History of Kossuth County, Iowa, Part 18

Author: Reed, Benjamin F
Publication date: 1913
Publisher: Chicago : S. J. Clarke Pub. Co.
Number of Pages: 879

USA > Iowa > Kossuth County > History of Kossuth County, Iowa > Part 18

Note: The text from this book was generated using artificial intelligence so there may be some errors. The full pages can be found on Archive.org (link on the Part 1 page).

"Our little cabin was built on what is now the Chubb farm. It was made of poles, a stick chimney, and a little clapboard door about four feet high. When we first came it had no windows nor doors, but we soon fixed it comfortable. I often think of that little cabin with its great fireplace, and if I should travel the world over I could find no place where I could enjoy myself better than I

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did there. The room was so small that when strangers came into the county and stopped with us, as they usually did, we were obliged to set our table and chairs outside and make beds on the floor. Our bags of flour, coffee, beans, etc., were pitched under the beds, and our meat, which was mostly elk and venison, lay on the roof of the house, well frozen."

Numerous other brides besides Mrs. Call received their first experience in housekeeping in little cabins in the groves. Both Mrs. W. H. Ingham and Mrs. D. W. King had that experience and each in her little cabin found "home, sweet home" and a haven of rest. But as the log cabin period ceased with the ad- vent of sawmills in the year 1856, the number of brides who began housekeeping in primitive, claim shanties was much larger than those who came as brides to the cabins. The latter had by far the warmer homes and were the more com- fortable.

Frontier brides and other pioneer women were not the only persons who enjoyed cabin life, or who remember with pleasure their experiences and take delight in recounting them. There are men still living who were occupants of little cabins in the early settlement of the county, and who have a fondness for recalling the events which they witnessed during those formative years. As they recall the experiences they had while making their homes in those primitive huts, they gladly affirm that those were the happiest days of their lives. The statements of Charles E. Putnam of Cedar Rapids, one of the official bank examiners, are a good illustration of the point under consideration. For about three years he was one of the companions who occupied both of the Ingham cabins-the one on the Black Cat and the one on Plum creek. Here is what he gave to the press many years after he had left the county upon complying with Harvey Ingham's request for an article concerning his experiences while a cabin resident in 1855, and a few years later :

"It will be forty-two years on May 8, since I landed at the little old cabin, built by your father and A. L. Seeley on the Black Cat. And while my life has seen many varied years since, I think those three on the frontier were the hap- piest, because of youth, and the absence of all care and responsibility. When I recall the years so long ago, the memory of the incidents of that life so fills my mind that it would, with elaboration, fill a book. But it is the memory of the home-life in that little cabin which remains most distinctly in my mind. And while, of course, I remember in general the movements of the Indians and the events which transpired, I was too young to appreciate the fact that we were making history.

"The winter of 1855, Covel came to Cedar Rapids for provisions, and when he returned with the supply of winter stores there was a banquet at the Ingham cabin. Covers were laid for four-Ingham, Seeley, Covel and myself. Delmonico never spread such a feast-oysters and crackers, sardines and cheese, corn- bread with butter, and after all, cigars. Could mortal man want more, espe- cially after having tasted nothing for three weeks but parched corn, ground in a coffee mill, and made into something we called bread? About midnight, while the meal was in progress, being the kid, I was requested to go for a pail of water. As I approached the well-a hole in the ground a few rods from the cabin-my hair bristled at the sounds of distress which came from the well. I rushed back to the cabin with the news that somebody was drowning. An ad-

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journment was declared, four would-be heroes going forth to the rescue. After an hour of very damp and slippery labor, strong arms had raised Nellie, the pet elk and the baby of our household, from what might have been a watery grave. She was then taken to the cabin fire, and by vigorous rubbing, her life was saved, only to end in a violent death the next fall. Although Seeley was the acknowl- edged chef of the Ingham hostelry, by a flash of culinary inspiration I made a gooseberry pie that spring which was the beginning of Seeley's downfall. After that triumph my wits turned kitchenward and I was forever seeking new dishes in that land of wild meat and cornbread. One day I went down to the settle- ment and discovered Lewis H. Smith making doughnuts. Could it be another Richard had come onto the field! I saw my new laurels tremble-I must make doughnuts. I started home formulating a recipe in my mind; it was certain that flour was the basis; then the fat in which they were fried would make them short ; then something to make them light; molasses would furnish the sweet- ning ; and a little cream of tartar coming in contact with the molasses would create 'an effervescence, and surely the deed was done. Luckily, no one was in the cabin when I got home, and I set at once to work on my doughy problem. It was the work of a few minutes to have the twisted beauties in the skillet of hot lard, but they never grew light or brown. They were still pure, and white and tough when in despair I buried them in a ravine behind the hill. I found out the next day that saleratus or yeast was the missing quantity that would have made them light, and all that could be desired. The remains of the first batch, I have no doubt may still be found in the deep ravine back of the old cabin. And when the future scientist explores the hills and valleys of old Black Cat he will undoubtedly discover fragmentary ore that will trouble him to classify, or to tell whether it belongs to the Paleozoic or to the Tertiary period."

Near the cabins or claim shanties were the wells which in those days were shallow and contained surface water only. In some the water was quite pure and wholesome, but in others it was unhealthy to use and bad tasting to drink. At first they were four, six, eight or ten feet deep. There were several modes practiced in bringing the water up, a rope fastened to the bucket bail being one of them. Many who tried to get water in this way could never learn the trick of giving the rope the proper jerk to make the bucket dip when in the well. As a result a pound weight had to be fastened on one side of it to make it sink, and of course had to be lifted up with the water by hand. Others would let the bucket down by the rope and then with a pole push it into the water. In shallow wells the easiest way, and the usual way, of getting water was by the use of the "hook." This was a long pole with a hook on the larger end. The hook had to be long enough so that the bail would not come out when the end was in the pail. Where wells were about eighteen feet deep no way was devised by which so much water could be taken out with so little exertion as by the old fashioned well sweep. Occasionally one would see a sweep standing near a preemption claim shanty. This contrivance was a tall pole, with a fork on the upper end, set firmly in the ground about eight feet from the well. Through the fork ran a long pole, fifteen or twenty feet long, and so placed that it would balance when the weight of a pail of water was attached to the end which was directly over the well. To the upper end was fastened a pole, on the bottom of which was the customary hook to receive the bail. One could pull the pole down, sink the pail

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and bring it up very rapidly. The windlass, now occasionally seen, was used only for the deeper wells.

In later years nearly every farm had two or three wells, and none of them twenty feet deep. They began to go dry when ditching began to be done. There were several such wells on Samuel Reed's ridge farm, near Irvington. when he commenced letting off the surface water by ditching with ox-teams, but when he was through all the wells went dry. For doing that little improvement it cost him nearly $1,000 to have a deep well made with the poor drills that were being used at that time. It was expensive but no more frogs, snakes and lizards were seen in the water pail after that well was finished.

While it is true the numerous settlers, who located during the latter 50's, had ponies to ride, and some of them horse teams for service, the customary team for locomotion was the ox-team. Two pairs hitched to an old wagon were frequently seen, even though they were drawing no load. No matter how poor a settler was there was always a way provided for him to own one of these teams if he so desired. As this was a period before spring seats put in an ap- pearance in the county, a slab or a board across the box was all that was desired for comfort while riding. If any animal is deserving of credit for helping to make the county fit for habitation, that animal is the faithful ox that was pounded through the sloughs while attached to the emigrant wagon or to the breaking plow, doing the hardest kind of service without being allowed to taste a mouthful of grain, or to have a decent shelter over him in time of storms.

There was one condition of pioneer days-even days that extended up to and during the war-for the return of which many since then have sighed in vain. It was a condition then regarded as being simply incidental to frontier life, with- out any thought of its being a blessing to the settlers. But now that this condi- tion has became abruptly changed, through the lapse of years since that period, the comfort the settlers derived as the result in those early days is being more and more realized as the years roll by. That condition was the absence of all grades in society. Even society. as the term is understood today, was then un- known. All were on a common level and pursuing lines of activity common to all of them. High and low, rich and poor, cultured and unrefined, and upper and lower class were terms never applied to any groups of the early settlers. They attended any church services convenient regardless of the particular denomination to which the minister belonged. They were there taking no thought of their raiment or how their neighbors were attired. They were there with their flannel shirts, their home-made moccasins and their patched overalls. The laborer was worthy of his hire, but then he got about as much as others did for the work in which they were engaged. Settlers attended the services, coming with ox-teams, which were turned out to graze in the meantime. When Fiddler Bullis, Fiddler Hinkle, Fiddler Bell or Fiddler Jones succeeded in getting pos- session of the halls before the preachers could come in and announce their texts the dance went on with its merry-making but not after the fashion of today. In those days there were no hobble skirts doing barn dances and turkey trots on the floor, nor any fashionable dudes waltzing with partners that gasped for breath. No, they belonged to the old order of things before the new was devised. They came not in top carriages, drawn by thorough-bred horses that were equipped with silver-mounted harness, nor in costly automobiles, representing the earnings

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of a lifetime, but they came many and many a time with their ox-teams at- tached to an old wagon or a logging sled. School girls of today enjoy the novelty of being taken to some party in a hayrack partly filled with hay. There was a time when that method of taking a load of people to some gathering was no novelty, but a necessity. The writer distinctly remembers of going with a load of young people to Irvington to church on a sled in the fall, as the only wagon had a load of hay on it that day. The sled was drawn by the breaking team of two or three pairs of oxen. Such were some of the customs of the early days.

The arrival of a youngster at a settler's home, was an event that was soon known from one end of the settlement to the other. It seemed to bring happiness to every family circle. This was particularly the case while there were not many settlers in the county, and such events were of rare occurrence. The home of the new arrival was visited by even those who lived miles away, in their eagerness to get a glimpse of the little curiosity. The good old fashioned "Granny," who was always on hand in those days at the time of the event, seems to have disap- peared along with the customs of that period. The country was full of "Docs," but as most of them paid more attention to buying and selling claims than they did to the medical practice, their services at such times were less desired than those of some neighboring "Granny."

After the two sawmills started-one at Algona and the other at Irvington- and began turning out lumber many of the owners of claims on the prairie built temporary shanties. Once in a while one would see a claim house that was fairly good and looked home-like. But generally they were cheap concerns. After the claimants proved up and received the title, or after they had abandoned their claims these shanties were either sold or stolen. Many of these temporary houses were moved to other locations, and some of them to a distance of seven or eight miles. It used to be a familiar sight to see one of these moving across the prairie, drawn by two strings of oxen, each composed of several pairs. In nearly every instance a crowd gathered for a holiday. The woman to whose home the shanty was being taken always prepared a good dinner for all the visitors as well as for the workmen. A few well known men never missed being present on such occasions, whether they were sick or well. It appeared to be a part of the unwritten law of the county that if a settler owned a yoke or more of oxen, he was obliged to let them go to help form the cattle "strings" when ever a house was to be moved. More than one owner of cattle has been heard to express a wish that every claim shanty would burn to the ground or be blown to pieces by the wind. Frequently, however, those endeavoring to break steers to the yoke, would put them in one of the "strings" where they could do no damage, and where they could learn to pull for the first time. Two houses that stood south of Perry Burlingame's, in Irvington township, were moved to Algona. One just before the war was bought of Riley Mason by Lewis H. Smith and moved on the Frank Rist place. It is still standing just east of the fair grounds, on the east and west road. The other was the old Barber house and was hauled to the spot now occupied by Webster's cement block residence on McGregor street. It served as the home of Father Taylor for many years, but when it was sold to George Simpkins he moved it across the river into Cresco, where it now stands on the northeast quarter of section 21, belonging to Hutchison & Gilmore and being used as a granary. Like all the other old landmarks the frame is made

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of native oak and is as hard as bone. Black walnut siding is also a feature of most of these buildings, a fact that is surprising to most of the people when they discover that such is the case. Many of the buildings used for the first school houses were these same claim shanties, and many more were consumed by the prairie fires.

The farm settlers began early to raise sugar cane and make their own sorghum, for molasses was too high for most of them to purchase. Then again the homemade product was made to answer the purpose of sugar which was even more difficult to obtain with an empty pocketbook. Stripping off the leaves with one's hands until they bled, was a duty that had to be performed, though not an enviable service. Cutting the cane and drawing it to the mill was a labo- rious job which no one did after he was able to purchase syrup, and sugar- cane growing was abandoned as the settlers became better fixed and could earn money more easily in some other way. Boiling the juice and skimming off the green scum until the product was pronounced good sorghum continued day and night for weeks during the fall. Around these fires in the evening there were the neighbors and their friends, cracking jokes, telling stories and having a good time. Sometimes there would be an incident that would make some laugh while others would be much provoked. One evening they were boiling cane sap at Deacon Rist's, a short distance southeast of Algona. The pet cat presently came along and climbed up on a post near the boiling pan. Some one hit the tabby a slap on the wrong side and it jumped right into the half-finished sorghum. Some laughed at the incident, but as may be supposed others saw nothing that was funny about it. It was fully demonstrated by Jacob C. Wright of Irvington that the cane juice could be made into a pleasant beverage. He left a barrel nearly full of the juice for a couple of days unboiled. He tasted it and said it was the best drink he ever swallowed. Others did the same thing and were of the same opinion. When it became known that he had made such a valuable discovery there was a rush of the neighbors to get a sample of the drink. The beverage was going so rapidly that Mr. Wright poured in two pails of water to increase the supply, but he spoiled the whole contents of the barrel. Although he and others tried time and again to reproduce that quality, no one ever suc- ceeded, and the mystery was never solved.

The earliest settlers captured claims having fine groves on them, but the farm- ing land they secured was in many instances of an inferior quality, not so much from being rough and of irregular shape, as from having a sour, sticky soil that for years refused to yield crops like the farms preempted out on the prairie at a much later date. In plowing the ox-teams moved so slowly that no plow could be found that would scour. The soil being of a gumbo nature, stuck like putty to the moldboards, and this made the furrow appear as though it had been made by dragging a log through the field. Every plowman carried a long paddle with which he pried off the dirt every few minutes, and with which he pounded the oxen on to a higher rate of speed. In fact it was not expected that plows would ever scour, and it was a surprise when one was found, some time later, that shed the dirt and made a clean, satisfactory furrow. Some of these farms by the groves had soil that was much more sticky than the others. The two worst farms in the county in that respect, in the early days, were in the vicinity of Irvington,

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one being now the home premises of John Gaffney and the other owned by Hutchison & Gilmore and known as the old Chapman farm.

These farms, close to the timber, had another disadvantage that was serious until even after the close of the war-the blackbirds in countless numbers flocked in the fields, pulling up the corn when it was young and nearly destroy- ing all that was left after it was ready to be harvested. No one, not acquainted with the trouble these myriads of birds made the farmers, can realize what an expensive nuisance they were. While they did the greatest damage to the crops along the groves, the farms out on the prairie were by no means free from their presence. Boys with shotguns had their regular beats over the fields where they tramped and fired to drive the pests away. Some rode horseback and discharged their guns several times each hour during the day. Kinsey Carlon adopted this method as the only means of saving his crops.

The contrast, between the quality of the stock seen today in the county, and that seen on the premises of the early settlers or roving over the prairies in those days, is very striking and shows the wonderful advancement that has been made along all lines of animal husbandry. Indian ponies, Oregon ponies and light horses of the range variety were the kinds the early settlers mostly used. Occasionally a large horse would be seen, but he was generally pointed out as being a "corn crib" and not desired. Matched teams were never thought of and seldom seen. Badly matched teams were familiar scenes, but no one thought of criticising the owners for their lack of taste in this regard. Many still remember how Addison Fisher used to drive about the country with a pony hitched beside a tall horse of the "corn crib" order, causing the neckyoke to slant at an angle of nearly forty-five degrees. He was just as happy in the old wagon drawn by that team as are those who go "scorching" through the streets in these days in their $2,500 automobile. There was one man, however, who came to the county at an early day that brought with him horses so fine that they attracted much atten- tion wherever they went. That man was Michael Reibhoff. He came to Algona during the latter days of June, 1856, in company with William and Joseph Moore, looking for a good location on which to settle. Their families they had left down at Fort Dodge while they came up on their prospecting tour. Mr. Reibhoff's horses were a wonder to all who saw them, for they were solid, blocky, heavy and sleek. He settled on his Black Cat claim and as long as he lived always took pride in having round him a good breed of horses.

So far as cows were concerned there were some good ones in those early days, but they were not of any special breed. There were many more of the scrubby order that were neither good for giving milk nor desirable for beef. It is well remembered that thoroughbreds and grades were names not familiar to the most of the owners. Brindle cows with a white stripe along their backs, and with moderately long-pointed horns were the kind most often seen. They were generally milked in a tin cup, while the milker stood pressing his head against the hips of the kickers. Even then that method did not insure the milker from having the cup kicked out of his hand and across the yard. The writer's father took about twenty cows on thresh-bill accounts, and as might be supposed did not get the choice of the herds. Not one of them could be milked in a pail while the milker was sitting on a stool. Those who tried it had good reasons for not desiring to repeat the operation.

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The typical pioneer hog was rather of the prairie rooter variety, having a little resemblance to the Arkansas "razor backs" and the Missouri "souse flap- pers." Realizing the benefits to be derived from a better type of swine, the set- tlers soon had pens well filled with "chubbies" and Berkshires, and had meat enough for their families and some to sell to help defray the living expenses. An effort to improve the breed of swine was manifested long before it was for horses and cattle.

The early settlers did not have the pleasure of seeing their small grain cut, bound and then deposited by the harvester in bunches ready to be shocked. Most of them had to use the old fashioned cradle which, while exceedingly tire- some to swing in heavy grain, was a good muscle developer. To rake and bind by hand was the task of those who followed close behind the cradlers. Harvesters soon appeared, the raking of bundles from the machine being done by hand. Then came a variety of harvester having self-raker. Following these came the ma- chine on which the two binders rode, and finally the present day self-binders. The first machines in the county were brought here in 1859. One, a McCormick, was owned by Michael Reibhoff and the other, a John H. Manny, by Thomas Robison. The first wheat and oats raised were threshed by leading the horses and cattle over the grain, and then letting the wind blow the chaff away. Machine thresh- ing was done first in the fall of 1859, by Boone river parties. It was two years later before Reed & Henderson brought the first new thresher to the county. With the straw filled with iron weeds and other foreign substance, and with only eight horses encircling the down-power, the threshing of 700 bushels of oats per day was considered very rapid work. The prices were 4 cents for threshing a bushel of oats and 6 for wheat, and it was a losing game for the machine owners even at that price, since kicking cows had to be received in lieu of money. The threshing crew had all the fun they wanted by sleeping in the straw stacks and having the chaff rattle down their necks all night. That was not because the lady of the shanty was afraid their boots would mar the polish on the hardwood floor, but because half the time there were not beds enough for the members of the family, to say nothing about giving the threshers a chance to wedge into the already over-crowded attic. When a storm came sud- denly and compelled threshers and all hands to remain all night in one of these primitive homes, there was something doing for amusement. One afternoon in the winter, during the war period, a raging blizzard drove everyone into the Young cabin, in Plum Creek, where the threshing was being done. Pete Young and his father were baching there at the time and were very much unprepared to lodge such a crowd. A few managed to get home but the rest stayed all night. When the father attempted to get supper, the jokers interfered so much with the food that by the time it reached the table no one hardly dared to taste it. They were here for some fun and had it in large doses. Straw was carried in from the stack and piled a foot deep over the floor, and on it the company set- tled down for the night. It was bitter cold and those on the floor nearly froze. Some one got up and began feeding the stove straw. In a short time the stove was so hot that the cabin nearly took fire. One of the boys who was tucked away in the attic got so cold towards morning that he began kicking at the shakes above him. He didn't let up until he had kicked a big hole through the roof, then he came down to warm by the big straw fire. The morning was intensely

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History of Kossuth County, Iowa, Part 18

Author: Reed, Benjamin F Publication date: 1913 Publisher: Chicago : S. J. Clarke Pub. Co. Number of Pages: 879

Author: Reed, Benjamin F
Publication date: 1913
Publisher: Chicago : S. J. Clarke Pub. Co.
Number of Pages: 879