| The drag consisted of three wooden bars on each side, each bar set with iron teeth one foot apart. The two parts were joined by an iron hinge. The drag was eight feet wide and was pulled by a team of horses with the hitch at the corner so that no teeth followed in the line of those just ahead. Each time the drag was lapped one-half. This usually covered the grain as the ground was all new and was very fertile and worked easily. A boy from seven years old up usually drove the team with the drag, for there were more children than anything else in many of these early homes. They were put to work at a very early age, and woe to the boy who loitered or crowded the drag to cover the ground more quickly. Oats were sowed in the same manner.
Corn was planted in the most primitive fashion. The ground was plowed and then dragged, after which it was marked off by a wooden marker consisting of three two-inch oak runners with boards nailed across to hold them together and hounds nailed on so the wagon tongue could be used to draw it. Then the driver took the straightest side of the field and drove across, setting stakes at each end and in the middle at proper intervals to make all rows uniform. When this was finished the field was crossed by the same marker fast enough to keep the planters busy between showers, for it usually rained a good deal in May, the planting month.
The planting began. At first, when the children were young, the neighbors changed work, so they could be together and visit while working. The talk usually concerned politics and other neighborhood matters, even gossip, but mostly religion. Our neighborhood was intensely religious, and mostly Methodists from Ohio and Indiana, although a few Scotch to the west and east were Presbyterians of the old school.
The women or children did the dropping which consisted of following the mark and dropping three or four kernels in each cross made by the marker. The men followed with hoes and covered the kernels, adding a few seeds to fill any missed hills, but the dropper who missed a hill soon heard of it and the old Puritan lash or switch was often used as a reminder. Some patted the hill with the hoe blade while other tread on it. Wet or muddy ground was never planted until dry.
When the corn showed three or more blades cultivation commenced. The tool was a wooden beam plow with one very large diamond-shaped shovel or two small ones pulled by one horse. It went twice between the rows. When a boy got big enough to use this tool he thought he was quite a man, but if he left any hill covered or allowed the horse to tramp it down or plow it out, there was trouble. The water carrier was a censor of all mishaps or carelessness.
This cultivation was carried on until the corn was in bloom, or silk they called it, when it was “laid by” and the harvest of the small grain was begun.
About the time of the Civil War, my father used a hand rake reaper called the Dunleith. It was mounted on four wheels—a master wheel, a small wheel to support the platform, and two wheels in front. The master cog was attached to the spokes of a large wooden wheel with a bevel cog around the outside, driving the sickle with same motion as now. The reel was driven by means of a leather rope running over a grooved wheel attached to the master cog and connecting with a smaller wheel on the center of the reel.
The driver was seated on a spring seat ahead of the master cog and as high as the shaft of the reel. The seat was carried on the two wheels that worked independent of the reaping machinery, as in the case of some modern dray wagons. The grain fell on a platform partly covered with black tin. The man who raked the grain off the platform sat at the center of the rear end of the platform on a stool, with a barrier in from of him to keep him from falling on the platform while raking the grain to one side. He had to be careful not to let the bundles get too large or get his fork caught in the reel or sickle, and the work required great physical strength and endurance.
The binders followed the reaper, binding each gavel into a bundle with a band made of a handful of grain stalks. Children then came along and placed the bundles in convenient piles, usual twelve each. How heavy they were for a small boy! Next came the shockers. Two cap sheaves were placed on top of the shock to keep out the rain. These cap sheaves were broken in the middle and spread one above the other crossways and, if no hard wind came, they kept the grain dry and bright. If they were blown off or the shock upset, it had to be reset after the harvesting was done.
Then came the stacking. Nearly everyone stacked, for separators were scarce and one had to wait his turn. These stacks were placed at some convenient spot, usually near a shed, waiting for threshing. After stacking, farmers waited for the grain to go through the sweat, as they called it, a drying process that all grain takes in this climate either in the stack or bin.
Between stacking and threshing some hay had to be cut. This was done with a scythe on wild land, mostly in the draws, where the grass was thickest. If a man cut a swath across the upper and lower end of a draw, it could be his and so respected, but a man never tried to “hog” things so there was plenty for all. After the grass was cut and dry it was raked together by hand and cocked up in small piles, then hauled and stacked. People did not cut much hay; the straw piles fed what stock was kept.
Haying done, the “boo” of the thresher was soon heard and what a time that was for the youngsters, and for the old as well. The threshing crew was looked upon with as much awe as the crew of an airplane is today. They were usually young men of a rough type. Threshing was done by horsepower. The separator was a “Sweepstakes,” about the same as now, but without any blower, feeder, measurerer, or other frills. The power was a master cog turning on a small cog. This mechanism could be hoisted from the ground by two rollers to move from place to place. When set it had to be staked down with eight stakes to hold it in place. Five sweeps were inserted in it like the spokes of a wagon. A team was hitched to the outer end of each sweep, making ten horses. The threshers put on their three teams, the farmer his, and one of the neighbors might furnish a team.
The two green teams usually tried to do it all at first but soon came down to a slow drill in the center. A man or boy with a whip in hand usually drove the outfit and was the clown of the gathering. Between whistling, urging, and swearing he kept the work going. If a sudden stop was needed, a man got to the head of each farm team and the feeder crowded the bundles to choke the separator. The horses of threshers usually stopped at the word of the driver.
The boss of the machine did the feeding. The bundles were tossed to him by a man, called the table man—sometimes there were two—whose duty it was to keep plenty of bundles on the table, heads to the cylinder. Other men handed bundles to the table man. A band cutter, usually a boy, was beside the feeder to cut the bands. This was a hard job and I still wonder why a boy was put at it. He used a common jack-knife and the straw in bands soon dulled it. The knife was liable to hit the fingers of the feeder (I have done it myself), if the boy became tired or hurried, and sometimes two boys alternated in the cutting. If straw was wanted a stacker and several boys took care of the straw. This was a hard and dirty job; one had to work like a machine. How I have wished something would break, to give us a rest.
The measurer was at the side of the separator with two wooden half-bushel measures. To keep track of the number of bushels he had before him a board with twenty holes at the top, ten below, and five at the bottom. When one measure was full he moved the twenty plug to the right one count. When it had been moved clear across, the ten plug was moved to right one count. This meant ten bushels. In the same way the hundred plug was moved to right when 100 bushels had been measured. The measurer had to be a man of mature years, very just, and not the owner, so that he would be fair to both parties. It was his business also the that the grain was clean and not wasted in poor separation.
The owner was usually at the bin seeing that there was no chance of waste. Most people, being poor, had no granaries and had to build rail pens. These were lined with slough hay and made a very good storehouses if cattle were kept away from them. Children too small to be of any help were perched on the tool wagon watching the show in high glee. The man who carried the grain to the bin had a hard job, carrying a bushel of wheat or one and a half bushels of oats at a time. Handling from three to six hundred bushels in a day in this way was no easy work.
Finally dinner was called and everyone “hollered” “Whoa” and started for the house and the wash basin, except the teamster, who had to feed the horses. Dinner was served at a long table seating from ten to fourteen, on which were well boiled peach blow potatoes, stewed chicken, gravy, homemade bread and butter, coffee, and dried apple or dried currant pie with Orleans sugar for sweetening. Everyone made a man at the table. After dinner the young fellows indulged in feats of strength, such as standing in a half-bushel measure and shouldering a two-bushel bag of wheat or holding out at arm’s length a sledge weighing from fifteen to twenty pounds to see who could hold it thus the longest. Finally the boss of the gang would shout, “Horses on!” and the same process began anew. When one threshing job was finished, the machine was moved to a neighbor’s. All the farmers changed work for money was scarce till some wheat was sold and there was little hired labor. The threshing charge was five cents for wheat and three for oats.
Threshing was often enlivened by fights. One occasion a farmer put a boy whom some neighbor had sent to do the stacking. The boy went about the work carelessly. Finally the owner went up to right things. Before long both came rolling down by the stacker in a rough and tumble, but they were separated and the work went on. At dinner, as was the custom, the farmer wanted to ask the blessing but felt he should make some amends for the trouble. “I think before I proceed I should apologize for what happened this forenoon,” he said, and continued that it would have been all right but when he got on the straw the boy insulted him. At this the boy jumped up and called him a liar and another fight was started, but it was stopped and the meal proceeded without a blessing.
By the time threshing was over the corn was ready for cribbing. The last year’s rail pen was overhauled and a bottom of rails made so the ears would not drop through. A hog was killed for meat, a little wood cut, and the husking began. The father took two rows on one side, the oldest boy at home two rows on the other, and a smaller boy the down row. Every silk and husk must be removed from the ears before they were thrown into the wagon and the father kept watch for missed ears. When the box—usually just a wagon box holding about fifteen or twenty bushels—was filled, the wagon was driven to the crib where all picked the ears out of the hind end by hand until the scoop could be used.
The most likely looking ears were picked out, carried to the house, and stored in the garret next to the chimney for next year’s seed. We seldom had any poor seed, but one year it was found that much of the corn saved for seed was worthless. Railroads were far apart and there were no regular dealers any place; but the resourceful Yankee farmers, my father among them, found that one side of an ear might be good but the other poor. They picked the best looking ears and shelled them. then they put the kernels in a tub of warm water and in twelve hours the good kernels which showed growth were picked out and planted, care being used to put moist dirt on each hill.
In this way he got a good stand or corn and good quality in the fall. It was an awful job to handle the seed, for it kept growing and the sprouts tangled up so it was hard to pick out and drop the kernels. If there had been larger fields to plant it would have required lots of labor. The more fortunate who had friends in the East had seed sent them, mostly from Pennsylvania. That seed, however, not being acclimated, did not get ripe or fill out well; but in the course of years this corn mixed with the home grown and made a good improvement.
After the corn was picked, the visiting commenced and lasted intermittently until spring. The men, having such hard work all summer and no labor saving machines, were ready for a rest. There was usually snow and the families went in the sled in a wagon box partly filled with straw, with bed quilts for cover on the trip. On week days the groups usually included only the children not of school age—from one to three. The women sewed or quilted, and the men talked and chewed tobacco, spitting in the hearth of the stove or on the floor. Neither was counted out of order for both chewing ands spitting were the common custom. The general conversation was neighborhood news of new babies, sickness, or the stock on the farm, but mostly religion, for our neighborhood was pious.
The nearest market for grain down to 1872 was at Lowden, on the North Western Railroad, twenty-five miles south. The small grain, mostly wheat, was sacked in stark A bags with every man’s name on his bags and was drawn in wagons. Some of them were made in the local towns but most of them were Schuttler wagons from Chicago having skein or metal bearings with Fraser axle grease for lubrication. The old tar wooden spindles were mostly gone, only the poor men using them. The trip back lasted from two o’clock in the morning until midnight. Food for the horses and for the men was carried along. Muddy sloughs, creeks, and the Wapsipinicon River had to be forded.
The usual price was a dollar a bushel for wheat, and about twenty-five cents for oats. Wheat ran from twenty-five to thirty-five bushels per load.
The houses were strongly built. First a frame of native hard wood was put up, strong enough for a fort. The half inch pine siding was nailed directly to the studding. The roof sheeting was of oak and was covered with oak shingles that warped badly. While this roof turned water, sifting snow would come through and had to be removed or it would spoil the plaster which was lime and hair. The finish—casing, sash, molding, doors—was all made on the ground. A thin strip, called a bat, was sometimes laid under each crack in the floors.
The houses were nearly all rebuilt during the Civil War and for the time were very good, although they had no modern improvements. A first quality house was usually ell-shaped with the main part a story and a half high. The ell was one story and contained a kitchen and a bedroom. In the main part was a large parlor with a spare bedroom and an enclosed stairway next to the buttery or pantry, as the people called it, from which the cellar was reached from the inside. The upstairs had two rooms where the older children slept. There was usually a cellar under the kitchen with an outside entrance, for there was much to store in it.
The most important piece of furniture was a common four-cap cook stove in the kitchen—the main workshop and living quarters for the family—and unless sickness or visitors came, this was the only fire in the house. The bedroom had a four-poster corded bedstead under which, in the daytime was a four-poster trundle bed which was drawn out for the smaller children that needed care during the night. A tick filled with straw was the mattress, with sometimes a feather bed on top of this. One sheet, one or more heavy cotton comforts, a cotton homemade quilt, and pillows of goose or duck feathers furnished the parents’ bed. Hen feather pillows might serve for the children. The parlor had a heating stove, usually a rag carpet, and homemade curtains, but no shades. The house was lighted by candles or one smoky oil lamp but that must be used very sparingly and not at all by the children; they had a grease lamp, simply a common tea saucer full of hog fat with a cotton string sticking over one edge.
There were no barns until about the middle 70’s, although farmers built sheds for their stock, if they could. Crotches—that is large timbers with a fork—were set in the ground in rows about nine feet apart, so a ten-foot rail would span the distance. Three rows were thus set with the middle row the highest. Rails formed the framework of the roof, resting on the crotches, with cross pieces to hold up the slough grass or wild hay which formed the roof. The north, west, and east sides were usually stockaded with rails. Sometimes the south side of the east end was large enough to shelter two teams of work horses and was entirely enclosed. When the threshing was done the sides were often completely covered with straw. The bulk of the straw was left in the stack at the west end. In the winter all the young stock, the cows, the sheep, and even the chickens were sheltered in these sheds. Some poles near the top furnished roosts for the chickens when it got too cold for them to roost outside.
Here the milking was done. The cows ran loose but not very many of them were kept and usually none were milking during the cold months of December, January, February, and March. The farmers seldom had any winter calves or pigs. As a consequence, most people were out of milk during the first three months of the year and I have known people to go miles for buttermilk or to buy butter, but they all had plenty of lard and pork.
Some packed butter for winter. It had but little value, since it was sold for from six to fifteen cents per pound. There were no eggs from September to March. during the summer months eggs sold for from five to seven cents per dozen in trade. Orleans sugar was ten cents per pound; coffee, forty; Young Hyson tea, eighty; calico, ten cents a yard; Kentucky jeans, forty cents per yard; hickory shirting, twenty cents; and boots for men, four dollars. Men did not wear shoes. in the winter the small boys had boots or shoes of common cowhide with red or yellow tops in front and a copper plate at the toe. As we had so much snow in the winter and dews and rain in the fall and spring the leather would shrink and the boots or shoes had to be kicked on in the morning and this tended to ruin them. In the morning you could hear the boys kicking on the mop boards-base boards, they call them now, since they have carpets and don’t mop every day- to get their shoes on.
All the clothing for the entire household was made at home and until about 1870 all by hand. There was little wool except for mittens and hose, which were knit at home. Goods absolutely needed and not made at home were usually bought in the fall when the grain was sold. Boots, shoes, and gaiters were needed for the family. The children’s feet owing to going barefoot, grew very fast and shoes were often too small and had to be exchanged. Then there was trouble, for we boys feared that if the shoes were taken back there would be no return.
The hogs were all killed at home and hauled to Dubuque fifty miles away and sold a from one and a half to three cents per pound. Occasionally a big steer or two would be sold at two years old for twenty dollars or more per head and no scales were used. We had every animal named and usually kept the she stuff until it died of old age.
I was a man grown before I ever saw any corn sold on the market. A quarter section would raise from five to fifteen acres of corn. The land being new produced well and made enough to feed all a man needed through the cold months. Then he did without until the new crop. Oats were used for horse feed mostly. Not one farmer in ten would have an ear of corn from May till fall. Of course some would but then as now they were the more thrifty. There was no meat except now and then a chicken. We never fed or watered the chickens and they had to get on as wild game and were about as wild. It took a good dog to catch one.
For fruit a few of the first settlers, among them my grandmother Krouse, Eliphalet A. Nichols, mother’s sister’s husband, and a few more, planted apple seeds and had seedlings and some few trees were good. Most of the winter varieties were of small size and a sort of parody on the wild crab apple. The women dried pumpkin and we boys called it tobacco and carried it around, and if not caught chewed it. There was no canned fruit. Wild strawberries were plentiful some seasons. Blackberries, except along streams, were usually all dried up.
Where there was plenty of timber, the fencing was of rails from the ground up and worm fashion. On the prairie, however, they often drove crotches in the ground to carry the first rail. This was about eighteen inches from the ground. Two stakes were then crossed above each crotch, the bottom end of each being driven some six inches in the ground a short distance from the bottom of the crotch. This formed a second crotch, higher than the first one. A second rail was laid diagonally with one end in a lower crotch and the other in the next upper crotch formed by the two stakes. A third rail was then laid in the two upper crotches, making a three rail panel. This was the Indiana method.
Some Kentuckyians split the posts as flat as they could and then dressed them to about two inches thick and bored two holes together, split out the middle and sharpened the rails and put them in as bars. This made a very good fence but took lots of labor. Iron nails were high and the Kentuckians were taught this method when there were no nails except those made by hand in the country. The farmers fenced only the cultivated land, for there was only a small amount of land cultivated and it was easier to fence stock out of the fields than in the pastures. Much of the land was held by eastern speculators.
Another item of farm life was milling. In my time, we were within eight miles of Corbet’s Mill on a fork of the Maquoketa, not a long drive from home. The miller took in toll or pay every seventh bushel of the grain and made a very good grade of flour and meal. It was a great treat to go the mill but only the ones too little to do anything at home were granted the privilege. One time, however, when I was a small boy, my father took me and my two older brothers along to fish while we waited for the grist. He got some small hooks and two lines and cut them in two so we each had a hook and line. We had dug some fish worms-or angle worms- and father put one on my hook attached it to a pole cut on the bank and set me on the bank or a stump but did not tell me what to do.
I could feel the fish bite but did not know what to do and we were admonished to keep quiet. Finally I lifted the fish clear out of the water and father hollered, “Throw him over the bank!” I did not know what he meant, but instinctively threw my prize on the shore and saved him. He was a nice perch and I was about the biggest boy for a while that ever stood on that bank. We got a fine string but never since has a fish caused me the thrill of that one. I found a good two-blade jack-knife on the bank that day but it did not interest me, so I gave it to father. The water was very clear and we could see the schools of soft fish in countless numbers everywhere and the rock bass scooting after them. When we were ready to go home we saw the dam and the water fall. I have since seen the great falls but they did not seem as remarkable to me as that small stream appeared to a little boy who had never seen anything but land and small creeks.
At first the cattle were turned out on the wild prairie, where they roamed about, located only by sight or by the tinkling of the bells. The cattle of a large neighborhood would bunch up during the day and wander over a wide territory but when evening came, they gradually wandered toward their own home, partly from habit and partly because some of the cows had calves at home. No two bells sounded alike. Every man knew his bell by sound.
As time passed and the free land disappeared, each man’s herd was kept near home in a fenced pasture. Only those who could afford it had oak board fences; most of the fences were of smooth wire. This sufficed if the land was not too heavily pastured, but when the grass got dry in July the cattle would go through such fences into the crops so they had to herded. I, being the boy not big enough to help farm work, was the herdsman. Now picture if you please, a barefoot boy between six and even years old taking the cows to pasture as soon as they were milked and staying till about sundown with no companions but the black shepherd dog, Dash.
There were no holidays or Sundays, and at times hard rains compelled me to get under hazel brush or a tree to find shelter. At noon, Charley, a younger brother, would bring a noon meal which was the same as the others, only cold, and for drink the water from any slough or spring had to do. This was a rough life and I got as rough as the treatment. At this time I went neither to day nor Sunday school though I saw other boys going to school or to mill and playing around home.
At the same time I learned all about the names and habits of birds from father. I knew where they nested, the number of their settings, color of eggs, habits of feeding, and the time of their coming and departure. None of the water birds nested here but I could see them passing at almost any hour. I knew how to find the dens of many animals, how they made them, and what the animal lived on.
Not least of these were the snakes. The snakes soon left the pastured ground, so there was not much danger from them there, but if you had to go into some slough or non-pastured field you might run into them. One day in August I saw the faithful dog going around a tree top full of dry leaves, which had been left after the log had been cut off. I saw him turn his head to one side, ears forward, and then I heard a mighty hiss and I saw a snake strike at him and still hiss. I knew by the sound that it was a bullsnake, but of what a gigantic size! I ran away but did not did not dare to leave the cattle. The dog kept at the snake energetically but could not get hold of him.
In about an hour Charles came with my dinner and I told him of the size of the snake and how he acted. He went home and my two older brothers came down. By this time the snake was somewhat tired but could still strike about four feet which seemed more to us. Finally George, the oldest of the boys, struck the snake with a fence stake and the dog grabbed him. The reptile was so heavy the dog could not shake him, but he was finally killed. He measured about eight feet and was as large around in the center as a tea saucer. That was my greatest snake scare. While such snakes were not poisonous, the memory of that infernal hiss has never left me. I have seen many snakes since but none as large as this. Since it was late in the summer, I presume he was well fed and fat.
Then there were the skunks. Our dog would dig them out. At one time the two Overley boys, cousins of ours, were there when the dog dug out an old one. I had no fear when the dog was after it, for their dens were shallow and short. When the dog grabbed the old one I was closer than I would be now, for a very good reason. I saw five little kittens as pretty as any two-week old cats. I grabbed two of them and started for the Overleys to show them but they never stopped until they got home. That night my mother gave me orders not to bring such a smell to the house again.
Prairie chickens were thick. In the months of March and April, the writer has seen two large trees with every space on the limbs full of prairie chickens and the ground for an acre space as thick as they could stand, but no hunter could get with gunshot of them. Before you accuse me of exaggeration, ask any man or woman over fifty who lived in eastern Iowa for verification. Now you can drive all over the state and never see one. In the month of July their nests could, with a little care, be found in grass on almost any hill. They had from twelve to sixteen eggs in a setting. These eggs were about the same size as those of guinea chickens, but were plain white.
On the Slocum quarter section next east of our old home there was a buffalo wallow. We called it a buffalo den. The buffalo had been gone fifty years before the land was settled but his den in the sixties was still bare of grass on its sides and was about one acre in area. There was a circular opening on the south slope on a gradually sloping hill. The banks were about eight feet deep and very straight up on three sides. It is still plainly visible but in the early seventies the blue grass came in the country and the sides were soon covered with it. The hole is still there. It is on the northwest quarter of the southeast quarter of Section 11, Township 84, west of the Fifth Principal Meridian, Madison Township, Jones County.
As in all new countries, the people married young. When a young man attained his majority his work with his father was ended and he usually went to work for a neighbor by the month, for that was about all the work there was. A good strong man got twenty dollars per month from March first till corn was gathered in November following, with only the Fourth of July out. Most men got less than this.
The wardrobe of a farm hand consisted of one store suit, a pair of fine boots with heels as high as the women wear them now, one white, starched-bosom shirt, and a box of paper collars. This was for Sunday. For every day he had two homemade hickory cloth shirts, a blouse and two pairs of overalls, plow boots, two pairs of coarse cotton hose and an old hat or winter cap. This was the average; some had more, many less.
He got room and board with the family and washing. If his employer had no cash he was obliged to wait until something was sold in the fall but he could usually buy his tobacco and other little things from the village merchant on time.
The work consisted of chores and wood cutting, breaking colts and the like till the ground was ready for planting, which usually lasted from the last of March through April and May. Then there was plowing corn till harvest and after harvest, threshing, hauling manure, fall plowing, and husking. Many of the hired men saved the greater part of their earnings and as soon as they had the price of a team and wagon they were ready to get married and start farming for themselves.
The more thrifty fathers of the boys coming of age gave them such outfits and they married at once. The bride was expected to have one year’s clothing, furniture for one bedroom, and a stove with the necessary utensils for cooking, and if her parents were of average standing, a cow and a calf worth about twenty dollars. The rest of the relatives usually got them some chickens and other small things. This equipment was the best, many had much less. The wedding was a small affair with only a few friends present and a substantial supper. A charivari was considered almost a necessity, and a couple felt slighted unless the boys put one on. Boys from twelve years old up and all the men turned out with everything that would make a noise and with much prairie lung power. They gave one blast. If there was no response they repeated this, until the groom came forth with the bride and a treat of apples, candy, or tobacco.
SCHOOLS |
| stood for class work. A large wood stove was in the center of the front of the room. A blackboard of boards painted black completed the equipment. Three windows on each side gave light.
The boys were usually seated along the north side—that being the colder in the winter—and the girls on the south. The little ones sat in front or in the center section with older brothers or sisters.
We all carried our dinner in pails made for the purpose. The dinners consisted mostly of bread and butter, although some had mince pie or doughnuts or occasionally an apple. There were no warm lunches.
We used McGuffey’s readers and spellers, Monteith’s geographys, and Ray’s arithmetics and this was about all the books in use. When I was five years old I went to the summer term which commenced in May and lasted three and one-half months. The teacher got sixteen dollars per month and boarded around and usually liked it best where there were fewest children. I came from a family very apt in books, but I learned very slowly. It was hard for me to learn the letters or to pronounce words, and owing to my being the cowboy, I have gone through life a poor speller and writer.
My first teacher was a Miss Waker. She was a small woman, from Dubuque, Iowa, blind of one eye and no longer young, probably thirty-five, but a kind Christian woman. The pupils were: O. J. Felton, A. N. Felton, Joseph Wasson—the biggest boy, Maggie Ransom, Allie Dockstader, Clary Heimbaugh, Addie Organ, Anna Lincoln, and Alpha Clark, Eve Abrams, Ida Homer, and Lester Gilbert. Most of them are still living but Joseph Wasson is the only one still in the district. He lives in Onslow and is an old man. In the winter Levi Coder was the teacher and the school was full of the same names but at that session the pupils were the older boys and girls. I did not go much, for the winter was cold and the house crowded.
In 1872 two railroads came through the country and two little towns sprang up. Onslow on the east took our school and the building was sold to Nelson Reade. A few years ago it was still in use as a granary. Then we went to No. 2, known as North Madison. In those days we were all declaimers and committed to memory many of the master pieces. Any visitor who could not recite some prose or poetry selection when visiting a neighborhood school was considered dumb. We had speaking on the last day and ended with spelling school in which the best speller won. I never won but my oldest sister, Maggie, and one brother, A. N., were never worsted. The rule was words in the McGuffey speller and none other but finally any word in our language.
Our games were Mumble Peg, played with a knife, the loser to pull a wooden peg from the ground with his teeth and lose it so no one could find it. Killdeer, or Fox and Geese, was played in the snow around a home base in the center with four spokes running out as avenues connected at the outer ends with a circular path. One player, chosen by lot, was required to catch and hold any he could and pat them three times. Those caught were then helpers till all were caught. No one could be caught while in home base and I have seen some pretty rough work at the last with one of the big boys, but usually the combined efforts would get him. I Spy and Two Old Cat were other games.
There were no coaches or other frills and we did not need them.
CHURCHES & SUNDAY SCHOOLS
As time went on, the minds of the people were turned to the church. A congregational Sunday school was opened without any rules, made up of almost every denomination of Protestant faith or following. It met at the North Madison schoolhouse. They had a very interesting time and were the means of much good. Soon a Methodist circuit rider heard of it and came to preach, the part of the gathering being of that faith. All went well for a time, but soon sectarianism crept in and strife began. The followers of Alexander Campbell and the Baptists had to have more water. The Presbyterians would not permit secret societies. As a result, good fellowship and true religion were jolted.
The Methodists, however, kept on in the lead and formed a class. My father and mother, M. O. Felton and Anna Marie Felton, S. L. Gilbert and wife, and Limon G. Ransom and wife, six in all, formed the class to which we were added. Among those who came by letter from their native States were Clark Martin Nichols, Amos G. Pangburn, Isaac Overley and his wife Mary, Samuel Alexander, a widower, and Isaac Gee and wife.
Father went to Monticello and bought a large family Bible and two hymn books. The hymn books contained mostly Wesley hymns which have been largely displaced in modern Methodist hymn books much to the detriment of the books. Father and mother were good singers and I used enjoy hearing them sing those grand old Wesley hymns. They had taken singing lessons in s singing school conducted by John E. Lovejoy, a brother of Elijah P. Lovejoy.
Soon after the formation of the Methodist class the group decided that they must have a church. I remember that my father came home and said to my mother: “We are not going to talk about it any more, we are going to build.” So they went at it and by hard work raised over two thousand dollars, enough so there was no debt when it was ready for dedication. Some gave more money than they were able to, even to selling the last cow. others gave labor. A man by the name of George Coder was the builder, assisted by his grown boys. The lumber was mostly drawn from Dubuque, fifty miles away, sills sixteen inches square down to ten by ten plates. The top was trussed together like an overhead bridge. The size was thirty by fifty feet, with a vestibule or nursery in front, for the people were young and had plenty of babies. The church had three double windows on a side with twelve by fourteen inch panes of glass, two of smaller size inside the vestibule, and six transit lights above a double door. There were two smaller doors from the vestibule to main room with a spire over the vestibule surmounted with a large tin ball. No bell organ was ever put in this church.
The inside furniture and arrangement were the same as those in other country Methodist churches. The seats were white pine with a walnut rail or rim on top and ends. On each side was a row of seats holding four persons with a space one-fourth from the rear for two wood stoves surrounded by seats. The seats in the middle row held six. The pulpit was in the center of the front surrounded by a railing or mourner’s bench. The pulpit floor was two decks, a platform six inches higher than the main floor and the preacher’s stand six inches higher than this. The floor upon which the pulpit stood was carpeted. The first sofa was stuffed with springs covered with black hair cloth. It was a great honor to be allowed to sit on it. On each side of the platform were two seats called the “Amen corner,” used by the most saintly and hard of hearing.
The old men and all the married men sat on one side and the wives and older women on the other. The young people might sit in front but the rough-necks sat in the rear. The decorum was not very good. Shrill whispering and bad language were sometimes heard during the service, with some laughter and rebukes from the preacher. Every man from the preacher down chewed tobacco and spit in the aisles and on the floor. Nothing was said about it, for it was a general custom. When two men met, one of them was likely to ask for a chew the first thing. There was not much smoking, although most of the men could smoke. A pipe might be passed around in a small gathering in the manner of the red men.
Church service began with Sunday school at nine. We had no lesson leaves. Some of the older members would announce a hymn and someone would start the singing and the rest join in. Some of them could sing, but then as now music brought jealousy and friction. One man, for example, had not much music ability but liked to sing and he usually got the wrong key and balled things up. The congregation felt that some way had to be devised to stop him. My mother’s brother, George Krouse, a very devout man of German blood with a strong accent, was given the job. After the speaking in class meeting he said to the would-be song leader: “you can’t sing and whenever you lead, everybody’s book goes right shut.” The man never sang in church again. After a prayer, there might be another song, and some general questions. Sometimes a heavy argument, not of the best spirit, developed.
Finally it was decided that classes should be organized. I was in the infant class and Aunt Mary Overlely, mother’s sister, read from the chapter selected and explained it as well as she could. The larger children and adults were grouped according to age, the girls in one class, the boys in another, and the old folks in a class by themselves. Sunday school lasted until the preacher arrived and commenced the preaching service. There was no collection. After the church service was over, a class meeting was held. It was led by the class leader and here testimony of religious experiences was given.
On Thursday evening a few of the faithful met for prayer and for a business meeting concerning the church. At some of these meetings some ludicrous episodes occurred. On one occasion, a man about fifty years of age, very excitable and a poor judge of human nature, got there late. As soon as he was done praying he remarked that he must go home as the threshers were to be at his house early in the morning and he must first kill a hog, fix cribs, and notify his help. He pulled out his knife with a gesture, remarked that the hog must be stuck—much to the delight of the less pious—and left for home.
Once a year, the four churches on charge had quarterly meetings with the elder and some other preachers in attendance. It commenced on Saturday afternoon and lasted until Sunday night. On Sunday the people from a distance were invited to the homes of some of the nearby brethren for dinner. Our people, being among the leaders, usually got some of the preachers. It would be one o’clock before they got home. After that dinner must be cooked at least in part and the table set. When things were ready the preachers and the older folks took the first table of eight or ten, and after a long blessing they would begin to eat, with much visiting and an hour would be consumed. Then the young people were seated. They did not take quite so long. After this we children came to the table to eat what was left on dirty dishes. By that time it was nearly time for afternoon worship, and we were soon ordered to hitch the horses for the company. I have been so hungry I wished the whole church would stop.
In the winter there was always a revival. The old standbys were soon in earnest; afterwards the ones who had been dancing or doing other things not in accordance with orthodox training would be brought in. I have heard the preachers and the rest of the faithful around that altar singing “Glory to God, Amen” until I was so scared I hardly dared breathe. And now, though an old man, I have a horror of a church. There was no shouting—that was before my time—but I have heard men tell of their misdeeds and short-comings which I thought and still think should not have been told.
After the meeting a donation supper was usually held, and such a meal! Everything that the culinary of the day afforded was to be had, meats of all kinds, frosted cake trimmed with candy, pies, tarts, sauce, tea, and coffee. The dinner started with oysters. The oysters in those days came in quart flat tin cans, sealed and packed in ice. This meal cost seventy-five cents, the proceeds going to the preacher.
This church, the first built in Madison Township, Jones County, was scarcely finished when one Susan Page, an old maiden lady, passed on. She was a member of the church and had a sister, Mrs. Livengood, also a member. It was decided to bury her near the church but not in the yard and it was partly agreed to buy one square acre from Jacob Vanslike at one hundred dollars, a very large price compared to five dollars, the prevailing land value. In this acre she was buried. The preacher, a man named John Fawcett, officiated and it was the first burying that any of us younger children had ever seen. Being in early summer there was a large crowd. I have never forgotten that ceremony, associated as it was with the dire revelations from the revival. Susan Page had been a good woman, a sort of neighborhood nurse, very much in demand, and universally loved.
Some time after this, one Eliphalet A. Nichols, an eccentric, but good man, conceived the idea that there should be a village here and he would start it and be postmaster. Being something of a promoter, he kept the matter quiet until he had bought from Amos G. Pangburn a ten-acre strip of land cornering on the church lot, the church being in the corner of John Alexander’s land. Isaac Overley owned the eighty on the other corner.
This done, Eliphalet Nichols confided his scheme to his brother, Martin. Eliphlet was then a Baptist and not connected with our church, but he offered to deed the church two acres farthest from the church for a graveyard. The deal looked so good, that Martin took the deed and had the body of a pauper buried in the plot, the poor farm not being far off, and had his first wife’s remains moved from a neighboring township. He then brought the matter before the church board. Amos Pangburn, however, was naturally angered by the procedure and the two old men of the church had soon started a church fight. Some of the meetings would have disgraced a saloon. The quarrel divided the church and families, made enemies for life, drove people from the fold, and was a very bad example of Christian brotherhood. It so happened that mother’s family were neighbors of Martin Nichols and followed him; while father followed Pangburn and there were many arguments at home not pleasant for us children. But Martin Nichols’ graveyard was adopted and is the last resting place of many of the followers of the church.
A Sunday school was held in most country churches in connection with the church services during the summer months. The children of the neighborhood were glad to attend as there were few places where they could go as a change from every day tasks.
They always looked forward to the annual picnic, usually held in the fall. One Sunday school would make the initial move and invite the other Sunday schools in the neighborhood to participate. The picnic was usually held in a grove owned by S. D. Titus in Scotch Grove Township. Some of the men folks of the different schools would go an appointed day to make preparation. They would build a platform for the speakers and make seats of planks for the audience.
Each Sunday school had a banner bearing a motto which was carried at the head of it in the grand march or procession that was a part of the day’s events. Also each Sunday school was called upon to sing a song. After a few of these preliminaries came the came the dinner which was certainly a feast fit for a king, for our mothers were very skillful in the culinary art.
Each Sunday school ate together at a long table made by spreading table cloths on the ground. I, in my young days, took somewhat of the nature of a character known as “Picnic Sam” in one of Will Careleton’s poems. I would look on while the tables were being spread and would edge in at the one that seemed to best fit my appetite.
After the dinner there was speaking and events to amuse the children. I remember that on one of these occasions Reverend Manning was asking easy questions for the children to answer. A number of us boys were sitting together in front of a tall, spectacled, cadaverous man. When a question was asked this man would prompt us and we would shout the answer at the top of our voices, to the amusement of the older people.
We all had an enjoyable time and then hurried home to see if the cows had broken into the corn field. We wore our best clothes and they were paid for as were also the things that entered into our dinner. In those days deadbeats were rare and were not tolerated in honorable society.
In 1872 the North Madison Sunday school thought it should have a Christmas tree. None of the children had ever seen one although some of them still firmly believed that Old Santa traveled with his reindeer and came down the chimney in the night. The older of the Krouses, the writer’s mother’s family, had seen trees in Germany and directed the affair.
To begin with, there had to be money to buy presents. My father, who had seen a lot of the world for those times, and Amos Pangburn, who had been in theaters in New York City, decided to have an exhibition, a sort of kindergarten theater. The matter was threshed out, after the Thursday evening prayer meeting. The few Presbyterians of the old school frowned on it and the Baptists thought it very bad taste and refused to take hold but some of their older children helped. After a few weeks practice in rehearsal and some withdrawals, the grand night came. The church had a platform across the front with a rough board floor, covered by a rag carpet in the center, there not being a “boughten” carpet in the township. The curtain was of calico cloth strung across on a wire about eight feet high. On each side of the front opening was attached a short stick by which it would be opened on command by two boys or stage hands. The sides were the dressing rooms.
The program was opened with a prayer by Samuel Y. Harmer, the circuit preacher. He was a very stout man and quite a hymn writer and some of his hymns are still in the Methodists song books.
Robert G. Lyons made the opening address. He had been a student of Lenox College, a small Presbyterian school at Hopkinton in Delaware County, and made a very commendable speech. Then John G. Krouse, the writer’s uncle started the show. He was uncle to the larger part of the school, for he and a brother, George, and five sisters all liven in the locality and had big families. Sarah Heimbaugh, the chorister, got the whole school on the stage and with the aid of Limon G. Ransom’s organ led us in singing the Evergreen Shore. There were some good singers, but most of us just spoke. Even that was a great pride to our folks and friends. There was speaking and dialogues. “The Train Tomorrow” was played by the writer’s sister, Maggie, Frank Nichols as her boy, and W. H. Alexander as a railroad man with more dignity than Jim Hill. The woman, a neighborhood nurse and very much in demand when families were large and before the modern fad of the hospital came in , wanted to go to the town the next day on a call. She was handicapped by a badly spoiled small boy, who carried rod and bait. She asked the railroad man if this was where she could take the train tomorrow. The answer was, “Yes, or any other day.”
The boy, being always hungry—like all other boys—asked for ginger bread. Opening her old fashioned carpet bag, she began to take out all the homeopathic treatments then known to science and good for all the diseases in Jayne’s Almanac. She asked the station agent if he was bothered with any of the ills mentioned to which he gave short and decisive answers. Finally the train pulled in while she had all her goods spread on the floor and she went through a great rustle to collect them and board the train.
After that there was a song and some tableaux and then the big hit, Dr. Killercure. The writer’s father was the doctor. Sarah Heimbaugh and Maggie Ransom were the two main stars. Emily Nichols, Big Emily as they called her to distinguish her from her cousin Little Emily, was the doctor’s helper. The doctor laid out the drugs for the various patients telling the nature of the diseases. The assistant could not read but she remembered what the doctor said and repeated it to each patient much to their horror. Maggie Ransom was a good Irish mimic and had good training from the railroad builders then in the country. She brought a little boy with a sore head who had been given the wrong salve. My brother, Charley, was the tot. As he was very shy and only a child, he just looked at that crowd and grinned with a face as red as a June lily, while Maggie said her boy’s head kept swelling clear to the ceiling and threatened that when her husband got in he would blacken both eyes of the doctor. With a few more stunts the show ended as a first night success with gate receipts of twenty-three dollars and some cents, and no expenses.
Next was the picking of the committee to get the presents. One of the contestants for this honor was, of course, the superintendent, John Krouse. For the two assistants, the writer’s mother, Mrs. Felton, and her sister Mary Overley, wife of Isaac Overley, were pitted against Jane Nichols, wife of E. A. Nichols, and Jane Krouse, wife of the superintendent. Mrs. Felton and Mrs. Overley, being the oldest and having more children to vote, won the day but the contest caused quite a little hard feelings and family bickering.
The committee all went to Monticello, the nearest town where any assortment of Christmas goods was to be found, in the superintendent’s two-seated buggy, as we called it then, there being no covered rigs in use. The money was prorated as to age. The infant class, of which I was a member, received the value of twenty cents, the amount per capita increasing up to one dollar for the oldest or those about sixteen. I received a one-blade knife and a toy watch in the division.
Maggie Ransom had been with her foster parent to Kansas for a part of the year and was docked for time out so she got only fifty cents worth. The committee, unfortunately, forgot to rub out the cost mark, and the discrimination was taken as an insult by both her and her parents. The committee forgot one or two so had to go to Center Junction to fill in. Elmer Overley was sent to Uncle John Krouse, the superintendent, to get the money for these purchases and Aunt Jane Krouse, one of the defeated candidates for the committee, sent back work that if she had gone there would have been no forgotten ones, a comment not well received by Aunt Mary Overley.
Finally the presents were assembled. Next came the tree. It must be an evergreen but none was to be had short of the pinery hundreds of miles away and the little cedars on the rocks along the Maquoketa River ten miles away. Jacob Vanslike, who lived near the church, knew the location of some trees, for he liked good things to eat and had scoured the whole country for years in search of blackberries. Now Jacob had a fair-sized family and lived by the church but he did not attend much nor send his children, so he had to be paid one dollar to get the tree.
On this occasion he hied himself to the river in his wagon. As this particular winter had no snow the ice on the river was thin and on going over he left his rig behind. Even walking across he broke through and got well immersed without benefit of clergy. Indeed he was one of those unlucky mortals who get in all the trouble at hand, careful or careless. However, he got a tree about ten feet high and some smaller ones and delivered them to the church. Isaac Overley came with his axe, draw knife, and brace and bit, redistributed some of the limbs, put in some, and made a tree as fine as the ones he was used to seeing in old Kentucky around Flemingsburg where cedar trees grew as large as forest trees in this country and were used for rails to build fences. The writer has seen the people in Tennessee taking these cedar rails out of worm fences, which the natives said the pioneers had laid there, and selling them to the pencil factories.
The tree being duly placed, the next problem was its decoration. The neighbors popped corn and strung it on thread and wound it through the limbs. For lighting they got twelve little candle sticks to hold wax candles, similar to the big ones but about the size of a lead pencil half used up. This together with the glare of the six oil lamps on the side with tin reflectors was the illumination. When all was ready, the presents were duly displayed amid the candles lighted. After a song and a prayer, Lew Ellis, an ex-soldier picked the tree, while Maggie Felton and Carry Pangburn did the announcing to a tickled bunch of children. I am certain this was the first Christmas tree in the township
This was the last public function held in the country church, for the little towns had railroads and soon had churches or church services. Before long the older children in the little community began to scatter and go to school and college leaving only a remnant behind. Finally in 1876 the conference, against the will of a great majority of the good people who built the church and had worshipped in it., moved the building two miles east to Onslow. Many of the members never united with any other denomination or church. A few on the east went with the church. The writer’s family moved to Center Junction and the whole family of eight attended the Methodist college at Mt. Vernon, most of them graduating and becoming professional men or women. They attended the Center Junction Methodist Church but no church could ever take the place of the old one. It flourished in Onslow for years and then because of the death and removal of its members, finally died of starvation. Recently it has been torn down and made into a barn.
The only people left in the neighborhood of the original church building site are a cousin of the writer, her husband, and family, and Mrs. J. N. Smith, nee Rachel Nichols, who lives on the ground and owns the farm entered by her father Eliphalet A. Nichols, in 1852. This has been her home for more than sixty years. The home consists of one hundred and ten acres with buildings, orchard grove, and many improvements. I think there has never been a judgment tax, sale, or lien of any description against it or a crop failure.
WAR PERIOD
The township of Madison was very patriotic during the Civil war. It was almost unanimously Republican and very intolerant of any who differed from them. One of our neighbors, William S. Slocum, a Connecticut Yankee school teacher, was a Democrat. He hated the negro and sided with the Copperheads. His hired man reported in Wyoming that Slocum had advised him not to enlist and had said that if he were drafted he would desert and go with the South.
One morning Thomas Green, with several more men, came to our house with a rope and got father and went to Slocum’s house for an explanation. Slocum denied the charge and being a man of good character outside of politics, with a wife and small girl, and well liked in the community, my father advised leniency. Slocum recanted, his hired man enlisted, and the matter was dropped. Madison Township always furnished her full quota and never had a draft. Father said at one time there were only two single men in the township of military age not in service.
From the following story you can see why one of these men remained at home. He once took his sweetheart to Anamosa to a county fair. They had cube sugar for coffee and he liked sweets, so he filled his coat pocket with the sugar lumps. Some of the waiters noticed it and a marshal collared him and marched back to the table and made him disgorge in public. He was known as “Sugar________ “ for the rest of his time in the neighborhood.
Because our quota was full, the few Cooperheads in our township were never called on to go as soldiers but Jackson Township west of us had in it a settlement of Jackson Democrats and Southern sympathizers, who were all related through marriage and previous training. Otherwise they were good citizens and prosperous. So few of them enlisted that a draft was required to raise their quota.
During the Civil War my father belonged to a company of home guards that met for drill at Johnsontown. On one of their drill days Governor Samuel J. Kirkwood inspected the company and made a speech. he told them, among other things, that there were a lot of Copperheads in one locality who might need to be shown a thing or two and if so he might send the company over there. If he did, they were not to shoot any one unless it was necessary but if they did shoot to remember that he had the pardoning power.
SOME LOCAL CHARACTERS
About 1870 a man by the name of James Courtney came to our community from eastern Ontario, with his wife and family of five boys and one girl, Sary. He was of Scotch-Irish descent, leaning strongly to the Irish, born probably on the old sod. He was about middle age, slovenly in dress and habits, but ambitious and strictly honest. His wife, Diantha, was a sister of the Nichols men before mentioned. Courtney had been a hired man, a trapper and all purpose man in a new timbered country, but had no fixed abode. His boys were all young men from ten to twenty years old and like him had grown up rough, profane, and mischievous, but honest.
This man purchased an eighty acre tract of land cornering on father’s. It was rolling, with a few scattered trees on it that had escaped the ravages of the fire. He built a small house, different from any we were used to. It was boarded up and down, with a layer of clay lining about four inches thick. Above was a floored garret for the four boys at home. Then he bought from John McCain the last pair of oxen in the neighborhood, Buck and Bright, and with the aid of his boys broke the ground, taking three years to complete this work. This farm was the only place the writer ever saw wheat cut with a cradle.
The wife and mother lived only a few years and died of cancer after which the father “kept batch” with some of the boys a year or two until they got into a dispute about something and he fired them. They made arrangements to go to Chadron, Nebraska, at that time as far from settlement as possible, but before they left, to make things look well and leave the father in grateful remembrance, they sawed off three of the best apple trees that were just nicely bearing.
Courtney, while not a drunkard, would once or twice a year get ‘roarin’” drunk for a few days. He was not of the fighting Irish, but funny, and he pulled off many queer stunts. At all times he was profane and foul-mouthed and would keep men and boys in an uproar and the women and girls guessing whether to frown or laugh.
He had a neighbor by the name of Richard Slocum, (a brother of W. S. Slocum mentioned earlier) , a Connecticut Yankee. Slocum was very nervous and to make things worse, the first year he was there his team ran away, hit a tree, wrecked the wagon, and all but killed the man, so that he was a physical wreck for the rest of his life and often called on Courtney to help him with work.
On one occasion they were butchering. Slocum brought with him a block and tackle and three pulleys, but the rope had rotted from neglect and wear. The hog was heavy and after it was scalded and swung up and Courtney was engaged in dressing it the rope broke and the hog fell into the mud and dirt. It was hard to tell who swore the most, but Slocum’s squeaky voice carried the farthest.
Several years afterward, through exposure and old age, Courtney died. His children being out of the country, the neighbors took charge of the burial. During life he had no connection with any church nor any regard for religion of any kind, yet he had been honorable in his business dealing and had accumulated some property. The old neighbors felt they owed him a civil burial so they got the North Madison schoolhouse and one Asahel Bronson from Wyoming to act as minister. The congregation sang the hymns. For his sermon text the preacher took the words, “If ye will not repent ye shall die in your sins.” Our Aunt Esther Pangburn said he just preached the dead man into Hell.
The Reverend Bronson had been in his younger days a regularly ordained Methodist preacher in Wyoming County, New York. Failing in health, he came to Wyoming, Iowa, in 1859, following his cousins, James A. Bronson, and a brother B. K. Bronson, who founded the town of Wyoming in 1856. He was small in stature and had a great deal of energy. In Iowa he soon gained his health and was for years a regular preacher in the Upper Methodist Conference and filled many appointments. Finally he settled in Wyoming and lived a retired life, filling many small offices and preaching in the neighboring schoolhouses where there was no church within walking distance. He lived to be ninety-six years old and no man ever lived in the county so universally loved and honored as he. He married more couples and preached more funeral sermons than any other preacher of any creed in the county. The writer remembers hearing him remark in the middle nineties before he made the opening prayer at a Fourth of July celebration in Wyoming: “I can say what no other man in this large gathering can say, I am 88 years old today, My father fought in the Revolutionary War.” His voice was then strong and had no tremble. The worst roughneck never swore in his presence, just from the universal respect he carried with him in all gatherings.
Another character in the neighborhood was John Brutsman, a grandfather of the wife of the writer. He was a Pennsylvania Dutchman from Wyoming County, who had come to Dixon, Illinois, in the forties and was there during the later days of Peter Cartwright and the Methodist crusade. His wife had joined the Methodists but he had been raised a Quaker, though he had not worked at it much, and he hated the Methodists among other things. After he came to Madison Township in 1866, he bought a tract of timber on North Mineral Creek, about ten miles from his home, for firewood and fencing. The dealer showed him a very good piece of timber, but deeded him another with scarcely any good timber on it. At this time timber land was worth four time as much as prairie land and there were no plats scattered about as there are now. Only the surveyor’s notes at the courthouse were available. Brutsman paid for the land and soon commenced to cut and haul logs from the land he had been shown.
It happened, however, that a man by the name of J. Stunkard lived in the neighborhood of the timber and owned the patch being cut. He became aware of the cutting and traced it to Brutsman, who readily admitted he had cut the trees and explained how he had purchased the land. As a result Brutsman and Stunkard got together to fix matters up. Stunkard invited Brutsman and his boy, Jim, to dinner before they went to survey the cutting that had been done. He was a Methodist and as the custom was, he asked the blessing before the meal. In those days the plates were put on the table up-side-down over the knives and forks. After the meal Brutsman took his son, Jim, out by the wagon and remarked: “Did you see that old cuss reading that little verse of his plate?” But the affair was adjusted and Brutsman found his own timber.
Among our neighbors were Phil and Margaret Allberry. They were fine people but very illiterate and Phil was a strong Democrat. He told my father during the Civil War that Lincoln had no right to abolish the writ of hocus pocus (habeas corpus). In clearing his farm of trees he would fasten a chain around the tree as high as he could reach, hitch the oxen to the other end of the chain and while he was digging and chopping the roots he would urge the oxen to pull. The Allberys were great eaters and Margaret always had a cupboard filled with good things. Occasionally when my folks were going to Wyoming they would leave some of us at the Allberys. Margaret would always give us so much to eat that we were usually sick for several days afterward.
Our neighbors generally did not take to education as we did but though they were ignorant, they developed the community, paid their way, and could be relied on to do their full duty when the nation was in danger and Lincoln called for soldiers to defend it.
Then as now, there were some very small-souled men. We had two of them in our community, whose names I will not mention. A death was near in each of their families. Both of them scoured the county before the death to see where he could get the cheapest coffin.
The earliest settlers of our community were mostly Yankees, the few foreigners who were there being mostly Germans, among whom were my mother’s folks, the Krouses.
PESTS
We had few pests to destroy the field crops or fruit, but in the middle 70’s the chinch bugs stopped the cultivation of wheat. They were little insects about the size of a gnat with white wings and black bodies. The old ones did no damage, but the brood so thoroughly sapped the straw that the grain did not fill out. You could first see small patches of grain turning white and then in a day or two the whole field whitened. Then the chinch bugs would leave the wheat fields and go into the oats or corn and take a strip from ten to twenty rows. After that the farmers stopped trying to raise wheat and they disappeared.
About the time of the Civil War, the Colorado potato bug got to us and they were such pests that we had to go over the vines every day, and pick of the bugs, and destroy the eggs. When grown, these beetles were red and black and about twice the size of a lady bug. They deposited their eggs in clusters on the under side of the leaves. The eggs hatched in a day or two and if left alone the larvae would eat leaves, vines and all. That was the most dreaded job on the farm, but people raised only what they could consume at home, for there was no market for potatoes. Finally the lady bug came and lived on the eggs of the Colorado beetle and for a great many years there have not been enough to bother. Many other pests, however, have followed so spraying has to done, a remedy not thought of in the old days.
The currants were never bothered nor the gooseberries, and there were no apple worms, cabbage worms, or leaf roll or plant lice. I think the wild land raised enemies that destroyed these pests.
There were two kinds of squirrels: small striped ones which were very numerous and the large grey ones, about the size of timber squirrels. The squirrels would follow up the rows of planted corn and dig up the seeds as long as there was any of the kernel left. We trapped them and, if there was any corn left, fed them for a while.
When the first cherry trees began to bear, the birds took many of the cherries. Some people shot the birds but for the most part they tried scaring them. L. G. Ransom shot many birds and soon after had a very bad knee. His neighbor, S. Dilley, thought it was a judgment sent on him.
SIGNS
It has been a weakness of the human family from the earliest dawn to believe in witches, signs, imps, and the like. We, being drawn from many nations, have some of the superstitions of them all. Every new country’s first settlers retain some superstitious beliefs and ours was no exception.
The Overleys, Arnolds, Lightfoots, and Basingers from Fleming County, Kentucky, were strong believers in the Twelve signs of the Zodiac. They consulted it, as a sailor his chart, for all farming, fencing, weather, and similar problems.
The writer’s uncle, Isaac Overley, came the most to our notice. He weaned his children, calves, and colts when the sign was in the foot to keep them from crying too much. He planted potatoes by it, so they would not all go to blossoms, shingled according to it, so the shingles would not warp, and fenced at the time indicated, so the fences would not settle in the ground.
The writer was once shown an old goose setting on the prairie at the home of Elmer Ellsworth Overley, a cousin. I noticed an old rusty axe lying on the ground near her and picked it up, intending to carry it away, when Elmer said, “Don’t do that. Pa put it there to keep the thunder from killing the eggs.”
There were many weather signs. L. G. Ransom claimed that if the sun went down clear on Friday night it would rain before Monday noon. Jacob Parks said that if you saw many whirlwinds in the spring it was a sure sign of a dry summer.
This was from the Cavalier strain; the Puritan line went mostly to witches. One woman related that while living in Illinois her mother could not get the butter to gather in the churn. An old Yankee woman told her to put a horse shoe in the churn. She did this and got immediate results. The old German woman was converted to the belief, not realizing that the heat or cold of the iron did the job, not the driving out of witches.
Horses, then as now, would rub their necks in shedding time. A neighbor once noticed a colt of ours with stirrups or snarls in its mane and remarked that the witches had been riding it. For hot, dry summers and cold, blustery winters there were many and contradictory signs brought from all climates. some were borrowed from the Indians.
In August, 1869, there occurred a total eclipse of the sun visible in Iowa. It was foretold in the almanacs and many visitations of wind and weather were predicted—frosts, floods, and blight to follow. The eventful day came. It was about four in the afternoon. Father and George and Alfred, my two older brothers, were east of the house binding wheat. Mother my oldest sister, Maggie, then thirteen, Charley, Winnie—the baby—and Aunt Esther, mother’s sister, were at the house.
Maggie, who had heard of smoked glass for clear vision, was prepared and as soon as the eclipse began she kept close watch. The writer did not enjoy seeing that black disk cover the bright sun with not a cloud in sight. Finally I was sent to the field to call the men to look at it. Mother and Aunt Esther were talking about it and when another would occur. Maggie said in thirty years and mother said none of us would live to see it. But Maggie said she expected to as she would be forty-three, George would be as old as father, forty-one, and I would be thirty-six. We all lived to see the next eclipse and many years after, except Maggie, who was taken by grippe in 1889.
When the eclipse was complete, the chickens flew into the trees to roost and the turkeys on the rail fences near their young. It got noticeably cooler while the sun was covered. When it was nearly over, Maggie and I were sent to dig the peach blow potatoes for supper. I scolded as she watched the sun while I dug the potatoes. A German family by the name of Harber lived a short distance from us at the time. The man was away and the young woman with the two children got so frightened they went into the house and shut the door. But the next morning the sun rose as usual. Father never believed in signs and we never had that burden of fear to carry. I find there are lots of people still following those old signs.
TREES & FLOWERS
From northeastern Iowa to Des Moines, the state capital, the rivers are about twenty miles apart. Along these rivers there was usually a belt of solid timber about two miles wide mostly hilly, then a belt of solid prairie with no trees or brush, and then a belt of low hills, mostly clay. In the sixties there were on the tops of these hills some large oak trees about equally divided among white, black, or red oaks, as the people called them. The black oak was so named from its black bark. The red oak was named from its red center, or the heart of the wood. There was also the burr oak which has an acorn in clusters with a husk resembling a bur. These acorns fell early and we children used to eat them raw. They were also good when roasted. The others were very bitter.
These trees must have gotten started and survived because the grass on the tops of the hills was shortest or tramped out by the wild animals and did not make such a hot fire when the prairies burned. As soon as the top-most limbs got above the fire hazard and the cropping of the animals the trees were safe and some of them grew to be big trees, with trunks from ten to thirty inches in diameter. They were short bodied. The limbs branched out from eight to fifteen feet above the ground, like those of a well pruned apple tree, and they often shaded a spot ninety feet in circumference.
Sometimes the trees grew in pairs, perhaps a white oak and a black oak about the same size, but mostly they stood singly. There would be from two to ten oak trees on a forty and about two or three shellbark hickory trees. These usually bore a very good nut of small size with a thin shell. I knew every tree in six sections and I never found two trees bearing the same shaped nut. I got my share and sometimes more. These shellbarks were very rough. The shells or scales of bark would be about eighteen inches long, ending in saber points sticking out from the tree, and many a time the writer has had to stop and pull these shells away by breaking the points off before he could climb to the limbs. I have often wondered why nature made them so; there is some reason, but I have never found out why nor been told.
In the summer the cattle and horses enjoyed the shade of the trees and the travelers on the old trails would stop under them to rest and eat. The settlers being mostly from the timber states saved the trees for they still loved them. The hickory trees were left for the nuts as the children claimed the trees and for years those were all the nuts they had to eat. The farmers plowed around them and, the modern machines not being in use, the trees were not much bother.
The farm on which the Felton family was raised remained the home until 1896 and was held by deed until 1925. It had several fine trees and was known as Oak Park Farm. It was the last to surrender these monarchs and the writer now knows of only one farm where any of the trees of the sixties remain. That is the old Eliphalet Nichols home where his youngest daughter, Rachel Nichols Smith, still lives. For four generations—since 1852—the people on this farm have enjoyed the shady oaks. Then the farms began to be sold and rented in the eighties, the German tenants cut the trees and turned the orchards into asylums for ailing beasts, calf pastures, and the like, which soon destroyed both shade and fruit trees.
As soon as the majority of the land was tilled and the fires were controlled the heads of ravines soon grew timber. Stumps of oaks which had been burned to the ground sent up vigorous shoots that in twenty years made good posts and much firewood. These sprouted trees occasioned much hard labor to grub. The writer when in his teens had many hard days work getting them out. The tool was a mattock with a narrow axe on the one side and a stout hoe on the other, on a straight handle. After the fire hazard was past the soft wood got started and soon the cottonwood, elm, and balm of Gilead, locally known as quaking asp, shot up in fence lines and road sides.
As soon as the frost went out in the spring, flowers began with the grass. The first to come were the cowslips. These grew in the sloughs. The cowslip plant had a large flat leaf, a juicy stem, and yellow flowers. The leaves were gathered for greens by the early settlers, for there were no dandelions in the country at that time.
Then there were the johnny-jump-ups or wild pansies in three or four colors. Also the Indian tobacco, with its pallid flowers. We chewed the leaves, hence its name. The sheep-sorrel with pink flowers grew in clusters. The Indian head or bloody-butcher grew on a single stem. In June came the pinks. This was a wonderful flower of rare beauty, growing in the meadows. It had yellow flowers in a cluster on a stalk about a foot high.
In July came the ladyslippers. The yellow ones were quite common and grew on a single stem about a foot high with one flower shaped like a slipper. White ones with purple markings grew on some of the knolls. The writer had not seen one of these white ladyslippers for more than fifty years, until he found some in the spring of 1930 near Hopkinton. I think it was the prettiest wild flower of them all.
The dry land lily grew on a stalk with bright red flowers in irregular formation. The slough lily had several flowers on a stem. Its petals were curved with black dots. One kind of prairie thistle grew about a foot high with three flowers about the size of a round house paint brush. It was a beautiful flower and very rare. These flowers are now found only on the railroad right of ways that have never been plowed.
LECTURES
About 1875 a spasm of lecturing spread over the whole country similar to the Chautauqua. The older children were attending the small denominational colleges and bringing home reports of the school lectures by the professors and preachers. The idea spread. At Center Junction, for example, a club was formed to establish a lecture course. It was headed by Z. G. Isabell, the local Nasby, a man past middle life, who was also a Methodist preacher, a registered M. D., and a druggist. Dr. Carlisle A. Cary, Amos Pangburn, S. McGinty, M. O. Felton, Jess Houser, the local merchant, and a few more of equal note made up the membership. The field was well supplied from Henry Ward Beecher, Robert G. Ingersoll, Henry Watterson, and Schuyler Colfax down to the ground, covering all subjects, in title at least.
This club decided on three lectures. For the first they took a humorist named Ely Perkins. The Methodist Church was selected as the hall for it was the largest meeting place, seating about two hundred and fifty. The crowd gathered, made up mostly of the most devout Methodists and Presbyterians of the county and their families, except the baby which they had been ordered to leave at home. They gathered in solemn order as if at a memorial gathering, expecting to hear an orthodox sermon on the sin of a smile. Dr. Isabell in his ministerial clothes rose from behind the pulpit and proceeded to introduce the speaker. He said, in part, that the good people of the town and vicinity had decreed that they would not have any one-horse lecturer, so they sent to New York City for one.
Then Perkins, after a few words of praise for the group, launched out with funny stories and some bantering of the crowd. He had brought some drawings by way of illustrations. Among other things he said that his Uncle William was a very temperate man and had never drunk anything but whiskey and water but got to feeling bad so he quit the water altogether. At this some of them reached for their Bibles, other cleared their throats, and the atmosphere cooled perceptibly. A little later he got to the Englishman. He said it took a Yank two seconds to get anything through his head but it took an Englishman two weeks. The Methodist preacher who was sitting in front of him was English. This again iced the Methodists. At last the speaker looked at his watch and announced that he had been talking for an hour and a half and came to a close. I was much interested in the talk, especially the stories, and drank in all of it and remember it to this day. But the audience—there was never a more disgusted gathering left the church. They got the kind of lecture they paid for but not the kind they wanted. This ended the lecture course and goes to show that the mind of man is directed by prejudice more than by thought.
Originally published in The Iowa Journal of History and Politics, Benjamin F. Shambaugh, Editor, Vol. 29, No. 2, (April 1931). Copyright 1931, State Historical Society of Iowa. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
| The issue of the Iowa Journal of History and Politics in which this article appears is available in its original format. If you would like to purchase an issue (available in limited quantity), please remit $2 (per issue) to State Historical Society of Iowa, Publication Sales, 402 Iowa Avenue, Iowa City, Iowa 52240-1806. Be sure to indicate which issue you would like to purchase. |
|