1838-1938
| West Liberty History 1838-1938 | |
Source: One Hundred Years of History
* Commemorating a Century of Progress in the West Liberty Community * WEST LIBERTY, IOWA
LOG CABIN HISTORY Chapter XXV
THE PRAIRIE BREAKER When our pioneers came they found they had much to learn before the virgin prairie should become a fruitful field, and they soon learned that the plows adapted to the clayey and gravelly soils of the east were entirely useless in turning the sod of the Wapsie valley. One of the earliest settlers brought a wooden mould-board plow, but did not use it to any great extent. By the way, that plow has a history and played a part in a neighborhood tragedy, but as Kipling says," That is another story." The farmer of the present day, seated on his gang plow, drawn by four or six horses, cannot fully appreciate the tribulations of those pioneers as they essayed to prepare the stubborn sward to receive the seed for its first crop of grain. But necessity soon evolved the prairie breaker, an implement particularly adapted to their needs. There are plenty of men yet living among us who were very familiar with this implement and have followed the breaking teams through many long summer days as they slowly plodded back and forth, turning mile-long furrows of virgin sod, like long black ribbons. This sod was very tenacious, the soil being filled with a network of roots, and it required a thoroughly adapted implement and strong team to turn it. These plows turned a furrow of sixteen to twenty-eight inches wide and were drawn by from two to six yoke of oxen, and required two men, or one man and a boy, which was usually the case, to operate them. One drove the team and the other managed the plow. The plow was supported near the front end of its long beam by a pair of trucks, to which it was attached in such a manner that by raising or lowering a lever at the rear of the machine the plow point was raised or depressed at the will of the operator. The settlers had also to learn that there was a proper time to break prairie, as well as an improper time, and the season when this work could be most beneficially done was of but a few weeks duration each season. This was after the grass had made a considerable growth in the spring, along in June and early July. Sod turned at this time readily dried out and the roots decayed, but if plowed too early the grass would still grow, and if too late in the season, the roots would not decay and would remain a source of trouble for a long time.
When the time of probation for the new settlement had passed and it was proven that this was a good country to build homes in, settlers came in, in increased numbers, and whole farms would be broken out in a single season. This condition developed a class as distinct and picturesque in their way as were the old stage drivers and the cowboys of a quarter of a century ago. These were the professional prairie breakers, who with their huge, unwieldly plows and many yokes of oxen were ever seeking and ready for a contract with anyone wanting breaking done.
It was an inspiring sight out on the prairies those days. As far as the eye could reach, the land lay clothed in the fresh verdure of early summer, flecked and perfumed by many blooming plants in brilliant hues. Long stretches of level country and billowy hills, with here and there patches of plum and thorn trees, with their ever-accompanying fringe of hazel bushes, giving variety to the scene. The sun rose in the prairie, all day long it circled over the prairie, and at evening dropped out of sight in the prairie. Billowy hills and waving grass on every hand; so vast, so limitless, that many a traveler has become bewildered and traveled on in a wide circle, with no change in the aspect to the land to guide them to their haven.
All this expanse was to be turned furrow by furrow till the last blade of grass was covered, and in its stead great fields of grain ripened in the golden sunshine. There it was the prairie breaker reigned supreme. As the evening approached, the team was stopped, the oxen unyoked and turned out to graze through the night on the nutritious native grasses after a bell had been strapped on the neck of the trusty leader. A hole had been dug in a nearby slough where the oxen could obtain water and the weary plowmen wended their way to their resting place. But though the nights were at their shortest, yet the stars were still to be seen when the plowmen were abroad, seeking for their oxen, who sometimes wandered long distances during the night. They would go to some rise of ground, where the view could be had of the surrounding country. Perhaps unconsciously they drank in the glory of the hour. The shadows still lay thick in the valleys, but the hilltops one after another came into view in the growing light. The fragrence of the prairie was borne to their nostrils and the voices of the great expanse mingled in their ears. Here and there on the distant hilltops appeared some denizens of the prairie, enlarged to undue proportions by the refractions and reflections of the light plainly silhouetted against the purple sky. There was a time of exaltation, when man forgot his lower nature and became for the time not a Mr. Hyde but a Dr. Jekyll. There was a scene but on the broad expanse of nowhere else to be met with the prairie, and which forever passed from there with the occupation and cultivation of the land.
But at the sound of a distant bell the plowman awoke to a sense of his duty. Here and there could be seen groups of cattle and the sound of many bells. "Tink-a-link-link" comes a faint sound; "Tong-along-tong-tong" sounds a bell of deeper tone, then faintly and from afar is heard the familiar sound they are seeking, just a few jangling strokes of the clapper. Ah, " Old Brindle" is up to his old tricks and has lain down in the tall grass and kept still till an early fly has tickled his back, and he inadvertantly rattled his bell as he threw his head back over his side to dislodge the troublesome insect. The team found, they are driven to the yard and given a ration of corn while the men are at breakfast. Then came the yoking. "Come up, Buck," and obediently the intelligent animal takes his place and bends his neck to receive the yoke, the emblem of submission. Then " Whoa! Haw ! Bright, come in!" But Bright is stubborn and sulky. His neck is sore and the chain has chaffed his leg and he refuses to move to his place. He lowers his head and snorts his defiance, but a well-directed cut from the drivers long whip awakens him to a realization of his servitude and he, meekly but with ill grace, walks up beside his mate and submits to the yoke. Thus the work goes on; some of the team obedient, some nervous , and some stubborn; the half-broken youngsters inclined to make a dash for freedom. At length the team is brought into subjection and the long chain attaching them to the plow is in place, and they are ready to begin the days work ere the sun is yet an hour above the horizon. Then comes the voice of the driver, " Buck and Bright, Dan and Jerry, come up to your places! Whoa, haw,Duke and Dime! Gee, there, Brindle and Curly! Gee up there Brindle! Darn your brindle hide, gee into the furrow! " and with a wide flourish the long whip uncoils and with an explosive crack, clear and loud as a pistol shot, stings the flank of the unruly beast, and he, with an agonizing twist of the body and tail, finds his place in the furrow and the team slowly moves forward, the bows creaking in the yokes, the chains rattle as a team slackens for a moment, and the plow giving forth a continuous snapping sound and low grumbling, as it severs the tenacious roots and lays the black ribbon over against its fellow or kinks it in a convenient shape to make a safe hiding place for a rabbit. Slowly like a huge serpent the team moves forward, the driver, ever intent, walks by their side, and from time to time offers mild expostulations or incisive commands to the cattle, and they, with heads lowered, and eyes rolling, toil on their way, catching occasional mouthfuls of grass as they pass along.
The boss at the rear of the plow walks with one hand on the guiding lever, or stands on the beam, watching ahead for any obstruction, and figuring how many furrows a half mile long he can turn in the day, or looks over the prairie and perhaps without thinking, notes the panorama spread before him. Off to the right on the knoll is a flock of prairie chickens running and prinking and uttering from time to time their well known martial cry of "hum-um-boo," and the answering challenge of " you can't," you can't," "you cant," and with tail outspread and rigid, drooping wings scrape the ground, with head lowered and those horn like feathers on the side of the neck elevated, and orange-colored sacks inflated, wheel and strut, playing their part in the drama of free life. A meadow lark, disturbed from her nest by the approaching team, springs from the grass and flies away to a place of safety till the danger is past, then returns to her nest, while the striped squirrels gambol and play with but little regard to the intrusion of the monster that is devastating their playground. Sometimes a herd of deer, startled from their resting place in the tall grass at the edge of the slough, leap to their feet, and with heads turned sideways and tails erect, stand for a moment in startled amazement, then bound gracefully away, going down the wind and out of sight over the hill.
But our boss has forgotten his duty while watching the life around him and is brought back to a realization of his calling by a sudden stopping of the team, and it may be by the breaking of a chain, for the plow has struck a red root, a plant peculiar to the prairie, having an inconspicuous top, but a hard, woody root in size out of all proportion to its top. There they are tight and fast, the share cut deep into the root and the unwieldly plow refuses to move either forward or backward and the air becomes sulphurous as the boss anathematizes the driver, the team, the plow, and everything in sight but his own forgetful self, who was more to blame for the mishap, than all the rest.
But the day goes on apace. The deep purple of the horizon of early morning has faded to a uniform gray with the rest of the sky, and the waves of heat can be seen quivering above the ground. No longer are the songs of the lark and the bobolink heard, and the cattle with lowering heads and lolling tongues, utter a mild protest against their lot. The sun is nearly overhead and the driver can almost overstep his shadow. It is time to unhitch for the noon rest. So the patient oxen are unhooked from the plow and with yokes still on, let go free to graze and rest for a brief hour while the men seat themselves on the plow beam to eat the dinner brought with them in the morning. But it is not pleasant there in that summer sunshine for man or beast. The oxen stand panting and switshing flies, or in a desultory manner fall to grazing while the men smoke and talk or maybe essay to take a nap, but the glaring sunshine and buzzing insects interfere with that rest they crave. So passes the noon hour, and the cattle are brought up and again attached to the plow, and slower and slower as the day wanes pass back and forth, back and forth, on their apparently interminable journey, and the cries of the driver become more frequent and voiciferous as he urges on the weary team.
Out across the prairie, some near and others far away, are other like teams, the only animated life in sight at that hour and one would think the sole occupation of the inhabitants was to break prairie. As the shadows of the teams stretch out across the prairie in uncouth proportions and men march along by their sides like haunting spirits and the air becomes in that peculiar condition when sound travels far and is intensified, the voices of the many drivers and the voices of the prairie mingle in one grand diapason nowhere else heard in all the realm of human industry.