Chores and Almanacs
Our farm-yard would have been uninhabitable during this winter had it
not been for the long ricks of straw which we had piled up as a shield
against the prairie winds. Our horse-barn, roofed with hay and banked
with chaff, formed the west wall of the cowpen, and a long low shed gave
shelter to the north.
In this triangular space, in the lee of shed and straw-rick, the cattle
passed a dolorous winter. Mostly they burrowed in the chaff, or stood
about humped and shivering--only on sunny days did their arching backs
subside. Naturally each animal grew a thick coat of long hair, and
succeeded in coming through to grass again, but the cows of some of our
neighbors were less fortunate. Some of them got so weak that they had to
be "tailed" up as it was called. This meant that they were dying of
hunger and the sight of them crawling about filled me with indignant
wrath. I could not understand how a man, otherwise kind, could let his
stock suffer for lack of hay when wild grass was plentiful.
One of my duties, and one that I dreaded, was pumping water for our
herd. This was no light job, especially on a stinging windy morning, for
the cows, having only dry fodder, required an enormous amount of liquid,
and as they could only drink while the water was fresh from the well,
some one must work the handle till the last calf had absorbed his
fill--and this had to be done when the thermometer was thirty below,
just the same as at any other time.
And this brings up an almost forgotten phase of bovine psychology. The
order in which the cows drank as well as that in which they entered the
stable was carefully determined and rigidly observed. There was always
one old dowager who took precedence, all the others gave way before her.
Then came the second in rank who feared the leader but insisted on
ruling all the others, and so on down to the heifer. This order, once
established, was seldom broken (at least by the females of the herd, the
males were more unstable) even when the leader grew old and almost
helpless.
We took advantage of this loyalty when putting them into the barn. The
stall furthest from the door belonged to "old Spot," the second to
"Daisy" and so on, hence all I had to do was to open the door and let
them in--for if any rash young thing got out of her proper place she was
set right, very quickly, by her superiors.
Some farms had ponds or streams to which their flocks were driven for
water but this to me was a melancholy winter function, and sometimes as
I joined Burt or Cyrus in driving the poor humped and shivering beasts
down over the snowy plain to a hole chopped in the ice, and watched them
lay their aching teeth to the frigid draught, trying a dozen times to
temper their mouths to the chill I suffered with them. As they streamed
along homeward, heavy with their sloshing load, they seemed the
personification of a desolate and abused race.
Winter mornings were a time of trial for us all. It required stern
military command to get us out of bed before daylight, in a chamber
warmed only by the stove-pipe, to draw on icy socks and frosty boots and
go to the milking of cows and the currying of horses. Other boys did not
rise by candle-light but I did, not because I was eager to make a
record but for the very good reason that my commander believed in early
rising. I groaned and whined but I rose--and always I found mother in
the kitchen before me, putting the kettle on.
It ought not to surprise the reader when I say that my morning toilet
was hasty--something less than "a lick and a promise." I couldn't (or
didn't) stop to wash my face or comb my hair; such refinements seem
useless in an attic bedchamber at five in the morning of a December
day--I put them off till breakfast time. Getting up at five A. M. even
in June was a hardship, in winter it was a punishment.
Our discomforts had their compensations! As we came back to the house at
six, the kitchen was always cheery with the smell of browning flapjacks,
sizzling sausages and steaming coffee, and mother had plenty of hot
water on the stove so that in "half a jiffy," with shining faces and
sleek hair we sat down to a noble feast. By this time also the eastern
sky was gorgeous with light, and two misty "sun dogs" dimly loomed,
watching at the gate of the new day.
Now that I think of it, father was the one who took the brunt of our
"revellee." He always built the fire in the kitchen stove before calling
the family. Mother, silent, sleepy, came second. Sometimes she was just
combing her hair as I passed through the kitchen, at other times she
would be at the biscuit dough or stirring the pancake batter--but she
was always there!
"What did you gain by this disagreeable habit of early rising?"--This is
a question I have often asked myself since. Was it only a useless
obsession on the part of my pioneer dad? Why couldn't we have slept till
six, or even seven? Why rise before the sun?
I cannot answer this, I only know such was our habit summer and winter,
and that most of our neighbors conformed to the same rigorous tradition.
None of us got rich, and as I look back on the situation, I cannot
recall that those "sluggards" who rose an hour or two later were any
poorer than we. I am inclined to think it was all a convention of the
border, a custom which might very well have been broken by us all.
My mother would have found these winter days very long had it not been
for baby Jessie, for father was busily hauling wood from the Cedar River
some six or seven miles away, and the almost incessant, mournful piping
of the wind in the chimney was dispiriting. Occasionally Mrs. Button,
Mrs. Gammons or some other of the neighbors would drop in for a visit,
but generally mother and Jessie were alone till Harriet and Frank and I
came home from school at half-past four.
Our evenings were more cheerful. My sister Hattie was able to play a few
simple tunes on the melodeon and Cyrus and Eva or Mary Abbie and John
occasionally came in to sing. In this my mother often took part. In
church her clear soprano rose above all the others like the voice of
some serene great bird. Of this gift my father often expressed his open
admiration.
There was very little dancing during our second winter but Fred Jewett
started a singing school which brought the young folks together once a
week. We boys amused ourselves with "Dare Gool" and "Dog and Deer." Cold
had little terror for us, provided the air was still. Often we played
"Hi Spy" around the barn with the thermometer twenty below zero, and not
infrequently we took long walks to visit Burton and other of our boy
friends or to borrow something to read. I was always on the trail of a
book.
Harriet joined me in my search for stories and nothing in the
neighborhood homes escaped us. Anything in print received our most
respectful consideration. Jane Porter's _Scottish Chiefs_ brought to us
both anguish and delight. _Tempest and Sunshine_ was another discovery.
I cannot tell to whom I was indebted for _Ivanhoe_ but I read and
re-read it with the most intense pleasure. At the same time or near it I
borrowed a huge bundle of _The New York Saturday Night_ and _The New
York Ledger_ and from them I derived an almost equal enjoyment. "Old
Sleuth" and "Buckskin Bill" were as admirable in their way as "Cedric
the Saxon."
At this time _Godey's Ladies Book_ and _Peterson's Magazine_ were the
only high-class periodicals known to us. _The Toledo Blade_ and _The New
York Tribune_ were still my father's political advisers and Horace
Greeley and "Petroleum V. Nasby" were equally corporeal in my mind.
Almanacs figured largely in my reading at this time, and were a source
of frequent quotation by my father. They were nothing but small,
badly-printed, patent medicine pamphlets, each with a loop of string at
the corner so that they might be hung on a nail behind the stove, and of
a crude green or yellow or blue. Each of them made much of a
calm-featured man who seemed unaware of the fact that his internal
organs were opened to the light of day. Lines radiated from his middle
to the signs of the zodiac. I never knew what all this meant, but it
gave me a sense of something esoteric and remote. Just what "Aries" and
"Pisces" had to do with healing or the weather is still a mystery.
These advertising bulletins could be seen in heaps on the counter at the
drug store especially in the spring months when "Healey's Bitters" and
"Allen's Cherry Pectoral" were most needed to "purify the blood." They
were given out freely, but the price of the marvellous mixtures they
celebrated was always one dollar a bottle, and many a broad coin went
for a "bitter" which should have gone to buy a new dress for an
overworked wife.
These little books contained, also, concise aphorisms and weighty words
of advice like "After dinner rest awhile; after supper run a mile," and
"Be vigilant, be truthful and your life will never be ruthful." "Take
care of the pennies and the pounds will take care of themselves" (which
needed a little translating to us) probably came down a long line of
English copy books. No doubt they were all stolen from _Poor Richard_.
Incidentally they called attention to the aches and pains of humankind,
and each page presented the face, signature and address of some far-off
person who had been miraculously relieved by the particular "balsam" or
"bitter" which that pamphlet presented. Hollow-cheeked folk were shown
"before taking," and the same individuals plump and hearty "after
taking," followed by very realistic accounts of the diseases from which
they had been relieved gave encouragement to others suffering from the
same "complaints."
Generally the almanac which presented the claims of a "pectoral" also
had a "salve" that was "sovereign for burns" and some of them humanely
took into account the ills of farm animals and presented a cure for bots
or a liniment for spavins. I spent a great deal of time with these
publications and to them a large part of my education is due.
It is impossible that printed matter of any kind should possess for any
child of today the enchantment which came to me, from a grimy,
half-dismembered copy of Scott or Cooper. _The Life of P. T. Barnum_,
Franklin's _Autobiography_ we owned and they were also wellsprings of
joy to me. Sometimes I hold with the Lacedemonians that "hunger is the
best sauce" for the mind as well as for the palate. Certainly we made
the most of all that came our way.
Naturally the school-house continued to be the center of our interest by
day and the scene of our occasional neighborhood recreation by night. In
its small way it was our Forum as well as our Academy and my memories of
it are mostly pleasant.
Early one bright winter day Charles Babcock and Albert Button, two of
our big boys, suddenly appeared at the school-house door with their best
teams hitched to great bob-sleds, and amid much shouting and laughter,
the entire school (including the teacher) piled in on the straw which
softened the bottom of the box, and away we raced with jangling bells,
along the bright winter roads with intent to "surprise" the Burr Oak
teacher and his flock.
I particularly enjoyed this expedition for the Burr Oak School was
larger than ours and stood on the edge of a forest and was protected by
noble trees. A deep ravine near it furnished a mild form of coasting.
The schoolroom had fine new desks with iron legs and the teacher's desk
occupied a deep recess at the front. Altogether it possessed something
of the dignity of a church. To go there was almost like going to town,
for at the corners where the three roads met, four or five houses stood
and in one of these was a postoffice.
That day is memorable to me for the reason that I first saw Bettie and
Hattie and Agnes, the prettiest girls in the township. Hattie and Bettie
were both fair-haired and blue-eyed but Agnes was dark with great
velvety black eyes. Neither of them was over sixteen, but they had all
taken on the airs of young ladies and looked with amused contempt on
lads of my age. Nevertheless, I had the right to admire them in secret
for they added the final touch of poetry to this visit to "the Grove
School House."
Often, thereafter, on a clear night when the thermometer stood twenty
below zero, Burton and I would trot away toward the Grove to join in
some meeting or to coast with the boys on the banks of the creek. I feel
again the iron clutch of my frozen boots. The tippet around my neck is
solid ice before my lips. My ears sting. Low-hung, blazing, the stars
light the sky, and over the diamond-dusted snow-crust the moonbeams
splinter.
Though sensing the glory of such nights as these I was careful about
referring to it. Restraint in such matters was the rule. If you said,
"It is a fine day," or "The night is as clear as a bell," you had gone
quite as far as the proprieties permitted. Love was also a forbidden
word. You might say, "I love pie," but to say "I love Bettie," was
mawkish if not actually improper.
Caresses or terms of endearment even between parents and their children
were very seldom used. People who said "Daddy dear," or "Jim dear," were
under suspicion. "They fight like cats and dogs when no one else is
around" was the universal comment on a family whose members were very
free of their terms of affection. We were a Spartan lot. We did not
believe in letting our wives and children know that they were an
important part of our contentment.
Social changes were in progress. We held no more quilting bees or
barn-raisings. Women visited less than in Wisconsin. The work on the new
farms was never ending, and all teams were in constant use during week
days. The young people got together on one excuse or another, but their
elders met only at public meetings.
Singing, even among the young people was almost entirely confined to
hymn-tunes. The new Moody and Sankey Song Book was in every home. _Tell
Me the Old Old Story_ did not refer to courtship but to salvation, and
_Hold the Fort for I am Coming_ was no longer a signal from Sherman, but
a Message from Jesus. We often spent a joyous evening singing _O, Bear
Me Away on Your Snowy Wings_, although we had no real desire to be taken
"to our immortal home." Father no longer asked for _Minnie Minturn_ and
_Nellie Wildwood_,--but his love for Smith's _Grand March_ persisted and
my sister Harriet was often called upon to play it for him while he
explained its meaning. The war was passing into the mellow, reminiscent
haze of memory and he loved the splendid pictures which this descriptive
piece of martial music recalled to mind. So far as we then knew his
pursuit of the Sunset was at an end.