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Son of the Middle Border

<hr />[Pg 42] <h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> <h2>Father Sells the Farm</h2> Green's Coulee was a delightful place for boys. It offered hunting and coasting and many other engrossing sports, but my father, as the seasons went by, became thoroughly dissatisfied with its disadvantages. More and more he resented the stumps and ridges which interrupted his plow. Much of his quarter-section remained unbroken. There were ditches to be dug in the marsh and young oaks to be uprooted from the forest, and he was obliged to toil with unremitting severity. There were times, of course, when field duties did not press, but never a day came when the necessity for twelve hours' labor did not exist. Furthermore, as he grubbed or reaped he remembered the glorious prairies he had crossed on his exploring trip into Minnesota before the war, and the oftener he thought of them the more bitterly he resented his up-tilted, horse-killing fields, and his complaining words sank so deep into the minds of his sons that for years thereafter they were unable to look upon any rise of ground as an object to be admired. It irked him beyond measure to force his reaper along a steep slope, and he loathed the irregular little patches running up the ravines behind the timbered knolls, and so at last like many another of his neighbors he began to look away to the west as a fairer field for conquest. He no more thought of going east than a liberated eagle dreams of returning to its narrow cage. He loved to [Pg 43]talk of Boston, to boast of its splendor, but to live there, to earn his bread there, was unthinkable. Beneath the sunset lay the enchanted land of opportunity and his liberation came unexpectedly. Sometime in the spring of 1868, a merchant from LaCrosse, a plump man who brought us candy and was very cordial and condescending, began negotiations for our farm, and in the discussion of plans which followed, my conception of the universe expanded. I began to understand that "Minnesota" was not a bluff but a wide land of romance, a prairie, peopled with red men, which lay far beyond the big river. And then, one day, I heard my father read to my mother a paragraph from the county paper which ran like this, "It is reported that Richard Garland has sold his farm in Green's Coulee to our popular grocer, Mr. Speer. Mr. Speer intends to make of it a model dairy farm." This intention seemed somehow to reflect a ray of glory upon us, though I fear it did not solace my mother, as she contemplated the loss of home and kindred. She was not by nature an emigrant,—few women are. She was content with the pleasant slopes, the kindly neighbors of Green's Coulee. Furthermore, most of her brothers and sisters still lived just across the ridge in the valley of the Neshonoc, and the thought of leaving them for a wild and unknown region was not pleasant. To my father, on the contrary, change was alluring. Iowa was now the place of the rainbow, and the pot of gold. He was eager to push on toward it, confident of the outcome. His spirit was reflected in one of the songs which we children particularly enjoyed hearing our mother sing, a ballad which consisted of a dialogue between a husband and wife on this very subject of emigration. The words as well as its wailing melody still stir me deeply, for they lay hold of my sub-conscious [Pg 44]memory—embodying admirably the debate which went on in our home as well as in the homes of other farmers in the valley,—only, alas! our mothers did not prevail. It begins with a statement of unrest on the part of the husband who confesses that he is about to give up his plow and his cart— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Away to Colorado a journey I'll go, For to double my fortune as other men do, While here I must labor each day in the field And the winter consumes all the summer doth yield. </div> </div> To this the wife replies: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Dear husband, I've noticed with a sorrowful heart That you long have neglected your plow and your cart, Your horses, sheep, cattle at random do run, And your new Sunday jacket goes every day on. Oh, stay on your farm and you'll suffer no loss, For the stone that keeps rolling will gather no moss. </div> </div> But the husband insists: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, wife, let us go; Oh, don't let us wait; I long to be there, and I long to be great, While you some fair lady and who knows but I May be some rich governor long 'fore I die, Whilst here I must labor each day in the field, And the winter consumes all the summer doth yield. </div> </div> But wife shrewdly retorts: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Dear husband, remember those lands are so dear They will cost you the labor of many a year. Your horses, sheep, cattle will all be to buy, You will hardly get settled before you must die. Oh, stay on the farm,—etc. </div> </div> The husband then argues that as in that country the lands are all cleared to the plow, and horses and cattle not very dear, they would soon be rich. Indeed, "we will [Pg 45]feast on fat venison one-half of the year." Thereupon the wife brings in her final argument: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, husband, remember those lands of delight Are surrounded by Indians who murder by night. Your house will be plundered and burnt to the ground While your wife and your children lie mangled around. </div> </div> This fetches the husband up with a round turn: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Oh, wife, you've convinced me, I'll argue no more, I never once thought of your dying before. I love my dear children although they are small And you, my dear wife, I love greatest of all. </div> <div class="stanza"> Refrain (both together) </div> <div class="stanza"> We'll stay on the farm and we'll suffer no loss For the stone that keeps rolling will gather no moss. </div> </div> This song was not an especial favorite of my father. Its minor strains and its expressions of womanly doubts and fears were antipathetic to his sanguine, buoyant, self-confident nature. He was inclined to ridicule the conclusions of its last verse and to say that the man was a molly-coddle—or whatever the word of contempt was in those days. As an antidote he usually called for "O'er the hills in legions, boys," which exactly expressed his love of exploration and adventure. This ballad which dates back to the conquest of the Allegheny mountains opens with a fine uplifting note, <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Cheer up, brothers, as we go O'er the mountains, westward ho, Where herds of deer and buffalo Furnish the fare. </div> </div> and the refrain is at once a bugle call and a vision: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Then o'er the hills in legions, boys, Fair freedom's star Points to the sunset regions, boys, Ha, ha, ha-ha! </div> </div> [Pg 46]and when my mother's clear voice rose on the notes of that exultant chorus, our hearts responded with a surge of emotion akin to that which sent the followers of Daniel Boone across the Blue Ridge, and lined the trails of Kentucky and Ohio with the canvas-covered wagons of the pioneers. A little farther on in the song came these words, <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> When we've wood and prairie land, Won by our toil, We'll reign like kings in fairy land, Lords of the soil! </div> </div> which always produced in my mind the picture of a noble farm-house in a park-like valley, just as the line, "Well have our rifles ready, boys," expressed the boldness and self-reliance of an armed horseman. The significance of this song in the lives of the McClintocks and the Garlands cannot be measured. It was the marching song of my Grandfather's generation and undoubtedly profoundly influenced my father and my uncles in all that they did. It suggested shining mountains, and grassy vales, swarming with bear and elk. It called to green savannahs and endless flowery glades. It voiced as no other song did, the pioneer impulse throbbing deep in my father's blood. That its words will not bear close inspection today takes little from its power. Unquestionably it was a directing force in the lives of at least three generations of my pioneering race. Its strains will be found running through this book from first to last, for its pictures continued to allure my father on and on toward "the sunset regions," and its splendid faith carried him through many a dark vale of discontent. Our home was a place of song, notwithstanding the severe toil which was demanded of every hand, for often [Pg 47]of an evening, especially in winter time, father took his seat beside the fire, invited us to his knees, and called on mother to sing. These moods were very sweet to us and we usually insisted upon his singing for us. True, he hardly knew one tune from another, but he had a hearty resounding chant which delighted us, and one of the ballads which we especially like to hear him repeat was called Down the Ohio. Only one verse survives in my memory: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The river is up, the channel is deep, The winds blow high and strong. The flash of the oars, the stroke we keep, As we row the old boat along, Down the O-h-i-o. </div> </div> Mother, on the contrary, was gifted with a voice of great range and sweetness, and from her we always demanded Nettie Wildwood, Lily Dale, Lorena or some of Root's stirring war songs. We loved her noble, musical tone, and yet we always enjoyed our father's tuneless roar. There was something dramatic and moving in each of his ballads. He made the words mean so much. It is a curious fact that nearly all of the ballads which the McClintocks and other of these powerful young sons of the border loved to sing were sad. Nellie Wildwood, Minnie Minturn, Belle Mahone, Lily Dale were all concerned with dead or dying maidens or with mocking birds still singing o'er their graves. Weeping willows and funeral urns ornamented the cover of each mournful ballad. Not one smiling face peered forth from the pages of The Home Diadem. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Lonely like a withered tree, What is all the world to me? Light and life were all in thee, Sweet Belle Mahone, </div> </div> [Pg 48]wailed stalwart David and buxom Deborah, and ready tears moistened my tanned plump cheeks. Perhaps it was partly by way of contrast that the jocund song of Freedom's Star always meant so much to me, but however it came about, I am perfectly certain that it was an immense subconscious force in the life of my father as it had been in the westward marching of the McClintocks. In my own thinking it became at once a vision and a lure. The only humorous songs which my uncles knew were negro ditties, like Camp Town Racetrack and Jordan am a Hard Road to Trabbel but in addition to the sad ballads I have quoted, they joined my mother in The Pirate's Serenade, Erin's Green Shore, Bird of the Wilderness, and the memory of their mellow voices creates a golden dusk between me and that far-off cottage. During the summer of my eighth year, I took a part in haying and harvest, and I have a painful recollection of raking hay after the wagons, for I wore no shoes and the stubble was very sharp. I used to slip my feet along close to the ground, thus bending the stubble away from me before throwing my weight on it, otherwise walking was painful. If I were sent across the field on an errand I always sought out the path left by the broad wheels of the mowing machine and walked therein with a most delicious sense of safety. It cannot be that I was required to work very hard or very steadily, but it seemed to me then, and afterward, as if I had been made one of the regular hands and that I toiled the whole day through. I rode old Josh for the hired man to plow corn, and also guided the lead horse on the old McCormick reaper, my short legs sticking out at right angles from my body, and I carried water to the field. It appears that the blackbirds were very thick that [Pg 49]year and threatened, in August, to destroy the corn. They came in gleeful clouds, settling with multitudinous clamor upon the stalks so that it became the duty of Den Green to scare them away by shooting at them, and I was permitted to follow and pick up the dead birds and carry them as "game." There was joy and keen excitement in this warfare. Sometimes when Den fired into a flock, a dozen or more came fluttering down. At other times vast swarms rose at the sound of the gun with a rush of wings which sounded like a distant storm. Once Den let me fire the gun, and I took great pride in this until I came upon several of the shining little creatures bleeding, dying in the grass. Then my heart was troubled and I repented of my cruelty. Mrs. Green put the birds into potpies but my mother would not do so. "I don't believe in such game," she said. "It's bad enough to shoot the poor things without eating them." Once we came upon a huge mountain rattlesnake and Den killed it with a shot of his gun. How we escaped being bitten is a mystery, for we explored every path of the hills and meadows in our bare feet, our trousers rolled to the knee. We hunted plums and picked blackberries and hazelnuts with very little fear of snakes, and yet we must have always been on guard. We loved our valley, and while occasionally we yielded to the lure of "Freedom's star," we were really content with Green's Coulee and its surrounding hills. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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