Tuesday 7 August 2012

1903-10-03


Before the trains of the Great Western went whistling along the valley between the village and the lake, Stony Creek was the principal grain market for all the region of country between that place and Ancaster. The farmers hauled their wheat thirty and forty miles in order to get the high prices paid there. Suggest to the old dreamer if Hamilton was not a rival for the wheat trade and he will curl his lip in contempt that one should be so foolish enough to ask such a question. “Hamilton wasn’t in it with our grain buyers in those days!” he will proudly tell you. Just after the threshing season, the streets of Stony Creek used to be lined with wagons loaded with wheat, each waiting its turn for the buyers to sample the grain and make a bid for it. Money was a scarce article during other parts of the year, but it took cash to buy wheat, and there was always plenty of it while the wheat season lasted. The Stony Creek merchants and the tavern keepers, especially the landlord of the Canada, were flush, and there was no end to the free drinks the farmers used to buy for the old boys who were generally afflicted with a thirst that an ordinary two fingers of corn whiskey would have no effect upon. Those were the halcyon days for Stony Creek.

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          At one time, shortly after the construction of the Great Western railway, a bright future seemed about to dawn upon Stony Creek. The village had been sidetracked when the road was when the road was built, the line being laid down some distance north. There was no depot built there, as only now and then was there a passenger to go either east or west, and it was made a platform flag station. In the course of time, the managers of the road got an idea that Stony Creek would be a fine shipping point for wheat, as farmers devoted their land almost exclusively to the cereal. The whole scope of country south, back to Lake Erie, had made Stony Creek its market, and the railroad officials concluded that the farmers would continue to do so, and thus build up a profitable shipping trade for the road. So one day, excavation for a workhouse and for a depot was begun, and an army of stonemasons began laying the foundations. Just beyond the company’s right-of-way, Wesley Hopkins owned a bit of land that reached out to the shores of Lake Ontario, and up through this land to the new warehouse from the lake is an inlet that with but little dredging would have made a splendid port for steam and sailing vessels. The railway company never doubted for a moment that it could get this land and waterway at a fair valuation; and, indeed, the officers were willing to pay even more than it was really worth in order to get it without bother. However, the owner thought otherwise. That bit of marsh and the strips of tillable land on either side of it immediately became of immense value, the lowest price at which he could possibly be induced to sign a deed and transfer this most cherished of all his earthly possessions was $60,000. The purchasing agent of the company almost fell dead from heart failure, so great was the shock to his nerves. Sixty thousand dollars!  Why, that much money half a century ago would have bought the whole lake shore front. The representatives of the company and the population of Stony Creek tried to reason with the owner of the land and that the price was preposterous and that no man in his senses would make such a bluff; but the owner had set the stakes, and there he was going to stick, even though the future of the town depended upon his decision. Months were spent in fruitless negotiations, and in the meantime, work on the depot and freight sheds was suspended. There was no way to get the land except to pay $60,000, and this was not to be thought of, so one day the Stony Creekers had the mortification to see the building material removed, the foundations torn down, and away into the great future went glimmering the prospects of Stony Creek. For years there was no station at that point, the company so disgusted that it would have blotted the name of the town forever from the map. Indeed, the officers one time seriously considered calling the flag station by some other name. Nearly half a century has passed since Stony Creek lost its opportunity to become not only a great lake shipping port, but also an important station of the railway line. The inlet is still there and the pond lilies and the reeds, but the freight warehouse and the docks are only a dream of what might have been had the owner of the land sold for what it was really worth. The old dreamers who sit upon the tavern porches in Stony Creek these bright autumn days, talking of the past, now and then utter imprecations not fit for publication when some passing stranger asks the history of the Canada tavern and the old town. There is much to interest one in a talk with one of the old dreamers of the ancient village.

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          Stony Creek is one of the quaint old Canadian towns that must have been dwarfed when it was placed upon the map. If the oldest inhabitant tells the truth – and who would dare dispute the oldest inhabitant’s word – the town had a larger population away back in the day when the Britishers stopped the Yanks in their wild march into the interior of this country, and made it possible for the Daughters of the Empire to preserve as part of the history of those turbulent days the Gage farm as a delightful place for summer evening tea parties and where royalty is now and then entertained. The old Stony Creek dreamer remembers though it were but yesterday when Stony Creek and Ancaster were the only two towns of any importance between Niagara Falls and Windsor; when Hamilton was only a name, and instead of factories and homes, it was in a state of nature, with stately forest  trees from the mountain to the bay, and Indians and bears and creeping things basking in the sunshine, fighting with mosquitoes  that made life a burden even in those Arcadian days, when Dundas ranked third in population and was noted for its marsh and its great possibilities as the future head of navigation. The old dreamer will tell you about the battle of Stony Creek – but, bless you, the old fellow was not born till long after that noted event, though he actually thinks that he was on the spot when the trumpet and bugle calls were ringing in the air and the spectral tents dotted the hill sides and down the valley toward the lake. But, Stony Creek is now only a reminiscence and the old Canada tavern that was built in the early part of last century, weather-beaten and a shadow of its former grandeur, when it was claimed that it was the best tavern on the main road from the Niagara to the Detroit river. Ah! What jollity and mirth were once within its walls, and one superstitiously inclined can now fancy that in the midnight hour, when the moonbeams glint through the open cracks in the loosened clapboards that sway in the night winds, that the forms of the departed guests can be seen flitting up and down the corridors or surrounding the table in the dining room that once almost groaned beneath the substantials and the delicacies that the old-time Boniface knew so well how to prepare for the comfort of the travelling public. Talk about your domestic schools of science! The tavern cooks of a century ago could discount even the noted chefs of the present days in the making of rare dishes, and in the roasting of meats and fowls. It makes one’s mouth water even to think of it, and the air seems to be filled with the savory fragrance from the old-time kitchens.

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          The old dreamers down at Stony Creek, who sit on the tavern porches, basking in the sunshine, or gather around the bar room now that the evenings are chilly, talk over the departed greatness of the quaint town and sigh for the days before the railway trains came along to disturb the peace and quietness of the valley with unearthly shriekings of the locomotive. They tell you of the time when from eight to ten horses were always harnessed and ready when the stage driver tooted his horn to announce his coming, and speed the parting guest. Then it was that Stony Creek was a noted town and the praises of the Canada tavern were sounded from one end of the province to the other. The eyes of the old dreamer grow dim with tears as he tells the story that was handed down to him from past generations. For nigh onto eighty years has the old dreamer lived within sight of the old Canada tavern, for he was born in Stony Creek, and with the blessings of Divine Providence, he expects to rest his tired bones in the old church yard where all his kith and kin are buried. He has always been loyal to Stony Creek, though he confesses with sorrow that 50 years ago he was tempted to leave home and come to Hamilton to seek his fortune. He did not remain away long, but returned to his native hearth, registering a solemn vow that nevermore would he be tempted to leave the home nest.

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