selling a hat to Prime Minister Gladstone. The
toxic dye in the felt was creating heath concerns for Herbert and his
doctor advised him to move from the city where he would have fresh air.
He decided to come to Canada and the doctor helped him out by paying
half a crown. In 1888 at the age of 18, Herbert left England for
Canada, and upon arriving in Montreal, Quebec, he got a job building
the railway leading to Saranac Lake, New York.
Here, in
Saranac Lake, he met Agnes Rosamond McClelland, who's mother took in
boarders from the railroad. Herbert boarded in this home while working
on the railroad. After their marriage in 1892, they moved to Montreal,
Quebec where Herbert worked as a policeman and Agnes worked for the
Family Herald, writing names and addresses on the newspapers before
they were mailed, chosen for her good handwriting. After about six
years in Montreal, they noticed newspaper ads of land (unsure whether
free or $10) in Ontario and moved to Mattawa in 1898. Here, after
travelling rugged roads to this remote wilderness, they built their
home before winter set in. Money was scarce, so for two seasons Herbert
and Mr. Harper, the neighbour family who moved with them from Montreal,
went back to work in Montreal, while Agnes, Mrs. Harper and the
children stayed in Mattawa. During this time, the Hazelwoods owned a
cow, and when Agnes went to look for the cow to milk it, she carried
baby John in one hand and the muzzle loader gun in the other. In the
summer Agnes and Mrs. Harper picked berries in 20 lb lard pails and
carried them 7 miles to Mattawa to sell. To raise money for Christmas
gifts for the children, the ladies cut "chicos" to sell. Chicos were
dead pine trees still standing, which the ladies split and cut before
selling them as firewood. In order to make payments on the farm,
Herbert worked on the railroad and sold cordwood, and in later years,
they did market gardening. Herbert served as councillor for Papineau
Township for about 20 years, and served as reeve from 1933-1936. During
the depression years, he was a relief officer and gave assistance to
needy families in return for work. They raised their family and lived
out thier lives in Papineau Township where Agnes died of pulmonary
pneumonia on December 25, 1931 the result of an accident six years
earlier. Herbert died of a heart attack on Novemeber 19, 1955. They are
both resting in Pinehill Cemetery in Mattawa, Ontario.
One of
their sons, Herbert Spencer, my grandfather, was born in Mattawa in
1903 and married Olive Harper in 1924. She died of scarlet fever in May
of 1930 after giving birth to thier second child. Work was scarce, and
with two young children to raise Olive's sister Hilda took the baby to
Rochestor, New York, crossing the border at Buffalo on June 2, 1930.
Herbert then crossed the border at Niagara Falls on June 18, 1930
headed to Rochester, New York looking for work. Herbert and his sons
lived at the home of Olive's sister, Alfred & Hilda Benton, where
Hilda cared for the children. Herbert returned to Canada shortly after,
but work was scarce in Mattawa where wages were $0.50 per day, and
another $0.50 if you had a team of horses and wagon. In the fall of
1931 he went to work at the farm of Alex & Lila Munro at Almonte,
Ontario where he worked for room and board and $10.00 per month. Here,
Herbert fell in love with their daughter Esther and they were married
in April 1932 and shortly thereafter they moved to Mattawa. In 1944
Alex Munro was going to sell the farm, so Herbert and Esther moved the
family to Almonte to the farm where Esther was raised. Herbert &
Esther had eight children, including the two from Herbert's previous
marriage. Herbert and Esther lived the rest of their lives on this
farm, which today is still in the family.
Sites of my interest:
Regina Inn - Hotel and
Conference
Centre
South Saskatchewan Branch
of the Monarchist League of Canada
Government
Houses of the British Empire
Poems I remember from my
youth:
The Highway Man
The Cremation of Sam McGee
Somebody's Mother
Grandpa's Whiskers
The World is Mine
The
Highwayman
Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
PART ONE I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness
among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shuters, but all was locked and
barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the
West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow
bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by
like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it!
The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's
refrain .
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing
clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they
did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and
still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing
night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness
there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet
coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his
throat.
* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the
trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
The Cremation of Sam McGee
Robert Service (1874-1958)
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and
blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only
knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a
spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in
hell."
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven
nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we
couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the
snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and
toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort
of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled
clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead — it's my awful dread of the icy grave that
pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last
remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly
pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in
Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried,
horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise
given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your
brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you, to cremate those last
remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern
code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed
that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies,
round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — Oh God! how I loathed the
thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give
in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice
May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen
chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared — such a blaze you
seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to
blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't
know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep
inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I
opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace
roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and said: "Please close that
door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear, you'll let in the cold and storm
—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been
warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Somebody's Mother
Mary Dow Brine
The woman was old and ragged and gray
And bent with the chill of the Winter's day.
The street was wet with a recent snow
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.
Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of 'school let out,"
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way.
Nor offered a helping hand to her--
So meek, so tired, afraid to stir
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.
At last came one of the merry troop,
The gayest laddie of all the group;
He paused beside her and whispered low,
'I'll help you cross, if you wish to go."
Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
'She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow,
'And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,
'If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away.'
And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was, 'God be kind to the noble boy,
Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy!"
Grandpa's
Whiskers
Campfire Song
I have a dear old Grandpa
for whom I nightly pray
He has a set of whiskers, they're always in the way
Chorus:
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay
They hide the dirt on Grandpa's shirt
They're always in the way
My Grandpa was a soldier,
he fooled the enemy
He wrapped his whiskers round him;
they thought he was a tree
Repeat Chorus
My Grandpa was a swimmer; no bathing suit for him
He tied his whiskers round his waist
and then he dove right in
Repeat Chorus
Grandpa had a strong back, now it's all caved in
He stepped upon his whiskers
and walked up to his chin
Repeat Chorus
I have a dear old Grandma,
she likes his whiskers too
She uses them for dusting
and cleaning out the flue
Repeat Chorus
Grandpa's beard is long and grey; it gets longer every day
Grandma eats it in her sleep
Says it tastes like shredded wheat
The World is
Mine
Today upon a bus I saw a girl with golden hair;
She seemed so gay, I envied her, and wished that I were half so fair;
I watched her as she rose to leave, and saw her hobble down the aisle.
She had one leg and wore a crutch, but as she passed -- a smile.
Oh God forgive me when I whine; I have two legs - the world is mine.
Later on I bought some sweets. The boy who sold them had such
charm,
I thought I'd stop and talk a while. If I were late, t'would do
no harm.
And as we talked he said, "Thank you, sir, you've been so kind.
It's nice to talk to folks like you because, you see, I'm blind."
Oh God forgive me when I whine; I have two eyes - the world is mine.
Later, walking down the street, I met a boys with eyes so blue.
He stood and watched the others play; it seemed he knew not what to do.
I paused and said, "Why don't you join the others, dear?"
But he looked ahead without a word, and then I knew he couldn't hear.
Oh God forgive me when I whine; I have two ears - the world is mine.
Two legs to take me where I go,
Two eyes to see the sunset glow,
Two ears to hear all I should know,
Oh God forgive me when I whine;
I'm blessed indeed, the world is mine.
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