MY VALLEY WAS largely self-sustained In the days of my
boyhood. The meadowland near the creek was fertile and good for farming
and the surrounding hills provided an abundance of pastureland. Most of
the small industrial plants in Wallingford existed by virtue of the supply
of usable timber in the near-by mountains. There the fork shop found its
supply of ash for the handles of the pitchforks-for tails as they were
called.
The snow shovel
industry used the white ash grown in the mountains. The wagon shop used
both hickory and ash in the manufacture of its product and tough oak for
the hubs of the wheels. Chopping bowls, used by housewives in the
preparation of the delectable corned-beef hash and mince meat for pies,
were made from maple found in the mountains.
Old one-legged
Mr. Pratt, the coffin-maker had an ever available snpply of spruce and
pine. The sash-and-door factory had to have pine. The hemlock trees
provided bark to tan hides and the cedars provided shingles and posts.
Vermont hillsides and mountains produce the very best marble and granite
quarries in the entire world. Brick-making was once an industry in
Wallingford but it passed out, along with hat-making, and the lime kiln
operates no more.
During my day
the Batcheller fork factory was owned and operated by three of the sons
and one son-in-law of the pioneer Batcheller. The oldest of the Batcheller
sons had alienated himself from his brothers and associated the Batcheller
name with a rival enterprise which proved unsuccessful; the remaining
brothers stuck together and were successful, illustrating the fable of the
wise father, his sons and the bunch of fagots.
The Batcheller
Fork Company employed a hundred or more men; the employer-employee
relationship was noteworthy and in many respects would compare favorably
with the advanced concepts of the present period. While in the manner of
their living they approached the aristocratic order, in the conduct of
their business the Batchellers were democratic to a point which some would
have considered extreme. It was customary in New England in that period to
reserve the soft jobs in factories for the sons, grandsons and relatives
of the proprietors, and they were generally educated with that point in
view. The Batchellers were no exception insofar as giving their children
the best educational advantages in technical schools or other institutions
according to their choice, but there they parted with traditional
practice. Sons were entitled to jobs in the factory if they wanted them
but that was as far as special privileges went. From that point on
advancement depended strictly upon their own merits and ambitions.
I recall no
instance of any son or grandson being stepped up into positions of
authority or management. They seemingly preferred to continue to work at a
bench or some other place, drawing precisely the same pay as the men and
women working beside them.
Of course there
was never a strike in the Batcheller factory. Employees were not organized
there or elsewhere in that day but I doubt whether it would have been
possible for an organizer to have made headway In the Batcheller shops.
The democratic spirit and the unvarying fairness of management would have
constituted obstacles difficult to overcome, All were friends and
neighbors without rank or distinction. The same formula rigidly adhered to
would work wonders I am sure, even today.
Long after my
time the business of Batcheller's was absorbed by the American Fork and
Hoe Company of Cleveland, a concern of national importance which was in a
position to make larger use of the facilities of the Batcheller company.
Wallingford suffered no loss; on the contrary It gained by the change. The
new manager took up residence in Wallingford, having bought my boyhood
home, where he has raised a fine family. His interest in the affairs of
the community was largely responsible for the advanced policy of the
company so far as concerned its Wallingford plant.
Its most
important civic contribution was the beautiful New England Inn erected on
the site of the old Wallingford Hotel. It is widely known as The True
Temper Inn, "true temper" being the trade mark of the company applied to
all its products which includes farm and garden equipment, golf sticks,
fishing rods, skis, toboggans, snowshoes, etc. The Inn is located on the
Ethan Allen Highway, the third building, or the second house south of my
boyhood home.
The Inn put
Wallingford on the map at once as a summer resort of the better class. The
atmosphere is in keeping with the best New England tradition. One
traveling by automobile through the New England states owes it to himself
to pay The True Temper Inn a visit. There is much of interest to be seen
in My New England Valley.
Many strong men
have gone out from the rocky hills of New England to play important parts
in the affairs of the world, Vermont soil lacks the fertility of western
farm lands but, perhaps for that very reason, New England has been
extraordinarily productive in strong men.
One raised to
the hardships of life on rocky Vermont farms and inured to the rigorous
climate, could hardly fail to give a good account of himself under more
favorable conditions. It is said that Vermont in proportion to its
population, has a larger representation in "Who's Who in America" than any
other state in the Union.
Wallingford
contributed its share to Vermont's quota of outstanding men. J. T.
Trowbirdge, writer of stories for boys, lived in our valley for a time.
Phil Emerson became a Federal Judge In Utah, Jeff Southerland, a Chicago
lawyer, served as assistant corporation counsel of that city for many
years. Aldace Walker, Jr, has heen Chairman of the Interstate Commerce
Commission; Nate Rounds, manager of a St Louis mercantile house. Birney
Batcheller, whose home was opposite ours, was the inventor of the
Batcheller pneumatic air tube for the transmission of mail beneath the
streets of great cites; the city of Philadelphia adopted the Batcheller
tube. He was also the inventor of other devices. He still lives in the old
home, writing books, poems and articles on scientific subjects. He has
written a real history of Wallingford. Birney was just enough older than I
to exclude me from his list of personal friends, though his juvenile
experiments in mechanical contraptions aroused an awesome respect within
me. He, Hiram Fales and I are about the only "Old Boys" left.
The list of
Wallingford notables would not be complete without the name of Will
Coleman who came from the most barren and rocky farmland in the township
of Wallingford. Will's part of Wallingford was called Hartsboro. Why
Hartsboro was given a name of its own, was a problem. If the statement
that the noses of Vermont sheep have to be sharpened so they can reach
between the rocks for their nourishment is true of any locality, it must
be true of Hartsboro although I do not recall having seen Hartsboro
farmers engaged in that occupation.
There being no
school in Hartsboro, the boys and girls of that locality came to ours, The
seven or eight miles per day on foot whetted their appetites for learning
as well as for the food they carried in their dinner pails.
John Gainey and
Will Coleman always came together and they were muffled up almost beyond
recognition as they traversed the stony, mountainous road on cold winter
days. Both stood high in their classes. Upon graduating, John returned to
farm work but Will resolved to go into business.
The usual
course for Wallingford young men who desired to enter business was to gain
experience in one of the local stores, and then perhaps, more experience
in a larger store in Rutland, the county seat, and then, if successful, to
seek more important openings in Troy, Albany, New York or Boston. The hop,
skip and jump policy was not suited to Will; he resolved to get a position
at once with some important company in Boston. He saved up enough money to
pay his fare to the New England metropolis, one hundred and sixty miles
distant and to pay his board in a cheap boarding house for a few days.
Upon his
arrival in Boston, he at once began a canvass of the important business
houses. Fortune directed his steps to the largest establishment in the
world engaged in the manufacture of shoe-making machinery. After gaining
admission, he asked to see the president of the company, which request, of
course, was denied, at least to the extent that it was possible to deny
such a young man. His persistence finally won him a hearing.
After he had
stated his case, the president told him he would see that his name was
placed on the waiting list but Will informed him promptly that this
proposal was not acceptable and that he needed a job right then and could
not wait. Somewhat aghast at Will's insistence, the man of affairs asked
him if he knew his way around Boston, to which Will answered, "No,"
explaining that he had just arrived in town, His curiosity aroused, the
president asked him how much he expected to be paid for his services and
Will answered, "Fifteen dollars and I am worth it."
The big man
then informed the raw, gangling boy from Hartsboro that Boston was full of
experienced boys who would be glad to work for four dollars per week. Will
then said something to the man high up that has become historical in the
records of Boston's big shoe-making industry; they were, "Fifteen dollars
per week is my price and I will not work for less but I will tell you what
I will do. You put me to work and if at the end of a week, you feel that
you have not had your money's worth, you needn't pay me a cent."
Will got the
job; the only one he ever had occasion to ask for; all other jobs came to
him and they were all jobs with the same company. The last post he
occupied was that of general manager for the company's entire European
business with headquarters in Paris; that position he occupied for many
years.
I can vouch for
the truth of the story above related. One of the officials of the company,
having learned that Will and I had gone to the same school in Wallingford,
thought that I might be interested, so, at some inconvenience to himself,
he looked me up during the course of a visit to Chicago and told it to me.
Needless to say, I was much interested. Will's story seemed to me a
classic, and in order that I might be exact in my statements, I checked up
with him the next time we met in Vermont. Will Coleman has passed to his
reward. As I review his life from beginning to end, it seems to me that
both as boy and man, he was typical of the New England character taken at
its best.
Some of the
young men who went out from our community to tattle with the world failed
in this fight; some were driven back into our little valley looking the
worse for wear. Even the least successful, however, had wondrous tales to
tell of the strange sights in distant parts and such prodigal sons were
always sure of interested audiences, particularly audiences composed of
small boys. A few of our migrants were middle-aged or even elderly, most
of that class having been assured of jobs by former migrants from out
valley who had proven themselves able to make good in their efforts to
transplant themselves.
Among those who left us was a staid and sober merchant by the name of
Hiram Chapin. It was a surprise to everyone that 'Hi" had ambition and
romance enough to embark on a momentous adventure. His going was a matter
of great interest to his fellow-townsmen but what tongue can describe the
glamour of his return. He came back to our valley on the back of a
mustang, driving before him a herd of mustangs not yet broken to saddle.
He was dressed in wild west fashion with broad-brimmed hat and bandana
around his neck and altogether, he was a sight to behold. We
boys were proud of him and it gingered up
our enthusiasm for the West. Some of us who had been looking forward to
being soldiers, sailors or clowns in the circus, revamped our plans and
began training for the business of being cowboys. If a humdrum druggist
like Hiram Chapin could make such a hero of himself within six months or
thereabouts, what might not be expected of real, red-blooded rapscallions,
like ourselves, for instance.
