I was born at Corbins Corners, town of Clayton, N. Y., May 10, 1842, in a log house built by my grandfather, Elkanah Corbin, who built the first frame barn in the town of Clayton. He had a temperance raising, a novelty in those days. The barn is still standing. Grandfather came from Vermont and settled in this spot for a future home. This was in the year 1797. Their first house in the forest was built of hemlock bark, the door being grandmother's shawl which protected them night and day from the wolves and other wild beasts.

It must have been lonely in the big forest without a time piece for they had none. Grandfather cut and burned some trees, making a clearing, sowed some wheat, harrowing it with a brush in his hands and when grown, cut it with a hand sickle, threshed it with flail, winnowed it with the wind. He did all this with his hands which yeilded (sic) 40 bushels of wheat. He took the 40 bushels to Utica and sold it for $40 and bought a clock for $40 and as a family relic, my son, Rev. A. B. Corbin of Fulton, N. Y., has the clock in his possession. Today a like clock can be bought for six or eight dollars.

I was one of eleven children, the son of Simeon and Marbery Corbin. I was present on the eventful day of my birth, but memory weakens so far back, but in harmony with tradition the corn must be planted May 10. The day was cold, the ground frozen so hard that it was difficult to break the crust with hoes, but one thing never failed, a big crop of children. My father was a cooper by trade and worked hard to support his family. Some incidents of early life come back to me. I remember my father saying to a neighbor, Mr. Ranney, as they were discussing condition of the country criticizing its extravagance, "Mr. Ranney, I believe the time is coming when it will cost one million dollars to run this government for one year."

Another incident in which we boys escaped a civil war with the townspeople: A big lost dog came into the shop where we boys were and tried to get away. We closed the door on the dog's neck, then tied a pail to his tail and after injecting a good dose of turpentine, we let him go. Did he go? I think he did, down through the town, yelping and crying, scaring horses and pedestrians, bringing wrath on the heads of Corbin boys who scooting from sight until the storm was over.

Another: Depauville hill

Depauville Hill (1930)
found by website owner for accompaniment for this article

I went to school at Depauville. I had to go over a little stream in which were little sunfish and rock bass. Father told me not to fish but hurry home. School let out early one night and then reach home in usual time. I bent up a pin for a hook and I was having lots of fun fishing when all of a sudden I saw father coming. My fun fled away. He said nothing to me. He didn't have to. I ran as fast as my little bare feet and legs could go, but I was badly handicapped as he was a six-footer. His hand held the remedy for disobedience. I made all the noise. He never said a word nor did he ever refer to the matter again. "Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof." Those were the days of "Get there, Eli," not patting.

Depauville school was a problem in which moral suasion was a failure. I was young and had no part in the matters that followed but I remember we had three teachers one winter. The school house stood on a hill with a wall and steps at the base of the hill and had a smooth sliding place from the front door to the steps below some two rods. The room was heated with a four-foot stove and the wood three or four feet long piled outside. The teacher was a young lawyer from Chaumont. Trying to correct a large boy, he got into trouble and a fist fight occurred. The big boys armed with a stick of wood, soldier-like, marched about the building, then halted before a window, would aim and shout. Bany. They grew more bold, got a rail, put the teacher on it, then sent it down the slide, and bob-it-to-bob over the steps. He never came back.

Then they hired Dwane Ormsby, an athlete, who taught the school for 9 days, when he resigned because of typhoid fever. Then a young, bright fellow applied for the school. The board said, "You can't teach the school." He thought he could, and would try if they would give him a chance. The school was called. In the chair quietly sat the young man who nodded as the scholars filed past him. He never said a word. After a little he took a pistol from his pocket, aimed and shot a little card he had placed at the end of the room. After a little time he aimed and shot again. Again he waited. Then shot again. He then turned and said: "School will begin." And it did. He was master while the school regarded him as an automatic machine gun.

When 14 years of age I was overtaken by a man who invited me to ride. I accepted as it was a great relief to the stone bruises on my bare feet. I said to the man, "Don't you want to hire a boy?" He said, "yes, he did," and offered me six dollars a month. I agreed, and the next morning at daylight I was on the job. The man had 24 cows and he and I must milk them. It was a big strain on my little hands and arms, but I stuck to my job.

He made butter. The churn was a big barrel churn operated with a spring pole in the cellar. Churning was my job. I would wash my feet, then stand on the edge of the churn, pull down the dash into the cream, let go the dash, then the pole would pull the dasher back. This was usually a two hour job. The farmer had a yoke of oxen which I learned to drive. He often sent me to the grist mill which was four miles away, to get some grain ground. Old Buck and Bright could make the trip one way in two hours which gave me a chance to take a nap.

When the Civil War broke out I was working with 12 others, 13 in all, for W. H. Wright at Bucks Bridge, N. Y. We all enlisted and I was the only one that came back. All of the others were killed in battle and I was wounded three times in the twenty scraps with the Johnnies, which goes to show the carelessness of the Johnnies in the use of firearms. The incidents and experiences of my army life I will not relate here 'lest my readers get weary and cry halt.

I am now in my 92nd year of life. Why I am here is a mystery only known to a higher power. Religiously, I am a Methodist. I couldn't be anything else. It is in the Corbin blood. My uncle, Rev. Ira H. Corbin, was a member of the now Northern New York Conference. My brother S. C. Corbin was also a member, and my son Rev. A. B. Corbin of Fulton, N. Y., is a member, and my father was what they used to call an exhauster.

M. M. Corbin.