Submitter’s note: This story was written by Chattie Wade Miller.

The old road from Helmsburg to Nashville, which crosses Bean Blossom Creek south of Helmsburg and winds through the foothills of Nashville, was known as the Peddler’s Wagon Road” in my mother’s day. My mother was Mary Jane Snider Wade (1861-1940).

At some time during the 1940s or 1950s — maybe earlier — a peddler who came from the east, south of Nashville, traveled this road. His wagon was one of the old-fashioned peddler’s covered wagons, and of course, bumping along over clay-topped Brown County roads he drove a big, strong team of horses. He made this trip every two or three months, carrying articles which were nonperishable, but much needed by the isolated housewife. As was the custom then, he spent the night in different homes along the route.

He stopped coming. He was missed and inquiries were made but no one seemed to know anything about him. When his family came from his home to find him, he was traced along the road to within one mile south of what is now Helmsburg. Up one of the ravines south of Helmsburg, hardly visible from the road, stood an old cabin where a man, somewhat of a recluse and considered rather a hard old character, lived alone. He was suspected, but nothing could be proven, though during the inquiries it was reported he had been known to sell a nice team of horses down in Monroe County — quite a long way to trace in that day.

However, the peddler’s wagon never ceased coming and we would go to the front door to see who was passing, as lonely country folks were known to do, but no wagon would come.

As a child, I went with my mother to visit a Rebecca Long who had grown up in that immediate vicinity and I heard her tell my mother the following: In the old days, in the summertime, country women often carried their washing to the creek, where in some manner a kettle was hung, and a fire built under it to heat the wash water. The creek flowed by the side of the road, not too far from my home. I and my sister did the washing in this manner. Since there was little traveling, we would set the tub in the middle of the road, where it was more convenient. Many a time, when we would be scrubbing away, we would hear a wagon coming, rattle, rattle, bang over the rough road. We would hurry and move the tub, but no wagon would come.

As a girl, my mother often rode horseback over this road to visit her great-aunt, Eliza Baughman. One morning she was riding her father’s big black stallion which would let nothing pass him. She heard a wagon coming just behind her, and she said she knew the horse heard it too, as he perked up his ears and galloped away. When she left the Nashville Road to climb the Lanam Hill to her aunt’s home, she paused to look back, where she had a clear view of the road behind her, and no wagon was to be seen.

My father, Douglas Wade, was night watchman at a factory in Helmsburg for awhile. He said any number of nights he would hear a wagon coming and could walk to the front of the building but could see nothing on the road.

My own experience with this peddler’s wagon occurred when we were practicing our senior play for graduation from Helmsburg High in 1915.

One evening, after practice, a group of us walked to the old iron bridge over Bean Blossom creek and stood there laughing and talking. I was spending the night with my girlfriend, Ina Conrad, whose home was on top of the hill just beyond the bridge. It was a beautiful moonlit night. While standing there, we heard horses’ hooves, squeaking harness, and wagon wheels in the gravel coming up the ramp onto the bridge. We all stood back as close to the bridge railing as we could to give it ample room to pass and waited — but no wagon came. We had all heard it so distinctly that the boys walked down the ramp to the creek on both sides of the bridge to see if some vehicle had pulled down to the bank of the creek. There was no wagon.

What all of us heard that evening remains a mystery.

Submitted by Pauline Hoover, Brown County Historical Society

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Tonight, we launch; where shall we anchor?

Shall our voyage peaceful be,

Shall the waves be fair and tranquil,

As our bark floats out to sea?

With ambition as our Captain, as our Pilot, conscience keep,

And with patience, let us conquer

Storms which rise from out the deep.

Though the waves be rough and rugged

Breakers dash and billows roar,

Let’s spread our sails and still sail onward

Sail, until we’ve sighted shore.

Oh, may he who stilled the waters

On the sea of Galilee

Guide our bark, until it’s anchored,

And still the waves for you and me!

Written for the first Helmsburg High School commencement in 1915 by Chattie Elinor Wade Miller

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