USA > Indiana > Decatur County > History of Decatur County, Indiana: its people, industries and institutions > Part 45
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Fugit
100
43
Clinton
73
42
Adams
117
66
Clay
61
94
Jackson
24
Sand Creek
96
96
Marion
52
21
Salt Creek
46
35
Total
1,298
759
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Harrison's majority, 539.
476
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
Harrison again carried the state with 65.362 votes to 51,695 cast for Van Buren. The vote in Sand Creek township at this election was a tie-96 to 96.
PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION OF 1844.
Clay
Polk
Washington
615
380
Fugit
132
87
Clinton
54
16
Adams
128
107
Clay
87
157
Jackson
39
74
Sand Creek
100
17I
Marion
62
62
Salt Creek
49
37
Total
1,275
1,09I
Clay's majority, 184.
DECATUR COUNTY ELECTION IN CIVIL WAR.
Party spirit ran high during the Civil War and personal encounters on election day were of very frequent occurrence. On October 14, 1863, an election was held for state and county officials, and, although the state went Democratic, Decatur returned a majority for the Union ticket. The vote in the county was as follows :
Union
Democratic
Majority
Secretary of state.
1.834
1.674
159
Congress
1.856
1,673
173
Representative
1,827
1,685
142
Sheriff
1,840
1,672
168
Treasurer
1,818
1,664
184
Commissioner first district
1,827
1,666
161
Commissioner second district
1,827
1,662
165
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477
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
The vote by townships for secretary of state was as follows :
Democratic
259
132
54
196
226
217
228
245
I18
1,675
Union
609
220
79
206
196
130
IT5
125
154
1,834
Washington
Fugit
Clinton
Adams
Clay
Jackson
Sand Creek
Marion
Salt Creek
Union majority, 159.
Colonel Gavin, for Congress, carried this county by 173 and Ohio by 7.
The other counties went for Holman, who was re-elected by 2,934. Even
Rush county gave Holman 208 majority. The state went Democratic by 9,591. The Democrats elected seven members of Congress, while the Union party got four, Julian, Dumont, Orth and Colfax. The Democrats had Law, Cravens, Harrington, Holman, Voorhees, Edgerton and McDowell.
D. R. VanBuskirk, for representative, defeated Captain Bemusdaffer
by 142; Philip Mowrer defeated W. HI. Carroll by 168; James. Morgan,
for treasurer, defeated William A. Manlove by 184; Abel Withrow, for
coroner, defeated J. M. Watson by 171; Morgan James and Wren Gray- son were elected commissioners by 161 and 165, respectively. The result of the election in Decatur county was very gratifying to
the Union party. Over a thousand men were absent in the army at this
time. Practically all of them would have supported the Union ticket if
they had been at home.
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CONGRESSIONAL VOTE.
COUNTY OFFICIALS.
Total
1
1
I
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION OF 1860.
The election of 1860 was one of the most bitterly contested in the whole
history of Decatur county, coming as it did on the eve of the Civil War.
townships, while the Republican majority over the Douglas Democrats was
vote by townships for Lincoln and Douglas was as follows : the candidate of the Constitutional-Union party, received only 20 votes. The 482. Breckenridge received only 93 votes in the whole county, and Bell,
Douglas.
254
120
62
186
201
201
180
215
127
1.546
Lincoln.
60
280
82
227
213
161
144
15I
165
2,028
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1
1
1
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1
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1
1
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1
Washington township
Fugit township
Clinton township
Adams township
Clay township
Jackson township
Sandcreek township
Marion township
Saltcreek township
Totals
1
I
1
1
1 1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
1
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1
478
As will be seen from the accompanying table, Lincoln carried all but three
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CHAPTER XXI.
LITERARY GLIMPSES.
It may be a surprise to many to know that Decatur county has produced several people who have courted the muses, but when a request for original verse for a chapter in this volume was made, a hearty response came from all parts of the county. While it is not possible to reproduce all that has been submitted, yet sufficient is given in succeeding pages to convince the most skeptical that the county has some who can at least "lisp in num- bers." It may be true that some of the lisping is not up to the Shakespearean standard, but there is satisfaction in knowing that many people in the county have made an effort to emulate the immortal Bard of Avon. The author does not presume to say that all of the verse submitted has real poetic merit ; it is given for what it is worth, without any comment, and the reader may be the judge of its value.
The late Will Cumback is one of the prominent writers the county has håd, and some of his verses have the true poetic gift. As an orator and statesman, he is better known to those familiar with Indiana's famous men than as a poet. But though the number of poems which he wrote was not large, they were all of a character which made them a factor for happiness with all who read them. Mr. Cumback was born in Franklin county, Indiana. March 24, 1829. Being reared on the farm, his early educational advan- tages were limited. Studying law and beginning its practice, he soon attained considerable reputation as a public speaker. When barely twenty- five he was elected to Congress. Following that he was presidential elector, paymaster of the army, state senator, lieutenant-governor and collector of internal revenues. During all the time that he was serving in public office he wrote many articles for newspapers and spent much time lecturing.
Perhaps his best poem is "Memory's Banquet." In part, it is as follows :
I am banqueting tonight- Not with wassail and with wine, Not with eating and with drinking, At a bacchanalian shrine; For in my lonely chamber Where the shadows and the light
Are quaintly crossed and checkered, There I'm banqueting tonight.
·
480
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
In the hush and in the stillness Of the quiet midnight hour, I said to memory, "Bring me The best you have in store ;" And the feast was spread before me, And the present took her flight, While the past and I made merry With our banqueting tonight.
And the comfort and the kindness That loving hearts have given, Making life to me the prelude Of the higher joys of heaven ; Sat at the board and cheered me, Making life a great delight, As I drank the cup of memory In my banqueting tonight.
A SABBATII DAY. By Will Cumback.
Like a mother's kiss to the weary child, Like the calm sea waves, raging and wild; Like rest, sweet rest, to tired feet; Like joy's sweet dream while sorrows sleep; Like dew upon the drooping flower ; Like hope in a despairing hour ;
Like joyful news from those we love ; Like benedietions from above, Comes the Sabbath morn to me.
Smiley Fowler, who is now on the editorial staff of the Greensburg News, has written many poems, stories and feature articles for papers, which have been copied in newspapers throughout the country. He collabo- rated with George Cary Eggleston in the latter's novel, "Jack Shelby," the scene of the story being partly laid in Decatur county. He has published serially a newspaper "Literati of Indiana," in which he reviewed the work of some twenty authors of the state. He now has in preparation a volume entitled "The Quality of Recent American Verse," taking up the period between the death of Whitman and Whittier and the present time. He in- tends to publish a small collection of his verse within the next few months. Two of his most striking poems are given.
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
48
THE SYLVAN FANE.
We walk again beside the sylvan streams, And seek anew the love-god's rustic fane We built him in the fleeting May-time dreams- Beyond the pale of glory and of pain.
I come from far across the world, from land Of eternal snows and plains of hellish heat; And you from scenes I do not understand- Of gild and ease, half bitter and half sweet.
Oh, I am weary with the march of men Upon the great white road. My feet are sore, And long to walk in shaded lines again, Where I may dream of failure nevermore.
My ears are filled with woful monodies Of alien muses. Threnodies have drowned The joyous primal anthem, such as rise To dying ears in only less than sound.
My love, your face is pale! How sweet to rest Your eyes on these old stable things! Forgetting evermore the ancient jest Of tinselled crowns and pomp and puppet kings !
Now once again the leaden mists uplift, Revealing hills where reinless fancies rove ; And o'er the boundary of Time we drift, Together to the lyric realm of Love.
A SON OF ADAM.
If I would know myself, it is Of ancient Clio I must seek ; Then let me rest not till I reach Her clouded shrine and bid her speak.
A son of Adam, I should lose My perfect Eden. I shall wrest From him the secret of myself- With Eve to aid me in my quest.
I feel somewhat of Plato now Within my strange, unconquered soul, Still groping toward the light that gleams Beyond the portal of my goal.
(31)
482
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
I am Thomas, who would not believe Until he touched Him with his hand. I am rash, avenging Absalom; And faint-heart spy to th' promised land.
Delilah yet can bind my arms, And win my secret with her smile. Yea, even Rome would I forget To please the sorceress of the Nile.
One of the most prolific versifiers of the county was the late Elmer E. Meredith. Born at Sardinia, December 21, 1864, he graduated at DePauw University in 1887. became a lawyer at Muncie, Indiana, but was soon com- pelled to forsake his profession and go to Colorado in search of health. He married Carrie Wynn in 1894, but lived only three years afterward, dying at his father's home in Sardinia. He was a young man of much promise and had already made a name for himself in his chosen profession. He wrote a large number of dialect poems for newspapers, and showed a genuine poetie gift. He was a member of the Western Association of Writers. Two of his poems are given.
CIDER MAKIN' TIME.
The dear old cider makin' time is a comin' round agin, An' I feel so awful tickled that it seems almost a sin; Fer onct I heard the preacher say, with face twelve inches long, "When little chaps get tickled they's surely sumthin' wrong;" But I can't help bein' happy, when I see the orchard trees Jist a breakin' down with apples, an' I hear the hummin' bees Gittin' just so drunk on cider, that they gether everywhere, That they stagger in their flyin' an' wobble through the air. No matter what the preacher says, it surely is a crime Fer boys to not be tickled in the cider makin' time.
Oh, it's fun to get up airly on the cider makin' day ! The air's so stimulatin' it drives the blues away, An' makes a feller go about a singin' everywhere With heart so light an' happy that he doesn't think o' care. It's fun to bring the apples, them big red Northern Spies, That make such jolly dumplin's an' big fat juicy pies, An' the russets an' the pippins, some sweet an' others sour- Oh, I love to set an' smell 'em an' taste 'em by the hour, Then the grindin' of the apples is a mighty pleasant sound, When some other feller's muscles makes the heavy wheel go round. An' the drippin' an' the pourin' of the cider in the tub, When they put the pressure on it, is a purty rub-a-dub.
483
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
At last we git the barrel full an' then we have to stop And turn it on its bosom with the bunghole on the top. Then comes the sweetest pleasure that mortal ever saw, Of suckin' hallelujah through the bunghole with a straw. I know you'll all forgive me for borin' you with rhyme, Fer I feel so awful jolly in the cider makin' time.
DEACON JONES'S MELON PATCH.
In the sultry days uv August When the corn begins ter shoot. An' the thrashin' injine's whistle Everywhar begins ter toot, An' the great big yaller apples In the orchard smell so sweet,
Then I love to sit a-thinkin' · In the great old rustic seat, While I rest frum diggin' taters- Fer the sun is bilin' hot An' my shirt is all a-drippin'; Not a single little spot But is wringin' wet an' steamin' --- Thar I set an' fall ter dreamin' An' my heart swells up with joy, At the 'membrence of mischief W'en I wus a boy.
Thar I love ter set a musin' An' a thinkin' uv the past, While the mem'ries come a oozin' Through my noodle quick an' fast, Then a gentle, sweet sensation
Seems ter run through all creation; An' a pleasant kind uv feelin' Over all my senses stealin', Calls up pictures uv my childhood By the little laughin' stream, That meandered through the wildwood Like the shadder uv a dream.
Down thar in the strip of bottom, Runnin' up an' down the crick, Deacon had 'is patch uv melons, An' they growed so tarnel thick That we couldn't walk among 'em Without trampin' on the vines, An' we boys could hardly find a place Ter hide away the rines. No, nothin', sir, could hold a match Ter Deacon Jones's melon pateh.
484
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
Many things I now remember That I loved when but a boy; An' I call 'em up before mie With a sweet and touchin' joy. Oh. I loved the dear old orchard An' I liked the medder. too, An' the pond down in the pastur Whar the worter lilies grew ; But all these things were not a match Fer Deacon Jones's melon patch !
The Deacon wus a stingy cuss. Always gittin' up a fuss, Prosecutin' an' a suin'
Fer trespassin' an' fer theft, An' a threatnin' uv the ruin That he'd scatter right an' left;
An' sometimes he kep' 'is promise When he caught us boys by chance
Stealin' through his bottom ground, Then he made a smackin' sound With 'is cane upon our pants. Though all things else I may forgit One mem'ry sure will linger yit An' kinder make me scringe an' twitch An' make my trousers smart and itch ; Though all things else may pass away I'll feel until my dyin' day The lickens that I uster catch In Deacon Jones's melon patch !
Now when I think uv them dear joys, I almost b'lieve I'm with the boys A goin' on another lark An' stealin' melons in the dark; But no, now sence I come ter think-
The idee elmost makes me shrink- Them days wus long, long years ago, My har is turnin' like the snow, The boys with whom I uster play Have long sence died an' passed away,
An' my time, too, is comin' soon, I know my life is past the noon, But when my soul shall fly away Fer glory on my dyin' day, I'll jist look down and try ter catch A glimpse of Jones's melon patch.
485
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
A number of poems have been submitted, but no data of the authors being obtained the poems are given without any personal mention of the composer.
A RETROSPECT. By Henry C. Hodges.
When life' bright, pleasant vestibule, With flowers and morning sunshine decked, Is seen through corridors of years Its beauty grows by retrospect.
Our school days thus will e'er appear ; Outlined within the past they shine,
The fairest, sweetest picture there, Its radiant glow, a light divine.
TAKE HEED.
By William T. Zetterberg.
There's one thing in the United States That's an evil from start to finish,
It ought to be against men's taste To allow that thing to replenish.
Of course there will be some men kick; Not because they are in the right, But because they are on the trick Of selling votes just for the mite.
This, you know, is a very great sin, But there is one greater than it, Which causes a great many to go in Where they can't never o'ercome it.
The drinking of whisky is this, That makes so many homes go bad ;
That's the reason the money is amiss For food and things that should be had.
Show me the man that drinks liquor Every time he can get the stuff. I will show you where he is lacker In carrying on his big bluff.
Is he any better socially While his mind is all out of whack?
Is he making a standard, really, In which other people ought to track?
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486
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
Say, drinker, would you just like to see Your sister or dear old mother In a saloon drinking their tea And quarreling with one another?
I say this for the habit drinker. He is not thought of the least in the world ,
By people who do not tinker, This, surely, you have all been told.
Then is there some economy That tends to make the people spend The whole of their past week's money On that which life does not depend ?
Is it teaching the boy such habits That will make them good gentlemen? The kind the world should have in it, And be something like chosen men.
Men, are you of the drinking kind, Who think such things should fill the air? Say, people, do you think you'll find Saloons and tigers Over There?
The last of all I have to say Is just go to the polls and cry, "I'm all and all for the right way, So I will cast my vote for 'Dry.'"
THE OLD HOMESTEAD.
By W. M. Gard.
Oft as I muse there comes to me Visions of that long ago,
Across life's changing, shoreless sea Of the friends I used to know. Pure as the breath of flowers that bloom When the chill of winter is o'er; Sweet as fields of clover in June- All those tender memories are.
But those memories never come So fresh and full as when the day Grows hazy, and the winter sun Pursues his solitary way Low down through the lone, southern sky- O'er fields that are buried in snow- And the glad holidays are nigh, And the world with love is all aglow !
487
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
Once more I see the rocks and hills, The dear Old Homestead and farm; The dark woodland and the rills And shocks of the gathered corn. I hear the pheasant's drumming call And the "whirr" of the startled quail ;
There's the old elm tree and the waterfall, And the spring never known to fail!
But those I loved are there no more ; Strangers now dwell in their place; I sigh for the happy days of yore And one glimpse of a vanished face ! For the simple faith of childhood dear In that quaint, old Santa Claus, With his tiny sleigh, and blithe reindeer Loaded down with gaudy toys!
For other hearts the bells shall ring, For them the violets bloom ; And they shall hail the lovely spring, The azure skies of June ; But there shall come to me no more Those happy days gone by, Till I shall reach that other shore- My "Homestead" in the sky !
The following little piece of humorous verse was published in the Indianapolis Sentinel during the Spanish-American War, and the names of local persons (as history recalls) were analogous to those prominent in the newspaper dispatches at the time. Mr. Stewart was at that time a reporter on a Greensburg paper. For a number of years he has been the Washing- ton correspondent for Eastern papers, occupying a high position.
DENNIS. By Orville H. Stewart.
(To Master Dennis Donald Webb, son of Merritt Webb, of Adams, Indiana.)
His father called him Dennis ; His mother called him Don; But never could the same name His parents agree upon.
When into a boy he grew And he went to school, then Half the scholars called him Don And the others called him Den.
488
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
So it was Den and Don, Whether at ball or tennis; But since Merritt whipped the Dons His name now is Dennis.
THE GRAPEVINE SWING.
By W. A. Kirkpatrick.
In the silent night, when the witches steal Through my drowsy brain and break the seal Of doors long closed on forgotten things, 'Tis my youthful days the dream fay brings. And the memory most dear to me Is a grapevine swing in an elm tree, Where, perched in the vine, by my sweetheart's side, We would sit and swing until the old cat died.
O Father Time, you travel too fast for me; Take me back to my boyhood days so free; Hang up your scythe, forget you're off the track, Turn your hour-glass on the other end and let the sand run back, For I want to close my eyes and see That grapevine swing in the elm tree.
On summer nights, when the wind sang low, And the air was flooded with the moon's pale glow; When the bullfrog bugled his mellow bass From the reeds that grew in the old mill race, Where the limpid water, like a silver sea, Reflected the shadow of the vine and tree --- Then I forgot the world held anything But my sweetheart's form in the grapevine swing.
GOOD BYE, OLD HOME, GOOD BYE. By W. A. Kirkpatrick.
Have you forgotten, dear, the time 'most fifty years ago, When to this house we came to stay. I loved you then, you know, And all the years that we have lived beneath its sheltering eaves Have been filled up with blessings that no pain or sorrow leaves. But now the home is sold and we, although our hearts are sore, Will never have the right again to enter that old door; We'll have to bid farewell to all that every night and day A paradise has been to us, but as we go we'll say-
Good bye, old home, good bye, how hard it is to leave. The joys and bliss you gave to us, may others now receive. No matter where our feet may stray, or where our heads may lie, You'll always be for us a shrine, Good bye, old home, good bye.
48g
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
How well do I remember, dear, the place you used to sit, When in the evening work was done, and you would sew or knit,
'Twas in the chimney corner there, beside the mantel tree That held the clock which told the time so long for you and me. But that old clock will never tell for us the passing hours, And your old chair went with it when they sold this home of ours. There's nothing left to keep us here, so we will go away, And as we leave this sacred spot, we'll bow our heads and say ---
When you first came to this old home your cheeks were like the rose, Yours eyes were like the violet that in the valley grows. Your face is old and wrinkled now, but looks as young to me, Try as I may, your girlish form is all that I can see; You're worn out with the cares of life, your hair is thin and gray, But love for me looks from your eyes as on our wedding day. If I could bear for you the pain that lines your tear-wet cheek, I'd gladly give my life for you, and say in accents meek-
The flowers in the garden, dear, will miss your tender care, The birds will hunt in vain for crumbs you always scattered there, And out beneath the maple tree upon the little mound, Some other hand will plant, perhaps, a rose when spring comes 'round. So put your hand upon my arm, don't cry, dear heart, don't cry, There must be somewhere in this world a place for you and I, Where we can rest our weary feet, the short time we've to stay, But if we never find that spot our hearts will always say-
THE OLD BLACK SHAWL. By Mrs. Della White Markland.
'Tis not a handsome thing to see, Tis spoiled, old and brown, Though it was black as night could be When first it came from town. 'Twas large and ample in its folds ; We bought it in the fall, But then it had not grown to be The old black shawl.
In rain or shine, through heat or cold, In clear or cloudy weather, We've worn it individually And worn it all together. For twenty years 'twas one of us, And served us one and all, Oh, we'll ever have a reverence for The old black shawl.
In winter time when sleighing's good, We've wrapped in furs and cloak, With robe, and rug, and woolen scarf, Until it seemed we'd choke.
490
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
We hear a voice behind us, 'Tis mother's in the hall : "I think, my dear, you'd better take The old black shawl."
And in the summer, if perchance A cloud was in the sky, Or summer breezes blowing In the wheat or in the rye; If one of us were starting out We're sure to hear the call, "For fear it rains, you'd better take The old black shawl."
When we picnicked on the grass, 'Twas formed into a seat Or a pillow for the head, Or a carpet for the feet. Where'er we went, whate'er we did, I think that one and all Felt we were not equipped without The old black shawl.
If one of us lie down to rest Or fell asleep while nursing, 'Twas over us spread by some kind hand Without our thought or choosing. When mother's sight was nearly gone, And o'er fell the pall, To shield from light those eyes, we brought The old black shawl.
And when her sight restored again, How thankfully, how tender We placed it round her feeble form, Naught could excel its splendor. And later on, when boys and girls Were grown and married all, Then grandpa put the babies on The old black shawl.
And when to boys and girls they'd grown, 'Twas formed into a saddle For Dobbin's back, and to the barn They rode on it a-straddle. For tent, for playhouse, or for show, For masquerade or ball, Methinks no usefulness escapes The old black shawl.
491
DECATUR COUNTY, INDIANA.
But now we sadly lay it by, Touch it with reverent fingers, For added to these memories Is one that with ns lingers, Of saddest hours, of darkest days, And the Death Angel's call, Since mother's gone we've laid away The old black shawl.
THE OLD WATER MILL.
By Mrs. Della White Markland.
In fancy I view it-the old water mill
That stood tall and grand, at the foot of the hill.
The glad happy song of the soft rippling stream, Like a lullaby, comes to me now in my dream; The old mill dam, glistening bright in the sun That scattered its gems on the waves as they run.
The big water wheel that we wondering saw, With its splatter, and rush, as we viewed it with awe; The kindly old miller with dust covered o'er, Whose jolly voice came to us through the roar, And rattle and clatter of belt, wheel and stone, When we played on the mill, in the days that are gone.
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