The Land of the Straddle-Bug
A night in Chicago (where I saw Salvini play Othello), a day in Neshonoc
to visit my Uncle Richard, and I was again in the midst of a jocund rush
of land-seekers.
The movement which had begun three years before was now at its height.
Thousands of cars, for lack of engines to move them, were lying idle on
the switches all over the west. Trains swarming with immigrants from
every country of the world were haltingly creeping out upon the level
lands. Norwegians, Swedes, Danes, Scotchmen, Englishmen, and Russians
all mingled in this flood of land-seekers rolling toward the sundown
plain, where a fat-soiled valley had been set aside by good Uncle Sam
for the enrichment of every man. Such elation, such hopefulness could
not fail to involve an excitable youth like myself.
My companion, Forsythe, dropped off at Milbank, but I kept on, on into
the James Valley, arriving at Ordway on the evening of the second day--a
clear cloudless evening in early April, with the sun going down red in
the west, the prairie chickens calling from the knolls and hammers still
sounding in the village, their tattoo denoting the urgent need of roofs
to shelter the incoming throng.
The street swarmed with boomers. All talk was of lots, of land. Hour by
hour as the sun sank, prospectors returned to the hotel from their trips
into the unclaimed territory, hungry and tired but jubilant, and as they
assembled in my father's store after supper, their boastful talk of
"claims secured" made me forget all my other ambitions. I was as eager
to clutch my share of Uncle Sam's bounty as any of them. The world
seemed beginning anew for me as well as for these aliens from the
crowded eastern world. "I am ready to stake a claim," I said to my
father.
Early the very next day, with a party of four (among them Charles
Babcock, a brother of Burton), I started for the unsurveyed country
where, some thirty miles to the west, my father had already located a
pre-emption claim and built a rough shed, the only shelter for miles
around.
"We'll camp there," said Charles.
It was an inspiring ride! The plain freshly uncovered from the snow was
swept by a keen wind which held in spite of that an acrid prophecy of
sudden spring. Ducks and geese rose from every icy pond and resumed
their flight into the mystic north, and as we advanced the world
broadened before us. The treelessness of the wide swells, the crispness
of the air and the feeling that to the westward lay the land of the
Sioux, all combined to make our trip a kind of epic in miniature.
Charles also seemed to feel the essential poetry of the expedition,
although he said little except to remark, "I wish Burton were here."
It was one o'clock before we reached the cabin and two before we
finished luncheon. The afternoon was spent in wandering over the near-by
obtainable claims and at sundown we all returned to the shed to camp.
As dusk fell, and while the geese flew low gabbling confidentially, and
the ducks whistled by overhead in swift unerring flight, Charles and I
lay down on the hay beside the horses, feeling ourselves to be, in some
way, partners with God in this new world. I went to sleep hearing the
horses munching their grain in the neighboring stalls, entirely
contented with my day and confident of the morrow. All questions were
answered, all doubts stilled.
We arose with the sun and having eaten our rude breakfast set forth,
some six miles to the west, to mark the location of our claims with the
"straddle-bugs."
The straddle-bug, I should explain, was composed of three boards set
together in tripod form and was used as a monument, a sign of occupancy.
Its presence defended a claim against the next comer. Lumber being very
scarce at the moment, the building of a shanty was impossible, and so
for several weeks these signs took the place of "improvements" and were
fully respected. No one could honorably jump these claims within thirty
days and no one did.
At last, when far beyond the last claimant, we turned and looked back
upon a score of these glittering guidons of progress, banners of the
army of settlement, I realized that I was a vedette in the van of
civilization, and when I turned to the west where nothing was to be seen
save the mysterious plain and a long low line of still more mysterious
hills, I thrilled with joy at all I had won.
It seemed a true invasion, this taking possession of the virgin sod, but
as I considered, there was a haunting sadness in it, for these shining
pine pennons represented the inexorable plow. They prophesied the death
of all wild creatures and assured the devastation of the beautiful, the
destruction of all the signs and seasons of the sod.
Apparently none of my companions shared this feeling, for they all
leaped from the wagon and planted their stakes, each upon his chosen
quarter-section with whoops of joy, cries which sounded faint and far,
like the futile voices of insects, diminished to shrillness by the
echoless abysses of the unclouded sky.
As we had measured the distance from the township lines by counting the
revolutions of our wagon-wheels, so now with pocket compass and a couple
of laths, Charles and I laid out inner boundaries and claimed three
quarter-sections, one for Frank and one each for ourselves. Level as a
floor these acres were, and dotted with the bones of bison.
We ate our dinner on the bare sod while all around us the birds of
spring-time moved in myriads, and over the swells to the east other
wagons laden with other land-seekers crept like wingless
beetles--stragglers from the main skirmish line.
Having erected our pine-board straddle-bugs with our names written
thereon, we jubilantly started back toward the railway. Tired but
peaceful, we reached Ordway at dark and Mrs. Wynn's supper of ham and
eggs and potatoes completed our day most satisfactorily.
My father, who had planned to establish a little store on his claim, now
engaged me as his representative, his clerk, and I spent the next week
in hauling lumber and in helping to build the shanty and ware-room on
the section line. As soon as the place was habitable, my mother and
sister Jessie came out to stay with me, for in order to hold his
pre-emption my father was obliged to make it his "home."
Before we were fairly settled, my mother was forced to feed and house a
great many land-seekers who had no other place to stay. This brought
upon her once again all the drudgery of a pioneer house-wife, and filled
her with longing for the old home in Iowa. It must have seemed to her as
if she were never again to find rest except beneath the sod.
Nothing that I have ever been called upon to do caused me more worry
than the act of charging those land-seekers for their meals and bunks,
and yet it was perfectly right that they should pay. Our buildings had
been established with great trouble and at considerable expense, and my
father said, "We cannot afford to feed so many people without return,"
and yet it seemed to me like taking an unfair advantage of poor and
homeless men. It was with the greatest difficulty that I brought myself
to charge them anything at all. Fortunately the prices had been fixed by
my father.
Night by night it became necessary to lift a lantern on a high pole in
front of the shack, in order that those who were traversing the plain
after dark might find their way, and often I was aroused from my bed by
the arrival of a worn and bewildered party of pilgrims rescued from a
sleepless couch upon the wet sod.
For several weeks mother was burdened with these wayfarers, but at last
they began to thin out. The skirmish line moved on, the ranks halted,
and all about the Moggeson ranch hundreds of yellow shanties sparkled at
dawn like flecks of gold on a carpet of green velvet. Before the end of
May every claim was taken and "improved"--more or less.
Meanwhile I had taken charge of the store and Frank was the stage
driver. He was a very bad salesman, but I was worse--that must be
confessed. If a man wanted to purchase an article and had the money to
pay for it, we exchanged commodities right there, but as far as my
selling anything--father used to say, "Hamlin couldn't sell gold dollars
for ninety cents a piece," and he was right--entirely right.
I found little to interest me in the people who came to the store for
they were "just ordinary folk" from Illinois, and Iowa, and I had never
been a youth who made acquaintances easily, so with nothing of the
politician in me, I seldom inquired after the babies or gossiped with
the old women about their health and housekeeping. I regretted this
attitude afterward. A closer relationship with the settlers would have
furnished me with a greater variety of fictional characters, but at the
time I had no suspicion that I was missing anything.
As the land dried off and the breaking plow began its course, a most
idyllic and significant period of life came on. The plain became very
beautiful as the soil sent forth its grasses. On the shadowed sides of
the ridges exquisite shades of pink and purple bloomed, while the most
radiant yellow-green flamed from slopes on which the sunlight fell. The
days of May and June succeeded one another in perfect harmony like the
notes in a song, broken only once or twice by thunderstorms.
An opalescent mist was in the air, and everywhere, on every swell, the
settlers could be seen moving silently to and fro with their teams,
while the women sang at their work about the small shanties, and in
their new gardens. On every side was the most cheerful acceptance of
hard work and monotonous fare. No one acknowledged the transient quality
of this life, although it was only a novel sort of picnic on the
prairie, soon to end.
Many young people and several groups of girls (teachers from the east)
were among those who had taken claims, and some of these made life
pleasant for themselves and helpful to others by bringing to their
cabins, books and magazines and pictures. The store was not only the
social center of the township but the postoffice, and Frank, who carried
the mail (and who was much more gallant than I) seemed to draw out all
the school ma'ams of the neighborhood. The raising of a flag on a high
pole before the door was the signal for the post which brought the women
pouring in from every direction eager for news of the eastern world.
In accordance with my plan to become a teacher, I determined to go to
the bottom of the laws which govern literary development, and so with
an unexpurgated volume of Taine, a set of Chambers' _Encyclopaedia of
English Literature_, and a volume of Greene's _History of the English
People_, I set to work to base myself profoundly in the principles which
govern a nation's self-expression. I still believed that in order to
properly teach an appreciation of poetry, a man should have the power of
dramatic expression, that he should be able to read so as to make the
printed page live in the ears of his pupils. In short I had decided to
unite the orator and the critic.
As a result, I spent more time over my desk than beside the counter. I
did not absolutely refuse to wait on a purchaser but no sooner was his
package tied up than I turned away to my work of digesting and
transcribing in long hand Taine's monumental book.
Day after day I bent to this task, pondering all the great Frenchman had
to say of _race_, _environment_, and _momentum_ and on the walls of the
cabin I mapped out in chalk the various periods of English society as he
had indicated them. These charts were the wonder and astonishment of my
neighbors whenever they chanced to enter the living room, and they
appeared especially interested in the names written on the ceiling over
my bed. I had put my favorites there so that when I opened my eyes of a
morning, I could not help absorbing a knowledge of their dates and
works.
However, on Saturday afternoon when the young men came in from their
claims, I was not above pitching quoits or "putting the shot" with
them--in truth I took a mild satisfaction in being able to set a big
boulder some ten inches beyond my strongest competitor. Occasionally I
practiced with the rifle but was not a crack shot. I could still pitch a
ball as well as any of them and I served as pitcher in the games which
the men occasionally organized.
As harvest came on, mother and sister returned to Ordway, and cooking
became a part of my daily routine. Charles occasionally helped out and
we both learned to make biscuits and even pies. Frank loyally declared
my apple-pies to be as good as any man could make.
Meanwhile an ominous change had crept over the plain. The winds were hot
and dry and the grass, baked on the stem, had became as inflammable as
hay. The birds were silent. The sky, absolutely cloudless, began to
scare us with its light. The sun rose through the dusty air, sinister
with flare of horizontal heat. The little gardens on the breaking
withered, and many of the women began to complain bitterly of the
loneliness, and lack of shade. The tiny cabins were like ovens at
mid-day.
Smiling faces were less frequent. Timid souls began to inquire, "Are all
Dakota summers like this?" and those with greatest penetration reasoned,
from the quality of the grass which was curly and fine as hair, that
they had unwittingly settled upon an arid soil.
And so, week by week the holiday spirit faded from the colony and men in
feverish unrest uttered words of bitterness. Eyes ached with light and
hearts sickened with loneliness. Defeat seemed facing every man.
By the first of September many of those who were in greatest need of
land were ready to abandon their advanced position on the border and
fall back into the ranks behind. We were all nothing but squatters. The
section lines had not been run and every pre-emptor looked and longed
for the coming of the surveying crew, because once our filings were made
we could all return to the east, at least for six months, or we could
prove up and buy our land. In other words, the survey offered a chance
to escape from the tedious monotony of the burning plain into which we
had so confidently thrust ourselves.
But the surveyors failed to appear though they were reported from day to
day to be at work in the next township and so, one by one, those of us
who were too poor to buy ourselves food, dropped away. Hundreds of
shanties were battened up and deserted. The young women returned to
their schools, and men who had counted upon getting work to support
their families during the summer, and who had failed to do so, abandoned
their claims and went east where settlement had produced a crop. Our
song of emigration seemed but bitter mockery now.
Moved by the same desire to escape, I began writing to various small
towns in Minnesota and Iowa in the hope of obtaining a school, but with
little result. My letters written from the border line did not inspire
confidence in the School Boards of "the East." Then winter came.
Winter! No man knows what winter means until he has lived through one in
a pine-board shanty on a Dakota plain with only buffalo bones for fuel.
There were those who had settled upon this land, not as I had done with
intent to prove up and sell, but with plans to make a home, and many of
these, having toiled all the early spring in hope of a crop, now at the
beginning of winter found themselves with little money and no coal. Many
of them would have starved and frozen had it not been for the buffalo
skeletons which lay scattered over the sod, and for which a sudden
market developed. Upon the proceeds of this singular harvest they almost
literally lived. Thus "the herds of deer and buffalo" did indeed
strangely "furnish the cheer."
As for Charles and myself, we also returned to Ordway and there spent a
part of each month, brooding darkly over the problem of our future. I
already perceived the futility of my return to the frontier. The
mysterious urgings of a vague yet deep-seated longing to go east
rendered me restless, sour and difficult. I saw nothing before me, and
yet my hard experiences in Wisconsin and in New England made me hesitate
about going far. Teaching a country school seemed the only thing I was
fitted for, and there shone no promise of that.
Furthermore, like other pre-emptors I was forced to hold my claim by
visiting it once every thirty days, and these trips became each time
more painful, more menacing. February and March were of pitiless
severity. One blizzard followed another with ever-increasing fury. No
sooner was the snow laid by a north wind than it took wing above a
southern blast and returned upon us sifting to and fro until at last its
crystals were as fine as flour, so triturated that it seemed to drive
through an inch board. Often it filled the air for hundreds of feet
above the earth like a mist, and lay in long ridges behind every bush or
weed. Nothing lived on these desolate uplands but the white owl and the
wolf.
One cold, bright day I started for my claim accompanied by a young
Englishman, a fair-faced delicate young clerk from London, and before we
had covered half our journey the west wind met us with such fury that
the little cockney would certainly have frozen had I not forced him out
of the sleigh to run by its side.
Poor little man! This was not the romantic home he had expected to gain
when he left his office on the Strand.
Luckily, his wretched shanty was some six miles nearer than mine or he
would have died. Leaving him safe in his den, I pushed on toward my own
claim, in the teeth of a terrific gale, the cold growing each moment
more intense. "The sunset regions" at that moment did not provoke me to
song.
In order to reach my cabin before darkness fell, I urged my team
desperately, and it was well that I did, for I could scarcely see my
horses during the last mile, and the wind was appalling even to me--an
experienced plainsman. Arriving at the barn I was disheartened to find
the doors heavily banked with snow, but I fell to in desperate haste,
and soon shoveled a passageway.
This warmed me, but in the delay one of my horses became so chilled that
he could scarcely enter his stall. He refused to eat also, and this
troubled me very much. However, I loaded him with blankets and fell to
work rubbing his legs with wisps of hay, to start the circulation, and
did not desist until the old fellow began nibbling his forage.
By this time the wind was blowing seventy miles an hour, and black
darkness was upon the land. With a rush I reached my shanty only to find
that somebody had taken all my coal and nearly all my kindling, save a
few pieces of pine. This was serious, but I kindled a fire with the
blocks, a blaze which was especially grateful by reason of its quick
response.
Hardly was the stove in action, when a rap at the door startled me.
"Come," I shouted. In answer to my call, a young man, a neighbor,
entered, carrying a sack filled with coal. He explained with some
embarrassment, that in his extremity during the preceding blizzard, he
had borrowed from my store, and that (upon seeing my light) he had
hurried to restore the fuel, enough, at any rate, to last out the night.
His heroism appeased my wrath and I watched him setting out on his
return journey with genuine anxiety.
That night is still vivid in my memory. The frail shanty, cowering
close, quivered in the wind like a frightened hare. The powdery snow
appeared to drive directly through the solid boards, and each hour the
mercury slowly sank. Drawing my bed close to the fire, I covered myself
with a buffalo robe and so slept for an hour or two.
When I woke it was still dark and the wind, though terrifying, was
intermittent in its attack. The timbers of the house creaked as the
blast lay hard upon it, and now and again the faint fine crystals came
sifting down upon my face,--driven beneath the shingles by the tempest.
At last I lit my oil lamp and shivered in my robe till dawn. I felt none
of the exultation of a "king in fairyland" nor that of a "lord of the
soil."
The morning came, bright with sun but with the thermometer forty degrees
below zero. It was so cold that the horses refused to face the northwest
wind. I could not hitch them to the sleigh until I had blanketed them
both beneath their harness; even then they snorted and pawed in terror.
At last, having succeeded in hooking the traces I sprang in and,
wrapping the robe about me, pushed eastward with all speed, seeking food
and fire.
This may be taken as a turning point in my career, for this experience
(followed by two others almost as severe) permanently chilled my
enthusiasm for pioneering the plain. Never again did I sing "Sunset
Regions" with the same exultant spirit. "O'er the hills in legions,
boys," no longer meant sunlit savannahs, flower meadows and deer-filled
glades. The mingled "wood and prairie land" of the song was gone and
Uncle Sam's domain, bleak, semi-arid, and wind-swept, offered little
charm to my imagination. From that little cabin on the ridge I turned my
face toward settlement, eager to escape the terror and the loneliness of
the treeless sod. I began to plan for other work in other airs.
Furthermore, I resented the conditions under which my mother lived and
worked. Our home was in a small building next to the shop, and had all
the shortcomings of a cabin and none of its charm. It is true nearly all
our friends lived in equal discomfort, but it seemed to me that mother
had earned something better. Was it for this she had left her home in
Iowa. Was she never to enjoy a roomy and comfortable dwelling?
She did not complain and she seldom showed her sense of discomfort. I
knew that she longed for the friends and neighbors she had left behind,
and yet so far from being able to help her I was even then planning to
leave her.
In a sullen rage I endured the winter and when at last the sun began to
ride the sky with fervor and the prairie cock announced the spring, hope
of an abundant crop, the promise of a new railroad, the incoming of
jocund settlers created in each of us a confidence which expressed
itself in a return to the land. With that marvellous faith which marks
the husbandmen, we went forth once more with the drill and the harrow,
planting seed against another harvest.
Sometime during these winter days, I chanced upon a book which effected
a profound change in my outlook on the world and led to far-reaching
complications in my life. This volume was the Lovell edition of
_Progress and Poverty_ which was at that time engaging the attention of
the political economists of the world.
Up to this moment I had never read any book or essay in which our land
system had been questioned. I had been raised in the belief that this
was the best of all nations in the best of all possible worlds, in the
happiest of all ages. I believed (of course) that the wisdom of those
who formulated our constitution was but little less than that of
archangels, and that all contingencies of our progress in government had
been provided for or anticipated in that inspired and deathless
instrument.
Now as I read this book, my mind following step by step the author's
advance upon the citadel of privilege, I was forced to admit that his
main thesis was right. Unrestricted individual ownership of the earth I
acknowledged to be wrong and I caught some glimpse of the radiant
plenty of George's ideal Commonwealth. The trumpet call of the closing
pages filled me with a desire to battle for the right. Here was a theme
for the great orator. Here was opportunity for the most devoted evangel.
Raw as I was, inconspicuous as a grasshopper by the roadside, I still
had something in me which responded to the call of "the prophet of San
Francisco," and yet I had no definite intention of becoming a
missionary. How could I?
Penniless, dependent upon the labor of my hands for a livelihood,
discontented yet unable to decide upon a plan of action, I came and went
all through that long summer with laggard feet and sorrowful
countenance.
My brother Franklin having sold his claim had boldly advanced upon
Chicago. His ability as a bookkeeper secured him against want, and his
letters were confident and cheerful.
At last in the hour when my perplexity was greatest--the decisive
impetus came, brought by a chance visitor, a young clergyman from
Portland, Maine, who arrived in the town to buy some farms for himself
and a friend. Though a native of Madison Mr. Bashford had won a place in
the east and had decided to put some part of his salary into Dakota's
alluring soil. Upon hearing that we were also from Wisconsin he came to
call and stayed to dinner, and being of a jovial and candid nature soon
drew from me a fairly coherent statement of my desire to do something in
the world.
At the end of a long talk he said, "Why don't you come to Boston and
take a special course at the University? I know the Professor of
Literature, and I can also give you a letter to the principal of a
school of Oratory."
This offer threw me into such excitement that I was unable to properly
thank my adviser, but I fell into depths of dejection as soon as he left
town. "How can I go east? How can I carry out such a plan?" I asked
myself with bitter emphasis.
All I had in the world was a small trunk, a couple of dozen books, a
valise and a few acres of barren unplowed land. My previous visit to
Boston was just the sort to tempt me to return, but my experiences as a
laborer in New England had lessened my confidence in its resources--and
yet the thought of being able to cross the Common every day opened a
dazzling vista. The very fact that Mr. Bashford had gone there from the
west as a student, a poor student, made the prodigiously daring step
seem possible to me. "If only I had a couple of hundred dollars," I said
to my mother who listened to my delirious words in silence. She divined
what was surging in my heart and feared it.
Thereafter I walked the floor of my room or wandered the prairie roads
in continual debate. "What is there for me to do out here?" I demanded.
"I can farm on these windy dusty acres--that's all. I am a failure as a
merchant and I am sick of the country."
There were moments of a morning or at sunset when the plain was splendid
as a tranquil sea, and in such moments I bowed down before its
mysterious beauty--but for the most part it seemed an empty, desolate,
mocking world. The harvest was again light and the earth shrunk and
seamed for lack of moisture.
A hint of winter in the autumn air made me remember the remorseless
winds and the iron earth over which the snows swept as if across an icy
polar sea. I shuddered as I thought of again fighting my way to that
desolate little cabin in McPherson County. I recalled but dimly the
exultation with which I had made my claim. Boston, by contrast, glowed
with beauty, with romance, with history, with glory like the vision of
some turreted town built in the eastern sky at sunset.
"I'll do it," I said at last. "I'll sell my claim. I'll go east. I'll
find some little hole to creep into. I'll study night and day and so fit
myself for teaching, then I'll come back west to Illinois or Wisconsin.
Never will I return to this bleak world."
I offered my claim for sale and while I continued my daily labor on the
farm, my mind was far-away amid the imagined splendors of the east.
My father was puzzled and a good deal irritated by his son's dark moods.
My failure to fit into the store was unaccountable and unreasonable. "To
my thinking," said he, "you have all the school you need. You ought to
find it easy to make a living in a new, progressive community like
this."
To him, a son who wanted to go east was temporarily demented. It was an
absurd plan. "Why, it's against the drift of things. You can't make a
living back east. Hang onto your land and you'll come out all right. The
place for a young man is in the west."
Bitter and rebellious of mood, uneasy and uncertain of purpose my talks
with him resulted only in irritation and discord, but my mother, with an
abiding faith in my powers, offered no objection. She could not advise,
it was all so far above and beyond her, but she patted my hand and said,
"Cheer up! I'm sure it will come out all right. I hate to have you go,
but I guess Mr. Bashford is right. You need more schooling."
I could see that she was saddened by the thought of the separation which
was to follow--with a vague knowledge of the experience of all the
mothers of pioneer sons she feared that the days of our close
companionship were ended. The detachment was not for a few months, it
was final. Her face was very wistful and her voice tremulous as she
told me to go.
"It is hard for me to leave you and sister," I replied, "but I must. I'm
only rotting here. I'll come back--at least to visit you."
In tremendous excitement I mortgaged my claim for two hundred dollars
and with that in my hand, started for the land of Emerson, Longfellow,
and Hawthorne, believing that I was in truth reversing all the laws of
development, breasting the current of progress, stemming the tide of
emigration. All about me other young men were streaming toward the
sunset, pushing westward to escape the pressure of the earth-lords
behind, whilst I alone and poor, was daring all the dangers, all the
difficulties from which they were so eagerly escaping.
There was in my heart an illogical exaltation as though I too were about
to escape something--and yet when the actual moment of parting came, I
embraced my sorrowing mother, and kissed my quaint little sister
good-bye without feeling in the least heroic or self-confident. At the
moment sadness weakened me, reducing me to boyish timidity.