In the various
public affairs, excitements and early developments in the
county, the Scrub Poet has quite occasionally and persistently gotten into the
ring. Many of these effusions have been neither original, Shakespearean nor
classic, and scarcely poetic. Nevertheless they have at times hit off sundry
mile heats in
county doings. The poetic critic will, therefore, disarm himself before bombarding. A place is given to this novice poet laureate with
the thought that the reader will enjoy a little spice, even though they did
at times hit local
happenings. They are often selected from both sides of the
sundry questions, from this historic spice box, and not to hit this or that at the
present late date now. For instance, this little couplet:
Mr. Stocum also
jingled the little parodies, "Tig, Tag, Toe," "Intry
Mintry Cutery Corn," "Old Mother Hubbard," "Humpty Dumpty on the
Wall," and some other Mother Goose parodies. The Scrub Poet almost invariably runs to the parody and imitation. This will be observed in the
numerous parodies herein given, which have appeared in one form or another
during these thirty years.
The
parody on "Jack Sprat," relating to Hartley, Moneta and Plessis,
was
gotten off by a wag commercial traveler in the Park Hotel in Hartley,
some time after the Rock Island road was built. He was
chinning a fellow
runner as to whether it would
pay in his line of goods to run down to Moneta,
that little burg just then springing up. The other runner sarcastically replied
that inasmuch as his chum's business was so extensive he
surely should not fail
to make Plessis also. Then the first runner
got off this parody found herein
on Jack Sprat, how Hartley, the big town between, licked the platter clean,
by doing all the then trade in that territory. Other wags, editors and squibblers from time to time have
perpetrated other of the poetic shots. The reader will
perhaps not at all times be versed in the vernacular or idioms of the earlv
pioneer, to fully appreciate all the items, but the main expressions had an
early-time meaning. We can simply enjoy them as part of the humors of the
early day.
***
We squint up cornering to Lyon,
Then to Dickinson on the lakes,
South to Plymouth, Beuna Vista,
At our southern corner stakes.
***
TOWNSHIPS OF O'BRIEN COUNTY.
Floyd township, Franklin, Lincoln,
Hartley, Omega, Grant;
Carroll township, Summit, Center,
Half told you say? Yet scant.
Down to Baker, Dale and Highland,
Caledonia, Union scan.
Banner of Liberty held up,
By our oldest Waterman.
***
A BURNED OFF PRAIRIE. OLD BLACK JOE.
Gone are the days when the prairies burned away.
Gone are the friends' of the early homestead day.
Gone from this land to a better land I know,
I see those prairies burning, crackling,
Old Black Joe.
Prairies burning,
Black earth turning.
While my head is bending low,
I hear those homestead angel voices calling,
Old Black Joe.
***
The haytwister twisted his haytwisted twist,
A wrist twisted, fist twisted hay twisted twist.
He twisted it twisting a hay twist— You tryer!
He twisted that hay stack straight into the fire.
***
I have seen the homesteader almost in tears.
As the hopper harvested his unharvested ears.
And all this, too, in successive years.
Now happily all passed by.
***
CHARGE OF THE GRASSHOPPER BRIGADE.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward.
Right from the west they came,
More than six hundred.
***
In eighteen hundred and seventy-nine
(The last year of the hoppers)
O'Brien's county's sun doth shine;
We've reached the land of corn and wine,
Prosperity's rich and golden mine.
Spreads wide its treasures, grain and vine
These troubles past, we'll now consign
To relics of Ye Olden Time.
***
Intry, Mintry, Cutery Corn.
Strung on the Central to adorn,
Calumet, Gaza, and Primghar then,
With Archer all going up to Sheldon again.
***
Jack Sprat Plessis could eat no fat,
While Moneta could eat no lean,
And so betwixt them both,
Hartley licked the platter clean.
On the Rock Island,
Rock O Bye fine land.
***
TENTING, CAMPING, FARMING ON THE OLD PRAIRIE GROUND.
We are farming today on the old prairie ground,
Where we camped, where we tented when we came,
With the old covered wagon, and a four-ox team,
Breaking for the sod corn grain.
Cho.
Farming today.
Tenting today,
Farming on the old prairie ground.
We are autoing today where we mired in the mud,
Where we then dug a well in the slough,
With big gang plows, the planter then in line,
Waiting the season through.
Cho.
Farming today,
Tenting today,
Farming where we mired in the mud.
We are farming today on the tiled out land,
Beyond the dream of the homesteader in the early day,
With grain elevators and four-horse teams abreast,
In the big modern house all so grand.
Cho.
Farming today,
Tenting today,
Tenting in the modern house so grand.
***
Eney, Meney, Miney, Mo,
I went to Primghar with my beau,
We got a license,
The job was done.
Plural number,
We are one.
***
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind,
Should the old O'Brien be forgot,
And days of auld lang syne,
For auld O'Brien, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll take a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
***
How dear to this heart are the scenes of that homestead.
When fond recollections present them to view,
The old shack, the musket, the deep tangled slough grass,
And every loved spot which that homesteader knew.
The wide spreading prairie, the hay stacks upon it,
The wheat and the oats where the grasshoppers fell,
The shack of my father, the haytwister nigh it.
And e'en the old musket, hanging where we dare not tell,
The old rusty musket,
The back kicken musket.
And e'en that old musket, hanging where we dare not tell
Work for the night is coming.
Work yon son of a gun.
(Pete Swenson said, not in fun),
Or "over the hills you will go,"
As soon as the poor house is done.
***
Twinkle, twinkle little school.
How I wonder what the rule.
Up above this soil so grand,
By O'Brien learn to stand.
***
Humpty. Dumpty on the wall,
Grasshoppers on that field did fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men,
Couldn't put those gay grasshoppers back here again.
***
O for a thousand tongues to sing,
O'Brien county's praise.
I'll raise more corn, an auto buy,
A thousand hogs I'll raise.
***
In all this grand country, Iowa's Northwest,
May O'Brien there shine as the erandest and best.
Sheldon started,
Seventy-two,
First railroad town.
What to do.
Railroad breeches
All made up,
Mighty good start.
Thrifty pup.
Sioux City road,
July third.
Hit the town.
Early bird.
July Fourth,
Natal day,
Folks all there.
Sheldon gay.
Governor Miller,
Speeched the speech.
First railroad engine.
Screeched the screech.
Primghar jumped up.
County seat pup.
Eighteen hundred
Seventy-two,
Prairie wild,
Hove in view.
No railroad,
Only jailroad.
Court house and jail,
No cars, no rail.
Eighteen hundred,
Seventy-eight.
Milwaukee road.
Passed the gate.
Road went "Shop"ping,
For a town.
Railroad shops.
Then staked down.
Sanborn, Hartley,
Lariated out.
Raw prairie,
Wolves all about.
Central railroad.
Eighty-seven,
Primghar gladdened.
Hope of heaven.
Sheldon thribbled,
Railroad size.
Archer born
Wipes its eyes.
Gaza hustles.
Street carsrun,
Calumet bristles.
"Get your gun."
Lest we forget.
And be so lax,
To omit Evander,
Or Little Max.
And Germantown,
Parochial school,
Big German church,
Pipe organ stool.
Rich farms, cattle,
Horses and sheep,
Houses ample,
Eat and sleep,
Towns all built,
Firm as the ground,
Proud of the county.
"Round all round."
***
Tig, Tag, Toe,
Three towns in a row.
Hartley, Sanborn and Sheldon too,
On the Milwaukee, a straight shot through.
***
AN INDIGNANT TAXPAYER'S SENTIMENT ON THE COUNTY DEBT.
We will camp out upon our farms,
We will not pay this debt,
We'll get out an injunction quick.
Let the bondholders sweat.
We will not pay one cent of tax.
We have no dollars to spare,
To be mixed up in such a deal.
Would make an angel swear.
We'll hang the first official up.
To the nearest wagon tongue.
Who dares to make a levy or tax,
By a neck-tie will be strung.
O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA. 515
examination and
report of the debt made by George W. Schee, county auditor,
at the January session of the board of supervisors for 1877, caused much
excitement and discussion. The above righteously indignant sentiments were
in fact
specially expressed at a taxpayers' picnic which might almost have been
styled an indignation meeting, held in Grant township in 1878 to discuss same,
and later appeared in the verse above.
As seen elsewhere, however, owing to the fear on the part of the people
of the odium of
bankruptcy fastening itself upon the county and injuring it,
and the further conclusion of its
impracticability of defeat, the whole debt
was paid except sundry thousand referred to below. An injunction suit was
in fact instituted by the Taxpayers' Association by A. P. Powers and many
others
against the treasurer, and payment of the debt was stopped for a number of
years by the court.
A BON(D) FIRE.
We'll look into these bonds somewhat.
We'll stop in part this ire.
Before the board an inquest hold,
We'll hold a big bon(d) fire.
516 O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
session
during the incumbency of J.L.E. Peck, the writer hereof, as county
auditor, and a record by resolution was made of same.
This incident ended
up a number of thousand dollars of this class of
bonds. This, together with the county warrants sued upon twice as stated,
and
sundry sums paid in meantime during Mr. Schee's term of office accounts
for the
apparent discrepancy between reports.
This statement is about correct without
going into details, namely :
That from the date of Mr. Schee's
report in January, 1877, forward, that the
sum of two hundred and
forty thousand dollars was paid or rebonded, and
that from the date of the
rebonding in 1881 during Air. Peck's term that two
hundred and
thirty thousand was disposed of, namely, thirty thousand dollars
in cash and the two hundred thousand dollars in new bonds issued at seven
per cent. It must be remembered that during all those years payments were
made from time to time and the amounts as stated would
vary according to
the time computed from.
HE RODE THAT MULE.
J.L.E. Peck that mule did ride.
Bare back, with naught but halter.
Scared like hell,
With a midnight yell,
Lustily ringing an old cow bell,
To rouse the people far and wide.
That Primghar might yet there abide,
As a county seat and save its hide.
To make report,
And hold the fort.
And hold down its Gibraltar.
THAT MARTYRED WAGON TIME OF THE SANBORN RAID, 1882.
Friends, please stop one moment.
Your everlasting bragging,
While I tell you not of what you've done.
But of that martyred wagon.
That wagon, as you no doubt know,
No work had ever done.
Till on its wheels was put a sate
That weighed a round two ton.
But those hurried men who put it there
Were sure it safely there would ride,
If ax and hatchet had not been
So womanly applied.
But ax and hatchet were applied.
The game thev were for winning,
Until that wagon did give way
For lack of underpinning.
If those Primgareans had done naught else
But stamp, and swore and raved.
The spokes of that poor wagon would
Undoubtedly have been saved.
But that wagon new was soon hewn down.
In the city's broadest way.
The Sanborn men‐what else to do‐
Went off and let it lay.
There stood that martyred wagon.
Till the birds their songs had sung
Then came the folks from far and near.
And took that wagon tongue.
They put that wagon tongue on high.
Right near that wagon's grave.
It was soon afloat on the morning breeze,
The Stars and Stripes to wave.
That
wagon, friends, was all chopped up,
And scattered far and wide,
Its
parts adorn those center tables,
E'en to the ocean's tide.
There
may it rest in peace for aye,
Its fellies, hubs and spokes,
And
may he get his pay for it.
Its owner, Mr. Stokes.
THE COUNTY SEAT.
What is it that hustled the Primghar lads
And stood
nearly all of them onto their heads
And made Colonel
Pumphrey come down with the scads?
The
County Seat.
What made them
gather around in a bunch
At Tifft's saloon for his free lunch
And close it
up with a bowl of punch?
The
County Seat.
What made old "Samul" so short and
sharp
And on his land and his taxes
harp
And cause him so much to fret and
carp ?
The
County Seat.
What made the
county dads so long
In session, when they to their farms belong
And to swallow such
camphor to make them strong?
The
County Seat.
What made Clark Green
get up on his ear
And swear about Sheldon far and near.
With a
string of adjectives swift and clear?
The
County Seat.
One little incident occurred just now as I write, which brings out seriously to the editor of this book the prominent fact that so much of the past of O'Brien county is passed forever. While in the very act of gathering items at my desk one day, E. C. Brooks, an old homesteader on the southwest quarter of section 24, in Floyd, stuck his head in the door and commenced to talk abruptly. He had been away from O'Brien county thirty years. Like Rip Van Winkle, he had been in Oklahoma and asleep to O'Brien county. He broke out: "Say, Peck, where is that mule you rode in the Sanborn raid?
520 O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
Where is that black beard you used to wear? I can't find any of the old doings. I just came down from Sheldon. I tried to look up that old angling road down at Primghar. It was all gone; no prairie, no prairie grass; can't take a big look across the prairie like I used to; there is no prairie. The big groves, and fences, and fields and barns, and squared roads and houses and crops blot it all out. I did find my old homestead shack in the back yard."
***
Woodman, spare that prairie
Plant not so many trees.
They blot out all the old scenes,
Prairie grass, like billowy seas.
***
O'BRIEN, THE GEM Of THE PRAIRIE.
Oh, O'Brien, the Gem of the Prairie,
When proud Iowa's form stands in view.
The old soldier on taps on his homestead,
Once more fighting his battles anew.
Life's mandates make heroes assemble.
On those broad plains of heaven's review.
Homesteader, old soldier, together, forever.
Borne out o'er that heavenly blue.
Chorus:
Three cheers for the wild red sweet william.
Three cheers for the white prairie flower.
Waiving grass for this blue prairie union,
Three cheers for the Red, White and Blue.
***
NINE POINTS IN LAW POSSESSION.
Nine sprigs of hair.
Leaves an old bald headed squatter,
Away up in the air.
***
There was on old squatter and his name was Uncle Ned.
He lived long, long, long ago,
His hair had no "possession" on the top of his head.
The place where the wool ought to grow.
***
***
522 O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA.
squatter and old soldier, it will be noticed, are at times used promiscuously. They were all fighting for free lands in this new country. It may seem at times that too much space is spent thus, but early times and these four individuals are somewhat synonymous.
***
THE PIONEER IS GOING GONE.
The
pioneer is going gone.
By auction, what's your bid?
The old machine has had its
day.
Old iron must be rid.
The homestead shack held down the claim,
Now stands in the back
yard,
We let it stand
just over where
They tried out fat and lard.
Wild
zigzag prairie fires roared.
Like
lightning streaks on land,
Bolting up to heaven soared,
Gone! Stamped on heaven's strand.
Angling roads on prairies vast,
Running everywhere.
Squared up farms their ruin worked,
They've done gone round the square.
Breaking plow long since gave way
To
gang plow on the farm,
Prairie sod to mellow soil,
By farmer's strong right arm.
The wild
prairie chicken soared.
With
yellow throat did "Oo,"
Upward, skyward on he went,
And bade his last adieu.
The
pioneer is going gone,
Some with their debts and all,
'Twas but a
part of "bitter sweet,"
The bitter sweet with
gall.
Old double shovel
plows gave way,
Hand
planters stood on end.
The wire stretcher lands the
drop.
The corn in rows extend.
Rut e'en the debts are
gone for aye,
Public and
private all.
Lift
up your heads, ye sons of guns,
And make a show, "play ball."
All
plenty prairie pasture then,
All
plenty prairie hay,
But autos roam and horses
lounge
In clover all the
day.
The rosin weed
grew stout and tall.
The child chewed rosin
gum.
But now the
penny slot machine
Makes that
boy a chewing bum.
The
squatter, too, is growing old.
He
laughs his railroad joke.
He takes "possession" on the cars.
And sues if neck is broke.
Ye newer settlers
give three cheers,
Sound out
your sixteen guns.
Each
township grand throughout the years,
Your son's and
grandson's sons.
***
My county 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of homesteads free,
It brings good cheer.
I love its level land.
Its prairie fires grand.
My heart, it doth expand.
A prairie king.
***
AN AGRICULTURAL COUNTY.
Mine
eyes have seen the glories of O'Brien county soil.
With its
crops of com and wheat and oats, result of patient toil.
We have loosed the fateful corn plow, 'cross the field of growing corn.
While the corn rows are growing tall.
Chorus:
Glory! Glory! Hatchin' chickens.
Glory! Glory! Raisin' mules.
Glory! Glory! Feedin' cattle,
While the horse stands sleek in the stall.
'Tis an agricultural county, in an agricultural state.
Where the
people ne'er go hungry, but work early, long and late.
Where at the chores
they hustle. Oh, be jubilant their feet,
While the scales weigh the butter 'neath the beam
Chorus:
Glory! Glory! Crows the rooster,
Glory! Glory! Cackling hen,
Glory! Glory! Supper's ready
While the
separator separates the cream.
***
O, how the squatters shouted when the news was spread around;
And how contractors
spouted when they found themselves aground;
And how our wives and
daughters send the chorus through the town.
While we
go marching to victory.
"The darn fool
squatters will never win the fight,"
Said the contract bosses, and in this they took delight:
They will be somewhat wiser, when they see the squatter's in the right.
While we
go marching to victory.
Yes, I see old men and women shedding joyful tears.
When
they hear the glorious news they have waited for. for years;
Now we hear the
joyous greeting, ring out the glad cheers,
While we
go marching to victory.
The lords of contracts tremble when
they hear our joyous shout.
As we
press on to victory and put them all to rout.
The trusts and
pools and money kings, we'll whip the rascals out,
While we
go marching to victory.
Now contractors don't turn
pale, you needn't tremble so;
But then there is a
thing or two which you will have to know;
Those who work
against the right, will surely have to go,
While we
go marching to victory.
We'll raise our fathers' banner, boys, and spread it out on high;
Beneath the sacred stars and
stripes, all hail the power of right;
The hand is
writing on the wall, "Go, cast the devils out!"
While we
go marching to victory.
***
MY OLD O'BRIEN HOME.
Let us all hark back to the old
prairie days,
To the
days of that old sod shanty home.
We will
sing one song of the homestead days now past,
When we chewed the rosin
gum. boy and chile'.
Let us sound one note to the
prairie chicken wild.
As the
prairie fire burned his nest away.
Let the
haytwister turn the spindle shank around,
While we fill once more the stove with sticks of
hay.
Chorus:
Weep no more, old soldier,
Old settler on the claim.
We will
sing one song of that old O'Brien home,
While the better davs have come to stay the while.
In the
county-seat contest of 1911, C.A. Babcock, then of Sanborn, now
of Sheldon, espoused the side of the latter town energetically in some twelve
successive letters in the
papers from week to week during the ninety days
contest. He was cartooned as
dreaming in his bed under a patent quilt made
from his letters and
speeches on the county-seat question as "A Dreamer." in
the following parody:
And then
me thought my dream was changed.
The streets no
longer rang;
Hush'd were the loud hosannas
The little children
sang
The Sun (Sheldon Sun)
grew dark with envy,
The morn was cold and drear.
As the shadow of Primghar arose,
For lo, the court house was still there:
Primghar, Primghar, how the bell does ring,
Primghar is your king.
***
MORE TALK THAN ACTION.
County seat talk is in the air,
Primghar's stirring in its lair.
Not a
gun has yet been fired,
Not a man has
yet expired.
All
quiet down the line.
Old Prim's going it pell mell.
Says she'll build a new hotel;
Sheldon
people do not groan,
Sheldon's waiting to be shown;
Only talking down the line.
Primghar people can't refrain.
Talking of an extra train.
Talk is
cheap and mighty thin,
Makes I. C. officials
grin.
Chin music down the line.
When it comes election
day.
When the
people have their say,
Primghar's hubbies will be busted.
Cause the voters can be trusted.
Dense stillness down the line.
***
LET THE PEOPLE VOTE.
If the Schee substitute had been
complete,
Primghar would keep the county seat.
But before the Senate
got ready to go.
She killed it dead, and
gave Sheldon a show.
Primghar is all right for the kind she has been.
But she had no hotels to shelter us in.
While Sheldon has four‐with a
mortgage on some,
And
plenty of room for all who may come.
When we think of the time that Prim's been the
hub,
For
forty years the dear people have stood the grand rub.
Now why shouldn't they vote to move it some day,
And
place it where you can get there and away.
While Prim had her friends in the halls of our state.
To see that
they didn't make any mistake,
They tackled amendments to the bills all in line.
And made it a
special to apply only to O'Brien.
The
people have said with pen and with ink,
That
they sure want to vote on their own county seat;
If Prim with remonstrance should then fail to delve,
We will move her to Sheldon in
year nineteen twelve.
And when we
get there with court house complete,
We won't
go to bed any more with cold feet;
We will not
go hungry, 'cause we at tables can line,
At
places where dinner is always on time.
Now, Prim will not blame me I know the least bit,
For what I have written I've seen it in
print,
But when later
you come to our county seat fair,
We'll make
you so glad, you'll be glad you've been there.
***
PRIMGHAR WINDS UP THE MUSIC BOX.
Next to the
boys in the gray and the blue,
We cherish our works that no one shall
outdo;
Among these tall trees forty years we have stood,
We have weather'd the blast
'mong the bad and the good.
We and our children all
gladly unite.
To have and to hold this
county seat by right.
Billy Boies and the Sun have had lots to say.
But they're not the whole cheese in this county-seat fray.
By the great big horn spoons, and healthy dutch cheese,
We'll hold the town down, when we sweat, when we freeze;
We'll anchor her down with the new Hub hotel.
Now &' 2"ive us three cheers and a county seat yell.
(34)
"My God!" the Doctor shouted,
"Open up his mouth and lid.
Pour down the lard
right quickly;
Make a kittle of the kid.
"Stir
up his fussen stomach,
Keep up your grit and hope.
Keep him wiggling,
twisting, squirming.
And make it into
soap."
***
Good
by, old shack; lead off as back yard slivers,
Shivered! Slivered! To hold the rubbish and the must,
So
mournfully we will relieve you of your trust,
Thence to the modern house
relieving us of shivers.
A graven image of a young lady mounted in the court yard at Primghar at expense of some liberal citizens did not meet with full approbation of the critically artistic members of the community and was finally returned to its former owners at Sheldon. Before its departure D. A. W. Perkins penned the following skit:
I believe
you are in love, Miss Primghar,
Your sad look is only
disguise;
Though silent, you're restless. Miss Primghar,
There's
mystery seen in your eyes.
Perhaps you are homesick. Miss Primghar.
And
long for dear Sheldon again;
Or maybe you're bashful. Miss Primghar,
And want to be hid from the men.
You're
scantily clad, Miss Primghar,
A cold winter will follow this fall;
Have "Pomp" and the mayor, Miss Primghar,
Buy a bonnet, some gloves and a shawl.
You must be tired. Miss Primghar,
Your seat there is cold and hard;
Perhaps you'd feel better. Miss Primghar.
With a
loving and lively "pard."
***
"LEEDLE YOH."
This leedle Deitcher
poy so schmall,
Sendt to der schools by Mah,
He vas so
very bashful dot
He vouldt
only answer "Yoh."
Und ven der teachers
schpoke him oudt,
Der
poys said "Yes'em, yes sah,"
Der
only clings dot he vouldt schpoke.
All he vouldt sav vas "Yoh."
He
grew up schtrong, der brimmers soon
Vas done, den bigger books,
Der teachers nnd der schkollars all
Schtared him mit
jealous looks.
At nichdt he
alvays vent schtrate home,
Und
helped mit all der schores,
He fed the
hogs und schlopped der cows,
Uud lockdt
up dem barn doors.
He learndt to ride dot
big gang plow.
Mit horses four
apreast.
He huskt mit corn, a man he
grew.
Made monies like der rest.
Den ven dot farm dem mans der
sell,
Price one hundred
fifty, Oh‐
He saved dem dollars, dimes und cents,
Und vonce more he saidt "Yoh."
He bot dot
big O'Brien farm,
Und settled down, hoorah,
Und
taught his childers on his knee.
How he
always answered "Yoh."
O'BRIEN AND OSCEOLA COUNTIES, IOWA. 533
Note‐Gotleib Schwartz was one of the main men who held a
large number of the railroad contracts against the squatter.
***
Its wheat and
oats,
When harvest done,
A silver mine
Sixteen to one.
O'Brien
pasture,
A diamond
plat,
All a kicken
Mule at the bat.
Steer on first base,
Horse scores a
run,
Hogs do rooten,
Sheep fans have fun.
O'Brien farm
Grows
grain and kine;
Let all
play ball,
A diamond mine.
***
AGRICULTURAL.
Silver and
gold have I none.
Neither zinc nor lead nor
brass,
The metal is the soil itself
It's grain.
It's stock.
It's grass.
FINIS.
In
squiblets and couplets
O'Brien we've told
As well as we could
Fifty-eight years old.
1856-1914.