One mile north of our place it struck the
Dearborn road. Father cut it out, cut all the timber on the road two rods
wide. After it was cut out I could get on the top of a stump in the road,
by the side of our place, and look north carefully among the stumps, for
a minute, and if there was any one coming, on the road, I could
distinguish them from the stumps by seeing them move. In fact we thought
we were almost getting out into the world. We could see the sand hill
where father finally bought and built his house. Father was path-master
for a number of years and he crosswayed the lowest spots and across the
black ash swales. He cut logs twelve feet long and laid them side by side
across the center of the road. Some of the logs, that he put into the
road on the lowest ground, were more than a foot through; of course
smaller poles answered where the ground was higher. We called this our
corduroy road. In doing our road work and others doing theirs, year
after year, in course of time we had the log way built across the
wettest parts of the road. When it was still I could hear a cart or
wagon, coming or going, rattling and pounding over the logs for nearly a
mile.
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