THE BLAZED TRAIL - Aurora, Iowa, January 22, 1911
Being in good health, at the
request of my son, John, I set myself the task of noting, for future family
reference, some of the more prominent events of a busy life. With scanty
records, with only here and there a scrap of data; with memory not of the
highest type; under the weight of more than four score years, any effort
that I make must necessarily be defective. I shall make no claim to accuracy
of dates; but will endeavor to relate events and circumstances that have,
in general way, intervened in my pathway through an uneventful life.
Inasmuch as I had a beginning,
I must also have had a place of birth. The original record of that event
reads thus: Born to Thomas and Maria Jakway a son, Charles Henry, Putnam,
Washington County, N.Y. At the foot of the Adirondack mountains immediately
on the western border of Lake Champlain is a structure dating back to Colonial
days; used as a tavern, a hostelry affording aid and comfort to farmers
and other producers in marketing their products when teams were the only
means of transportation to the markets, at the cities of Troy, Albany,
and other towns on the Hudson to the south. My father informed me that
the old "Tavern" was an ideal rendezvous for smugglers previous to and
during the period known as the war of 1812. Contraband goods, were of course,
from Montreal and other Canadian towns and cities.
Sometime during the year 1832
our people moved from Washington County, N.Y. to the opposite side of the
lake, in Rutland County, Vermont. I was then six years old. The new house
was in the midst of a primitive forest lying along the bank of the lake.
this gave employment to my father and the family for many years, lumbering
being the occupation to which he seemed well adapted.
The late fall or early winter
of the following year, 1833, was made memorable by the great "Star Shower."
I was then seven years old. A shriek from our mother announced that the
house was on fire, but it was not the house, but the great big round world
that was truly on fire. I cannot describe the scene, although the picture
is as vividly before me now as at the time of enactment. Historians have
tried, they, too, have failed. Learned men have said it was a "phenomenon,"
but I don't believe anything with a name as tame as that would scare people
to death, or leave them hopeless wrecks to wander about bereft of sense
or reason—"It was a world on fire."
The round up of the family of
Thomas and Maria that grew to man's estate, or adult age, consisted of
six sons named after the following order: George Augustus, Lemuel Wicker,
Jacob William, Charles Henry, Thomas Beem, and Isaac Earl. George was born
October 7th, 1820, and the succession of births was maintained at intervals
of a fraction overt two years between any two births. The forest afforded
ample scope for industry: People reared in a treeless country can have
but a vague idea of the hum and bustle of a lumber camp. From the proceeds
of this industry came a new house, a fairly well ordered structure, large
and commodious. It was built on the everlasting plan, even to be literally
founded on a rock,—the floor of the cellar is smooth, having a glassy appearance,
said to have been planed down by glacial action. The place with the new
house and surroundings was fully appreciated as a home; and as such has
been continuously occupied by some member of the family, though quite recently
it has passed to one of the third generation.
Opposite, across the lake, in
plain view is Dresden, the birth place of Robert G. Ingersoll, who earned
lasting fame by giving fearless but eloquent expression to ideas that harmonized
with his peculiar views. His father was a preacher, but of another order.
He at one time preached occasionally in our neighborhood. I remember him
as being a small man with a large bald head, and a man with considerable
zeal and energy.
The forest gave place for a
"clearing," later taking the name of a farm, around which clusters the
varied memories of youth and childhood. At this time an industry grew up
in the household. With it came the spinning wheel and the loom—out of which
time, patience, skill and economy produced fabrics that were in many respects
equal to any that have been produced from similar material. I have a distinct
recollection of having my services called into requisition in poking the
threads through the several reeds and harnesses that in some mysterious
way answered to the push and pull and thread of the one who plied the shuttle,
with astonishing speed and precision. The way and the how the seemingly
tangled knots and skeins were gotten into the loom with mathematical certainty
has remained, with me from that day to the present an unsolved mystery.
A turn in the tide—an aunt visits
our people, her home was in the city. She brought many choice presents
and treasured gifts, among which was a book which she gave to me and at
the same time asked me to read to her. This disclosed the fact that I was
unable to respond. I can only imagine her astonishment. She said, "Charles,
must be sent to school." And, against the most vigorous fight I ever put
up, her counsel prevailed. A school had been provided within reach and
the next summer I was armed with Webster's Elementary Spelling Book, with
an order from which there was no appeal, "Go to school" At this time I
was seven years old. My thanks have ever been due to Dorcas Kenyon, a kind
good girl and the only teacher I ever had. She showed me how. I learned
to read that summer and the following winter I commenced with the term,
but whooping-cough had reduced me to a skeleton, and effectually shut me
out. At another time I made a start to attend the district school but something
intervened to prevent—am not sure but think measles. during this time I
found a friend in the old spelling book, and later on I took private lessons
under Dr. tom Scott, also for a short time under Harry White. The lessons
under master White were special lessons in arithmetic. About this time
I formed the habit of reading any and every thing that came my way, and
have continued in the practice ever since.
The upper or south end of the lake, our home, is
skirted on either side with broad marshes intercepted with bays, coves
and low wooded intervals; ideal haunts for muskrats and mink, these afforded
no inconsiderable source of revenue to the trapper, and we each in turn
took up the pursuit for what we could get out of it. The trapper's code
was as sacred as the Decalogue. I am thoroughly convinced that trapping
will be a lucrative business on through time without limit. Foxes also
had an abiding place in the surrounding hills and lodges. they were there
to stay. There was and could be no reconciliation between the foxes and
the Jakway tribe.
Politics—1840. If I knew anything of politics at
this time I certainly cared less. I knew much of the life and habits of
lumbermen, boatmen, raftsmen, fishermen and teamsters. I knew every swear
word that had been uttered up to that time in the English language, and
could say whole chapters in Canadian French. Rum, rum, "New rum," was the
element of strife and discord. Two drinks would promote a fight, but another
drink would settle it. A fight was always in order, but friendship never
broken. The campaign of "40" was on. Some mysterious condition had asserted
itself. The people were envious towards each other—another drink would
not settle it—it was old "Tippecanoe and Tyler too."
The election of William Henry Harrison
to the Presidency of the United States in the year 1840 outclassed anything
of its kind that has come within my range from that time to the present.
Nothing could seem more strange or out of character than a repetition of
their conduct at this time. It was loudly proclaimed that if certain events
transpired the Free Masons would assume control, and mete out to one half
the human race the fate of Morgan, who they said had been drawn and quartered
by that fiendish, inhuman fraternity. A more formidable goblin or ghost
was sure to come when the Roman Catholics should assume the reins of government
. Other, and possibly, more awful calamities awaited the people. another
cry that I never understood was "Free trade and sailor' rights." "Old Tippecanoe
and Tyler too." A forcible argument was log cabins mounted on wheels decorated
with cider barrels, coon skins and other traps of a similar character.
It was no unusual thing to find a log cabin dismantled next morning after
one of these debaucheries, called a parade.
Three years later, 1843, came an uprising
among the people which was of an altogether different character; religious
excitement turned the heads of the people, without regard to age or condition.
William Miller, of Hampton, N.Y., better known as prophet Miller, whose
home was not to exceed six miles from that of my father, found or evidently
believed he had found evidence in the Bible to predict--the end of the
world was at hand! Crazy people conducted themselves in those days very
much after the same manner as they do at the present time. Mathematical
certainty pointed to 1843 as being the "Year of Jubilee." "Why stand ye
idle waiting? The millennium is at hand." The culmination, or crisis of
the whole affair in our immediate vicinity was on the night of October
22nd, 1843. In the southwest portion of the town of Benson, Rutland Co.,
Vermont, is a stone school house known far and wide as the "Temple." This
house is a reconstruction from the ruins of an ancient structure, said
to have been the first Mormon Temple ever erected within the territory
of the United States. the material is rectangular blocks having the outline
of brick and was thrown down from the face of a precipitous ledge near
at hand. I examined the ruins in 1888, and could find no trace of mortar
having been used. I mention these blocks because I have never seen at any
other place material so completely fitted by nature for the use of man.
One would conclude the material suggested the site.
Prophet Miller, aided by Mrs.
Hines and several others that I know, gave their entire time and energies
to the cause they were so zealously engaged in. I have never learned that
they were in any way remunerated for time or expenses. Ebenezar Martin,
a good man and one of the leading lights, called the neighbors, who were
joined by other neighbors, together at the Temple for a final leave taking.
Hundreds of people were in and about the house, all intent upon what might,
could, would, or should happen at the appointed hour, 12 o'clock. In the
house there were indescribable leave takings, accompanied with suppressed
expressions—"Amen;" a space of ten minutes intervened with not an audible
sound save from the clock—tick, tock, tick, tock, the clock wags on. At
five minutes past twelve Mr. martin said in a loud voice, "And the bridegroom
tarried. It is now tarry time." We breathed again--there was a sort of
salvation in what he said. the second advent doctrine for the time had
a setback. I seemed the unicorn, the horned dragon and the goat had in
some way got mixed--their date was wrong—hence the results. The question
is still open, was there ever a man since the day of William Miller, Hines,
Martin and others, has had any better warrant than they who fixed upon
October 22nd, 1843, when, that somewhat vague period, the millennium, should
arrive? Time still continues to be measured by the standard clock, tick-tock-tick-tock.
My recollection of these events was marked by this date being the 17th
anniversary of my birthday.
The winter of 1843-44 I worked
in the lumber camp-scoring. This crude process was followed by the "hewer,"
who, with a broad axe removed the score-chips. This prepared the tree for
market--known as square timber. Mr. Manning, the hewer, injured his knee
and was for a time disabled. I took the broad axe and succeeded fairly
well. This suited me much better than scoring.
I never got above third or fourth place in the use of
the woodman's axe. In the spring I worked at rafting, arranging the timber
into cribs by means of withes and other devices, fitting them for the locks
in the canal that leads from the lake to the Hudson River. I did some trapping
in the meantime.
Up to this time I had failed
to find a job that I thought exactly fitted my case. I made inquiry of
those I thought ought to know, as to what could I do best. No one seemed
willing or prepared to give a definite answer or even a practical suggestion.
The nearest approach came from the Rev. Elder Bently, who said, "There
is always plenty of work for willing hands to do." My conviction now is
that possibly some other pursuit than farming would have been better suited
to my peculiar make up. An uncle who took an interest in my affairs, together
with my people, decided I should learn the shoemaker's trade.
It would seem to me that no
boy ever had prospects before him that would compare favorably with the
vision prompted by the hope I entertained of becoming a shoemaker. The
shop was a busy place, full of puns, jokes, and good cheer for those fortunate
enough to dodge the flying darts. I was the boy, and of course, came in
for a full share. However, that was one of the least of my troubles. I
was there to learn the trade. Assigned to a low bench near the corner,
with a broad faced hammer, and a moderate sized boulder called a lap-stone,
that had evidently been rolled down from higher latitudes during the glacial
period. At any rate, it had acquired the habit of rolling. It absolutely
wouldn't stay anywhere. We learn the trade step by step. Our first lesson
is to master the lap-stone and the hammer. With these in hand we are given
three piles of leather, classified as soles, not in an evangelical sense,
but as outer soles, middle soles and inner soles. My first day in the shop
was pounding soles. This was the most tedious, dreary day that I
am now able to recall. It seems to me if I had been run through a New England
flaxbreak my condition could have been no worse. I would gladly have abandoned
the idea of becoming a fixed star.
An advance step disclosed the peculiar traits and
characteristics of a shoe peg. A Yankee invention, there were millions
in it. It was truly a tedious task to learn to drive a shoe peg. However,
I pegged away, and finally learned to peg.
The next step up in the trade
is to be a cord-waxer. By this, is meant a cord is to be made out of prepared
thread, called a waxed end. After the wax is applied, this seemed easy.
But the end of the waxed end must be feazed and pointed with a bristle.
Others could do it with a simple twist of the wrist; why not I? If there
was ever a boy feazed out to a frazzle it surely was the new boy in the
shop. A shopmate saw me twist them on, but all the twisting I could do
resulted in untwisting. Pesky thing wouldn't stick. It occurred to me that
the bristle was a spine that grew on the crest of the hog's back, and that
this was always his signal of war or opposition. Everybody know you can't
make a hog do, and neither will a bristle be forced. I approached it from
the other way and "Presto!" it was done. However, I wished the last hog
on earth had gone down into the sea with the Gadarene's pigs.
Shoemaking had few charms for
me; confinement did not agree with my make up—there was something of early
days that seemed to call me back—the old forest, the lake, the surrounding
hills, and more, that mysterious something that is in, on or about a mountain,
and yet you cannot tell. You cannot resist the inquiry, what combination
of forces has caused all this diversity of scenery that falls within the
scope of vision?
A new scheme presents itself;
a sure thing. I entered into contract to run a maple sugar camp. Everybody
knew how to make maple sugar and there was never failing demand for the
product. Fuel was prepared in the winter and all necessary preparation
made for an active campaign on the approach of early spring. What could
be more consoling than the assurance of success and a sweet job on hand?
As the time approached to commence
the process, people of mature years suggested that many of the signs pointed
in the direction of a good sap year. Among the signs was, the ice on the
lake was unusually thick, the last new moon turned its horns up, the fog
arranged itself along the crest of the mountain when the sign was in the
heart.
Everything all right. The contract
called for an equal division in the form of syrup. This arrangement would
avoid any tangle. Storage tanks in place, everything in order. The time
had come to distribute the buckets and tap the trees. This was a busy time—hurry
up! The first run was by far the best of the season—all hands on deck!
From the start the flow was bountiful.
I was on trail for the first time with the neck yoke
and gathering buckets. In spite of all I could do the flow exceeded the
capacity of the buckets, and, of course, the ground was enriched with what
was properly coming to me. I fully realized that the overflow of sap was
like the water that had passed the mill. I found maple sugar making in
New England had quite as much up hill as down hill connected with it. From
what would seem a very slight or no provocation at all the trees would
go on strike for several days at a time. If the wind was from the south—no
sap; if it froze too much or too little, no sap; you can't make maple sugar
without sap.
As the "sap bush" enterprise
progressed friends gathered about the camp, sometimes giving a lift, all
anxious for my welfare. There is no let up on Sunday in a sugar camp. Delegates
came in increasing numbers to renew their devotion, and to suggest the
latest style to conduct a candy pull. When you have a sweet job on hand,
a "taffy" becomes at once a potent agency. When Easter came they all came
bringing lunches—doughnuts and dainties. Eggs in evidence everywhere, colored,
painted, stained and striped in fantastic fashion that no civilized or
even half civilized hen could recognize them with any degree of pride or
credit. The final roundup at the sugar camp resulted in satisfaction to
the owner.
My share was ample to pay board
and other expenses, also a not too liberal consignment of sugar that I
sent home to my mother. There was still left in the tank a quantity that
I gave a lady friend who made me a plaited bosom shirt.
I found a young man at my boarding
place in mental agony, wrestling with vain endeavor to solve a crooked
problem in algebra. He said, "If you use certain signs at the right time
and in the right way the solution was easy." These were essentially the
same conditions that had surrounded the sugar bush.
Early in life I took up sheep
shearing. This was a job I could do well and with as much dispatch as those
who claimed to be experts. I had no difficulty in finding a place among
the shearers, at the current wages. One dollar a day was the highest in
New England. I followed the craft all through life or until the shearing
machine canceled my commission.
Another source of earning a
dollar that I fell in with was that of a gelder. This has been a moderate
source of money getting all the way along—am still ready for a job. My
knife has been a material aid in many ways in handling and the general
management of stock.
In the late '40's, I was the
proud owner of a stock of bees. They were money getters in good earnest.
By the way, the valley of Lake Champlain is the best bee country I have
ever found. There was ready sale for all the honey produced, to steamboats
passing on the lake, at good prices. With the bee scheme I mixed grafting,
budding, and pruning fruit trees, and I even planted a nursery.
One season my younger brother
cared for the bees, and I superintended a large farm belonging to an uncle
who had grown old and infirm. The work was all done by hand labor. I employed
French Canadians at from six to eight dollars a month.
We have arrived at another period,
October 22nd, 1847. Another anniversary. we are now deemed safe to exercise
the right of franchise, to be an American citizen, to have a say as to
how we and they shall be governed. A town meeting is called. My vote will
count but I am not a voter simply because I am twenty-one years of age.
Some Puritanic notions still adhere to the formalities. I must take the
"Free Man's Oath." I am trying to reproduce it from memory: "Hold up your
hand. You do solemnly swear that you were born free, that you a re a white
male citizen, that you are twenty-one years old, and that you will vote
for or support the best man without fear or favor, according to the best
of your knowledge and belief. So help you God."
A spirit of revolution, or evolution,
came over the people of New England; sheep husbandry was the dominant pursuit
with the agriculturist. Everything must move to make room for more sheep.
manufacturing, which had already asserted itself, broke out in new and
unlooked for places. The factory, the woolen-mill, suppressed the whiz
and buzz of the spinning wheel. instead of a single thread drawn by hand
from a spindle, the falling stream had imparted life to a new creation
called a Gin, or Ginny. This devise seemed to have a way of its own. It
was capable of producing an unlimited number of threads with a single attendant.
Like other created things, it was here to stay.
Gold had been discovered at
Sutter's Mill in California in 1848. the exodus was on. This seemed to
be my opportune time. Why not? Surely, I was available timber, with nothing
to offer by way of hindrance but lack of funds.
I made a conditional bargain
with three men who were to furnish money against my time. We were to share
and share alike in the outcome of the venture. Like many of my projects,
this one too, proved abortive.
In the autumn of 1849 Horace
Greeley came to our town on one of his annual visits to the scenes of youthful
days, having once been a resident.
This is where I have heard it said, he lived on turnips.
Whether this and kindred stories were true or not, there was something
in his life the people laid claim to. They greeted him as one of their
own. He was rarely hailed as Mr. Greeley or Horace Greeley, but was familiarly
spoken to and of as "Horace." He had become the patron saint of New England.
He was there in the old white coat. He gave us a familiar talk. I remember
he told the people they were making an unpardonable mistake in denuding
the surrounding hills to make room for sheep; that it was comparatively
easy to reproduce the flocks, but the forest was the product of ages.
It was about this time the alleged
young man is said to have approached him with the view of seeking aid in
the choice of pursuit; to whom he said "Go West, young man, and grow up
with the country."
George, my oldest brother had
been West, "Away beyond sundown," as far, at least, as Boone county, Illinois,
where he had secured a claim and made some preparations for a future home.
He came back to us in the fall of '49, arranged his affairs to again return
to his new home in the spring of 1850.
At the suggestion of "Horace,"
together with opportunity of going with a brother who had been over the
route, I determined to go West.
Some preparations were necessary
before going; the bees must be disposed of. They constituted by stock in
trade, except what I might realize from the nursery. The bees had waxed
fine. They had increased in number to about one hundred swarms. They, and
the necessary equipment, were richly worth five hundred dollars. I was
paying tax on the bees, and was thought to be quite well off for a young
man.
What could be more crushing
than to learn at the first move, that I had no bees that I could sell?
The bees were in patent hives. I had bought from the patentee an individual
right to make and use. This tied me hand and foot. A lawyer decided I had
no right of transfer; that any party buying would be liable for infringement.
Nothing up to that time had
so completely disconcerted me. I had decided to go. I gathered up a few
traps, that no one else laid claim to, and sold them.
As soon as navigation opened
in the spring of 1850 we started on our long tedious journey via the western
canal, or "Clinton Ditch," to Buffalo. We had started too soon. The canal
boat was obstructed everywhere, especially at the foot of the hill at Lockport;
we were detained nearly three weeks for repairs to the locks before we
could float "up hill," which we finally did, and reached Buffalo, all in
good health except myself. I had fever, and was scarcely able to move about.
It has always seemed marvelous that people could live under such circumstances
as we were subjected to in that canal boat cabin.
I have only a vague recollection
of what occurred from the time we boarded the steamer for Chicago; neither
do I remember anything that occurred in Chicago. However, George bought
a team and wagon, in which his wife arranged a couch in which I was conveyed
to Belvedere, sixty miles west of Chicago. We had relatives there who took
me in and gave me kind care and nursing, as only kind friends can give.
Not many days later I was moved
to the prairie home. This was on the sixth of June. I was on the gain,
and in a short time took to my feet again. Where was I at? Surely, in Boone
county, Illinois, but how? Much as though I had been transported as a parcel
of household goods, or as if picked up by Eugene Ely, at the wharf in Buffalo,
and later dumped from his aerial car as surplus ballast. We are at the
prairie home. I could see nothing I had seen before--nature had turned
her face the other way.
There were no mountains, no
hills, no wood, the lakes, the bays, the marshes, the coves and the springs
that flowed into them, were not there. There was not a tree within the
range of vision. You could look for a stone in vain. A floral ocean is
spread out before us; the pansies have seized upon every inch of space;
why such lavish profusion? To move was to crush their innocent faces. Wild
grasses are interspersed and there seems to be a rivalry as to which shall
gain the victory. The contest is solved later on, when both go down to
defeat under the furrows of the breaking plow.
Within sight of the home when
we reached it, there was a singular habitation, but within one year all
the land in that region had changed from government to individual ownership.
Every section line was a public highway when the public got there.
Prairie schooners were in evidence
tracking across country, hunting their several claims, and making settlements.
We came to regard it a lonesome day when no new home was commenced within
sight. We greeted new comers with a big welcome.
My health was on the mend. George
dug a hole by the side of a ravine, ten or twelve feet deep, using green
white oak plank to crib it up with, and some two or three feet of water
collected at the bottom and was soon changed to an ooze from the acid and
other properties of the oak. I feel quite sure it would have tanned a hide
into leather. I drank freely of the oak tea and believe it had a salutary
effect. My health improved day by day. when harvest time came I found a
job--raked and bound wheat after a cradle. After harvest I made several
trips to Chicago with wheat, forty bushels making a load. We could generally
get a load of freight back. In that case teaming paid fairly well.
Late in the fall of that year
I sharpened fence posts one day for Mr. Mordoff, for which he gave me a
dressed hog weighing 150 pounds, and asked me if that was satisfactory.
Hogs in the timbered sections matured on mast and were almost without price
or value.
The autumn or fall had changed
to winter and with it came a surprise, something out of the ordinary. Two
men approached me who said they were looking for a schoolmaster. I told
them I was not the fellow they were looking for; that I had been mixed
up with almost everything, and was ready for any kind of a job, but that
I had no qualifications as a teacher. They said they were in trouble; that
they had organized a school, and that it had been in session three weeks;
that the master, though a collegiate, cared more for his life than for
$16 per month, and so there was a vacancy. They had greater need just then
for a pugilist than for teacher. They were looking for someone that could
stay.
I told them that I had no kinship
with John C. Heman or John L. Sullivan, that I knew. My brother said, "Do
as you please. If I were you I'd go." We made a conditional bargain; all
hinged on whether I could pass muster at the "Captain's office."
I approached that ordeal with
fear and trembling. I reckon I must have lied through. Like many of my
undertakings, at first I found it an awkward job.
One day I had a little experience
with a big boy, and he had some. The school went on to the end of the term.
At the close we were a united and happy family.
The following spring I worked
with George. I think we had out about 40 acres of wheat. We also made a
stable, planted a garden, and did a variety of things in the direction
of making the place more home-like.
The sheep-shearing season had
arrived I heard of a place where there was a flock, and went there, hoping
to get a job. I asked the proprietor, John Fitch, an early settler, if
he wanted more help, to which he replied "No" with pronounced emphasis.
there were four men shearing. They tied the sheep's legs, and had worlds
of trouble, and used swear words, to the annoyance of Mr. Fitch. I asked
one of the men if I might shear a sheep. He said, "I would be glad to have
you."
I went at it Yankee fashion
and put in my best stitches. Mr. Fitch said, "If you want to shear, you
may." Swearing went on; he discharged the men one at a time. I finished
the shearing, tied the fleeces, and he said he was pleased, and paid me
more per day than I had ever had for like services.
He had at that time a large
structure well filled with wild pigeons, caught in nets. He found market
for them in Chicago and Milwaukee. Pigeons were at that time a menace.
We had to guard our wheat fields lest they be devoured. If there are any
pigeons now in the United States, I don't know where they are.
From the sheep shearing I returned
home and engaged in breaking prairie. This process required the force of
four horses or six oxen. Oxen were the ideal breakers because they could
live off the native grass, of which there was an unlimited supply.
The crops of that season exceeded
anything I had ever seen. I was inclined to ask, "Have the pansies turned
into wheat?" Every seed had seemingly fallen on good ground and was yielding
to the limit, an hundred fold.
A new departure came with the
harvest season. George bought a McCormick reaper. I am not sure it was
the first season they were introduced or not. At any rate it was a huge
looking thing, but it would go. When the machine was set up ready to move,
people gathered from round about. Everybody knew exactly what ought to
be done. They had "hearn tell." The field had the appearance of a general
training day back there, East. The old blue McCormick was a marvel; it
put the cradle out of commission. I was boss of that machine and run it
for all I could make it do. I don't know whether its maker designed it
for a day of rest of not but I do know that it would absolutely refuse
to work if the straw was wet—dew or other causes. McCormick was succeeded
by a great variety of machine sin quick succession. Like everything good,
attachments and attachments, unto perfection.
My understanding of the McCormick
reaper is, that the invention antedated, by several years, the advent of
the Blue or practical machine.
When fall came I had an attack
of migratory fever, went back to the scenes of childhood, stayed nearly
one year. During my stay I worked six months for G. A. Austin, Orwell,
Addison Co., Vermont. Mr. Austin was a man of affairs, a speculator, loaned
money extensively, had more irons in the fire at one time than any other
man I have ever known. His wife, Emma, was very fine lady. She attended
to his affairs during his absence. I was kept on the go a good share of
the time in answer to messages. Mrs. Austin "kind-atook" me in. She supplied
me with reading matter, and in a great many ways aided me.
She pointed out a multitude of blunders in a kindly way
that I have ever since felt grateful for. I read Uncle Tom's Cabin. It
came my way to hear some bitter controversies over the slavery question.
Soon after I commenced work
a colt was born and left in the wide world an orphan. this colt's lineage
entitled him to the distinction of an aristocrat; he was a son of Dave
Hill's Black Hawk. The colt belonged to Emma. She passed him over to me
to raise if I could. "You can have anything you want to feed it on, without
limit." The cold, Pete, grew well and more than answered her expectations.
this colt will cut something of a figure later on.
During my stay with Mr. Austin
in the summer of 1853, he was largely engaged in the exchange of horses;
he bought and sold; his barn was at all times well stocked with animals
in preparation for the Boston market. The Austin barn was the head center
for horsemen in that region. almost every day there would be a delegation
to buy or sell horses. Vital questions were sure to come up for discussion.
Mrs. Austin said "it was an even toss between the nigger and the hoss."
There was a spirited controversy as to the merits of the two classes of
horses known as the Morgans and the Black Hawks. They were as different
and distinct in type and conformation as ducks are from geese. The Morgan
was compact and rugged, had distinctive markings such as a list on the
back, often a zebra pencilling on the shoulders, and also had long thin
outer hair on the legs, in the flank, and about the jowls.
The Black Hawk had none of these
features. He was rangy, lith, his nose always pointed toward the winning
post, ready for a dash. It required several years for "Old Dave Hill" to
find out that he had a Morgan in Black Hawk.
The battle royal between the
two factions came off that fall at Rutland at the state fair. It was here
the Morgan met his Waterloo. Black Hawk won the victory. Some of the planning,
as I know, was laid in the Austin barn.
At the close of the fair my
mission was at an end in Vermont. I decided to invest what means I had
in as many as I could secure of the famous Vermont Merino sheep. I purchased
in Shoreham, Vermont, ten that had a lineage running back to an importation
from Spain in 1820. I was ready to retrace that long rout to the home in
the west.
Like all roads, it had an end.
The sheep wintered in fine case. They were the center of attraction—had
visitors nearly every day. Quite early in the spring a Mr. Jackson and
his wife came. They admired the sheep, had never seen any of the kind before.
They live several miles away. He informed me he had commenced the winter
with 400 sheep, that he was having ill luck, that they had a disease and
were dying. He asked me if I would go down to his fence and see his flock.
I went, and sure they were dying, for not less than fifty dead ones were
in the yard. The place was literally covered with wool. They had the itch
or scab. He asked what could be done. I told him there were several remedies:
that they could be cured, but the first thing to do was to remove them
to new quarters. He asked me, "What do you think such sheep are worth?"
I said, "I haven't the remotest idea." "You know something about sheep,
give an estimate." "I would think at least $1.50." "I'm going to sell them."
"But I can't buy them. Those ten sheep you saw are all I have." "It don't
make any difference. I'll take your note due in October, without interest."
I wrote my name on that paper with a feeling of wrong doing. However, I
had the sheep and proceeded to treat them. Early instruction pointed to
immersion as the only remedy to eradicate sin and pollution. I resolved
try something just as good. I resorted to sprinkling. They were cured from
that day, with trifling loss. I sold the wool from the flock in Chicago
for more than enough to pay for the sheep. I settled with Mr. Jackson in
July. He patted me on the back.
In May of that year, 1854, I
received a letter from Mrs. Austin saying she had sold her colt for $1000,
and asking if I could invest that much to advantage. I replied locating
land in Iowa was the best thing I knew, and was sure to pay. Replying to
my letter she inclosed a check for $1000, with the conditions that I be
to the expense of locating, pay one half the taxes, and have one half the
proceeds when sold. it made little difference to me whether "Pete" was
a Black Hawk or a Morgan. I arranged at once and left for Iowa in June.
A man by the name of Tanner
was with me. It was a wet season, streams swollen, stages stuck in the
mud, left us but the one alternative, go afoot.
I selected five 80's near Kellie's
Mills in Floyd county, later called St. Charles, now Charles City. I also
selected three 80's near the site of Waverly in Bremer county.
On the route to locate the land
some incidents occurred, among which may be noted: at Independence we found
the water very high. There was no crossing the river. A rope had been stretched
across the river to aid in ferrying but the floods had carried it away.
We were forced to go to Quasqueton to cross. On the road to Quasqueton
not far from the woods we found a resting place for the night. this was
the home of Solomon Swatzell and his esteemible wife.
I shall never forget the impressions
of that early June morning. It seemed to me they had everything about them
that could conduce to domestic comfort and happiness. We resumed our tramp
after a kind entertainment; invigorated and refreshed, with a hearty good
cheer; they would not be remunerated.
At Bradford, Chickasaw county,
we saw a vacated Indian camp, where a tribe or remnant of a tribe stayed
the winter before. I could call it a dreary place, but that don't tell
it. They had left, I would say, ten or twelve of their dead, pinioned in
the branches of the low-growing trees, arranged after the crudest manner,
four to six feet from the ground. I suppose this was to prevent the ravages
of predatory wolves that roamed the prairies in those days.
On our return, we called at
Buffalo Grove and remained here several days, I imagined it was the place
I had been looking for; an ideal place for sheep, a comparatively small
grove surrounded by, as I thought, unlimited prairie. I confess that I
thought that region would remain vacant one hundred years.
On reaching home I induced George
to go to Iowa and explore the promised land I had found. He bought—"entered"—a
large tract of Uncle Sam's domain, including the present site of Aurora.
On his return he entered into contract with parties in Delaware and Dubuque
counties to deliver, that fall a certain number of sheep, as per contract.
This was preparatory to making a new home in Iowa.
In October of that year, 1854,
I started for Iowa with a flock of 700 sheep. That was quite too big an
undertaking. I employed a man, but soon found we were unequal to the task.
We found a camp, a whole colony of people from Ohio. One man said, "You
ought to have my dog to drive those sheep." I arranged with him to turn
his dog loose, and sure enough, she could do all he said she could and
more than will ever be told. I paid him $10 in gold for the dog. I was
the proud owner of a Collie that was endowed with a spirit of kindness,
instinct, sagacity, or reason, if you will; that would and did challenge
the admiration of all who saw her skill in guiding a flock.
With this problem solved, I
found we were in another serious difficulty. We must be fed. Nature had
provided for the sheep, but we sought in vain for a "hand out." Of course
we were freighted with as much dust and soot from the recently turned prairie
as would stick on, and progress was necessarily slow.
I had plenty of money, but it availed nothing. We were
rejected as tramps, could get no consideration at all. Begging availed
nothing. Sleeping on the ground could be endured, but to be told to move
on, you can get entertainment at the next house, becomes mighty monotonous
after a day or two. I hear people say, "If you feed the hungry you encourage
idleness. Weary Willie is unworthy." Be it so. I have fed all comers, and
will turn none unrelieved away. I could never tell whether a tramp was
worthy or otherwise.
As we neared the father of Waters,
at a point east of Sinsinawa Mound we found the earth literally dug up
by prospectors, who had sunk shafts at short intervals which they called
mineral holes. Some of our sheep fell into these holes, causing us delay,
much bother and some expense. At this point stood a lone stone structure,
over the door of which was this inscription, "This is none other than the
house of God." This was the most inhospitable place I have ever found.
In a famishing condition I sought protection under the lee of that pile
of stones. Driven from side to side by the incessant down pour of an all
night's merciless rain, if I had had a Roman ram I would have battered
a hole into that sacred place without regard to consequences. There was
nothing at hand bigger than a hazel bush. Next morning I found relief by
going some distance to "New Diggins," where I counted one among several
hundred miners. The distinguishing feature was, they were loaded with clay
and I with mud. However, it was a breaking of the fast. This was the first,
last, and only time I have ever "taken" coffee. I gobbled it down.
The drive was short to Dunleith,
where we crossed the river. The ferry boat was little more than a dory.
It required nearly two days to ferry the sheep over. These were claimed
to be the first sheep that had ever crossed the ferry. People wondered
what could ever be done with so many sheep.
During our Stay in Dubuque we
quartered at the Temperance Hotel, a Mr. Sharp manager. He aided us in
many ways. He found an inclosure where we yarded the sheep. This yard was
well up under the bluffs in the south west part of town. He suggested it
would be better to guard them, as they were not altogether safe in that
locality. The yard was occupied by a drayman, furnished with a blanket.
I took lodgings under his cart. In the night I heard a whistle and a response.
The dog was all on the "nettle." I dept quiet. A man climbed into the yard.
After a little parley he caught a sheep and lifted it to the top of the
fence—Mike on the outside—like a flash the dog seized him by the leg. He
dropped the sheep and said, "Ye have a rulin' dog. I come over to see how
weighty they was, and then I could buy one in the mornin'. I've niver seen
sich a rulin' dog in this country." He came with ample provisions for the
dog in the morning.
I filled the first contract
at Alexanders, seven miles west of Dubuque, another at Farley, and another
at Rockville. The remnant of the flock came to Buffalo Grove and were distributed.
On my return I entered at the
land office at Dubuque the NE¼ section 12, Buffalo Township 90-8.
On reaching our home we at once
commenced arranging affairs for another journey toward "sundown," that
is to say, Iowa. We sold everything we didn't care to take with us, and
deposited our money with Alexander Neely, who at that time conducted a
private bank in Belvedere. These were "wild cat" times. Our deposits with
Neely amounted to several hundred dollars. He redeemed our certificates
in the "wild cattest" of the wild cat currency—Dallon and Millageville,
Georgia, It was utterly worthless.
When the grass had made sufficient
growth for feed, we started. Our outfit consisted of two covered wagons,
"schooners," each drawn by four yoke of oxen, together with a herd of cattle
and horses, also a band of sheep. many incidents of that journey might
be related. We had our place on the road with hundreds of others similarly
situated. We met scores of returning immigrants all looking as though they
were entirely out of soap.
One evening in camp a lady who
was returning to Indiana, "God's Country" related to my brother's wife
a heartrending tale of woe. Her husband joined and implored us to turn
round. "Don't go, you can't live there." They had buried two children.
Calamities came thick and fast. All could tell stories of like character.
We drove on, and arriving at
our destination, unhitched the oxen from the wagons, hitched them to the
breaking plow, preparing a large plot for crops for the coming year.
During that season George built
a barn. It was intended for a temporary residence, and served as such longer
than he had planned. The long tedious winter of '55-'56 was made memorable
by excessive ventilation. Fuel was plentiful, or it seems to me we must
have perished.
In October, '56, George and
myself sold our entire holding to B.B. Warren and his brother. That purchase
includes the present site of Aurora. This sale put an end to house building.
We were elected for an indefinite stay in the barn. The barn was boarded
up and down with ten-inch boards taken from a raft in the Mississippi River.
Mrs. Vanderbilt and family who
were living near us in a temporary shack, were visited by a cyclone that
picked their house up, and it was gone. They sought shelter in the barn,
and remained during the never to be forgotten winter of '56-'57. Mrs. Vanderbilt
was house-keeper for a part of the family. George and wife and the younger
members of the family had gone "back there East."
When George returned we united
our means and bought what purported to be an improved farm, at least something
had been done. There was a primitive double log house on the place. This
house had an unlimited capacity, was ample for all comers. It, at one time,
afforded shelter for four families. I saw this place on my Western trip
in '54, and resolved at that time, if my effort would enable me to secure
it, it should be my future home.
I had not intended to encumber
this narrative with anything of a political nature. However, 1856 was a
pronounced period in human affairs. Evolution or revolution, which? John
C. Fremont, candidate for President. History will tell you of those days.
We were now, in '58, located
on the new purchase. George attended to the farm, while I looked after
the sheep--also had another project in view--in August of that year I married
Eunice Linton. Her former home was near Oberlin, Ohio. We combined our
wedding tour and honeymoon by making a journey to Eastville, Delaware County,
Iowa, to meet the first passenger train from the East over that part of
the road. We had planned to go to Dubuque but didn't go.
This trip was made in a covered
carriage, the first one that had showed up in that region. This carriage,
brought here by a new comer from St. Louis, Missouri. I borrowed it for
the occasion.
We commenced housekeeping at
once in the left of the granary, 16 by 24. Our culinary outfit was too
shy to admit of description; we had neither bedstead, table or chair. We
made an economic code; the terms, we will live within our income; we will
produce our own meat; we will make our own candles and soap; we will buy
no hay or corn or other grain, except for seed. this code obtained for
several years, but was finally crowded out by progression, because it ceased
to be economic.
George and I divided the farm
on terms satisfactory to ourselves, he taking the east portion and I the
west. Thus, possessed of what I had so long coveted I could now say for
the first time, I live at home.
I proceeded to build a barn which answered the
purpose until it was burned by a stroke of lightning in 1905. Soon after
the division of land the old log house was vacated and we moved into it
from the loft of the granary, where our daughter, Jessie was born.
My interest at this time was
wholly in the farm and sheep. The latter required a large share of my time.
I came to be known as the sheep man. I took some chances in buying wool,
not always with best results on my side of the bargain.
The old log house began to tumble
in, and we must find a place to live. I commenced building a house in 1860,
and finished it in '61. This involved me in a big debt, greatly enhanced
by the misfortunes of others with whom I had imprudently indorsed. Interest
rates were anywhere from 10% straight to any limit you would agree to fix
less than 50% per annum. They, the loaners, retaining the bonus, you getting
the balance. I never paid a higher rate than 38%.
The sheriff was about the best
known man that frequented the rural district. Our sheep were the main reliance,
but the annual sale of wool fell short of the demands that were pressing,
and for anything I knew my credit was in peril. No man could borrow money
without an endorser. I resolved I would as soon take the chance, face the
consequences, as to ask a friend to endorse my "paper" note.
By fate, fortune, or good luck,
a Mr. Greenless came, wanting to buy the five 80's I had located in '54
in Floyd county. If the visitation of a Good Samaritan had ever brought
good cheer, it seemed my opportunity had come to share in it. I sold him
400 acres at eight dollars per acre in gold. Gold meant something more
at that time than dollars. I don't remember the difference between the
current value of gold and other currency at that time, but I know that
I got more than $2000 do debt paying currency for my share. I have always
regarded that whole transaction more in the light of a donation than otherwise.
It was "bray and blow" for the Black Hawk horse. The little colt Pete had
won the race and the money.
How can I proceed with this
narration without making mention of some of the events that transpired
during that period from the election Abraham Lincoln to the close of four
years of fratricidal war? however, I am not writing a history of the war.
Some special incidents may be referred to later on.
The early settlers, like those
of the present, and as will all those for all time to come, derived their
living from the culture of the soil. Wheat, oats and corn, together with
vegetables grew luxuriously from the virgin soil that had been storing
up fertility for untold ages. The production of crops was comparatively
easy, but we were confronted with another serious problem for solution.
Crops must be protected as well as produced. Fence—where is it to come
from? The first settlers naturally secured all the available timber, suitable
fro fencing and fuel, that was within their reach. Much of the timbered
land was owned by non-resident speculators, the price of which was almost
prohibitive. Rail fences split or rived, from the native timber, were constructed
in almost endless variety. The only other resource we knew was to haul
boards from the Mississippi River some sixty miles away. This we could
rarely afford to do, because our produce, if saleable at all, must sell
at extremely low prices. Many people made the venture of raising crops
under what was known as "shot gun" fences. To raise a crop, possibly garner
it into shocks, and have a prowling herd of horses or cattle tramp it into
the earth while you slept, was more than modern man could endure. I have
often thought it was fortunate the minister of those days was an itinerant,
his duties were for the hour, God willing, and he moved on , oblivious
of the envy and hatred one man could entertain toward another. Literally,
there was a great gulf fixed between neighbors. There was in the near future
one of the most harmonizing influences I am now able to recall. There was
a balm in Gilead.
The barbed wire fence was the harmonizer; old scores
were healed by the scores; we met as neighbors, and shook hands. across
the bloody chasm.
Our son, John, was born in the
old log house, February 1st, 1861. this event had little, if anything,
to do with the rebellion, secession that soon followed, or with the crisis
at the end. Preparation for war was the order the day. House building was
retarded for want of help; all ordinary pursuits came to a stand sill;
the plow was left standing in the field.
During the progress of the war
I engaged in buying hides, wool and raw fir for a firm in Detroit, Michigan.
During these eventful days,
Mrs. Charles Peck, Jr., a sister of my wife then an invalid, came from
Ohio with her little daughter Alice to visit us. Her husband was then in
Australia. Mrs. Peck died Sept. 23, 1863. Alice, then some seven years
old, remained with us and became one of the family. No legal steps were
taken, yet she was, is, and will be, one of us. At mature age she married
Charles Jakway a son of George Jakway. he died July 7, 1881, leaving a
son, Bernard, and a daughter, Isabel. Alice with her children joined our
daughter, Jessie, then the wife of Austin Hammond of Ashland, Oregon. Alice
married John Butterworth. Jessie died June 27, 1903, at Medford, Oregon,
leaving five children, who live now with the several members of the two
families in Portland, Oregon.
On my first visit to Iowa in
June, '54, I called on Abiathar Richardson at his home, a new house in
Buffalo Grove. He was indeed a pioneer--one of the earliest settlers. He
was possessed of a long purse, and figured extensively in real estate.
We find now, if an abstract of title is written that does not contain his
name, we think it is entitled to the benefit of a reasonable doubt.
He and his wife Myra were our
nearest neighbors. When I fist called on them they had a son some eighteen
months old. A year later he had not only learned to walk but at the same
time had learned to run away. To avoid a "squitch" he sought protection
in the hazel brush by road side. His truancy caused no end of anxiety.
He also had an overweenng passion to learn the inside of everything, sometimes
to his sorrow. Two boys constituted the family, Ezra, always called "Bub,"
and Frank.
In the winter of '57, the worst
one I have ever know, neighbor Richardson was taken violently sick. We
thought he would die. late in the afternoon I started on horseback for
a doctor at Independence, eighteen miles away. The snow was deep and drifting.
Night came on and I was lost. I put in the night south of Pilot Grove,
a part of the time in Pine Creek. In the morning I heard a rooster. In
going to it I was at Bogart's on Pine Creek, got breakfast, fed the horse.,
started for the doctor, and reached his place late in the evening. I found
Dr. Wright, but he would not go that night. Next morning we went via Crab
Apple Grove near Winthrop, got to the patient about sunset the third day.
Abiathar was making the woods ring, singing Old Hundred, down, left, right,
up.
Richardson was a well-informed
man, read a great deal, was a historian. He died February 11, 1872.
There were many events and incidents
relative to persons and things of early days in Iowa that I would be pleased
to relate, but I find my eyes are failing at a rapid rate. I also find
this narrative has already exceeded any limit I could have anticipated.
With fifty years yet to retrace, a part of which embraced an active period
of my life, and all of it crowded with human events and achievements unparalleled
in any other age, or period of human attainments. It is a pleasing fact
that science will continue to demonstrate facts that have been classified
as mysterious.
The advent of the railroad gave
us a living chance. the production of wheat was the principal feature and
had a money value at the station. Expensive elevators were built at every
stopping place along the line. fierce competition was the order. you could
go to a circus any day if you had a load of wheat to sell. However, the
production of wheat was attended with it peculiar difficulties. The newly
turned prairie sod was the ideal seed bed, and we were reasonably sure
of a bountiful crop. This wheat crop was a rank ruler of the soil, and
could not be repeated indefinitely. nature called a halt. A sad contrast
to the broad native flora that yielded uniform annual growth fitted to
soil and condition by Nature's unerring laboratory.
After an almost total failure
of wheat from various causes including rust, blight, midge, chintz bug,
and a multitude of other maladies, I switched off on to the production
of corn and oats with indifferent success. The new land yielded abundantly
with little effort. These crops also have their enemies, a list of which
names is far beyond my ken. However the principal one to the corn plant
in that long list of names—as family, multitude, army, or any other word
that comprehends a host in an individual—weed—. We are told intensive culture
will bring him to bay, and we believe it, yet we see in a large percent
of the fields he is the master—has his head high above the corn tassels.
In the early ‘70's the dairy
interest in a commercial way had its inception. So far as I am informed,
John Stewart of Spring Branch, Delaware County, made the first radical
departure from the method followed by our great-great-grandmothers in the
process of better making. I don’t know what constituted his new device,
but I do know he circulated printed matter telling housewives how to wash
their fingers, how to treat their dairy utensils, and the proper method
of handling a microbe, if one chanced to stray into their pantries. From
Spring Branch, dairying spread like a prairie fire; it soon became the
dominant interest. Manchester, Iowa, became the leading market, absorbing
the butter trade for a large area of territory lying tributary. Creameries
sprang up everywhere, many of them of the mushroom order. A radical change
attended the enterprise. It wold be difficult to enumerate the names and
variety of devices resorted to in separating the cream, or butter fat,
many of them protected by letters patent. Everything of that sort gave
way in time to something better. Evolution was on the road to demonstrate
the survival of the fittest. Out of all of these schemes, not one would
effectually cover up the pitfalls that men were prone to fall into. Everything
of this class was nothing more or less than a modification of the old crock
or pan used long since by our ancestors.
The creamery system was an established
fact; scientific research evolved the centrifugal separator, relegated
everything that had preceded to the dump heap. I have a vivid recollection
of the first separator I ever saw. Whole milk was flowing into it, two
streams flowing out—one skim milk, the other cream. It recalled the marvel
of the other farmer when he saw the hippopotamus. He looked him over, saw
him move, put his hand on him, went away saying, “Tha ain’t no sich a animal.”
The separator, the revolving churn and the thermometer solved a mystery;
they, combined, eliminated the witches that had for ages infested the old
dasher churn. If you don’t believe in witches, you don’t have to.
During the ‘70's I rearranged
and extended my fences in a manner that admitted more and a greater variety
of stock, utilized al the corn the farm produced in feeding steers for
market; to this I added some thoroughbred Shorthorns. In time I also added
thoroughbred Poland China hogs, and so far as I know was first in that
enterprise in this region. I bought and replenished my stock annually from
reputable breeders in Illinois and Ohio. I endeavored to secure as good
as the market afforded, kept them registered, and sold breeding stock at
a uniform price of ten dollars each. I had a broad field and a profitable
trade. I kept one brood sow eleven years, that produced annual and semi-annual
litters.
On the approach of the year
1876 we began to formulate plans for taking a day “off,” having been constantly
in harness for the past ten years, with scarcely a day of recreation other
than going to town on Fourth of July celebrations, with a work team hitched
to a lumber wagon, with a board across the box for a seat, with a hurry-up
order to leave town before the fireworks get home, do up the chores before
it was time to commence doing the same thing over again the next morning.
My debts, that had been a constant menace, were well n hand, they gave
me little concern.
September came, and we cut loose
from all cares of home, resolved to see and be seen at the Centennial.
In making the tour we spent a part of September with my wife’s people in
Northwestern Ohio, on the so-called Western reserve. We had an enjoyable
visit. I was pleased with the country, with their system of farming; they
seemed to know the value of economy. They were a thrifty, enterprising
people.
Resuming our journey, we soon
found ourselves in New England, down among the hills. I was again with
my people, among the scenes of my childhood; a place I have always loved
to call Home. Fishing parties, picnics and excursions up and down the lake
were in order. We crossed the mountain to Lake George, wandered about old
Fort Ticonderoga, heard the story Ethan Allen’s surprise to the garrison,
also of Mt. Defiance and Mt. Independence.
About the middle of October
we take leave of the old home and home folks, go for a brief stay in the
city of New York. We felt amply paid for a day spent in Central Park. Another
day was quite too short to see what we desired to see of a great city.
We cross the ferry at jersey City. All aboard; and we are off for the City
of Brotherly Love. There were many thing of interest along the route. At
the depot in Philadelphia was, decidedly, the worst tangle I have ever
struck. The crowd was dense, and everybody, including ourselves, seemed
to be lost. We knew of our destination, but we didn’t know how to find
it. After a weary wait, I got the attention of a policeman, who put us
on the road to the cheerful and cozy apartments of Mr. George Woodruff
and Miss Homans, people wh had met before; from this time on we were at
home during our stay.
I shall make no attempt to write
the details of that great Centennial show. I looked upon it as a whole,
a worthy and commendable enterprise. No interested person could even take
a casual survey of the undertaking without personal benefit. The outside
attractions were of equal interest to myself. We visited the house in Germantown
where some of the soldiers from Valley Forge sought shelter, and were fired
on by British troops. There were marks of grape and canister visible in
the walls, which looked the most like real war of anything I had ever seen.
Girard College offered many attractions, some novelties, among which was
being challenged to know if there were any clergymen in our party. I regarded
the Zoological Garden as of the highest type; very many of the selections
were rare, and arranged in admirable order in reference to environment.
The Mint, a great blacksmith shop where they were coining money (also canceling
fractional currency by the ton, and reducing it to pulp) offered rare attractions,
This process offered no special difficulty, but must be exact.
We made two efforts to visit
Carpenter’s and Independence Hall. The first time the crowd was so dense
we were forced to beat a retreat. Another day we succeeded in making the
round, though not to our entire satisfaction. Those places were guarded
at every turn, and yet, a man, or a vandal, perhaps, who preceded us, tore
a remnant from the venerable flag that hung in the hall, a fiber of which,
a single thread three inches in length, fell on the stairs. I picked it
up and preserved it. I have passed it on to my grandson, who bears my name
in full. The desire of the writer is that this fiber may in time to come
serve to keep green the name of Betsy Ross.
While enjoying the one hundredth
anniversary of our National Independence, I also celebrated the fiftieth
anniversary of my birthday, Oct 22, 1876, having lived through one half
the years of our boasted freedom.
Washington, D.C. was our destination.
Miss Homans had written in our behalf to Stephen J. W. Tabor, who was at
the time an official in the navy department. He gave us a cordial greeting
and suggested his boarding place, “The Hollow Tree,” gave good accommodation.
We found it during our stay, all that we desired. He also found an efficient
guide, who knew all the nooks and corners. Going first to the Capitol building,
we found it and the surroundings a bigger job than we had anticipated.
I climbed to the top of the dome, looked the field over, and wondered if
our people were not squandering a great deal of labor and material. We
pass up the avenue to the White House, are admitted into several rooms,
see a score or more negroes and white people lounging about the place.
We saw the conservatory and the stables; they were in fine condition.
The Treasury Department was
of great interest. We saw a cabinet of ancient coin, spent some time in
examining their history. The treasury is what the word implies; is the
storehouse for the people’s money. Here we saw them canceling greenbacks
and fractional currency, that had been redeemed, and reducing it to pulp.
The Patent office is a huge place, filled with models galore, ad infinitum.
We visited the Smithsonian Institution, but feel that it would be idle
to attempt a description. Other places of interest must be passed over.
A trip down the Potomac River
by steamer to Mount Vernon was to be, and was, our final “round up,” and
for real enjoyment outclassed anything we had experienced. The Washington
home is a beautiful place. The climate is adapted to the growth of a variety
of vegetation not found in Iowa. My wife was delighted with things in the
mansion, with things said to have been arranged by Martha Washington. I
got leave to stroll over the farm or plantation. Vegetation was in the
pink of condition for that season of the year. The old tomb had been replaced
by a new one, near by. Violence had recently been done by vandals to the
paling that guarded the new tomb. The guest of that day were presented
with magnolia leaves from trees planted by George Washington. As wee were
about to leave, an incident occurred that, I thought, if not queer, was
a little out of the ordinary. The colonel or custodian, or whoever he may
have been, came before the guests with a fine specimen of the negro type,
and said, “This boy is a lineal descendant of the Washington servants,”
and, added with emphasis, “They were the best servants in the world.”
We had planned to visit Arlington,
but found we had already exceeded our limit; had eaten the bread of idleness
60 days, and felt that family and home had urgent claims upon our immediate
attention.
On reaching home we found everything
in good case and were fully persuaded that if we were left out of the count
the material universe would still wag on. I decided from this time onward
I would change the programme; would ease up a little, would devote more
time and attention to books and papers. I found a multitude of difficulties
in conforming to the new rule. However, I had taken up a special study;
perhaps, not the most popular one, namely, phrenology, in which I took
more than a common interest. I read Dr. Gall’s “Research,” Comb’s “Complete
System,” Fowler’s works, together with what Nelson Sizer and others had
said upon the subject, to confirm my convictions. I gathered a selection
of representative skulls amounting to about one hundred specimens, embracing
reptiles, birds, quadrupeds, and also five human skulls. In selecting this
cabinet I resorted to every known available source. I made personal selections
from New England to Oregon. This cabinet came to be known as “Uncle Charles’
Bones.” However, for reasons not necessary to state, I gave it away. Hope
I may be pardoned for saying, I believe in phrenology; I believe it is
founded upon mental philosophy; a comprehensive knowledge of the subject
not only affords an accurate delineation of character, but solves that
vital question, What can I do best?
Through the earnest solicitation
of my friend, William Toman, editor of the Independence Bulletin, I was
induced to accept an appointment as enumerator in the tenth federal census,
the work to be done in June, 1880. This was little short of an unmitigated
nuisance. It so seriously interfered with work on the farm. Many people
fail to see any necessity of that sort of meddling with their affairs.
There were some very amusing and pleasing features connected with the work,
but the experience was worth all it cost. I found if you were seeking to
get rich quick at government expense you would surely have to find a job
higher up. I was ready to quit when the work was done.
1882 was an eventful year in
the history of Iowa, in political matters. The temperance question or prohibition
was the dominant feature. The question of an amendment to the state constitution,
which had long been agitated by the people, had been submitted to and ratified
by the legislature; the state convention gave favorable expression to the
pronounced will of the people. The question to be submitted to the voters
of the State, so far as I can recall, was: No person shall manufacture
for sale or keep for sale any intoxicating liquor—as a beverage—whatever,
including ale, wine and beer. I am not sure, but I believe, “as a beverage”
did not appear in the question. At the election in November, nothing was
left undone that cold be done, to secure a full, honest expression of the
electors of Iowa upon that momentous question. The result was an overwhelming
majority on the part of the affirmative. However, by reason of some technicality,
the whole effort proved abortive; this has been true all the way along.
The rum interest, like the “ghost,” won’t down. However, reformation is
becoming obligatory. Business men will not employ drinkers, the railroads
especially. They say to those that drink; We don’t want you; the State
has a place fitted up for your kind down in Knoxville. It may be said I
am a “crank” upon the temperance question. I claim the right to be; I have
been a total abstainer all my life.
Nothing unusual has occurred
on the morning of August 18th, 1883. The usual routine of farm work was
planned for the day; but to our utter surprise, an Ethan Allen scheme had
been arranged, to invade the premises and “hold the fort.” This was on
the occasion of the 25th anniversary of our marriage, or silver wedding.
Every detail of the plan seemed to have been carefully considered. It is
with pleasure we recall the cordial greeting of a host of kind friends
on that occasion, very many of whom have passed on.
In the fall of 1888 my brother
J. W. Was taken sick and requested I should come to him. On reaching the
old home, I found his condition somewhat improved, and after a short stay
with friends, returned. In the spring of ‘89 I received a message that
he was rapidly approaching and end to which I responded in person at once.
He died April 12. 1889. Affairs at home were calling loudly for my attention.
On my return I bought two trotter bred fillies, one one-year-old and one
two-year-old. They were registered in the names of Priscilla and Minnie
Wicker. These animals and their descendants have remained on our farm ever
since. These were the days of the C. W. Williams horse excitement in Independence,
Iowa.
In the fall of ‘91 we made a
tour over the Union Pacific to Oregon, making headquarters with our daughter
at Ashland, Ore. We found everything new and many things of interest, among
which is mt. Shasta in northern California, with its snow capped head reared
14,000 feet in the air. During our stay in Portland the fog was so dense,
at times we could hardly tell whether we were in the city or in a forest.
I greatly desired to see Mount Hood, but could not because of fog. On our
return home we called at Dixon, a few miles from Sacramento; this is a
broad, beautiful farming country. We saw many wheat fields covered with
sea fowls of the duck species. Continuing our journey, we stopped over
at Fresno. I was informed that grape raising was the principal industry.
This special variety comes to us in the form of raisins. At Los Angeles
we were much disappointed; had intended to visit Ocean Beach and other
places surrounding, but were prevented by an almost incessant downpour
of rain. I have always regretted we did not prolong our stay until the
flood subsided.
Arizona did not appeal to us
as being the best place on earth for a Yankee. New Mexico, in common with
its sister territory, afforded very many marked peculiarities. Especially
was this true after we reached the mountain region at Albuquerque and northward
to the Colorado line at Trinidad. Here we were detained several hours on
account of some break down. Deep snow covered the ground; a shocking sight
along the line of road for several miles—horses, cattle and sheep were
dead and dying of starvation and want of care, by hundreds and thousands.
After spending the winter of
1891-92 seeing the sights of the West and Southwest, we were glad to reach
home, satisfied that Iowa was “good enough for me.”
On reaching home I found it
necessary to make a hasty trip to New England in settlement of the estate
of my late brother, G. A. Who had died at Strawberry Point, Clayton Co.,
Iowa, March 18, 1891.
In the fall of ‘92 I found my “pack” was too heavy,
and decided to shift some of the burdens to other shoulders. John, my only
son, then farming for himself some four miles away, rented his farm, moved
his family to the old home and assumed control of affairs. Soon after,
he exchanged his farm for the Richardson farm, joining me on the south.
The two farms, together with stock, tools, etc. were merged into one interest,
and supervised by him upon the basis of share and share alike, or loss
and gain. Since entering into the above arrangement, the farm as a whole
has been added to from time to time, until at this time, 1911, it consists
of between eleven and twelve hundred acres all in one body, and all under
good substantial fences.
August, ‘93—I spent a week at
the World’s Fair in Chicago; later on I put in another week in the fall,
and yet (I suppose because it was of such huge dimensions) I must have
failed to see it, at any rate I got less out of it than I did out of the
Centennial at Philadelphia. This was not the first time I had undertaken
to do two days work in one. Life is too short to do all things well.
On the 27th day of August, 1895,
occurred the saddest event that had occurred in our household up to that
time and I can think of nothing worse that could have occurred to blast
the hopes and future anxieties of a well regulated family. When the evening
of that day had come, and all had retired for the night, an unusually terrifying
electric storm arose; the storm center seemed to surround the place. John,
his wife Lena, and four children, Laura, Glenn, Charles H. And Della, were
occupying a large bedroom, a “lean-to” built especially for their use.
Soon after retiring, the wife in lowering the window, had evidently grasped
a metallic plug in the sash, when a flash, bolt, or current of electricity
seemed to lift the whole house from its foundation. Lena was prostrated
to the floor. A cry for Help! I was at her side in a minute, though, I
think, unconsciously. She said, “I am dying,” and she died. A burr oak
tree standing near the window apparently conducted that mysterious agency
(we call it lightning) upon its fatal message. Della, the youngest member
of the family, was at the time between three and four years old.
In the fall of 1897, I went, with a delegation
of G.A.R.’s, to Buffalo, N.Y., where, I would judge, they enjoyed to the
full a happy reunion. President McKinley, in a felicitous mood, added greatly
to their seeming comfort and enjoyment. While in Buffalo I consulted a
specialist in reference to my deafness, which had afflicted me for years.
For a liberal fee he gave me this consolation, “I believe you will be no
better, but I hope you will be no worse.” My conviction is that the remedy
for deafness is yet undiscovered.
From Buffalo I continued the
journey to New England. I found but comparatively few people that I had
ever known. The lake, the surrounding hills and mountains were still in
place, but the people had found new homes, or had shared the fate that
awaits us all. This was the last time I have visited the scenes of youth
and childhood, and with the infirmities incident to age, have at this time
no expectation of again returning.
In August 1905, our farm barn,
together with a granary built in ‘56,—this was a venerable structure,—was
burned from the effect of lightning, with their contents. We proceeded
at once to replace the barn, on the same ground, with one better adapted
to the needs of the farm. This structure is 86 x 50 ft. Upon a concrete
base, answers well the purpose for which it was designed.
The building of this barn marked
the end of my activity as a farmer or laborer; since which I have waged
a relentless war on noxious weeds. I have been admonished that there will
be weeds when I am gone—I still hope to be able to do something toward
cultivating a kitchen garden.
From the completion of the farm
barn in 1905, which in a measure ended my active life. Yet I found many
things to do during a period of three years—at which time my wife, Eunice
L., at the end of a busy life, died, after a voyage of matrimonial life
together for 50 years, less 30 days.
During the past 3 years, I have
at times felt that I was alone in the world, and yet I have struggled as
best I could to keep in touch with passing events. With continued fairly
good health, I am unable to recall any period when I had a keener relish
for the welfare of family and friends. Although at a great disadvantage
from defective hearing and vision, together with other infirmities, I am
trying to make the best of it, and not murmur at my lot and calamities
when there seems something better to take their place.
A retrospect of 57 years on
the farm that I have fondly cherished as a home. I am admonished the implements
of husbandry should pass to other hands,—with meekness and fortitude I
desire to yield to the inevitable.
Awaiting events,—— C. H. Jakway,
I