MINKLER, ORANGE

MINKLER, HILL, TAYLOR, FIELDS, RIEBHOFF, HANNIVAN, OLSON, LONG, CONNELL, DRIVER, PALMER, JORDAN

Posted By: Jean Kramer (email)
Date: 12/12/2003 at 11:38:53

Biography reproduced from page 422 of the History of Kossuth and Humboldt Counties, Iowa published in 1884:

Orange Minkler was born Dec. 27, 1818, in Lake Co., Ohio, and reared on his father’s farm, receiving his early education in the log cabins of his native State. He was married, Dec. 28, 1843, to Lydia A. Hill. They had six children, four are living—Josephine, wife of Viran Taylor; Orvello E., who married Ida Fields; Georgiana, wife of Michael Rutshaff; and Orange A., who married Katie Hanivan. Mrs. Minkler died in 1850, and in 1851 he married her sister, Betsey A. Hill. They had seven children—David Oratio, who married Lottie Olson; Charles D.; Ella, wife of Richard Long; Mary, wife of Henry Long; George L., Caroline and Florence. His second wife died in 1863, and July 14, 1867, he married Mary M. Connell of Michigan. They have four children—Addie E., Lewis Franklin, Maud and John W. In the fall of 1856, in company with George Barnes, Thomas Haynes, William Osborn and families, started in prairie schooners for Iowa, camping out on the road and cooking their own meals. They were four long, weary weeks in making this journey, there being at this time no road across the prairies or bridges across the streams. Mr. Minkler settled in Algona, there being but three or four log cabins in the place, and the people were compelled to go to Masqueton, on the Cedar river, for their flour, there being no mill nearer. The country was a vast wilderness. In politics, Mr. Minkler is a Jacksonian democrat, and has held several local offices of trust in the gifts of the people.
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Biography reproduced from page 318 of Volume II of the History of Kossuth County written by Benjamin F. Reed and published in 1913:

Fifty-six years ago Orange Minkler came to Algona and took up his abode among its pioneer settlers, bravely facing the hardships and privations of life in a frontier region and resolutely aiding in the work of development and upbuilding. His birth occurred in Lake county, Ohio, on the 27th of December, 1818, and he was reared on his father’s farm, acquiring his education in the log schoolhouses of the Buckeye state. On the 28th of December, 1843, he wedded Miss Lydia A. Hill, by whom he had six children, namely: Josephine, the widow of N. C. Taylor; Orvello E., deceased, who married Miss Ida Fields; Georgiana, the wife of Michael Riebhoff, of Oregon City, Oregon; Orange A., who wedded Kate Hannivan and lives at Amboy, New Jersey; and Jane and Oscar, both of whom are deceased. The mother of these children passed away in 1850 and the following year Mr. Minkler married her sister, Betsey A. Hill, who bore him seven children, as follows: David Horatio, who wedded Lottie Olson and lives in Corona, California; Charles O., of Sanger, California; Ella, the wife of Richard Long, of Algona; Mary, the wife of Henry Long, of Algona; George L., of Centralia, Washington; and Florence, the wife of M. G. Minkler, of Vancouver, Washington. Mr. Minkler lost his second wife in 1863 and on the 14th of July, 1867, wedded Miss Mary M. Connell, a native of Michigan. By this union there were eight children, as follows: three, who died in infancy; Addie E., the wife of D. L. Driver, of Caldwell, Idaho; Lewis Franklin, who married Jessie Palmer and lives in Omaha, Nebraska; Earl Wyatt, who makes his home in Hoquiam, Washington; Cora Maud, who married Grant Jordan, of Algona; and John W., who married May Minkler and lives in Washington.

In the fall of 1856 Mr. Minkler brought his family to Iowa, traveling by prairie schooner drawn by oxen in company with George Barnes, Thomas Haynes, William Osborn and their families. They camped out and cooked their own meals and, owing to the fact that there was as yet no road across the prairies and no bridges across the streams, did not arrive at their destination until four long, weary weeks had passed. This part of the country was a vast wilderness. Mr. Minkler settled in Algona when there were but three or four log cabins in the place and when there was no mill nearer than Quasqueton, on the Wapsipinicon river, where he had to go in order to procure flour for the merchants for whom he hauled goods. While on one of these trips, when the weather was extremely cold and the snow, piled in drifts, had temporarily obliterated the roads, he was obliged to be absent from home longer than was expected. He returned by way of Fort Dodge and while en route between Webster City and Fort Dodge saw the bodies of two men frozen to death on the prairie. From Fort Dodge to Irvington he traveled on the ice on the Des Moines river. On reaching his homestead, a short distance from Irvington, he discovered that provisions had been exhausted and that the last milch cow had been killed the day before to provide food. On a trip from Des Moines, Orange Minkler hauled the first printing press ever brought to Algona. The first edition from this press contained the obituary of his daughter Jane, written by her teacher, Dr. Armstrong, and which is given below.

Mr. Minkler was a true pioneer, enduring many hardships and privations and hazarding his life on many of his early excursions across the uninhabited Iowa prairies. As time passed, however, the district became more thickly settled and pioneer conditions gave way before the onward march of civilization. Mr. Minkler aided in the work of progress and upbuilding and lived to see a once wild region transformed into a prosperous and thriving community. He was long a Jacksonian democrat in politics and was honored with several local positions of public trust. However, he became a great admirer of Theodore Roosevelt, for whom he cast his last presidential ballot. In his passing in 1905 the community lost one of its respected and honored pioneer settlers and his family and friends a cherished companion.

The following is an address written in the schoolroom the next day after the death of Jane Minkler, a very highly esteemed scholar, by her teacher, Dr. J. R. Armstrong, who later became one of Irvington’s best physicians.

My dearly beloved pupil:--

My whole soul is now exceedingly filled with deep and unfeigned sorrow, occasioned by you being today locked in the relentless arms of death. I cast my eyes upon the blackboard and there I see mathematical characters that were but recently traced by that hand which now lies pulseless and still. I turn from them with cheeks bedewed with tears, and gaze with sorrow on that vacant desk and closed algebra, grammar and arithmetic, and that unused slate, till tears flow from my eyes like water from a fountain and the most bitter feelings of sorrow come welling up from the very bottom of my heart and roll to and fro like the mighty surges on the turbid ocean of trouble. But only two days since you were here—one of my most highly esteemed and dearly beloved students. Oh, I cannot realize that it can be possible that death has entered my schoolroom and led away one of my beloved scholars a captive and placed his icy seal on her light and joyous heart and forever closed her sparkling eyes. Oh Death! Can we offer thee no ransom sufficient to purchase her from thy cold embrace, that her blood may again course as it was wont to do through her virgin veins and bring again the roselike hue to her now pallid cheeks, action to her benumbed limbs and that wonted vivacity to her entire frame; that she may return to gladden our hearts again by her smile, to enliven our schoolroom by her presence, to add interest to our recreation hours, to be our beloved companion again while ascending the hills of science, while delving in the mines of knowledge, while cruising on the ocean of thought. If this be too much, if thou canst not allow thy captive to tread again her native land, to breathe again the air of this mortal clime, to mingle again with these her earthbound friends, to be instructed by a teacher who is but an erring mortal with very limited capacity, to wipe the tears from the eyes of a sorrow-stricken father and mother, to bring joy to the downcast hearts of loved sisters and brothers, to prevent the dark clouds of gloom from o’er spreading the sky of those kindred friends who reside far eastward, who must and will be moved to affliction’s center on hearing that such a valuable, such a worthy, such a promising young friend has been called so soon, so suddenly away from her expectant friends, her hoping and sanguine kindred, leaving a broken link in friendship’s chain that can ne’er be mended but serves only as a warning to the rest that the whole chain is but the sport for death and food for Oblivion. We say, if we cannot prevail on thee to let her return again and take up her abode with us, and be our companion, and join that severed link to friendship’s chain, can we not bribe thee to let her visit our schoolroom but one hour and return to pay a farewell visit to her kindred and her loving friends, that kindred, friends, schoolmates and teacher may have one more opportunity of expressing their strong and abiding affection for her and receive in return that wonted smile and a word of assurance that she is being kindly dealt with in that new and eternal home to which thou hast so unexpectedly taken her? We pause for reply, and solemn stillness reigns till the voice of Revelation breaks in and gives the unwelcome answer: “No, never.” Death will be permitted to retain her as his captive and guard the confines between this and the spirit land till “the heavens shall be rolled together like a scroll,” and the last trump shall sound to wake the dead and command the grave and the restless ocean to yield up their charnel treasures. Well, be it so, we must abide by the fixed and unchangeable laws of God. And we will endeavor to do it with true Christian submission. But, dear Jane, we cannot help but miss you and mourn our loss. We will ever cherish you in our memories as one of our dearest, our truest and most highly prized friends. And in our lonely, our pensive hours, we will send memory to invite you to assemble with the little group of our disembodied yet warmly cherished and dearly beloved friends. Then we will all hold sweet communion and feast in Affection’s Halls and live over again the happy scenes of other days, which will be doubly sweet from being bathed in sorrow’s tears. So we as a school must give thee up, as an earthly friend, schoolmate, a favorite scholar, but we can ne’er forget one whose smiles have formed so much filling in the webs of our lives. But, dear Jane, your sudden, your unexpected death has stirred the emotions of many others beyond this circle of scholastic friends. Sorrow sits enthroned today upon the hearts of the parents of these children. All have a sigh to heave and a tear to shed for so true, so pure a soul. Your mortal goodness of heart, your amiable disposition, your successful effort as a teacher in this district during the last summer, your untiring zeal, your devotedness in laboring for the achievement of your pupils, all those combined had completely won the entire approbation, esteem, love and regard of both scholars and parents, yes, all, both old and young. And all still love and cherish you and mourn you as a true friend. Today my heart was stirred on seeing a little prattler that you had often dandled and amused in your sportive way, a little prattler of scarce three summers, look mournfully on your pallid face, and while her little hand pressed your marble forehead, she lispingly and sorrowfully said to me: “Janie can’t talk, her is dead, her is cold.” Oh, dear Jane, how we all loved you! We call crowded around your bedside while death with his icy fingers was feeling for your heartstrings, while your breath came feebly up and your soul set out on your quivering lips ready to take its everlasting flight from earth, away to no more enliven its kindred clay. There we all poured out the common tribute of mingled sighs and tears. Yes, we all loved you with a deep and abiding love, yet we could not stay the power of Death. In spite of our utmost efforts, he prevailed. He unlocked the portals of your earthly tabernacle and set your pure spirit free. He left the casket but stole the jewel; yea, he stole the vital spark away. Then with silent prayers and stifled sighs we closed your eyes to sleep till the Resurrection morn, when we shall meet you in the skies with a new and spiritual form.

There is still another class of mourners that we dread to think of, for sympathy fills our hearts with still greater anguish. It is the fond parents, the brothers, the sisters and the more distant kindred of our dear departed friend. Oh Death! It seems doubly unkind in thee to have severed those kindred ties without a moment’s warning. Thou hast so hastily snapped the cords of affection that bound a true and loving heart to those of her parents, her brothers, her sisters, and her friends. She was the fond hope of a tender mother, the pride and long cherished idol of a doting father. She seemed to be the center around which his happiness revolved. We saw him kneel by the bedside of his dying child and, like Joseph of old, he could not refrain himself, and he wept aloud while he clasped her livid hand and pressed it to his bosom and then to his lips, and with a heart filled with anguish and eyes overflowing with tears, he exclaimed: “My child! My child!” And while he wrung his hand in sorrow and pressed his aching head, her soul took its everlasting flight, passed the gates to that Eternal City and entered “that undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.” And today the hearts of the parents seem completely shroud by the darkest clouds of sorrow’s night. They seem like “Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted.” They seem ready to exclaim with the good old patriarch, Jacob, “If I am bereaved of my children, I am bereaved.” Our prayer to God is that they may heed this solemn admonition to set their house in order, for in such an hour as they know not their souls will be required of them. They have already passed the meridian of their lives; their sun is journeying down the western sky; their heads are frosting with the night of age; their once symmetrical features are now deeply furrowed by the plow of time; God grant that they may seek and find sweet consolation in trusting and believing on the Lord Jesus Christ, whose delight it is to elevate the downcast and bind up the broken hearted. May they remember that “Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them who fear him.” And God grant that we may all begin to examine ourselves as in the light of Eternity and see that our lamps are filled with the oil of faith, trimmed and burning; that we may be ready when that solemn message comes commanding us to appear at the Judgment bar of God. That death may not overtake us as a thief in the night, for we are led to exclaim, “Truly Death is no respecter of persons! He stalketh about at noonday and layeth low his harvest of souls” with all their pleasures, sorrows and cares, regardless of age, distinction or sex. Yea, we see them falling on the right and on the left and no one dares his title to dispute. From infancy to old age, none, none are exempt. All, all have the seeds of mortality planted in their natures, and sooner or later, willing or unwilling, prepared or unprepared, “They must bow to the mandate of pass ye away.”

O, Dear Jane! thou hast left this earthly clime,
And all the subcelestial things of time,
For a happier home in that bright land,
Where God in glory shone ere time began.

Death came and claimed thee as his worthy prize,
And sealed thy lips and closed thy sparkling eyes;
Then he unlocked the prison of thy soul,
Which quickly fled and left thy body cold.

Then mourning friends conveyed thy lifeless form
To the grave, to rest until that great morn
When God the living and the dead will call
And congregate them in his Judgment Hall.

Thou hast gone and left many weeping friends,
A father o’er thy lifeless form did bend,
A sighing mother to thy grave did go,
Sad sisters, brothers too, all loved thee so.

And now when they behold that vacant chair
That Jane was wont to use when she was there,
Dark clouds of sorrow o’er their troubled souls
Float forth, like icebergs from earth’s frozen poles.

Years of weeping can bring them no relief,
So we entreat them to abstain from grief;
Sorrow’s fountain by tears can ne’er be drained,
More than ocean’s bosom by constant rain.

Hence now we bid them look to Christ for joy,
And He will give them bliss without alloy;
It is through faith in Him that they may find
A sure relief from ills of every kind.

And as sorrowing friends so we must wait
Till we have passed through Heaven’s golden gate,
Ere we can meet that true and cherished friend
In that bright land where pleasures have no end.

Kossuth Biographies maintained by Linda Ziemann.
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