USA > Iowa > O'Brien County > Past and present of O'Brien and Osceola counties, Iowa, Vol. I > Part 51
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
I know you came to Sanborn, Brave men without once fagging, You get the praise, but never speak, Of that poor martyred wagon.
That wagon, as you no doubt know, No work had ever done, Till on its wheels was put a safe That weighed a round two ton.
But those hurried men who put it there Were sure it safely there would ride, If ax and hatchet had not been So womanly applied.
But ax and hatchet were applied. The game they were for winning. Until that wagon did give way For lack of underpinning.
If those Primgareans had done naught else But stamp, and swore and raved, The spokes of that poor wagon would Undoubtedly have been saved.
But that wagon new was soon hewn down, In the city's broadest way, The Sanborn men-what else to do- Went off and let it lay.
There stood that martyred wagon, Till the birds their songs had sung Then came the folks from far and near, And took that wagon tongue.
They put that wagon tongue on high, Right near that wagon's grave, It was soon afloat on the morning breeze, The Stars and Stripes to wave.
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
Give three long cheers for the wagon, As loud as you are able,
It has a glorious resting place Upon the center table.
That wagon, friends, was all chopped up, And scattered far and wide, Its parts adorn those center tables, E'en to the ocean's tide.
There may it rest in peace for aye, Its fellies, hubs and spokes, And may he get his pay for it. Its owner, Mr. Stokes.
This is the wagon on which the county treasurer's safe was loaded, in the public square, during the raid. The Primghar people had pulled the nuts off the wagon during the melee and disabled it and it never got to Sanborn.
THE COUNTY SEAT.
What is it that hustled the Primghar lads And stood nearly all of them onto their heads
And made Colonel Pumphrey come down with the scads? The County Seat.
What made them gather around in a bunch At Tifft's saloon for his free lunch And close it up with a bowl of punch ? The County Seat. What made old "Samul" so short and sharp And on his land and his taxes harp And cause him so much to fret and carp? The County Seat.
What made the county dads so long In session, when they to their farms belong And to swallow such camphor to make them strong? The County Seat. What made Clark Green get up on his ear And swear about Sheldon far and near, With a string of adjectives swift and clear ? The County Seat.
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
What was it made such a busy sight And hustled all Primghar around in the night, Working for life with main and might ?
The County Seat.
What was it sent Sanborn boys away
To Primghar, and be there day after day,
And made things lively during their stay ? The County Seat.
What is it that won't let Primghar sleep,
But will keep her uneasy and make her weep?
Something she's got, but never can keep- The County Seat.
What was it made Barrett so slow to tell
That he worked so hard and worked so well? But passed in our checks and gone to h-11.
The writer of this history never ascertained the author of the above. The "Samul," named in the poen, however, referred to "Old Uncle Samuel Hibbs," who lived to be one hundred and one years of age. He first home- steaded the southwest quarter of section 8, in Highland, in 1870. Later, for many years, he was an enthusiastic squatter, but failed out, in that he got onto the Milwaukee land. He was a typical scrapper and pioneer, honest in every detail, and had much to say about the Sanborn raid. A rough and tumble for possession, physically if necessary, was his forte. Everybody knew he existed and was on earth. His last fifteen years in life's close were spent in total blindness, he having lines or rope cords stretched around his residence yards to guide his footsteps. The above poem referred to that raid in 1882. He lived many years in Sanborn, where he died in 1910.
COULDN'T FIND THE ANGLING ROAD.
One little incident occurred just now as I write, which brings out ser- iously to the editor of this book the prominent fact that so much of the past of O'Brien county is passed forever. While in the very act of gathering items at my desk one day, E. C. Brooks, an old homesteader on the southwest quarter of section 24, in Floyd, stuck his head in the door and commenced to talk abruptly. He had been away from O'Brien county thirty years. Like Rip Van Winkle, he had been in Oklahoma and asleep to O'Brien county. He broke out: "Say, Peck, where is that mule you rode in the Sanborn raid ?
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()'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
Where is that black beard you used to wear? I can't find any of the old doings. I just came down from Sheldon. I tried to look up that old angling road down at Primghar. It was all gone : no prairie, no prairie grass ; can't take a big look across the prairie like I used to; there is no prairie. The big groves, and fences, and fields and barns, and squared roads and houses and crops blot it all out. I did find my old homestead shack in the back yard."
"Where is my Poor Dog Schneider ?"
Woodman, spare that prairie Plant not so many trees, They blot out all the old scenes, Prairie grass, like billowy seas.
O'BRIEN, THE GEM OF THE PRAIRIE.
Oh, O'Brien, the Gem of the Prairie, When proud Iowa's form stands in view. The old soldier on taps on his homestead, Once more fighting his battles anew. Life's mandates make heroes assemble, On those broad plains of heaven's review. Homesteader, old soldier, together, forever. Borne out o'er that heavenly blue.
Chorus :
Three cheers for the wild red sweet william,
Three cheers for the white prairie flower. Waiving grass for this blue prairie union, Three cheers for the Red, White and Blue. *
NINE POINTS IN LAW POSSESSION.
Nine sprigs of hair, Leaves an old bald headed squatter, Away up in the air.
There was on old squatter and his name was Uncle Ned. He lived long, long, long ago, His hair had no "possession" on the top of his head, The place where the wool ought to grow.
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() BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
An Old Haytwister lived so very, very old, Doctor Longshore pulled his teeth out free. He had no teeth for to eat the corn cake,
So he had to let the corn cake be.
Chorus :
Then lay down the shubbel and the hoe, Hang up the twister and your dough,
There's no more hard work for poor Uncle Ned. He's gone where the good squatters go.
JOHN KER, SQUATTER.
John Ker was an active squatter in Baker township, on the southeast quarter of section 15. He was incessantly in the fight. He was a wit. He made at least a score of trips to the land office at Des Moines in 1896-97 on his own and others' fights. Often more than thirty homesteaders and wit- nesses would go down on one train to the hearings. His witty get-offs and hits on the old settler and squatter would keep the whole car roaring with laughter. He got off the above "Nine Points of Possession" squib. That phrase "away up in the air" had a very serious meaning to those people who were in the courts for then twenty years. He often expressed it. "Boys, we're still away up in the air."
It seemed all but pitiful that he should have fought out with the rest his twenty-year fight and won out with the rest, but so persistently did the rail- road contract man pursue the settler through all the courts, state and federal, that even as late as about 1904 this contract man got after him unawares, then an old man well in his dotage, when he actually signed up a contract on his claim for two thousand dollars and paid it off. As one can see, that was more than the whole land was worth when he commenced the long fight in 1884. But the old man was gritty. The homesteaders had no money. As the old man also got it off, that all he could do was to
Squat. Light. Take possession And fight.
The squatters and old homesteaders of 1870 were very much inter- mingled in these various fights. In fact, the pioneer, the homesteader, the
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
squatter and old soldier, it will be noticed, are at times used promiscuously. They were all fighting for free lands in this new country. It may seem at times that too much space is spent thus, but early times and these four indi- viduals are somewhat synonymous.
When I can read my title clear, Way down in Washington, I'll hold down tight this homestead dear, The best is just begun. Lift up your heads, O Israel, Land agents tell no lies, It's all so good, the truth speaks out, So wipe your weeping eyes.
THE PIONEER IS GOING GONE.
The pioneer is going gone, By auction, what's your bid ? The old machine has had its day, Old iron must be rid.
The homestead shack held down the claim, Now stands in the back yard, We let it stand just over where They tried out fat and lard.
Wild zigzag prairie fires roared, Like lightning streaks on land, Bolting up to heaven soared, Gone! Stamped on heaven's strand.
Angling roads on prairies vast, Running everywhere, Squared up farms their ruin worked, They've done gone round the square.
Breaking plow long since gave way To gang plow on the farm, Prairie sod to mellow soil, By farmer's strong right arm.
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
"Poor Injun," like the prairie sod, Could stand no pale face plow, His range broke up, the deer shot down, That deer gave place to cow.
The wild prairie chicken soared, With yellow throat did "Oo," Upward, skyward on he went, And bade his last adieu.
The pioneer is going gone, Some with their debts and all. 'Twas but a part of "bitter sweet," The bitter sweet with gall.
Old double shovel plows gave way, Hand planters stood on end. The wire stretcher lands the drop, The corn in rows extend.
But e'en the debts are gone for aye, Public and private all, Lift up your heads, ye sons of guns, And make a show. "play ball."
All plenty prairie pasture then, All plenty prairie hay, But autos roam and horses lounge In clover all the day.
The rosin weed grew stout and tall, The child chewed rosin gun, But now the penny slot machine Makes that boy a chewing bum.
The squatter, too, is growing old, He laughs his railroad joke, He takes "possession" on the cars, And sues if neck is broke.
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
The price of land was then a joke, Two dollars fifty then, But now the joke, it will be soon, Two hundred fifty, "Ben."
Ye newer settlers give three cheers, Sound out your sixteen guns, Each township grand throughout the years, Your son's and grandson's sons.
My county 'tis of thee, Sweet land of homesteads free, It brings good cheer. I love its level land. Its prairie fires grand, My heart, it doth expand, A prairie king. AN AGRICULTURAL COUNTY.
Mine eyes have seen the glories of O'Brien county soil,
With its crops of corn and wheat and oats, result of patient toil,
We have loosed the fateful corn plow, 'cross the field of growing corn, While the corn rows are growing tall. Chorus : Glory! Glory ! Hatchin' chickens, Glory! Glory ! Raisin' mules, Glory ! Glory ! Feedin' cattle, While the horse stands sleek in the stall.
Tis an agricultural county. in an agricultural state, Where the people ne'er go hungry, but work early, long and late, Where at the chores they hustle. Oh, be jubilant their feet, While the scales weigh the butter 'neath the beam Chorus : Glory! Glory! Crows the rooster, Glory ! Glory! Cackling hen, Glory! Glory! Supper's ready While the separator separates the cream.
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
The boys and girls are happy on O'Brien county farms,
The whole family in chorus, mother's baby in her arms,
The sons and daughters growing up at school throughout the day, While the housework is moving all day long. Chorus : Glory! Glory! In the garden, Glory ! Glory! In the home, Glory! Glory! Washing dishes, Happy people with a happy, happy song. *
This parody on "Marching Through Georgia," written by R. P. Jones, president of the Squatters' Union for all the years of that contest, was sung at the squatter sociables and gatherings. Every word in it could then be ap- preciated by them. On reading the Squatter chapter the reader, even if not conversant with the county, can likewise appreciate same.
MARCHING TO VICTORY. (Air, "Marching Through Georgia.")
Come all ye merry squatters, we'll sing a glad, new song ; 'Tis the glorious jubilee, sing it as 'twas never sung, Sing it as if you meant it and sing it loud and strong, While we go marching to victory.
Chorus :
Hurrah! hurrah! another jubilee ! Hurrah! hurrah ! victory we see ! Baker. Carroll, Floyd and Dale, Together sing with glee, While we go marching to victory.
O, how the squatters shouted when the news was spread around ; And how contractors spouted when they found themselves aground ; And how our wives and daughters send the chorus through the town, While we go marching to victory.
"The darn fool squatters will never win the fight." Said the contract bosses, and in this they took delight ; They will be somewhat wiser, when they see the squatter's in the right. While we go marching to victory.
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
Harken to the shouting o' the joyful sound ;
How the children prattle as they hop and skip around :
See their beaming faces as their parents they surround. While we go marching to victory.
Yes, I see old men and women shedding joyful tears, When they hear the glorious news they have waited for. for years : Now we hear the joyous greeting, ring out the glad cheers, While we go marching to victory.
The lords of contracts tremble when they hear our joyous shout, As we press on to victory and put them all to rout,
The trusts and pools and money kings, we'll whip the rascals out, While we go marching to victory.
Now contractors don't turn pale, you needn't tremble so : But then there is a thing or two which you will have to know; Those who work against the right, will surely have to go, While we go marching to victory.
We'll raise our fathers' banner, boys, and spread it out on high ; Beneath the sacred stars and stripes, all hail the power of right ; The hand is writing on the wall, "Go, cast the devils out!"
While we go marching to victory.
MY OLD O'BRIEN HOME.
Let us all hark back to the old prairie days,
To the days of that old sod shanty home, We will sing one song of the homestead days now past, When we chewed the rosin gum, boy and chile'.
Let us sound one note to the prairie chicken wild, As the prairie fire burned his nest away, Let the haytwister turn the spindle shank around,
While we fill once more the stove with sticks of hay. Chorus : Weep no more, old soldier, Old settler on the claim. We will sing one song of that old O'Brien home, While the better days have come to stay the while.
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
In the county-seat contest of 1911, C. A. Babcock, then of Sanborn, now of Sheldon, espoused the side of the latter town energetically in some twelve successive letters in the papers from week to week during the ninety days contest. He was cartooned as dreaming in his bed under a patent quilt made from his letters and speeches on the county-seat question as "A Dreamer." in the following parody :
Last night as I lay sleeping,
There came a dream so fair (to me). I stood in grand old Sheldon, Beside the court house there. I heard the children singing. And even as they sang
Me-thought the voice of angels From heaven in answer rang.
Sheldon. Sheldon, Hamilton in the highest. Sheldon will be your king.
And then me-thought my dream was changed. The streets no longer rang ;
Hush'd were the loud hosannas The little children sang ;
The Sun ( Sheldon Sun) grew dark with envy, The morn was cold and drear,
As the shadow of Primghar arose,
For lo. the court house was still there ;
Primghar, Primghar, how the bell does ring, Primghar is your king.
MORE TALK THAN ACTION.
County seat talk is in the air, Primghar's stirring in its lair. Not a gun has yet been fired, Not a man has yet expired. All quiet down the line. Old Prim's going it pell mell. Says she'll build a new hotel ; Sheldon people do not groan, Sheldon's waiting to be shown; Only talking down the line.
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
In her sad and dismal plight, Primghar talks electric light. That town's cutting quite a caper, Building lots of things on paper. More talking down the line.
Primghar people can't refrain, Talking of an extra train.
Talk is cheap and mighty thin, Makes I. C. officials grin. Chin music down the line.
When it comes election day, When the people have their say, Primghar's bubbles will be busted, Cause the voters can be trusted. Dense stillness down the line.
LET THE PEOPLE VOTE.
If the Schee substitute had been complete,
Primghar would keep the county seat.
Butt before the Senate got ready to go, She killed it dead, and gave Sheldon a show.
Primghar is all right for the kind she has been. But she had no hotels to shelter us in.
While Sheldon has four -- with a mortgage on some, And plenty of room for all who may come.
When we think of the time that Prim's been the hub, For forty years the dear people have stood the grand rub. Now why shouldn't they vote to move it some day, And place it where you can get there and away.
While Prim had her friends in the halls of our state, To see that they didn't make any mistake, They tackled amendments to the bills all in line, And made it a special to apply only to O'Brien.
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
The House passed it through with amendments all straight, But the Senate said "No, you're a little too late ;
The petition is signed and filed by the clerk, While Prim with remonstrance is still at her work."
The people have said with pen and with ink,
That they sure want to vote on their own county seat ; If Prim with remonstrance should then fail to delve, We will move her to Sheldon in year nineteen twelve.
And when we get there with court house complete, We won't go to bed any more with cold feet; We will not go hungry, 'cause we at tables can line, At places where dinner is always on time.
Now, Prim will not blame me I know the least bit, For what I have written I've seen it in print, But when later you come to our county seat fair, We'll make you so glad, you'll be glad you've been there.
PRIMGHAR WINDS UP THE MUSIC BOX.
Next to the boys in the gray and the blue, We cherish our works that no one shall outdo; Among these tall trees forty years we have stood,
We have weather'd the blast 'mong the bad and the good.
We and our children all gladly unite, To have and to hold this county seat by right. Billy Boies and the Sun have had lots to say. But they're not the whole cheese in this county-seat fray.
By the great big horn spoons, and healthy dutch cheese, We'll hold the town down, when we sweat, when we freeze ; We'll anchor her down with the new Hub hotel, Now give us three cheers and a county seat yell.
(34)
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O BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
A FREE PRESCRIPTION GIVEN WITH THIS HISTORY.
It was Dr. Clanning Longshore, In the early homestead day ; A kid climbed to the cupboard- Concentrated lye ! Dismay !
"My God!" the Doctor shouted, "Open up his mouth and lid, Pour down the lard right quickly : Make a kittle of the kid.
"Stir up his fussen stomach, Keep up your grit and hope, Keep him wiggling, twisting, squirming. And make it into soap."
The above was an actual occurrence in the family of homesteader John Griffith, on the southwest quarter of section 2. in Carroll township, with Doctor Longshore called suddenly five miles out of Sheldon. It was the actual prescription. The child was saved. The Doctor knew how to make soap and neutralize the deadly effect. This history is not a medical journal, but this prescription is donated free with the history, even as Doctor Long- shore donated enough free practice in the early day, driving hither and thither, in day time and night time, enough to make a man rich if paid for at mileage rates. Those best acquainted with the sometimes eccentric doctor will fully appreciate the above as a characteristic item.
AN OLD HOMESTEAD SHACK.
Good-by, old shack; time's relentless rigor Has ground you up at last to shapeless dust : But faithfully have you performed your trust, And sheltered manly worth and moral vigor.
Good by, old shack; lead off as back yard slivers, Shivered ! Slivered! To hold the rubbish and the must, So mournfully we will relieve you of your trust, Thence to the modern house relieving us of shivers.
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
A graven image of a young lady mounted in the court yard at Primghar at expense of some liberal citizens did not meet with full approbation of the critically artistic members of the community and was finally returned to its former owners at Sheldon. Before its departure D. A. W. Perkins penned the following skit :
You're a daisy, a darling, Miss Primghar, You are sweet as a full blown rose : You're an angel in marble, Miss Primghar. From your head clean down to your toes.
I believe you are in love, Miss Primghar, Your sad look is only disguise ;
Though silent, you're restless, Miss Primghar,
There's mystery seen in your eyes.
Perhaps you are homesick, Miss Primghar,
And long for dear Sheldon again ;
Or maybe you're bashful, Miss Primghar, And want to be hid from the men.
You're scantily clad, Miss Primghar,
A cold winter will follow this fall;
Have "Pomp" and the mayor, Miss Primghar,
Buy a bonnet, some gloves and a shawl.
You must be tired, Miss Primghar,
Your seat there is cold and hard;
Perhaps you'd feel better, Miss Primghar.
With a loving and lively "pard."
LEEDLE YOH."
This leedle Deitcher poy so schmall, Sendt to der schools by Mah, He vas so very bashful dot He vouldt only answer "Yoh."
Und ven der teachers schpoke him oudt. Der poys said "Yes'em, yes sah," Der only dings dot he vouldt schpoke, All he vouldt say vas "Yoh."
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
He learndt some dings all day mit schools. He schtored dem mit his headt, He schtudied hardt. he learndt der rules, At nichdt he vendt to bedt.
He grew up schtrong, der brimmers soon Vas done, den bigger books, Der teachers und der schkollars all Schtared him mit jealous looks.
At nichdt he alvays vent schtrate home, Und helped mit all der schores, He fed the hogs und schlopped der cows, Uud lockdt up dem barn doors.
He learndt to ride dot big gang plow, Mit horses four apreast, He huskt mit corn, a man he grew, Made monies like der rest.
Den ven dot farm dem mans der sell, Price one hundred fifty, Oh- He saved dem dollars, dimes und cents, Und vonce more he saidt "Yoh."
He bot dot big O'Brien farm, Und settled down, hoorah, Und taught his childers on his knee. How he always answered "Yoh."
The thrifty Germans form two-fifths of the population of O'Brien county. The German accent is much heard in the schools. The subject of this poem was a bashful little five-year-old German lad in one of the district schools of O'Brien county. For a whole month the only response the teacher could get from him was "Yoh." He later on became a proficient scholar.
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
WHEN THE SQUATTER SQUATTED HIS SQUAT.
We've often read of that old-old saw, How possession is always nine points of the law. When the squatter squatted his squat and "lit." With his jaw set firm and his lips he bit.
Possession he took by his own good right, And built his shack shanty even through a dark night. Now let us right here make the best record mark, Since Noah and kids came out of the ark.
Let us show those haughty, proud railroad galoots, How a hayseed homesteader licks 'em out of their boots.
Now Congress had granted those lands as a prize To the road that first built, that the country might rise. But a clause therein said, they must build as they went, And earn it all honest by an honest per cent. For each mile of railroad ten sections of land Would give them a title by patent to stand.
But the Sioux City road when it got to LeMars, By astrology thought out a trick 'mong the stars. As for the fool squatter, they never will count, With their old hayseed breeches and shacks, "Turn 'em out."
And fool the fool Congress by this trick all so bold, By leasing the Central-You're "sold" all so cold. But the squatter squatted his squat, as we've told, And showed them a trick of true honesty old. They went to the courts and showed up that lease ; The courts said to the railroads, "That fraud you must cease." That first thirty days' right the squatter shall have, The railroads may sputter and threaten and rave. But the squatter is there by the right of his squat. As said by decree in its supreme court hot shot. The squatter thus turned a trick that was rare. Like Kipling's "Fuzzy Wuzzy's," who first broke an English square. Your old railroad contracts with such men as Gotleib Schwartz. In a court stands as high as so many warts. We'll cut you all off by surgical skill. Let the law have its sway, the squatter his will.
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O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
Give the squatter a chance in this land of the best As good as a home in that heavenly rest. Call up R. P. Jones and your stanch M. D. Finch, Representing the squatter who never did flinch. And tell them they've got a good home without lie'n, In the good of the goodest of grandest O'Brien.
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