Chapter II

 

A LITTLE GIRL ON A MINNESOTA FARM

 

 

     There were many fascinating things on the farm.  I never saw such beautiful wild strawberries in my life.  The land was new and the strawberries were plentiful, large and sweet, growing on long stems in the high timothy west of the house.  Mother would say:  “Get strawberries for dinner.”  We would go armed with a pail and return in astonishingly quick time with quantities of these fine berries.  There was always plenty of cream and it made a dessert fit for the gods.

 

     I recall seeing a beautiful animal running on the rise at the north end of our farm.  My father ran for his gun, but he was too late and, secretly, I was glad.  It was a young fawn, too lovely to kill.

 

     There was much planting of trees.  Two rows of willows were set out north of the house for windbreak.  There was a fine grove of maples and poplars.  “The poplar catkins dripped with sun,” my son Paul has written of other scenes, but his description applies to the poplars of my girlhood.

 

     A row was planted down the “lane,” as we called the driveway to the west end or side of the farm.  This was in time a delightful little road.  We children were glad to run down and open the bars for the ones coming.  It was likely to be father and mother from a marketing trip.  They usually spoke of buying as “trading.”

 

TRIP TRIED HIS TEETH ON SNAKES

     The slough was frequented by harmless streaked snakes, and when we went down near it, Trip, our dog, was always at our heels.  We would say “Sic ‘em!” and he would often find a nest of these uncanny things.  He had a way of taking them by the head and shaking them furiously.  Life was soon gone and we believed he actually snapped the heads off.  These were the days when I had nerve and not nerves.

 

     We took great delight in seeing our old cat, I think a male cat, protect some little yellow chicks, whose mother had died.  He would curve his body, and they would cuddle in the curve, cease their crying and soon be fast asleep.  He never made any attempt to hurt them.  It usually fell to my lot to feed the chickens.

 

     I always planted cucumber vines at the west windows.  They gave an abundant shade.  Finally, however, the lovely Balm of Gilead trees, two of them planted west of the house, gave sufficient shade, so that this was unnecessary.

 

     We girls went to the district school as soon as we were of proper age.  Two children had been born, a boy not long after our moving to the farm.  Two years later a little girl came to be his chum.  The boy was named Edward Hezekiah.  The latter name was to honor Grandfather Hills, but it seems too bad to fasten such an unattractive load onto a child.  Father took great pride in Edward — he would bear his name, Hills.  Bertha was my pet, and I was getting to the years when I liked to mother the younger ones, but Eva was too near my age — two years and eight months younger.

 

     I tried to learn to make tatting, but found it difficult to draw the string.  One day I crawled onto a low part of the barn and decided to accomplish the feat before leaving my perch.  I did so, to my mother’s delight.  While there I saw a great sight.  A neighbor’s bull had got into the farm enclosure, but was at a good safe distance. Our bull would stand for none of that and a glorious fight ensued.  One did not need to go to Mexico.

 

     There was a beautiful elm at the west near the “lane.”  Kingfishers used to build nests there and it was a delight to us children to toss crumbs to them.  The process was repeated every day for a long time.

 

     One near tragedy must not be forgotten.  I looked toward the east and saw Bertha, who had now grown to be seven or more years old, having trouble.  An old curly-horned ram had run at her and butted her to the ground.  I gave a wild scream for father.  As she got up, the brute would come again, striking very hard blows.  Bertha would try to defend herself and this angered him.  My father reached her just in time to save her one serious blow.  He coolly took his jack-knife and cut the jugular vein of the animal.  The owner came, seeing the beast fall.  A conference between the owner and father ended in peace as father was willing to pay all that the neighbor asked.

 

     While speaking of things of things in nature, I should have included the wonderful wild flowers.  Gentians, lovely purple ones, were plentiful.  There were both the open and closed varieties, the latter being called the bottle gentian.  Near the slough were lilies. We especially enjoyed them.  They were not so plentiful.  There were cow-slips and marsh marigolds.  My mother cultivated flowers and encouraged us girls in the art.  It was a delight to watch their development.  I recall the marigolds, four o’clocks, poppies, I think the coreopsis, daisies, a red flower growing close to the ground which we called moss rose — portulacca.  There were many other flowers, but these were easily sown and grew well.  Later we had those that were considered more pretentious — peonies and gladioli.  We at length succeeded in growing roses. Of another sort entirely were the sunflower and golden rod.  The mature sunflower seeds were considered very good for the chickens.

 

     Our pansies were a delight to us all.  They seemed to us to have real human faces.  I never see one, in far off today, without having that same impression.

 

     In the vegetable garden were rhubarb, cabbage and other annuals.  Caraway, a perennial, was always to be had.  The annual garden was not only a money saving institution, but a delight.  Making strawberries grow was not the easy task that it had been for Dame Nature.  When we moved them, as must be done, it was so difficult that father was wont to say they cost five cents apiece.

 

     Eventually, we had quite an orchard in which we had great pleasure and some profit.

 

     Thinking again of that east side, I recall a little creature that made many trip to the east porch, where there was a pump and water standing in a tub.  It was a weasel.  I’ve never seen one since.

 

     Once while tending Edward when he was a baby, I took him to the cornfield, and, discovering a little animal, I put the babe in a safe place and gave chase. It was a gray gopher.  I must have been fleet of foot for I caught it. Though it bit through the skin of my little finger, I did not loose my hold.  I thought it was a gray squirrel, and that was considered a find in those days.  I should waste no steps in these day—they have become too plentiful.  The little gopher was allowed to go as he should have been.  During these busy and interesting days, another child came into the home — a boy, whom they named Willis.  He was a frail little fellow and did not survive the first summer.

 

     I must not forget one experience.  I recall it vividly today.  At school one summer afternoon, it seemed to me that literally “The rains descended and the floods came.”  I supposed for some good reason, Alice and Eva had not attended school that day.  As school closed, the rain had about ceased and a neighbor took me with some other pupils toward home.  We learned that the little bridge over which we went each day to the main road to Cannon City was badly damaged, so that no one could cross it.

 

     A Mrs. Charley Swartwood insisted that I stay all night with her, as my father could no more reach me than I could reach him.  I am afraid I was too homesick to appreciate fully her kindness then, but that was the one and only thing that could be done.  I doubt if I slept at all.  At any rate I dressed myself at five o’clock the next morning, telling my benefactor that I was going home.  I started, the summum bonum of life being to see my mother.  The slough looked pretty doubtful, but I got to the fence.  It was still standing, though seeming a little inebriate as I climbed onto the top.  Determination makes us brave and I finally set foot on very boggy wet soil, but I was on the home side.  I had somehow a foolish feeling that I was to blame, but mother was certainly glad to see me.

 

     While we still had the stable which eventually gave place to a barn, the cows were put out during the winter months, each day at noon, for fresh air and water. Coming back, one cow habitually stepped over a sunbeam.  It was a dark place and she evidently took it to be a stick or pole.  She raised her feet as unfailingly as though it were necessary.

 

     Bertha was stricken with a fever when she had reached about nine years and in a short time was taken from us.  It was a great sorrow to us all. She was a genial little soul and had endeared herself greatly to the entire family.  I did not mention her going to school, but she did as soon as old enough.  I remember how I loved to curl her hair and what great pride I took in her.  I am sure that Edward missed her more than he showed.  “A boy’s thoughts are long thoughts.”  He was a favorite, I was tempted to say.  At least, he was popular, being the only boy, while there were three girls. He and mother were decidedly kindred spirits.  She taught him at home, as he had so disliked the district school. He was of a mechanical turn of mind.  The mechanical knowledge that he showed was uncannily ahead of his years.

 

     Father had studied astronomy at Oberlin. Mother, too, had studied what they called geography of the heavens and it was a delight to hear the names of the many constellations and stars.  Orion, with his sword, appealed to us very much.  The Big Dipper was as real as the one in the kitchen.  Cassiopeia’s chair was a constant source of wonderment.  Job’s Coffin was a weird figure.

 

     When I was sixteen years of age, I taught my first term of school in the Billy Lyons district, as we called it.  It was ours, also — the school that I had attended.  I had attended also the Faribault Central for a short time.  I was urged to go and share a room with my friend, Ida Herriman.  Ida and I remained close friends as long as she lived. They occupied the only stone house in Cannon City.  It still stands.  Whenever I visited her she would ask me to sing “Darling, I Am Growing Old,” a popular song of those days, as now.  She married Moses Dungay.  Their only child, a son named Neil, became a physician, and is a professor in Carleton College, I think, at the present time.

 

     I had a penchant for teaching and my first term gave me a desire to continue.  The next summer, I had a choice of that district school or one east of us known as the Knopf district.  I accepted the latter as they paid a better price.  My father had already paid considerable toward the education of sister Alice, she being in the preparatory department of Carleton College.  He, therefore, decided to let me teach whenever I could manage a term to help in expenses.  I lived with the Knopf family, fine, clean German people.  I recall one rather exciting thing that occurred that first term.  The family decided to go to a camp meeting to be held in the grove about five miles away.  (As I recall it, though, there were groves everywhere.)  The supposed converts became very much wrought up, and the higher they jumped the more fervor they thought they were showing.  Mr. and Mrs. Knopf were disgusted and I believe I was horrified, so I was glad when they decided to leave.  We had not gone far in a wagon till we heard the howling of wolves. Mr. Knopf whipped his horses into a run, fearing an attack.  This was an eventful day for me.  I had never before attended a camp meeting, nor heard the howling of wolves.

 

     I think it was the fall following that I went with sister Alice to Northfield, she being four years older than I. I entered the city school, she again the Carleton Preparatory.

 

     One day, returning from school to the home of Mrs. Kent where we had a couple of rooms, I noticed strange things. Neighbors stopped and shook hands and the very air seemed to have an unnatural look.

 

WHEN THE JAMES BOYS SHOT UP NORTHFIELD

     I rushed into the house asking Alice why everybody acted so queerly.  She replied, “Don’t you know what has happened?”  She then related to me the story of Jesse James and the Younger brothers.  These desperadoes had ridden into Northfield on horseback, firing hither and yon. They were Southerners and sat their horses as though part of them.  They entered the bank, ordering the cashier, Mr. Heyward, to open the lock.  He said he could not do this, but people never know whether he meant that it was a mechanical impossibility or that honor prevented him.  They shot him and he died instantly.  A Norwegian farmer was starting home.  They killed him and shot at Mr. Bunker, who was, I believe, a clerk in the back.  He was hit in the arm.  There was such a volley of bullets coming from behind buildings and from hidden places that the robbers fled, leaving one of the number dead on the street.  We school children saw him. It was all ghastly and has been the subject of books, and I think, movies.

 

     Life was taking on a serious aspect.  Besides teaching and attending school, I had several music pupils. I had at this time been at Carleton Conservatory and had put earnest study on music, which I always loved. It is amusing to think that I imagined I could give lessons, but I had unbounded ambition and I did the best I could.  The fond mammas were satisfied and I had all I could do during the summer months with that and my other duties. I am certain that I at least helped to create a hunger for music. This was worthwhile.  I had united with the little church in Cannon City and enjoyed work in that congregation.

 

     One afternoon we learned there was to be an almost total eclipse of the sun.  We looked forward to it, and when it came it was indeed interesting and surely awe-inspiring.  Some things connected with it were amusing.  The chickens made that strange noise that they make when night comes on, and all of them went to roost.  I believe this lasted for an hour and a half, beginning at about four p.m.