EARLY DAYS IN INDIANA.
In the early '50's, out four and a half and seven miles, respectively,
from Indianapolis, Indiana, there lived two young people with their
parents, who were old-time farmers of the old style, keeping no "hired
man" nor buying many "store goods." The girl could spin and weave, make
delicious butter, knit soft, good shapen socks, and cook as good a meal
as any other country girl around about, and was, withal, as buxom a
lass as had ever been "born and raised there (Indiana) all her life."
These were times when sugar sold for eighteen cents per pound, calico
fifteen cents per yard, salt three dollars a barrel, and all other
goods at correspondingly high prices; while butter would bring but
ten cents a pound, eggs five cents a dozen, and wheat but two bits
(twenty-five cents) a bushel. And so, when these farmers went to the
market town (Indianapolis) care was taken to carry along something to
sell, either eggs, or butter, or perhaps a half dozen pairs of socks,
or maybe a few yards of home-made cloth, as well as some grain, or hay,
or a bit of pork, or possibly a load of wood, to make ends meet at the
store.
The young man was a little uncouth in appearance, round-faced, rather
stout in build—almost fat—a little boisterous, always restless, and
without a very good address, yet with at least one redeeming trait of
character—he loved his work and was known to be as industrious a lad as
any in the neighborhood.
These young people would sometimes meet at the "Brimstone
meeting-house," a Methodist church known (far and wide) by that name;
so named by the unregenerate because of the open preaching of endless
torment to follow non-church members and sinners after death—a literal
lake of fire—taught with vehemence and accompanied by boisterous scenes
of shouting by those who were "saved." Amid these scenes and these
surroundings these two young people grew up to the age of manhood
and womanhood, knowing but little of the world outside of their home
sphere,—and who knows but as happy as if they had seen the whole world?
Had they not experienced the joys of the sugar camp while "stirring
off" the lively creeping maple sugar? Both had been thumped upon the
bare head by the falling hickory nuts in windy weather; had hunted the
black walnuts half hidden in the leaves; had scraped the ground for the
elusive beech nuts; had even ventured to apple parings together, though
not yet out of their "teens."
The lad hunted the 'possum and the coon in the White River bottom, now
the suburb of the city of Indianapolis, and had cut even the stately
walnut trees, now so valuable, that the cunning coon might be driven
from his hiding place.
I'M GOING TO BE A FARMER.
"I'm going to be a farmer when I get married," the young man quite
abruptly said one day to the lass, without any previous conversation to
lead up to such an assertion, to the confusion of his companion, who
could not mistake the thoughts that prompted the words. A few months
later the lass said, "Yes, I want to be a farmer, too, but I want to
be a farmer on our own land," and two bargains were confirmed then and
there when the lad said, "We will go West and not live on pap's farm."
"Nor in the old cabin, nor any cabin unless it's our own," came the
response, and so the resolution was made that they would go to Iowa,
get some land and "grow up with the country."
OFF FOR IOWA.
About the first week of October, 1851, a covered wagon drew up
in front of Thomas Sumner's habitation, then but four miles out
from Indianapolis on the National road, ready to be loaded for the
start. Eliza Jane, the second daughter of that noble man, the "lass"
described, then the wife of the young man mentioned, the author,
was ready, with cake and apple butter and pumpkin pies, jellies and
the like, enough to last the whole trip, and plenty of substantials
besides. Not much of a load to be sure, but it was all we had; plenty
of blankets, a good sized Dutch oven, and each an extra pair of shoes,
cloth for two new dresses for the wife, and for an extra pair of
trousers for the husband.
Tears could be restrained no longer as the loading progressed and the
stern realization faced the parents of both that the young couple were
about to leave them.
"Why, mother, we are only going out to Iowa, you know, where we can
get a home that shall be our own; it's not so very far—only about 500
miles."
"Yes, I know, but suppose you get sick in that uninhabited country—who
will care for you?"
Notwithstanding this motherly solicitude, the young people could not
fail to know that there was a secret feeling of approval in the good
woman's breast, and when, after a few miles' travel, the reluctant
final parting came, could not then know that this loved parent would
lay down her life a few years later in an heroic attempt to follow the
wanderers to Oregon, and that her bones would rest in an unknown and
unmarked grave of the Platte valley.
Of that October drive from the home near Indianapolis to Eddyville,
Iowa, in the delicious (shall I say delicious, for what other word
expresses it?) atmosphere of an Indian summer, and in the atmosphere
of hope and content; hope born of aspirations—content with our lot,
born of a confidence of the future, what shall I say? What matter if we
had but a few dollars in money and but few belongings?—we had the wide
world before us; we had good health; and before and above all we had
each other, and were supremely happy and rich in our anticipations.
At this time but one railroad entered Indianapolis—it would be called
a tramway now—from Madison on the Ohio River, and when we cut loose
from that embryo city we left railroads behind us, except such as
were found in the wagon track where the rails were laid crossways to
keep the wagon out of the mud. What matter if the road was rough? We
could go a little slower, and then wouldn't we have a better appetite
for our supper because of the jolting, and wouldn't we sleep a little
sounder for it? And so everything in all the world looked bright, and
what little mishaps did befall us were looked upon with light hearts,
because we realized that they might have been worse.
The great Mississippi River was crossed at Burlington, or rather, we
embarked several miles down the river, and were carried up to the
landing at Burlington, and after a few days' further driving landed
in Eddyville, Iowa, destined to be only a place to winter, and a way
station on our route to Oregon.
AN IOWA WINTER.
My first introduction to an Iowa winter was in a surveyor's camp on the
western borders of the state, a little north of Kanesville (now Council
Bluffs), as cook of the party, which position was speedily changed and
that of flagman assigned to me.
If there are any settlers now left of the Iowa of that day (sixty-four
years ago) they will remember the winter was bitter cold—the "coldest
within the memory of the oldest inhabitant." On my trip back from the
surveying party above mentioned to Eddyville, just before Christmas, I
encountered one of those cold days long to be remembered. A companion
named Vance rested with me over night in a cabin, with scant food for
ourselves or the mare we led. It was thirty-five miles to the next
cabin; we must reach that place or lay out on the snow. So a very early
start was made—before daybreak, while the wind lay. The good lady of
the cabin baked some biscuit for a noon lunch, but they were frozen
solid in our pockets before we had been out two hours. The wind rose
with the sun, and with the sun two bright sundogs, one on each side,
and alongside of each, but slightly less bright, another—a beautiful
sight to behold, but arising from conditions intolerable to bear. Vance
came near freezing to death, and would had I not succeeded in arousing
him to anger and gotten him off the mare.
I vowed then and there that I did not like the Iowa climate, and the
Oregon fever was visibly quickened. Besides, if I went to Oregon
the government would give us 320 acres of land, while in Iowa we
should have to purchase it,—at a low price to be sure, but it must
be bought and paid for on the spot. There were no pre-emption or
beneficial homestead laws in force then, and not until many years
later. The country was a wide, open, rolling prairie—a beautiful
country indeed—but what about a market? No railroads, no wagon roads,
no cities, no meeting-houses, no schools—the prospect looked drear.
How easy it is for one when his mind is once bent against a country
to conjure up all sorts of reasons to bolster his, perhaps hasty,
conclusions; and so Iowa was condemned as unsuited to our life abiding
place.
But what about going to Oregon when springtime came? An interesting
event was pending that rendered a positive decision impossible for
the moment, and not until the first week of April, 1852, when our
first-born baby boy was a month old, could we say that we were going to
Oregon in 1852.