Pg 437

         About 4 P.M., June 4, 1843, a terrible storm crossed the southern part of Cedar County. It first struck the ground in Springdale Township, 12 miles southwest of Tipton. A spectator describes its first appearance as a thick, dark cloud, lower than the others, and large enough to cover a forty-acre lot. In a few minutes it came down in the shape of a funnel and took an easterly course, going at the rate of fifty or sixty miles an hour, and sweeping a strip of country about one-fourth of a mile in width. It partially destroyed the house of William Maxon, and tore his wagon into fragments; E. A. Gray, also, lost a wagon. A breaking team of three yokes of oxen was picked up and partially unyoked, some of the cattle being injured. Striking the house of Mr. Acker, it tore it down almost to the ground, the family escaping by going to the cellar. Mr. Vanderburgh’s house was the next in its course, and was completely destroyed. This family also took refuge in the cellar, Mr. Vanderburgh being the last to enter. His wagon was carried off and his beds and bedding were scattered for miles. It next struck Mr. Mudge’s house, two and a half miles from Vanderburgh’s, tore it to pieces, fractured Mr. Mudge’s skull and broke the limb of a child and considerably injured Mrs. Mudge. It destroyed the house of William Long, the family consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Long, Belinda Wymer, Moses Shelheimer and a little boy 3 years old; but they all escaped with very slight injuries, although the house and household goods were scattered in every direction. Striking the prairie east of Sugar Creek, in the McCroskey neighborhood, it picked up nine head of cattle and some hogs, belonging to William Miller, and hurled them to the ground a lifeless mass. It next destroyed the house of Mrs. Reynolds and killed her as it swept on its course to the Mississippi, which it crossed some three miles below Camanche. Throughout its course, it leveled the standing timber to the ground, leaving nothing behind but devastation and ruin. The small loss of life was, doubtless, owing to the sparseness of the population at that time.

         The cyclone here mentioned was a disastrous one, but trifling as compared with one that occurred on Sunday, June 3, 1860, crossing the northern end of Cedar County. Considerable rain had fallen in the early part of the day, and the sky was thickly covered over with dark, black clouds, drifting hither and thither, when suddenly a funnel-shaped cloud was formed reaching down to the earth. It began near Cedar Rapids, and, taking a strip of country varying from twenty rods to a mile in width, swept across the country to Camanche, which it totally destroyed, and, crossing the Mississippi, stretched well across Illinois toward Lake Michigan. The early settlers of Cedar County will long and vividly remember the horrors attending that cyclone.

         This storm first struck the county near the northwest corner of Pioneer Township, and swept everything before it; the heaviest timber was laid as flat as if felled by the woodman’s ax. In Pioneer Township, it killed one whole . . .

Pg 438

. . . family of seven persons, named Allen, and seriously injured a young man named Baumgardner, making him a cripple for life. In addition to this, it destroyed a large amount of property. In crossing Fremont Township, it did very little serious damage, moving one school house into the road and tearing down fences wherever they happened to be in its course.

         At Onion Grove, now Clarence, in Dayton Township, and at Louden, on the line between Massillon and Springfield Townships, much damage was done to property. Houses, barns and fences were destroyed and stock of all kinds killed and injured.

         Meetings were held everywhere in aid of the tornado sufferers. Clinton, then but a village, raised $350. Col. Milo Smith, then Superintendent of the railway, placed hand cars and a train at the disposal of the people who desired to aid the sufferers. At a meeting in Chicago, $2,085 was raised. The following poem, composed for the occasion by Benjamin F. Taylor, was read at this meeting. It was entitled

TORNADO SUNDAY.

The winds sweetly sung

In the elms as they swung,

And the woods were in time and the robins in tune;

One cloud, just forgiven,

Lay at anchor in heaven,

And Iowa asleep on the threshold of June.

All the air a great calm,

And the prairie a palm,

For the Lord, when He blessed, left the print of His hand;

All the roses in blow,

All the rivers aglow,

Thus the Sabbath came down on the bud-laden land.

On the bride and the bold,

On the clay and the gold,

On the furrow unfinished, on fame to be won,

On the turbulent tide,

On the rivers’ green side.

Where the flocks of white villages lay in the sun.

All the world was in rhyme,

Bid good morning to Time!

Oh, sweet bells and sweet words of the dear golden then;

It is fair all abroad,

From blue sky to green sod;

Let us pray while we can; blessed Sabbath. Amen.

Not a murmur in the air,

Nor lambent anywhere,

And no footfall of God on the ledges of cloud;

‘Twas a breath, and it fled—

Song and Sabbath were dead,

And the threads of gold sunshine the roof of the shroud.

Oh, words never spoken,

Oh, heart and hearth broken,

Oh, beautiful paths, such as loving feet near;

All erased from the land,

Like a name in the sand,

All the thistledown drifts on a billow of air.

Like the sighing of leaves,

When the Winter wind grieves

Like the rattle of chariots driving afar,

Like the wailing of woods,

Like the rushing of floods,

Like the clang of huge hammers forging a star!

Pg 439

Like a shriek of despair

In the shivering air,

Like the rustle of fanners with tempest afraid,

Like a soul out of heaven,

Like a tomb trumpet-riven,

Like a syllable dropp’d from the thunder of God.

Then these to their weeping,

And those to their sleeping,

And the blue wing of heaven was over them all;

Oh, “sweet south,” that singeth,

Oh, flower girl, that bringeth

The gushes of fragrance to hovel and hall.

Oh, blue bird, shed Spring

With the flash of thy wing

Where December drifts cold in the bosom of June;

Set our hearts to the words,

Dearest songs of first birds,

We are brothers at night that were strangers at noon.