CHAPTER IV.

Thirty years don't seem long to those of us whom the Lord has permitted to see the Winter's snows and Summer's flowers and fruits of more than twice thirty years. Many things can be done and many changes made in thirty years. In that time farms had been made, orchards were bearing an abundance of fruit, mills were plentiful, churches and school-houses had been erected, and people were just getting where they began to look like living, in Indiana, when the talk began about the rich, black soil of Illinois and Iowa Territory. Many who had lost much in the crisis thought they could see a way to mending their broken fortunes, some to make their first start; but anyway, many families put all their worldly goods in wagons and moved to Iowa. My friend Mary's people, among the rest came in forty-two and settled on a large tract of land in the Mississippi bottom above Fort Madison.

In the Autumn of forty-three my parents had disposed of all their possessions which they could not bring in two wagons, and like many others, had a tearful time when we bade farewell to our neighbors and started on what seemed a long journey. We soon dried our tears and began to be interested in scenes along the way. We soon found ourselves on that once famous highway, "The Cumberland Road;" ambitious Young America's "Apian Way," commonly known as "The National Road." This wonderful thoroughfare was projected by the government and built at the government's expense, or as much of it as was built. The great financial crisis, of thirtyseven put a quietus on that stupendous undertaking. The original plan was to make a road wide and straight from Cumberland, Maryland, to St. Louis. St. Louis was the "far west" then. It was to be made level and macadamized the whole way. Hills were to be digged down and valleys filled up. Streams and chasms were to be spanned by covered bridges. It was supposed that anybody fortunate enough to own land on that road was to be envied. Towns sprang up all along, so near together they often ran into one another. Much rivalry existed between those villages: Raysville and Knightstown were rivals. Knightstown was on high ground on one side of a little stream called Blue River, and Raysville was on the bottom, or lowlands, on the other side. They were both located and named before the road had been leveled. Those towns were built principally along one street, and that street was the National Road; they seemed to flourish about equally for a while, and each was jealous of the other. But when they came to dig down the hill east of Raysville and fill up the valley, the grade reached to the height of the second story windows, which necessitated building a long flight of steps from their front gates to the street. Not only that, if in digging that big hill down they struck a spring well up toward the top which sent out a volume of water that went rushing down one side of that high grade, and in front of the houses, which not only necessitated the high steps, but a bridge to cross the stream to reach them. I was only a child then, but remember well how the Knightstown people jeered and chuckled and crowed over the Raysville people. They took special delight in driving along that high grade and looking down on their unfortunate neighbors. Knightstown, I presume, can boast of two thousand inhabitants, but Raysville has gone into oblivion. Raysville was named in honor of the man who was governor of Indiana at that time. Knightstown was named in honor of the man whom the government employed as chief engineer in the construction of that great highway. Jonathan Knight was a wealthy and honored citizen of Washington County, Pennsylvania. He was the grandfather of Miss Lizzie Knight, of Oskaloosa; Mrs. Ella Stone, and Mrs. Virginia Knight Logan, who has gained distinction as a singer. Fred Logan, her son, has quite a reputation as a musical composer. Mrs. Virginia Knight Logan is a handsome woman and has charming manners. John Knight, one of Oskaloosa's prominent horticulturists, is a grandson of Jonathan Knight.

The plan was to macadamize the whole length of the national road, but it was abandoned before much macadamizing was done in Indiana, only a little way out from the larger towns, Richmond, Indianapolis and Terra Haute. That road was horrid in the Spring, but in Autumn, when the weather was dry, it was like one grand pavement. How many Virginians, Pennsylvanians and Ohioans have traveled on that road in the thirties, bound for Illinois! I used to sit on the doorstep when I was a child and watch the great Pennsylvania wagons go by with their long teams of horses; some would have four, some six, and sometimes I have seen eight horses to one wagon, and every horse would have a row of bells over the hames. The driver would sit on the near wheel horse, with long whip. I can see them yet, swaying from side to side, as they slowly and contentedly wended their way. One day I concluded I would count the "mover wagons," as we called them, that went by. I sat and watched all day long, and counted one hundred and twenty, and I only counted the mover wagons. I didn't count the stage coaches, though they were always a delight to we children. A long train of cars now don't begin to interest children as the old stage coach used to interest us. How important and grand those stage drivers used to look, dashing into town, sitting on a high seat, with four matched horses on the gallop.

The stage driver would blow his horn and crack his, whip in a way which made all the boys around envious, and determined to be stage drivers when they grew up. The stage coach in that day was a grand affair, always painted a bright red, and ornamented with scroll work of yellow. They had immense, strong, curved springs back and front, which kept them continually rocking backward and forward if the road was at all uneven. Besides there was a great leather-covered place at the back, called the "boot," where trunks and other baggage was carried. The driver always carried the mail-bags at his feet, for there was a place at his feet made for that express purpose. The stages would come in full of passengers and sometimes four or five on top. The driver would dash up to the post-office door where the postmaster was always standing ready to catch the mailpouch. How dextrously the driver would toss that pouch! Then whirl his horses' heads toward Cary's tavern, throw the lines to the hostler, jump off of his high perch, and with the rest of the passengers stalk into the bar-room and call for a drink. That is the way they did in Knightstown in 1835.

In traveling over that great highway, almost the entire width of the State of Indiana, we were hardly ever out of sight of a tavern. Not only in the villages along the way, but anywhere between might be seen a high post with a more or less pretentious sign swinging back and forth, with inscription thereon informing travelers of the proprietor's willingness to entertain both man and beast.

We started on that momentous journey on October 22nd, 1843. The days were lovely, hazy Indian Summer days; the nights were soft, smoky nights. The road was perfect -hard as iron and level as a floor. Our gait was so slow we had plenty of time to see everything that was to be seen. Sometimes a great walnut or hickory-nut tree stood beside the road, the ground beneath covered with nuts. We never had to look far for a stone to crack nuts with; they were lying around handy. I have not forgotten the great, soft, yellow pawpaws we found right by the road, just west of Indianapolis, in the White River bottom. Everything of that kind was free to whoever chose to take it. The beech trees had taken on every shade of brown, the sugar trees every shade of yellow and red. Scenery all along the road was charming. At least it was to me, who at that time was too young and full of health and hope to see anything but the bright side of things.

I thought it delightful to sleep in a tent and cook by a log-heap fire. In our company were some unerring marksmen who would kill squirrels enough through the day to make a stew sufficient for all our suppers. The trees seemed to be full of squirrels, and dozens of them could be seen running along the fence of every cornfield we passed. That state of things lasted until we had crossed the Wabash River at Terra Haute. We then left the National road and turned a northwesterly direction, drove a few miles and camped at a place in a thick beech woods, within a few rods of where was being built a brick structure which we were told was a Catholic Convent. Part of the building was near enough completion to open a school, which was already in progress. I thought it a very uninviting place. There was no fence about it, and great beech trees had been cut down and were lying all about that brick house, with their great sprangly tops so thick it looked like the place would be hard to reach. There were stumps and brush and masses of chips where, I presume, can be seen to-day a beautiful lawn and all other evidences of culture, for I now hear that place spoken of as "St. Mary's in the Woods." Soon after leaving "St. Mary's in the Woods," the prairies of Illinois began to strike our vision. Paris was the first town we came to in Illinois. Paris was on the edge of a prairie. As soon as we passed the last house on the west side of Paris we came to a prairie ten miles across, without a single house. My first thought on seeing that open prairie so close to town was wonder that they didn't have it all in fields of corn; but that feeling soon wore off as I saw more and more of the grand prairie. Our Indian Summer suddenly changed from a mellow haze to a leaden sky and a damp, chilling wind. That state of the weather overtook us on the afternoon of .the day "We went through Paris and commenced to cross that ten mile prairie.

We had been pretty well informed regarding the roads and stopping places through Illinois. We knew there was a stopping place called Scott's Tavern, just at the edge of the timber, ten miles west of Paris. We had been told before we started, and several times on the way, that Scott's Tavern was a suspicious place; rumors were afloat that people had been robbed there. We felt a little wary, but darkness came upon us about the time we reached this place of unsavory repute. It was too cold to camp out, there was not another house near, so we took the chances of being robbed and murdered, and boldly went in and asked for shelter and the privilege of cooking in their kitchen; All was granted in a kindly manner. I don't know what the.others thought, but I kept thinking about the rumors we had heard, and looking about to see if I could discover any evidence of our being in a den of robbers. I didn't see anything which looked at all suspicious. There were two young women in the family, Mr. Scott's daughters, who kindly showed us where to find the things we wanted in doing our cooking. After our supper was over the young ladies invited us into their sitting-room, which was a large room with wide fireplace, where a cheerful fire was burning. Old Mr. Scott was a widower. A very plain-looking bachelor son, whom he called "Tommy," and the two daughters, constituted the family. This was Sunday night, and a young gentleman whom they called Mr. Price, came in and spent the evening. Presently they took down from a shelf some singing books, one the "Missouri -Harmony," and began to sing some of the good old hymns I had been used to hearing and singing, too.

Mr. Scott was a fine-looking old white-haired man. and looked more like a Methodist preacher than what my idea was of a robber. After they had sang one piece the old gentleman -looked around at me and said, "young lady, don't you sing?" I told him I did. Then the young folks invited me to join them in singing, which I did, and we sang and sang. The next morning when we were bidding them good-bye that old man held onto my hand all the time he was making this nice little speech: "Young lady, you are a mighty good singer, and I hope when you get to Iowa you will go to church whenever you have a chance, and be a good girl; and I wouldn't wonder if you made a mighty fine woman, and would marry some nice young man out there. "Tommy" was standing by, so the old man finished by saying: "If you will stay with us you may have Tommy."

Our journeying through Illinois was not marked with any important event-just plodding along over prairies, and occasionally a small grove or a larger body of timber. I don't think we passed through a town, not even a small village, between Paris and Spring-field. If there were any towns between, our line of travel did not lead through them. Occasionally we would pass by a very fine farm, with tolerably good buildings, and there, like the rest of the way, movers could obtain food for themselves and teams, and shelter and hospitable treatment from those rugged, good- hearted farmers and their families. Not many orchards had begun to bear fruit, but sometimes we would see a few apples on small trees, which looked very tempting to us who had, been used to having all the apples we wanted. But now we were in a country where we couldn't climb over the fence and take all the apples we wanted without anybody caring or thinking we were trespassing. That was in corn gathering time; and long rows of rail pens piled high with great ears of yellow corn were to be seen on every farm we passed, or when we stopped at one of those fine farms. They had corn and hay and bacon in abundance to sell to movers. That, I presume, was the way they disposed of their surplus crops. The road was literally lined with movers. I don't remember ever hearing of one of those farmers asking an exorbitant price for anything they had to sell, nor for the privilege of sleeping and cooking in their houses. Movers usually camped out, but if the weather was too inclement for camping, a family could have that privilege for twenty-five cents. That was the regular price all along the road. When I look now at the map of Illinois I see the places where we plodded over that long stretch of sparsely-inhabited rich country, all checkered over with marks which represent railroads, and little rings which represent towns, crowding each other all over the map.

The next town, we came to after leaving Springfield was Virginia. Virginia was a very small village, but the country about there was grand; sugar trees abounded, and that alone would hide a multitude of faults with me. A few miles east of Virginia was a very large frame house standing out on a bare prairie without a tree or shrub or vine' to relieve the barrenness. It was just a great big unpainted, uninviting looking house. There was no swinging sign to tell of the fact, but we were informed that this imposing structure was known far and. near as "Dutches Tavern," and the proprietor thereof owned many hundreds of acres surrounding that uninviting house. Since then a town has grown around that nucleus and is known as Ashland. In the little valley between those sand dunes a few miles east of Beardstown were groves of persimmon trees full, of delicious ripe persimmons. They seemed to be public property, so we helped ourselves. We crossed the great sluggish Illinois River in a ferry-boat at Beardstown. That ferry-boat was propelled by an old blind horse, whose continuous tramping on a wheel placed at one side' of the boat furnished the propelling' power which moved that ponderous craft and carried" us without accident across that mighty river. That, I think, might appropriately be termed a "one horse power." When I read of the "tread-mill" punishment inflicted on the once aesthetic Oscar Wilde; I thought of that poor old blind horse rowing us over the Illinois River. Where we crossed, and as far up and down as we could see, that river was speckled with ducks. We camped that night near the river, four miles , above Beardstown, and it was the same there, myriads of ducks. They seemed to be tame, for I saw men and boys out on the water in skiffs: the men would shoot, but their shooting hardly seemed to cause a ripple among the ducks. As I write I keep thinking what a bonanza a scene like that would be now to my neighbor, Dr. Clark; and to Dwight Jackson, Joe Stumps, AI. Mendenhall, Dr. Morgan, and many more of Oskaloosa's nimrods I could name, who come in with a look of triumph on their faces, after 'plodding all day down in Skunk River bottom, if they are fortunate enough to bring in three or four ducks apiece.

The country between Beardstown and Carthage was sparsely settled. We didn't see a comfortable-looking farm-house the whole way from Beardstown to Fort Madison. We passed through Rushville, which was a very small place, with a few frame houses, but the greater number were log cabins. I saw several log houses in Springfield. There was a beautiful creek which we crossed several times between Rushville and Carthage, along which was fine timber. We camped one night on that creek in a cluster of sugar trees, which made us think of home. There was one "mighty hunter" in our party who knew the signs and sounds of every wild thing in the woods, and was always looking out for game. That evening just as we stopped for the night he snatched up his gun, remarking, "I heard some turkeys back yonder." He hurried away and we presently heard the sound of his rifle. In a few minutes he came walking very leisurely toward the camp, holding a great big gobbler by the heels. To roast him was out of the question, but -my mother and another lady in the company dressed him, cut him up and stewed him in a pot by the log-heap fire that night, and the next morning we all ate turkey for breakfast.

We heard many stories of highway robbery having been committed along that road, especially in that long stretch of almost uninhabited forest. It was said that a gang of thieves infested the country, whose headquarters and hiding place was in the Mormon town of Nauvoo. We felt a little shaky that night, but no harm came to us. The day we left that camping place we went through Carthage. I went into a store in Carthage to make a small purchase, and that was the first time I heard twelve and a half cents called a "bit." I asked the clerk to explain to me what he meant by "bit." He looked disgusted at my ignorance, and laid a coin on the counter and asked me what I called that. I told him we sometimes called it a "levy," but the more proper name was twelve and a half cents. He ended the dialogue by saying, "I guess bit is about as proper as levy."

That day a gentleman overtook us who was driving a pair of handsome gray horses to a light wagon. He kept along with our party till night, and stopped at the same farm house. He, like nearly everybody else we clianced to meet, was sociable; inquired where we were bound for and where we came from. We told him who we were, And where we came from, and that we were "bound for" Iowa. He told us his name was Isaac Frost and he lived in Iowa, near Fort Madison, and was well acquainted with our friends, the Newbys. Mr. Frost was an honest-looking, tall, manly-looking young man. The last day had come before reaching Iowa; the morning was fine, and the thought that we were going to see and cross the mighty Mississippi that day sent a thrill of joy through our hearts. Mr. ,Frost might have trotted off with his dashing horses and empty wagon, and left us far behind, but he kept along with us, and after we had gone some distance he said to me and another girl in our company: "Girls, won't you take a seat in my wagon? I want to show you the first glimpse of Iowa and the great 'Father of Waters.'" We accepted his kind offer, and were engaged in talking about Iowa, our old friends, a little sense and a good deal of nonsense, when suddenly Mr. Frost stopped his team, and pointing toward the west, exclaimed: "Girls, do you see that smoky streak away over yonder?" We said, "Yes; what is it?" He said, "That is Iowa." We wanted to know what made it look smoky. He replied: "I can't explain the phenomenon, but in this country, when you see a smoky line like that, you may know it means land beyond a river."

I presume Mr. Frost would have driven us all the way to the river, but we happened to have sense enough to suggest that he, perhaps, would like to travel a little faster than our teams did, and we would join our people, then he could go as fast as he liked. He was a great manly gentleman in the rough. He sprang out, then handed us out, and we thanked him for the kindness he had shown us. He bowed and smiled, sprang to his .seat, looked back and bowed again, cracked his whip and dashed off toward Iowa. I have never seen Mr. Frost since that day, but my friends, the Newbys, said he was just as nice as he seemed.