Winnesheik "Woods and Prairie Lands"
Our last winter in the Coulee was given over to preparations for our
removal but it made very little impression on my mind which was deeply
engaged on my school work. As it was out of the question for us to
attend the village school the elders arranged for a neighborhood school
at the home of John Roche, who had an unusually large living room. John
is but a shadowy figure in this chronicle but his daughter Indiana, whom
we called "Ingie," stands out as the big girl of my class.
Books were scarce in this house as well as in our own. I remember piles
of newspapers but no bound volumes other than the Bible and certain
small Sunday school books. All the homes of the valley were equally
barren. My sister and I jointly possessed a very limp and soiled cloth
edition of "Mother Goose." Our stories all came to us by way of the
conversation of our elders. No one but grandmother Garland ever
deliberately told us a tale--except the hired girls, and their romances
were of such dark and gruesome texture that we often went to bed
shivering with fear of the dark.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, miraculously, I came into possession of two
books, one called _Beauty and The Beast_, and the other _Aladdin and His
Wonderful Lamp_. These volumes mark a distinct epoch in my life. The
grace of the lovely Lady as she stood above the cringing Beast gave me
my first clear notion of feminine dignity and charm. On the magic Flying
Carpet I rose into the wide air of Oriental romance. I attended the
building of towered cities and the laying of gorgeous feasts. I carried
in my hand the shell from which, at the word of command, the cool clear
water gushed. My feet were shod with winged boots, and on my head was
the Cap of Invisibility. My body was captive in our snowbound little
cabin but my mind ranged the golden palaces of Persia--so much I know.
Where the wonder-working romances came from I cannot now tell but I
think they were Christmas presents, for Christmas came this year with
unusual splendor.
The sale of the farm had put into my father's hands a considerable sum
of money and I assume that some small part of this went to make our
holiday glorious. In one of my stockings was a noble red and blue tin
horse with a flowing mane and tail, and in the other was a monkey who
could be made to climb a stick. Harriet had a new china doll and Frank a
horn and china dog, and all the corners of our stockings were stuffed
with nuts and candies. I hope mother got something beside the potatoes
and onions which I remember seeing her pull out and unwrap with
delightful humor--an old and rather pathetic joke but new to us.
The snow fell deep in January and I have many glorious pictures of the
whirling flakes outlined against the darkly wooded hills across the
marsh. Father was busy with his team drawing off wheat and hogs and hay,
and often came into the house at night, white with the storms through
which he had passed. My trips to school were often interrupted by the
cold, and the path which my sister and I trod was along the
ever-deepening furrows made by the bob-sleighs of the farmers. Often
when we met a team or were overtaken by one, we were forced out of the
road into the drifts, and I can feel to this moment, the wedge of snow
which caught in the tops of my tall boots and slowly melted into my gray
socks.
We were not afraid of the drifts, however. On the contrary mother had to
fight to keep us from wallowing beyond our depth. I had now a sled which
was my inseparable companion. I could not feed the hens or bring in a
pan of chips without taking it with me. My heart swelled with pride and
joy whenever I regarded it, and yet it was but a sober-colored thing, a
frame of hickory built by the village blacksmith in exchange for a cord
of wood--delivered. I took it to school one day, but Ed Roche abused it,
took it up and threw it into the deep snow among the weeds.--Had I been
large enough, I would have killed that boy with pleasure, but being
small and fat and numb with cold I merely rescued my treasure as quickly
as I could and hurried home to pour my indignant story into my mother's
sympathetic ears.
I seldom spoke of my defeats to my father for he had once said, "Fight
your own battles, my son. If I hear of your being licked by a boy of
anything like your own size, I'll give you another when you get home."
He didn't believe in molly-coddling, you will perceive. His was a stern
school, the school of self-reliance and resolution.
Neighbors came in now and again to talk of our migration, and yet in
spite of all that, in spite of our song, in spite of my father's
preparation I had no definite premonition of coming change, and when the
day of departure actually dawned, I was as surprised, as unprepared as
though it had all happened without the slightest warning.
So long as the kettle sang on the hearth and the clock ticked on its
shelf, the idea of "moving" was pleasantly diverting, but when one raw
winter day I saw the faithful clock stuffed with rags and laid on its
back in a box, and the chairs and dishes being loaded into a big sleigh,
I began to experience something very disturbing and very uncomfortable.
"O'er the hills in legions, boys," did not sound so inspiring to me
then. "The woods and prairie lands" of Iowa became of less account to me
than the little cabin in which I had lived all my short life.
Harriet and I wandered around, whining and shivering, our own misery
augmented by the worried look on mother's face. It was February, and she
very properly resented leaving her home for a long, cold ride into an
unknown world, but as a dutiful wife she worked hard and silently in
packing away her treasures, and clothing her children for the journey.
At last the great sleigh-load of bedding and furniture stood ready at
the door, the stove, still warm with cheerful service, was lifted in,
and the time for saying good-bye to our coulee home had come.
"Forward march!" shouted father and led the way with the big bob-sled,
followed by cousin Jim and our little herd of kine, while mother and the
children brought up the rear in a "pung" drawn by old Josh, a flea-bit
gray.--It is probable that at the moment the master himself was slightly
regretful.
A couple of hours' march brought us to LaCrosse, the great city whose
wonders I had longed to confront. It stood on the bank of a wide river
and had all the value of a sea-port to me for in summertime great
hoarsely bellowing steamboats came and went from its quay, and all about
it rose high wooded hills. Halting there, we overlooked a wide expanse
of snow-covered ice in the midst of which a dark, swift, threatening
current of open water ran. Across this chasm stretching from one
ice-field to another lay a flexible narrow bridge over which my father
led the way toward hills of the western shore. There was something
especially terrifying in the boiling heave of that black flood, and I
shivered with terror as I passed it, having vividly in my mind certain
grim stories of men whose teams had broken through and been swept
beneath the ice never to reappear.
It was a long ride to my mother, for she too was in terror of the ice,
but at last the Minnesota bank was reached, La Crescent was passed, and
our guide entering a narrow valley began to climb the snowy hills. All
that was familiar was put behind; all that was strange and dark, all
that was wonderful and unknown, spread out before us, and as we crawled
along that slippery, slanting road, it seemed that we were entering on a
new and marvellous world.
We lodged that night in Hokah, a little town in a deep valley. The
tavern stood near a river which flowed over its dam with resounding roar
and to its sound I slept. Next day at noon we reached Caledonia, a town
high on the snowy prairie. Caledonia! For years that word was a poem in
my ear, part of a marvellous and epic march. Actually it consisted of a
few frame houses and a grocery store. But no matter. Its name shall ring
like a peal of bells in this book.
It grew colder as we rose, and that night, the night of the second day,
we reached Hesper and entered a long stretch of woods, and at last
turned in towards a friendly light shining from a low house beneath a
splendid oak.
As we drew near my father raised a signal shout, "Hallo-o-o the House!"
and a man in a long gray coat came out. "Is that thee, friend Richard?"
he called, and my father replied, "Yea, neighbor Barley, here we are!"
I do not know how this stranger whose manner of speech was so peculiar,
came to be there, but he was and in answer to my question, father
replied, "Barley is a Quaker," an answer which explained nothing at that
time. Being too sleepy to pursue the matter, or to remark upon anything
connected with the exterior, I dumbly followed Harriet into the kitchen
which was still in possession of good Mrs. Barley.
Having filled our stomachs with warm food mother put us to bed, and when
we awoke late the next day the Barleys were gone, our own stove was in
its place, and our faithful clock was ticking calmly on the shelf. So
far as we knew, mother was again at home and entirely content.
This farm, which was situated two miles west of the village of Hesper,
immediately won our love. It was a glorious place for boys. Broad-armed
white oaks stood about the yard, and to the east and north a deep forest
invited to exploration. The house was of logs and for that reason was
much more attractive to us than to our mother. It was, I suspect, both
dark and cold. I know the roof was poor, for one morning I awoke to find
a miniature peak of snow on the floor at my bedside. It was only a rude
little frontier cabin, but it was perfectly satisfactory to me.
Harriet and I learned much in the way of woodcraft during the months
which followed. Night by night the rabbits, in countless numbers printed
their tell-tale records in the snow, and quail and partridges nested
beneath the down-drooping branches of the red oaks. Squirrels ran from
tree to tree and we were soon able to distinguish and name most of the
tracks made by the birds and small animals, and we took a never-failing
delight in this study of the wild. In most of my excursions my sister
was my companion. My brother was too small.
All my memories of this farm are of the fiber of poetry. The silence of
the snowy aisles of the forest, the whirring flight of partridges, the
impudent bark of squirrels, the quavering voices of owls and coons, the
music of the winds in the high trees,--all these impressions unite in my
mind like parts of a woodland symphony. I soon learned to distinguish
the raccoon's mournful call from the quavering cry of the owl, and I
joined the hired man in hunting rabbits from under the piles of brush in
the clearing. Once or twice some ferocious, larger animal, possibly a
panther, hungrily yowled in the impenetrable thickets to the north, but
this only lent a still more enthralling interest to the forest.
To the east, an hour's walk through the timber, stood the village, built
and named by the "Friends" who had a meeting house not far away, and
though I saw much of them, I never attended their services.
Our closest neighbor was a gruff loud-voiced old Norwegian and from his
children (our playmates) we learned many curious facts. All Norwegians,
it appeared, ate from wooden plates or wooden bowls. Their food was soup
which they called "bean swaagen" and they were all yellow haired and
blue-eyed.
Harriet and I and one Lars Peterson gave a great deal of time to an
attempt to train a yoke of yearling calves to draw our handsled. I call
it an attempt, for we hardly got beyond a struggle to overcome the
stubborn resentment of the stupid beasts, who very naturally objected to
being forced into service before their time. Harriet was ten, I was not
quite nine, and Lars was only twelve, hence we spent long hours in
yoking and unyoking our unruly span. I believe we did actually haul
several loads of firewood to the kitchen door, but at last Buck and Brin
"turned the yoke" and broke it, and that ended our teaming.
The man from whom we acquired our farm had in some way domesticated a
flock of wild geese, and though they must have been a part of the
farm-yard during the winter, they made no deep impression on my mind
till in the spring when as the migratory instinct stirred in their blood
they all rose on the surface of the water in a little pool near the barn
and with beating wings lifted their voices in brazen clamor calling to
their fellows driving by high overhead. At times their cries halted the
flocks in their arrowy flight and brought them down to mix
indistinguishably with the captive birds.
The wings of these had been clipped but as the weeks went on their
pinions grew again and one morning when I went out to see what had
happened to them, I found the pool empty and silent. We all missed their
fine voices and yet we could not blame them for a reassertion of their
freeborn nature. They had gone back to their summer camping grounds on
the lakes of the far north.
Early in April my father hired a couple of raw Norwegians to assist in
clearing the land, and although neither of these immigrants could speak
a word of English, I was greatly interested in them. They slept in the
granary but this did not prevent them from communicating to our
house-maid a virulent case of smallpox. Several days passed before my
mother realized what ailed the girl. The discovery must have horrified
her, for she had been through an epidemic of this dread disease in
Wisconsin, and knew its danger.
It was a fearsome plague in those days, much more fatal than now, and my
mother with three unvaccinated children, a helpless handmaid to be
nursed, was in despair when father developed the disease and took to his
bed. Surely it must have seemed to her as though the Lord had visited
upon her more punishment than belonged to her, for to add the final
touch, in the midst of all her other afflictions she was expecting the
birth of another child.
I do not know what we would have done had not a noble woman of the
neighborhood volunteered to come in and help us. She was not a friend,
hardly an acquaintance, and yet she served us like an angel of mercy.
Whether she still lives or not I cannot say, but I wish to acknowledge
here the splendid heroism which brought Mary Briggs, a stranger, into
our stricken home at a time when all our other neighbors beat their
horses into a mad gallop whenever forced to pass our gate.
Young as I was I realized something of the burden which had fallen upon
my mother, and when one night I was awakened from deep sleep by hearing
her calling out in pain, begging piteously for help, I shuddered in my
bed, realizing with childish, intuitive knowledge that she was passing
through a cruel convulsion which could not be softened or put aside. I
went to sleep again at last, and when I woke, I had a little sister.
Harriet and I having been vaccinated, escaped with what was called the
"verylide" but father was ill for several weeks. Fortunately he was
spared, as we all were, the "pitting" which usually follows this dreaded
disease, and in a week or two we children had forgotten all about it.
Spring was upon us and the world was waiting to be explored.
One of the noblest features of this farm was a large spring which boiled
forth from the limestone rock about eighty rods north of the house, and
this was a wonder-spot to us. There was something magical in this
never-failing fountain, and we loved to play beside its waters. One of
our delightful tasks was riding the horses to water at this spring, and
I took many lessons in horsemanship on these trips.
As the seeding time came on, enormous flocks of pigeons, in clouds
which almost filled the sky, made it necessary for some one to sentinel
the new-sown grain, and although I was but nine years of age, my father
put a double-barrelled shotgun into my hands, and sent me out to defend
the fields.
This commission filled me with the spirit of the soldier. Proudly
walking my rounds I menaced the flocks as they circled warily over my
head, taking shot at them now and again as they came near enough,
feeling as duty bound and as martial as any Roman sentry standing guard
over a city. Up to this time I had not been allowed to carry arms,
although I had been the companion of Den Green and Ellis Usher on their
hunting expeditions in the coulee--now with entire discretion over my
weapon, I loaded it, capped it and fired it, marching with sedate and
manly tread, while little Frank at my heels, served as subordinate in
his turn.
The pigeons passed after a few days, but my warlike duties continued,
for the ground-squirrels, called "gophers" by the settlers, were almost
as destructive of the seed corn as the pigeons had been of the wheat.
Day after day I patrolled the edge of the field listening to the saucy
whistle of the striped little rascals, tracking them to their burrows
and shooting them as they lifted their heads above the ground. I had
moments of being sorry for them, but the sight of one digging up the
seed, silenced my complaining conscience and I continued to slay.
The school-house of this district stood out upon the prairie to the west
a mile distant, and during May we trudged our way over a pleasant road,
each carrying a small tin pail filled with luncheon. Here I came in
contact with the Norwegian boys from the colony to the north, and a
bitter feud arose (or existed) between the "Yankees," as they called us,
and "the Norskies," as we called them. Often when we met on the road,
showers of sticks and stones filled the air, and our hearts burned with
the heat of savage conflict. War usually broke out at the moment of
parting. Often after a fairly amicable half-mile together we suddenly
split into hostile ranks, and warred with true tribal frenzy as long as
we could find a stone or a clod to serve as missile. I had no personal
animosity in this, I was merely a Pict willing to destroy my Angle
enemies.
As I look back upon my life on that woodland farm, it all seems very
colorful and sweet. I am re-living days when the warm sun, falling on
radiant slopes of grass, lit the meadow phlox and tall tiger lilies into
flaming torches of color. I think of blackberry thickets and odorous
grapevines and cherry trees and the delicious nuts which grew in
profusion throughout the forest to the north. This forest which seemed
endless and was of enchanted solemnity served as our wilderness. We
explored it at every opportunity. We loved every day for the color it
brought, each season for the wealth of its experience, and we welcomed
the thought of spending all our years in this beautiful home where the
wood and the prairie of our song did actually meet and mingle.