Extracted from the History of Harrison County Iowa
Chicago
National Publishing Company
1891

 REMINISCENCES.

BEFORE AND AFTER THE RAILROAD.

THEN AND NOW.

(By Mrs. W. T. Preston, of HARRISON COUNTY)

Chapter X

All of the following reminiscences of “ye olden time” are of an earlier date than my personal knowledge, because I came after the railroad.  But if one would realize the contrasts in Harrison Township, it is necessary to go back to the commencement of the thirty-five years of its inhabitancy.  Conversations with some of the old-timers have resulted in giving clues to their manner of living, the struggles and hardships of pioneer life.  They came here from New England, with no railroad facilities this side of Iowa City, a distance of two hundred miles, as the crow flies, and farther by wagon trail, through bridgeless streams and almost trackless forests; through muddy valleys and over treeless prairies.  They brought no luxuries and few necessities with them.  Their nearest trading point was Council Bluffs, more than fifty miles away, with traveling similar to that east of them.  Three days were consumed in going there and back.  Time was precious and money was scarce.  Exchange of articles and labor was the order of the day.  Anything was legal tender.  The “coin of the realm” was as scarce as the new spring bonnets of the ladies.  Furniture was home-made, and lucky the woman whose husband had an axe, hammer and saw with skill to use them.  Unplaned black walnut made rude chairs, tables, bedsteads and stands, and time and wear polished them.  A sawmill in Shelby County with primitive machinery furnished rough boards for their cabins.  No nicely matched edges made close joints in walls and floors, but frequently the green lumber shrunk until the cracks were wide enough to render doors and windows almost unnecessary.  No “ten cent counter” supplied them with culinary tools, and no china store furnished them with its gilt-edge ware.  Thin pieces of board supplied any lack of plates and whittled out wooden forks sometimes took the places of their steel or silver sisters.  No chenille or madras curtains draped their windows, but perchance an old Hartford, Conn., Courant, with fancifully notched edge, added an air of refinement and hinted of the comforts and luxuries left behind.  Unplaned boards with generous cracks between, did not call for Brussels carpets and so they did not have them.  A Shelby County brick kiln supplied them with material for chimneys and sometimes fire-places were used instead of stoves.  One lady told me that when she was coming across the State she stopped for the night where there was an old lady and gentleman sitting in front of a huge fire-place, in which was a back-log and two other logs with one end on the fire and the other in the middle of the room.  As fast as they burned off they were given a shove and thus time and labor was saved in preparing fuel, but this did not happen in Harrison Township.  The settlers from New England, who came here were too thrifty and tidy to burn fuel in any such shiftless was as that.  One room, or at most two, contained and sheltered the whole family and may be two of them.  Yet there was always room for one more.  They were like street cars in State Fair time—never full.  No stranger was turned away and the strangers knew it.  They would put their horses in the shed unasked and walk into the house with the air of proprietors, well-knowing that the floor occupants could lie a little closer and the loft made of loose boards reached by a ladder, would accommodate those who might come later.  No matter if the larder was empty and the flour bin scraped; no matter if the cows were dry and the chickens were roosting high, they knew that Yankee ingenuity, combined with Yankee hospitality, would see that they had something to eat. 
There was a still earlier settlement made in Galland’s Grove, four miles to the south-east of Dunlap, by Mormons from Nauvoo, Ill.  Harrison Township’s first settlers, obtained some corn from them the first year and paid $2 a bushel.  When they had raised a crop of corn and wheat they hauled it to the Bluffs and got ten cents a bushel for the corn and thirty cents a bushel for wheat.  It hardly paid expenses.  One year they had no wheat on account of blight so they learned to use corn-meal for everything.  They sprinkled a tin with meal and filled it with pumpkin or other material and so made pies.  Browned corn made nutritious coffee that was not enervating.  Sugar cane made sorghum that served all purposes for sweetening.  Invigorating air and the aroma from newly turned sod, with plenty of exercise, created an appetite that gave flavor and relish to food, that the pampered sons of luxury never enjoyed.

In war times $1 dollar would buy three pounds of loaf sugar and that would last a year, as it was never used only in sickness or for some distinguished guest.  Dame Nature furnished the children shoes and stockings in the summer and motherly fingers knit the winter home, while a load of wheat would buy the winter shoes.  Out of doors all sorts of appliances were used.  Ingenuity was taxed to the uttermost to find ways and means to do work and supple deficiencies.  One man at least had a saddle and bridle made of the bark of a tree.  Snow-storms sometimes overtook them on their freighting tours that were bewildering and when the sun came the glistening snow was literally blinding to man and beast.  Darkness sometimes came before they could find shelter.  One gentleman told me that he was out with another man and lost the trail, but listening intently they heard a dog bark.  It was their only clew to a human habitation and so they made a bee line for the sound.  The dog continued to bark, and it became more and more distinct until they finally reached a friendly shelter.  It was customary among the settlers to place candles in the window after nightfall for the guidance of belated travelers.

One wagon trail from the end of the railroad to the Missouri River lay through the Boyer Valley and sometimes the wagon trains would be a bile and a quarter long.  This was in 1859 and 1860, when “Pike’s Peak or bust” was the motto of thousands of fortune-seekers.  We can scarcely realize now what a dreary vast expanse of prairie stretched out before the gaze of the early settlers, with scarce a tree and hardly a fence to break the monotony.  As one lady remarked, “girls and dogs were used for fences because they were cheaper than posts or rails,” and her husband replied, that while now he could haul posts and wire for a half mile of fence in half a day, then it would take him all winter  to cut and haul material enough for the same.  Sometimes the tall prairie grass caught fire and the flames would sweep with relentless fury for miles through the valley and over the hills, licking up any precious bit of fence or pile of hard-earned rails or anything else that stood in its way.  Previous to 1860, probably there were not a dozen houses in Harrison Township.  The nearest neighbors were out of hearing and almost out of sight.

Sometime previous to 1860 a mail route was established, running from Magnolia to Adel, in Dallas County, connecting Magnolia with Council Bluffs, and from Adel to Des Moines and Iowa City.  James Billings, of Dunlap, told me he carried the mail for quite awhile, sometimes on horseback and sometimes in a two-wheeled cart, similar to the road-carts of to-day.  He did not carry passengers, unless some chance stranger wanted to go his way, but one time he brought three “school ma’am’s” from Harlan to Manteno.  They made themselves as comfortable as possible on the o9ne seat, while he mounted the horse.  The people of Harrison Township, then received the mail twice a week; this was a wonderful advance on previous accommodations.  There were some risks in carrying the mail during all sorts of weather and traveling through a lonely country, with never one bridge over any stream on the road.  One time Mr. Billings broke through the crust of snow and ice that covered the Musquito Creek; he succeeded in extricating himself and mail bag but could not get the horse out.  He ran five miles to the nearest house for help and returning they found the horse yet alive and saved it.  Another time he was capsized in Indian Creek and hunted all day in cold wet clothing for his mail bag.  At last just at night when he was almost frozen, he found it and putting in on his horse he made all possible speed to the nearest house, twelve miles away.  Arriving at his destination he was carried into the house almost dead.  Upon recovering a little he sent for the postmaster to examine the mail and see if anything was ruined.  Only one letter was injured and in that they were enabled to learn the name of the writer, which was A. N. Warren, who yet resides near Dunlap.  Mr. Billings returned his the letter with the request that he rewrite it.

These early settlers made desperate efforts to keep up the semblance of New England customs in religious lines.  They met at each other’s houses on Sundays and read sermons and sang.  They prayed to the same God that guided and guarded their Pilgrim ancestors on the bleak New England shores.  They had Sunday-schools and day schools, and laid the foundations for that superior mental and moral growth, which distinguishes Harrison Township from the neighboring townships on the east, which did not reverence God and the Sabbath as it ought.  The effects of these two methods of living are apparent to-day.  But it was not easy work to keep up these services.  There was no nicely furnished church, no sweet-toned bell, no large congregations, to inspire enthusiasm, but scattered people, unfinished houses and rough plank benches, minus backs, which were not restful to bodies wearied with six days’ of work.  It was easier to stay home or spend the Sabbath visiting.  Yet they persevered in spite of obstacles, and it paid.

A little town-site was platted on the table land three miles south of Dunlap, called Olmstead.  Its streets were named and recorded in the county records.  Matthew Jennings occupied the house, the brick part of which was built and occupied by Lorenzo Kellogg in 1858, and was on a corner of High Street.  But the nucleus never grew and the visions of a populous city never materialized.  It lacked houses and people, two essentials to the existence of every city.  Now we have a faint glimpse of the “then” of Harrison Township.  The “now” is more apparent. 

One hundred and thirty-five comfortable houses dot the prairie, everyman’s field is fenced and cultivated.  There is no open, or waste land.  Each home has its little grove and orchard and all the conveniences for comfortable living.  No prairie fires ever cause consternation and destruction.  There are bridges over every river, creek and gully, schoolhouses within easy distance of well-clad, well-shod girls and boys, with teachers of a high grade of scholarship.  The thriving village of Dunlap is within its borders, easily reached, over good graded roads, by every inhabitant in the township, and able to supply every real need and many of the luxuries of life.  Improved farm machinery and abundance of horses save muscle and time.  Four churches, with regular Sunday and week-day services, invite to worship and instruction in Bible knowledge and the way of salvation.

Two local newspapers keep us posted on local happenings, while daily papers from all the large cities come pouring in every mail.

The Chicago & Northwestern Railway cuts the township diagonally and on its “flyers” the old-time three-day-trip to Council Bluffs can be made in one hour and the eight-day trip to Boone can be accomplished in three hours.  Half a dozen times a day we can get fresh mail from the post-0ffice and as many times we can send our written messages.  By telephone we can talk with our friends in Boone and hear the reply as distinctly, as readily, and as soon as though face to face.  By telegraph we can send a message to the New England coast and the reply will come back at an earlier date than it starts.  Thirty years ago Harrison Township was isolated and “away out West.”  Now it is in the very center of the United States and in touch with all the world.  Yes, we can get tidings from the Old World the day before they happen.  Verily all the world are our neighbors now.  The contest between the “then” and “now” is sharp and well defined.  Evan a careless observer would not fail to notice the change.  With the present rapid building of railroads it is not as customary as formerly to push far in advance of the railroad, so such sharp contrasts will not as often be seen in the future as in the past.

THE PIONEERS OF FORTY YEARS AGO.
(By D. W. Butts.)

The hills, the valleys, the deep canyons, the shady ravines, the bubbling springs, the sparkling rivulets and pebbly brooks., in many places that we know from away back, may yet be seen and admired by the new comer, and the shape of the ground and the size of the stream and rivulet, are much the same to-day, as forty years ago; but beyond these few remaining features of ancient sameness, how changed is the scene in this beautiful garden of Western Iowa!  Where before there was much that was wild and grand, and rich in verdure and foliage, now we see in many places the barren landscape and the deep beaten paths of steady tread and use as the years have come and chased each other away.  Where the hunter of “ye olden time” used to gallop far away unhindered and free over the broad prairies and flat lands, covered with a wealth of grass and hay, so rich and abundant that to tell of it now would seem exaggeration, how changed is the scene!  Where the grass used to grow thick and wavy, far, far up on the green slopes, we now notice apparently bare ground, interspersed with weeds and mullen here and there, and some men’s cattle and horses and hogs and sheep are ready to nip the last vestige of the wild grass as fast as it appears. And then forty years ago, who dreamed that these broad, rich acres would be so soon fenced, and with iron cords at that.  We used to think that the lumber would have to be imported for buildings and fences, little dreaming that the wire fences would so soon destroy the freedom of range and travel around a township to get across it.  All fenced up in forty acres, good, bad and indifferent. Tame grass has taken the place of wild, except where the latter has been, in a few instances, wisely saved for its valuable hay crops, which so far has not been duplicated in value by the tame product.

Speaking of grasses, there are perhaps few present inhabitants that would believe if told the exact truth about the abundance of the hay crop of forty years ago in the “garden” section of Iowa.  I will remember, when in the early days of September, 1853, I rode from Kanesville (Council Bluffs) to what is now South-eastern Monona County—Preparation—on a large load of printing material and household goods, up the Missouri Valley to Soldier River, and thence up that stream.  At that season the ground was dry enough and the sod strong to hold heavy loads, and sitting up on the piled up loads we could not see anyone, horsemen or teams, only in places where the trail chanced to be straight enough, until we came quite near them.  The grass, the natural product of this valley, was so high and luxuriant for miles and miles that horsemen might hide from each other, at a distance of two hundred yards.  Quite as surprising as this true statement, is the rapid change by which this tall grass disappeared very quickly after the white man appeared with cattle and crowded out the deer and the elk of the red men.  We expected to see the range gradually reduced, but were hardly prepared to see it go down from six to two feet in a few years.  However, the wild hay of this section has been a mine of wealth to many, and is yet to those who had the foresight to save it from flock and plow.  Forty years ago this part of the state was noted for grass and hay as it is now for “corn and hogs!”

One of the pioneers of the ‘50s, standing upon a high bluff and looking in the warm sunlight for miles at the waving grass of valley and hill, was heard to groan deeply and this is what he wished: “oh that I had cattle to eat this grass.”  Another, who bore the rank of first white settler on the Willow, in Eastern Monona, used to drive cattle to Chicago, and on one occasion he drove into Chicago a lot of sleek steers, fresh from his green pastures, that ranked and were published as first premiums for the week.  The tobacco chewing Westerner informed the men of the Garden City that he had not fed them an ear of corn.  “How did you get them so fat on grass alone?”  We can in memory see the old man’s under jaw go with a sort of a short trip, nip, as he answered:  “I put green goggles on them that made everything look green>”  We subsequently learned how he kept the fresh green on the landscape all summer for his hers.  So far as grass land he was monarch of all he surveyed, and he used it in his wise:  In the summer or fall he would run a great ox=plow for miles, plowing strips a rod or two wide half across a township, and then plow other strips across the immense native pasture, dividing it into a number of sections, on which the new grass would spring up; and upon the strips broken up he would plant pumpkins.  Then in the summer as the common range began to grow old he would burn off the old grass from one of the pastures on which new, tender grass would soon spring up.  In this way, rotating from one to another, his cattle always had fresh green grass to subsist on.  Thus his “green goggles” produce premium beef.  But now this all changed, and the great pasture with the pumpkin rows to fence out fires, is divided up and fenced off by many owners, some of whom are able to produce first-class beef by the “green goggles” process.  The “hill” country that Mr. Dunham and others used for pasture in the ‘50s, is worth about $20 per acre now, and double this sum for fair improvements.  At that time no one wanted it and no one believed it would amount to much in the farm line, and only the finest formation of “bottom” or “bench” land was thought fit for plow.

The pioneer of forty years ago carried not very much specie about his clothing, but he was a good liver, even if at times his general appearance was a little rough.  Going fifty miles to mill had an upward tendency for an appreciation of the grist.  Going fifty miles to put a letter in the post-office, and perhaps to receive one from “Mary Jane,” had a tendency to enhance values in the line of correspondence.

Thomas B. Neeley, the first Representative in the Legislature from the “Big Ninth,” used to walk from the north line of Harrison County to Kanesville (Council Bluffs) to receive and forward mail matter, and was said to make a good time and never missed a meal or smoke!

The first dance advertised in a regular way by printed tickets, in the year 1854 or 1855, was at the Stage Station, known as Fontainbleau (in Little Sioux Town-Township.)  The place was operated by one La Penteur, A French-Indian trader, who fitted up gardens and arbors and vineyards with trellises, painted or white-washed, giving an attractive appearance not excelled in the same vicinity to this day.  In general, the life of the pioneer of those early days was a rugged one, but not devoid of its pleasant features and a neighborly good will that is more the exception now and then.  In conclusion, some of the land that was “broke” in 1854 and 1855, has borne good crops from that day to this, without fertilizing or even good, thorough subsoil plowing.  The peculiar soil of this county is a mine of untold, incalculable wealth, and the husbandman who may exercise but ordinary industry and economy has never failed to succeed well.

THE FIRST HABEAS CORPUS CASE.

“Speaking of reminiscences,” said Dr. Robert McGavren, “reminds me of the celebrated Habeas Corpus case which happened back in 1853, and if you will sit down here in the shade I will tell you all about it.”

"'At that time I had a neighbor named Samuel Coffelt, and during the year a man named Samuel Coon built a shanty across the road from Coffelt and moved in, not forgetting the old family cow.  It also happened that my neighbor Coffelt was the proprietor of a large and vicious dog, and while the remainder of the two families seemed to get along on good terms and neighborhood back and forth, right from the start, the cow of the new comer and the Coffelt dog never made up, and this infelicitous action on their part was the prime case of the Habeas Corpus case.  Whenever the cow wandered down the lane on her way to the range she was, unless accompanied by her owner or near members of the Coon family, set upon by the dog, to the great annoyance of her owner and the great detriment of her milk-giving ability.  This, of course, grew to be a great nuisance in the mind of Mr. Coon, and one bright morning, after witnessing a spirited chase between dog and cow, he walked over to the Coffelt house for the purpose of making a treaty of reciprocity:  ‘Good morning, Mr. Coffelt’—‘Howd’y,’ gruffly responded Mr. Coffelt, who never dared give evidence of a thawing out of his chilly exterior in the presence of Mrs. Coffelt.  ‘I came over,’ said Mr. Coon, ‘to see if you folks wouldn’t keep your dog off our cow.”  L’owed as much,” said Mr. Coffelt, ‘when I seed ye a comin’, but I reckon our dog ‘aint done your cow no harm, and furthermore I reckon our dog has as much right to the road as your cow has.”  “’I reckon it have, Mr. Coffelt, but seein’ yo’re onreasonable and onneighborly about it, I want to give ye a pinter right now, that if that ‘are yaller dog o’yourn ever sets foot onto my brindle cow again I’ll let daylight through it in two pieces, providin’ my double barrel shot gun might happen to have tow loads of buck-shot in it at the time.’  So saying so, he strode away, followed by the voice of Mrs. Coffelt, who had just appeared on the scene, threatening dire vengeance in case he ‘teched that ‘are dog,’ and it is safe to say that had she used the toe of her shoe on him with as much force as she put in the language in which she threatened to do so, my story would now be ended, after a description of the funeral.’”  “ For the next few days the dog seemed satisfied not to exercise the full right his master claimed for him, and the cow went back and forth unmolested.  Late one evening, however, old brindle came without a tail, and the irrepressible Mr. Coon seized his shot gun and stepping quickly over to the Coffelt premises made his promise, at least half good by putting daylight through the dog once, in such a forcible way that he never knew what hurt him.  Being a man of peace rather than of war, he hastened back home to avoid the storm of abuse that was heaped upon him by the now frenzied Mr. and Mrs. Coffelt.”  “That night and the next day the Coffelts took counsel of all the neighbors within a radius of ten miles, which, in the then sparsely settled condition of the country, would mean about five or six families, and it was decided that a suit for damages should be brought against the Coons forthwith.”  “ ‘ Coffelt felt sure of victory, provided he could bring his case before a certain Squire H-----.  This Squire happened to live in Pottawattamie County, and there arose in the minds of some grave doubts as to his jurisdiction in the case.  A self-appointed delegation went with plaintiff Coffelt to lay the case before the Squire and ascertain the law.  At first the Squire was disposed to doubt his jurisdiction over Harrison County residents.  ‘Of course,’ says he, ‘the plaintiff comes voluntarily into court and surrenders himself to my jurisdiction, but I do not know of my court any authority to go out of the confines of this bailiwick for the purpose of apprehending a fugitive from justice.  If we had, gentlemen, some way of getting the culprit into this county, then the minions of the law could seize upon him and bring him to justice.’“  “‘Why not issue a writ of Habeas Corpus?’ suggested the only member of the delegation who had ever had the distinction to sit on a jury.  That was a bright idea indeed, and the well-thumbed code was taken from the clock shelf, where it had reposed when not in use as a companion piece to the old family Bible, and the law on Habeas Corpus was well digested by the old Squire, when at length he said, with great gravity:  ‘Gentlemen, I find upon the statute books in relation to Habeas Corpus, the following passages of law, to-wit:  The said writ may issue out of any court of record during the sessions thereof in vacation, or by the Chief Justice  Now, therefore gentlemen, ‘ he continued, shutting the book, but using his forefinger to keep the place, while he slowly pulled his spectacles over his nose with the other, ‘this is not a court record, neither I am the Judge of one, but if I ‘aint Chief Justice, who the hell is?’  This argument seemed to be a clincher to the most of those present, and it really began to look as though the dog slayer would speedily be brought to justice, but there were no form books in those days, and while the Squire was laboriously trying to get up a set of Habeas Corpus papers, the delegation adjourned to the sunny side of the log cabin that served the double purpose of courthouse and dwelling, there to stretch themselves and swap chews of home grown ‘side-hill tobacco,’ and while there, away from the influence of the Squire’s majestic presence, the doubting Thomas of the delegation made bold to say that ‘he was not conversant with the validity of the Squire’s claim to the Chief Justiceship, because he had heard of a Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, and he believed that was the Chief Justice that was referred to in the code.’  The doubter brought a number of the delegation around to his way of thinking, and it was finally decided that as there was room for a doubt  the matter had better be postponed for a few days until they could go to Kanesville (now Council Bluffs), and get the opinion of a lawyer.  The Squire was notified of this new doubt and readily consented to postpone matters until after the journey to Council Bluffs.  A day was set for the trial, and in the meantime the code was passed from house to house, so that each might make a study of the case for himself, and two or three of the better informed men of the community got a very good understanding of the situation, and it began to dawn on them what a ridiculous farce they came near playing.’”  “On the way down there two or three got together and concluded it would be good sport to carry the joke a little father.  Accordingly when the party reached town the Squire was taken to the office of Dr. P. J. McMahon, and given something to drink, and afterward entertained, while one of the knowing individuals went out to get the lawyer, and in the meantime post him as to what was expected of him.  The attorney sent word that he could meet them after dinner, and the rest of the forenoon was put in by the seekers after legal knowledge in visiting the various saloons and places of amusement.”  “After dinner the lawyer came, but not having anything  during the forenoon to brace up his courage his heart failed him; instead of helping to carry the joke farther he prepared the way for letting the old Squire down easy, by giving one of those legal opinions so characteristic of the legal profession, which neither afforms or denies.  Said he:  ‘Gentlemen, you all know I but recently came from Indiana.  Now, in Indiana the procedure is such that there would be no doubt but what our friend, the Squire, would have jurisdiction to issue the writ, but you all know the laws differ in different States, and I have never familiarized myself with the laws of Iowa on the subject of Habeas Corpus, and I would advise that you let the matter rest for a day or two until I can look the law up and send you a written opinion.”  “it would have been cruel to let the full light suddenly into the old man’s understanding, for he had become so mellow that he believed himself to be not simply the Chief Justice of Boomer Township, Pottawattamie County, Iowa, but Supreme Justice of the world!”  “The delegation betook it upon itself home soon after the delivery of the foregoing opinion, and one of its members carried the written opinion which it was supposed the lawyer (who by way was one Hadley D, Johnson) had yet to prepare.  The opinion was turned over to the Squire when sufficient time had elapsed and it went on to say ‘that in the attorney’s opinion there were grave doubts as to his Honor’s jurisdiction: that he found the Iowa law somewhat different from the law of Indiana, and that he believed, under the existing circumstances, the Squire had better not issue the writ.’”  “This settled the case so far as Squire H.’s court was concerned, and Coffelt’s only other alternative was to go before Squire Dakan, where he did file his petition in damages for the sum of $25.  The case occupied two whole days, and every able-bodied individual in the community was present, either as a spectator or participant, and the plaintiff having forgotten to introduce evidence as to the value of the dog, lost his case, and the costs amounting to about $22, were assessed up to him.  The judgement stands on the docket, unsatisfied to this day, for no constable could ever be found who had the courage to face the cowhide boots of Mrs. Coffelt, and make service of a fee bill.”

HARRISON COUNTY DURING THE CIVIL WAR.
(By Hon. Stephen King.)

The winter of 1860-61 will be remembered by the 9older people of today as one of great excitement:  Abraham Lincoln was smuggled through to the Capital and inaugurated on March 4, 1861, and on April 11, Fort Sumter was fired upon by the Southern Confederacy, and on the 14^th of the same month, surrendered to them by Maj. Anderson, after having exhausted his provisions and his magazines being surrounded by flames.  As the news spread through the Northern states, the people were filled with indignation and sorrow.  But the magnitude of secession and the extensive preparation that had been made in the South to make it a success was not realized by our people.  When a call was made for help to sustain the Union, no state was more ready than Iowa, and no county than Harrison, to respond to the call.  Public meetings were held and the situation discussed; the Republicans almost unanimously, and the Democrats generally, believed that the time for peace meetings had passed, and that war was not only inevitable, but had actually begun.  It is true there was a Rebel element in the county, not only at the beginning of the war, but all through.  There were those who declared the South could never be subdued, that there was no power in the Constitution to coerce a Southern state, or prevent her from seceding.  This was of course, very unpleasant, especially for those who had friends in the field, but the most aggravating of all was to see the smile of satisfaction, and the look of “I told you so,” whenever disaster befell the Union forces, or victory crowned the Rebels.

It was currently reported, and generally believed, at the time, that there were secret organizations and regular meetings held, both by those who favored and those who opposed the Union cause, for the purpose of devising ways and means, for the success of those they favored; but the good sense and moderation of the leaders on both sides, prevented any outbreaks of personal violence, or destruction of property.  Over one hundred and fifty men in the county had enlisted in other companies, before a company was organized within the borders of Harrison county.  From the 1^st of May, 1861, until the close of the War, at several places in the county, men met every Saturday for drill, preparatory to entering the field, either as members of Infantry or Calvary.  Those who went to the front were noble men, we always speak of them with the most enthusiastic praise, but I have often thought that those who remained at home, hardly received the credit due them for the part they bore, during the great conflict.  It is true that those in the field did suffer more privations, and were in places of greater danger, but the anxiety, the joy and sorrow at their success or defeat, was felt just as keenly by those at home.  At the commencement of this period the finance of the county was in deplorable condition, the price of produce and labor was low; dry goods, groceries, hardware and taxes were high, and money scarce.  The farmer hauled his wheat thirty-five miles and sold it for thirty-five cents per bushel, in trade.  Pork sold at two dollars her hundred; corn ten cents per bushel.  It took a load of wheat to pay for a bolt of factory cloth, and fifteen bushels to pay for a keg of nails.  The farmer learned that except for paying taxes, he could get along with but very little money, and many were the expedients resorted to for raising money, for that purposes.  The days of the “tallow-dip” had not then passed away-people must have light, and as kerosene had not come into general use, candles were commonly used, and had a ready sale.  I know of one farmer who killed his hogs, tried the lard from the fat portions, mixed a little alum and saltpepper to harden it, then moulded it into candles, and sold enough to raise cash to pay his taxes.  Sugar was twenty cents per pound, coffee forty cents, calico thirty cents per yard.  In 1863, nails sold by the keg for seven dollars and one half.  Sugar found a substitute in sorghum; coffee in burnt peas, rye and many other things, while tea was seldom used.  There were no castes in society, everyman was considered as good as his neighbor, and each had a confidence in the other’s promises, and a chattel mortgage was seldom heard of; there was a feeling of social, kind-hearted hospitality in every home.  No stranger was turned away hungry, and there was room for lodging, as long as there was a vacant puncheon.  Toward the close of this period, the furnishing of supplies for the troops in the Northwest made a better market for the products of the farm-prices ruled higher and money was more plenty.  The principal mode of transportation, was by ox-teams, the shorter the haul, the less expense, of course.  About this time, before the Northwestern railroad reached Council Bluffs, (which was in 1866) the Northwestern Stage Company established a line from the eastern terminus of the line to Council Bluffs.  This was considered a great accommodation to the public general and especially to those living near the line of the route.  The fare from Woodbine to Council Bluffs, a distance of forty miles, was four dollars, and the people did not grumble any more at the expense of traveling than they do now with the railroad fare at three cents per mile.  When the surrender of Lee was an accomplished fact, and the citizen-soldier, whose constancy and courage had maintained the integrity of the Republic, and the camp-fire, the weary march, and the conflict and carnage were to be realized no more but in memory, with mingled feelings of sorrow for the precious blood that had been given as a ransom for our country, with gratitude to God for the final triumph, with hearts full of love for family and friends, those that had worn the loyal blue returned to the homes they left—to the peaceful occupation of former days, a wonder to the world, as well as an honor to mankind.

MAKING PIES OF “SAW-DUST.”

In the early days of Magnolia, people were fond of “goodies”, mince pie, etc., just the same as people are now-a-days, especially the Yankee portion of the population.  However, “pie timber,” fruits, meats of a suitable nature and other necessary articles, were not as easy to be obtained by the good house-wives way back in the fifties and sixties as they are in the more recent years.  But as “necessity has ever been the mother of invention”, it only needs to be remarked, that they had a pie in their season-even though sawdust had to be used!  The “point” to this bit of early time domestic history brings into the story (which is true) his Honor Judge Brainard, who once upon a time, when gossiping with officials at the National Capital, told this incident to the merriment, as well as great surprise of all his hearers.  The Judge was then Mail Inspector for Iowa and the duties of his office frequently took him to Washington, where he was a favorite on account of his good story-telling ability, as well as from the fact that he lived in what was then the “wild and woolly West!  He told his friends of “hard times” in Harrison county and how that his wife at Magnolia had learned to make very palatable, wholesome pies from saw-dust.  This caused his Honor to be looked upon as the “biggest Liar in all Washington.”  But when he came to explain in a candid manner how much such a miracle could be wrought out by his good wife, then the laugh was on the crowd and the Judge was ever remembered as the “Saw-dust pie man from Iowa!”

The sequel of the story was in substance this:  During the winter of 1856-1857, deer and elk were plentiful in western Iowa and venison constituted about all the meat the pioneers possessed.  One day the Judge was lamenting the fact that they had no mince pies.  So the following day he was surprised, at dinner time, after having eaten heartily of the plain, simple viands, set before him; asking no question for conscience sake (his good wife’s sake).  But’ ere he had drawn back from the table, his wife said, “Wait, and try my pie!”  So she gave him a large section of a steaming hot mince hot pie, of which the Judge talked much and finally concluded as the sample was good, he would try some more.  In answer to how it was made, the good woman (those early, self-sacrificing women of pioneer days were good) explained how that she had made it of chopped venison meat, seasoned in part with saw-dust.  The manner of making the pie was this: she found the venison had frozen as hard as a rock, which was more flinty than old Phraoh’s heart in his wickedest day.  So she placed it on a broad board and by the use of a buck-saw, she succeeded in getting some slices off.  These pieces of deer meat she chopped as ordinary mince meat is wont to be hacked up into fine particles.  The sawing had made much “saw-dust”-the same being not hickory or bass wood saw-dust, but meat, bone and marrow, which she scraped into the chopped mass.  To this conglomerate compound, she added dried apples, a few raisins and spices, when all was ready for the crust!

When Mrs. Brainard told her husband he was eating a pie which had saw-dust as a component part, he fancied she told not the truth.  Likewise the friends at Washington branded him as a “Big liar from Iowa,” when he gave them the mince-pie story, second handed.  Yet no prevarication was told by either—it was the plain facts, except it lacked the explanation of what kind of saw-dust was referred to!