Nichols, Iowa Centennial Book
Nichols - Our Town - 1984
ON THE ROAD TO MUSCATINE
Nichols, Iowa Centennial Book 1884-1984, page 91
By M. W. Brockway
From The Muscatine Journal, August 1915
On the road to Muscatine, where the fields were fresh and green,
In the far off long ago, oft I have wondered to and fro.
On and on o’er hill and plain memory takes me back again,
Just to view the scenes I’ve seen
On the road to Muscatine
My father said, “Be good and you can go to town with me
Tomorrow, when I go to mill, and block the wagon up the hill.”
A sort of helpful recompense for a journey of much consequence:
And long before the light of day I’m eager to be on the way,
Barefoot boy with face so clean,
On the road to Muscatine.
And we were early on the road, heavy wagon and heavy load,
Before it’s light enough to see the headstone in the cemet’ry,
Team got scared at Owen’s pup; rattling wagon woke ‘em up ---
‘Spose they might have slept till noon if we hadn’t passed so soon.
Some dogs can be mighty mean
On the road to Muscatine.
We had to ford the Gedney lake and cross Pike run before daybreak.
Cedar river just ahead; yell and yell to wake the dead.
Hugh Brown ran the ferry there. He’d just make a preacher swear;
Call and shout with all your might before he’d even shove in sight
Slowest man you ever seen,
On the road to Muscatine.
My father always like Hugh, though. Talk and joke and gas and blow.
Used to make me pretty sore to have them talk an hour or more.
About the crops and this and that, republican and democrat.
Bettin’ how the ‘lection’d go, good or bad, for So and So.
Some big gun I never seen,
On the road to Muscatine.
But after awhile they say “Good day,” and we are yonder on the way.
Beyond the poor farm, o’er the hill, we see the smoke of Hershey’s mill.
Put on the brake to hold the load. We’re going down the old slough road.
And the horses strike a keener pace, to drink at Miller’s watering place ---
A bubbling spring so cool and clean,
On the road to Muscatine.
On up Front street we would go; smoke o’er head plank road below ---
Teamsers, go-carts, dust and sand. Noise enough to beat the band.
Whistles blowing fit to kill, almost to the flour mill.
Fretting, frothing, prancing team, Frightened by the cars that scream,
Ringing bells and puffing steam,
On the road to Muscatine.
While I may wander hither, yon, far and near and up and down,
From coast to coast and town to town.
Tho’ forty years have gone to stay and I am bald and old and gray,
Those rides with father to the mill remain my fondest vision still,
And oft in slumber I will dream I am
On the road to Muscatine.
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