In 1876, Francis McCaffery started his sawmill on Lot 21, Concession 8, near the intersection of Huntley and Flewellyn Roads. The mill was used for many seasons to cut local farmers’ logs into lumber. The mill would close in the winter months and farmers would spend their time felling trees and skidding them out of the bush. The trees were transported on sleighs from miles around just before the spring thaw. 

As soon as the warm weather of spring arrived, the mill would start back up, and logs were cut to meet the owner’s needs. The fee for sawing was paid with lumber from the owner’s stock. After the spring seeding was done, farmers would come by to help with the sawing. They enjoyed meals made by Mrs. McCaffery and ate together with her family.

In the early 1920s, Mrs. Delmar McCaffery wrote a poem about the mill, capturing its story and the people who worked there. A shortened version of the poem was later published by the Stittsville Women’s Institute in Country Tales.

McCaffrey’s Mill

The mill it is a noisy place
As everybody knows,
But the only sound that interests me
Is the whistle when it blows.

Although the mill is somewhat old,
And the roof is covered with boards,
It still is worth its weight in golf,
As long as the old thing goes.

Ellard Seabrook is the teamster,
He sure is proud of his team,
He even keeps in his pocket a duster
To keep the brass harness clean.

Albert Bradley is the sawyer,
A real good hand is he,
And if you’re inclined to doubt this,
I can show you what he’s sawed for me.

I wonder what’s G.B. Healey’s job,
For I really do not know,
But every time I see him,
He’s always on the go.

Tim Creighton is the tail sawyer,
He’s not inclined to sulk,
But when he handles sticky pines,
He sometimes does get stuck.

George Alexander is the boiler man,
An engineer of skill,
He only has to touch some wheels
And they obey his will.

Hammie McCaffery is the boss,
And you should hear him holler,
As he measures the loads of lumber,
And hauls in all the dollars.

This far I’ve rambled on,
And I quite forgot the cook,
Who from morn till noon, from noon till night,
Prepares for the men a dainty bite.

And if you’ve any reason at all,
You’ll agree with me that she beats them all,
Because she their appetites do fill
To keep them working in the mill.