YORK COUNTY NEBRASKA
OLD SETTLER'S HISTORY

     (25) Shall I ever forget my first sight of Nebraska, and my first sniff of Nebraska air? We had ridden all day and all night in the close, stuffy sleeper, and about sunrise we arrived at Plattsmouth. Here, as was the custom in those days, the cars were put on the ferry boat, "Vice President," and ferried over the river. We stepped out onto the platform and drew in breath after breath of the glorious, invigorating air, fresh and sweet as, if from the plains of Paradise, life-giving as the elixir of youth. "Glorious!" I exclaimed. It seemed to me that with every breath I inhaled hope and courage.

     All the morning we steamed along the long rolling prairies, and about noon we arrived at the village of Lincoln, then a place of "magnificent distances" and few inhabitants, giving no indication of the busy streets, tall spired churches, magnificent schools and universities, and flourishing business houses that now fill our capital city.

     My brother awaited us with his double-seated "Nebraska surrey," not quite as stylish as the surreys of the present day, but more commodious and useful. Myself and two babies dined at the restaurant around the corner, while my brother and the reverend munched crackers and cheese on a doorstep near by (this I learned afterward. I supposed at the time that they were dining at some luxurious hotel.) After refreshing the inner man, we mounted into the Nebraska surrey and started on our journey toward our "home." I don't know what were the sensations of the parson, but I felt like Abraham when he started out to find his Canaan, "Not knowing whither he went." It was a glorious October morning. All over everything lay the (26) palpitating mists of the Indian summer, golden in the sunshine. Over our heads beamed the bluest of skies, while around us everywhere stretched the boundless prairie. We seemed to expand and grow tall as we looked out upon the sea of land rising and falling in undulating billows, like the waves of the ocean, while around and above us was the exhilarating air.

     Here and there appeared little black mounds, which my brother informed us were sod houses, and now and then a group of dark, flitting figures, which they said were antelope. Aside from these no signs of life appeared. For all that we could see we were the only lonely voyagers upon the boundless prairie. The reverend gentleman became so absorbed in viewing the landscape that he missed the road.

     The sun went down; the twilight deepened. One by one the stars peeped out, and still no signs of the little town of Seward, where we had hoped to find supper, and a bed. About midnight, however, the hotel came in sight, and we were hospitably entertained by the landlord, who gave up his own bed to furnish us a resting puce. The landlord was the Mr. Clough who was so deeply involved in the terrible tragedy which happened five years after in this same hotel. We were only too glad to stretch ourselves on a good bed, and we lay down to a dreamless sleep on this this, our first night in our new Eldorado.

     The next morning, bright and early, we resumed our journey under skies as fair, through air as balmy as ever. At noon we stopped for dinner at a half-way-house, and here I had my first sight of the interior of a sod house. To say that it was not inspiring would be putting it very mildly. A dirt floor, roof of willows upheld by a big tree for a ridgepole in the center, wooden bunks built around the sides of the walls for beds, and to complete the picture a barefooted woman in a soiled calico dress. My heart was fast going down into the region of my boots, but I called up the spirit of my Puritian ancestors I invoked the Salem witches from whom I can claim direct descent, and I set my teeth in grim determination not to be daunted by the first untoward obstacle in my path. We were refreshed by (27) a good dinner of bacon and eggs, coffee and hot biscuits, and continued our journey, to pull up about sundown at the hospitable home of our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Tagg, where we found a good supper and a warm welcome awaiting us. Here was a sod house, consisting of three good-sized rooms, a carpeted floor, plastered walls, and many of the comforts, and even luxuries, of civilization. Here we rested and visited over Sunday.

     On Monday morning I drove over to our claim to see the house which was to be our residence, for a while at least, until we should finish a frame house which my brother had already commenced, and which would be ready for occupancy before cold weather. They told us, though, that Nebraska winters were lovely, and that we had nothing to fear from cold or storms.

     I found a place about 10x12, half dugout, half sod, a dirt floor, dirt walls, and a shingled roof which slanted to the south. We had two windows, one on the north which I could only reach by the aid of a chair, the other on the west. Our cabin opened to the south. A sod partition extended through the building, the east half being used as a stable for the horses and cow. My sensations can be better imagined than described as I contemplated the prospect. To add to the cheerfulness of the outlook somebody had picked a chicken and left the feathers somewhat promiscuously scattered about. However, we did not stop long to contemplate or moralize, but went vigorously to work to make the cabin habitable. We bestowed our belongings as compactly as possible. to wit: A cook stove, bed, table, and cooking utensils (which for convenience were stowed under the bed.) The rest, organ, bureau. etc., were put on the north side of the house and protected with an old wagon cover.

     The weather continued delightfully warm and balmy, and we were flattering ourselves that our frame house would soon be ready to occupy.

     It had been a delightful day in November, somewhere about the middle, I believe. The sun had set in a blaze of glory. I woke sometime in the middle of the night to find my bed wet with what felt like snow and the wind was (28) howling as if all the spirits of the storm were turned loose. The morning revealed the fact that our bed was covered with about two inches of snow, our door barricaded by a big drift, and the whirling sleet made it dangerous to venture out. We were in the midst of a genuine Nebraska blizzard. To add to our discomfort we had only green elm to burn, and a scanty supply of that. I wrapped the children in blankets and quilts and kept them as close to the stove as possible, but their little blue faces showed that our utmost efforts were unavailing to keep them even moderately warm. Meanwhile the parson put on his heavy soldier's overcoat, and chinked up the cracks and crevices through which the snow and wind were making rapid inroads.

     It was, I believe, three days before the storm cleared so that we could get to the Beaver Creek, two miles away, and obtain some decent fuel. Meanwhile we whistled to keep our courage up, and emulated Mark Tapley, who got jolly in proportion as things grew dark.

     We had three blizzards that winter, one after the other, and we began to think that the famous Nebraska winters were a myth. Our baby had not been well all winter, and finally grew so much worse that my husband went about six miles to find the only doctor in the vicinity. He came back bringing no doctor, but a bottle of carbolic acid. The doctor said that was all the medicine he had. I thought he might have come, at least. I declined to administer the carbolic acid, but happened to remember a simple, old fashioned remedy, which I had on hand, and gave, and then I watched all night in fear and trembling. But with the morning the little fellow seemed better, and the danger was averted.

     We gave up all hopes of finishing our house before spring, and settled ourselves to remain all winter in our little dug-out with as good grace as possible. One day, in April, I think it was, my husband started for Lincoln to get a load of lumber for the house. I got a friend to stay with me during his absence, as he would be gone two days. It was a warns, cloudless morning when he started, but by noon the sky was overcast with clouds, and at four o'clock it commenced to snow, and the wind began to rise. We (29) gathered a supply of fuel, got supper, and by eight o'clock there was a whirling, howling blizzard upon us from the north. We got the children in bed, left the light burning and put our clothing within reach, not knowing but that before morning we should be without a roof to cover us, for the wind from the north lifted our roof, and all night long it danced over our heads, and we lay shivering, expecting to be driven out before the blast. Morning found the storm somewhat abated, and we were thankful that a roof still covered us.

     My brother had gone east to bring his wife, a New England woman accustomed to all the luxuries and refinements of the east. The liaison went to Lincoln with the lumber wagon to meet them and bring them up to their future home. During his absence my friend and I fixed up the cabin. We put down a rag carpet on the three feet of floor which occupied the center of the cabin, put up white curtains at the windows, and a valance about the bed to conceal the cooking utensils, washed the children's faces and arrayed them in clean gingham gowns, and then prepared what was for us a sumptuous supper. I remember that I had concocted some mince meat out of such odds and ends as I could find, and in lieu of green apples I had used all the extracts and cordials that I had on hand. My brother had assisted at the operation. In fact he had been chief cook upon the occasion. We considered it a masterpiece. This was my piece de resistance for supper. We also had some canned cherries which I had brought from Illinois, some gingerbread, molasses, and some fried bacon and warm, light biscuit, with coffee.

     We flattered ourselves that we were pretty "swell." But, alas for our expectations: Our dirt cabin and fine fixin's failed to impress Mrs. C. She couldn't eat any supper, and evidently considered the "grace" which was said at table an entirely superfluous affair. The parson himself confessed that as he drove up with his dainty New England freight, the little cabin, with the pile of debris, and the cow in front, didn't look remarkably inviting.

     We finished our house sufficiently to make it habitable that spring, and moved in.

      (30) Some time in the spring of 1872 Brother Davis came up to York to hold a quarterly meeting. There had been a freshet, and Father Baker had ferried Brother Davis over Beaver Creek in a sorghum pan. In those days a quarterly meeting was a very important event, and as we were to entertain the elder we of course laid ourselves out in the way of housekeeping. We intended to do things up in style. We had induced the men to put us up the inevitable summer kitchen (sod) so dear to every woman's heart, and were planning on a fine lay out in the culinary department. Alas for our hope! The freshet flooded our sod kitchen, to the depth of six inches or more, and I helped get Brother Davis' Sunday morning breakfast, wading around in my bare feet, in water half way to my knees. I don't suppose the brother had any idea through how many tribulations we concocted that breakfast of fried chicken, canned cherries, etc. 

     It was sometime in that same spring that another incident occurred, that might have forever put an end to more pioneering. The snows had been very heavy all winter, and the roods were almost impassable. But Sunday dawned warm and pleasant and we were glad to avail ourselves of the chance to take an outing. Mr. Morgan had gone with the horse and buggy to the Buzzard school house to hold Morning service and Mr. Mellersh, Mrs. Tagg and children, and myself, with two babies, started about noon in the lumber wagon for Father Baker's, where Mr. Morgan was to hold services in the afternoon. We had a lovely drive through the fresh spring air, and arrived at the creek to find the little bridge covered with two feet of water. The bridge was ,just wide enough for a team and wagon, and one false step would precipitate us all into the water. We noticed Father Baker standing on the opposite side, jesticulating with his arms and evidently shouting to us, but our driver paid no attention, gave the reins to the horses, and almost as if by a miracle we passed safely over. We found Father Baker white with fear. He told us that we were the first to pass over the bridge during the flood, and that it was a wonder we were not all tipped over and drowned. I rode back in the buggy with Mr. Morgan, and we found the draws flooded with water and ice, the (31) water often coining up into the buggy, while the horses went plunging along over cakes of ice and through torrents of water. We finally reached home in safety, as did the rest of our company, thanks to protecting Providence.

     Our larder in those days was not always as well supplied as it might have been. I remember one instance, in particular, where a scarcity of provisions was very embarrassing I think it was on Tuesday morning. We were then living in our own sod house (quite a residence, by the way, of which we were very proud). We had a living room, bedroom, pantry, and chamber upstairs in which was reached by an adjustable ladder which could be hooked up when not in use. Our parishioners had made a "bee" and laid the sod for us, and we had a very comfortable house. I remember that on this particular morning I had discovered a bedbug (whisper it not in Gath), and had turned the house out of doors in consequence. About eleven o'clock I chanced to glance eastward, and there, coming over the hill, were a horse and buggy. Oh, my prophetic soul! I knew by the pricking of my thumbs that meant company. Sure enough, three ladies from town had come out to spend the day, one of them from Fairmont and whom I had never met. My first thought was, "what have I got to eat.?" I made a hurried mental inventory of my edibles, and it stood thus: Meat, none. Butter, none. Fruit, none. Vegetables? Yes! I did have about one mess of green peas growing in the garden. I had some flour, milk and tea. So we dined off green peas, hot biscuits without butter, and tea. We had plenty of hot water, anyway.

     Time wore on and our little church grew and flourishing until we were able to put up a church building with the aid of good friends in other denominations. In those days the denominational lines were very lightly drawn. We wore not Methodists, Congregationalists, Presbyterians and Baptists, but a unit of Christian people trying to establish a town and county that should be God-fearing, temperate, and a synonym for the highest type of Christianity. l thank God that the work we did was well done, and that always the town of York has stood as a bulwark against (32) the saloon power, and has been a representative town in the state for a broad catholic Christianity.

      When we had finished our little church the reverend felt that nobody but Dr. Miner Raymond, of the Northwestern University was equal to the occasion for the dedicatory exercises. We felt that we were laying big foundations, and we wanted a big, broad man, to lay the corner stone. Dr. Raymond consented to come, and two other churches secured his services. The reverend and I met him at Fairmont with "Tod," who was then only a three-months-old baby. I can inform you housekeepers that then and there my troubles began. We were to entertain the Doctor, and he was, of course, accustomed to all the luxuries of a Chicago market. Butter was an impossible article. Likewise fresh meat. I had no chickens, and the canned fruits which we were able to obtain were not palatable. To add to my distress the doctor was far from well, the water having disagreed with him, so that his stomach was all out of order. Hence our fare of fried bacon, eggs and sorghum was out of the question for him. I think he lived mostly on boiled milk for the first three days of his stay with us. About Friday he felt a little better, and began to manifest a good deal of anxiety about the dedication exercises. The music; especially, seemed to weigh on his mind. "Have you a choir?" he asked. We confessed that we qualified to such an article. In fact we had a good choir and organist, and both would have done credit to an eastern town. Put I did not enlighten the Doctor. As he seemed to think that "no good thing could come out of Nazareth," I thought I'd leave him with his own opinion. On Friday evening the Doctor insisted that we have a choir practice. So about nine o'clock we went over to Mrs. Millen's, who lived about a mile away, for a practice. The Doctor insisted on accompanying us, though we would very much have preferred to have left him at home. We arrived rather late, and found Mr. and Mrs. Millen in bed. She got up and dressed, however, pulled out the organ from its box in the corner, and we sang a little, while the Doctor took a survey of the premises. A sod louse, dirt floor, dirt roof, the interior lit by a dim kerosene lamp! Certainly the outlook was not very promising. The next night we left the Doctor (33) at home, took our choir down to the church and had a good practice.

     On Saturday night we entertained fourteen people who had come up from the Blue, and other localities to attend the dedication. I'll never tell where we put them to sleep, except that the reverend occupied a pile of sacks at the head of the stairs.

     The Doctor continued very suspicious about the exercises, especially the raising of the money. "Where are the people to come from?" he asked. "I don't see any houses!'' And again, "Unless you are a better man than I think you are, William, you'll never raise the money." On Sunday morning the little church was packed. Teams stood thick all about the place, and men were standing outside the doors and windows. After the singing of the first hymn by the choir and congregation the Doctor settled back with a look of solid satisfaction on his face. He preached one of his best sermons. The occasion seemed to inspire him. At the close of the discourse the men and women from the little sod houses and dug-outs scattered over the prairie, and the men from the lawyers' and doctors' offices in the town, showed the material of which they were made, when out of their limited means they subscribed.$1,100, and raised every dollar of the church indebtedness.

     One little incident, which gives a light among these shades, I desire to recall. The parson, after the manner of parsons, had traded for a saddle horse, which he rode on his Sunday tours from York to Lincoln Creek and return. Now it chanced that the parson's horse had been at some time in his life used on the race track, and was an animal of no mean pedigree or paces. One Sabbath, two of the young men of York, who have since achieved dignity with their years, accompanied the parson on his Sunday rounds, they also mounted on horseback. On the road home the parson was riding leisurely along, a little in front, when something very much like a wink passed between the horsemen in the rear, and they immediately put their horses to their top speed. The parson's nag needed no spur. He "smelt the battle from afar," rose to the occasion and soon (34) distanced his competitors. The parson always claimed that he pulled his horse up as soon as he could collect himself, but the "boys" tell a different tale, and have never ceased to relate how the parson raced horses on Sunday.

     I might tell much more. Scene after scene of those days crowds upon my memory. How we fought fire and flood, grasshoppers and famine, and above all whiskey. How hot the battle raged at times, till even the staunchest trembled. But God gave us strength to hold on, until finally victory perched upon our banners, and the saloon forces beat an ignominious retreat.

     And now the shadows are gathering over our pathway. The faces of the pioneers show lines of care. Toil and sorrow have whitened the once sunny hair. We are facing towards the sunset. Soon the places that have known us will know us no more. But among the cherished memories that we shall carry with us into the Land of the Hereafter will be the memory of our pioneer days in York, and among those who shall meet and greet us in the Bright Beyond, there will be none dearer than our old friends of York county.

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