EARLY DAYS IN IOWA

pg 383

In the winter of 1847, the writer, then a boy of seven, first made his advent to Louisa county. My father and mother and six children immigrating from Kentucky by steam boat, landed at Burlington, Iowa. In a log cabin about three miles north of this city, belonging to a relative of ours, we prepared to spend our first winter in Iowa. Early in December the snow had reached the depth of two feet, and being on the public road leading north from Burlington, which was the principal source of supplies for all of the country within a radius of 75 to 100 miles, we were frequently called upon to shelter belated settlers on their way to and from market. To have refused an application for shelter would, according to the laws of hospitality in our native state, and even here in those pioneer days, have been considered an unpardonable sin. On one of these occasions we entertained some settlers from Louisa county, among whom was Ezra Denison, who, upon learning that my father was a house carpenter, at once began negotiating with him to come to this county and finish a brick house which he had erected across the river from Black Hawk, as it was then called, in Eliot township, on what was then known as Tater Island. The result was that Denison sent down sleds, and our worldly effects were transferred to a log cabin on the bank of the Iowa river, where we spent the balance of that winter and the next ...

pg 384

... eventful summer. The melting snows of spring brought the annual freshet and the river soon overflowed its banks, and spread over the prairies. Higher and higher came the water, until not to exceed one acre of ground where our cabin stood, was uncovered, occasionally a settler came over in a skiff to see how we fared and to assure us that this particular spot of ground had never been under water; several years later we saw this tradition shattered, but at this time we were not inundated. No one but a pioneer in a rude cabin, open to every breeze of heaven, warmed only by an open fire place, and a roof of clapboards that let in the drifting snow, a family of eight persons in one such room, can imagine the intense relief of coming spring. And such a spring in beautiful virgin Iowa! Prairie chickens strutted and bellowed on the emerald prairies, water fowl in countless myriads covered the lakes, darkened the air with their wings, and day and night the clamor of their voices could be heard as they rested on the water or winged their way to their nesting places further north. This spring, the writer, a lad of eight years, did his first farming, by dropping corn after an ox team, to illustrate the primitive methods of those early days. The ground was broken or stirred with an ox team and every third furrow the corn was dropped, two or three grains about three feet apart, the next furrow was turned on the corn. This was all, except one straggling cultivation with a shovel plow. But such was the fertility of this soil that 50 or 60 bushels of excellent corn per acre was produced by these rude methods.

The advent of summer brought with it the twin curses of the Iowa pioneer, viz: mosquitoes and the ague, but this is a subject too unpleasant to contemplate. We fought mosquitoes and shook with the ague. Fortunately the chills generally came on alternate days, so that part of the family could assist the others while their teeth were chattering with the chill, or burning with the fever that followed. Blessings on the man who invented wire screens; he deserves a memorial as enduring as Bunker Hill monument! The following fall we moved across the river in a skiff, to Black Hawk. Here on higher ground and with the coming of cooler weather our health improved. My father and mother were members of the Cumberland Presbyterian church, my father being a licensed preacher. There being no organization of that body within reach my parents united with the Methodists. My father being the only resident minister in the neighborhood, he was called upon to officiate at almost all the funerals and weddings that occurred in that vicinity. I recall one irate father who called upon my father several years after he had married his daughter—who was then the mother of several children—and upbraided him for his dereliction in not having his license renewed in Iowa. "You were not a licensed preacher," said he, "and my daughter is not married, and her children are ," but I will not mention the word he used. But the matter blew over and the children grew up honored members of society without a thought as to their narrow escape from disgrace.

The recreations of those days consisted of horse races, shooting matches, dancing and going to "meetin'." Most every one went to "meetin' " and nearly every one danced, and shot, and attended horse races. Every winter we had a protracted "meetin'" and the young folks divided their time between this and the dance, often going from church to some nearby house to finish the night with a dance. On one occasion Bro. Wilbur was holding a protracted meeting and was making considerable inroad on the dancing fraternity by converting them. A ...

Photo Louisa County Poor Farm

pg 385

... reckless fellow by the name of Neal Ruffner started a counter attraction which he called a "protracted dance." This was kept up for some considerable time to the intense disgust of the religious element, Bro. Wilbur declaring that it "was instigated by the Devil for the purpose of holding his own." Our house was always open to the preacher, no matter what his creed. Most of them were good fellows, and their salaries were not large enough to make them proud or stuck-up.

Bro. Wilbur was a good friend to the boys. His form was rotund and his appetite for fried chicken was slightly discouraging to a half dozen hungry children waiting for the second table. Another Methodist minister l.f whom we have a vivid recollection was Bro. Woodford. He was a Connecticut Yankee, a splendid shot with the rifle, and an enthusiastic fisherman. He taught us how to troll for pickerel, and his method of hunting deer was both new and successful. After the corn began to ripen in the fall, the deer soon began to visit the fields, always at night or early in the evening. It was their habit to enter the field at one particular place, generally where the rail fence was low, and where it was not obstructed by weeds or vines. Bro. Woodford would find this place of ingress, and climbing into a low tree would sit for hours quietly braiding whip lashes—. being an expert at this, as he also was in tanning the skins from which they were made—until it became too dark to see the outline of the deer; or if it was moonlight well into the night he waited, and many a fine buck fell before his unerring rifle.

Returning from one of his appointments where he had preached one Sabbath evening, Bro. Woodford and my father, on reaching our barn yard found the sheep in great excitement, lambs bleating, and all the flock in a panic. Thinking some "varmint" was attacking the sheep, my father called the dog, a faithful old hound, while Bro. Woodford ran to the house and secured his rifle. The hound took the track which led into a woodland nearby, and soon his baying showed the marauder was treed. Reaching the tree they peered into the branches and there was the dark object. One shot from the rifle brought him to the ground, and being unable to tell in the darkness the kind of animal they had bagged, they lugged him to the house and the rays of the tallow dip revealed— a large, black cat. belonging to a neighbor! Suddenly a thought occurred to Bro. Woodford. "Why Bro. Smith," said he, "do you know that this is Sunday night?" "Well," said he, philosophically, "we better say nothing about this." Now, after half century, both of these good men have gone to their reward, their harmless escapade serves only to awaken the kindly tie that makes the "whole world akin."

In the early days pretty much all the heavy teaming, such as logging, breaking prairie sod, etc., was done by ox teams, the horses being of a small breed, seldom exceeding 1,200 lbs. in weight. In the spring of '49 was the great hegira across the plains to California. Several teams were fitted out in the village of Toolesboro; in one of these outfits was a yoke of oxen purchased from Freeman Shaw; they were driven across the state to Council Bluffs, which was then considered the western boundary of civilization; there the immigrants formed their trains for mutual help and defense against the Indians. From the Missouri river to the Rocky mountains—according to the accepted tradition of those days—lay the Great American Desert. While camping at Council Bluffs the yoke of cattle bought of Shaw, escaped from their owner, who, after ...

pg 386

... spending several days searching for them in that vicinity, proceeded on his way without them; the following fall, these steers quietly marched up to the feed rack on the Shaw farm, having during the summer traveled entirely across the state of Iowa, guided by their wonderful instinct and love for home.

The fencing of a farm in the early days of Iowa was a serious problem, the idea of fencing stock in instead of fencing them out, had never occurred to the settler, therefore the first farms were opened in the vicinity of streams, where wood land for cabins, fuel, and fencing was found. How many carpenters would today be equal to the task of building a house with an axe, an auger and a froe. (The pioneer will recognize the froe as the tool with which he split clapboards to cover his cabin.) All stock ran at large in those days, some animals strayed away and were never reclaimed by their rightful owner, but he generally aimed to get his "per capita," and was satisfied, as values were quite uniform.

Swine were the favorite domestic animals of those pioneer days, and where access could be had to timbered land or river bottoms, they throve with but little attention from their owners, except to throw them a little corn through the winter season. As soon as spring opened the brood sows and shoats were left to shift for themselves, and would frequently disappear for months at a time; but when the corn began to harden in the fall, the farmer with a bag of corn on the front of his saddle would ride to their haunts, and after repeated trials would induce some old sow to taste of this almost forgotten luxury; the effect was that the old. mammy swine would often beat him home, bringing with her a family of eight or ten thrifty shoats, which she had nurtured during her summer vacation.

A neighbor of ours, who was accused of not being able to distinguish at all times between "mine and thine," at one time, in early spring, turned out a rickety old barrow, which had failed to accumulate sufficient fat to doom him to the pork barrel: in the fall the barrow reappeared and with him some half dozen thrifty shoats, all of which were promptly impounded for winter use. A neighbor who knew that his spring "plant" had consisted of this one emanciated barrow, one day intimated to him that his title to the shoats was not good. "Why," said he, innocently, "what do you think that old barrow was doing all summer?"

. One of the most extensive hog raisers in the neighborhood was James Guest, an honest man, long since gone to his reward. He lived on the farm now owned by a Mr. Pemble, and his swine ranged all over the bottoms and across the Muscatine slough, and their numbers were almost unlimited. In autumn with a bag of corn, he would go to the bluff overlooking the bottoms, and with a voice as far reaching as a bugle would call—Pee-goo-ee—accented on the "goo." The effect was magical; as the vermin and the children followed the Pied Piper, so did these swine, big and little, old and young, follow Uncle Jimmy to his barn lot. I have often tried to imitate that call, but without success. As a western teamster said to a passenger who asked him where he learned to swear, "I never learned it; you can't learn it, it's a gift."

To some, perhaps, these incidents may seem frivolous, but to the aged these memories are sweet and precious; and after all, the life of the average man ...

pg 387

... and woman is a succession of little events; day after day we meet them, conquer them, or are overcome by them.

The first great political awakening in this county was in the Fremont and Buchanan campaign in the fall of 1855. A Fremont club was formed at Toolesboro, and my father was made president of the same. The republicans had a rally and a pole raising, and Judge Springer made an address. We had a brass band from Wapello, and our twenty-foot flag was emblazoned with the alliterate legend, "Free Speech, Free Press, Free Soil, Fremont and Dayton."

Not the least hero of the day, to my boyish eyes was Asher Sillick, who scaled 'ct rope fifty feet to remove the tackle from the hickory pole which we had erected. Not to be outdone, the democrats shortly afterward erected a pole a little taller than ours, and only about one hundred feet away.

Did space permit, what pleasure it would be to speak of the noble men of that one locality who did so much to make the history of this county: Jonathan Parsons and his sons, Hannibal and Joseph J.; Isaac Parsons and Thompson, his son; the Mallorys, Hooks, Trasks, and Tooles; and coming later, patriots like G. H. Mosier, who laid his little fortune on the altar of his country by feeding soldiers' families while the Government wrestled with its great financial effort to feed and equip an army without a dollar in its treasury.

Most of the pioneer men and women have gone to their reward. They live only in the memory of their children and neighbor's children, and in the love and esteem of those who knew them and honor them. They are not dead.

"To live in the hearts of those we loved is not to die."

[The foregoing article, and the article entitled "The First Louisa County Homicide" were written especially for this work, by James R. Smith, Esq., of Columbus Junction, who has so often entertained old settlers' meetings and soldiers' "campfires."]

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