The first settlement in the town [Wolcott, Lamoille, VT] was made in 1789, by Thomas Taylor and Seth Hubbell who took up land in the western part of the town. Mr. Taylor came the day previous to Mr. Hubbell, with his wife and two children, on snow-shoes. Both families were subjected to great hardships, but Mr. Taylor having more means escaped many of the privations that fell to the lot of Mr. Hubbell and his family. 

     The vicissitudes of the latter were unusually severe, though but a counterpart of what many of our forefathers had to endure. No more earnest lesson of what energy and perseverance can accomplish could be found, perhaps, than in Mr. Hubbell's sketch of his trials and triumphs in those early days, found in the following narrative, written by him and published in 1829. We are indebted to the kindness of Mr. Justus Hubbell, one of the descendants, for a copy of the pamphlet, which we deem of sufficient interest to warrant an entire reprint.— 

  “This narrative was written for the private use and gratification of the sufferer, with no intention of its ever appearing before the public but certain reasons connected with his present circumstances have induced him (by the advice of his friends) to commit it to the press.   It is a simple narration of real facts, the most of which many, living witnesses can now attest to. The learned reader will excuse the many imperfections in this little work: the writer not being bred to literary knowledge, is sensible of his inability to entertain the curious; but if his plain and simple dress can reach the sympathy of the feeling heart, it may be gratifying to some.   It may also serve to still the murmurings of those who are commencing settlements in the neighborhood of plenty, and teach them to be reconciled to their better fate, and duly appreciate the privileges they enjoy, resulting from the toils of the suffering few who broke the way into the wilderness. 

  “ In the latter part of February, 1789, I set out from the town of Norwalk, in Connecticut, on my journey for Wolcott, to commence a settlement and make that my residence; family consisting of my wife and five children, they all being girls, the eldest nine or ten years old. My team was a yoke of oxen and a horse. After I had proceeded on my journey to within about one hundred miles of Wolcott, one of my oxen failed but I however kept him yoked with the other till about noon each day, then turned him before, and took his end of the yoke myself, and proceeded on in that manner with my load to about fourteen miles of my journey’s end, when I could get the sick ox no further, and was forced to leave him with Thomas McConnel, in Johnson; but he had neither hay nor grain for him.  I then proceeded on with some help to Esq. McDaniel's in Hydepark: this brought me to about eight miles of Wolcott, and to the end of the road. It was now about the 20th of March; the snow was not far from four feet deep; no hay to be had for my team, and no way for them to subsist but by browse. As my sick ox at McConnel's could not be kept on browse, I interceded with a man in Cambridge for a little hay to keep him alive, which I backed, a bundle at a time, five miles, for about ten days, when the ox died.  On the 9th of April I set out from Esq. McDaniel's, his being the last house, for my intended residence in Wolcott, with my wife and two eldest children. We had eight miles to travel on snow shoes, by marked trees—no road being cut: my wife had to try this new mode of traveling, and she performed the journey remarkably well. The path had been so trodden by snow-shoes as to bear up the children. Esq.Taylor, with his wife and two small children, who moved on with me, had gone on the day before. We were the first families in Wolcott: in Hydepark there had two families wintered the year before. To the east of us it was eighteen miles to inhabitants, and no road but marked trees: to the south about twenty, where there were infant settlements, but no communication with us; and to the north, it was almost indefinite, or to the regions of Canada. 

  “I had now reached the end of my journey, and I may say almost to the end of my property, for I had not a mouthful of meat or kernel of grain for my family, nor had I a cent of money to buy with, or property that I could apply to that purpose. I however had the good luck to catch a sable. The skin I carried fifty miles, and exchanged it for half a bushel of wheat, and backed it home. We had now lived three weeks without bread ; though in the time I had bought a moose of an Indian, which I paid for by selling the shirt off my back and backed the meat five miles, which answered to subsist upon. I would here remark that it was my fate to move on my family at that memorable time called the 'scare season,' which was generally felt through the State, especially in the northern parts in the infant settlements. No grain or provisions of any kind, of consequence, was to be had on the river Lamoille. I had to go into New Hampshire, sixty miles, for the little I had for my family, till harvest, and this was so scanty a pittance that we were under the painful necessity of allowancing the children till we had a supply. The three remaining children that I left in Hydepark, I brought one at a time on my back on snow-shoes, as also the whole of my goods. 
 
 

  “I moved from Connecticut with the expectation of having fifty acres of land given me when I came on, but this I was disappointed of, and was under the necessity soon after I came on of selling, a yoke of oxen and a horse, to buy the land I now live on, which reduced my stock to but one cow; and this I had the misfortune to lose the next winter. That left me wholly destitute of a single hoof of a creature: of course the second summer I had to support my family without a cow. I would here notice that I spent the summer before I moved, in Wolcott, in making preparation for a settlement, which, however, was of no avail to me, and I lost the summer; and to forward my intended preparation, I brought on a yoke of oxen, and left them, when I returned in the fall, with a man in Johnson, to keep through the winter, on certain conditions; but when I came on in the spring, one of them was dead, and this yoke of oxen that I put off for my land was made of the two surviving ones. But to proceed, in the fall I had the good fortune to purchase another cow; but my misfortunes still continued, for in the June following she was killed by a singular accident. Again I was left without a cow, and here I was again frustrated in my calculations. This last cow left a fine heifer calf that in the next fall I lost by being choked. Soon after I arrived, I took two cows to double in four years. I had one of my own besides, which died in calving. In June following, one of those taken to double, was killed while fighting; the other was found dead in the yard; both of which I had to replace. In the same spring, one of my neighbor's oxen hooked a bull of two years old, which caused his death soon after. Here I was left destitute—no money to buy, or article to traffic for one ; but there was a door opened. I was informed that a merchant in Haverhill was buying snake-root and sicily. This was a new kind of traffic that I had no great faith in; but I thought to improve every means or semblance of means in my power. Accordingly, with the help of my two oldest girls, I dug and dried a horse-load, and carried this new commodity to the merchant; but this was like most hear-say reports of fine markets, always a little way a-head, for he knew nothing about this strange article, and would not even venture to make an offer; but after a long conference I importuned with the good merchant to give me a three year old heifer for my roots, on certain conditions too tedious to mention. I drove her home, and with joy she was welcomed to my habitation, and it has been my good fortune to have a cow ever since. Though my faith was weak, yet being vigilant and persevering, I obtained the object, and the wilderness produced me a cow. 

  “When I came into Wolcott my farming tools consisted of one axe and an old hoe. The first year I cleared about two acres, wholly without any team, and being short of provisions, was obliged to work the chief of the time till harvest, with scarce a sufficiency to support nature. My work was chiefly by the river. When too faint to labor, for want of food, I used to take a fish from the river, broil it on the coals, and eat it without bread or salt, and then to my work again. This was my common practice the first year till harvest. I could not get a single potato to plant the first season, so scarce was this article. I then thought if I could but get enough of this valuable production to eat, I would never complain. I rarely see this article cooked, but the thought strikes my mind; in fact, to this day I have a great veneration for this precious root. I planted that which I cleared in season, with corn and an early frost ruined the crop, so, that I raised nothing the first year; had again to buy my provisions. My seed corn, about eight quarts, cost me two and a half yards of whitened linen, yard wide, and this I had to go twenty miles after. Though this may be called extortion, it was a solitary instance of the kind; all were friendly and ready to assist me in my known distress, as far as they had ability. An uncommon degree of sympathy pervaded all the new settlers, and I believe this man heartily repented the act, for he was by no means indigent, and was many times reminded of it by way of reproof. 

  “My scanty supply of bread-corn made it necessary to improve the first fruits of harvest at Lake Champlain, to alleviate our distress, it being earlier than with us. Accordingly, on the last days of July, or first of August, I took my sickle, and set out for the lake, a distance of better than forty miles. When I had got there, I found their grain was not ripe enough to begin upon; but was informed that on the Grand Isle they had began their harvest. I was determined to go on, but had nothing to pay my passage. I finally hired a man to carry me over from Georgia, for the small compensation of a case and two lances that I happened to have with me; but when I had got on to the Island, I found I was still too early. There was no grain ripe here, but I found the most forward I could, plead my necessity, and staid by the owner till I got one and a half bushels of wheat, and worked for him to pay for it; it was quite green: I dried it and set out for home; but my haste to get back prevented my drying it sufficiently. I found a boat bound for Mansfield mills, on the river Lamoille, and got my grain on board, and had it brought there free from expense. I got it ground, or rather mashed, for it was too damp to make meal. I here hired my meal carried on to Cambridge borough for my sickle, and there got it ground the second time, but it was still far from good meal.  From the Borough I was so fortunate as to get it home on a horse. I was a fortnight on this tour. My wife was fearful some accident had happened and sent a man in pursuit of me, who met me on my way home. I left my family without bread or meal, and was welcomed home with tears; my wife baked a cake, and my children again tasted bread. 

  “I had the good fortune to by on trust, the winter after I lost my corn, of a man in Cambridge, twenty-four miles from home, twelve bushels of corn, and one of wheat. This, by the assistance of some kind friends, I got to Esq. McDaniel's. I also procured by digging on shares in Hydepark, twelve or thirteen bushels of potatoes. This grain and potatoes I carried eight miles on my back. My common practice was one-half- bushel of meal, and one-half bushel of potatoes at a load. 

  The singular incidents that took place in getting this grain on, though tedious to mention, may be worthy of notice. Soon after I set out from home, sometime in the month of March; it began to rain, and was a very rainy day and night. The Lamoille was raised—the ice became rotten and dangerous crossing—many of the small streams were broken up. The man of whom I purchased the grain was so good as to take his team and carry it to the mill. The owner of the mill asked me how I expected to get my meal home. I answered him as the case really was, that I knew not. The feeling man then offered me his oxen and sled to carry it to the Park, and I thankfully accepted his kind offer.   He then turned to the miller, and directed him to grind my grist toll free. While at the mill a man requested me to bring a half hogshead tub on my sled up to Johnson. By permission of the owner of the oxen, he put the tub on the sled, and it was a Providential circumstance; for when I came to Brewster's branch, a wild stream, I found it broken up, running rapid and deep. At first I was perplexed what to do. To go across with my bags on the sleds would ruin my meal. I soon thought of the tub; this held about half of my bags; the other half I left on the shore, and proceeded into the branch and crossed with safety. Though I was wet nearly to my middle, I unloaded the tub and returned into the branch, holding the tub on the sled, but the stream was so rapid, the tub being empty, that in spite of all my exertions, I was washed off the sled and carried down the stream, holding on to the tub, for this I knew was my only alternative to get across my load.   At length I succeeded in getting the tub to the shore, though I was washed down the stream more than twenty rods, sometimes up to my armpits in the water, and how I kept the tub from filling in this hasty struggle, I know not, but so it was. The oxen, though turned towards home, happily for me, when they had got across the stream, stopped in the path till I came up with the tub. I then put in the other half of my load, and succeeded in getting the whole across the branch, and traveled on about three miles and put up for the night. Wet as I was, and at that season of the year, it is easy to conceive my uncomfortable situation, for the thaw was over, and it was chilly and cold. In the morning I proceeded for home—came to the river; not being sensible how weak the ice was, I attempted to cross, but here a scene ensued that I can never forget— When about half across the river, I perceived the ice settling under my oxen. I jumped on to the tongue of my sled, and hastened to the oxen's heads, and pulled out the pin that held the yoke. By this time the oxen were sunk to their knees in water. I then sprang to the sled and drawed it back to the shore, without the least difficulty, notwithstanding the load, and returned to my oxen. By this time they had broken a considerable path in the ice, and were struggling to get out.  I could do nothing but stand and see them swim round—sometimes they would be nearly out of sight, nothing scarcely but their horns to be seen they would then rise and struggle to extricate themselves from their perilous situation. I called for help in vain; and to fly for assistance would have been imprudent and fatal. 
 
 

  “Notwithstanding my unhappy situation, and the manner by which I came by the oxen, etc, I was not terrified in the least—I felt calm and composed;—at length the oxen swam up to where I stood, and laid their heads on the ice at my feet. I immediately took the yoke from off their necks; they lay still till the act was performed, and, then returned to swimming as before. By this time they had made an opening in the ice as much as two rods across. One of them finally swam to the down stream side, and in an instant, as if lifted out of the water, he was on his side on the ice, and got up and walked off; the other swam to the same place, and was out in the same way. I stood on the opposite side of the opening, and saw with astonishment every movement. I then thought, and the impression is still on my mind, that they were helped out by supernatural means; most certainly no natural cause could produce an effect like this; that a heavy ox six and a half feet in girth, can of his own natural strength heave himself out of the water on his side on the ice, is too extraordinary to reconcile to a natural cause;—that in the course of Divine Providence events do take place out of the common course of nature, that our strongest reasoning cannot comprehend, is impious to deny; though we acknowledge the many chimeras of superstition, ignorance and barbarism in the world; and when we are eye witnesses to such events, it is not for us to doubt, but to believe and tremble. Others have a right to doubt my testimony; but in this instance for me to doubt would be perjury to my own conscience, and I may add ingratitude to my Divine Benefactor. In fact a signal Providence seemed to direct the path for me to pursue to procure this grain. Though I was doomed to encounter perils, to suffer fatigue and toil, there was a way provided for me to obtain the object in view. In the first onset I accidentally fell in with the man of whom I purchased at the Park. I found he had grain to sell. I requested of him this small supply on trust; we were strangers to each other—a peculiar friend of mine, happening to be by, volunteered his word for the pay. I knew not where or how to get the money, but necessity drove me to make the purchase, and in the course of the winter I was so fortunate as to catch sable enough to pay the debt by the time it was due. Though I hazarded my word, it was in, a good cause—it was for the relief of my family, and so it terminated. But to return, I had not gone to the extent of my abilities for bread corn, but was destitute of meat; and beef and pork were scarcer in those times. Accordingly I had to have recourse to wild meat for a substitute, and had the good luck to purchase a moose of a hunter; and the meat of two more I brought in on shares—had the one for bringing in the other. These two were uncommonly large—were judged to weigh seven hundred weight each. The meat of these three moose I brought in on my back, together with the large bones and heads. I backed them five or six miles over rough land, cut up by sharp ridges and deep hollows, and interspersed with underbrush and windfalls, which made it impracticable to pass with a hand-sled, which, could I have used, would much eased my labor. A more laborious task was this than that of bringing my meal, etc., from the Park. 

  “My practice was to carry my loads in a bag, to tie the ends of the bag so nigh that I could but comfortably get my head through, so that the weight of my load would rest on my shoulders. I often had to encounter this hardship in the time of a thaw, which made the task more severe, especially in the latter part of winter and fore part of the spring, when the snow became coarse and harsh, and would not so readily support the snow-shoe. My hold would often fail without any previous notice to guard against it—perhaps slide under a log or catch in a bush, and pitch me into the snow with my load about my neck. I have repeatedly had to struggle in this situation for some time to extricate myself from my load, it being impossible to get up with my load on. Those who are acquainted with this kind of burden may form an idea of what I had to encounter—the great difficulty of carrying a load on show-shoes in the time of a thaw, is one of those kinds of fatigue that it is hard to describe, nor can be conceived but by experience. It is wearisome at such times to travel without a load; but with one, especially at this late season, it is intolerable; but thaw or freeze my necessities obliged me to be at my task, and still to keep up my burthen. I had to draw my firewood through the winter on a hand sled; in fact, my snowshoes were constantly hung to my feet. 
 
 

  “Being destitute of team for four or five years, and without farming tools, I had to labor under great embarrassments; my grain I hoed in the first three years. After I raised a sufficiency for my family, I had to carry it twelve miles to mill on my back, for the first three years; this I had constantly to do once a week. My common load was one bushel, and I generally carried it eight miles before I stopped to rest.  My wife at one time sold her shirt to purchase a moose hide which I was obliged to carry thirty miles on my back, and sold it for a bushel of corn, and brought the corn home in the same way.