chapter one

hundred, and the two new chapters organized in 1902, Quivira of Fairbury and Lewis-Clark of Fremont, raised the sum to two hundred, each promising more if it was needed.

To find a Nebraska boulder was more difficult; and it was still more difficult to find a firm in Nebraska willing to undertake to raise it from its native bed and to carve upon it the insignia of the D. A. R., with a suitable inscription. Finally a boulder of Sioux Falls granite was found in the Marsden farm, north of Lincoln, and it was given to the society by the owner, who remarked that he was "glad to be rid of it." Its dimensions were 7-1/2x8-1/3x3-1/2 feet. Its weight was between seven and eight tons. The firm of Kimball Brothers of Lincoln took the contract for its removal and inscription. Through the assistance of Mr. A. E. Sheldon of the State Historical Society, the Burlington and Missouri railroad generously transported it to Fort Calhoun, where its placing was looked after by Mr. J. H. Daniels of the Sons of the American Revolution. As the project had drifted away from the original intention, and had become a memorial to commemorate an event rather than to mark a spot, the boulder was placed on the public school grounds at Fort Calhoun. At last, almost five years from the time of the broaching of the project, the wish of the society was accomplished.

The following condenses an account of the unveiling of the boulder, and the program, from the report of Miss Anna Tribell Adams of the Omaha chapter for the _American Monthly_ of January, 1905:

"On August 3, 1904, the village of Fort Calhoun, fifteen miles above Omaha on the Missouri river, was the scene of the unveiling of a boulder commemorating the first peace council between the United States government and the chiefs of the Otoe and Missouri Indian tribes. The town as well as the school grounds were brave with bunting and flags. Everyone wore with a small flag the souvenir button on which was a picture of the boulder with a suitable inscription. As a matter of history it is a pleasure to record that the button was designed by Mrs. Elsie De Cou Troup of the Omaha chapter. One worn by one of the speakers is in the collection of the Deborah Avery chapter in the rooms of the State Historical Society at Lincoln.

"Among those present were Brigadier General Theodore Wint, representing the United States government, Governor J. H. Mickey, Adjutant General and Mrs. J. H. Culver, Mr. J. A. Barrett and Mr. A. E. Sheldon of the State Historical Society, Senator J. H. Millard, ex-Governor J. E. Boyd, and others.

"The Thirtieth Infantry band from Fort Calhoun opened the program. Then came a brief reproduction, in pageant-manner, by the Knights of Ak-Sar-Ben of Omaha, of the Council of 1804, enacting the Lewis and Clark treaty. Mr. Edward Rosewater of the Omaha _Bee_ extended the welcome of the day, and brought to the attention of the audience the presence of Mr. Antoine Cabney, the first white child born in Nebraska, whose birthplace, in 1827, was near the site of Fort Calhoun. The state regent, Mrs. Abraham Allee, introduced Governor Mickey, who spoke briefly. He was followed by J. A. Barrett of the State Historical Society, who gave an account of the Lewis and Clark Council. Honorable W. F. Gurley of Omaha then delivered the address of the day. At the conclusion of the formal program the boulder was unveiled. In the presentation speech by Mrs. S. B. Pound of Lincoln, the boulder was committed formally, in the name of the Sons and the Daughters of the American Revolution and of the State Historical Society, to the care of the citizens of Fort Calhoun."

EARLY HISTORY OF LINCOLN COUNTY

BY MAJOR LESTER WALKER

(Late captain Fifth U. S. Cavalry and brevet major U. S. Army)

It is supposed that the first white men who visited Lincoln county were the Mallet brothers, who passed this way to Santa Fe in 1739. Pierre and Auguste Chouteau were sent out from St. Louis to explore the northwestern country in 1762. In 1780 another expedition was sent to explore the country between the Missouri river and the Rocky Mountains.

After the expedition of Lewis and Clark, which followed up the Missouri river, the first government expedition was made in 1819, under Major Stephen H. Long, who traveled up the north side of the Platte and crossed just above the forks of the two rivers, then going up the valley between the two streams to the site of the present town of North Platte.

Titian Peale, the naturalist of Philadelphia, was with this expedition and the Peale family living at North Platte, are relatives of his. In 1835, Col. Henry Dodge visited this section of the country in the government employ to treat with the Arikara Indians.

In 1843, Col. John C. Fremont, making his expedition up the Platte, celebrated the Fourth of July of that year, in what is now Lincoln county. During the year 1844 travel up the Platte river became quite heavy and the first building in the county was erected by a Frenchman (name unknown) near the present residence of Mrs. Burke at Fort McPherson, and was used as a trading ranch, but was abandoned in 1848.

In 1852, a man by the name of Brady settled on the south side of the island now known as Brady Island. Brady is supposed to have been killed some time during the following year by the Indians.

In 1858, the first permanent settlement in the county was made at Cottonwood Springs and the first building was erected in the fall of the year by Boyer & Roubidoux. I. P. Boyer had charge of this ranch. In the same year another trading ranch was built at O'Fallon's Bluffs on the south side of the river. In 1859 Dick Darling erected the second building at Cottonwood Springs. This building was purchased by Charles McDonald for a store, and he stocked it with general merchandise. In 1860, Mr. McDonald brought his wife from Omaha, she being the first white woman to settle in Lincoln county. Mrs. McDonald lived here about three years before another white woman settled at Cottonwood Springs. Mr. McDonald is now living at North Platte, engaged in the banking business. Mrs. McDonald died in December, 1898, and is buried at North Platte.

In the spring of 1860, J. A. Morrow built a ranch about twelve miles west from Cottonwood, to accommodate the great rush to California. To give some idea of the extent of the freight and emigrant business along this route, it was no uncommon thing to count from seven hundred to one thousand wagons passing in one day.

During the year 1861, the Creighton telegraph line was completed through the county. In June, 1861, the first white child was born. His name is W. H. McDonald, son of Chas. McDonald, now of North Platte, Nebraska.

In the spring of 1860, W. M. Hinman removed from Port Laramie to Cottonwood Springs, and opened up a farm, trading with the emigrants and Indians. In November, 1863, Fort McPherson was established by the government at this settlement of Cottonwood Springs. This military post was first commanded by Major George M. O'Brien.

Fort McPherson was established none too soon, for it was in the following year, 1864, that the war with the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians commenced. This war continued for over five years and many emigrants and soldiers were killed.

What is now known as Lincoln county, was first organized as a county under the territorial government of Nebraska in 1860. Cottonwood Springs was made the county-seat. The following officers were elected: County commissioners--I. P. Boyer, J. C. Gilman and J. A. Morrow; judge--Charles McDonald; treasurer--W. M. Hinman. Instead of calling the county Lincoln, it was named "Shorter." Nothing, however, was done under this organization. Judge McDonald qualified and the only business was the marriage ceremony.

On September 3, 1866, a meeting was held and arrangements made to reorganize Shorter county under the name of Lincoln county. Under the reorganization, the following officers were elected: J. C. Gilman, W. M. Hinman, and J. A. Morrow were elected county commissioners; S. D. Fitchie, county judge; Wilton Baker, sheriff; and Charles McDonald, clerk. The county seat was at Cottonwood Springs. W. M. Hinman built a sawmill near Cottonwood Springs and did a large business. The Union Pacific railroad was then being constructed through this county and the caÒons south of the Platte abounded with cedar timber, furnishing an abundance of material.

During November, 1866, the Union Pacific railroad was completed to North Platte and a town was laid out by the railroad company. The plat of the town was filed with the clerk of the county on January 31, 1867; a military post was established, and a garrison of soldiers was stationed here.

In 1867 the Union Pacific railroad began the erection of shops and roundhouse, North Platte having been designated as a division station. During the year 1867, a freight train was wrecked by the Indians. Several of the trainmen were killed and the train plundered and burned. In September, 1867, the Indian chiefs were all called to assemble at North Platte, where they were met by the commissioners appointed by the government to treat with them. These commissioners were General Sherman, General Harney, and John P. Sanborne, and a treaty of peace was entered into. During the stay of these commissioners, they were well entertained by the citizens of North Platte. The county-seat was moved from Cottonwood Springs to North Platte at an election held October 8, 1867. A total of twenty-one votes were cast. The officers elected were B. I. Hinman, representative; W. M. Hinman, county judge; Charles McDonald, clerk; O. O. Austin, sheriff; Hugh Morgan, treasurer, and A. J. Miller, county commissioner. There was no courthouse, and the records were kept at the home of W. M. Hinman, who had moved from his farm to North Platte. The first county warrant was issued in 1867. The first term of district court was held at North Platte in 1867, Judge Gantt then being the circuit judge for the entire state. July 1, 1867, the first levy on the Union Pacific railroad in Lincoln county was made on an assessed valuation of $49,000.00.

During this year, there was an Indian scare and settlers throughout the county thronged to the military parks at McPherson and North Platte, taking refuge in the railroad roundhouse at the latter place.

The first money collected from fines was that paid into the county treasury on February 1, 1868, by R. C. Daugherty, a justice of the peace, who fined a man $21.50 for stealing an overcoat.

The first school in the county was taught at North Platte during the summer of 1868. Theodore Clark was the first teacher. The next term of school began November 30, 1868, and was taught by Mary Hubbard, now Mrs. P. J. Gilman.

The first Sunday school in the county was at North Platte, and was founded by Mrs. Keith, Mrs. Miller, Mrs. Cogswell, and Mrs. Kramph. There were only three children in attendance.

During the year 1868, troubles with the Indians were on the increase. On one occasion, "Dutch" Frank, running an engine and coming round a curve with his train, saw a large body of Indians on each side of the road, while a number were crowded on the track. Knowing it would be certain death to stop, he increased the speed of his train and went through them, killing quite a number.

In May, 1869, the Fifth U. S. Cavalry arrived at Fort McPherson under General Carr. Eight companies were left here and four companies went to Sidney and Cheyenne. The government was surveying this county at that time and the troops were used to protect the surveyors. Large bands of Indians had left the reservation and were killing settlers and stealing horses. During the summer of 1869 the order from General Auger, commanding the department, was to clear the country of Indians between the Union Pacific and the Kansas Pacific. I was an officer of the Fifth U. S. Cavalry and was in command of the post at North Platte in 1869 and 1870, and was in all the Indian campaigns until I resigned in 1878.

The first bank in North Platte was started in 1875 by Walker Brothers and was later sold to Charles McDonald.

GRAY EAGLE, PAWNEE CHIEF

BY MILLARD S. BINNEY

It is not often that one sees a real Indian chief on the streets of Fullerton, but such happened in June, 1913, when the city was visited by David Gillingham, as he is known in the English tongue, or Gray Eagle, as his people call him, chief of the Pawnees.

Gray Eagle is the son of White Eagle, whom the early inhabitants of Nance county will remember as chief of the Pawnees at the time the county was owned by that tribe.

Gray Eagle was born about three miles this side of Genoa, in 1861. He spent his boyhood in the county and when white men began to build at the place that is now Genoa, he attended school there. When he was fourteen years of age he accompanied his tribe to its new home at Pawnee City, Oklahoma, where he has since resided. The trip overland was made mostly on horseback, and the memories of it are very interesting as interpreted to us by Chief Gray Eagle, and John Williamson, of Genoa, one of the few white men to make this long journey with the red men. Gray Eagle made one trip back here in 1879, visiting the spot that is now Fullerton--then only a few rude shacks.

Uppermost in Gray Eagle's mind had always been the desire to return and see what changes civilization had brought. In 1913 he was sent to St. Louis as a delegate to the Baptist convention, after which he decided to visit the old scenes. From St. Louis he went to Chicago and from that city he came to Genoa.

"I have always wanted to see if I could locate the exact spot of my birth," said Gray Eagle, in perfect English, as he talked to us on this last visit, "and I have been successful in my undertaking. I found it last week, three miles this side of Genoa. I was born in a little, round mud-house, and although the house is long since gone, I discovered the circular mound that had been its foundation. I stood upon the very spot where I was born, and as I looked out over the slopes and valleys that had once been ours; at the corn and wheat growing upon the ground that had once been our hunting grounds; at the quietly flowing streams that we had used so often for watering places in the days so long gone by; my heart was very sad. Yet I've found that spot and am satisfied. I can now go back to the South and feel that my greatest desire has been granted."

When asked if the Indians of today followed many of the customs of their ancestors, he answered that they did not. Occasionally the older Indians, in memory of the days of their supremacy, dressed themselves to correspond and acted as in other days, but the younger generation knows nothing of those things and is as the white man. In Oklahoma they go to school, later engage in farming or enter business. "Civilization has done much for them," said Gray Eagle. "They are hard workers and have ambitions to accomplish great things and be better citizens. Only we old Indians, who remember the strenuous times of the early days, have the wild blood in our veins. The younger ones have never even seen a buffalo."

Then he told of his early life in the county and related interesting stories of the past--Gray Eagle, the Indian chief, and John Williamson, the pioneer, talking together, at times, in a tongue that to us was strange, but to them an echo of a very real past.

The Loup he called Potato Water, because of the many wild potatoes that formerly grew upon its banks. Horse creek he remembered as Skeleton Water, the Pawnees one time having fought a band of Sioux on its banks. They were victorious but lost many warriors. Their own dead they buried, leaving the bodies of their enemies to decay in the sun. Soon the banks of the creek were strewn with skeletons and ever after the creek was known to the Indians as Skeleton Water. The Cedar was known as Willow creek, Council creek as the Skidi, and the Beaver as the Sandburr.

LOVERS' LEAP

BY MRS. A. P. JARVIS

I pause before I reach the verge And look, with chilling blood, below; Some dread attraction seems to urge Me nearer to the brink to go. The hunting red men used to force The buffalo o'er this frightful steep; They could not check their frantic course; By following herds pressed down they leap,

Then lie a bleeding, mangled mass Beside the little stream below. Their red blood stained the waving grass, The brook carnation used to flow. Yet a far more pathetic tale The Pawnees told the pioneer Of dusky maid and stripling pale Who found in death a refuge here.

The youth had been a captive long, Yet failed to friendly favor find; He oft was bound with cruel thong, Yet Noma to the lad was kind. She was the chieftain's only child, As gentle as the cooing dove. Pure was this daughter of the wild; The pale-face lad had won her love.

Her father, angered at her choice, Had bid'n her wed a chieftain brave; She answered with a trembling voice, "I'd rather lie within my grave." The day before the appointed eve When Wactah was to claim his bride, The maid was seen the camp to leave-- The pale-face youth was by her side.

She led him to this dangerous place That on the streamlet's glee doth frown; The sunlight, gleaming on her face, Her wild, dark beauty seemed to crown. "Dear youth," exclaimed the dusky maid, "I've brought thee here thy faith to prove: If thou of death art not afraid, We'll sacrifice our lives to love."

Hand linked in hand they looked below, Then, headlong, plunged adown the steep. The Pawnees from that hour of woe Have named the place The Lovers' Leap.

EARLY INDIAN HISTORY

BY MRS. SARAH CLAPP

In 1843 Mr. and Mrs. Lester W. Platt were first engaged in missionary work among the Pawnees, and in 1857 the government set aside a tract of land thirty miles by fifteen miles, in the rich prairie soil of Nance county, for their use; and when the Indian school was established at Genoa, Mrs. Platt was made matron or superintendent.

My mother taught in this school during the years 1866-67. She found the work interesting, learned much of the customs and legends of the Pawnees and grew very fond of that noble woman, Mrs. Platt, who was able to tell thrilling stories of her experiences during her mission work among the members of that tribe.

At the time my mother taught in the Genoa school, the Sioux, who were the greatest enemies of the Pawnees, on account of wanting to hunt in the same territory, were supposed to be friendly with the settlers, but drove away their horses and cattle and stole everything in sight, furnishing much excitement.

My father, Captain S. E. Cushing, accompanied my uncle, Major Frank North, on a number of expeditions against the hostile Indians, during the years 1869 until 1877. He was with Major North at the time of the famous charge on the village of the Cheyennes, when the notorious chief, Tall Bull, was killed by my uncle.

In 1856, when Frank North came to Nebraska, a young boy, he mingled fearlessly with the Indians along the Missouri in the region of Omaha, where our family first settled, learning their mode of warfare and living, and their language, which he spoke as fluently as his mother tongue. In 1861 he took a position as clerk and interpreter at the Pawnee reservation and by 1863 he had become known as a daring scout.

The next year the building of the Union Pacific railroad was started, and as the work progressed westward the fierce Arapahoes, Cheyennes, and Sioux began attacking the laborers, until it seemed deadly peril to venture outside the camps. It was useless to call on the regular troops for help as the government needed them all to hold in check the armies of Lee and Johnston. A clipping from the Washington _Sunday Herald_, on this subject, states that "a happy thought occurred to Mr. Oakes Ames," the main spirit of the work. He sent a trusty agent to hunt up Frank North, who was then twenty-four years old. "What can be done to protect our working parties, Mr. North?" said Mr. Ames. "I have an idea," Mr. North answered. "If the authorities at Washington will allow me to organize a battalion of Pawnees and mount and equip them, I will undertake to picket your entire line and keep off other Indians.

"The Pawnees are the natural enemies of all the tribes that are giving you so much trouble, and a little encouragement and drill will make them the best irregular horse you could desire."

This plan was new but looked feasible. Accordingly Mr. Ames went to Washington, and, after some effort, succeeded in getting permission to organize a battalion of four hundred Pawnee warriors, who should be armed as were the U.S. cavalry and drilled in such simple tactics as the service required, and my uncle was commissioned a major of volunteers and ordered to command them. The newspaper clipping also says: "It would be difficult to estimate the service of Major North in money value." General Crook once said, in speaking of him, "Millions of government property and hundreds of lives were saved by him on the line of the Union Pacific railroad, and on the Nebraska, Wyoming, and Montana frontiers."

There is much to be said in his praise, but I did not intend writing a eulogy, rather to tell of the stories which have come down to me, with which he and my other relatives were so closely connected.

During the many skirmishes and battles fought by the Pawnees, under Major North, he never lost a man; moreover, on several different occasions he passed through such hair-breadth escapes that the Pawnees thought him invulnerable. In one instance, while pursuing the retreating enemy, he discovered that his command had fallen back and he was separated from them by over a mile. The enemy, discovering his plight, turned on him. He dismounted, being fully armed, and by using his horse as a breastwork he managed to reach his troops again, though his faithful horse was killed. This and many like experiences caused the Pawnees to believe that their revered leader led a charmed life. He never deceived them, and they loved to call him "Little Pawnee Le-Sharo" (Pawnee Chief), and so he was known as the White Chief of the Pawnees.

The coming of the railroad through the state, bringing thousands of settlers with household furnishings and machinery for tilling the soil, was of the greatest importance. It was concerning the guarding of that right of way that a writer for the _Horse World_ has some interesting memories and devotes an article in a number in February, 1896, to the stories of Colonel W. F. Cody, Major Frank North, Captain Charles Morse, Captain Luther North, Captain Fred Mathews, and my father, Captain S. E. Cushing. The correspondent was under my father, in Company B, during one of the scouting expeditions, when the company was sent to guard O'Fallon's Bluffs, west of Fort McPherson on the Union Pacific. He tells much more of camp activities and of his initiation into border life than of the skirmishes or scouting trips. He was fond of horses and tells of a memorable race in which a horse of Buffalo Bill's was beaten by my father's horse "Jack."

My uncle, Captain Luther North, who also commanded a company of scouts at that time, now resides in Omaha.

While yet a boy he freighted between Omaha and Columbus and carried the mail, by pony, during a period when my grandmother felt that when she bade him good-bye in the morning she might never see him again, so unsettled was the feeling about the Indians. He was intimately acquainted with every phase of Indian life. He knew their pastimes and games, work of the medicine men and magicians, and especially was he familiar with many of their legends. I am happy to have been one of the children who often gathered 'round him to listen to the tales of his own experiences or stories told him by the red men.

One personal experience in the family happened before the building of the railroad, probably in sixty-one or sixty-two. A number of men, accompanied by the wives of two of them, went to put up hay for the government, on land located between Genoa and Monroe. One night the Indians surrounded their camp, presumably to drive away their stock. Naturally the party rebelled, and during the melee which followed Adam Smith and another man were killed and one of the women, Mrs. Murray, was wounded but saved herself by crawling away through the tall grass. The recital of this trouble grew in magnitude the farther it traveled, until people grew frantic with fear, believing it to mean an uprising of the Sioux. The settlers from Shell creek and all directions, bringing horses, cattle, and even their fowls, together with personal belongings, flocked into the village of Columbus for mutual protection. My mother, then a young girl, describes the first night as one of much confusion.

Some of the fugitives were sheltered with friends, others camped in the open. Animals, feeling as strange as did their masters, were bawling or screeching, and no one could sleep, as the greatest excitement prevailed.

"They built a stockade of upright posts about eight feet high, around the town," says my uncle Luther, thinking that as the Indians usually fought on horseback, this would be a great help if not a first-class fort.

They organized a militia company and men were detailed for guard duty and stationed at different points along the stockade, so serious seemed the situation. One night Luther North and two other young men were sent on picket duty outside the stockade. They took their horses and blankets and went up west of town about half a mile, to keep an eye on the surrounding country. A Mr. Needham had gone up to his farm (now the John Dawson farm) that day, and did not return until it was getting dark. The guards thought it would be great fun to give him a little scare, so as he approached they wrapped themselves in their blankets, mounted, and rode down under a bank. Just as he passed they came up in sight and gave the Indian war whoop and started after him. He whipped his team into a run; they chased him, yelling at every step, but stopped a reasonable distance from the stockade and then went back. Mr. Needham gave graphic description of how the Indians had chased him, which so upset the entire population that sleep was out of the question that night. Moreover he cautioned his wife in this wise: "Now, Christina, if the Indians come, it is everybody for himself, and you will have to skulk." This remark made by Mr. Needham became a byword, and even down into the next generation was a favorite saying and always provoked a smile. The young guards had no fear whatever of marauding Indians, and, blissfully unaware of the commotion they had aroused, went back up the road to a melon patch, ate a sufficient amount of the luscious fruit, picketed their horses, wrapped themselves in their blankets, and lay them down to pleasant dreams. The next morning they rode into town and reported no red men in sight. After a few weeks, when there was no further evidence of trouble from the savages, the people gradually dispersed to their homes and farms which were, by that time, much in need of attention.

[Illustration: MRS. OREAL S. WARD

Ninth State Regent, Nebraska Society, Daughters of the American Revolution. 1909-1910]

THE BLIZZARD OF 1888

BY MINNIE FREEMAN PENNEY

On January 12, 1888, the states of Nebraska and South Dakota were visited by a blizzard so fierce and cruel and death-dealing that residents of those sections cannot speak of it even now without an involuntary shudder.

The storm burst with great suddenness and fury, and many there were who did not live to tell the story of their suffering. And none suffered more keenly than did the occupants of the prairie schoolhouses. Teachers and pupils lost their lives or were terribly maimed. The great storm indicated most impressively the measure of danger and trial that must be endured by the country school teacher in the isolated places on the frontier.

Three Nebraska country school teachers--Loie Royce of Plainfield, Etta Shattuck of Holt county, and Minnie Freeman of Mira Valley, were the subjects of much newspaper writing.

Miss Royce had nine pupils. Six went home for luncheon and remained on account of the storm. The three remaining pupils with the teacher stayed in the schoolhouse until three o'clock. Their fuel gave out, and as her boarding house was but fifteen rods away, the teacher decided to take the children home with her.

In the fury of the storm they wandered and were lost. Darkness came, and with it death. One little boy sank into the eternal silence. The brave little teacher stretched herself out on the cold ground and cuddled the two remaining ones closer. Then the other little boy died and at daylight the spirit of the little girl, aged seven, fluttered away, leaving the young teacher frozen and dumb with agony. Loie Royce "hath done what she could; angels can do no better." Miss Royce lost both feet by amputation.

Etta Shattuck, after sending her children home (all living near) tried to go to her home. Losing her way, she took refuge in a haystack, where she remained, helpless and hungry Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, suffering intensely and not able to move. She lived but a short time after her terrible experience.

Minnie Freeman was teaching in Mira Valley, Valley county. She had in her charge seventeen pupils. Finding it impossible to remain in the schoolhouse, she took the children with her to her boarding place almost a mile from the schoolhouse.

Words are useless in the effort to portray that journey to the safe shelter of the farmhouse, with the touching obedience of the children to every word of direction--rather _felt_ than _heard_, in that fierce winding-sheet of ice and snow. How it cut and almost blinded them! It was terrible on their eyes. They beat their way onward, groping blindly in the darkness, with the visions of life and death ever before the young teacher responsible for the destiny of seventeen souls.

All reached the farmhouse and were given a nice warm supper prepared by the hostess and the teacher, and comfortable beds provided.

Minnie Freeman was unconscious of anything heroic or unusual. Doing it in the simple line of duty to those placed in her care, she still maintains that it was the trust placed in the Great Spirit who guides and cares for His own which led the little band--

"Through the desert and illimitable air, Lone wandering, but not lost."

AN ACROSTIC

_Written to Miss Minnie Freeman in 1888 by Mrs. Ellis of St. Paul, Nebraska. Mrs. Ellis was then seventy-eight years old--now deceased_

'Midst driving winds and blinding snows, Impending dangers round her close; No shelter from the blast and sleet, No earthly help to guide her feet. In God alone she puts her trust, Ever to guide the brave and just.

Fierce and loud the awful storm, Racking now her slender form, Eager to save the little band Entrusted to her guiding hand. Marshalled her host, see, forth she goes And falters not while tempest blows; Now God alone can help, she knows.

See them falling as they go; Angry winds around them blow. Is there none to hear their cry? Now her strength will almost fail; Tranquil, she braves the fearful gale.

PreÎminent her name shall stand, A beacon light o'er all the land, Unrivalled on the page of time; Let song and story swell the chime.

EARLY DAYS IN NANCE COUNTY

BY MRS. ELLEN SAUNDERS WALTON

In 1872, after passing through a great sorrow, a longing came to me to enter the missionary field among the Indians. At that time the Pawnee tribe was located on their reservation, now Nance county, and I was sent to work among them. It was interesting, at the same time sad and depressing, to witness the degeneration and savagery of tribal life; and ofttimes it was seemingly hopeless to civilize and christianize them.

In 1874 the Pawnees were removed by the government to Indian territory, now Oklahoma, and the reservation was thrown on the market. This became Nance county, and a new order of things followed. Settlers came to the little hamlet of Genoa, that had been first settled by the Mormons in 1857, and though later given over to the Indians, it was one of the oldest towns in Nebraska.

A church was established under the care of the New England Congregational Mission and Rev. Charles Starbuck was put in charge. A small farmhouse where travelers could be accommodated, and a few homes of those who had bought land, comprised the village life. This freedom from restraint was indeed new to one accustomed to the rush of busy life in New York. Daily rides over the prairie on my pony were a delight.

It was wonderful how many cultured people drifted into the almost unknown western country. It was not infrequent to see in humble sod houses shelves filled with standard books and writings of the best authors. This was the second wave of population, and though many things had to be sacrificed that in the old life were considered necessary to comfort, pioneer life had its happy features. One especially was the kindly expression of helpfulness in time of sickness or sorrow. The discomforts and self denials and the longing for dear ones far away grow dim and faded! only memories of pleasant hours remain. Then came the third wave of men and women settling all around, bringing fashion and refining influences, and entertainment of various kinds. Churches, elevators, banks, and business houses were built and Nance county began to show the march of civilization and progress. Where first we knew the flower-gemmed prairie, modern homes spring up and good roads follow the trails of the Indian and the hunter.

THE PAWNEE CHIEF'S FAREWELL

BY CHAUNCEY LIVINGSTON WILTSE

As I strolled alone, when the day had flown, Through the once Pawnee reserve, Where the memories keep of the brave asleep By the winding Cedar's curve-- Methought the leaves of the old oak trees 'Neath the sheltering hill-range spoke, And they said: "It's here that hearts knew no fear, Where arose the Pawnee smoke!

"In the eventide, when all cares subside, Is the hour the tribe liked best; When the gold of day crossed the hills away, And, like those who tried, found rest. O'er this Lovers' Leap, where now shadows creep, Strode the chief, in thought, alone-- And he said: 'Trees true, and all stars in view, And you very winds my own!

"'I soon shall pass, like the blades of grass, Where the wandering shadows go; Only leaves will tell what my tribe did well-- But you Hearts of Oak--you know! To those Hunting Grounds that are never found Shall my tribe, in time, depart; Then it will be you to tell who were true, With the dawn-song in their heart!

"'You will sing a song, with the winds along, How the Pawnee loved these hills! Here he loved to stray, all the wind-glad day-- In his heart the wind sings still! You will whisper, too, how he braved the Sioux, How life's days he did his part; Though not understood, how he wished but good, With but love within his heart!

"'The White Father's call reaches us, and all To his South Wind land we fly, Yet we fain would stay with you hills alway-- It is hard to say good-bye! You, our fatherland, we could once command, We are driven from, so fast; But you hills alway in our hearts will stay And be with us at the last!

"'Here we took our stand for our fatherland, Here our sons to manhood grew; Here their loves were found, where these hills surround-- Here the winds sang to them, too! By this Cedar's side, where the waters glide, We went forth to hunt and dream; Here we felt the spell of you oaks as well, And felt all that love may seem!

"'Here we felt the pang of the hot wind tang, Here we felt the blizzard's breath; Here we faced the foe, as the stars all know-- Here we saw the face of Death! Here we braved the wrath of the lightning's path, Here we dared starvation's worst; Here tonight we stand, for our fatherland, Banished from what was ours--first!

"'Bravely we obey, and will go away; The White Father wills it so; But our thoughts will roam to this dawntime home Where our fathers sleep, below! And some shining day, beyond white men's sway, We will meet our long-lost own-- Where you singing winds and the dawn begins, One will say, "Come in--come home!"

"'Just beyond you hills, the Rest Land still Is waiting for us all; At earth's sunset hour One will wake each flower, And us home will softly call! Trees and stream, good-bye! Now our parting's nigh; Know you memory's sweet to me! Though our footsteps go, you may always know You've the heart of each Pawnee!'

"As the chief passed by, stars filled the sky, And the moonlight softest fell-- But the night winds said, 'Peace is overhead!' And the hills said, 'All is well!'"

MY TRIP WEST IN 1861

BY SARAH SCHOOLEY RANDALL

In 1857 my brother, Charles A. Schooley, landed at Brownville and soon after purchased several tracts of land near there, one being the old home of Church Howe and adjoining the present site of the village of Howe. Incidentally, my husband's father, N. G. Randall, three years later purchased land within three miles--known later as Bedford.

In 1860, while my brother was visiting his old home, White Deer Valley, near Williamsport, Pennsylvania, the smoldering flames of adventure were kindled in my mind which nothing but a trip west could quench. On March 1, 1861, we left Williamsport by train from Pittsburgh and on arriving there went to the Monongahela hotel, then a magnificent building. Abe Lincoln had just left the hotel, much to our disappointment. After a few days we engaged passage on the _Argonaut_ to St. Louis via the Monongahela, the Ohio, and the Mississippi rivers. Our experiences were varied and exciting enough to meet my expectations. During one night we stood tied to a tree and another night the pumps were kept going to keep us from sinking. Small consolation we got from the captain's remark that this was "the last trip for this old hulk." We had ample time for seeing all the important cities along the shore--Cincinnati, Louisville, etc.

Arriving at St. Louis we took passage on a new boat, _Sunshine_, and set sail upstream. Perhaps we felt a few pangs of fear as we neared the real pioneer life. We changed boats again at St. Joe and then our trip continued, now up the treacherous Missouri. Every now and then we struck a snag which sent the dishes scurrying from the table. I am reminded that this trip was typical of our lives: floating downstream is easy but upstream is where we strike the snags.

Of our valued acquaintances met on the trip were Rev. and Mrs. Barrette, the former a Presbyterian minister coming to Brownville, and our friendship continued after reaching our destination. Arriving in Brownville, we went to the McPherson hotel, where we continued to hear disturbing rumors about the coming civil war.

After a few days we took a carriage and went west ten miles over the beautiful rolling prairies to our ranch. I was charmed with the scene, which was vastly different from the mountains and narrow winding valleys of Pennsylvania, and was determined to stay, though my brother had lost his enthusiasm and gave me two weeks to change my mind. Many a homesick spell I had when I would have very quickly returned to my father's home of peace and plenty, but the danger of travel detained me. I assured my brother that if he would only stay I would be very brave and economical. I only wanted five small rooms plainly furnished and a horse and carriage. When the place was ready we left Brownville in a big wagon, drawn by oxen, and fortified by a load of provisions. When we came in sight of our bungalow it proved to be a one-room, unpainted and unplastered edifice, but I soon overcame that defect by the use of curtains, and as all lived alike then, we were content with our surroundings. Our first callers were three hundred Indians on an expedition. I had been reading extensively about Indians, so knew when I saw their squaws and papooses with them that they were friendly--in fact, rather too familiar.

My brother fenced his land and planted it in corn and all kinds of vegetables. The season being favorable there was an abundant crop, both cultivated and wild. The timber abounded with grapes, plums, nuts, etc., and strawberries on the prairies. We had a well of fine water, a good cellar or cave, and a genuine "creampot" cow. Instead of a carriage I had a fine saddle horse (afterwards sold to a captain in the army), and how we did gallop over the prairies! One of my escapades was to a neighbor's home ten miles away for ripe tomatoes. In lieu of a sack we tied together the neck and sleeves of a calico wrapper, filled it with the tomatoes, then tied the bottom and balanced it astride the horse in front of me. Going through the tall slough grass in one place near Sheridan, now Auburn, the horse became frantic with heat and flies and attempted to run away. The strings gave way and the tomatoes scattered. Finally the saddle turned and the well-trained horse stopped. An inventory revealed one sleeve full of tomatoes remaining.

Among our near neighbors were Mr. and Mrs. Milo Gates and family, and Mr. and Mrs. Engle. Mrs. Gates's cheerful optimism made this pioneer life not only possible but enjoyable.

After five months, my brother joined the army and went south as a captain; was several times promoted, and stayed all through the war. A year after I went back to Brownville to stay until the war was over, and there made many valued acquaintances: Senator Tipton's sister, Mrs. Atkinson, Judge Wheeler, H. C. Lett, the McCrearys, Hackers, Whitneys, Carsons, Dr. Guin, Furnas, Johnson, etc. About this time the citizens gave a party for the boys who enlisted, and there I met E. J. Randall, whom I married soon after he returned from the army. Of the four Randall brothers who enlisted one was killed, one wounded, and one taken prisoner. Two of them still live, Dr. H. L. Randall of Aurora, forty-seven years a practicing physician in Nebraska and at one time surgeon at the Soldiers' Home, Grand Island; and A. D. Randall of Chapman, Nebraska, who enlisted at the age of sixteen and served all through the war.

After a college course of four years my husband entered the ministry and served for twenty-five years in Nebraska, except for one year of mission work at Cheyenne, Wyoming. The itinerant life is not unlike the pioneer life and brought with it the bitter and sweet as well, but the bitter was soon forgotten and blessed memories remain of the dear friends scattered all over the state of Nebraska, and indeed to the ends of the earth.

Dr. Wharton said when paying his tribute to my departed husband, "He still lives on in the lives of those to whom he has ministered." Our children are Charles H. Randall of Los Angeles, California, member of congress, and Mrs. Anna Randall Pope of Lincoln, Nebraska.

STIRRING EVENTS ALONG THE LITTLE BLUE

BY CLARENDON E. ADAMS

_Painting a Buffalo_

The following narrative of Albert Bierstadt's visit to what is now Nuckolls county, Nebraska, was told to me by Mr. E. S. Comstock, a pioneer of the county. Mr. Comstock made his first settlement in this county at Oak Grove, in 1858, and was in charge of the Oak Grove ranch when this incident took place.

In 1863 Mr. Bierstadt returned from the Pacific coast via the Overland stage route, which was then conducted by Russell, Majors & Waddell, the pioneer stage and pony expressmen of the plains. Arriving at Oak Grove ranch, Mr. Bierstadt and his traveling companion, a Mr. Dunlap, correspondent of the New York _Post_, decided to stop a few days and have a buffalo hunt. In company with E. S. Comstock, his son George, and a neighbor by the name of Eubanks, who was killed by the Indians the next year, they proceeded to the Republican Valley and camped the first night in the grove on Lost creek, now known as Lincoln Park. The following morning the party proceeded up the river to the farm now owned by Frank Schmeling. Here they discovered a large herd of buffalo grazing along the creek to the west and covering the prairies to the north for several miles. Mr. Comstock says that it was one of the largest herds of buffalo he had ever encountered and that Mr. Bierstadt became greatly excited and said, "Now, boys, is our time for fun. I want to see an enraged wounded buffalo. I want to see him so mad that he will bellow and tear up the ground." Mr. Comstock said they arranged for the affray: Mr. Bierstadt was to take his position on a small knoll to the east of the herd, fix himself with his easel so that he could sketch the landscape and the grazing bison, and when this was done the wounding of one of the buffalo bulls was to take place.

Bierstadt was stationed on a small knoll in plain view of the herd; Mr. Eubanks was stationed in a draw near Bierstadt, in order to protect him from the charges of the buffalo, if necessary. George Comstock was to select a buffalo bull from the herd and wound him and then tantalize him by shaking a red blanket at him until he was thoroughly enraged, then he was to give him another wound from his rifle and lead out in the direction of Mr. Bierstadt.

The wounded buffalo became furious and charged Comstock's horse repeatedly, but Comstock, being an expert horseman, evaded the fierce charges and was all the time coming nearer to Bierstadt. When within about three hundred yards Comstock whirled his horse to the side of the maddened monster. As a buffalo does not see well out of the side of his eyes on account of the long shaggy hair about the face, Comstock was lost to his view. The infuriated animal tossed his head high in air and the only thing he saw was Bierstadt. Onward he rushed toward the artist, pawing the ground and bellowing furiously. Bierstadt called for help and took to his heels. The buffalo struck the easel and sent it in splinters through the air. Onward he rushed after the fleeing artist, who was making the best time of his life. Mr. Comstock said he was running so fast that his coat tails stuck so straight out that you could have played a game of euchre on them. The buffalo was gaining at every jump.

At this point in his story Mr. Comstock became greatly excited. He was standing on the identical spot telling me the story, and was living the exciting scene over again. "Why," he said, "I thought Eubanks never would shoot. I was scared. The buffalo nearly had his horns under Bierstadt's coat tail. He was snorting froth and blood all over him, but the gun cracked and the buffalo fell and Bierstadt was so overcome he fell at the same time entirely exhausted, but saved from a fearful death." When he recovered sufficiently to talk, he said, "That's enough; no more wounded buffalo for me." Mr. Bierstadt was several days recovering from his fearful experience, but while he was recovering, he was painting the picture. "Mr. Dunlap, the correspondent, wrote a graphic and vivid pen picture of the exciting scene," said Mr. Comstock; "but when Mr. Bierstadt finished his picture of the infuriated charging buffalo and the chase, the pen picture was not in it."

This was the painting that brought Bierstadt into prominence as an artist. It was exhibited at the first Chicago exhibition and was sold for $75,000. I saw the picture in Chicago before I heard Mr. Comstock's narrative, and as I was one of the owners of El Capitan Rancho, the landscape of the famous painting, I fixed his story vividly upon my memory. Mr. Mike Woerner now owns a portion of El Capitan Rancho, the landscape of this famous painting. A portion of this original painting is embraced in Mr. Bierstadt's masterpiece, "The Last of the Buffalo."

_An Indian Raid_

The settlement of the section now included in Nuckolls county was attended with more privation and suffering from Indian raids and depredations than any other county in the state of Nebraska. The great Indian raids of August 7, 1864, extended from Denver, Colorado, to Gage county, Nebraska, at which time every stage station and settlement along the entire line of the Overland trail was included in that skilfully planned attack. A certain number of warriors were assigned to each place and the attack was simultaneous along the line for four hundred miles in extent.

The Oak Grove ranch was among the most formidable in fortifications and a band of forty well-armed braves was sent to capture and destroy it. On the day of the attack G. S. Comstock, owner of Oak Grove ranch, was away from home; but besides his family there were five men at the stockade. The Indians came to the ranch about mid-day in a friendly attitude. They had left their ponies about a quarter of a mile away. They asked for something to eat and were permitted to come into the house with their guns and bows and arrows on their persons. They finished their dinner and each received a portion of tobacco and some matches. Then without any warning they turned upon the inmates of the ranch yelling and shooting like demons, and only for the quickness and great presence of mind of one of the Comstock boys the whites would all have been killed or taken away captives to submit to the cruelty of the savage foe.

A Mr. Kelly, from Beatrice, was there and was the first to fall pierced with an arrow. He had a navy revolver in his belt. The Indians rushed for it but young Comstock was too quick for them and seized the revolver first and shot down the leader of the braves. Seeing the fate of their leader, the Indians rushed to the door in great fright. The revolver was in skilful hands and three more of the braves went down under the unerring aim of young Comstock. Kelly and Butler were both killed outright. Two men by the name of Ostrander and a boy were wounded. All the other occupants of the ranch had their clothes pierced with arrows or bullets.

The Indians ran to their ponies, and while they were away planning another attack, the wounded were cared for as best they could. The doors were securely barred and the living were stationed in the most advantageous places for defense. The friendly game of the Indians had not worked as they expected, but they were not daunted and soon they encircled the house, riding, shooting, and yelling. This fiendish warfare they kept up all the afternoon. They tried several times to set the buildings on fire but shots from experienced marksmen, both men and women, kept them at bay.

The new leader of the Indians rode a white pony and seemed at times to work his warriors up to great desperation, and young Comstock made up his mind to shoot him the next time that he appeared. It was now too dark to distinguish one man from another. Mr. Comstock, senior, was mounted on a white horse and he was enroute home about the time the Indians were expected to return. The vigilant son raised his gun, took aim, and was about to shoot, when one of the girls, remembering that her father rode a white horse, called out, "Father, is it you?" An affirmative answer came back just in time to prevent the fatal shot which would have followed in an instant more. Mr. Comstock had ridden through the Indian lines, while returning to his ranch, unmolested. He said to me he believed the Indians spared his life that evening on account of favors he had always granted them.

Five miles east of the Comstock ranch that day a boy eighteen years old by the name of Ulig was met by two Indians. One of them shook hands with him while the other pierced his body with a spear and then scalped him and left him writhing in the broiling sun to die on the prairie. This savage and brutal act was followed by others unparalleled even in savage warfare. Four miles above Oak Grove at a place called the Narrows on the Little Blue river, lived a family of ten persons by the name of Eubanks. They were from the East and knew nothing of Indians' cruel warfare and when they were attacked they left their cabin and ran for the trees and brush along the river banks. Nine of them were murdered in the most brutal manner: scalped and stripped of their clothing. Two of the women, Mrs. Eubanks, with a young babe in her arms, and Laura Roper, a school teacher who was there on a visit, were the only ones who arrived at a place of concealment and would have escaped had not the babe from heat and fright cried out. The practiced ear of the Indians caught the sound and they were made captives and subjected to the most inhuman and beastly treatment by the horrible savages. After the mother was made a captive the baby cried from hunger. The mother was so famished she could not nourish the babe but held it fondly in her arms trying to soothe it; and one of the merciless savages stepped up and brained it with his tomahawk. No pen or brush can tell the horrors of this diabolical deed.

The two women were subjected to six months of bondage impossible to describe. I was telling this story one day to the late Captain Henry E. Palmer of Omaha, and learned from him that he and his command of soldiers and Pawnee scouts followed these inhuman wretches over the plains trying to bring them to bay, and finally down on the Solomon river in Kansas captured some of the Indian chiefs and succeeded in exchanging them for the two women captives.

This is one of the terrible chapters in the early settlement of Nuckolls county and was graphically detailed to me by Mr. Comstock soon after I settled in the county.

MY LAST BUFFALO HUNT

BY J. STERLING MORTON

(Read before the Nebraska State Historical Society, January 10, 1899)

Among all the glowing and glorious autumns of the forty-odd which I have enjoyed in clear-skied Nebraska, the most delicious, dreamy, and tranquil was that of 1861. The first day of October in that year surpassed in purity of air, clouds, and coloring all the other October days in my whole life. The prairies were not a somber brown, but a gorgeous old-gold; and there drifted in the dry, crisp atmosphere lace-like fragments of opalescent clouds which later in the afternoon gave the horizon the look of a far-away ocean upon which one could see fairy ships, and upon its farther-away shores splendid castles, their minarets and towers tipped with gold. The indolence of savagery saturated every inhalation, and all physical exertion except in the hunt or chase seemed repellent, irksome, and unendurable.

Then it was that--like an evolution from environment--the desire and impulse to go upon a buffalo hunt seized upon and held and encompassed and dominated every fibre of my physical, every ambition and aspiration of my mental, make-up. Controlled by this spontaneous reincarnation of the barbaric tastes and habits of some nomadic ancestor of a prehistoric generation, arrangements for an excursion to Fort Kearny on the Platte (Colonel Alexander, of the regular army, then in command) were completed. With food rations, tent and camping furniture, and arms and ammunition, and pipes and tobacco, and a few drops of distilled rye (to be used only when snake-bitten), a light one-horse wagon drawn by a well-bred horse which was driven by the writer, was early the next morning leaving Arbor Lodge, and briskly speeding westward on the "Overland Trail" leading to California. And what rare roads there were in those buoyant days of the pioneers! All the prairies, clear across the plains from the Missouri river to the mountains, were perfectly paved with solid, tough, but elastic sod. And no asphalt or block-paved avenue or well-worked pike can give the responsive pressure to the touch of a human foot or a horse-hoof that came always from those smooth and comely trails. Especially in riding on horseback were the felicities of those primitive prairie roads emphasized and accentuated. Upon them one felt the magnetism and life of his horse; they animated and electrified him with the vigor and spirit of the animal until in elation, the rider became, at least emotionally, a centaur--a semi-horse human. The invigoration and exaltation of careering over undulating prairies on a beautiful, speedy, and spirited horse thrilled every sense and satisfied, as to exhilaration, by physical exercise, the entire mental personality. Nature's roads in Nebraska are unequaled by any of their successors.

This excursion was in a wagon without springs; and after driving alone, as far as the Weeping Water crossing, I overtook an ox train loaded with goods and supplies for Gilman's ranch on the Platte away beyond Fort Kearny.

One of the proprietors, Mr. Jed Gilman, was in command of the outfit, and by his cordial and hospitable invitation I became his willing and voracious guest for the noonday meal. With a township for a dining room over which arched the turquoise-colored sky, like a vaulted ceiling, frescoed with clouds of fleecy white, we sat down upon our buffalo robes to partake of a hearty meal. There was no white settler within miles of our camp. The cry of "Dinner is now ready in the next car" had never been heard west of the Mississippi river nor even dreamed of in the East. The bill of fare was substantial: bacon fried, hot bread, strong coffee, stronger raw onions, and roasted potatoes. And the appetite which made all exquisitely palatable and delicious descended to us out of the pure air and the exhilaration of perfect health. And then came the post-prandial pipe--how fragrant and solacing its fumes--from Virginia natural leaf, compared to which the exhalations from a perfecto cigar are today a disagreeable stench. There was then the leisure to smoke, the liberty and impulse to sing, to whoop, and to generally simulate the savages into whose hunting grounds we were making an excursion. Life lengthened out before us like the Overland route to the Pacific in undulations of continuously rising hillocks and from the summit of each one scaled we saw a similarly attractive one beyond in a seemingly never-ending pathway of pleasure, ambition, and satisfaction. The gold of the Pacific coast was not more real then than the invisible possibilities of life, prosperity, success, and contentment which were to teem, thrive, and abound upon these prairies which seemed only farms asleep or like thoughts unuttered--books unopened.

But the smoke over, the oxen again yoked to the wagons and the train, like a file of huge white beetles, lumbered along to the songs, swearing, and whip-crackings of the drivers toward the crossing of Salt creek. However, by my persuasive insistence, Mr. Gilman left his wagon boss in charge and getting into my wagon accompanied me. Together we traveled briskly until quite late at night when we made camp at a point near where the town of Wahoo now stands. There was a rough ranch cabin there, and we remained until the following morning, when we struck out at a brisk trot toward Fort Kearny, entering the Platte Valley at McCabe's ranch. The day and the road were perfect. We made good time. At night we were entertained at Warfield's, on the Platte. The water in the well there was too highly flavored to be refreshing. Nine skunks had been lifted out of it the day of our arrival and only Platte river water could be had, which we found rather stale for having been hauled some distance in an old sorghum cask. But fatigue and a square meal are an innocent opiate and we were soon fast asleep under the open sky with the moon and stars only to hear how loudly a big ranchman can snore in a bedroom of a million or more acres. In the morning of our third day out, we were up, breakfasted with the sunrise, and drove on over the then untried railroad bed of the Platte Valley at a rattling gait. The stanch and speedy animal over which the reins were drawn, a splendid bay of gentle birth, had courage and endurance by heredity, and thus we made time. Ranches were from twenty to thirty miles apart. And the night of the third day found us at Mabin's.

This was a hotel, feed barn, dry goods establishment, and saloon all under one roof, about thirty miles from Fort Kearny. After a reasonably edible supper, Mr. Gilman and I were escorted to the saloon and informed that we could repose and possibly sleep in the aisle which divided it from the granary which was filled with oats. Our blankets and buffalo robes were soon spread out in this narrow pathway. On our right were about two hundred bushels of oats in bulk, and on our left the counter which stood before variously shaped bottles containing alleged gin, supposed whiskey, and probable brandy. We had not been long in a recumbent position before--instead of sleep gently creeping over us--we experienced that we were race courses and grazing grounds for innumerable myriads of sand fleas. Immediately Gilman insisted that we should change our apartment and go out on the prairies near a haystack; but I stubbornly insisted that, as the fleas had not bitten me, I would continue indoors. Thereupon Gilman incontinently left, and then the fleas with vicious vigor and voracity assaulted me. The bites were sharp, they were incisive and decisive. They came in volleys. Then in wrath I too arose from that lowly but lively couch between the oats and the bar and sullenly went out under the starlit sky to find Mr. Gilman energetically whipping his shirt over a wagon wheel to disinfest it from fleas. But the sand fleas of the Platte are not easily discharged or diverted, from a fair and juicy victim. They have a wonderful tenacity of purpose. They trotted and hopped and skipped along behind us to the haystack. They affectionately and fervidly abided with us on the prairie; and it is safe to say that there never were two human beings more thoroughly perforated, more persistently punctured with flea bites than were the two guests at Mabins's ranch during all that long and agonizing night. However, there came an end to the darkness and the attempt at sleep, and after an early breakfast we resumed the Fort Kearny journey to arrive at its end in the late afternoon of the fourth day.

There I found Colonel Alexander, of the regular army, in command. John Heth, of Virginia, was the sutler for the post and after some consultation and advisement it was determined that we might without much danger from Indians go south to the Republican river for a buffalo hunt. At that time the Cheyennes, who were a bloodthirsty tribe, were in arms against the white people and yearning for their scalps wherever found. But to avoid or mitigate dangers Colonel Alexander considerately detailed Lieutenant Bush with twelve enlisted men, all soldiers of experience in the Indian country, to go with us to the Republican Valley as an escort or guard--in military parlance, on detached service. Thus our party moved southward with ample force of arms for its defense.

The four hunters of the expedition were Lieutenant Bush, John Heth, John Talbot (who had been honorably discharged from the regular army after some years of service) and myself. The excursion was massed and ready for departure at 8 o'clock on the bright morning of October 6, 1861. The course taken was nearly due south from the present site of Kearney city in Buffalo county. The expedition consisted of two large army wagons, four mules attached to each wagon, a light, two-horse spring wagon, and four trained riding horses experienced in the chase, together with twelve soldiers of the regular U. S. army and the gentlemen already named. It had not traveled more than twenty-five miles south of Fort Kearny before it came in view of an immense and seemingly uncountable herd of buffalo.

My first sight of these primitive beeves of the plains I shall never forget. They were so distant that I could not make out their individual forms and I at once jumped to the conclusion that they were only an innumerable lot of crows sitting about upon the knobs and hillocks of the prairies. But in a few moments, when we came nearer, they materialized and were, sure enough, real bellowing, snorting, wallowing buffaloes. At first they appeared to give no heed to our outfit, but after we saddled and mounted our horses and rode into their midst they began to scatter and to form into small bands, single file. The herd separated into long, black swaying strings and each string was headed by the best meat among its numbers. The leading animal was generally a three-year-old cow. Each of these strings, or single-file bands, ran in a general southeast direction and each of the four hunters--Bush, Heth, Talbot, and the writer--selected a string and went for the preÎminent animal with enthusiasm, zeal, and impulsive foolhardiness.

In the beginning of the pell-mell, hurry-scurry race it seemed that it would be very easy to speedily overtake the desired individual buffalo that we intended to shoot and kill. The whole band seemed to run leisurely. They made a sort of sidewise gait, a movement such as one often sees in a dog running ahead of a wagon on a country road. Upon the level prairie we made very perceptible gains upon them, but when a declivity was reached and we made a down hill gallop we were obliged to rein in and hold up the horses, or take the chances of a broken leg or neck by being ditched in a badger or wolf hole. But the buffaloes with their heavy shoulders and huge hair-matted heads lumbered along down the incline with great celerity, gaining so much upon us that every now and then one of them would drop out from the line upon reaching an attractive depression, roll over two or three times in his "wallow," jump up and join his fleeing fellows before we could reach him.

But finally after swinging and swaying hither and thither with the band or line as it swayed and swung, the lead animal was reached and with much exultation and six very nervous shots put to death. My trophy proved to be a buffalo cow of two or three years of age; and after she had dropped to the ground, a nimble calf, about three months old, evidently her progeny, began making circles around and around the dead mother and bleating pitifully, enlarging the circle each time, until at last it went out of sight onto the prairie and alone, all the other parts of the herd having scattered beyond the rising bluffs and far away.

That afternoon was fuller of tense excitement, savage enthusiasms, zeal and barbaric ambition than any other that could be assorted from my life of more than sixty years. There was a certain amount of ancestral heathenism aroused in every man, spurring a horse to greater swiftness, in that chase for large game. And there was imperial exultation of the primitive barbaric instinct when the game fell dead and its whooping captors surrounded its breathless carcass.

But the wastefulness of the buffalo hunter of those days was wicked beyond description and, because of its utter recklessness of the future, wholly unpardonable. Only the hump, ribs, the tongue, and perhaps now and then one hind-quarter were saved for use from each animal. The average number of pounds of meat saved from each buffalo killed between the years 1860 and 1870 would not exceed twenty. In truth, thousands of buffaloes were killed merely to get their tongues and pelts. The inexcusable and unnecessary extermination of those beef-producing and very valuable fur-bearing animals only illustrates the extravagance of thoughtlessness and mental nearsightedness in the American people when dealing with practical and far-reaching questions. It also demonstrates, in some degree, the incapacity of the ordinary every-day law-makers of the United States. Game laws have seldom been enacted in any of the states before the virtual extinction of the game they purposed to protect. Here in Nebraska among big game were many hundreds of thousands of buffaloes, tens of thousands of elk and deer and antelope, while among smaller game the wild turkey and the prairie chicken were innumerable. But today Nebraska game is practically extinct. Even the prairie chicken and the wild turkey are seldom found anywhere along the Missouri bluffs in the southern and eastern part of the commonwealth.

Looking back: what might have been accomplished for the conservation of game in the trans-Missouri country is suggested so forcibly that one wonders at the stupendous stupidity which indolently permitted its destruction.

The first night outward and southeastward from Fort Kearny we came to Turkey creek which empties into the Republican river. There, after dark, tents were pitched at a point near the place where the government in previous years established kilns and burned lime for the use of soldiers in building quarters for themselves and the officers at Fort Kearny which was constructed in 1847 by Stewart L. Van Vliet, now a retired brigadier general and the oldest living graduate of West Point. After a sumptuous feast of buffalo steak, a strong pint of black coffee and a few pipes of good tobacco, our party retired; sleep came with celerity and the camp was peacefully at rest, with the exception of two regular soldiers who stood guard until 12 o'clock, and were then relieved by two others who kept vigil until sunrise. At intervals I awoke during the night and listened to the industrious beavers building dams on the creek. They were shoveling mud with their trowel-shaped tails into the crevices of their dams with a constantly-resounding slapping and splashing all night. The architecture of the beaver is not unlike that which follows him and exalts itself in the chinked and daubed cabins of the pioneers.

The darkness was followed by a dawn of beauty and breakfast came soon thereafter, and for the first time my eyes looked out upon the attractive, fertile and beautiful valley of the Republican river. All that delightful and invigorating day we zealously hunted. We found occasionally small bands of buffaloes here and there among the bluffs and hills along the valley of the Republican. But these animals were generally aged and of inferior quality. Besides such hunting, we found a great quantity of blue-winged and green-winged teal in the waters of the Republican and bagged not a few of them. There is no water-fowl, in my judgment, not even the redheaded duck and canvasback duck, which excels in delicate tissue and flavor the delicious teal.

Just a little before sundown, on the third day of our encampment, by the bluffs land of the Republican, Lieutenant Bush and Mr. Heth in one party, and John Talbot and I in another, were exploring the steep, wooded bluffs which skirted the valley. The timber growing at that time on the sides of these bluffs was, much of it, of very good size and I shall never forget going down a precipitous path along the face of a hill and suddenly coming upon a strange and ghastly sight among the top limbs and branches of an oak tree which sprang from the rich soil of a lower level. The weird object which then impressed itself upon my memory forever was a dead Indian sitting upright in a sort of wicker-work coffin which was secured by thongs to the main trunk of the tree. The robe with which he had been clothed had been torn away by buzzards and only the denuded skeleton sat there. The bleached skull leered and grinned at me as though the savage instinct to repulse an intruder from their hunting grounds still lingered in the fleshless head. Perfectly I recall the long scalp-lock, floating in the wind, and the sense of dread and repellent fear which, for the startled moment, took possession of me in the presence of this arboreally interred Indian whose remains had been stored away in a tree-top instead of having been buried in the ground.

Not long after this incident we four came together again down in the valley at a great plum orchard. The plum trees covered an area of several acres; they stood exceedingly close together. The frosts had been just severe enough to drop the fruit onto the ground. Never before nor since have my eyes beheld or my palate tasted as luscious fruit as those large yellow and red plums which were found that afternoon lying in bushels in the valley of the Republican. While we were all seated upon the ground eating plums and praising their succulence and flavor we heard the click-cluck of a turkey. Immediately we laid ourselves flat upon the earth and in the course of ten minutes beheld a procession of at least seventy-five wild turkeys feeding upon plums. We remained moveless and noiseless until those turkeys had flown up into the tall cottonwood trees standing thereabouts and gone to roost. Then after darkness had settled down upon the face of the earth we faintly discerned the black forms or hummocks of fat turkeys all through the large and leafless limbs of the cottonwoods which had been nearly defoliated by the early frosts of October. It required no deft marksmanship or superior skill to bring down forty of those birds in a single evening. That number we took into camp. In quick time we had turkey roasted, turkey grilled, turkey broiled; and never have I since eaten any turkey so well flavored, so juicy and rich, as that fattened upon the wild plums of the Republican Valley in the year 1861.

At last, surfeited with hunting and its successes, we set out on our return to Fort Kearny. When about half way across the divide, a sergeant, one of the most experienced soldiers and plainsmen of the party, declared that he saw a small curl of smoke in the hazy distance and a little to the west and south of us. To my untrained eye the smoke was at first invisible, but with a field glass I ultimately discerned a delicate little blue thread hanging in the sky, which the soldiers pronounced smoke ascending from an Indian camp. Readjusting the glasses I soon made out to see three Indians stretched by the fire seemingly asleep, while two were sitting by the embers apparently cooking, eating and drinking. Very soon, however, the two feasters espied our wagons and party. Immediately they came running on foot to meet us; the other three, awaking, followed them; speedily they were in our midst. They proved, however, to be peaceful Pawnees. Mr. John Heth spoke the language of that tribe and I shall never forget the coolness with which these representatives of that nomadic race informed him that Mrs. Heth and his little two-years-of-age daughter, Minnie, were in good health in their wigwam at Fort Kearny; they were sure of it because they had looked into the window of the Heth home the day before and saw them eating and drinking their noonday meal.

These Indians then expressed a wish for some turkey feathers. They were told to help themselves. Immediately they pulled out a vast number of the large feathers of the wings and tails and decorated their own heads with them. The leader of the aboriginal expedition, in conversation with Mr. Heth, informed him that although they were on foot they carried the lariats which we saw hanging from their arms for the purpose of hitching onto and annexing some Cheyenne ponies which they were going south to steal. They walked away from home, but intended to ride back. The barbaric commander in charge of this larcenous expedition was named "The Fox," and when questioned by Mr. Heth as to the danger of the enterprise, and informed that he might probably lose his life and get no ponies at all, Captain Fox smiled and said grimly that he knew he should ride back to the Pawnee village on the Loup the owner of good horses; that only a year or two before that time he had been alone down into the Cheyenne village and got a great many horses safely out and up onto the Loup fork among the Pawnees without losing a single one. "The Fox" admitted, however, that even in an expedition so successful as the one which he recalled there were a great many courage-testing inconveniences and annoyances. But he dwelt particularly upon the fact that the Cheyennes always kept their ponies in a corral which was in the very center of their village. The huts, habitations, tipis, and wigwams of the owners of the ponies were all constructed around their communal corral in a sort of a circle, but "The Fox" said that he nevertheless, in his individual excursion of which he proudly boasted, crawled during the middle of the night in among the ponies and was about to slip a lariat on the bell-mare without her stirring, when she gave a little jump, and the bell on her neck rang out pretty loudly. Then he laid down in the center of the herd and kept still, very still, while the horses walked over him and tramped upon him until he found it very unpleasant. But very soon he saw and heard some of the Cheyennes come out and look and walk about to see if anything was wrong. Then he said he had to stay still and silent under the horses' hoofs and make no noise, or die and surely be scalped. At last, however, the Cheyennes, one after another, all went back into their wigwams to sleep, and then he very slowly and without a sound took the bell off from the mare, put his lariat on her neck quietly, led her out and all the herd of Cheyenne ponies followed. He never stopped until he was safe up north of the Platte river and had all his equine spoils safe in the valley of the Loup fork going towards the Pawnee village where Genoa now stands.

The Fox was an "expansionist" and an annexationist out of sympathy for the oppressed ponies of the Cheyennes.

"The Fox" declared that the number of horses he made requisition for at that time on the stables of the Cheyennes was three hundred. At this statement some incredulity was shown by Mr. Heth, myself, and some others present. Immediately "The Fox" threw back his woolen blanket which was ornamented on the inside with more than two hundred small decorative designs of horses. Among the Pawnees, and likewise, if I remember rightly, among the Otoes and Omahas, robes and blankets were thus embellished and so made to pass current as real certificates of a choice brand of character for their wearers. Each horse depicted on the robe was notice that the owner and wearer had stolen such horse. Finally, after expressions of friendship and good will, the expedition in charge of "The Fox" bade us adieu and briskly walked southward on their mission for getting horses away from their traditional enemies.

It is perhaps worth while to mention that, it being in the autumn of the year, all these Indians were carefully and deftly arrayed in autumn-colored costumes. Their blankets, head-gear and everything else were the color of dead and dried prairie grass. This disguise was for the purpose of making themselves as nearly indistinguishable as possible on the brown surface of the far-stretching plains. For then the weeds and grasses had all been bleached by the fall frosts. We were given an exhibition of the nearly perfect invisibleness of "The Fox" by his taking a position near a badger hole around which a lot of tall weeds had grown upon the prairie, and really the almost exact similitude of coloring which he had cunningly reproduced in his raiment made him even at a short distance indistinguishable among the faded weeds and grasses by which he was surrounded.

In due time we reached Fort Kearny and after a pleasant and most agreeable visit with Mr. Heth and his family, Colonel Alexander and Lieutenant Bush, I pushed on alone for the Missouri river, by the North Platte route, bringing home with me two or three turkeys and a quarter of buffalo meat.

About the second evening, as I remember it, I arrived at the agency of the four bands of the Pawnee on the Loup fork of the Platte river, near where the village of Genoa in Nance county now stands. Judge Gillis of Pennsylvania was the U. S. government agent then in charge of that tribe, and Mr. Allis was his interpreter. There I experienced the satisfaction of going leisurely and observingly through the villages of the four bands of Pawnees, which there made their habitation. The names of the four confederate bands of Pawnee Indians were Grand Pawnee, Wolf Pawnee, Republican Pawnee, and Tapage Pawnee. At that time they all together numbered between four thousand and five thousand.

Distinguished among them for fearlessness and impetuous courage and constant success in war was an Indian who had been born with his left hand so shrunken and shriveled that it looked like the contracted claw of a bird. He was celebrated among all the tribes of the plains as "Crooked Hand, the Fighter." Hearing me express a wish for making the acquaintance of this famous warrior and scalp accumulator, Judge Gillis and Mr. Allis kindly volunteered to escort me to his domicile and formally introduce me. We took the trail which lay across Beaver creek up into the village. This village was composed of very large, earthen, mound-like wigwams. From a distance they looked like a number of great kettles turned wrong side up on the prairie. Finally we came to the entrance of the abode of Crooked Hand. He was at home. I was presented to him by the interpreter, Mr. Allis. Through him, addressing the tawny hero who stood before me, I said:

It has come to my ears that you are and always have been a very brave man in battle. Therefore I have made a long journey to see you and to shake the hand of a great warrior.

This seemed to suit his bellicose eminence and to appeal to his barbaric vanity. Consequently I continued, saying: I hear that you have skilfully killed a great many Sioux and that you have kept the scalp of each warrior slain by you. If this be true, I wish you would show me these trophies of your courage and victories?

Immediately Crooked Hand reached under a sort of rude settee and pulled out a very cheap traveling trunk, which was locked. Then taking a string from around his neck he found the key thereunto attached, inserted it in the lock, turned it, and with gloating satisfaction threw back the lid of the trunk. It is fair to state that, notwithstanding Mr. Crooked Hand's personal adornments in the way of paint, earrings, and battle mementoes, he was evidently not a man of much personal property, for the trunk contained not one other portable thing except a string of thirteen scalps. This he lifted out with his right hand and held up before me as a connoisseur would exhibit a beautiful cameo--with intense satisfaction and self-praise expressed in his features.

The scalps were not large, averaging not much more in circumference than a silver dollar (before the crime of 1873). Each scalp was big enough to firmly and gracefully retain the scalp-lock which its original possessor had nourished. Each scalp was neatly lined with flaming red flannel and encircled by and stitched to a willow twig just as boys so stretch and preserve squirrel skins. Then there was a strong twine which ran through the center of each of the thirteen scalps leaving a space of something like three or four inches between each two.

After looking at these ghastly certificates of prowess in Indian warfare I said to the possessor: "Do you still like to go into fights with the Sioux?" He replied hesitatingly:

"Yes, I go into the fights with the Sioux but I stay only until I can kill one man, get his scalp and get out of the battle."

Then I asked: "Why do you do this way now, and so act differently from the fighting plans of your earlier years when you remained to the end of the conflict?" Instantly he replied and gave me this aboriginal explanation:

"You see, my friend, I have only one life. To me death must come only once. But I have taken thirteen lives. And now when I go into battle there are thirteen chances of my being killed to one of my coming out of the fight alive."

This aboriginal application of the doctrine of chance is equally as reasonable as some of the propositions relating to chances found in "Hedges' Logic," which I studied in the regular college course. There is more excuse for a savage faith in chance than can be made for the superstitious belief in it which is held by some civilized people.

My last buffalo hunt was finished and its trophies and its choicest memories safely stored for exhibition or reminiscence at Arbor Lodge. More than thirty-seven years afterwards I am permitted this evening by your indulgence and consideration to attempt faintly to portray the country and its primitive condition at that time in that particular section of Nebraska which is now Franklin county.

But in concluding this discursive and desultory narrative I cannot refrain from referring to and briefly descanting on another and an earlier and larger expedition into the valley of the Republican which set out from Mexico in the year 1540 under the command of Coronado.

That explorer was undoubtedly the first white man to visit Nebraska. In his report to the Spanish government is a description of buffalo which for graphic minuteness and correctness has never been excelled. Thus it pictures them as they appeared to him and his followers more than three hundred and fifty years ago:

"These oxen are of the bigness and color of our bulls, but their horns are not so great. They have a great bunch upon their foreshoulders, and more hair upon their fore-part than on their hinder-part; and it is like wool. They have, as it were, a horse mane upon their back bone, and much hair, and very long from the knees downward. They have great tufts of hair hanging down their foreheads, and it seemeth they have beards, because of the great store of hair hanging down at their chins and throats. The males have very long tails, and a great knob or flock at the end, so that in some respects they resemble the lion, and in some other the camel. They push with their horns, they run, they overtake and kill a horse when they are in their rage and anger. Finally, it is a fierce beast of countenance and form of body. The horses fled from them, either because of their deformed shape, or because they had never seen them before. Their masters [meaning no doubt the Indians] have no other riches or substance; of them they eat, they drink, they apparel, they shoe themselves; and of their hides they make many things, as houses, shoes, apparel and robes; of their bones they make bodkins; of their sinews and hair, thread; of their horns, maws and bladders, vessels; of their dung, fire; and of their calf skins, budgets, wherein they draw and keep water. To be short, they make so many things of them as they have need of, or as may suffice them in the use of this life."

It is perhaps a work of supererogation for me after the lapse of three and a half centuries to endorse and verify the accuracy of that word picture of the buffalo. A photograph of the great herd which I rode into during my hunt could hardly better convey to the mind the images of buffalo. The hundreds of years intervening between my own excursion into the valley of the Republican and the invasion of Coronado had neither impaired, improved, nor perceptibly changed either the buffalo or the soil of that fertile section now comprising the county of Franklin in the state of Nebraska. Of that immediate propinquity Coronado said: "The place I have reached is in the fortieth degree of latitude. The earth is the best possible for all kinds of productions of Spain, for while it is very strong and black, it is very well watered by brooks, springs and rivers. I found prunes" [wild plums, no doubt, just as my party and the wild turkeys were feasting upon in October, 1861] "like those of Spain, some of which are black; also some excellent grapes and mulberries."

And Jaramillo, who was with Coronado, says: "This country has a superb appearance, and such that I have not seen better in all Spain, neither in Italy nor France, nor in any other country where I have been in the service of your majesty. It is not a country of mountains; there are only some hills, some plains and some streams of very fine water. It satisfies me completely. I presume that it is very fertile and favorable for the cultivation of all kinds of fruits."

And this land whence the Coronado expedition upon foot retraced its march to Old Mexico, a distance, by the trail he made, of 3,230 miles, was in latitude forty degrees and distant westward from the Missouri about one hundred and forty miles. Geographically, topographically, and in every other way, the description of Franklin and the neighborhood of Riverton in that county.

Here then in Franklin county it is recorded that the last horse belonging to Coronado and his band of precious-metal hunters died. At that time all the horses on this continent had been imported. The loss of this animal that day at that place was like the loss today of a man-of-war for Spain in a great naval conflict with the United States. It was discouraging and overwhelming and resulted in the relinquishment of further exploration for the land of Quivera--the home of gold and silver--and the return to Old Mexico. There was no use for saddles, bridles and other equestrian trappings, for with no horse to ride even stirrups were thrown away, and it has been the good fortune of Nebraska to have them exhumed after a sequestration of more than three centuries.

And thus, after so many years of delay, I give you the story of the first buffalo hunt and the last buffalo hunt in the Republican Valley concerning which I am competent to make statement.

HOW THE FOUNDER OF ARBOR DAY CREATED THE MOST FAMOUS WESTERN ESTATE

BY PAUL MORTON

"The memories that live and bloom in trees, that whisper of the loved and lost in summer leaves, are as imperishable as the seasons of the year--immortal as the love of a mother."--J. STERLING MORTON.

I suppose the story of a successful pioneer will always interest and encourage people. The narrative of a strong, far-sighted man who makes something out of nothing seems to put heart into the average worker. That is why I am telling the story of how my father, J. Sterling Morton, and his young wife, set their faces toward the West, one October day in 1854, and built them a home on the prairies.

Arbor Lodge as it stands today, with its classic porticoes, its gardens, and its arboretum, the present country home of my brother, Mr. Joy Morton, is not the home that I remember as a boy. That was a much more modest edifice. Yet even that house was a palace compared with the first one, which was a little log-cabin standing on the lonely prairie, exposed to blizzards and Indians, and with scarcely a tree in sight.

My father was a young newspaper man in Detroit, only recently out of college, when he took his bride, two years his junior, out to the little-known frontier. Attracted by the information about the new country brought out by Douglas and others in the Kansas-Nebraska debates in congress, he conceived and acted on the idea that here were fortunes to be made. Taking such household goods as they could, they traveled to the new land, making the last stage up the Missouri river by boat.

Nebraska at that time was the Indian's own country. There were not over 1,500 white people in the entire state. All the country west of the Missouri was called in the geographies the Great American Desert, and it took a good deal of faith to believe that anything could be made to grow where annual fires destroyed even the prairie grass and the fringes of cottonwoods and scrub-oaks along the rivers. Today this section, within a radius of some two hundred miles, includes perhaps the most fertile soil in the world and has become a center of industry, agriculture, and horticulture for the middle west. There was then no political organization, no laws; men went about fully armed. There were no roads and no bridges to speak of in the entire state; it was "waste land."

This was part of the land of the Louisiana Purchase, and my father bought a quarter section (160 acres) from the man who preÎmpted it from the government. The price paid was $1.25 an acre. Today the estate comprises about 1,000 acres, and the land is readily saleable at a hundred times this price.

On the spot where Arbor Lodge now stands, my father built his first log-cabin. This was soon replaced by a modest frame house; there was not then another frame house between it and the Rocky Mountains, six hundred miles away. On the same place two succeeding houses were built by my father, the present, and fifth, Arbor Lodge having been built by his sons after his death. My father called these first four houses, "seed, bud, blossom, and fruit."

The first winter was a mild one, fortunately, but there were plenty of hardships for the young people. There were no very near neighbors, the village of Kearny Heights, now Nebraska City, being then over two miles away. The Indians formed the greatest danger. I can remember a day in my boyhood when we had everything packed up, ready to flee across the Missouri to Iowa from the murderous Pawnees and Cheyennes, who, fortunately, did not come that time. A part of that first winter my father and mother spent in Bellevue.

When spring came they set about building their home. Later on they had young trees sent to them from the East, including some excellent varieties of apples, peaches, cherries, pears, etc. Things grew fast; it was only the prairie fires that had kept the land a desert so long, and year by year these fires had enriched the soil.

The farm was located on the Overland trail, the favorite route to Pike's Peak and the El Dorado. Many of the Mormon emigrants crossed the river at that place. I can remember the big trains of ox and mule teams passing the house.

My father's interests were always inseparably joined with those of the community; he was in public life from the start, and Nebraska's fortunes were his. His neighbors all had the same experiences, and many a farmer who started with nothing is now wealthy. The farmers had to bring in from Missouri and Iowa all the food for themselves and their horses and cattle the first year. They were living on faith. During the first spring and summer the anxiety was great, but they were rewarded by a good harvest in the fall. The success of that harvest settled the Nebraska question forever. It was a land that could support its inhabitants.

But the end was not yet. The "get-rich-quick" fever struck the community. Immigration was over-stimulated, and town lots were manufactured at a great rate. In a few months they increased in price from $300 to $3,000 apiece. Banks were created and money was made plenty by legislation. My father never caught this fever, being always a sound-money man and believing in wealth based on the soil.

At the end of the second summer the crop of town lots and Nebraska bank-notes was greater than the crop of corn. But the lesson was not learned until the panic of 1857 drove out the speculators and left the farmers in possession of the territory. With the spring of 1858 sanity came to rule once more, and there was less bank making and more prairie breaking. The citizens had learned that agriculture was to be the salvation of the new country. In 1857, two dollars a bushel had been paid for imported corn, but in 1859 the same steamers that had brought it in bore thousands of bushels south at forty cents a bushel, bringing more money into the territory than all the sales of town lots for a year.

The first territorial fair was held in Nebraska City in 1859, and on that occasion my father made a speech in which he reviewed the history of the new territory up to that time. I speak of these things because my father was always a man of public interests, and his fortunes were wrapped up in those of the territory. His hardships came when the community went crazy, and his fortune grew when sanity was once more restored.

I know of nothing that better illustrates my father's private character than an editorial which he wrote and published in _The Conservative_ a short time before the untimely death of my brother Carl. The fact that both the author and the two loved ones of whom he so tenderly wrote have passed to the Great Beyond, imparts to this beautiful passage a most exquisite pathos:

"It was a bright, balmy morning in April more than a quarter of a century ago. The sun was nursing the young grass into verdure, and the prairie was just beginning to put off its winter coat of somber colorings. Tranquil skies and morning mists were redolent at Arbor Lodge of the coming resurrection of the foliage and flowers that died the autumn before. All about the cottage home there was hope and peace; and everywhere the signs of woman's watchful love and tidy care, when, suddenly, toned with affectionate solicitude, rang out: 'Carl, Carl!' but no answer came. Downstairs, upstairs, at the barn, even in the well, everywhere, the mother's voice called anxiously, again and again. But the silence, menacing and frightening, was unbroken by an answer from the lost boy. At last, however, he was found behind a smokehouse, busily digging in the ground with a small spade, though only five years of age, and he said: 'I'm too busy to talk. I'm planting an orchard,' and sure enough, he had set out a seedling apple tree, a small cottonwood, and a little elm.

"The delighted mother clasped him in her arms, kissed him, and said: 'This orchard must not be destroyed.'

"And so now

"'I hear the muffled tramp of years Come stealing up the slopes of Time; They bear a train of smiles and tears Of burning hopes and dreams sublime.'

"The child's orchard is more than thirty years of age. The cottonwood is a giant now, and its vibrant foliage talks, summer after summer, in the evening breeze with humanlike voice, and tells its life story to the graceful, swaying elm near by, while the gnarled and scrubby little apple tree, shaped, as to its head, like a despondent toadstool, stands in dual shade, and bears small sweet apples, year after year, in all humility. But that orchard must not be destroyed. It was established by the youngest tree planter who ever planted in this tree planter's state, and for his sake and the memory of the sweet soul who nursed and loved him, it lives and grows, one cottonwood, one apple tree, one elm.

"'But O, for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still.'

"The memories that live and bloom in trees, that whisper of the loved and lost in summer leaves, are as imperishable as the seasons of the year--immortal as the love of a mother."

EARLY REMINISCENCES OF NEBRASKA CITY

BY ELLEN KINNEY WARE

_Social Aspects_

As a girl graduate I came to Nebraska City from Virginia, at an early day. It seemed to me that I was leaving everything attractive socially and intellectually, behind me, but I was mistaken. On arriving here, I expected to see quite a town, was disappointed, for two large brick hotels, and a few scattered houses comprised the place. Among my first acquaintances was the family of Governor Black, consisting of his daughter about my own age, his wife, and himself. He was not only bright and clever, but a wit as well, and famous as a story-teller. Alas a sad fate awaited him. For leaving here to take command of a Pennsylvania regiment, he was killed early in the civil war.

Those were freighting days and Russell, Majors and Waddell, government freighters, made this their headquarters. Alexander Majors brought his family here adding much socially to the town. Major Martin, an army officer, was stationed here. He was a charming gentleman and had a lovely wife. Dancing was the principal amusement with the young people. Informal dances at private homes and occasionally on a steamboat when it arrived, brilliantly lighted and having a band of music on board. At the "Outfit" as it was called, where the supplies for the freighting company were kept, dwelt a family, Raisin by name, who were exceedingly hospitable, not only entertaining frequently, but often sending an ambulance for their guests. At these parties no round dancing was indulged in, just simple quadrilles and the lancers. Mr. and Mrs. J. Sterling Morton, who lived on a country place, a short distance from town, which has since become widely known as Arbor Lodge, were among the most active entertainers, dispensing that delightful hospitality for which in later times they were so well known.

And so we lived without railroads, without telephones, automobiles, or theaters. But I believe that our social enjoyment was greater than it is now. Instead of railroads, we had steamboats arriving almost daily from St. Louis, St. Joseph, and other towns. In carriages we drove to Omaha and back, and the social intercourse of the two towns was much greater than it is now.

[Illustration: OREGON TRAIL MONUMENT, LOCATED AT THE POINT WHERE THE LINE BETWEEN JEFFERSON AND GAGE COUNTIES INTERSECTS THE KANSAS-NEBRASKA STATE LINE

Dedicated May 12, 1914. Cost $350. Trail crosses state line 1,986 feet east, and crosses Jefferson-Gage county line 2,286 feet north of this point. Erected by the citizens of Gage and Jefferson counties, Nebraska, Washington county, Kansas, and Elizabeth Montague Chapter, Daughters of the American Revolution]

Amateur theatricals took the place of the theater, and often brilliant, undreamed of talent was shown. Literature also was not neglected, many highly educated men and women were among our pioneers and literary societies were a prominent part of our social life. We played chess in those days, but not cards. This alone might be taken as an index of how much less frivolous that day was than the present.

In 1860 Bishop Talbot arrived here from Indianapolis and made this his home, adding greatly socially and intellectually to the life of the community. In his family was the Rev. Isaac Hager, beloved and revered by all who knew him, a most thorough musician, as well as a fine preacher.

Remembering old times we sometimes ask ourselves, where now are the men and women, equal to the ones we knew in those days, certainly there are none superior to them, in intellect, manners, wit, and true nobility.

"Oh brave hearts journeyed to the west, When this old town was new!"

SOME PERSONAL INCIDENTS

BY W. A. MCALLISTER

My father and family came to Nebraska in 1858, living two years at Genoa. At this time the government assigned what is now Nance county, to the Pawnee Indians, as a reservation. When the white settlers sought other homes our family located eight miles east of Columbus, at McAllister's lake. Every fall my father hired about sixty squaws to husk out his crop of corn. Only one buck ever came to work, and he was always known as "Squaw Charlie" after that. He spoke English quite well. They were slow workers, husking about twenty bushels per day. They were very gluttonous at meals, eating much bread, with meat soup containing potatoes and other vegetables, cooked in large twenty gallon camp kettles. This was supplemented by watermelons by the wagonload. It required a week or ten days to harvest the corn crop. The Indians were very thievish, stealing almost as much as their wages amounted to. During these years I often witnessed their "Medicine Dances."

When fifteen years old I enlisted in Company B, Second Nebraska Cavalry, and went to Fort Kearny. Our company relieved the Tenth Infantry, which went to the front. In less than twenty days this company was nearly annihilated at the battle of Fredericksburg.

While at the fort a buffalo hunt was organized by the officers, and I had an opportunity to go. Our party went south to the valley of the Republican. The first night we camped at the head of the Big Blue, and the second day I noticed south of us, about eight miles distant, a dark line along the horizon extending as far east and west as the eye could reach. I inquired what it was and an old hunter replied "buffaloes." I could not believe him, but in a few hours found he was right, for we were surrounded by millions of them. They were hurrying to the east with a roaring like distant thunder. Our sportsmen moved in a body through the herd looking for calves, not caring to carry back the meat of the old specimens. Strange to say this tremendous herd seemed to be composed of males, for the cows were still on the Oklahoma ranges caring for their calves, until strong enough to tramp north again. We noticed an old fellow making good progress on three legs, one foot having been injured. One of the party wished to dispose of him, but his wooly forehead covered with sand, turned every bullet. Finally the hunter asked me to attract his attention, while he placed a bullet in his heart. In doing this, he almost succeeded in goring my pony, but I turned a second too quickly for him. I was near enough to see the fire flashing from his angry eyes. In a few minutes he fell with a thud.

Several years after the war being over, I worked for the Union Pacific railroad company. At Kearney, in 1869, we met the Buck surveying party, who had come west to lay out, for the government, the lands of the Republican Valley. In this company was a young man from Pontiac, Illinois, named Harry McGregor. He left a home of plenty to hunt buffalo and Indians, but found among other privations, he could not have all the sugar he wished, so at Kearney he decided to leave the party and work with us. This decision saved his life, for the rest of the surveyors, about ten in all, after starting south next morning, were never seen again. They were surprised and killed by the Indians. Their skeletons were found several years later, bleaching on the Nebraska prairie.

MAJOR NORTH'S BUFFALO HUNT

BY MINNIE FREEMAN PENNY

A party under the direction of Major Frank North set out with six wagon teams and four buffalo horses on November 13, 1871, to engage in a buffalo hunt. The other men were Luther North, C. Stanley, Hopkins Brown, Charles Freeman, W. E. Freeman, W. E. Freeman, Jr., and Messrs. Bonesteel, Wasson, and Cook. They camped the first night at James Cushing's ranch, eighteen miles out; the second night at Jason Parker's home at Lone Tree, now Central City, and the third night arrived at Grand Island. On the way to Grand Island one of the party accidentally started a prairie fire six miles east of Grand Island. A hard fight was made and the flames subdued just in time to save a settler's stable.

Leaving Grand Island on the sixteenth they crossed the Platte river and camped on the West Blue. From this point in the journey the party suffered incredible hardships until their return.

About midnight the wind changed to the north, bringing rain and sleet, and inside of an hour a blizzard was raging on the open prairie. The horses were covered with snow and ice and there was no fuel for the fires. The men went out as far as they dared to go for wood, being unsuccessful. It was decided to try to follow the Indian trail south--made by the Pawnee scouts under Major North. Little progress could be made and they soon "struck camp" near some willows that afforded a little protection to their horses and a "windbreak" was made for man and beast. This camp was at the head of the Big Sandy, called by this party the "Big Smoky" for the men suffered agonies from the smoke in the little tipi.

For two days the storm continued in all its terrible force. The wind blew and the air was so full of snow that it was blinding. The cold was intense. The men finally determined to find some habitation at any price and in groups of two and three left camp following the creek where they were sure some one had settled. A sod house was found occupied by two English families who received the party most hospitably. Charles Freeman, older than the other men of the party, suffered a collapse and remained at this home. During the night the storm abated and next morning, finding all the ravines choked with heavy snow drifts, it was decided by vote to abandon the hunt. They dug out their belongings from under many feet of snow, sold their corn to the English families to lighten their load and started back. The journey home was full of accidents, bad roads, and drifted ravines. Reaching the Union Pacific railroad at Grand Island Major North and Mr. Bonesteel returned to Columbus by rail, also Mr. Stanley from Lone Tree. The rest of the party returned by team, arriving on November 24.

Major North admitted that of all his experiences on the prairie--not excepting his years with the Pawnee scouts--this "beat them all" as hazardous and perplexing.

The foregoing is taken from my father's diary.

PIONEER LIFE

BY MRS. JAMES G. REEDER

It is almost impossible for people of the present day to realize the hardships and privations that the first settlers in Nebraska underwent. Imagine coming to a place where there was nothing but what you had brought with you in wagons. Add to the discomfort of being without things which in your former home had seemed necessities, the pests which abound in a new country: the rattlesnake, the coyote, the skunk, the weasel, and last--but not least--the flea.

My father, Samuel C. Smith, held the post of "trader" for the Pawnee Indians under Major Wheeler in 1865-66. We lived in a house provided by the government, near the Indian school at Genoa, or "The Reservation," as it was commonly called. I was only a few weeks old, and in order to keep me away from the fleas, a torture to everyone, they kept me in a shallow basket of Indian weave, suspended from the ceiling by broad bands of webbing, far enough from the floor and wall to insure safety.

I have heard my mother tell of how the Indians would walk right into the house without knocking, or press their faces against a window and peer in. They were usually respectful; they simply knew no better. Sometimes in cold weather three or four big men would walk into the kitchen and insist upon staying by the fire, and mother would have hard work to drive them out.

The next year my father moved his family to a homestead two miles east of Genoa where he had built a large log house and stables surrounded by a high tight fence, which was built for protection against the unfriendly Indians who frequently came to make war on the Pawnees. The government at times kept a company of soldiers stationed just north of us, and when there would be an "Indian scare," the officers' wives as well as our few neighbors would come to our place for safety. Major Noyes was at one time stationed there. Firearms of all sorts were always kept handy, and my mother could use them as skilfully as my father.

One night my father's barn was robbed of eight horses by the Sioux and the same band took ten head from Mr. Gerrard, who lived four miles east of us. E. A. Gerrard, Luther North, and my father followed their trail to the Missouri river opposite Yankton, South Dakota, and did not see a white man while they were gone. They did not recover the horses, but twenty years after the government paid the original cost of the horses without interest. The loss of these horses and the accidental death of a brother of mine so discouraged my father that he moved to Columbus in 1870.

One of the delights of my childhood were the nights in early autumn when all the neighborhood would go out to burn the grass from the prairie north of us for protection against "prairie fires," as great a foe as was the unfriendly Indian of a few years before.

In the summer of 1874, which in Nebraska history is known as "the grasshopper year," my grandmother, Mrs. William Boone, accompanied by her daughter, Mrs. Mary Hemphill, and granddaughter, Ada Hemphill, came to make us a visit. For their entertainment we drove in a three-seated platform spring wagon or carryall to see the Indians in their village near Genoa. Their lodges were made of earth in a circular form with a long narrow entrance extending out like the handle of a frying pan. As we neared the village we came upon an ordinary looking Indian walking in the road, and to our surprise my father greeted him very cordially and introduced him to us. It was Petalesharo, chief of the Pawnees, but without the feathers and war-paint that I imagined a chief would always wear. He invited us to his lodge and we drove to the entrance, but my grandmother and aunt could not be persuaded to leave the surrey. My cousin, being more venturesome, started in with my father, but had gone only a few steps when she gathered up her skirts and cried, "Oh, look at the fleas! Just see them hop!" and came running back to the rig, assuring us she had seen enough. The Indians must have taken the fleas with them when they moved to Oklahoma, for we seldom see one now.

EARLY DAYS IN POLK COUNTY

BY CALMAR MCCUNE

In the early history of the county, county warrants were thicker than the leaves on the trees (for trees were scarce then), and of money in the pockets of most people there was none. Those were the days when that genial plutocrat, William H. Waters, relieved the necessities of the needy by buying up county warrants for seventy-five cents on the dollar. Don't understand this as a reflection on the benevolent intentions of Mr. Waters, for he paid as high a price as anybody else offered; I mention it only to illustrate the financial condition of the people and the body politic.

Henry Mahan was postmaster and general merchant. The combined postoffice and store which, with a blacksmith shop, constituted the business part of the town of Osceola, was located on the west side of the square. It was a one and one-half story frame and on the second floor was _The Homesteader_ (now the Osceola _Record_). Here H. T. Arnold, W. F. Kimmel, Frank Burgess, the writer, and Stephen Fleharty exercised their gray matter by grinding out of their exuberant and sometimes lurid imaginations original local items and weighty editorials. In those days if a top buggy was seen out on the open, treeless prairie, the entire business population turned out to watch it and soon there were bets as to whether it came from Columbus or Seward, for then there was not a top buggy in Polk county. The first drug store was opened by John Beltzer, a country blacksmith who suddenly blossomed from the anvil into a full-fledged pharmacist. Doctor Stone compounded the important prescriptions for a while.

I need not try to describe the grasshopper raid of 1874 for the old-timers remember it and I could not picture the tragedy so that others could see it. To see the sun's rays dimmed by the flying agents of destruction; to witness the disappearance of every vestige of green vegetation--the result of a year's labor, which was to most of the inhabitants the only resource against actual want, to see this I say, one must live through it. Many of the early settlers were young people newly married, who had left their homes in the East with all their earthly possessions in a covered wagon, or "prairie schooner" as it was called, and making the trip overland, had landed with barely enough money to exist until the first crop was harvested. Added to the loss and privation entailed by the visitation of the winged host was the constant dread that the next season would bring a like scourge.

On Sunday afternoon, April 13, 1873, I left the farm home of James Bell in Valley precinct for Columbus, expecting to take the train there Monday morning for Omaha. The season was well advanced, the treeless prairie being covered with verdure. It was a balmy sunshiny spring day, as nearly ideal as even Nebraska can produce.

As I left the Clother hotel that evening to attend the Congregational church I noticed that the clouds were banking heavily in the northwest. There was a roll of distant thunder, a flash of lightning, and a series of gentle spring showers followed and it was raining when I went to bed at my hotel. Next morning when I looked out of my window I could not see half-way across the street. The wind was blowing a gale, which drove large masses of large, heavy snow-flakes southward. Already where obstructions were met the huge drifts were forming. This continued without cessation of either snow or wind all day Monday and until late Tuesday night. Wednesday about noon the snow plow came, followed by the Monday train, which I boarded for Omaha. As the train neared Fremont I could see the green knolls peeping up through the snow, and at Omaha the snow had disappeared. There they had had mainly rain instead of snow. I may say that the storm area was not over two hundred miles wide with Clarks as about the center, the volume gradually diminishing each way from that point. It should be borne in mind that the farmers raised mainly spring wheat and oats. These grains had been sown several weeks before the storm and were all up, but the storm did not injure them in the least.

On leaving Omaha a few days later I went to Grand Island. At Gardner's Siding, between Columbus and Clarks, a creek passed under the track. This had filled bank high with snow which now melting, formed a lake. The track being bad the train ran so slowly that I had time to count fifty floating carcasses of cattle upon the surface of the water. This was the fate of many thousands of head of stock.

Nobody dared to venture out into that storm for no human being could face it and live. The great flakes driven by a fifty-mile gale would soon plaster shut eyes, nose and mouth--in fact, so swift was the gale that no headway could be made against it.

In those days merchants hauled their goods from Columbus or Seward and all the grain marketed went to the same points. Wheat only was hauled, corn being used for feed or fuel.

A trip to Columbus and return the same day meant something. A start while the stars still twinkled; the mercury ten, twenty, or even thirty degrees below, was not a pleasure trip, to the driver on a load of wheat. But the driver was soon compelled to drop from the seat, and trudge along slapping his hands and arms against his body to keep from freezing. Leaving home at three or four o'clock in the morning he was lucky if he got home again, half frozen and very weary, several hours after dark. Speaking of exposure to wintry blasts, reminds me of a trip on foot I made shortly after my arrival in Polk county. December 24, 1872, I started to walk from the Milsap neighborhood in Hamilton county, several miles west of where Polk now stands, to the home of William Stevens, near the schoolhouse of District No. 5. It was a clear, bitter cold morning, the wind blowing strongly from the northwest, the ground coated with a hard crust of snow. I kept my bearings as best I could, for it should be remembered that there were no roads or landmarks and I was traveling purely by guess. Along about mid-day I stumbled upon a little dugout, somewhere north of where Stromsburg now stands--the first house I had seen. On entering I found a young couple who smiled me a welcome, which was the best they could do, for, as I saw from the inscriptions on a couple of boxes, they were recent arrivals from Sweden. The young lady gave me some coffee and rusks, and I am bound to say that I never tasted better food than that coffee and those rusks. I did not see another house until I reached the bluffs, where, about sunset, I was gladdened by the sight of the Stevens house in the valley, a couple of miles distant. When I finally reached this hospitable home the fingers of both hands were frozen and my nose and ears badly frosted.

In the early days we traveled from point to point by the nearest and most direct route, for while the land was being rapidly taken up, there were no section line roads. Whenever the contour of the land permitted, we angled, being careful to avoid the patches of cultivated land. There were no trees, no fences, and very few buildings, so, on the level prairie, nothing obstructed the view as far as the eye could carry. The sod houses and stables were a godsend, for lumber was very expensive and most of the settlers brought with them lean purses. It required no high-priced, skilled labor to build a "soddy," and properly built they were quite comfortable.

When I grow reminiscent and allow my mind to go back to those pioneer days, the span of time between then and now seems very brief, but when I think longer and compare the _then_ with the _now_, it seems as though that sod house-treeless-ox driving period must have been at least one hundred years ago. It is a far cry from the ox team to the automobile.

PERSONAL REMINISCENCES

BY MRS. THYRZA REAVIS ROY

In March, 1865, my husband, George Roy, and I started from our home in Avon, Illinois, to Nebraska territory. The railroad extended to St. Joseph, Missouri. There they told us we would have to take a steamboat up the Missouri river to Rulo, forty miles from St. Joseph. We took passage on a small steamboat, but the ice was breaking up and the boat ran only four miles up the river. They said it was too dangerous to go farther so told us we would have to go back or land and get some one to drive us to Rulo, or the Missouri side of the river across from Rulo. We decided to land, and hired a man to drive us across country in an old wagon. It was very cold and when we reached the place where we would have to cross the Missouri, the ice was running in immense blocks. It was sunset, we were forty miles from a house on that side of the river. There was a man on the other side of the river in a small skiff. Mr. Roy waved to him and he crossed and took us in. Every moment it seemed those cakes of ice would crush the little skiff, but the man was an expert dodger and after a perilous ride he let us off at Rulo. By that time it was dark. We went to a roughly boarded up shanty they called a tavern. It snowed that night and the snow beat in on our bed. The next morning we hired a man to take us to Falls City, ten miles from Rulo. Falls City was a hamlet of scarcely three hundred souls. There was a log cabin on the square; one tiny schoolhouse, used for school, Sunday school, and church. As far as the eye could reach, it was virgin prairie.

There was very little rain for two years after we came. All provisions, grain, and lumber were shipped on boats to Rulo. There was only an Indian trail between Rulo and Falls City. Everything was hauled over that trail.

After the drouth came the grasshoppers, and for two years they took all we had. The cattle barely lived grazing in the Nemaha valley. All grain was shipped in from Missouri.

The people had no amusements in the winter. In the summer they had picnics and a Methodist camp-meeting, on the Muddy river north of Falls City.

[Illustration: MRS. CHARLES OLIVER NORTON

Tenth State Regent, Nebraska Society, Daughters of the American Revolution. 1911-1912]

Over the Nemaha river two and one-half miles southwest of Falls City, on a high hill above the falls from which the town was named, was an Indian village. The Sac and Foxes and Iowa Indians occupied the village. Each spring and fall they went visiting other tribes, or other tribes visited them. They would march through the one street of Falls City with their ponies in single file. The tipi poles were strapped on each side of the ponies and their belongings and presents, for the tribe they were going to visit, piled on the poles. The men, women, and children walked beside the ponies, and the dogs brought up the rear. Sometimes, when the Indians had visitors, they would have a war-dance at night and the white people would go out to view it. Their bright fires, their scouts bringing in the news of hostile Indians in sight, and the hurried preparations to meet them, were quite exciting. The Indians were great beggars, and not very honest. We had to keep things under lock and key. They would walk right into the houses and say "Eat!" The women were all afraid of them and would give them provisions. If there was any food left after they had finished their eating, they would take it away with them.

Their burying-ground was very near the village. They buried their dead with all accoutrements, in a sitting posture in a grave about five feet deep, without covering.

The Indians cultivated small patches of land and raised corn, beans, pumpkins, etc. A man named Fisher now owns the land on which the Indians lived when I reached the country.

The people were very sociable. It was a healthy country, and we had health if very little else. We were young and the hardships did not seem so great as they do in looking backward fifty years.

NOTE--Thyrza Reavis Roy was born August 7, 1834, in Cass county, Illinois, the daughter of Isham Reavis and Mahala Beck Reavis. Her great-grandfather, Isham Reavis, fought in the war of the Revolution. Her grandfather, Charles Reavis, and her own father, Isham Reavis, fought in the war of 1812. She is a real daughter of the war of 1812. She is a member of the U. S. Daughters of 1812, a member of the Deborah Avery