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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