Mother, Sister and I arrived in Salt Lake City in early May, 1890. We came here to live with my grandfather, who had preceded us a few months. Strangely enough, there was a housing shortage at that time; eight of us were obliged to live in a four-room ramshackle adobe house on E Street between 3rd and 4th Avenues. We had a water hydrant in the front yard and a toilet in the back and paid $20 monthly rent.

Grandfather brought a small place on the banks of the Jordan River at the end of 17th South Street (called old 11th South at that time). We moved there within a month, and there life began for me.

Salt Lake City in 1890
Salt Lake City, with 40,000 inhabitants, was rather compactly built within the original plans. The city extended from 8th Avenue south to 9th South and between the Jordan River and 13th East Street. Outside of this area only occasional farm homes were seen.

It was this snugness, nestled along the base of the half encircling mountains to the north and east, that early suggested the name "City Beautiful." The tree-lined streets added color to this setting. It was the scope rather than the detail that was so beautiful.

The temple was not yet completed. Scaffolding surrounded both the east and the west towers, which were about one-third completed. The Deseret News occupied an old dilapidated resident at the present site of the Hotel Utah. Most of the ground now occupied by the Deseret Gymnasium, the Church Office Building, the Presiding Bishopric's Building, Barrett Hall, and the Latter Day Saints' Business College was used for the Tithing Yard. A large part of the tithing was paid by produce, which, in turn, was traded, sold for cash or script in the yard or storehouse. Though some of the buildings were substantial and served their purpose well, they impressed me as a mixture of barnyard, storehouse, store and market place. The beauty was not in the buildings, but in the spirit of the enterprise.

Main Street and 1st South Street comprised the city's business center. The north side of West 1st South was known as "Market Row." Most of the city's produce business was transacted there. Main Street was not paved. Hitching posts were as close then as parking meters are now. A line of poles occupied the center of the street. The poles carried the telegraph, telephone, and street lighting wires and the arms supported the wires for the street cars.

Trees provided shade for those with offices on the west half of the south side of West 2nd South. The trees along this part of the street were cut down and the buildings extended out to the sidewalk in about 1891.

Ticket scalpers, as they were then called, were the principle occupants of that area. California, then, as now, imposed discriminating rates on the railroads, so that for nearby and points east one could purchase a round trip ticket to any point in California for less than a single fare to any midwestern point. The result of this was that people who decided to stay in California or any point in between had their remaining ticket for sale. These sales were handled by the ticket scalpers.

A livery and feed stable was located on the ground now occupied by the north half of the Post Office. Trees were still between the curbing and the sidewalk in the front. Three large plaster homes occupied the sites now used by the New House Building and the New Grand Hotel.

The west side of Main Street, between 4th and 5th South, was one of the show places that would have been a credit to any city. The four grand homes of the Walker Brothers, though of lath and plaster, were beautiful homes that stood in the most elaborate landscape setting that has ever been found in Salt Lake City.

The City and County Building grounds were a public hay market where farmers brought in their loads of unbaled hay, weighed it, and unhitched their horses to let them feed upon the hay until a buyer purchased it.

Liberty Park was a big grove without lawns or flower beds, though one or two open grassy places were used for games. The original setting of the park has been changed little. Most of the trees, with the exception of the big cottonwoods, the conifers, a few box elders, and loleanna poplars have been removed. For example, the north-east section was a solid stand of locust trees very thickly planted. Less that half a dozen remain standing. In appearance, these trees resemble tall and beautiful elms.

A narrow gauge railroad company came into the lower section of town and built their freight depot and freight yards between 8th and 9th South, and West Temple and 2nd West Streets. I cannot recall its official name, but it was known locally as the John W. Young Railroad.

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Our new home was an old three-room brick house which is still occupied. It stands about 200 feet east of the river on 17th South Street which in the 90's was known as 11th South. It being close quarters for eight people, my uncle Dr. Bruce Garrett, veterinarian, built a frame dwelling on the same plot to accommodate himself and family of three.

The Jordan River carried much more water then, and consequently had a broader and more sharply defined channel than today. The banks on the undercut slope were generally vertical and unvegetated, whereas the opposite side was covered with sandbar willows from the stream edge back over the reclaimed channel to the valley floor. But before reaching the valley level, there often was a terrace (or former river level) on which grew an apparently different type of willow, though it may have been only the mature sandbar species. This in contrast to the straight smooth bark of the former, was a rough barked, crooked jointed, top-heavy growth.

On a visit to the river years later I was surprised to find the stream borders almost completely denuded of willows, but was informed they had been gathered for a firm of basket makers. Stands of from on to five acres which were common then, had in some cases given way to farming. Only one such stand remained, that extended one-half mile on the worst side of the Jordan and north of 33rd South Street. It is now rapidly disappearing. Today in many places one cannot tell from a short distance where the river channel is located, and the former sandbars are now mud bars, which support a thick growth of cattails, a plant I never saw on the Jordan River in the 1890's.

Factors contributing to this change are:

• impounding of all Utah County's Spring run-off in Utah Lake, to be diverted through various irrigation projects about the south end of Salt Lake Valley
• the diversion of nearly all of the Salt Lake County streams to city water mains or irrigation canals
• the construction of a succession of dams along the river which retards the current and permits silting along most of its course
• the Surplus Canal, which has been deepened below 21st South, so that there is too little water current to keep the channel washed out. This clogging necessitated the recent dredging to enable the river to carry the precipitation from a storm or handle a Spring flood.

In the 1890's high water did not reach their peak until well into June, sometimes as late as the 20th which on more than one occasion gave us cause for concern, though we had the protection of an old dike that paralleled the river for two miles. It had been built on the east side of the river long before our arrival. The first dredging of the surplus canal was completed about this time, which relieved the old channel of some of its Spring burden.

In the Lombardy poplars which lined the paths about our house, I recall among the nest birds, a small colony of the ever-present English Sparrow, and a most unusual nest of the Arkansas kingbird. This latter had built in the lower clump of branches of the poplar, not over 6 or 7 feet above the ground. We called them bee martins. Another pair of birds that came regularly were Barn Swallows who chose the old barn for their home site. These birds were very tame and seemed as much interested in us children as we were in watching them. When their young were hatched it became the outstanding attraction for visitors to see the new babies. In the yard were plum, apple and pear trees, but I do not recall finding a nest in any of them.

About 1,000 feet up-stream the river current was thrown from the west bank eastward, where it undercut the old willows, causing many clumps to lean out over the stream. Strange as it may seem, a pair of Eastern Kingbirds built their nest in one of these overhanging clumps. We were very much pleased to seen them, since a like pair has nested near the top of a giant oak which stood in the front yard of our former farm in Minnesota.

We felt no concern about hawks so long as the kingbirds were present, and with the hundreds of chickens which we raised each year I believe only one was lost to a hawk. We also noted another pair of kingbirds nesting in the top of a very tall broadleaf cottonwood on 17th South and 6th West Streets. I have a nest record for that same tree for June 8, 1934. The tree has since died.

A pair of Mourning Doves also nested in one of the overhanging willows, not over 50 feet from the kingbirds. A Belted Kingfisher used many of those willows for his perches while fishing and no doubt had a burrow on the opposite steep bank among those of a fairly large colony of Bank Swallows.

A pair of Cinnamon Teal was a common sight in the bend of the river, a Spotted Sandpiper was a regular visitor to our sandbar, while Marsh Hawks, Bobolink, Western Meadowlarks, Brown-headed Cowbirds and Brewer's Blackbirds were the usual birds of our pasture land, but I did not find their nests. Red-winged Blackbird nests were quite common in the younger stands of sandbar willow but were never found in the older growth. The only bird I did find nesting in the large willow was a small flycatcher, probably the Trail's. In the pasture where the Bobolink sang I once found the nest of a rail with such a clutch of eggs--twelve or more. It was a remarkably well made nest in a bunch of wire grass, so completely canopied with old grasses as to be barely visible. I was not then sure of the species, but later I saw the Virginia Rail in the pasture so it no doubt was this bird's nest.

Killdeer, Wilson's Snipe, Great Blue and Black-crowned Night Heron were seen frequently about our fields but I do not recall finding their nests for some years.

The only impressive spectacle of migration was that of the Red-winged Blackbird. I rarely saw a flock following the river on its west side, but flock after flock of from 20 to 100 birds would fly between our barn and the river, a distance of not over 40 feet. They also flew so low it often necessitated their rising to go over our fences or gate.

Just before mowing the redtop meadow each year, we would watch from our front porch when a family of Short-eared Owls were sure to appear. Sometimes seven or eight young could be seen foraging in the fields at sundown, but three or four days later they would disappear.

Not being bird minded that first summer, I seldom went farther afield than the pasture limits. The obsession which claimed me almost completely was fishing. I kept two poles set all the time; one for my sister Arline--who cared nothing for it save the fish which were caught. I looked at the lines before going to bed each night and before eating breakfast and much of the daylight hours were spent watching for a bite.

I caught few fish there and later learned of many better fishing places along the river, but four fish will ever remain fresh in my memory. One day I saw Arline's pole take off for the river but I caught it just in time; on it was a 18 inch trout which weighted nearly two pounds. Two weeks later a similar experience with my own pole found a three pounder on it, which I landed. The third was on sister's line. Three times I threw that big fish to the bank but was unable to hold it. (It is always the biggest fish that gets away.) I made that mistake in landing technique only once again, when fishing many years later on the Strawberry. Later on in the summer I heard a great splash in the water, made by a large trout which I seized with my hands. This one weighted four and one-fourth pounds. It had been injured by a 22 rifle bullet which had entered its head from the upper left side, coming out behind the gill.

This fish was commonly known as the salmon trout owing to the deep pink flesh and reddish brown skin. The first three mentioned were Utah Lake trout, being almost white with flesh only slightly tinted pink.

Regarding these two types of trout it may not be amiss to say that both probably now are extinct so far as Salt Lake and Utah Counties are concerned. I believe seining exterminated the white type which lived in Utah Lake and was in fact a bleached variety of the reddish brown of the Provo River. The last of the Native brown which I saw caught in the Provo was about in 1919, and unless it was restocked by the Strawberry River it is probable they are gone from the Provo. Their speckling was a swastika pattern, I think the same as in the Strawberry fish. (Not quoted as fact but impressions from observations.)

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In 1890 the area from 8th West to the Jordan River and from 13th South to approximately 16th South was known as the Cannon farm. There George Q. Cannon, a prominent churchman of the day, had five homes for his wives and their twenty-five or thirty children. It was a fortunate turn in events for us when several of the Cannon children came to our house one evening to play. Out of the incident a friendship was formed which lasted many years, with only one unfortunate incident to mar our pleasant memories.

From a painting of the George Q. Cannon Farm.

The Cannon boys were not interested in fishing but all were excellent swimmers and enjoyed horseback riding as well. They initiated me into these pastimes and while I never became proficient in either sport, I still did a lot of both. They had a great "swimmin' hole" just west of their old (or the original) farm house, but after Johnnie Ball was drowned in it and measurements showed a depth of thirty-five feet where his body was raised, the elder Cannon forbade any further swimming there. It was thought that Johnnie was stricken with cramps while crossing the deep water. His death was a shock to all. He was nineteen years old and the only son of a widowed mother who conducted a little store on State Street on the southwest corner of either 6th or 7th South.

After this tragedy the boys moved down stream to a new "swimmin' hole" about 150 yards south of the present California Street bridge. That spot was none too safe either, for Herman Bodner was dragged out more dead than alive, and I on one occasion reached the bank in such a state of exhaustion that I could neither climb out nor call for help. Slowly my strength returned as panic and exhaustion subsided, while the boys dressed and left the dressing place in the willows, but Syvie (later Apostle Sylvester Q. Cannon) came to my assistance. I could scarcely whisper but he waited and walked home with me across the fields; a kindness and solicitude I will never forget.

It was high time for the elder Cannon to be acting, for things were going on which might have brought more tragedy. Joseph J. Cannon (later president of foreign missions, editor of the Deseret News and a prominent churchman), dared his brother Sylvester to swim the whirl pools with their feet and hands tied. Accordingly, with hands tied behind their backs and feet and legs bound with young willows and bark, they were carried to the bank and pushed over into the deep water. Both made the crossing safely, but be assured the elder Cannon knew nothing of the episode. Today salt grass grows across the big eddy area and the whirlpools have vanished.

Carl, Preston and Tracy Cannon, who were about my own age, became almost daily visitors to my home; so we soon found an excellent swimming hole north of our place and there we installed a good spring board. Adjoining this area upstream was a shallow place, though with more current, which we selected for the girls' swimming place; it had a splendid clean sandbar. So, then and there was established a regular bathing resort with natural willow arbors conveniently located for change rooms. We boys kept to the deep water most of the afternoons while the girls came later or in the evening and were joined by my sister Arline. Sometimes we had joint swimming parties in the afternoons. On one occasion I almost caused the drowning of one of the Cannon sisters, by insisting upon taking her across the deep water against her wishes. As she went under, I recall her very small brother Georgie calling out "Veowa, Veowa" (Vera) as I called for help from my friend Bert Margetts. Then I slid under Vera, and carried her out of the deep water on my shoulder. As we reached safety, she noticed her bathing cap floating down stream. I retrieved it, but again as I reached the bank I was unable to rise. Another close call.

The George Q. Cannon Family School. L-R (seated): Amelia, William T., Read T., Mary Alice, Joseph J. Sander Saunders (teacher), Brigham T. Hester. L-R (standing): Charlie Davey, David H., Hugh J. Sylvester Q., Willard T., Emily, Angus J., Rosannah, Lewis T.

So, with fishing, swimming, horseback riding--and always accompanied by a pack of hungry dogs--our crowd grew until forty or fifty young people in the group was not uncommon. Bert Margetts scarcely missed a day's visit during the summer months and generally we spent each weekend together during the school term. Why did he and other children leave beautifully appointed homes to go to Charlie's place where there was so little of life's niceties? The answer; there they could live the lives that boys like to live. No one thought of bringing a "put up" lunch, but when eating time came--which was usually as soon as the gang assembled--one group would scoop out a place on the bank for the fire and sometimes a fish was caught, wrapped in mud and baked. "What a mess" women would say. There was seldom salt, butter or bread, cooking or eating utensils, but all ate and ate and enjoyed it. There were many springs of fresh water along the river which were generously consumed from dippers made from willow bark.

While in Minnesota I had learned to trap gophers, so of course my trap lines were a thing of intriguing interest to my visitors. When nothing else popped up, we could always follow the traps. Once a cottontail rabbit was caught, but its mute suffering so sickened me that I never set another trap for a rabbit. Acting on my first impulse, I killed it to free the little animal from its misery. On later thought I would have liberated it, and have always wished I had done so.

Gophers and muskrats were common catches, with an occasional skunk. One incident with the latter is still a pungent memory, for I was ordered to the barn to change raiment. The next thing was to bury the fumed clothes in dry dirt, but after a week's internment there was so little improvement they were reinterred for good and I quit trapping skunks.

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When I was about four years old, my maternal grandfather came to Minneapolis where we were living. Father and I were not on the best of terms at the moment, since he had given me a switching which mother said was undeserved, so I asked to return home with Grandpa. Mother and Arline joined me in making our home with Grandma and Grandpa Garrett on their farm near Mankato, Minnesota, a small town eighty or ninety miles south-west of Minneapolis. Four years later Father paid us a parting visit upon leaving for Syracuse, New York, where he spent most of his remaining years. However, so long as he was employed, he remembered us children with sims (my name for money) and well chosen Christmas presents.

When I wrote father about our new home on the Jordan River with its fishing and ducks, what should he do but send me a gun! A Remington twenty-two calib single-shot rifle. I was very proud of this acquisition and shot several boxes of cartridges without doing damage. I gave up much of my fishing and carried the gun constantly.

On that third day while driving the cow, who moved far too slowly, I gave her a whack with the gun, which parted stock and barrel. I felt terribly upset at this misfortune, as did all my family. However, the next morning my Uncle Bruce took me to the Browning Brothers' Gun Store, where, to my great surprise and delight, the manager replaced it with a new gun from his case, stating that the manufacturers would make it right with him, since he thought the steel reach from the stock to the breech was defective. He also gave me a warning and an admonition not to use it on cows, and all had a good laugh at my expense.

A few mornings later Sister and I were walking around the muskrat pond when a duck flew out onto the water. I fired without aiming and killed her. I took a long willow and towed the bird to shore, and when near the bank four little ducklings scampered out of the grasses past their dead mother. I dropped the willow and ran home crying, "Grandma, I've done something I'll never get over." After my relating the circumstances, she laughed and patted me, saying the little ducks would get along nicely, and if I would return carefully, I probably would find them paddling about having a good time. This proved to be the case, so I retrieved the mother bird, took her home, and dressed her for dinner the following day. Later on I returned to see how the motherless babies were faring. This time I saw an adult duck asleep on the water. I crept closer and as she awakened and started swimming away I shot the top of her head off. I must have been pretty nervous for I had aimed carefully at the body. Having tasted blood, I was prepared for anything beastly.

The following day we found four ducklings dead in the grass where we or the dogs had tramped about the previous day. I watched the four live ones until they were able to fly, then shot them, one each day. By the time they were gone, I had found another small brood of three in an adjoining field and one a day they followed their little duck relatives into our oven.

In similar fashion the kingfisher and the spotted sandpiper that lived in the "Bend" above our house fell, to my lasting shame and remorse. The savage inside me seemed unrestrained. A Virginia rail, some killdeers, two or three Wilson snipes, a flicker, several meadowlarks and red-winged blackbirds were also victims of the fiend. To anything reported to be "game" or "bad" I showed no mercy.

One night I heard a cat across the river. It seemed to be in distress, lost, hungry, or what not. I waded across and brought her to the house, and what a fine cat she proved to be. We already had one cat, Old Gray, with a litter of kittens, but she was a poor provider, so the new cat cheerfully took it upon herself to provide food for the cat family. As she came out of the meadow into the open with a mouse in mouth, she would announce herself, and Old Gray would often meet her and bring in the mouse for her little ones. Tort was a large cat, white underneath and tortoise shell on the back. Never have I seen anything which so portrayed the spirit of the huntress as when she came into view, head high, treading on air, announcing her success with a mouse in her mouth. There was another being who did not look so heroic, but felt that way just the same--yours truly, bringing in a snipe, a duck, or a half-dozen blackbirds.

The following winter I picked up an injured snow bunting, which I took home to care for. When petting and promising it so much, it fluttered out of my hand and was caught by Tort before it could reach safety. A tragedy. I wished I had left it with its own, the only flock of buntings I have ever seen in Utah.

A great blue heron lit on the opposite side of the river from my uncle's house. I asked Grandpa for his old muzzle-loading shot gun so I could shoot it. It was my first try with a shot gun. I broke the heron's wing close to the body. It floundered out into the stream where I pursued it and killed it with a club before it reached deep water. I cut off the wings and stretched and dried them with hot flat irons thinking they would make a great ornament for Grandma's bedroom or parlor (and she always acquiesced to my wishes). To this great wing spread on the south wall I later added the wings of a night heron, a redtailed hawk, several species of ducks, a Virginia rail, killdeer, Wilson snipe, meadowlark, red-winged blackbird and a California quail. This quail, the only one I ever saw on the Jordan River in the 90's, flew into our potato patch during a snow storm and took shelter under the dry potato vines. But not for long. I was soon after it and as it took wing, I shot it. Poor little fellow, and all other unfortunate ones who seek sanctuary when there is a boy and a gun.

My second experience with Grandpa's shot gun was a flying shot at a marsh hawk that was hawking about the place. I waited at the gate, with gun cocked, as she came toward me and suddenly swooped upwards in front of me. I raised the gun but somehow my finger on the trigger was doing some of the lifting; this caused the gun to discharge on its way to my shoulder. There was a scared hawk and a surprised and pained boy, for the recoil caught my right biceps. I thought my arm was broken, but for some soreness nothing worse happened and no lesson was learned.

So that you may know the old gun carried a real wallop, I relate one incident as proof. I was awakened by a shot which seemed to have come from our backyard. Dressing hastily in shirt and overalls, I ran outside just as Grandpa was coming around a shed. "Did you shoot something, Grandpa?" I yelled excitedly. ______ stands for his favorite swear word, and then I looked at him. Mud was from his beard down with water dripping; even the old gun was hardly recognizable for the mud. As he entered the house, Grandma said, "Why Pa, what's happened?" As the wet clothing was changed for dry and his chattering became controllable, he laughingly related how he had been noticing quite a flight of ducks along the river just after day break, so he thought he would venture a shot. Posting himself in an advantageous position for landing his bird on the ground, he waited. A large flock was soon on its way right over him, but following them was a flock of larger ducks much lower. He waited and took his shot at them. In so doing he took the recoil at such an angle that it kicked him into the river. It was a gooey clay bank, over which he slid and had to climb out on to reach dry ground--which made him such a spectacle.

In those days I could buy fifty twenty-two short cartridges for fifteen cents and fifty longs for twenty-five cents, so most of my hunting was done with the twenty-two. Seldom having more than twenty-five cents for powder and shot for the muzzle loader, I rarely used it unless ducks were spotted on the river. On one occasion, upon returning from Sunday school, I saw a large flock of ducks resting on the bank north of the house. I hit three but recovered one, but then I had to set off for school. That evening I walked to the dam at 21st South, crossed it, and recovered one duck which the dog had carried to the farther bank since it was closest. The third I lost completely. This entailed a walk of sixteen blocks after our regular twenty-eight block walk to and from the school we attended at State Street.

I joined a hunter one day, and as we were walking across an old wild hay meadow, talking the while, my gun discharged missing my left foot only by a few inches. Another close call occurred when I raised my gun to aim at a couple of mallards as my companion, Bert Margetts, swung his gun into line and hit me on the side of the head with the barrel, knocking me down, but he shot one of the ducks. (Years later my sister sold my rifle but the old muzzle loader is still in my basement museum, a sight for the younger generation to look upon.)

One morning I saw an eagle sitting in the south pasture. Big game like that required heavier artillery, I argued so I borrowed my uncle's 45-70 Sharp army rifle. The barrel was long and so heavy that I could not hold it without a rest. In the field there was none except such as I could improvise by resting one elbow on my knee. I took as careful aim as possible and fired. I never knew what became of the eagle. It was not there when I looked toward the place where it had been, I did not see it fly away. The answer must lie in the time consumed in getting myself together again. The gun was in the grass in front of me while I faced the opposite direction from where I aimed at the eagle. I do not recall using that rifle again.

A short time after that incident, my uncle called from the road for me to bring the gun. Again, a golden eagle sat in a pasture about 500 feet north of 17th South at about 9th West. I soon was on the spot with the twenty-two. I made no effort to stalk for a close shot, but I slid under the fence and took aim. I do not know if I hit the bird or not; it jumped a little at the shot. Nor can I explain why I dropped the gun and ran after the bird. I caught the eagle with my hands while Uncle Bruce yelled to me to "look out" and to "be careful," but I carried the eagle to a buggy, a wild-eyed and excited boy. The bird had such a hold on my pants that it had to be cut loose. I kept him in our coal shed where he lived several months. A third golden eagle was seen in the church farm pasture near a dead calf. It had not eaten of it nor had it killed the calf. These were the only eagles I ever saw along the river.

One Sunday morning while on my way to Sunday school, crossing the same field where I caught the eagle, I saw a small owl sitting on a fence post. I threw my pocket knife, knocking the little fellow off his perch. I recovered it before it could fly and put it in my pocket. After class I asked the kids if they would like to see an owl. To their great surprise I took one, a little fellow, out of my pocket; they all thought owls were great big birds. I do not recall recovering my knife; there was snow on the ground.

So, with pressed bird wings on Grandma's walls, the golden eagle in the coal shed, the little owl in another shed, pigeons in the barn, rabbits in hutches, turkeys, ducks and several varieties of chickens, with fishing and hunting, with swimming and camping, the little old place on the Jordan River had become the gathering place for all the kids and their friends of the west side. To see the eagle eat was one of the features, but it required help in feeding. One day we fed it a muskrat, which it stretched into shreds and then swallowed whole. Added to this were forty-seven frogs, believe it or not. Of course, the frogs were fed throughout the day.

One other firearm which came into my possession was a thirty caliber four barrel pistol. However it disappeared one day, and I felt that it had been heaved into the river by some member of the family as a safety precaution.

I will close this chapter with one more senseless and useless killing. I had made a baseball by wrapping string around a rubber ball center and having the shoemaker sew a leather cover on it. It would bounce off a cat like a meteor, and it was one of my prize possessions. One day the Cannon boys were on the river bank at the back of their farm when they saw a muskrat on the opposite bank. Without thought or purpose and acting on an impulse of hitting a target, I threw my precious ball, hit the animal on the shoulder and killed it instantly. "Some throw," the boys said. I recovered the ball but I had no use for the muskrat. It no doubt was foraging for food for its young in their nest nearby.

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Perhaps I suggested bird books to my father, although I do not recall; but along came two volumes called Nuttall's Ornithology. Father always tried to do a good job, especially in his selection of books for us children.

Dr. Montague Chamberlain of Harvard University had just brought these off the press, so their being the latest from a top authority and our top school, it seemed that they were the best. These books are compiled from the bird notes found in Nuttall's Manual. Dr. Chamberlain published these books separately, and he added footnotes to bring each subject up-to-date.

Dr. Thomas Nuttall came to America from England in 1808. Between the years 1825 and 1834 he held the position of curator of the Botanic Garden and Lecturer of Natural History at Harvard University. Later he inherited a legacy, which required his residence in England. Accordingly, he returned to England in 1842 and enjoyed his legacy (we hope) until his death in 1985 at 73 years of age.

His volumes are a far cry from Peterson's revision of his eastern bird guide. Such a concept of bird study was not yet born. Nuttall's books are for the collector and bird student, not a field guide book for one with binoculars, although his songs and call notes are often well defined. I found these books helpful in naming birds that I had killed for game or because they were "bad" (those that caught chickens, ate fish, robbed other birds' nests or drove away songbirds). Nuttall's books were helpful in identifying birds with striking plumages, such as members of the blackbird family, but when it came to naming birds of nondescript plumages (the sparrow family, for example), I was lost.

Nests and eggs are well described, and this offered a new field for me. My uncle somehow had acquired an egg-blowing outfit for which he had no use, so I took it and set about to gather a collection of bird eggs. The idea of a full clutch did not occur to me, nor would it have had an appeal, so I decided upon pairs--a pair of carefully matched eggs of each species. This would not wholly frustrate the bird's effort and in most cases would most likely not even be missed. (We do like to justify our questionable acts with alibis.)

I started in our barnyard, largely for comparative purposes, so a pair of matched turkey eggs headed the list in size. Peking ducks and Brahma chickens were next in the order of the size of their eggs, followed by Plymouth Rock, Buff cochin, Langshan, white and brown Leghorns, black Spanish and Monoricas, and Bantams. Some Guinea hens and tame pigeons completed the domestic collection.

Wild ducks were represented only by the Mallard, Northern Pintail and Cinnamon Teal. The American Coot and possibly the Virginia Rail represented the marsh birds, although I do not recall if I found the rail nest before beginning the collection.

The shorebird eggs were all collected at one time from the shore of White Lake, but I was unable to name them. Nests were common, so I selected a pair of each variety with hopes of identifying them at some future date, but that time never came. As I recall, they probably consisted of Killdeer, Willet, American Avocet, Black-necked Stilt, and possibly the Spotted Sandpiper. Forster's Terns were screaming about, so I thought some of the nests were theirs; but in this I no doubt was mistaken. I do not know how I reached home with them intact, since I found a lost lamb on that trip and carried it too. These eggs added much color to my collection and were the only ones not named.

That trip entailed quite an effort, since it necessitated my walking to the 21st South Street dam to cross the river, then out across the flats to about 20th West Street, and back by the 7th South Street bridge and home to 17th South. All the day, while carrying a lamb and a box of eggs, I without a lunch or even a drink of water until I reached the river. This experience, just for the questionable naming of 3 or 4 varieties of bird eggs, was one best not to be repeated.

Both Eastern and Arkansas Kingbirds and a small flycatcher (probably the Traill's) were represented. Barn and Bank Swallows (the latter was given to me by Carl Cannon), a Catbird, an American Robin and an English Sparrow are all I recall up to the blackbird family. This family contained my most complete representation--Cowbird, Yellow-headed, Red-winged, and Brewer's Blackbirds, and the Bullock's Oriole. The latter also was given to me by Carl. It was taken from a nest in the black willow row at the rear of his home on the Cannon farm. I do not remember what finches and sparrow eggs I had, but they were not many--possibly the Willow Goldfinch and the Savannah and Chipping Sparrows.

This was a very small collection as collections go, but quite impressive to a bunch of youngsters; and it had to be viewed by all newcomers into our party, and occasionally it was seen again by all the group.

I kept the eggs in the top drawer of an old commode with the bottom covered with a layer of clean hardwood sawdust. In this I arranged my pairs in rows from large down to smallest and the reverse back, so the rows were straight and balanced. As I remember, there were over 40 species, including the barnyard fowls.

A few years ago I met one of the Cannon boys at his beautiful home in the Cottonwood bottoms. He was not one who was interested in collecting bird eggs at that time. "Still chasing birds, Charles?" he asked. "And what ever became of your wonderful collection of bird eggs?" I had been very proud of them and you may see from the above how another was impressed with something so unusual that it lived these fifty years in his memory.

What did become of my collection? I do not know! I left Salt Lake for a few years after the turn of the century, and when I returned it was not any more.

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On about 7th West and extending north from 33rd South nearly to Mill Creek was the old Church Farm Lake. Some cattails are still present, and two or three drain ditches carry considerable water into the main ditch the whole area south of Mill Creek.

I never visited this lake, and I saw it only once or twice when driving along 33rd South (then known as 13th South). It looked small, but Joe Chamberlain preferred it above all others for duck shooting, though his brother Jack, a more ardent hunter and a much better shot, preferred the mouth of the Jordan River.

When the hunting season opened as early as September 1, it could well have been one of the top places before cold weather set in; food conditions were good and it was close to the Jordan River, which was a favorite line of flight. Other swamp lands to the north could also have contributed to making it a regional center for concentrations of surface-feeding ducks.

The outlet was probably to the north, or it may be more correct to say the lake once continued north as sloughs. In the open fields on both sides of 21st South between 2nd and 5th West one can still see the continuous line of depressions once occupied by these sloughs, with the higher ground that then was small islands.

The grading of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad cut off this channel from Church Lake just north of Mill Creek. About 2,000 feet west of the D&RG tracks at Mill Creek is a low area into which some of the Mill Creek water is still diverted. This low area continues to 21st South and west, from where it still may be seen. (A remnant of the old grove one-half mile south remains, where stood the farm house, barns and sheds.) This depression constituted the old Church Farm slough in my days on the river, and what a place it was for birds--especially for the yellow head nests I could find. I do not recall my counts, but one to two-hundred nests would not be far amiss.

Besides my own collection of two eggs I occasionally took single eggs from nests for other boys who wanted them. Coot eggs seemed the most in demand, so I continued taking eggs from one nest until quite late in the nesting season. But I always found the mother bird laying, endeavoring to make her clutch complete. On my last visit there I was pained to find that a cow had walked into the nest, destroying it. This convinced me that birds had enough to contend with without man's interference.

Cinnamon Teal were also a common sight, and the pumping American Bittern was more often heard than seen.

I contracted some very irritating rashes on my legs from wading these sloughs after the weather became warm. On two occasions it was necessary to stay in bed for two days. The third time the rash was not so bad, so I bore with it until it disappeared rather than get a deserved scolding and be put to bed again.

But how I loved wandering along with a dog (and I still do) to such places, and I generally took off for the day if no one showed up by 9:00.

The Church Farm slough drained into a ditch on 21 South, from where it went east and joined another coming from the east at 6 West, where the combined waters made a flow 6 feet wide and a foot or more deep. This ditch continued north on 6 West to 13 South where it met a small drain from the east and there was diverted west on the south side of 13 South to the Jordan River. The north side of 13 South was another deep ditch 8 or 10 feet wide. This extended from 7 East to the Jordan River, but the main water supply which reached State Street about one block south of 13 South was carried to the Jordan River in the drain ditch on the combined flows of Parley's, Emigration and Red Butte canyons. This ditch has long been encased in concrete, and few know they are walking over a running stream.

One day Henry Sproul took a salmon trout that weighted 5 1/2 pounds to school. He found the fish dead on the shoals where the streams met State Street. As late as 1910 or 1912 I fished down 13 South to the river and caught 2 trout from under the Main Street bridge. Each trout was nearly a foot long.

On the south side of 9 South from State Street to the Jordan was the largest of the ditches, but it carries less water than any of them. Evidently it had done its work of draining before I came here. I walked along its banks for years without seeing a fish large enough to bother with. After returning to Salt Lake from one of my sojourns, I was surprised to find a 5 foot concrete conduct replacing the old canal and carrying the dignified name of "storm sewer."

At 1017 South State, where the Heath Motor Camp is now located, was once a prize-winning vegetable garden during the summer months; until recent years part of it was flooded from nearby springs during freezing weather for Heath's skating rink. I remember, too, the real estate project centered about 4 East and 17 South, called "Waterloo." Farmer's Ward was once considered some of the finest and richest land in the valley. The Christopherson nurseries were located on State Street just north of the County Hospital where the soil was black, while a track with red and loamy soil was between Main and West Temple streets south of 13 South. This was owned by Mr. Rigby (whose old home still stands on 17 South between Main and West Temple streets). Doubtless this was once in the overflow area of Red Butte and Parley's creeks.

Another slough area paralleled both sides of the D&RG railroad from Mill Creek north to 13 South. The deeper water was in the barrow pits that were excavated to make the railroad grade. This was allowed to overflow sufficiently to grow the meadows of wild hay that were on both sides of 17 South between 3 and 6 West streets. When mown, the hay was stacked on the highest ground south of 17 South at about 6 West. Bull rushes and cattails grew along 17 South as well as along both sides of the tracks.

The Coot and Red-winged Blackbirds were the common birds here, and the Bittern was still heard, but the yellow-head preferred the Church Farm; so I do not remember seeing one above 17 South.

On the south side of 13 South and east of the tracks once stood the ice house of the Salt Lake Ice Company. If you care to investigate, you may still find the square banks of the ponds where ice was cut to be stored in sawdust in nearby buildings. The company advertised mountain water ice. Mild winters forced them to procure their ice up Park City way, and it was shipped on the Park City branch railroad and stored for summer use. As a closing thought for this area, my brother-in-law and I used to fish from the Park City tracks near their junction with the main line below 21 South, and we generally carried home a good string of sun fish. That was during the summers of 1904 and 1905. A hard winter followed, and it froze to the bottom of the lake, killing every fish.

Some distance to the north was Beck's Lake, on the east side of the Jordan River. It was formed from the flow of Beck's Hot Springs and Warm Springs (now called the Wasatch), and some small fresh water springs that have either been drained or have ceased flowing. The lake was located in the shallow depressing just west of the present Beck's bath house.

There was little open water, not over a square block, but quite a grass-covered area to the north-west was flooded, according to Arthur Bader. From the highway, it did not impress one as being up to much, and I never saw many birds of any kind on it. Some old time hunters, however, relate that it did not freeze enough to kill all its water life. While walking over that area some years ago, I was surprised to find a number of clam shells over two inches in diameter. The area was drained about 1900. So much for the north lakes.

There were some small ponds on the west side of the Jordan north of 33 South where Bert Fisher and I fished for chubs one late April day, with plenty of success. (While there we found the nest of a meadowlark containing six eggs.) But the biggest and most uniform body of water was Decker's Lake, which has withstood all drainage threats until this summer. It now is dry as a bone, but it will be re-flooded for a sports program of boating and amphibious airplane landing if plans carry through. North Decker's and south of 21 South were some narrow ponds that were known as the "strips." They have long been dry. Bert Margetts and I were passing there when a flock of Northern Pintails obligingly lit nearby. Bert was on the south side of the pond, and decided on an approach from behind a herd of cattle that were almost within shooting range. This worked admirably, and he soon was in the herd, but not quite close enough for a good shot; so he singled out a young heifer to hide behind, and, by twisting her tail he guided her in the desired direction. The point reached, he let go of her tail, cracked his gun and knelt to take careful aim. But then, as only a cow can, she let loose with both feet in the air, sprawling Bert on his back with both feet in the air and discharging both barrels of the gun at a duckless sky.

Less than a half mile west of Decker's was Porter's Lake, with well defined shorelines, but quite early it had been drained into Decker's Lake. It was a favorite hunting spot for Arthur A. Bader, who is known to many members of the Utah Audubon Society as the former custodian of the New State Gun Club west of Woods Cross. Further west are the Copper Lakes, known then as Moon, Nelson, McIntyre and Haines Lakes; and still further west, almost to Magna was the Riter Lake. Most of these Cooper Lakes drained west into Riter Lake.

North of 21 South at about 58 West was a large shallow body of water called Sudbury's Lake, named for a Mr. Sudbury whose home was at the north end of a long line of trees in what is now the western part of the small arms plant area. The outlet was generally northwestward, finding its devious way to the Utah Power and Light Company transformer station, and then it swung back to the old Williams Lake. (This information is furnished by Arthur Bader, who hunted there when he was a boy. I do not recall seeing it.)

White Lake was situated between California Avenue and 5 South and about one-half a mile west of Redwood Road. The Rapid Transit Street Car System built its line to it. It was a popular skating place in winter, and it was considered good hunting in season of mild winters; it had a grandstand and race track for summer interests. The lake was finally drained into the surplus canal. When I worked in the market as a boy, Johnie Weinegar, a market hunter, generally brought his ducks to our place for sale. Most of his hunting was done on White Lake as long as it was unfrozen or on the canal. Many of his ducks were thin, so he made us take them in pairs--a thin one and a fat one.

Northwest about a mile was the beginning of a series of small lakes. The Saltair Railroad passed through one which became know as Saltair Lake. However I have often heard of it referred to as Walker's Lake. Most of the water from Sudbury, Decker's and White Lakes eventually drained into this series. William's, the largest, lay mostly north of North Temple. All these have been drained in the cause of mosquito abatement, but their drainage has gone into the lakes farther north, Clover, Black, Hawk, Rudy, Halleran and Crystal Lakes. These latter, however, are now almost wholly dependent upon the waters of the surplus canal.

One of the early explorer writers refers to these waterways as former Jordan River channels. Some of them doubtlessly were. I know of one perfect example of the Jordan River cutting into the Stewart ranch about a mile northwest of the northwest line of our airport field. It even has the Jordan curves, but I am of the opinion these marshes once carried a heavier water load than now, and that they could easily have carved the many channels to the Great Salt Lake.

The pioneer knew he was on the desert, but I'll bet he was worried with water as often as he was worried without it. A heavy clay bottom, however, may have been the one redeeming feature of these many, many channels that he had to cross getting out of the Salt Lake Valley.

The two lakes and the marshes east of the Jordan were heavily vegetated with marsh grasses, cattails and bullrushes; but those in the west side were unvegetated, except for salt grass around their borders. I think White Lake received its name from the white alkaline shoreline.

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The History of Christmas Bird Counts
In Utah

Christmas Bird Counts (CBC) have been an event in Utah since the turn of the century. The Utah Audubon Society, now Great Salt Lake Audubon, started their CBC participation in 1937. Consider joining GSLA for the Salt Lake City and Jordan River CBC's, and participate in one of the fun and exciting traditions of National Audubon and local chapters nationwide.

Western Grebe.

The following historical recounting of the Christmas Bird Counts that have taken place in Utah is from Dr. William H. Behle's book, Utah Birds: Historical Perspectives and Bibliography. It is reprinted here with permission from the Utah Museum of Natural History.

Christmas Bird Counts "Apparently, the first CBC in Utah was made by S.H. Goodwin (1904c) at Provo, in December 1903. The nationwide census started in 1900, for which year 25 reports were sent in. Interest rapidly increased, for there were 34 reports in 1901, 53 in 1902, and 78 in 1903. Goodwin's report was, therefore, one of the very early accounts. ... Twenty-five species and 694 individuals were tallied."

"Presumably, censuses were made around Salt Lake City for a few years when the Utah Audubon Society was organized in 1912. Clarence Cottam(1928c) conducted a CBC at Provo in 1927, and again in 1928(Cottam, 1929c). Even before the revival of the Utah Audubon Society, Charles Lockerbie (1933c, 1934k, 1935d, 1936, 1937b) made CBC's in Salt Lake City, commencing in 1932. Starting in 1937, the counts were under the auspices of the Utah Audubon Society."

"Lockerbie sent the data in to national headquarters each year for publication in Audubon Field Notes or The Season, whatever the department in Bird-Lore was called at the time. The exception was a 5-year interval when, as a matter of principle, he strongly objected to each participant being charged $0.50 cents(now $5.00), the funds being used to help defray publication costs."

"Usually, about 85 species were found on each CBC, depending on weather conditions and the number of participants, which usually numbered from 12 to 35. Several times, with good weather and thorough coverage, more than a hundred kinds of birds were found. The highest count was 107 different species."

Source: William H. Behle, Utah Birds: Historical Perspectives and Bibliography. Salt Lake City, UT: Utah Museum of Natural History, University of Utah, 1990.
Cited with permission.

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