The RUBYS and BAYSINGERS, as far back as known, were tillers of the soil and keepers of flocks and herds; hence their reason for going west while lands could be gotten for $1.25 per acre. The country was new and sparsely settled. Food of all kinds was scarce and hard to find; most of it being hauled from Missouri. I can recall now, seventy years since, of three trips with ox team after food; one took six days, one eleven, and another seven days. Dry goods and groceries were also hauled from Keokuk. Many meals of bread and water only were eaten. Meal was often made by grating soft corn on a grater made by punching a piece of tin full of holes with a nail. Flour was made from buckwheat by grinding it on coffee mills. Wheat was threshed by tramping it out with horses on a ground floor which was cleaned by the wind. It was taken to the mill and ground, smut, dirt and all together. Rabbits, quail, prairie chickens, turkeys and deer were quite plentiful but we were not all hunters enough to get them whenever we wanted them. They were quite a help in supplying the table.

Our houses were such as we could make from the timber that grew along the creeks with such tools as farmers would have at hand. The walls were round logs notched down so as to make the cracks small. The roof was of clapboards weighted down with heavy poles to keep the wind from blowing them off. The floors were either the ground or split logs with the flat side hewn smooth. The chimneys were built of sticks and daubed with mud the same as the cracks in the walls of the houses. The fireplace was made with sod and hearth of dirt. The house would often be filled with smoke until you could scarcely see a thing. When it snowed and the wind blew, it was not uncommon thing in the morning to find your bed and floor covered with from one to three inches of snow. The first two winters were extremely cold and there was lots of snow. Stock had to be watered at deep holes in the creeks where the writer had chopped the full length of his ax handle, nearly three feet, before getting through to water and has frozen both feet until there were blisters on them, more than once.

Starting the farm was no small job. Stock of all kinds had free range and so it was necessary to go to the timber and make rails to fence their fields before anything could be planted . Breaking the sod was mostly done by putting four or five yoke of oxen to a twenty four inch plow with one man to drive the oxen and one to manage the plow. They could break in this manner about two acres a day.

It was not unusual in those days on the frontier, to see much drinking, gambling, quarreling, fighting and pilfering. Petty larceny and even stealing hogs, cattle and horses were no unusual occurrences. Occasionally parties from Missouri would come through the country hunting runaway [slaves].

Cattle and hogs were driven to Keokuk to market, about 200 miles away. The first bunch of hogs I remember of being bought up in our neighborhood, was bunched up at a farm where they fixed a long chute, at the small end of which was placed a net made of heavy breaching taken from a set of harness. This net was fastened to a large pair of steelyards which was hung on the short end of a lever. When a hog was driven through the chute into the net, a man at the long end of the lever immediately lifted it from the ground and held it suspended until it was weighed. Then there was another driven in, and so on, until the whole bunch was weighed . These hogs were settled for at $2.50 per hundred net, which was arrived at by deducting two fifths of the gross weight; thus a hog that weighed 200 lbs. was settled for at 120 lbs.; this was just the equivalent of $1.50 gross weight, which some old settlers claim hogs sold for.

Prairie fires were a great menace to the early settlers, houses, outbuildings, fences and crops were often destroyed. High winds would often carry sparks and blades of blazing grass over the fire guards, making it impossible for settlers to save their property.

High water was another great hindrance. Parties away from home would often be delayed by reason of swollen streams. Oftimes venturing in without knowing the crossing, men would lose their teams and sometimes even their lives. Two incidents happened near my own home. One man lost a good team of horses, he and his daughter barely escaping with their lives. Another young man took off his clothes and strapped them to his saddle. His horse was drowned and floated down the stream. He swam to shore and yelled until he attracted the attention of a nearby settler who brought him some clothes.

Good medical assistance in case of sickness or accident was very hard to get. There were only two professional doctors in the county, and both lived on farms and one of them was as likely as not to be too drunk for business. Therefore, the good wives and mothers would through the summer and fall, store the attics of their houses with such remedies as roots and herbs which they knew to be helpful, to have them when necessary during the winter.

Anyone with some kind of a medical book in his house could be a doctor if he wanted to be. Judge KELLER, and old settler, who lived to be more than ninety-years-old, told me about two years before he died, the trouble he had to keep from being a doctor. He lived on a farm in the north part of the county [Ringgold] and had a medical guide which had been no small help to him and his family. His neighbors found out and would come to him for advice and counsel, which requests he at first complied with to accommodate them. Finally so many kept coming that he had to tell them that he was no doctor and would refuse to answer calls. He did not want to be responsible for their lives. Yet he was much more competent than others who were practicing day and night, whose consciences were less sensitive.

But God had not forgotten those who went there for the purpose of bettering their condition by getting homes for themselves and their children. In 1856, He sent a Methodist minister, Billy WILLIAMS, through the country on horseback, leaving appointments for preaching at log cabins where he found the door open for such service. This was hailed with joy by the Christian people all over the country. Log schoolhouses soon began to be built in different settlements and the church services were transferred to them. The post office which had formerly been at Hopeville, in Clarke County, was now at Mount Ayr, the county seat. In the fall of 1857, a Methodist preacher by the name of Jessie SHERWOOD, was sent to the Mount Ayr Circuit. As this is being written especially for the descendants of the James and Sussanah RUBY family, I want to say that at that time every member of the RUBY family above 16-years-old was a member of either the United Brethren or the Methodist church.

The first camp meeting in the county was held in September, 1857, where I converted and joined the M.E. church. Following this, camp meetings were held annually for a number of years. People from all over the county and from surrounding counties would come to the camp grounds. Four and five public services would be held daily for ten days, besides unnumbered prayer services in private tents on the grounds. Those who remained for the closing services on the e second Monday morning have never forgotten the good-byes and "God Bless You" that passes when taking leave of each other when starting for home. Many a saint in Heaven will date his spiritual birth from these camp meetings.

The Civil War was a great detriment to the peace, happiness and prosperity of the country. Nearly all the able- bodied men of military age volunteered for the service in the Union army. Among those to enlist of the RUBY family were: Milbern J. RUBY, 79th Ill. Inf.; Bonerges (sic) F. RUBY, 8th Ia. Cav.; Addison S. RUBY, 8th Ia. Cav.; J. A. BENSON, 8th Ia. Cav.; Valentine G. RUBY, 46th Ia. Inf.: Joseph H. RUBY, 46th Ia. Inf. These all left wives and children except Joseph [RUBY], whose wife was dead. John B. RUBY was rejected because of defective eyesight.

Our parents were very deficient in education, and they moved into Illinois when the country was new and school facilities very meager. And their young, growing family was raised up a long the same lines as they themselves were raised.

Patrons of the schools would have to take their turn in furnishing the teacher with board and lodging and pay the tuition in proportion to the number of days each pupil attended.

Just twenty five years after settling in Illinois, allured by the glowing reports from the west, the younger generation, with their families, all married but two, pulled out for Iowa. The crowd I came with was on the road from September 25 to October 17. I, fifteen-years-old, drove a yoke of oxen to a covered wagon and took care of a team of horses driven to another wagon by my mother and younger sister.

The schools in Iowa were supported by taxation. Teachers got from $18.00 to $30.00 per month, according to grade of certificate, and the estimates made by the different district boards for compensation for teachers. The teachers paid out of their wages from $1.50 to $2.00 per week for board.

Common labor was $12.00 to $16.00 per month. In 1859, I started in to work for my brother James for a year. He was to give me $150.00, board, washing and mending. We cancelled the contract before the year was up in order that I might farm a part of his land, he furnishing everything, I paying $1.50 per week for board, doing all the work and dividing the crop equal . Before the crop was laid by, I decided that I could board myself cheaper and so on the 28th day of June, 1860, was married to Miss Hortensa B. WHITCOMB, a homeless child raised by Arba and Almyra (CONLEY) BLAKESLEY, she being sixteen-years-old the next day, and I six months past twenty.

On the 23rd day of July, 1863, I and my brother, Bone, enlisted in the Civil War, and were assigned to Company D, Eight Iowa Volunteer Cavalry. A few days later I took the mumps. In my efforts to get ready to leave I took a relapse, and in August, when the squad I enlisted with left Mount Ayr, I was in bed under doctor's care with pneumonia fever. About the first of September I got notice from the Provost Marshall stating that if I was able to come to Mount Ayr the 4th, he would send me to my regiment with another squad that was leaving for the front. On the evening of the 3rd, I visited my mother, left her standing at the yard gate crying, trying to say "I never expect to see your again." She died a year later.

My sister, Elizabeth, and her husband, Chauncy BLAKESLEY, stayed with us that night. Our home was a log house, one room, two beds. I got up at dawn next morning, dressed quietly, kind led a fire in the cook stove, filled the teakettle and put it over, as was my custom. I then went to the foot of the bed and kissed my little boy Arba, kissed my little girl Hattie, by the side of her mother. Then, after planting a soft kiss on the cheek of my wife, so as not to disturb her after such a restless night. I looked toward the bed in which lay my sister and her husband, and then stepped out of the door and was gone.

The first letter I got from home said "Dixie", as we called Arba, went to the gate every evening and waited for his papa until he went to sleep and mama carried him in.

When I got to the company, the regiment was organized, officials all appointed and as soon as we got our horses and other equipment we were sent to the front and kept there until after the war closed.

When I enlisted for the war, I was as ignorant as a mule as to the duties of a soldier. But I soon learned that they consisted in being obedient to the officers appointed over you, which consisted of keeping yourself clean as circumstances would permit; to keep your weapons at all times in proper order for immediate use; and when starting on a march or a lengthy scout, to see that you have three days rations in your haversack and forty rounds of cartridges in your belt and to fight the rebels from morning until night and the grey backs from night until morning.

I became so efficient along these lines that I won the confidence of my superior officers, so they, without solicitation, promoted me six times during the service, sometimes over the heads of others in order to fill in the vacant place, and would call on me, at unexpected times, to perform strategic duties. I would often be so tired when night came that I would rather tumble onto my blanket and go to sleep than to eat my supper, though I never did this but once and I was so ashamed of it that I never did it again. About the time I got sound asleep a big Irishman [Thomas SHAY] commenced shaking me and telling me to get up and have some coffee and eat some supper and he wouldn't let up until I did it. After that I never left the supper for him to get again.

When General WILSON made his cavalry raid through Alabama, he sent CROXTON, our Brigade Commander, with 1,500 men, to Tuscaloosa. We captured the town, burnt all government property, spiked the two pieces of artillery we captured, run them onto the bridge, saturated it with coal oil and set it on fire. While we were doing this, the rebels got a strong force of cavalry between us and WILSON so that when we wanted to return we couldn't do it. When they got after us we would fight awhile and then run. It is bad enough to fight an enemy when you have them on the run, but worse when we had to run. We wandered through the country, over into Mississippi, and back again to Tuscoloosa. When they pressed us too hard, we would fight enough to check their speed, then go like sixty. They cut off different bunches of our scouting parties. Some of them they captured, others made their way to the northern lines in Tennessee. Others, like the squad I was once with, made their way back to the command by guides, that knew the country, who led us by way of by-roads around the rebel forces until we could come to the road our forces were on.

The incessant rains and swollen streams made it very inconvenient for us, though we sometimes thought they were an advantage, as the rebels would not care to take chances in crossing as we did, as our men and horses swam four different streams. Their baggage and those who couldn't swim being conveyed across in canoes, rafts and big poplar troughs. Many of the fords where we had to cross were so full of holes and big rocks that often the horses would, as mine did once, fall down, pitching his rider into the stream, the current being so swift that it made it difficult for either horse or rider to regain his footing.

Sometimes the water below the ford would be quite deep. Then they would put a chain guard a cross the stream to keep those who got into trouble from floating down into deep water. We were quite relieved after the little trick we played on the Johnnies the second time we came to Tuscaloosa. We came to the ferry on the north side of the river just at dark and called for the Mayor. He came down to the south bank and agreed to surrender the town without opposition if we would protect the town from any further destruction of life or property. I, being with the advance guards, was one of the first to be sent over, and was one of the chain guards that were placed around the entire town, including the ferry. With instructions that no one be allowed through the line from either way. During the night a Negro came to me and said: "Youans will never get away from this town. General ADAMS has the town surrounded with a strong force and is fortifying every road. They'll capture everyone of you." Of course, I gave this information to the officer of the guard. I thought he took it rather cool by merely saying, "We'll show them a trick or two." Just before day the officer came along the line with the guards following him, told me to fall in. We marched to the ferry where we expected to find the brigade ready to fight their way through. But to our surprise there were none there but us. We leaped into the old flatboat, pushed across the river, pushed the boat back into the stream, mounted our horses, which were being held by comrades left for that purpose, and went up the river the way we were going the evening before when we came there.

The banks of the river were in many places overflown. At times the water would come up to our horses breasts. At that time I was riding a little mule. Our scouting parties, in order to keep our troops mounted, would bring in everything they could get that was rideable. I felt a little fearful of him if we should get in deep water, but when it began coming up his side, I was pleased to see him spin through it like a round log canoe.

From this time on we were masters of the situation, whipping all the rebels squads we met , fighting our last battle, and what is claimed by some to be the last battle of the war, April 23, at Talladega, Alabama. We lost two men, killed. [Re: Iowa Roster, page 1519.]

The train pulled out here as we went in. Here I did my first real destructive work by helping set the depot and some freight cars on fire.

On the 26th, while we were repairing a bridge on the Chatahooche River, a squad of rebel soldiers came with a white flag and told us that General Lee had surrendered, that LINCOLN was killed and that there was an armistice. This was the first news we received from either home or the front since the 22nd of March, and had they not admitted the surrender of LEE our of ficers would have hesitated to believe them.

We then started for Macon, Georgia, where we found, to his great suprise, General WILSON, with his army, on the first day of May. He had been greatly lamenting the loss of his first brigade, thinking we were all captured. Here we received and sent out our first mail since March 22nd.

The war now being over the next thing was home. We were mustered out August 13th, but kept together until we were paid off and given our discharges at Clinton, Iowa, August 26th.

At about eleven o'clock at night on August 29, I left my last army comrades out on the open prairie and after walking home alone about one mile I came to the door of a new frame house where I found my wife and two children, with her parents, on the same spot where I had left them in a log house just two years before. The war was over and we were all happy.

[The] Eighth Iowa Cavalry left Davenport with 1234 men; received from recruits 28; killed 45; wounded 123; died of wounds 24; died of disease 124; discharged on account of disease, wounds and other causes 90; captured 259.

My life as a civilian has been so in common with my surroundings that there is but little I can say that will be of interest to others. But I will mention a few things I feel I would like to know about my ancestors that I have never seen.

I was born in a Christian home, where ministers of the United Brethren church held regular services for years, both before and after I was born. I was given the full name, Addison SPARKS, of the preacher in charge at the time. I was taught that it was wrong to lie, swear, steal, dance, play cards or work on Sunday, and would get punished if I did so, or failed to punctually keep any promises I made, for all of which I am very thankful to my mother, for they have kept me out of many troubles that I otherwise would have gotten into. I have been a regular attendant at Sunday school from childhood, and at church service, both mid-week, which was much more common among early settlers than now, as well as Sundays. I have been honored by the Electorate in filling almost consecutively some one of the township offices during my entire active life; also by the M.E. church, holding the position of class leader for over thirty years, and often that of steward; superintendent of Sunday school; building and other committees.

Assuming the responsibility of these positions was very embarrassing to me on account of my illiteracy. Yet the efforts I put forth in trying to fill them acceptably proved a veritable asset, literally as well as spiritually.

My occupation through life has been that of farming. By hard work and economic living we have been about on par with our neighbors, often finding help, through the confidence bestowed upon us, through observance of our early training.

NOTE: The early history of the RUBY family was obtained from Jane (RUBY) BAYSINGER in 1874, who was then on her death bed in Coffee County, Kansas. She was at that time past eighty years old. The early history of the BAYSINGER family was obtained from Addison Sparks RUBY's oldest sister, Margaret (RUBY) BENSON, a few years later.

Addison refers to Roster Iowa Soldiers, War of the Rebellion. Volume IV. "1st 9th Regiment Cavalry." p. 1507. Published 1910. He noted, "Some member of the family of every Iowa Cavalry soldier, living at the time this was published, will be likely to have a volume, for it was distributed free to all Iowa Cavalry soldiers that applied for one."