Dreaming, I pictured a wonderful valley,
A home-making valley few known could compare;
When lo! from the bluffs to the north of Wood river
I saw my dream-picture--my valley lies there.
Miles long, east and west, stretch this wonderful valley:
Broad fields of alfalfa, of corn, and of wheat;
'Mid orchards and groves the homes of its people;
The vale of Wood river, a dream-land complete.
Nebraska, our mother, we love and adore thee;
Within thy fair borders our lot has been cast.
When done with life's labors and trials and pleasures,
Contented we'll rest in thy bosom at last.
A PIONEER NEBRASKA TEACHER
BY MRS. ISABEL ROSCOE
In 1865, B. S. Roscoe, twenty-two years of age, returned to his home in
Huron county, Ohio, after two years' service in the civil war. He
assisted his father on the farm until 1867, when he was visited by F. B.
Barber, an army comrade, a homesteader in northwestern Nebraska. His
accounts of the new country were so attractive that Mr. Roscoe, who had
long desired a farm of his own, decided to go west.
He started in March, 1867, was delayed in Chicago by a snow blockade,
but arrived in Omaha in due time. On March 24, 1867, Mr. Roscoe went to
Decatur via the stage route, stopping for dinner at the Lippincott home,
called the half-way house between Omaha and Decatur. He was advised to
remain in Decatur for a day or two for the return of B. W. Everett from
Maple Creek, Iowa, but being told that Logan creek, where he wished to
settle, was only sixteen miles distant, he hired a horse and started
alone. The snow was deep with a crust on top but not hard enough to bear
the horse and rider. After going two miles through the deep snow he
returned to Decatur. On March 26 he started with Mr. Everett, who had a
load of oats and two dressed hogs on his sled, also two cows to drive.
They took turns riding and driving the cows. The trail was hard to
follow and when they reached the divide between Bell creek and the
Blackbird, the wind was high and snow falling. They missed the road and
the situation was serious. There was no house, tree, or landmark nearer
than Josiah Everett's, who lived near the present site of Lyons, and was
the only settler north of what is now Oakland, where John Oak resided.
They abandoned the sled and each rode a horse, Mr. Everett trying to
lead the way, but the horse kept turning around, so at last he let the
animal have its way and they soon arrived at Josiah Everett's homestead
shanty, the cows following.
The next day Mr. Roscoe located his homestead on the bank of Logan
creek. A couple of trappers had a dugout near by which they had made by
digging a hole ten feet square in the side of the creek bank and
covering the opening with brush and grass. Their names were Asa Merritt
and George Kirk.
Mr. Roscoe then returned to Decatur and walked from there to Omaha,
where he filed on his claim April 1, 1867. The ice on the Missouri river
was breaking though drays and busses were still crossing. Mr. Roscoe
walked across the river to Council Bluffs and then proceeded by train to
Bartlett, Iowa, intending to spend the summer near Brownville, Nebraska.
In August he returned to his homestead and erected a claim shanty. The
following winter was spent working in the woods at Tietown. In the
winter of 1869 fifty dollars was appropriated for school purposes in
Everett precinct and Mr. Roscoe taught school for two months in his
shanty and boarded around among the patrons.
EXPERIENCES OF A PIONEER WOMAN
BY MRS. ELISE G. EVERETT
On December 31, 1866, in a bleak wind I crossed the Missouri river on
the ice, carrying a nine months' old baby, now Mrs. Jas. Stiles, and my
four and a half year old boy trudging along. My husband's brother,
Josiah Everett, carried three-year-old Eleanor in one arm and drove the
team and my husband was a little in advance with his team and wagon
containing all our possessions. We drove to the town of Decatur, that
place of many hopes and ambitions as yet unfulfilled. We were
entertained by the Herrick family, who said we would probably remain on
Logan creek, our proposed home site, because we would be too poor to
move away.
On January 7, 1867, in threatening weather, we started on the last stage
of our journey in quest of a home. Nestled deep in the prairie hay and
covered with blankets, the babies and I did not suffer. The desolate,
wind-swept prairie looked uninviting but when we came to the Logan
Valley, it was beautiful even in that weather. The trees along the
winding stream, the grove, now known as Fritt's grove, gave a home-like
look and I decided I could be content in that valley.
We lived with our brother until material for our shack could be brought
from Decatur or Onawa, Iowa. Five grown people and seven children,
ranging in ages from ten years down, lived in that small shack for three
months. That our friendship was unimpaired is a lasting monument to our
tact, politeness, and good nature.
The New Year snow was the forerunner of heavier ones, until the
twenty-mile trip to Decatur took a whole day, but finally materials for
the shack were on hand. The last trip extended to Onawa and a sled of
provisions and two patient cows were brought over. In Decatur, B. S.
Roscoe was waiting an opportunity to get to the Logan and was invited to
"jump on." It was late, the load was heavy, and somewhere near Blackbird
creek the team stuck in the drifts. The cows were given their liberty,
the horses unhooked, and with some difficulty the half frozen men
managed to mount and the horses did the rest--the cows keeping close to
their heels; and so they arrived late in the night. Coffee and a hot
supper warmed the men sufficiently to catch a few winks of sleep--on
bedding on the floor. A breakfast before light and they were off to
rescue the load. The two frozen and dressed porkers had not yet
attracted the wolves, and next day they crossed the Logan to the new
house.
A few days more and the snowdrifts were a mighty river. B. W. was a sort
of Crusoe, but as everything but the horses and cows--and the trifling
additional human stock--was strewn around him, he suffered nothing but
anxiety. Josiah drove to Decatur, procured a boat, and with the aid of
two or three trappers who chanced to be here, we were all rowed over the
mile-wide sea, and were at home!
Slowly the water subsided, and Nebraska had emerged from her territorial
obscurity (March 1, 1867) before it was possible for teams to cross the
bottom lands of the Logan.
One Sunday morning I caught sight of two moving figures emerging from
the grove. The dread of Indian callers was ever with me, but as they
came nearer my spirits mounted to the clouds--for I recognized my
sister, Mrs. Andrew Everett, as the rider, and her son Frank leading the
pony. Their claim had been located in March, but owing to the frequent
and heavy rains we were not looking for them so soon. The evening before
we had made out several covered wagons coming over the hills from
Decatur, but we were not aware that they had already arrived at
Josiah's. The wagons we had seen were those of E. R. Libby, Chas.
Morton, Southwell, and Clements.
A boat had brought my sister and her son across the Logan--a pony being
allowed to swim the stream but the teams were obliged to go eight miles
south to Oakland, where John Oak and two or three others had already
settled, and who had thrown a rough bridge across.
Before fall the Andrew Everett house (no shack) was habitable--also a
number of other families had moved in on both sides of the Logan, and it
began to be a real neighborhood.
One late afternoon I started out to make preparations for the night, as
Mr. Everett was absent for a few days. As I opened the door two Indians
stood on the step, one an elderly man, the other a much-bedecked young
buck. I admitted them; the elder seated himself and spoke a few friendly
words, but the smart young man began immediately to inspect the few
furnishings of the room. Though quaking inwardly, I said nothing till he
spied a revolver hanging in its leather case upon the wall and was
reaching for it. I got there first, and taking it from the case I held
it in my hands. At once his manner changed. He protested that he was a
_good_ Indian, and only wanted to _see_ the gun, while the other
immediately rose from his chair. In a voice I never would have
recognized as my own, I informed him that it was time for him to _go_.
The elder man at last escorted him outside with me as rear guard. Fancy
my feelings when right at the door were ten or more husky fellows, who
seemed to propose entering, but by this time the desperate courage of
the arrant coward took possession of me, and I barred the way. It was
plain that the gun in my hand was a surprise, and the earnest entreaties
of my five-year-old boy "not to shoot them" may also have given them
pause. They said they were cold and hungry; I assured them that I had
neither room nor food for them--little enough for my own babies. At last
they all went on to the house of our brother, Andrew Everett. I knew
that they were foraging for a large party which was encamped in the
grove. Soon they came back laden with supplies which they had obtained,
and now they insisted on coming in to _cook them_, and the smell of
spirits was so unmistakable that I could readily see that Andrew had
judged it best to get rid of them as soon as possible, thinking that
they would be back in camp by dark, and the whiskey, which they had
obtained between here and Fremont, would have evaporated. But it only
made them more insistent in their demands and some were looking quite
sullen. At last a young fellow, _not_ an Indian--for he had long dark
curls reaching to his shoulders--with a strategic smile asked in good
English for a "drink of water." Instead of leaving the door, as he
evidently calculated, I called to my little boy to bring it. A giggle
ran through the crowd at the expense of the strategist but it was plain
they were growing ugly. Now the older Indian took the opportunity to
make them an earnest talk, and though it was against their wishes, he at
last started them toward the grove. After a while Frank Everett, my
nephew, who had come down to bolster up my courage, and the children
went to bed and to sleep, but no sleep for me; as the gray dawn was
showing in the east, a terrific pounding upon the door turned my blood
to ice. Again and again it came, and at last I tiptoed to the door and
stooped to look through the crack. A pair of very slim ankles was all
that was visible and as I rose to my feet, the very sweetest music I had
ever heard saluted me, the neigh of my pet colt Bonnie, who had failed
to receive her accustomed drink of milk the previous evening and took
this manner of reminding me.
This was the only time we were ever menaced with actual danger, and many
laughable false alarms at last cured me of my fears of a people among
whom I now have valued friends.
RECOLLECTIONS OF WEEPING WATER, NEBRASKA
BY I. N. HUNTER
Mr. and Mrs. L. D. Hunter were pioneer settlers of Nebraska and Weeping
Water, coming from Illinois by team. Their first settlement in the state
was near West Point in Cuming county where father staked out a claim in
1857. Things went well aside from the usual hardships of pioneer life,
such as being out of flour and having to pound corn in an iron kettle
with an iron wedge to obtain corn meal for bread. When the bottom of the
kettle gave way as a result of the many thumpings of the wedge, a new
plan was devised--that of chopping a hole in a log and making a crude
wooden kettle which better stood the blows of the wedge. This method of
grinding corn was used until a trip could be made with an ox team, to
the nearest mill, forty miles distant; a long and tedious trip always
but much more so in this particular instance because of the high water
in the streams which were not bridged in those days. These were small
hardships compared to what took place when the home was robbed by
Indians. These treacherous savages stripped the premises of all the live
stock, household and personal effects. Cattle and chickens were killed
and eaten and what could not be disposed of in this way were wantonly
destroyed and driven off. Clothing and household goods were destroyed so
that little was saved except the clothing the members of the family had
on. From the two feather beds that were ripped open, mother succeeded in
gathering up enough feathers to make two pillows and these I now have in
my home. They are more than a half century old. A friendly Indian had
come in advance of the hostile band and warned the little settlement of
the approach of the Indians with paint on their faces. His signs telling
them to flee were speedily obeyed and in all probability this was all
that saved many lives, as the six or seven families had to keep together
and travel all night to keep out of the reach of the Indians until the
people at Omaha could be notified and soldiers sent to the scene. On
the arrival of the soldiers the Indians immediately hoisted a white flag
and insisted that they were "good Indians."
As no one had been killed by the Indians, it was the desire of the
soldiers to merely make the Indians return the stolen property and
stock, but as much property was destroyed, the settlers received very
little. A number of the Indians were arrested and tried for robbing the
postoffice which was at our home. My parents were the principal
witnesses and after the Indians were acquitted, it was feared they might
take revenge, so they were advised to leave the country.
With an ox team and a few ragged articles of clothing they started east.
When he reached Rock Bluffs, one of the early river towns of Cass
county, father succeeded in obtaining work. His wages were seventy-five
cents a day with the privilege of living in a small log cabin. There was
practically no furniture for the cabin, corn husks and the few quilts
that had been given them were placed on the floor in the corner to serve
as a place to sleep. Father worked until after Christmas time without
having a coat. At about this time, he was told to take his team and make
a trip into Iowa. Just as he was about to start, his employer said to
him: "Hunter, where's your coat?" The reply was, "I haven't any." "Well,
that won't do; you can't make that trip without a coat; come with me to
the store." Father came out of the store with a new under coat and
overcoat, the first coat of any kind he had had since his home was
invaded by the red men.
An explanation of the purpose of the trip into Iowa will be of interest.
The man father worked for was a flour and meat freighter with a route to
Denver, Colorado. In the winter he would go over into Iowa, buy hogs and
drive them across the river on the ice, to Rock Bluffs, where they were
slaughtered and salted down in large freight wagons. In the spring, from
eight to ten yoke of oxen would be hitched to the wagon, and the meat,
and often times an accompanying cargo of flour, would be started across
the plains to attractive markets in Denver.
Father made a number of these trips to Denver as ox driver.
The writer was born at Rock Bluffs in 1860. We moved to Weeping Water in
1862 when four or five dwellings and the little old mill that stood near
the falls, comprised what is now our beautiful little city of over 1,000
population.
During the early sixties, many bands of Indians numbering from forty to
seventy-five, visited Weeping Water. It was on one of their visits that
the writer made the best record he has ever made, as a foot racer. The
seven or eight year old boy of today would not think of running from an
Indian, but half a century ago it was different. It was no fun in those
days to be out hunting cattle and run onto a band of Indians all sitting
around in a circle. In the morning the cattle were turned out to roam
about at will except when they attempted to molest a field, and at night
they were brought home if they could be found. If not the search was
continued the next day. Some one was out hunting cattle all the time it
seemed. With such a system of letting cattle run at large, it was really
the fields that were herded and not the cattle. Several times a day some
member of the family would go out around the fields to see if any cattle
were molesting them. One of our neighbors owned two Shepherd dogs which
would stay with the cattle all day, and take them home at night. It was
very interesting to watch the dogs drive the cattle. One would go ahead
to keep the cattle from turning into a field where there might be an
opening in the rail fence, while the other would bring up the rear. They
worked like two men would. But the family that had trained dogs of this
kind was the exception; in most cases it was the boys that had to do the
herding. It was on such a mission one day that the writer watched from
under cover of some bushes, the passing of about seventy-five Indians
all on horseback and traveling single file. They were strung out a
distance of almost a mile. Of course they were supposed to be friendly,
but there were so many things that pointed to their tendency to be
otherwise at times, that we were not at all anxious to meet an Indian no
matter how many times he would repeat the characteristic phrase, "Me
good Injun." We were really afraid of them and moreover the story was
fresh in our minds of the murder of the Hungate family in Colorado, Mrs.
Hungate's parents being residents of our vicinity at that time. Her
sister, Mrs. P. S. Barnes, now resides in Weeping Water.
Thus it will be seen that many Indian experiences and incidents have
been woven into the early history of Weeping Water. In conclusion to
this article it might be fitting to give the Indian legend which
explains how the town received its name of Weeping Water. The poem was
written by my son, Rev. A. V. Hunter, of Boston, and is founded on the
most popular of the Indian legends that have been handed down.
THE LEGEND OF WEEPING WATER
Long before the white man wandered
To these rich Nebraska lands,
Indians in their paint and feathers
Roamed in savage warlike bands.
They, the red men, feared no hardships;
Battles were their chief delights;
Victory was their great ambition
In their awful bloody fights.
Then one day the war cry sounded
Over valley, hill and plain.
From the North came dusky warriors,
From that vast unknown domain.
When the news had reached the valley
That the foe was near at hand,
Every brave was stirred to action
To defend his home, his land.
To the hills they quickly hastened
There to wait the coming foe.
Each one ready for the conflict
Each with arrow in his bow.
Awful was the scene that followed,
Yells and warwhoops echoed shrill.
But at last as night descended
Death had conquered; all was still.
Then the women in the wigwams
Hearing rumors of the fight,
Bearing flaming, flickering torches
Soon were wandering in the night.
There they found the loved ones lying
Calm in everlasting sleep.
Little wonder that the women,
Brokenhearted, all should weep.
Hours and hours they kept on weeping,
'Til their tears began to flow
In many trickling streamlets
To the valley down below.
These together joined their forces
To produce a larger stream
Which has ever since been flowing
As you see it in this scene.
Indians christened it Nehawka
Crying Water means the same.
In this way the legend tells us
Weeping Water got its name.
INCIDENTS AT PLATTSMOUTH
BY ELLA POLLOCK MINOR
Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Vallery were living in Glenwood, Iowa, in 1855, when
they decided to purchase a store from some Indians in Plattsmouth. Mr.
Vallery went over to transact the business, and Mrs. Vallery was to
follow in a few days. Upon her arrival in Bethlehem, where she was to
take the ferry, she learned that the crossing was unsafe on account of
ice floating in the river. There were two young men there, who were very
anxious to get across and decided to risk the trip. They took a letter
to her husband telling of the trouble. The next day, accompanied by
these two young men, Mr. Vallery came over after her in a rowboat, by
taking a course farther north. The boat was well loaded when they
started on the return trip. Some of the men had long poles, and by
constantly pushing at the ice they kept the boat from being crushed or
overturned.
Mrs. Vallery's oldest daughter was the third white child born in the
vicinity of Plattsmouth. And this incident happened soon after her
arrival in 1855. Mrs. Vallery had the baby in a cradle and was preparing
dinner when she heard a knock at the door. Before she could reach it, an
Indian had stepped in, and seeing some meat on the table asked for it.
She nodded for him to take it, but he seemed to have misunderstood, and
then asked for a drink of water. While Mrs. Vallery was getting the
drink, he reached for the baby, but she was too quick for him and
succeeded in reaching the baby first. He then departed without further
trouble.
At one time the Vallerys had a sick cow, and every evening several
Indians would come to find out how she was. She seemed to get no better
and still they watched that cow. In the course of a week she died,
evidently during the night, because the next morning the first thing
they heard was the Indians skinning the cow, out by the shed, and
planning a "big feed" for that night down by the river.
The late Mrs. Thomas Pollock used to tell us how the Indians came
begging for things. Winnebago John, who came each year, couldn't be
satisfied very easily, so my grandmother found an army coat of her
brother's for him. He was perfectly delighted and disappeared with it
behind the wood pile, where he remained for some time. The family
wondered what he was doing, so after he had slipped away, they went out
and hunted around for traces of what had kept him. They soon found the
clue; he had stuffed the coat in under the wood, and when they pulled it
out, they found it was minus all the brass buttons.
Another time one of Mrs. Pollock's children, the late Mrs. Lillian
Parmele, decided to play Indian and frighten her two brothers, who were
going up on the hill to do some gardening. She wrapped up in cloaks,
blankets and everything she could find to make herself look big and
fierce, then went up and hid in the hazel brush, where she knew they
would have to pass. Pretty soon she peeked out and there was a band of
Indians coming. Terrified, she ran down toward her home, dropping pieces
of clothing and blankets as she went. The Indians seeing them, ran after
her, each one anxious to pick up what she was dropping. The child
thinking it was she they were after, let all her belongings go, so she
could run the better and escape them. After that escapade quite a number
of things were missing about the house, some of them being seen later at
an Indian camp near by.
FIRST THINGS IN CLAY COUNTY
BY MRS. CHARLES M. BROWN
The first settler of Clay county, Nebraska, was John B. Weston, who
located on the Little Blue, built a log hut in 1857 and called the place
Pawnee Ranch. It became a favorite stopping place of St. Joe and Denver
mail carriers.
The first settler of Sutton was Luther French who came in March, 1870,
and homesteaded eighty acres. Mr. French surveyed and laid out the
original townsite which was named after Sutton, Massachusetts. His
dugout and log house was built on the east bank of School creek, east of
the park, and just south of the Kansas City and Omaha railroad bridge.
Traces of the excavation are still visible. The house was lined with
brick and had a tunnel outlet near the creek bottom for use in case of
an Indian attack. Among his early callers were Miss Nellie Henderson and
Capt. Charles White who rode in from the West Blue in pursuit of an
antelope, which they captured.
Mrs. Wils Cumming was the first white woman in Sutton. She resided in
the house now known as the Mrs. May Evans (deceased) place. Part of this
residence is the original Cumming home.
At this time the population of Sutton consisted of thirty-four men and
one woman. In the spring of 1871, F. M. Brown, who was born in Illinois
in 1840, came to Nebraska and settled on a homestead in Clay county,
four miles north of the present site of Sutton. At that time Clay county
was unorganized territory, and the B. & M. railroad was being extended
from Lincoln west.