Skip to main content

Full text of "ROUND UP A NEBRASKA READER"

See other formats 


973-2  F26r 

Faulkner    $5.00 

Roundup;  a  Nebraska  reader. 


57-07193 


978.2  F26r      57-07195 

Faulkner    $5.00 

Roundup;  a  Nebraska  reader. 


Kansas  city         public  library 


Books  will  be  issued  only 

on  presentation  of  library  card. 
Please  report  lost  cards  and 

change  of  residence  promptly. 
Card  holders  are  responsible  for 

all  books,  records,  films,  pictures 
or  other  library  materials 
checked  out  on  their  cards. 


D  DDD1  DS33183  E 


DATE  DUE 


v 


L-16 


ROUNDUP:  A  Nebraska  Reader 


ROUNDUP 


A  Nebraska  Reader 


Compiled  and  edited  by 
Virginia  Faulkner 

Line  Drawings  by  Elmer  Jacobs 


University  of  Nebraska  Press 
Lincoln  •  1957 


Publishers  on  the  Plains 

UNP 

COPYRIGHT    1957  BY  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  NEBRASKA  PRESS 

Library  of  Congress  Catalog  Card  Number  57-8597 


Manufactured  in  the  V.SA.  by 

R.  R.  Donnelley  &  Sons  Company,  Chicago,  Illinois 

and  Crawfordsville,  Indiana 


FOR  MORE  THAN  A  CENTURY  Nebraska  has  been  an 
arena  of  adventure  and  achievement,  the  stage  on 
which  has  been  enacted  some  of  the  great  Ameri 
can  dramas  of  the  mind  and  heart  and  spirit.  Yet 
curiously  enough,  this  4oomile  stretch  of  midland, 
this  continental  crossroads  traversed  yearly  by 
thousands,  has  remained  one  of  the  least-known 
regions  of  our  country.  Nebraskans'  awareness  of 
the  disparity  between  their  state's  solid  significance 
in  the  national  scene  and  its  seeming  invisibility  to 
their  fellow  countrymen  has  been  the  animating 
force  which  has  resulted  in  this  book. 


Acknowledgments 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  NEBRASKA  PRESS  wishes  to  acknowledge  the  kind 
ness  of  the  following  publishers  and  authors  in  permitting  the  use  of 
copyrighted  material: 

The  American  Mercury  and  the  estate  of  Mrs.  Gretchen  Beghtol  Lee  for 
permission  to  reprint  an  excerpt  from  "Nebraska,"  January,  1925.  The 
American  Mercury  and  Dr.  L.  C.  Wimberly  for  permission  to  condense 
"How  a  Dull  Midwestern  Town  Takes  on  Class/'  July,  1934. 
American  Speech,  the  Columbia  University  Press,  and  Rudolph  Umland 
for  permission  to  reprint  "American  Cowboy  Talk,"  February,  1942. 

Appleton-Century-Crofts,  Inc.  for  permission  to  quote  from  A  Lantern  in 
Her  Hand  by  Bess  Streeter  Aldrich,  copyright  1928  by  D.  Appleton  &  Co.; 
and  to  reprint  a  selection  from  By  Motor  to  the  Golden  Gate  by  Emily  Post, 
copyright  1916  by  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 

A.  S.  Barnes  &  Co.,  Inc.  for  permission  to  extract  from  Baseball's  Greatest 
Pitchers  by  Tom  Meany,  copyright  1951  by  A.  S.  Barnes  &  Co.,  Inc. 

Bartholomew  House,  Inc.  for  permission  to  extract  from  A  Treasury  of 
Sports  Stories  edited  by  Ed  Fitzgerald,  copyright  1955  by  Bartholomew 
House,  Inc. 

Western  Folklore  and  Dr.  Louise  Pound  for  permission  to  condense  "Ne 
braska  Rain  Lore  and  Rain-Making,"  California  Folklore  Quarterly,  Vol.  2, 
April,  1946. 

Collier's  and  Bill  Fay  for  permission  to  condense  "Nebraska's  'Mr.  Touch 
down/  "  October  6,  1951. 

The  Cond£  Nast  Publications,  Inc.  for  permission  to  reprint  Robert 
Burlingame's  "Nebraska  on  the  Make/'  Vanity  Fair,  November,  1932,  copy 
right  1932  by  the  Condd  Nast  Publications,  Inc. 

The  Curtis  Publishing  Co.  and  Mari  Sandoz  for  permission  to  reprint  ex 
cerpts  from  "The  New  Frontier  Woman,"  Country  Gentleman,  September, 
1936,  copyright  1936  by  the  Curtis  Publishing  Co.  The  Curtis  Publishing  Co. 
and  Debs  Myers  for  permission  to  reprint  "The  Grain  Belt's  Golden 
Buckle,"  Holiday,  October,  1952,  copyright  1952  by  the  Curtis  Publishing 
Co.  The  Curtis  Publishing  Co.,  and  the  estate  of  Bess  Streeter  Aldrich  for 
permission  to  extract  from  "Why  I  Live  in  a  Small  Town,"  Ladies'  Home 
Journal  June,  1933,  copyright  1933  by  the  Curtis  Publishing  Co.  The  Curtis 
Publishing  Co.  and  B.  F.  Sylvester  for  permission  to  condense  "Hoss 
Tradin'/'  Saturday  Evening  Post,  January  6,  1934  and  "Sandhills  Paradise," 
Saturday  Evening  Post,  June  14,  1947,  copyright  1934  and  1947  respectively 
by  the  Curtis  Publishing  Co. 

Thomas  Y.  Crowell  Co.  for  permission  to  reprint  excerpts  from  Our  Ameri 
can  Music  by  John  Tasker  Howard,  copyright  1946,  1954  by  John  Tasker 
Howard. 


Vll 


viii  Acknowledgments 

Duell,  Sloan  &  Pearce,  Inc.  for  permission  to  quote  from  Corn  Country 
by  Homer  Croy,  copyright  1947,  by  Homer  Croy. 

Farrar  &  Rinehart  and  Stanley  Vestal  for  permission  to  quote  from  The 
Missouri,  copyright  1945  by  Walter  Stanley  Campbell. 

Wilfred  Funk,  Inc.  for  permission  to  extract  from  Western  Democrat  by 
Arthur  F.  Mullen,  copyright  1940  by  Wilfred  Funk,  Inc. 

Har court  Brace  &  Co.,  Inc.  for  permission  to  extract  from  Bryan  by  M.  R. 
Werner,  copyright  1929  by  Harcourt  Brace  &  Co.,  Inc. 

Harper  &  Brothers  for  permission  to  present  selections  from  Inside  U.S.A. 
by  John  Gunther,  copyright  1947  by  John  Gunther;  Incredible  Tale  by 
Gerald  W.  Johnson,  copyright  1950  by  Gerald  W.  Johnson;  and  Five  Cities 
by  George  Leighton,  copyright  1938  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

Houghton  MifHin  Co.  and  the  Executors  of  the  Estate  of  Willa  Gather  for 
permission  to  quote  from  0  Pioneers!  by  Willa  Gather,  copyright  1947; 
and  My  Antonia  by  Willa  Gather,  copyright  1918. 

Johnsen  Publishing  Co.  for  permission  to  quote  from  J.  R.  Johnson's  Rep 
resentative  Nebrashans,  copyright  1954;  and  from  Sam  McKelvie—Son  of  the 
Soil  by  Bruce  H.  Nicoll  and  Ken  R.  Keller,  copyright  1954. 

Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Inc.  and  the  Executors  of  the  Estate  of  Willa  Gather  for 
permission  to  reprint  "Nebraska:  the  End  of  the  First  Cycle"  by  Willa 
Gather,  Renewal  copyright  1951  by  the  Executors  of  the  Estate  of  Willa 
Gather;  and  for  permission  to  quote  from  Obscure  Destinies  by  Willa 
Gather,  copyright  1950;  Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa  by  Willa  Gather, 
copyright  1951;  and  One  of  Ours  by  Willa  Gather,  copyright  1953.  Also 
for  permission  to  quote  from  Willa  Gather  Living  by  Edith  Lewis,  copy 
right  1953  by  Edith  Lewis. 

The  estate  of  Charles  G.  Dawes  for  permission  to  extract  from  A  Journal 
of  the  McKinley  Years,  copyright  1950  by  Charles  G.  Dawes. 

Life  for  permission  to  condense  "Battling  Bill  Jcffers"  by  Ray  Mackland, 
"A  Nebraska  Diplomat  in  Paraguay"  by  John  Neill,  and  "The  Thinking 
Machine  Who  Bosses  NATO"  by  Robert  Coughlan,  copyright  Time,  Inc. 
1943,  1941,  and  1953  respectively.  Also  for  permission  to  quote  from  "Four 
Seasons  on  the  Farm,"  copyright  Time,  Inc.  1941. 

The  Lincoln  Star  for  permission  to  quote  from  a  story  by  Del  Harding, 
November  10,  1956. 

The  Lincoln  Evening  Journal  and  the  Sunday  Journal  and  Star  for  permis 
sion  to  quote  an  editorial  and  extract  from  numerous  feature  stories. 

The  Macmillan  Co.  for  permission  to  extract  from  Them  Was  the  Days  by 
Martha  Ferguson  McKeown,  copyright  1950  by  Martha  Ferguson  McKeown. 
Also  to  the  Macmillan  Co.,  the  estate  of  A.  G.  Macdonell,  and  A.  D.  Peters 
for  permission  to  extract  from  A  Visit  to  America  by  A.  G.  Macdonell, 
copyright  1935  by  A.  G.  Macdonell.  Also  to  the  Macmillan  Co.  and  Mrs. 
George  W.  Norris  for  permission  to  quote  from  Fighting  Liberal  by 
George  W.  Norris,  copyright  1945  by  the  Macmillan  Co. 


Acknowledgments  ix 

The  Musical  Quarterly  for  permission  to  extract  from  "Howard  Hanson" 
by  Burnet  C.  Tuthill,  Vol.  XXII,  1936. 

The  Nation  for  permission  to  reprint  "Nebraska:  the  End  of  the  First  Cycle" 
by  Willa  Gather,  copyright  1923  by  The  Nation,  Inc.;  and  to  condense 
"Norris  of  Nebraska"  by  Frederic  Babcock,  copyright  1927  by  the  Nation, 
Inc. 

The  Nebraska  Alumni  Association  for  permission  to  extract  from  "Louise 
Pound"  by  Hartley  B.  Alexander,  The  Nebraska  Alumnus,  October,  1933. 

The  Nebraska  State  Legislative  Council  for  permission  to  quote  from  the 
Nebraska  Bluebook,  1952. 

Nebraska  History,  official  publication  of  the  Nebraska  State  Historical 
Society,  for  permission  to  reprint,  condense,  or  quote  from  numerous  arti 
cles. 

Newsweek  for  permission  to  quote  from  "The  Senate:  'I  Could  Use  a 
Horse,'  "  May  10,  1954. 

The  Omaha  World-Herald  for  permission  to  extract  from  numerous  feature 
stories. 

Popular  Science  Monthly  for  permission  to  reprint  "They  Torture  Trac 
tors"  by  B.  F.  Sylvester,  May,  1954. 

The  Prairie  Schooner  for  permission  to  reprint  or  condense  numerous  arti 
cles. 

Reader's  Digest  for  permission  to  reprint  "The  Town  That  Discovered  It 
self"  by  William  S.  Dutton,  March,  1955,  condensed  from  Popular  Science 
Monthly. 

The  Saturday  Review  of  Literature  and  the  estate  of  William  Allen  White 
for  permission  to  extract  from  a  review  of  Integrity:  the  Life  of  George  W. 
N orris,  July  10,  1937- 

Miss  Ruth  Sheldon  for  permission  to  quote  from  Addison  E.  Sheldon's 
Nebraska:  The  Land  and  the  People,  copyright  1931  by  the  Lewis  Publish 
ing  Co. 

Time  for  permission  to  reprint  or  extract  from  the  following:  "Nebraska's 
Howard,"  "Music  Incubator,"  "War  in  the  Corn,"  "Country  Doctor,  1950," 
"One-Man  Studio,"  "The  Lady  from  Bar  99,"  and  "NATO's  General 
Gruenther."  Copyright  Time,  Inc.  1928,  1940,  1945,  1950,  1952,  1954,  and 
1956  respectively. 

The  University  of  Colorado  Press  for  permission  to  condense  Walter  Pres- 
cott  Webb's  "The  Great  Plains  and  the  Industrial  Revolution"  from  The 
Trans-Mississippi  West  edited  by  James  F.  Willard  and  Colin  B.  Goody- 
koontz,  copyright  1930. 

The  University  of  Nebraska  Press  for  permission  to  condense  or  extract 
from  a  number  of  its  publications. 

The  University  of  North  Carolina  Press  for  permission  to  print  a  shortened 
version  of  Claudius  O.  Johnson's  "George  W.  Norris"  from  The  American 
Politician  edited  by  J.  T.  Salter,  copyright  1938. 


x  Acknowledgments 

The  University  Publishing  Co.  for  permission  to  quote  from  Nebraska  Old 
and  New  by  Addison  E.  Sheldon,  copyright  1937. 

The  Vanguard  Press,  Inc.  for  permission  to  quote  from  Integrity:  the  Life 
of  George  W.  Norris  by  Richard  L.  Neuberger  and  Stephen  B.  Kahn,  copy 
right  1937  by  the  Vanguard  Press,  Inc. 

The  Viking  Press,  Inc.  for  permission  to  extract  from  Pioneer's  Progress 
by  Alvin  Johnson,  copyright  1952  by  Alvin  Johnson.  Also  for  permission 
to  quote  from  The  American  Democracy  by  Harold  J.  Laski,  copyright 
1948  by  the  Viking  Press,  Inc. 


Table  of  Contents 


1923:  Willa  Gather's  Nebraska 

NEBRASKA:  THE  END  OF  THE  FIRST  CYCLE Willa  Gather  i 

I.  THE  SHIFTING  FRONTIER 

WEST  OF  98° 

1.  The  Great  American  Desert James  C.  Olson  11 

2.  The  Frontier  Machine Walter  Prescott  Webb  13 

IT  TOOK  ALL  KINDS 

1.  Pioneer  Preacher Rev.  George  W.  Barnes  21 

2.  The  Myth  of  Wild  Bill  Hickok Carl  Uhlarik  27 

STAGE-COACHING  ON  THE  GREAT  OVERLAND.  .  .Mark  Twain  34 

HURRAH  FOR  THE  IRON  HORSE 

1.  The  View  from  Council  Bluffs . .  George  R.  Leighton  39 

2.  Promoter  de  Luxe Martin  Severin  Peterson  42 

THE  DEFENSE  OF  GRAND  ISLAND William  Stolley  47 

SEE  NEBRASKA  ON  SAFARI.  .  .Burlington  <fr  Missouri  Poster  51 

THE  FAMOUS  GRAND  DUKE  ALEXIS 

BUFFALO  HUNT Col  W.  F.  Cody  52 

THE  ROAD  TO  ARCADIA Martha  Ferguson  McKeown  57 

THE  REAL  COWBOY Robert  Sturgis  72 

OGALLALA 

1.  Nebraska's  Cowboy  Capital.  .  .Norbert  R.  Mahnken  78 

2.  "They  Went  Thataway!" James  H.  Clark  86 

NECKTIE  PARTIES 

1.  The  Mitchell  and  Ketchum  Tragedy.  .S.  D.  Butcher  91 

2.  The  Lynching  of  Kid  Wade . . .  T.  Josephine  Haugen  98 

O'NEILL Arthur  F.  Mullen  102 

xi 


xli  Contents 

II.  FAMILY  ALBUM  I 

PRAIRIE  DOCTOR 

1.  The  Doctor Francis  A.  Long  in 

2.  The  Doctor's  Wife Mrs.  Francis  A.  Long  115 

3.  Country  Doctor,  1950 "Time"  119 

DUTCH  JOE:  FRONTIER  HERO A.  E.  Sheldon  122 

WILLA  GATHER  OF  RED  CLOUD Mildred  R.  Bennett  124 

ROAD  TRADER B.  F.  Sylvester  131 

POLITICIANS  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL Rudolph  Umland  137 

1.  Henry  C.  Richmond 

2.  Moses  P.  Kinkaid 

3.  Edgar  Howard 

THE  WIFE  OF  OLD  JULES Mari  Sandoz  145 

III.  THE  GATEWAY 

OMAHA Debs  Myers  151 

IRON  HORSEPLAY Lucius  Beebe  161 

OMAHA  BETWEEN  TRAINS Rudyard  Kipling  168 

OMAHA  NEWSREEL 

1.  The  Fair George  R.  Leighton  170 

2.  The  Kidnapping Ruth  Reynolds  173 

3.  The  Tornado Amy  Mitchell  177 

COUNTRY  BOYS Howard  Wolff  179 

RAILROAD  MAN Ray  Mackland  182 

1932:  Vanity  Fair's  Nebraska 

NEBRASKA  ON  THE  MAKE Robert  Burlingame  189 

IV.  THE  SOWER 

EDUCATION  OF  A  NEBRASKAN Alvin  S.  Johnson  197 

1.  Homer 

2.  Lieutenant  Pershing 


Contents  xiii 

THE  PANIC  OF  1893  ..................  Charles  G.  Dawes  207 

BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN 

1.  The  Voice  ...................  Gerald  W.  Johnson  213 

2.  "A  Good  Many  Votes  on  D  Street".  .  .M.  R.  Werner  216 

3.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Jennings  Bryan.  Willa  Gather  221 

MIXED  NOTICES  ..................  Col.  Barney  Oldfield  227 

FIRST  LADY  OF  LETTERS 

1.  Retrospective:  1957  .................  &-  A*  Botkin  232 

2.  In  medias  res:  1953  ........  Hartley  Burr  Alexander  236 

THE  "SUPREME  COURT"  OF  TRACTORS.  ."Popular  Science"  239 
NEBRASKA'S  "MR.  TOUCHDOWN"  ...............  Bill  Fay  243 

LINCOLN:  Two  VIEWS 

1.  "The  Best  Known  of  All  the  Lincolns 

in  the  World"  ...............  Lowry  C.  Wimberly  248 

2.  The  Prairie  Capital  ____  Raymond  A.  McConnell,  Jr.  253 

V.  THE  WEATHER  REPORT 

THE  SEASONS  IN  NEBRASKA  ................  Willa  Gather  261 

THE  BLIZZARD  OF  1888  .................  Ora  A.  Clement  263 

CYCLONE  YARNS  ....................  George  L.  Jackson  269 

NEBRASKA  RAIN  LORE  AND  RAIN-MAKING.  .  .Louise  Pound  271 
MEN  AGAINST  THE  RIVER  ................  B.  F.  Sylvester  280 

VI.  LOOK  EAST,  LOOK  WEST 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  MIDDLE  WEST  .........  A.  G.  Macdonell  289 

COUNTY  SEAT  .........................  Robert  Chesky  295 

1.  The  Stolen  Courthouse 

2.  Wilber 

WAR  IN  THE  CORN  ............................  "Km*"  3°° 

WE  LIKED  CHAUTAUQUA  ...........  Katherine  Buxbaum  302 


HOLDREGE 

ELMWOOD  ...........  *  ...........  Bess  Stricter  Aldrich  312 


xiv  Contents 

SCOTTSBLUFF  ..........................  Robert  Young  317 

PEACE  OFFICER  ......................  Robert  Houston  328 

HYANNIS  ..............................  B.  F.  Sylvester  332 

HOME  ON  THE  RANGE 

1.  Branding  Time  in  Nebraska  ..........  Don  Muhm  341 

2.  Nebraska  Cowboy  Talk  .........  Rudolph  Umland  344 

SANDHILL  SUNDAYS  .......................  Mari  Sandoz  347 

VII.  FAMILY  ALBUM  II 

FROM  HOWARD  HANSON'S  SCRAPBOOK 

1.  "An  Unquestionably  American 

Composer"  ..................  Burnet  C.  Tuthill  359 

2.  Music  Incubator  ........................  "Time"  361 

3.  "America's  Gift  of  Music"  ----  John  Tasker  Howard  362 

ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT  .......  Tom  Meany  and  Jack  Sher  364 

ONE-MAN  STUDIO  ............................  "Time"  372 

"EL  MINISTRO  COWBOY"  ....................  John  Neill  379 

MARI  SANDOZ  .....................  Mamie  J.  Meredith  382 

VIII.  JUST  PASSING  THROUGH 

NEBRASKA  PANORAMA  ..............  Sir  Richard  Burton  389 

ACROSS  NEBRASKA  BY  RAIL  AND  SAIL  .........  Jules  Verne  398 

THE  PLAINS  OF  NEBRASKA  .......  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  401 

OSCAR  WILDE  IN  OMAHA  ..................  Carl  Uhlarik  404 

NEXT  STOP,  NORTH  PLATTE!  ............  ....  .Emily  Post  407 

THE  Moscow  EXPRESS  .................  .  ----  Jack  Hart  410 

NEBRASKA  Nor  IN  THE  GUIDEBOOK  .....  Rudolph  Umland 


1947:  John  Gunther's  Nebraska 
INSIDE  NEBRASKA  .............................  John  Gunther  419 


Contents  xv 

IX.  THE  FIRST  HUNDRED  YEARS  ARE  THE  HARDEST 

A  NORRIS  PORTFOLIO 

1.  "Very  Perfect  Gentle  Knight" . .  Claudius  O.  Johnson  427 

2.  "A  Homespun  Man" Frederic  Babcock  432 

3.  The  Gentleman  from 

Nebraska Charles  S.  Ryckman  436 

4.  The  Norris  Riddle William  Allen  White  441 

THE  KITCHEN  FRONTIER Margaret  Cannell  444 

THE  LADY  FROM  BAR  99 "Time"  and  "Newsweek"  450 

COLUMBUS William  S.  Dutton  453 

SEVENTEEN-GUN  SALUTE 

1.  NATO's  General  Gruenther "Time"  458 

2.  Nebraska's  Al  Gruenther Robert  Coughlan  461 

FIRST  LINE  OF  DEFENSE "Nebraska  on  the  March"  467 

WHEAT  FARMER Robert  Houston  471 

1957:  The  Nebraskan's  Nebraska 

NEBRASKA  is  HERE  TO  STAY Bruce  H.  Nicoll  477 


A  NOTE  ON  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NEBRASKA  PRESS Emily  Schossberger  489 

SOURCES  NOT  ACKNOWLEDGED  ELSEWHERE 491 


W1LLA    GATHER'S 
NEBRASKA 


Nebraska: 

The  End  of  the  First  Cycle 


WILLA  GATHER 


THE  STATE  OF  NEBRASKA  is  part  of  the  great  plain  which  stretches 
west  of  the  Missouri  River,  gradually  rising  until  it  reaches  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  The  character  of  all  this  country  between  the  river  and 
the  mountains  is  essentially  the  same  throughout  its  extent:  a  rolling, 
alluvial  plain,  growing  gradually  more  sandy  toward  the  west,  until 
it  breaks  into  the  white  sandhills  of  western  Nebraska  and  Kansas 
and  eastern  Colorado.  From  east  to  west  this  plain  measures  some 
thing  over  five  hundred  miles;  in  appearance  it  resembles  the  wheat 
lands  of  Russia,  which  fed  the  continent  of  Europe  for  so  many  years. 
Like  Little  Russia  it  is  watered  by  slow-flowing,  muddy  rivers,  which 
run  full  in  the  spring,  often  cutting  into  the  farm  lands  along  their 
banks;  but  by  midsummer  they  lie  low  and  shrunken,  their  current 
split  by  glistening  white  sand-bars  half  overgrown  with  scrub  willows. 

The  climate,  with  its  extremes  of  temperature,  gives  to  this  plateau 
the  variety  which,  to  the  casual  eye  at  least,  it  lacks.  There  we  have 
short,  bitter  winters;  windy,  flower-laden  springs;  long,  hot  summers; 
triumphant  autumns  that  last  until  Christmas— a  season  of  perpetual 
sunlight,  blazing  blue  skies,  and  frosty  nights.  In  this  newest  part 
of  the  New  World  autumn  is  the  season  of  beauty  and  sentiment,  as 
spring  is  in  the  Old  World. 

Nebraska  is  a  newer  state  than  Kansas.  It  was  a  state  before  there 
were  people  in  it.  Its  social  history  falls  easily  within  a  period  of 
sixty  years,  and  the  first  stable  settlements  of  white  men  were  made 
within  the  memory  of  old  folk  now  living.  The  earliest  of  these 
settlements— Bellevue,  Omaha,  Brownville,  Nebraska  City— were 
founded  along  the  Missouri  River,  which  was  at  that  time  a  pathway 
for  small  steamers.  In  1855-60  these  four  towns  were  straggling 
groups  of  log  houses,  hidden  away  along  the  wooded  river  banks. 

Copyright  1923  by  The  Nation,  Inc.,  Renewal  copyright  1951 
by  The  Executors  of  the  Estate  of  Wflla  Gather. 


2  ROUNDUP: 

Before  1860  civilization  did  no  more  than  nibble  at  the  eastern 
edge  o£  the  state,  along  the  river  bluffs.  Lincoln,  the  present  capital, 
was  open  prairie;  and  the  whole  of  the  great  plain  to  the  westward 
was  still  a  sunny  wilderness,  where  the  tall  red  grass  and  the  buffalo 
and  the  Indian  hunter  were  undisturbed.  Fremont,  with  Kit  Carson, 
the  famous  scout,  had  gone  across  Nebraska  in  1842,  exploring  the  val 
ley  of  the  Platte.  In  the  days  of  the  Mormon  persecution,  fifteen  thou 
sand  Mormons  camped  for  two  years,  1845-46,  six  miles  north  of 
Omaha,  while  their  exploring  parties  went  farther  west,  searching 
for  fertile  land  outside  of  government  jurisdiction.  In  1847  ^e  entire 
Mormon  sect,  under  the  leadership  of  Brigham  Young,  went  with 
their  wagons  through  Nebraska  and  on  to  that  desert  beside  the  salty 
sea  which  they  have  made  so  fruitful. 

In  forty-nine  and  the  early  fifties,  gold  hunters,  bound  for  Califor 
nia,  crossed  the  state  in  thousands,  always  following  the  old  Indian 
trail  along  the  Platte  valley.  The  state  was  a  highway  for  dreamers 
and  adventurers:  men  who  were  in  quest  of  gold  or  grace,  freedom  or 
romance.  With  all  these  people  the  road  led  out,  but  never  back 
again. 

While  Nebraska  was  a  camping-ground  for  seekers  outward  bound, 
the  wooden  settlements  along  the  Missouri  were  growing  into  some 
thing  permanent.  The  settlers  broke  the  ground  and  began  to  plant 
the  fine  orchards  which  have  ever  since  been  the  pride  of  Otoe  and 
Nemaha  counties.  It  was  at  Brownville  that  the  first  telegraph  wire 
was  brought  across  the  Missouri  River.  When  I  was  a  child  I  heard 
ex-Governor  Furnas  relate  how  he  stood  with  other  pioneers  in  a 
log  cabin  where  the  Morse  instrument  had  been  installed,  and  how, 
when  it  began  to  click,  the  men  took  off  their  hats  as  if  they  were  in 
church.  The  first  message  flashed  across  the  river  into  Nebraska  was 
not  a  market  report,  but  a  line  of  poetry:  "Westward  the  course  of 
empire  takes  its  way."  The  Old  West  was  like  that. 

The  first  back-and-forth  travel  through  the  state  was  by  way  of  the 
Overland  Mail,  a  monthly  passenger-and-mail  stage  service  across 
the  plains  from  Independence  to  the  new  colony  at  Salt  Lake. 

When  silver  ore  was  discovered  in  the  mountains  of  Colorado  near 
Cherry  Creek— afterward  Camp  Denver  and  later  the  city  of  Denver— 
a  picturesque  form  of  commerce  developed  across  the  great  plain  of 
Nebraska:  the  transporting  of  food  and  merchandise  from  the 
Missouri  to  the  Colorado  mining  camps,  and  on  to  the  Mormon 
settlement  at  Salt  Lake.  One  of  the  largest  freighting  companies, 
operating  out  of  Nebraska  City,  in  the  six  summer  months  o£  1860 


A  Nebraska  Reader  5 

carried  nearly  three  million  pounds  of  freight  across  Nebraska,  em 
ploying  515  wagons,  5,687  oxen,  and  600  drivers. 

The  freighting  began  in  the  early  spring,  usually  about  the  middle 
of  April,  and  continued  all  summer  and  through  the  long,  warm 
autumns.  The  oxen  made  from  ten  to  twenty  miles  a  day.  I  have 
heard  the  old  freighters  say  that,  after  embarking  on  their  six- 
hundred-mile  trail,  they  lost  count  of  the  days  of  the  week  and  the 
days  of  the  month.  While  they  were  out  in  that  sea  of  waving  grass, 
one  day  was  like  another;  and,  if  one  can  trust  the  memory  of  these 
old  men,  all  the  days  were  glorious.  The  buffalo  trails  still  ran  north 
and  south  then,  deep,  dusty  paths  the  bison  wore  when,  single  file, 
they  came  north  in  the  spring  for  the  summer  grass,  and  went  south 
again  in  the  autumn.  Along  these  trails  were  the  buffalo  "wallows"— 
shallow  depressions  where  the  rain  water  gathered  when  it  ran  off 
the  tough  prairie  sod.  These  wallows  the  big  beasts  wore  deeper  and 
packed  hard  when  they  rolled  about  and  bathed  in  the  pools,  so  that 
they  held  water  like  a  cement  bottom.  The  freighters  lived  on  game 
and  shot  the  buffalo  for  their  hides.  The  grass  was  full  of  quail  and 
prairie  chickens,  and  flocks  of  wild  ducks  swam  about  on  the  lagoons. 
These  lagoons  have  long  since  disappeared,  but  they  were  beautiful 
things  in  their  time:  long  stretches  where  the  rain  water  gathered 
and  lay  clear  on  a  grassy  bottom  without  mud.  From  the  lagoons  the 
first  settlers  hauled  water  to  their  homesteads,  before  they  had  dug 
their  wells.  The  freighters  could  recognize  the  lagoons  from  afar  by 
the  clouds  of  golden  coreopsis  which  grew  out  of  the  water  and  waved 
delicately  above  its  surface.  Among  the  pioneers  the  coreopsis  was 
known  simply  as  "the  lagoon  flower." 

As  the  railroads  came  in,  the  freighting  business  died  out.  Many  a 
freight-driver  settled  down  upon  some  spot  he  had  come  to  like  on 
his  journeys  to  and  fro,  homesteaded  it,  and  wandered  no  more. 
The  Union  Pacific,  the  first  transcontinental  railroad,  was  completed 
in  1869.  The  Burlington  entered  Nebraska  in  the  same  year,  at 
Plattsmouth,  and  began  construction  westward.  It  finally  reached 
Denver  by  an  indirect  route,  and  went  on  extending  and  ramifying 
through  the  state.  With  the  railroads  came  the  home-seeking  people 
from  overseas. 

When  the  first  courageous  settlers  came  straggling  out  through  the 
waste  with  their  oxen  and  covered  wagons,  they  found  open  range 
all  the  way  from  Lincoln  to  Denver:  a  continuous,  undulating 
plateau,  covered  with  long,  red,  shaggy  grass.  The  prairie  was  green 
only  where  it  had  been  burned  off  in  the  spring  by  the  new  settlers 


4  ROUNDUP: 

or  by  the  Indians,  and  toward  autumn  even  the  new  grass  became 
a  coppery  brown.  This  sod,  which  had  never  been  broken  by  the 
plow,  was  so  tough  and  strong  with  the  knotted  grass  roots  of  many 
years  that  the  home-seekers  were  able  to  peel  it  off  the  earth  like 
peat,  cut  it  up  into  bricks,  and  make  of  it  warm,  comfortable,  durable 
houses.  Some  of  these  sod  houses  lingered  on  until  the  open  range 
was  gone  and  the  grass  was  gone,  and  the  whole  face  of  the  country 
had  been  changed. 

Even  as  late  as  1886  the  central  part  of  the  state,  and  everything 
to  the  westward,  was,  in  the  main,  raw  prairie.  The  cultivated  fields 
and  broken  land  seemed  mere  scratches  in  the  brown,  running  steppe 
that  never  stopped  until  it  broke  against  the  foothills  of  the  Rockies. 
The  dugouts  and  sod  farmhouses  were  three  or  four  miles  apart,  and 
the  only  means  of  communication  was  the  heavy  farm  wagon,  drawn 
by  heavy  work  horses.  The  early  population  of  Nebraska  was  largely 
transatlantic.  The  county  in  which  I  grew  up,  in  the  south-central 
part  of  the  state,  was  typical.  On  Sunday  we  could  drive  to  a 
Norwegian  church  and  listen  to  a  sermon  in  that  language,  or  to 
a  Danish  or  a  Swedish  church.  We  could  go  to  the  French  Catholic 
settlement  in  the  next  county  and  hear  a  sermon  in  French,  or  into 
the  Bohemian  township  and  hear  one  in  Czech,  or  we  could  go  to 
church  with  the  German  Lutherans.  There  were,  of  course,  American 
congregations  also. 

There  is  a  Prague  in  Nebraska  as  well  as  in  Bohemia.  Many  of 
our  Czech  immigrants  were  people  of  a  very  superior  type.  The 
political  emigration  resulting  from  the  revolutionary  disturbances 
of  1848  was  distinctly  different  from  the  emigration  resulting  from 
economic  causes,  and  brought  to  the  United  States  brilliant  young 
men  from  both  Germany  and  Bohemia.  In  Nebraska  our  C/.ech 
settlements  were  large  and  very  prosperous.  I  have  walked  about  the 
streets  of  Wilber,  the  county  seat  of  Saline  County,  for  a  whole  day 
without  hearing  a  word  of  English  spoken.  In  Wilber,  in  the  old 
days,  behind  the  big,  friendly  brick  saloon— it  was  not  a  "saloon," 
properly  speaking,  but  a  beer  garden,  where  the  farmers  ate  their 
lunch  when  they  came  to  town— there  was  a  pleasant  little  theater 
where  the  boys  and  girls  were  trained  to  give  the  masterpieces  of 
Czech  drama  in  the  Czech  language.  "Americanization"  has  doubt 
less  done  away  with  all  this.  Our  lawmakers  have  a  rooted  convic 
tion  that  a  boy  can  be  a  better  American  if  he  speaks  only  one 
language  than  if  he  speaks  two.  I  could  name  a  dozen  Bohemian 
towns  in  Nebraska  where  one  used  to  be  able  to  go  into  a  bakery  and 


A  Nebraska  Reader  g 

buy  better  pastry  than  is  to  be  had  anywhere  except  in  the  best 
pastry  shops  of  Prague  or  Vienna.  The  American  lard  pie  never  cor 
rupted  the  Czech. 

Cultivated,  restless  young  men  from  Europe  made  incongruous 
figures  among  the  hard-handed  breakers  of  the  soil.  Frederick  Amiel's 
nephew  lived  for  many  years  and  finally  died  among  the  Nebraska 
farmers.  Knut  Hamsun,  the  Norwegian  writer  who  was  awarded  the 
Nobel  Prize  for  1920,  was  a  "hired  hand"  on  a  Dakota  farm  to  the 
north  of  us.  Colonies  of  European  people,  Slavonic,  Germanic,  Scan 
dinavian,  Latin,  spread  across  our  bronze  prairies  like  the  daubs 
of  color  on  a  painter's  palette.  They  brought  with  them  something 
that  this  neutral  new  world  needed  ever  more  than  the  immigrants 
needed  land. 

Unfortunately,  their  American  neighbors  were  seldom  open- 
minded  enough  to  understand  the  Europeans,  or  to  profit  by  their 
older  traditions.  Our  settlers  from  New  England,  cautious  and  con 
vinced  of  their  own  superiority,  kept  themselves  insulated  as  much 
as  possible  from  foreign  influences.  The  incomers  from  the  South— 
from  Missouri,  Kentucky,  the  two  Virginias—were  provincial  and 
utterly  without  curiosity.  They  were  kind  neighbors— lent  a  hand  to 
help  a  Swede  when  he  was  sick  or  in  trouble.  But  I  am  quite  sure 
that  Knut  Hamsun  might  have  worked  a  year  for  any  one  of  our 
Southern  farmers,  and  his  employer  would  never  have  discovered  that 
there  was  anything  unusual  about  the  Norwegian.  A  New  England 
settler  might  have  noticed  that  his  chore-boy  had  a  kind  of  intel 
ligence,  but  he  would  have  distrusted  and  stonily  disregarded  it. 

Nevertheless,  the  thrift  and  intelligence  of  its  preponderant  Euro 
pean  population  have  been  potent  factors  in  bringing  about  the 
present  prosperity  of  the  state.  The  census  of  1910  showed  that  there 
were  then  228,648  foreign-born  and  native-born  Germans  living  in 
Nebraska;  103,503  Scandinavians;  50,680  Czechs.  The  total  foreign 
population  of  the  state  was  then  900,571,  while  the  entire  popula 
tion  was  1,192,214.  That  is,  in  round  numbers,  there  were  about 
nine  hundred  thousand  foreign  Americans  in  the  state,  to  three 
hundred  thousand  native  stock.  With  such  a  majority  of  foreign 
stock,  nine  to  three,  it  would  be  absurd  to  say  that  the  influence  of 
the  European  does  not  cross  the  boundary  of  his  own  acres,  and  has 
had  nothing  to  do  with  shaping  the  social  ideals  of  the  common 
wealth. 

When  I  stop  at  one  of  the  graveyards  in  my  own  county  and  see 
on  the  headstones  the  names  of  fine  old  men  I  used  to  know:  "Eric 


6  ROUNDUP: 

Ericson,  born  Bergen,  Norway  .  .  .  died  Nebraska,"  "Anton  Pucelik, 
born  Prague,  Bohemia  .  .  ,  died  Nebraska,"  I  have  always  the  hope 
that  something  went  into  the  ground  with  those  pioneers  that 
will  one  day  come  out  again,  something  that  will  come  out  not  only 
in  sturdy  traits  of  character,  but  in  elasticity  of  mind,  in  an  honest 
attitude  toward  the  realities  of  life,  in  certain  qualities  of  feeling 
and  imagination.  It  is  in  that  great  cosmopolitan  country  known  as 
the  Middle  West  that  we  may  hope  to  see  the  hard  molds  of  Ameri 
can  provincialism  broken  up,  that  we  may  hope  to  find  young  talent 
which  will  challenge  the  pale  proprieties,  the  insincere,  conventional 
optimism  of  our  art  and  thought. 

The  rapid  industrial  development  of  Nebraska,  which  began  in 
the  latter  eighties,  was  arrested  in  the  years  1893-97  by  a  succession 
of  crop  failures  and  by  the  financial  depression  which  spread  over  the 
whole  country  at  that  time—the  depression  which  produced  the 
People's  Party  and  the  Free  Silver  agitation.  These  years  of  trial, 
as  everyone  now  realizes,  had  a  salutary  effect  upon  the  new  state. 
They  winnowed  out  the  settlers  with  a  purpose  from  the  drifting 
malcontents  who  are  ever  seeking  a  land  where  man  does  not  live 
by  the  sweat  of  his  brow.  The  slack  farmer  moved  on.  Superfluous 
banks  failed,  and  money-lenders  who  drove  hard  bargains  with  des 
perate  men  came  to  grief.  The  strongest  stock  survived,  and  within 
ten  years  those  who  had  weathered  the  storm  came  into  their  reward. 
What  that  reward  is,  you  can  see  for  yourself  if  you  motor  through 
the  state  from  Omaha  to  the  Colorado  line.  The  country  has  no 
secrets;  it  is  as  open  as  an  honest  human  face. 

The  old,  isolated  farms  have  come  together.  They  rub  shoulders. 
The  whole  state  is  a  farm.  Now  it  is  the  pasture  lands  that  look  little 
and  lonely,  crowded  in  among  so  much  wheat  and  corn.  It  is  scarcely 
an  exaggeration  to  say  that  every  farmer  owns  an  automobile.  I 
believe  the  last  estimate  showed  that  there  is  one  motor  car  for  every 
six  inhabitants  in  Nebraska.  The  great  grain  fields  are  plowed  by 
tractors.  The  old  farmhouses  are  rapidly  being  replaced  by  more 
cheerful  dwellings,  with  bathrooms  and  hardwood  floors,  heated  by 
furnaces  or  hot-water  plants.  Many  of  them  are  lighted  by  electricity, 
and  every  farmhouse  lias  its  telephone.  The  country  towns  are  clean 
and  well  kept.  On  Saturday  night  the  main  street  is  a  long,  black 
line  of  parked  motor  cars;  the  farmers  have  brought  their  families 
to  town  to  see  the  moving-picture  show.  When  the  school  bell  rings 
on  Monday  morning,  crowds  of  happy  looking  children,  well 
nourished— for  the  most  part  well  mannered,  too— flock  along  the 


A  Nebraska  Reader  y 

shady  streets.  They  wear  cheerful,  modern  clothes,  and  the  girls, 
like  the  boys,  are  elastic  and  vigorous  in  their  movements.  These 
thousands  and  thousands  of  children— in  the  little  towns  and  in  the 
country  schools— these,  of  course,  ten  years  from  now,  will  be  the  state. 

In  this  time  of  prosperity,  any  farmer  boy  who  wishes  to  study  at 
the  state  university  can  do  so.  A  New  York  lawyer  who  went  out  to 
Lincoln  to  assist  in  training  the  university  students  for  military 
service  in  war  time  exclaimed  when  he  came  back:  "What  splendid 
young  menl  I  would  not  have  believed  that  any  school  in  the  world 
could  get  together  so  many  boys  physically  fit,  and  so  few  unfit/' 

Of  course  there  is  the  other  side  of  the  medal,  stamped  with  the 
ugly  crest  of  materialism,  which  has  set  its  seal  upon  all  of  our  most 
productive  commonwealths.  Too  much  prosperity,  too  many  moving- 
picture  shows,  too  much  gaudy  fiction  have  colored  the  taste  and 
manners  of  so  many  of  these  Nebraskans  of  the  future.  There,  as 
elsewhere,  one  finds  the  frenzy  to  be  showy:  farmer  boys  who  wish 
to  be  spenders  before  they  are  earners,  girls  who  try  to  look  like 
heroines  of  the  cinema  screen,  a  coming  generation  which  tries  to 
cheat  its  aesthetic  sense  by  buying  things  instead  of  making  any 
thing.  There  is  even  danger  that  that  fine  institution,  the  University 
of  Nebraska,  may  become  a  gigantic  trade  school.  The  classics,  the 
humanities,  are  having  their  dark  hour.  They  are  in  eclipse.  But  the 
"classics"  have  a  way  of  revenging  themselves.  One  may  venture  to 
hope  that  the  children,  or  the  grandchildren,  of  a  generation  that 
goes  to  a  university  to  select  only  the  most  utilitarian  subjects  in  the 
course  of  study— among  them,  salesmanship  and  dressmaking— will 
revolt  against  all  the  heaped-up,  machine-made  materialism  about 
them.  They  will  go  back  to  the  old  sources  of  culture  and  wisdom— 
not  as  a  duty,  but  with  burning  desire. 

In  Nebraska,  as  in  so  many  other  states,  we  must  face  the  fact  that 
the  splendid  story  of  the  pioneers  is  finished,  and  that  no  new  story 
worthy  to  take  its  place  has  yet  begun.  The  generation  that  subdued 
the  wild  land  and  broke  up  the  virgin  prairie  is  passing,  but  it  is 
still  there,  a  group  of  rugged  figures  in  the  background  which  inspire 
respect,  compel  admiration.  With  these  old  men  and  women  the  at 
tainment  of  material  prosperity  was  a  moral  victory,  because  it  was 
wrung  from  hard  conditions,  was  the  result  of  a  struggle  that  tested 
character.  They  can  look  out  over  those  broad  stretches  of  fertility 
and  say:  "We  made  this,  with  our  backs  and  hands."  The  sons,  the 
generation  now  in  middle  life,  were  reared  amid  hardships,  and  it 
is  perhaps  natural  that  they  should  be  very  much  interested  in  ma- 


8  ROUNDUP 

terial  comfort,  in  buying  whatever  is  expensive  and  ugly.  Their 
fathers  came  into  a  wilderness  and  had  to  make  everything,  had 
to  be  as  ingenious  as  shipwrecked  sailors.  The  generation  now  in 
the  driver's  seat  hates  to  make  anything,  wants  to  live  and  die  in  an 
automobile,  scudding  past  those  acres  where  the  old  men  used  to 
follow  the  long  corn-rows  up  and  down.  They  want  to  buy  everything 
ready-made:  clothes,  food,  education,  music,  pleasure.  Will  the  third 
generation— the  full-blooded,  joyous  one  just  coming  over  the  hill— 
will  it  be  fooled?  Will  it  believe  that  to  live  easily  is  to  live  happily? 
The  wave  of  generous  idealism,  of  noble  seriousness,  which  swept 
over  the  state  of  Nebraska  in  1917  and  1918  demonstrated  how  fluid 
and  flexible  is  any  living,  growing,  expanding  society.  If  such  "con 
versions"  do  not  last,  they  at  least  show  of  what  men  and  women  are 
capable.  Surely  the  materialism  and  showy  extravagance  of  this 
hour  are  a  passing  phase!  They  will  mean  no  more  half  a  century 
from  now  than  will  the  "hard  times"  of  twenty-five  years  ago— which 
are  already  forgotten.  The  population  is  as  clean  and  full  of  vigor 
as  the  soil;  there  are  no  old  grudges,  no  heritages  of  disease  or  hate. 
The  belief  that  snug  success  and  easy  money  are  the  real  aims  of 
human  life  has  settled  down  over  our  prairies,  but  it  has  not  yet 
hardened  into  molds  and  crusts.  The  people  are  warm,  mercurial, 
impressionable,  restless,  over-fond  of  novelty  and  change.  These 
are  not  the  qualities  which  make  the  dull  chapters  of  history. 


Reprinted  from  The  Nation f  Sept.  5,  1933 


I.  The  Shifting  Frontier 


There  was  nothing  but  land:  not  a  country 
at  all,  but  the  material  out  of  which 
countries  are  made. 

-Willa  Gather,  My  Antonia 


From  the  g8th  meridian  west  to  the  Rocky  Mountains 
there  is  a  stretch  of  country  whose  history  is  filled  with 
more  tragedy,  and  whose  future  is  pregnant  with  greater 
promise  than  perhaps  any  other  equal  expanse  of  territory. 
—A.  M.  Simons,  The  American  Farmer 


West  of98' 


i .  The  Great  American  Desert 

JAMES  C.  OLSON 

WHEN  Major  Stephen  H.  Long  of  the  Army  Engineers  returned  from 
his  epochal  expedition  to  the  Rocky  Mountains  in  1820,  he  confirmed 
what  many  Americans  had  suspected  all  along— that  most  of  the  area 
between  the  Missouri  River  and  the  Rocky  Mountains  was  a  vast 
desert  wasteland.  "In  regard  to  this  extensive  section  of  the  country," 
he  wrote,  "i  do  not  hesitate  in  giving  the  opinion,  that  it  is  almost 
wholly  unfit  for  cultivation,  and  of  course  uninhabitable  by  a  people 
depending  upon  agriculture  for  their  subsistence."  Dr.  Edwin  James, 
chronicler  of  the  expedition,  stated  that  he  had  "no  fear  of  giving  too 
unfavorable  an  account"  of  the  region.  It  was  "an  unfit  residence  for 
any  but  a  nomad  population." 

Lewis  and  Clark,  along  the  Missouri  in  1804-6,  had  suspected  the 
same  thing.  Lieutenant  Zebulon  M.  Pike,  who  went  out  along  the 
Republican  in  1806,  had  written  of  "barren  soil,  parched  and  dried 
up  for  eight  months  in  the  year,"  and  had  hazarded  a  guess  that 
America's  western  plains  would  "become  in  time  equally  celebrated 
as  the  sandy  desarts  [sic]  of  Africa."  Even  Thomas  Jefferson— who  had 
never  visited  the  West— shared  the  popular  misconception,  referring 
to  the  "immense  and  trackless  deserts"  to  be  found  in  the  region. 

With  Major  Long's  scientific  stamp  of  approval,  the  idea  became 
well  fixed,  and  by  the  end  of  the  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  most  Americans  shared  the  notion  that  the  region  between 
the  Missouri  and  the  Rockies  was  a  vast,  uninhabitable  desert.  It  is 
little  wonder  that  in  the  late  twenties  and  the  early  thirties  the  sug 
gestion  that  the  area  west  of  the  Missouri  be  set  aside  as  a  permanent 
home  for  the  Indians  found  ready  acceptance, 

13, 


15J  ROUNDUP: 

There  were  a  few  who  disagreed  with  the  prevailing  notion.  As 
early  as  1817,  John  Bradbury,  the  English  naturalist,  wrote  that 
Americans  were  misled  in  their  thinking  about  the  Plains  because 
they  were  accustomed  to  4<a  profusion  of  timber.'  He  expressed  a 
belief  that  the  region  could  be  cultivated  "and  that,  in  the  process 
of  time,  it  will  not  only  be  peopled  and  cultivated,  but  it  will  be 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  countries  in  the  world.**  Bayard  Taylor, 
who  went  through  the  country  in  iBfiC,  also  disagreed  with  the 
common  view. 

By  the  time  Taylor's  book  appeared  in  1867,  a  great  many  people 
had  acquired  a  vested  interest  in  the  land  west  of  the  Missouri. 
Nebraska  had  been  admitted  to  the  Union  and  was  in  the  process  of 
daiimng  its  landed  endowment;  millions  of  acres  had  been  or  shortly 
would  be  withdnrwn  for  the  benefit  of  the  Union  Pacific  and  the 
Burlington  railroads;  speculators  were  busy  locating  large  tracts 
which  they  hoped  to  turn  at  a  profit;  settlement  by  homesteaders  was 
well  under  way,  These  people  were  gambling  that  the  desert  concept 
was  erroneous*  Experience  on  the  wet  prairies  east  of  the  Missouri 
had  demonstrated  that  one  doesn't  need  trees  to  grow  bountiful  crops 
of  corn,  wheat,  and  oats*  A  brief  experience  west  of  the  Missouri  had 
shown  that  this  area,  too,  would  produce  g<xx!  crops.  The  Missouri 
then  was  not  the  dividing  line  between  farm  land  and  desert  But 
where  was  it? 

Nebraskans  were  a  long  time  finding  out.  Indeed*  a  whole  genera 
tion  of  them  stoutly  denied  that  it  existed  at  alt,  and  when  in  1878 
Major  John  Wesley  Powell,  chief  of  the  Department  of  the  Interior's 
Survey  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  Region,  Mated  that  nonirrignble 
farming  could  not  be  carried  on  west  of  the  one-hundredth  meridian 
because  the  area  had  lens  than  twenty  inches  of  annual  rainfall,  a 
host- including  Samuel  Aughcy,  Professor  of  Natural  Sciences  at  the 
University  of  Nebraska— denounced  his  findings  as  bureaucratic  non 
sense*  Major  Powell,  of  course,  was  not  talking  about  a  desert-he 
was  talking  about  a  region  in  which  one  would  have  to  irrigate  if 
he  were  going  to  farm  safely  and  successfully  over  the  years,  There 
was  a  vast  difference. 

Though  he  was  much  and  unjustly  abused  by  his  own  generation, 
for  his  pessimism  about  the  West,  Major  Powell  was,  if  anything*  too 
optimistic—there  were  many  areas  fast  of  the  one-hundredth  mcrid* 
ian  where  farming  needed  the  aid  of  irrigation.  In  general*  however. 
Major  Powell's  appraisal  was  correct  The  Plains  did  present  a  prob 
lem  to  the  American  pioneer.  Perhaps  nowhere  has  the  nature  of 


A  Nebraska  Reader  13 

that  problem  been  better  stated  than  by  Walter  Prescott  Webb  in 
The  Great  Plains: 

The  Great  Plains  offered  such  a  contrast  to  the  region  east  of  the  ninety- 
eighth  meridian,  the  region  with  which  American  civilization  had  been 
familiar  until  about  1840,  as  to  bring  about  a  marked  change  in  the  ways 
of  pioneering  and  living.  For  two  centuries  American  pioneers  had  been 
working  out  a  technique  for  the  utilization  of  the  humid  regions  east  of 
the  Mississippi  River.  They  had  found  solutions  for  their  problems  and 
were  conquering  the  frontier  at  a  steadily  accelerating  rate.  Then  in  the 
early  nineteenth  century  they  crossed  the  Mississippi  and  came  out  on  the 
great  plains,  an  environment  with  which  they  had  had  no  experience.  The 
result  was  a  complete  though  temporary  breakdown  of  the  machinery  and 
ways  of  pioneering.  .  .  . 

As  one  contrasts  the  civilization  of  the  Great  Plains  with  that  of  the 
eastern  timberland,  one  sees  what  may  be  called  an  institutional  fault 
(comparable  to  a  geological  fault)  running  from  middle  Texas  to  Illinois 
or  Dakota,  roughly  following  the  ninety-eighth  meridian.  At  this  fault  the 
ways  of  life  and  of  living  changed.  Practically  every  institution  that  was 
carried  across  it  was  either  broken  and  remade  or  else  greatly  altered.  The 
ways  of  travel,  the  weapons,  the  method  of  tilling  the  soil,  the  plows  and 
other  agricultural  implements,  and  even  the  laws  tlicmselves  were  modified. 
. . .  [The  problem]  has  been  stated  in  this  way:  east  of  the  Mississippi  civiliza 
tion  stood  on  three  legs— land,  water,  and  timber;  west  of  the  Mississippi 
not  one  but  two  of  these  legs  were  withdrawn,— water  and  timbcr,—and 
civilization  was  left  on  one  leg— land.  It  is  small  wonder  that  it  toppled  over 
in  temporary  failure. 

Whether  you  accept  Webb's  ninety-eighth  meridian,  which  enters 
the  state  at  Niobrara  and  leaves  it  at  Superior,  or  Powell's  one- 
hundredth,  which  runs  down  the  main  street  of  Cozad,  it  is  clear  that 
a  rather  considerable  portion  of  Nebraska  is  in  this  "problem  area" 
of  the  Plains,  and  that  much  of  the  story  of  the  state  is  a  chronicle  of 
man's  adaptation  to  the  Plains. 

Condensed  from  History  of  Nebraska,  University  of  Nebraska  Press,  1955 


2.  The  Frontier  Machine 

WALTER  PRESCOTT  WEBB 

WHEN  the  advancing  frontier  reached  the  Great  Plains  and  found  its 
tools,  technique,  and  institutions  inadequate,  there  was  a  pause,  a 
delay,  a  long  interval  of  waiting  until  new  ways  could  be  devised, 
and  new  tools  invented  or  adopted.  Here  a  figure  of  speech  may  help 


14  ROUNDUP: 

make  clear  what  happened.  The  frontier  was  a  machine.  It  was  a 
factory.  Its  function  was  to  move  across  a  primitive  land,  subdue  the 
natives,  mow  down  the  forests,  rear  the  cabins,  turn  the  sod.  The 
product  of  the  factory  was  farm  homes,  which  arose  behind  the 
moving  machine  like  sheaves  in  the  harvested  fields.  The  machine 
was  a  complicated  and  clumsy  affair  built  out  of  long  experience. 
Its  parts  were  guns,  axes,  plows*  logs,  rails,  boats*  horses,  and  wagons. 
Its  operatives  were  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls  the  pioneers,  It 
was  powered  by  toil  and  dhccted  by  that  restless  .spirit  under  whose 
urge  dvili/.ation  has  always  moved  westward*  When  this  dynamic 
frontier  machine  which  manufactured  farm  homes  reached  the  Great 
Plains,  trouble  developed,  the  parts  broke;  the  machine  refused  to 
function,  to  move  forward  as  it  should,  though  the  urge  was  as  strong 
as  ever  in  the  pioneers.  Now  when  the  machinery  breaks,  the  factory 
has  to  close  down  for  repairs  and  overhauling.  Sometimes  it  is  neces 
sary  to  close  the  plant  and  reorgani/e  completely  ami  install  new 
machinery  to  meet  new  conditions.  That  is  what  happened  when  the 
frontier  machine  left  the  timber  and  came  out  in  the  open  country 
of  the  Great  Plains.  It  had  been  making  woodland  farm  homes,  but 
conditions  had  changed  so  that  it  discontinued  this  model  and 
brought  out  a  plains  home. 

There  was,  of  course,  a  long  interval  of  waiting  while  the  over 
hauling  went  OIL  In  the  first  part  of  this  interval  (1825-1860),  the 
trails  were  thrown  across  the  plains  over  which  trickled  the  ovcrHow 
o£  immigrants  who  were  damming  up  along  the  timber  line  where 
the  machine  broke  down.  In  the  hater  part  of  the  interval  (1866- 
1876),  the  cattle  kingdom,  with  its  origin  in  Texas,  moved  northward 
and  westward  and  appropiiated  the  whole  Great  Plains  area.  The 
cattle  kingdom  was  something  di^maly  new  in  American  life,  It 
was  a  machine,  too,  but  entirely  different  from  the  agricultural  one 
undergoing  repairs  on  the  timber  line.  It  was  a  plains  iimitutum,  just 
as  the  broken  machine  was  a  woods  affair;  it  was  made  lor  the  plains, 

By  the  time  the  cattle  kingdom  became  well  established  { 1 875),  the 
industrial  revolution  had  come  to  the  aid  of  the  agricultural  fron 
tier,  and  patched  up  the  machine,  whereupon  the  fanners  resumed 
their  westward  course.  In  response  to  urgent  and  imperative  needs, 
the  industrial  revolution  gave  the  plainsman  a  new  weapon,  the 
six-shooter;  a  new  fence,  barbed  wire;  a  new  water  machine,  tine 
windmill;  new  farming  implements;  and  a  new  method  of  farming. 

The  need  for  the  six-shooter  arose  at  the  point  where  the  Anglo- 
American  pioneers  came  in  necessary  contact  with  hostile  Plains 


A  Nebraska  Reader  15 

Indians.  Three  characters  are  necessary  to  the  story:  a  Plains  Indian, 
a  Texas  Ranger,  and  a  Connecticut  man  named  Samuel  Colt. 

The  Plains  Indians  were  nomadic,  predatory,  and  extremely  fero 
cious.  The  horse  was  the  summation  of  all  good  to  the  Plains  Indians: 
they  moved  on  horseback,  played  on  horseback,  hunted  on  horse 
back,  and  fought  on  horseback.  Moreover,  they  were  the  only  horse 
Indians  in  America,  the  only  Indians  that  the  Anglo-American  pio 
neers  ever  had  to  meet  in  mounted  combat.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  when  the  meeting  did  take  place,  the  pioneers  found  them 
selves  in  need  of  a  new  weapon,  one  that  could  be  used  on  horseback. 

The  Texas  Rangers  were  called  into  existence  during  the  Texas 
Revolution  and  assigned  the  task  of  guarding  the  Indian  frontier. 
Most  of  the  forays  came  from  the  west  and  were  made  by  the  Co- 
manches,  a  pure  Plains  tribe.  So  finally  the  Rangers  were  perma 
nently  stationed  at  San  Antonio,  on  the  margin  of  the  Great  Plains 
region,  and  from  that  strategic  point  scoured  the  country  on  horse 
back  and  held  back  the  raiding  Comanches.  The  accounts  of  the 
early  Indian  battles  reveal  that  the  Texans  could  not  meet  the 
Comanches  on  horseback,  because  their  forest  weapons  were  no  match 
for  the  Indians'  weapon  in  mounted  war.  But  the  Texans  held  the 
line  with  the  long  rifles  and  horse  pistols  until  about  1840. 

In  1830  Samuel  Colt  whittled  from  wood  his  first  model  of  a  revolv 
ing  pistol  In  1835  he  took  out  a  patent  in  England  and  in  1836  in 
America.  Although  the  manufacture  of  Colt's  Patent  Firearms  on  a 
considerable  scale  began  in  1838,  Colt  could  not  induce  the  United 
States  government  to  purchase  the  weapon,  and  private  citizens  did 
not  buy  it  extensively.  But  for  some  reason  orders  began  to  come  in 
from  the  far-off  Republic  of  Texas,  where  the  weapon  had  somehow 
found  its  way  into  the  hands  of  the  Texas  Rangers.  Colt  named  the 
first  model  the  Texas,  for  obvious  reasons,  and  brought  out  a  second 
to  meet  the  needs  suggested  by  those  guardians  of  the  border. 

The  six-shooter  revolutionized  plains  warfare.  Colonel  Richard  I. 
Dodge  expressed  die  change  thus: 

Then  came  the  revolver,  which  multiplied  every  soldier  by  six,  and  pro 
duced  such  an  inspiring  moral  effect  on  the  troops,  and  so  entirely  depress 
ing  an  effect  on  the  Indians,  that  the  fights  became  simply  chases. 

After  the  Mexican  War  gave  the  United  States  possession  of  the 
whole  Great  Plains  region,  the  six-shooter  spread  rapidly  westward 
and  to  this  day  is  identified  in  folklore  and  literature  primarily  with 
the  West.  After  the  Civil  War,  it  was  adopted  by  the  cowboys,  who 


16  ROUNDUP: 

looked  upon  it  as  their  own  special  weapon.  Its  adoption,  rapid 
spread,  and  popularity  through  die  Great  Plains,  the  Indian  and 
cattle  country,  were  due  to  a  genuine  need  for  a  horseman's  weapon. 
It  stands  as  the  first  mechanical  adaptation  made  by  the  Anglo- 
American  people  when  they  emerged  from  the  timber  and  met  a  set 
of  new  needs  in  the  open  country  of  the  Great  Plains. 

The  log  cabin  and  the  rail  fence  constituted  the  chief  shield  of 
the  American  pioneer  against  the  outside  world  for  the  first  two  cen 
turies  of  American  history.  The  one  shielded  the  family:  the  other 
guarded  the  crops  that  sustained  it.  Both  were  so  much  a  part  of 
the  life  of  the  people  that  they  became  symbols  of  democ  racy,  potent 
ballyhoo  for  the  politician.  Together  the  log  cabin  and  the  rail 
fence  went  west  with  the  pioneer  to  the  Great  Plains,  which  they 
could  never  penetrate.  On  the  plains,  the  sod  and  adobe  houses  and 
dugouts  took  the  place  of  the  log  cabin,  but  there  was  nothing  to 
take  the  place  of  the  rail  fence,  Without  femes  there  would  be  no 
farms:  without  farms  the  agricultural  frontier  ceased  to  advance.* 

Words  fail  to  describe  the  confusion  that  took  place  among  the 
farmers  when  they  emerged  from  the  timber  into  the  plain,  where 
neither  rails  nor  rock  could  be  obtained  for  lenetng.  What  alarmed 
the  people  were  the  enormous  cost  of  fencing  ami  the  increasing 
cost  in  the  West.  In  1870  the  Department  of  Agriculture  prepared 
a  report  on  the  fence  question  based  upon  an  inquiry  sent  to  every 
state  and  territory.  The  government  agent  stated  that  a  homestead 
In  the  West  that  cost  $200  in  fees  would  cost  11,000  for  fencing.  An 
analysis  of  the  report  shows  that  the  cost  of  material,  hoards  and 
rails,  ranged  from  Go  to  300  per  cent  higher  in  the  plains  states  and 
territories;  the  cost  per  rod  ranged  from  100  to  ,joo  per  cent  higher; 
and  the  cost  of  maintenance  from  90  to  swo  per  <ent  higher! 

The  predicament  of  the  prairie  and  plains  people  is  further  in 
dicated  by  theJr  efforts  to  find  their  way  out  of  if,  to  find  something 
that  would  serve  them,  to  escape  front  the  trap.  There  were  worm 
fences,  board,  post-and-rail,  Shanghai,  leaning,  bloomer,  and  osugc 
orange  hedge.  In  Nebraska  one-fourth  of  the  fence*  were  made  of 
an  earth  wall  three  and  one-half  feet  high.  For  several  years  the 
experiment  and  search  for  a  practical  and  economical  fence  was  car 
ried  on  by  farmers  of  the  prairie  region. 

*  Of  course  there  were  other  factor*  that  held  the  farmer*  hark,  *«rh  m  lack 
of  transportation,  the  character  of  the  I'lain*  indium,  tttui  the  tmccttititt  rainfall, 
but  none  of  these  was  more  important  to  the  fanner  than  feme*, 


A  Nebraska  Reader  17 

It  may  be  asserted,  subject  to  qualifications,  that  Joseph  F.  Glid 
den,  a  farmer  of  DeKalb,  Illinois,  invented  barbed  wire.  Glidden 
made  his  first  wire  in  1873  an<^  sold  the  first  piece  in  1874.  Others 
had  invented  it  in  some  form,  but  Glidden  "gave  to  it  the  final  touch 
of  commercial  practicality."  There  is  more  than  one  story  as  to  how 
the  invention  came  to  be  made:  One  is  that  Mrs.  Glidden  wanted 
some  flower  beds  protected  from  dogs.  Her  husband  stretched 
smooth  wire  around  the  garden,  which  was  of  no  avail,  whereupon 
he  placed  short  pieces  of  wire  about  the  plain  wire,  forming  crude 
barbs. 

Glidden  first  made  barbed  wire  by  putting  the  barbs  on  a  single 
strand  of  wire.  The  trouble  with  this  method  was  that  the  barbs 
would  not  stay  in  place.  One  day,  while  thinking  of  this  difficulty, 
Glidden  picked  up  some  tangled  wires,  which  suggested  that  the 
barbs  could  be  held  in  place,  both  as  to  lateral  and  rotary  motion, 
by  twisting  two  wires  together.  While  trying  to  think  of  some  way 
of  twisting  the  two  wires,  "his  eye  lighted  on  the  grindstone  and  he 
formed  the  idea  of  twisting  the  wire  by  means  of  the  small  crank  on 
the  grindstone.  He  asked  his  wife  to  turn  the  grindstone,  which  she 
did." 

The  Washburn  &  Moen  Company  of  Worcester,  Massachusetts, 
was  at  the  time  the  largest  smooth-wire  manufacturer  in  the  country. 
The  company  found  so  many  and  such  large  orders  for  wire  coming 
from  DeKalb  that  Charles  F.  Washburn  was  sent  west  to  investigate. 
Washburn  found  the  barbed-wire  factories  operating,  and  under 
took  to  buy  an  interest  in  the  business.  He  was  unsuccessful,  and 
returned  east  with  samples  of  the  new  product,  which  were  turned 
over  to  an  expert  designer  of  automatic  machinery  with  instructions 
to  design  a  machine  that  would  fabricate  barbed  wire.  Putnam  got 
the  assignment  in  August,  1875,  had  the  machine  working  by  Oc 
tober,  applied  for  a  patent  January  20,  1876,  and  received  the  patent 
in  February.  Washburn,  armed  now  with  the  machine  and  patent, 
went  again  to  DeKalb,  and  in  May,  1876,  bought  half  of  Glidden's 
interest  for  a  cash  and  royalty  consideration.  By  January  i,  1879, 
Washburn  &  Moen  had  made  with  the  Putnam  machines  nine  and 
one-quarter  million  pounds  of  wire. 

In  1874  and  1875  the  wire  sold  at  $20.00  per  hundred  pounds, 
probably  a  half  or  a  third  of  what  the  old  fence  would  cost.  The  cost 
decreased  yearly,  reaching  its  lowest  point  in  1897  when  it  was  $1.80 
per  hundred.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  the  industrial  revolution,  through 
barbed  wire,  cut  the  cost  of  fencing  the  Great  Plains  more  than 


x8  ROUNDUP: 

forty-fold,  made  fencing  possible,  and  enabled  the  farmer  to  try 
his  hand  west  o£  the  ninety-eighth  meridian. 

The  dominant  note  in  the  white  man's  history  of  the  Great  Plains 
has  been  the  search  for  water.  In  the  East  the  living  streams  and 
numerous  springs  furnished  abundant  water  for  the  pioneer.  If  the 
supply  was  not  sufficient,  it  could  be  augmented  by  shallow  dug 
wells,  but  west  of  the  ninety-eighth  meridian  there  were  few  streams, 
practically  no  springs,  and  the  ground  water  lay  far  beneath  the 
surface.  The  task  of  drawing  water  from  a  well  one  hundred  feet 
deep  was  quite  different  from  drawing  or  pumping  it  fifteen  or 
twenty  feet*  When  in  drought  the  water  had  to  be  drawn  for  thirsty 
cattle  and  horses,  the  task  became  insuperable,  as  many  a  western 
boy  can  testify*  Furthermore,  many  of  the  wells  yielded  little  water 
and  were  easily  exhausted,  Something  was  needed  to  take  the  water 
from  the  well  as  it  accumulated,  some*  power  other  than  tired  human 
hands,  it  must  be  inexpensive,  too*  The  windmill  met  all  require 
ments  as  aptly  as  the  six-shooter  and  barbed  wire  met  theirs.  The 
wind  of  the  plains  was  very  free  and  constant  awl  oi  high  velocity; 
the  windmills  could  be  bought  or  they  could  be  made  of  old  wagon 
axles,  Four  X  coffee  boxes,  and  scrap  iron  at  a  cost  as  tow  as  $1.50, 
The  free  wind  drove  the  mills  day  and  night,  delivering  the  scant 
supply  of  water  as  it  accumulated* 

How  the  windmills  found  their  way  west  h  told  by  u  veteran  of 
the  industry,  Mr.  IL  N,  Wade,  as  follows: 

Way  back  in  1854*  John  llurnham,  who  was  thru  termed  a  Pump 
Doctor  *  .  .  suggested  to  Daniel  HaHiulay,  a  young  median  tc  of  Ellington, 
Conn.»  that  it  would  he  a  good  idea  if  a  windmill  could  he  made  self- 
governing  ua  then*  wa»  an  abundance  of  wind  all  over  the  cmmtry  that 
might  just  us  well  pump  water  and  save  the  human  energy  expended. 

Mr,  Huthulay  was  a  man  of  an  inventive  turn  of  mind  and  he  very  quickly 
Invented  a  windmill,  which  governed  iuelf  by  centrifugal  force.  . ,  ,  These 
mills  were  first  manufactured  by  the  HaUactay  Windmill  Company  in  1854 
In  South  Coventry,  (!onn,»  and  a  few  were  sold,  hut  Mr,  Hurnham  came  to 
Chicago  and  decided  thai  the  real  market  for  the  windmill  would  be  Jn  the 
western  prairie  states* 

About  the  time  Mr.  Burnham  came  west,  the  railroads  were  being 
built  rapidly,  and  the  promoter  saw  a  market  tor  windmills  with 
which  to  supply  water  for  the  locomotive*.  He  interested  norne  rail 
road  people  and  in  1857  organized  at  Chicago  the  United  States 
Wind  Engine  &  Pump  Company,  a  sales  orgsmi/atxan  for  the  eastern 
factory*  Delays  in  shipping  and  high  freight  rates  convinced  the 


A  Nebraska  Reader  19 

Chicago  company  that  it  would  be  more  economical  to  manufacture 
in  Chicago;  the  result  was  that  the  Halladay  Windmill  Company 
sold  out  to  the  Chicago  concern  in  1862,  and,  in  the  words  of  Mr. 
Wade,  "the  manufacture  of  windmills  was  first  commenced  on  what 
might  be  termed  a  large  scale." 

Barbed  wire  made  it  possible  for  the  stockman  to  convert  his 
range  into  a  big  pasture  or  a  ranch.  The  ranchman  could  not,  how 
ever,  put  in  cross  fences  cutting  off  the  highland  or  upland  which 
had  no  water.  The  well  drill  and  windmill  made  the  next  step  in 
the  evolution  of  the  ranch  when  they  brought  the  water  to  the  up 
land  and  enabled  the  ranchman  to  cut  up  his  ranch  into  small  hold 
ings.  Access  to  the  water  front  was  no  longer  necessary.  Not  until 
this  stage  was  reached  was  it  possible  in  any  sense  for  the  agricul 
tural  classes  to  invade  the  Great  Plains.  They  had  to  enclose  small 
areas  of  land,  and  they  had  to  have  water,  and,  obviously,  with 
streams  fifty  to  a  hundred  miles  apart— and  dry  in  places  for  a  large 
part  of  the  year— they  could  not  all  own  a  water  front.  That  is  to 
say,  in  effect,  that  it  was  barbed  wire  and  windmills  that  made  the 
homestead  law  in  any  sense  effectual  in  the  arid  region. 

Farming  in  the  Great  Plains  is  as  different  from  what  it  is  in  the 
Eastern  Woodland  as  barbed  wire  is  from  a  rail  fence.  The  farm 
unit  in  the  Eastern  Woodland  was  small  for  several  reasons.  It  was 
so  heavily  timbered  that  one  man,  even  with  numerous  sons,  could 
riot  clear  a  large  farm  in  a  lifetime.  Before  the  invention  of  barbed 
wire,  fencing  was  too  laborious  and  expensive.  The  land  was  so 
rough,  stumpy,  and  broken  that  machinery  could  not  be  successfully 
used.  The  foul  vegetation  set  rigid  limits  to  the  size  of  the  field; 
to  let  the  weeds  and  grass  "get  ahead  of  the  crop"  was  to  lose  the 
crop.  Most  important  of  all,  however,  was  the  fact  that  a  small  field 
was  sufficient.  The  crop  was  sure  to  make,  for  the  rains  always  came. 

The  farms  expanded  in  sixe  as  they  emerged  from  the  Eastern 
Woodland  onto  the  open  plain.  In  the  absence  of  timber  there  was 
no  interval  of  clearing  and  log-rolling  before  plowing.  There  were 
no  stumps  or  roots  to  retard  the  plow.  Barbed  wire  solved  the  prob 
lem  of  fencing.  The  level  surface  and  firm  soil  invited  the  invention 
and  use  of  labor-saving  machinery.  The  absence  of  foul  vegetation 
and  grasses  speeded  up  the  hoeing  or  dispensed  with  it.  All  these 
things  made  possible  and  encouraged  the  cultivation  of  large  areas 
even  in  the  Prairie  Plains.  In  the  arid  portion  men  were  compelled 
to  cultivate  more  land  than  they  had  in  the  East.  The  crops  were 


so  ROUNDUP 

subject  to  drought,  hail,  hot  winds,  and  grasshoppers.  The  farmer 
there  became  a  gambler,  staking  a  large  and  easily  cultivated  acreage 
against  a  probable  failure.  There  were  fat  years  and  lean  years. 

Along  with  the  enlargement  c>{  the  farm  unit  went  the  increasing 
need  for  more  manpower  and  horsepower,  particularly  in  the  har 
vest  season.  In  response  to  this  need  came  the  big  farm  machinery. 
The  reaper  was  the  first  machine  to  become  important  in  western 
agriculture.  Cyrus  Hall  McConnkk  invented  his  reaper  in  Virginia 
in  1831,  the  year  after  Colt  invented  the  six-shooter,  ami  there  gave 
it  a  practical  test.  The  way  the  machine  moved  west  is  told  as  follows; 

The  ten  years  fallowing  the  introduction  of  the  fust  reaper  were  strenuous 
times  for  Mr.  McCormkk.  He  preached  the  gmpel  of  the  reaper  without 
success  until  i8«p  when  he  sol<!  two  for  $100,  the  next  year  seven.  In  1843 
twenty  nine  machines  wore  made  and  sold,  ami  fifty  in  iH.j  |,  About  this 
time  an  ^  order  for  eight  had  come  from  Cincinnati,  It  opened  Mr. 
M(Cwnnek*s  even.  He  saw  that  the  time  had  <ome  «>  UMU*  the  backwoods 
farm,  a  hundred  miles  from  the  railway,  so  lie  set  out  on  horseback  for 
the  western  prairies 

For  two  years  McCormidk  wandered  around  through  Illinois,  Wis 
consin,  Missouri,  Ohio,  and  Kfew  York  and  sold  in  that  time  two 
hundred  and  forty  reapers.  **fle  then  decided  it  was  time  to  build 
his  own  factory  at  Chicago/'  This  he  did  in  1847.  By  1851  he  was 
making  a  thouKand  reapers  a  year,  and  by  1859  he  had  made  and 
sold  in  the  United  States  alone  fifty  thousand  machines* 

Though  the  reaper  may  he  rightfully  considered  the  first  improved 
farm  machine  used  in  the  United  States,  it  was  followed  soon  by 
many  other  offerings  of  the  industrial  revolution,  such  an  the  riding 
or  sulky  plow,  the  disk  plow,  the  multiple  plow,  the  out*-  and  two- 
row  cultivators,  and  various  other  types  of  big  faun  machinery.  Re 
gardless  of  where  these  madune*  were  invented,  they  have  found 
their  greatest  usefulness  in  the  Great  Plain*, 

Big  farm  machinery  has  made  dry  farming  possible  and  has  made 
it  profitable  by  enabling  the  farmer  to  work  rapidly  and  to  cultivate 
a  large  acreage  The  tool*  med  on  the  dry  farm  are  not  essentially 
different  in  construction  from  those  on  the  praiile  farm.  Both  are 
adapted  to  large-scale  activities* 

We  have  here  only  touched  upon  the  most  obvious  aspects  of  a 
profound  subject,  the  ramifications  of  which  extend  to  all  phases  of 
western  life,  namely,  the  sweeping  changes  in  the  ways  of  life  imposed 
upon  the  American  people  who  crossed  the  ninety-eighth  meridian. 

Conclcnxctl  front  The  Tnw*MU*i*ttf)pi  West,  University  of  Colorado,  ig$o 


The  reports  describing  the  Plains  as  an  uninhabitable 
desert  provided  Congress  with  a  solution  to  the  problem 
of  what  to  do  with  the  Indians:  remove  them  to  the  Plains, 
thus  opening  the  land  east  of  the  Mississippi  to  white 
settlement  and  at  the  same  time  provide  a  haven  for  the 
Red  Man.  But  by  1850  the  Indian  country  was  not  outside 
the  United  States;  it  was  right  in  the  middle,  a  barrier 
that  had  to  be  removed. 

On*Dccember  5, 1853 ,  Senator  Dodge  of  Iowa  gave  no 
tice  that  he  would c< introduce  a  bill  to  organize  a  territorial 
government  -for  the  Territory  of  Nebraska"  Dodge  intro 
duced  his  bill  December  14.  Senator  Stephen  Douglas' 
Committee  on  Territories  reported  the  bill  January  4,  as 
a  substitute,  vastly  altered.  Instead  of  one  territory,  two 
were  created:  Kansas  and  Nebraska.  The  bill  also  provided 
that  "all  questions  pertaining  to  slavery  in  the  new  Terri 
tories  . . .  are  to  be  left  to  the  decision  of  the  people  resid 
ing  therein.  .  .  ." 

Without  ignoring  the  profound  ramifications  of  the 
sectional  strife  stirred  up  by  the  Kansas-Nebraska  Act,  the 
important  consideration  -for  the  history  of  Nebraska— and 
for  that  of  the  nation— is  that  it  set  in  motion  the  ma 
chinery  that  would  open  to  settlement  all  that  remained 
of  the  Louisiana  territory  acquired  only  a  half  century 
before. 

—Condensed  from  Olson's  History  of  Nebraska 


It  Took  All  Kinds 

i.  Pioneer  Preacher 


REV.  GEORGE  W.  BARNES 

(The  author  arrived  in  Florence— now  a  part  of  Omaha— in  1856.  He 
had  been  born  in  New  York  State  thirty-one  years  before.) 

EVERYTHING  was  new  in  Nebraska.  It  had  only  been  open  for  about 
two  years.  The  first  matter  in  hand  was  to  get  a  place  to  put  my 
family  on  their  arrival  None  could  be  rented,  for  the  supply  was 
far  short  of  applicants,  every  stage  bringing  new  additions  to  our 


x*  ROUNDUP: 

population.  The  exceeding  high  price  of  lumber,  pine  selling  for 
$95.00  per  thousand  and  higher,  and  all  building  materials  being 
so  very  costly,  and  I  having  but  little  means,  if  any  house  was  to  be 
had,  It  must  be  by  my  own  hands.  Securing  a  good  location,  I  set 
about  building  a  dwelling. 

Sunrise  and  sunset  found  me  at  the  house,  for  my  make  was  to  do 
with  my  might  all  I  undertook.  AH  the  help  I  had  was  a  carpenter  to 
"lay  out'*  the  sills,  except  in  raising.  The  $i*e  was  15x25;  front,  two 
stories,  back  part,  lean-to,  giving  two  rooms  downstairs  and  one  up. 
In  the  latter  part  of  October  the  house  was  so  nearly  ready  my  family 
came  out  in  company  with  Brother  Ailing.  So  tedious  was  the  trip 
for  Mrs,  Barnes,  riding  day  and  night  in  an  overcrowded  coach, 
that  she  said,  "I  thought  I  should  never  get  through  alive." 

Everything  was  in  progress,  nothing  finished.  Our  house  was  some 
like  the  Dutchman's  who  said  his  "was  shingled  mit  straw/'  Ours 
was  plastered  mit  muslin.  The  whole  inside  was  covered  with  heavy 
unbleached  muslin,  drawn  tight,  tacked  well  to  all  the  studding 
and  si/etl  with  flour  paste.  Then  it  was  ready  for  papering,  and  made 
a  really  comfortable  house,  looking  well  as  plastered, 

Our  floor,  however,  was  a  fitting  subject  of  history,  ami  the  source 
of  much  merriment,  In  the  morning  of  the  day  we  were  to  occupy, 
I  sent  a  team  to  mill  to  bring  boards  for  floor.  They  were  sawed  after 
he  came,  from  cottonwood  logs  nearly  two  feet  through.  This  timber 
has  more  water  ami  will  shrink  more- they  say  end  win*  also— and 
twist  more  than  any  other  I  ever  saw.  They  said  then*  was  a  board 
on  a  fence  so  warped  that  when  a  pig  tried  to  get  through  into  the 
corn  field,  it  came  out  on  the  same  side  it  started  in  on.  About  three 
o'clock  the  boards  weie  laid  loosely  on  the  timbers,  for  it  xvould  have 
have  been  folly  to  nail  them,  AH  the  floor  began  to  dry  it  shrank 
and  warped  womlrromly.  Each  hoard  would  cup  so  as  to  form  about 
the  fourth  of  a  circle*  Hence  walking  the  floor  was  amusement,  and 
clanger.  When  you  stepped  on  the  edge*  the  hoard  sprung  up  on 
the  other  side  like  Jack-in-the-box,  If  someone  else  lighter  happened 
to  be  opposite*  they  were  likely  to  be  hoisted.  Then  there  was  a 
constant  clutter  while  panning  around  the  rooms.  When  a  certain 
stage  was  reached,  they  were  turned,  to  repeat  cite  same  half-moon- 
on»its4>ark,  the  other  way.  After  a  long  time  when  they  seemed  dry 
and  were  nailed  down,  they  shrank  still*  and  left  great  seams  between 
that  were  filled  with  pieces  fitted  in* 

As  our  things  had  only  arrived  in  part,  we  borrowed  a  few,  and 
began  housekeeping  anew  after  months  of  separation,  a  happy  family* 


A  Nebraska  Reader  23 

No  place  ever  appeared  better  to  the  inmates  than  did  our  home  in 
its  roughness.  Our  table  was  the  two  sawhorses  used  in  building  with 
two  boards  atop,  and  some  muslin  for  tablecloth;  our  seats  were 
the  trunks  we  brought.  Kind  friends  had  helped  us  in  part  to  our 
first  meal.  The  gratitude  of  our  hearts  was  genuine  as  we  invoked  our 
Father's  blessing  upon  that  meal  and  at  night  dedicated  the  house  to 
Him  who  loved  us,  and  bought  us  with  His  blood.  The  fare  was 
simple,  perforce,  for  butter  was  seventy-five  cents  per  pound,  and 
every  delicacy  alike  expensive. 

The  only  house  of  worship  was  one  put  up  for  the  M.  E.  church, 
a  plain,  neat,  spineless  building.  We  began  our  preaching  in  the 
dwelling  of  one  of  the  brethren,  also  organizing  ourselves  into  a 
church  and  electing  one  deacon,  Brother  S.  P.  Ailing.  He  gave  us  the 
best  sort  of  material  for  a  deacon.  He  was  kind,  consistent,  faithful, 
loving  the  cause  and  the  Saviour  with  a  full  heart,  delighting  to  use 
his  means  for  the  good  of  others,  and  to  honor  Christ.  There  were 
but  few  Christians  among  that  varied  population,  and  religion  met 
only  a  left-handed  favor.  The  great  mass  seemed  in  a  terrible  hurry 
to  build  their  houses  and  push  their  various  enterprises  to  success  and 
wealth.  A  very  large  proportion  seemed  to  have  come  to  make  a 
speedy  fortune,  then  return  east  and  enjoy  the  same.  You  could  hear 
the  whiz  of  the  saw  and  the  click  of  the  hammer  at  all  hours  of  day 
and  night  for  the  whole  week.  The  Lord's  day  found  only  a  very  few 
who  honored  its  claims. 

Preaching  was  a  real  delight.  The  little  room  where  we  met  in  the 
fall  was  filled  to  the  full,  bed,  boxes,  and  chairs  out  into  the  hall, 
so  close  as  to  leave  me  bare  standing  room.  One  time  when  preaching, 
standing  behind  one  seated,  in  earnest  gesticulation  I  brought  my 
fist  down  thump  on  his  head,  to  the  general  amusement.  I  wrote  east 
to  friends  that  "I  possessed  great  advantage  over  most  preachers 
for  I  can  apply  the  gospel  personally." 

A  Brother  Blackley  carne  among  us  who  was  of  large  help  to  me  at 
this  time.  He  was  a  Presbyterian  preacher  and  physician,  a  man  of 
good  mind,  well  stored,  and  a  real  Christian.  An  argument  had  a 
peculiar  attraction;  he  would  leave  a  good  meal  for  a  regular  set-to 
at  it.  Always  kindly,  no  irritation.  We  had  regular  meetings  every 
morning  either  at  his  or  our  house  where,  after  a  season  of  prayer, 
sermons  or  other  topics  of  religious  interest  were  talked  over  in  a 
critical  and  helpful  way. 

Our  preaching  services  were  held  the  first  winter  in  a  vacant  house, 
he  occupying  one  part  of  the  day,  I  the  other*  There  were  about  as 


24  ROUNDUP: 

many  Presbyterians  as  Baptists  in  town.  The  singing  was  led  chiefly 
by  Mrs.  B.  and  Sister  Ailing,  and  it  was  good  spiritual  singing  that 
could  be  enjoyed.  A  photograph  of  that  room  would  sell  well,  it 
seems  to  me,  and  of  all  told  places,  that  was  the  one.  It  stood  on 
the  side  hill,  on  upright  sticks,  one  side  near  the  ground,  the 
other,  two  feet  above,  giving  full  sweep  for  the  wind  under.  Not 
finished  inside,  the  daphourding  warped  so  as  to  insure  full  venti 
lation;  the  floor  laid  of  green  elm  had  shrunk,  leaving  seams  half 
an  inch  wide;  this  covered  with  Kentucky  jean,  which  was  laughed 
at  by  the  winds  as  they  lifted  it  in  rolling  waves  from  the  floor. 
Rough  boards  fastened  to  the  sides,  some  rude  benches,  and  a  few 
chairs  furnished  the  seating  conveniences,  a  box  end-wise  gave  a 
place  for  the  preacher,  and  a  sheei-uon  stove  the  heating  apparatus. 
The  whole  service  in  cold  weather  was  passed  by  the  congregation 
in  more  or  less  of  suffering.  Yet  we  had  fair  attendance,  with  the 
best  attention.  Theie  was  earnest  effort  to  give  the  people  something 
warm  inside,  if  the  externals  were  so  cheerless, 

That  winter  was  sevcxely  cold  and  stormy,  AH  a  family  we  had  a 
narrow  escape  from  great  su  tiering*  The  cold  began  early  in  Decem 
ber*  Our  wood  pile  was  exhausted,  and  a  man  with  a  team  was  secured 
to  get  a  load  from  the  woods  a  few  miles  away.  As  we  started  it  began 
to  snow  some*  kept  increasing  all  day,  so  that  when  we  returned  about 
4:00  **„  M,  the  wind  was  high  from  the  north,  snow  filling  the  air,  and 
rapidly  growing  worse.  For  three  days  it  wan  a  regular  l>H//ard, 
piercing  cold,  while  about  two  feet  of  snow  fell,  Had  we  not  obtained 
the  wood  that  day,  by  no  possibility  could  it  have  been  the  next,  and 
our  neighbors  bad  none  to  spare,  The  Lord  cam!  for  us  in  a  tender 
way»  doing  far  better  than  we  deseived. 

We  were  more  fortunate  than  some  in  icganl  to  winter  supplies, 
The  amount  raised  wan  by  no  means  equal  to  the  population,  I  heard 
of  a  man  below  m  who  had  some  potatoes  to  sell,  went  at  once,  and 
bought  enough  at  $1,95  per  bushel  Flour  could  readily  be  hud  as  a 
large  stock  was  obtained  by  liver  in  the  fall.  Butter  kepi  so  dear  it 
was  dis{)ensed  with  and  moia&te*  largely  wed*  Nfrs,  B*  got  m  tired  of 
this,  that  for  a  long  time  she  could  hardly  bear  to  see  it,  All  missed, 
especially  the  children,  the  supply  of  fruits,  such  as  apples,  etc  Dried 
fruits  were  all  that  could  be  had  as  a  rule.  At  Omaha  a  few  were 
found,  and  us  mother  peeled  for  tine,  the  children  would  stand  about 
to  take  the  peels  fast  as  they  left  the  apple* 

In  the  spring  Brother  Ailing  put  up  a  two-&tory  building  for  a  store 
room  ami  finished  the  tipper  part,  seating  ic  comfortably  for  meetings. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  25 

This  was  a  real  advance  and  free  of  cost  to  us  all.  The  matter  of  a  good 
brick  meeting  house  was  talked  of,  Deacon  A.  offering  to  stand  back 
of  the  enterprise  financially. 

Coming  in  one  day  from  calling,  there  was  waiting  me  a  thick-set, 
shortish,  heavy  Pennsylvania  Dutchman  from  Cuming  City,  20  miles 
above.  In  somewhat  broken  terms  he  wanted  to  know  if  I  could  come 
up  there  and  preach,  saying,  "I  talk  of  buying  a  claim  there  but  will 
not  unless  someone  can  be  had  to  give  us  Baptist  preaching."  He  had 
taken  that  long  drive  to  find  a  Baptist  preacher  before  deciding  to 
locate.  I  agreed  to  visit  the  place,  several  Baptists  were  found,  and 
preaching  was  begun  once  every  two  weeks. 

Subsequently  we  organized  a  church  of  fourteen  members.  I  used 
to  go  up  and  back  by  stage.  Our  meeting  place  was  a  log  schoolhouse. 
There  was  a  very  good  class  of  people  about  Cuming  City— the  name 
was  poetry,  for  not  a  half-dozen  houses  could  be  seen.  It  was  very 
thinly  settled  as  yet;  long  distances  between  claims.*  The  people 
generally  came  to  meeting,  and  I  enjoyed  preaching  to  them.  The 
first  baptizing  was  done  for  me  by  Brother  Taggert  as  I  had  not  yet 
been  ordained. 

At  this  time,  a  most  severe  financial  depression  came  upon  the 
country,  paralyzing  business  over  the  whole  land.  It  was  felt  perhaps 
more  severely  in  the  new  countries,  as  there  were  less  moneyed  facili 
ties.  The  effect  was  sorely  felt  by  my  deacon  at  Florence.  His  project 
for  a  large  mill  was  stopped.  Also  aid  to  our  church  building  must 
be  given  up,  so  the  matter  fell  through,  for  times  kept  growing 
worse.  The  place  stopped  growing,  and  some  began  to  remove.  At  one 
time  there  were  about  1,500  people  in  the  place.  The  church  made 
but  little  growth. 

The  vicious  classes  were  not  lacking  among  us;  such  are  apt  to 
float  out  on  the  current  of  emigration  to  new  countries.  Rum  was 
plenty.  That  always  augments  and  intensifies  crime.  One  miserable 
drunken  wretch  was  stabbed  to  death  by  another  equally  detestable 
scoundrel  for  intimacy  with  his  wife.  One  day  there  was  heard  a  loud 
hallowing,  and  great  clatter  of  horses'  feet,  toward  Omaha.  Looking 
that  way,  quite  a  number  of  horsemen  were  seen  riding  at  the  highest 
speed  and  yelling  like  Indians,  Several  streets  below,  they  came  into 

*  Cuming  City  was  located  north  of  the  present  site  of  Blair.  By  1857  it  had 
become  a  place  of  bright  promise,  with  53  dwellings,  three  stores,  two  churches, 
a  school,  three  hotels,  and  a  number  of  saloons.  Beginning  in  1869,  however, 
when  Blair  was  established  as  a  point  of  crossing;  for  the  railroad,  Cuming  City 
began  to  lose  ground  and  eventually  disappeared  altogether.  Most  of  the  build 
ings  were  removed  to  Blair. 


s»6  ROUNDUP 

the  village  up  one,  and  over  another,  when  the  report  of  pistols 
was  heard,  and  the  cavalcade  stopped.  It  was  a  company  from  Omaha 
after  a  horse  thief,  whom  they  brought  to  a  stand  near  the  bank. 
He  had  stolen  the  horse  in  Iowa,  and  was  delivered  to  those  authori 
ties.  Horse-stealing  was  perhaps  the  most  common  crime.  At  another 
time  two  men  were  found  hanging  to  a  tree  just  beyond  our  village. 
They  were  in  jail  at  Omaha  for  horse-stealing.  A  company  of  men 
went  to  jail,  took  them  out,  and  hung  them  there.  It  was  a  frightful 
sight,  and  yet  seemed  but  justice. 

The  son  of  one  of  our  honored  ministers  in  central  New  York  was 
living  in  our  place.  He  had  a  comfortable  house,  very  nicely  fur 
nished,  his  wife  an  intelligent,  sprightly  woman.  Indeed,  they  put 
on  airs.  As  hard  times  came  on,  he  tried  to  sell  in  vain.  One  night 
when  both  were  absent  at  a  ball  in  the  town,  his  house  was  burned, 
under  such  circumstances  that  it  was  generally  believed  he  fired  it 
to  obtain  the  insurance.  The  agent,  however,  would  not  pay,  and 
he  dared  not  sue  for  it,  but  left  for  Denver. 

A  peculiar  trial  to  many  was  our  high  winds.  Then,  as  now,  they 
were  severe  and  often  did  damage.  Mrs.  B.  was  sorely  annoyed  by 
them.  Our  house  would  rock  very  perceptibly,  so  much  that  she  could 
not  sleep.  I  could  sleep  anywhere.  A  great  many  times  she  awakened 
me  to  carry  the  bedding  downstairs,  where  we  would  sleep  on  the 
floor  the  rest  of  the  night. 

My  labors  were  regular  between  Florence  and  Cuming  City.  Our 
meetings  at  Cuming  City  were  of  good  interest.  In  the  spring  of  '58 
the  church  there  called  me  to  ordination,  asking  that  the  Association 
meeting  at  Nebraska  City  attend  to  the  services.  This  was  the  first 
ordination  of  a  Baptist  minister  in  the  territory,  and  I  am  inclined  to 
think  the  first  of  any. 


Condensed  from  "Pioneer  Preacher—An  Autobiography," 
Nebraska  History f  XXVII  (April-June,  1946) 


Three  years  after  the  Reverend  George  W.  Barnes  was  or 
dained,  there  occurred  a  gun  fight  at  Rock  Creek  Station, 
120  miles  southwest  of  Florence,  which— in  the  hands  of 
the  myth-makers— established  a  man  of  considerable  ill 
will  as  the  very  model  of  a  hero  of  the  Old  West. 

The  story  told  "here,  based  on  court  records,  state- 
ments  of  reputable  citizens,  and  the  account  of  an  eyewit 
ness,  places  James  Butler  Hickok  in  his  proper  niche— not 
as  a  Homeric  figure  of  the  wild  frontier  where  a  good 
horse  was  held  in  more  esteem  than  human  life,  but  as 
one  who  lived  to  the  ripe  old  age  of  thirty-nine  only 
because  he  knew  no  other  code  than  "kill  or  be  killed"  and 
never  failed  to  take  advantage  of  the  main  chance. 


2.  The  Myth  of  Wild  Bill  Hickok 

CARL  UHLARIK 

JIM,  haven't  we  been  friends  all  the  time?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  we  friends  now?" 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  hand  me  a  drink  of  water?" 

Jim  Hickok  turned  to  the  bucket  in  the  cabin  and  handed  randier 
David  McCanles  a  dipper  of  water. 

McCanles  drank  and,  as  he  handed  back  the  dipper,  saw  something 
inside  the  cabin  which  caused  him  to  sidestep  to  another  door.  "Now, 
Jim,"  he  called,  "if  you  have  anything  against  me,  come  out  and 
fight  fair."  The  answer  came  in  a  shot  from  a  Hawkins  rifle  whose 
roar  was  magnified  by  the  intensity  of  the  silence  it  shattered. 

Hickok  reappeared  in  the  doorway  with  a  Colt  Navy  revolver 
and  began  firing  at  McCanles's  nephew  and  a  hired  hand  who  were 
running  up  from  the  barn  following  the  shot.  McCanles's  twelve- 
year-old  son  stood  by  his  fallen  father,  horror  and  fright  anchoring 
him  to  the  ground. 

This,  in  a  nutshell,  is  the  documented  account  of  what  for  ninety- 
five  years  has  been  regarded  as  the  greatest  single-handed  fight  in 
American  history.  It  was  the  seed  from  which  sprang  the  legend 
of  Wild  Bill  Hickok,  the  matchless  Prince  of  Pistoleers,  invincible 
scout,  plainsman,  peace  officer,  and  gambler  who,  by  his  own  ad- 


28  ROUNDUP: 

mission,  had  killed  more  than  a  hundred  men  before  his  own 
brains  were  blown  out  by  cross-eyed  Jack  McCall  in  a  Deadwood 
saloon. 

James  Butler  Hickok  was  born  near  Homer,  now  Troy  Grove, 
Illinois,  in  1837.  He  spent  his  formative  years  working  on  a  farm 
and  left  home  at  the  age  of  eighteen  when,  by  the  standards  of 
the  day,  he  was  considerably  more  than  a  man.  He  turned  up 
first  in  St.  Louis;  two  years  later  he  was  knocking  about  Johnson 
County,  Kansas;  in  1858  he  became  a  driver  for  the  Overland  Stage 
Company.  It  was  during  Hickok's  brief  sojourn  in  Johnson  County 
that  he  reportedly  killed  his  first  man.  However,  there  is  not  much 
which  can  be  authenticated  about  this  period  of  his  life:  he  was 
merely  one  of  thousands  of  obscure  plainsmen  until  he  captured  the 
country's  imagination  in  a  Harper's  Magazine  article  of  February, 
1867.  Its  author,  Col.  George  Ward  Nichols,  wrote  that  he'd  had  the 
story  of  the  McCanles  Affair  from  Wild  Bill  himself.  Since  Hickok 
never  denied  it,  it  brands  him,  ipso  facto,  a  monumental  liar. 

David  Colbert  McCanles,  on  whose  spilled  blood  the  legend 
was  nurtured,  was  born  November  30,  1828,  near  Stateville,  North 
Carolina.  He  attended  an  Episcopal  academy  for  six  years— a  deal 
of  schooling  in  those  days.  At  the  age  of  twenty-three,  he  was 
elected  sheriff  of  Watauga  County  and  was  re-elected  three  times. 
Fired  by  tales  of  gold  in  the  Pikes  Peak  fields,  he  started  west  in 
1859,  but  was  discouraged  by  "busted"  gold-seekers,  homeward 
bound.  At  Rock  Creek  Station,  Nebraska  Territory,  six  miles  east 
of  the  present  city  of  Fairbury,  McCanles  gave  up  the  quest  and 
fastened  his  hopes  on  the  wild,  unbroken  prairie.  He  bought  the 
way  station  on  the  west  bank  of  the  creek  and  sent  to  Leavenworth, 
Kansas,  for  a  plow.  With  it  he  broke  the  first  sod  in  what  is  now  one 
of  the  richest  agricultural  counties  in  the  Middle  West. 

McCanles  described  the  "land  of  promise"  so  glowingly  in  letters 
that  his  brother  Leroy  came  west  with  his  own  family  and  the  wife 
and  five  children  David  had  left  behind.  David  built  a  cabin  on 
the  east  bank  of  the  creek  for  Leroy,  and  the  families  settled  down  to 
harvest  the  fruit  of  the  prairie  paradise.  With  all  his  good  qualities, 
however,  David  McCanles  was  as  rough  and  tough  as  the  frontier 
he  sought  to  tame— hot-tempered,  boisterous,  bull-headed,  and 
afraid  of  no  man. 

By  1860  Leroy  had  moved  away,  and  David  contracted  to  sell 
the  East  Rock  Creek  Ranch  to  Russell,  Majors,  and  Waddell,  propri- 


A  Nebraska  Reader  29 

etors  of  the  Central  Overland  California  and  Pikes  Peak  Express 
Company,  better  known  as  the  Overland  Stage.  The  agreement 
called  for  one-third  down  and  the  balance  in  equal  monthly  pay 
ments.  Overland  sent  out  Horace  Wellman  and  his  wife  as  station- 
keepers,  and  J.  W.  (Doc)  Brink  as  stock-tender.  Arriving  soon  after 
as  assistant  stock- tender— a  glorified  appellation  for  stable  hand- 
was  Overland's  erstwhile  driver,  Jim  Hickok. 

The  twenty-three-year-old  Hickok  had  not  evolved  into  the  frontier 
dandy  described  by  latter-day  romanticists  as  "the  finest  example  of 
frontiersman  . . .  [with]  a  fine,  handsome  face,  a  light  mustache,  thin, 
pointed  nose,  bluish-grey  eyes  with  calm  look, ...  a  magnificent  fore 
head,  hair  parted  from  the  center  and  hanging  down  behind  his  ears 
in  brown,  wavy,  silken  curls."  To  those  who  knew  him  at  Rock  Creek, 
he  was  a  horse-faced  fellow,  over  six  feet  tall,  moody,  and  hard  to 
make  friends  with.  He  had  not  yet  cultivated  the  mustache  swooping 
gracefully  around  his  mouth  like  the  split  tail  of  a  swallow,  offsetting 
thin  lips  which  protruded  so  noticeably  that  the  ranchers  and  farmers 
dubbed  him  "Duck  Bill." 

It  is  as  "Duck  Bill"  Hickok  that  he  is  designated  in  the  preliminary 
information  filed  against  him  in  connection  with  the  Rock  Creek 
killings.  Probably  it  will  never  be  known  why  he  permitted  the 
derisive  nickname  to  be  formalized  to  "William"  in  other  court 
records,  but  in  the  light  of  his  subsequent  notoriety  it  is  not  hard 
to  understand  how  "Wild"  came  to  replace  "Duck." 

There  is  no  evidence  to  indicate  that  the  quarrel  which  led  to  the 
Rock  Creek  slayings  was  any  of  Hickok's  affair;  on  the  other  hand, 
there  is  every  indication  that  the  feud  was  between  McCanles  and 
Wellman  over  money  due  for  the  sale  of  the  station.  And  there  is 
ample  reason  to  believe  that  the  rifle  ball  which  pierced  McCanles's 
heart  was  fired  not  by  Hickok  but  by  Wellman  concealed  behind  a 
calico  curtain. 

When  McCanles  came  to  collect  the  first  deferred  payment  from 
Overland,  Wellman  told  him  the  money  had  not  yet  arrived.  It  was 
the  same  story  when  the  final  payment  fell  due.  McCanles  then 
demanded  payment  in  full  or  possession  of  the  property.  Wellman 
said  he  felt  sure  the  money  was  waiting  at  Brownville,  and  he'd  pick 
it  up  on  a  trip  for  supplies.  McCanles's  young  son  Monroe  accompa 
nied  Wellman  on  the  soo-mile  round  trip,  which  took  ten  days,  and 
from  which  they  returned  about  4:00  P.  M.,  July  12,  1861. 

Monroe  found  his  father,  his  cousin  James  Woods,  and  a  hired 
hand  named  James  Gordon  at  the  near-by  ranch  of  Jack  Nye.  When 


go  ROUNDUP; 

he  learned  that  Wellman  had  brought  no  money,  McCanles  grabbed 
his  son  by  the  hand,  and,  with  Woods  and  Gordon  following,  strode 
purposively  toward  Rock  Creek  Station.  This  was  the  entire  "blood 
thirsty  M'Kandlas  gang,"  and  the  only  firearm  in  the  group  was 
Monroe's— a  small-bore,  double-barrelled  shotgun  he  had  taken  on 
the  trip  to  Brownville  for  bagging  small  game. 

The  fight  version  credited  to  Hickok  in  Harper's  was  prefaced 
by  his  statement  that  he  had  led  a  detachment  of  Union  cavalry  to 
Rock  Creek  and  that  an  old  friend,  "Mrs.  Waltman,"  ran  out  of  the 
cabin  to  warn  him  that  the  "M'Kandlas  gang"  was  out  for  his  blood. 

You  see,  this  M'Kandlas  was  the  captain  of  a  gang  of  desperadoes,  horse 
thieves,  murderers,  regular  cut  throats,  who  were  the  terror  of  everybody 
on  the  border.  ...  He  poked  his  head  inside  the  doorway  but  jumped 
back  when  he  saw  me  with  the  rifle  in  my  hand.  "Come  in  here,  you 
cowardly  dog!"  I  shouted.  .  .  .  M'Kandlas  was  no  coward.  .  .  .  He  jumped 
inside  the  room  with  gun  leveled  to  shoot;  but  was  not  quick  enough.  My 
rifle  ball  went  through  his  heart.  He  fell  back  outside  the  house  where  he 
was  found  afterward  holding  tight  to  his  rifle,  ...  I  put  down  the  rifle 
and  took  the  revolver.  .  .  .  there  was  a  few  seconds  of  that  awful  stillness, 
and  then  the  rufHans  came  rushing  in  at  both  doors.  ...  I  never  aimed 
more  deliberate  in  my  life.  One,  two,  three,  four;  and  four  men  fell  dead. 
That  didn't  stop  the  rest.  Two  of  them  fired  their  bird  guns  at  me.  And 
then  I  felt  a  sting  all  over  me.  ,  .  .  One  I  knocked  down  with  my  fist.  .  .  . 
the  second  I  shot  dead.  The  other  three  clutched  me  and  crowded  me 
onto  the  bed.  ...  I  broke  with  my  hand  one  man's  arm,  . .  .  Before  I  could 
get  to  my  feet  I  was  struck  across  the  breast  with  the  stock  of  a  rifle,  and 
I  felt  the  blood  rushing  out  of  my  nose  and  mouth.  Then  I  got  ugly 
and  I  remember  that  I  got  hold  of  a  knife,  and  then  it  was  all  cloudy 
like,  and  I  was  wild,  and  I  struck  savage  blows,  following  the  devils  up 
from  one  side  to  the  other  of  the  room  and  into  the  corners,  striking 
and  slashing  until  I  knew  that  every  one  was  dead.  .  .  .  there  were  eleven 
buckshot  in  me. ...  I  was  cut  in  thirteen  places.  .  .  . 

Compare  the  eyewitness  account  of  Monroe  McCanles,  substanti 
ated  in  every  important  detail  by  court  records  and  the  statements  of 
reputable  persons  who  were  contemporary  with  the  principals.  It  is 
the  account  he  was  denied  permission  to  relate  at  the  trial,  but  which, 
years  later,  he  wrote  for  George  W.  Hansen,  pioneer  banker  of 
Fairbury. 

Father  and  I  stopped  at  the  house  and  Woods  and  Gordon  went  on 
down  to  the  barn.  Father  went  to  the  kitchen  and  asked  for  Wellman. 
Mrs.  Wellman  came  to  the  door  and  father  asked  if  Wellman  was  in  the 
house  and  she  said  he  was.  Father  said  "tell  him  to  come  out"  and  she 
said  "what  do  you  want  with  him?"  Father  said  "I  want  to  settle  with 
him."  She  said  "he'll  not  come  out."  Father  said  "send  him  out  or  111 


A  Nebraska  Reader  31 

come  in  and  drag  him  out."  Now,  when  father  made  the  threat  .  .  .  Jim 
(or  Bill)  Hickok  stepped  to  the  door  and  stood  by  Mrs.  Wellman.  Father 
looked  at  him  in  the  face  and  said  "Jim,  haven't  we  been  friends  all  the 
time?"  [Followed  the  request  for  water  and  the  rifle  shot.]  Father  raised 
himself  up  to  almost  a  sitting  position  and  took  one  last  look  at  me,  then 
fell  back  dead.  Woods  and  Gordon  had  heard  the  shot  and  came  running 
up  unarmed  .  .  .  and  just  then  Jim  reappeared  at  the  door  with  a  Colt's 
Navy  revolver.  He  fired  two  shots  at  Woods,  and  Woods  ran  around  the 
house  to  the  north.  Gordon  broke  and  ran.  Jim  ran  out  of  the  door  and 
fired  two  shots  at  him  and  wounded  him.  Just  as  Jim  ran  out  of  the  door, 
Wellman  came  out  with  a  hoe  and  ran  after  Woods,  and  hit  him  on  the 
head  with  the  hoe  and  finished  him.  Then  Wellman  came  running  around 
the  house  where  I  was  standing  and  struck  at  me  with  the  hoe  and  yelled 
"let's  kill  them  all."  I  dodged  and  ran.  I  outran  him  to  a  ravine  south  of 
the  house  and  stopped  there.  Mrs.  Wellman  stood  in  the  door  clapping 
her  hands  and  yelling  "kill  him,  kill  him,  kill  him!"  Father  was  shot  from 
behind  a  calico  curtain  that  divided  the  cabin  in  two  .  .  .  and  was  shot 
with  a  rifle  that  belonged  to  himself.  He  had  loaned  the  gun  to  the  station 
keeper  for  their  protection  in  case  of  trouble  with  the  many  hard  char 
acters  that  were  traveling  the  trail.  .  .  .  After  Gordon  had  made  his  get 
away,  being  wounded,  the  station  outfit  put  the  dog  on  his  trail  and  the 
dog  trailed  him  down  the  creek  and  brought  him  to  bay  about  80  rods 
down  the  creek.  When  the  bunch  caught  up,  the  dog  was  fighting  Gordon, 
and  Gordon  was  warding  him  off  with  a  stick.  Gordon  was  finished  with  a 
load  of  buckshot  from  Dock  Brink's  gun.  .  .  .  When  I  made  my  escape, 
I  ran  to  the  ranch  and  broke  the  news  to  my  mother.  .  .  . 

Consider  the  killing  of  McCanles:  At  the  time  he  saw  something 
suspicious  in  the  cabin,  he  was  reaffirming  friendship  with  Hickok 
and  was  in  the  act  of  handing  back— and  Hickok  was  in  the  act  of 
receiving— the  water  dipper.  What,  then,  caused  him  to  move  to 
another  door  and  ask  Hickok  to  come  out  and  fight  fair?  Was  it 
some  act  by  Wellman,  the  man  he  threatened  to  "settle  with"?  Fear 
ing  a  thrashing,  it's  probable  that  Wellman  dashed  behind  the 
calico  curtain,  or,  already  hiding  there,  reached  out  for  the  rifle. 

As  for  Gordon  and  Woods,  Monroe's  statement  that  they  were 
finished  off  later  is  supported  by  statements  of  neighboring  ranchers 
who  found  the  bodies.  Among  those  who  reached  the  bloody  scene 
the  following  morning  were  the  brothers  Helvey:  Frank,  Thomas, 
and  Jasper.  They  found  die  body  of  McCanles  sprawled  like  a  bag 
out  of  which  the  grain  had  spilled.  Woods  was  around  the  corner  of 
the  cabin,  his  head  crushed  with  a  heavy  instrument.  Gordon  lay 
south  of  the  station,  filled  with  buckshot.  The  Helvey  brothers 
agreed  that  neither  Hickok,  Brink,  nor  the  Wellmans  showed  a  single 
bruise  or  wound  which  would  indicate  that  they  had  been  attacked 
md  had  killed  in  self-defense. 


32  ROUNDUP: 

Leroy  McCanles,  farming  in  Johnson  County,  was  informed  of 
the  tragedy  and  went  to  Beatrice  in  Gage  County  to  swear  out  a 
complaint  stating  "that  the  crime  of  murder  has  been  committed  in 
the  County  of  Jones  and  that  Duck  Bill,  Dock  and  Wellman  (their 
other  names  unknown)  committed  the  same."  Two  days  later,  Gage 
County  Sheriff  E.  B.  Hendee  made  the  arrests  and  claimed  $5.50  as 
sheriff's  fees.  The  only  direct  testimony  produced  or  permitted  at 
the  trial  was  that  of  the  accused  men  and  Mrs.  Wellman,  wife  of  one 
of  the  defendants  and  an  alleged  accomplice  to  the  crime.  Upon  a 
plea  of  self-defense,  the  three  men  were  found  not  guilty. 

The  conclusion  is  evident  that  Hickok  had  no  motive  for  killing 
McCanles.  If,  indeed,  it  was  Wild  Bill  who  pulled  the  trigger  of 
the  Hawkins  rifle,  then  he  was  guilty  o£  the  basest  treachery.  As  for 
Woods  and  Gordon,  it  is  not  inconceivable  that  in  the  frenzy  of 
first  blood-letting,  Hickok  grabbed  his  revolver  and  blazed  away  at 
them  under  the  impression  that  they  were  running  up  to  attack 
him  and  the  Wellmans. 

Now,  to  lay  the  ghosts  o£  some  of  the  other  absurdities  which 
still  rise  phoenix-like  at  any  mention  of  the  McCanles  Affair  and 
Wild  Bill: 

That  McCanles  was  an  outlaw  leader  of  a  gang  of  horse  thieves. 

David  Colbert  McCanles  was  the  richest  landowner  in  the  county. 
He  established  the  first  school  and  made  the  first  attempt  at  legal 
organization  of  the  county. 

That  Hickok,  notorious  as  a  dead  shot  as  early  as  1857,  could 
drive  a  cork  into  a  bottle  without  breaking  the  neck  by  firing  a  pistol 
from  the  hip. 

His  shooting  at  Rock  Creek  was  so  wild  that  he  missed  Woods  and 
merely  winged  Gordon. 

That  Hickok  never  backed  clown  from  a  fight. 

John  Wesley  Harclin,  a  Texas  contribution  to  the  art  of  gun- 
slinging,  wrote  in  his  reminiscences  that  he  pulled  the  "roatl  agent's 
spin"  when  Hickok,  the  Abilene  marshal,  demanded  at  gun  point 
that  Harclin  surrender  his  pistols,  Hickok  thereupon  said  he  had  no 
intention  of  arresting  Hardin  and  invited  him  to  have  a  drink. 

That  Hickok  was  always  on  die  side  of  law  and  order. 

In  1869,  while  marshal  of  Hayes  City,  Wild  Bill  killed  several  Fort 
Hayes  soldiers  in  a  brawl,  and  General  Phil  Sheridan  ordered  him  to 
be  brought  in  dead  or  alive.  Wild  Bill  hightailed  it  immediately 
after  the  killings  and  hid  out.  In  Cheyenne,  Wyoming,  officials  de 
cided  to  rid  the  town  of  a  "few  of  the  worst  criminals,"  They  tacked 


A  Nebraska  Reader  S3 

notices  on  telegraph  poles,  listing  a  dozen  names,  headed  by  Wild 
Bill,  giving  them  twenty-four  hours  to  get  out  o£  town.  Wild  Bill 
cut  up  the  notice  with  his  Bowie  knife  and  remained  until  he  got 
ready  to  leave. 

Some  months  later  he  went  to  Custer  City  and  then  to  Deadwood 
and  the  rendezvous  with  death,  a  victim  of  his  own  reputation.  The 
end  came  at  4:10  P.M.,  August  2,  1876,  in  a  saloon  on  lower  Main 
Street  while  Hickok  was  playing  poker.  Records  of  the  coroner's 
jury  stated  that  Jack  McCall  walked  into  the  saloon,  and  when  he 
was  three  feet  back  of  his  victim,  raised  his  revolver,  exclaiming: 
"Damn  you,  take  that!"  and  fired.  The  cards  which  spilled  from 
Hickok's  hand  as  he  crumpled  to  the  floor  were  pairs  of  aces  and 
eights— a  spread  which  since  that  day  has  been  known  as  the  "Dead 
Man's  Hand." 

At  his  trial,  McCall  said  he  killed  Hickok  because  Wild  Bill  had 
killed  his  brother  in  Kansas,  while  Hickok's  friends  claimed  McCall 
was  the  hireling  of  jealous  gunmen.  After  deliberating  an  hour  and  a 
half,  the  jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of  not  guilty.  Subsequently,  McCall 
was  arrested  by  federal  authorities  and  taken  to  Yankton,  South 
Dakota,  where  he  was  tried  and  convicted.  He  was  hanged  March  i, 
1877. 


Condensed  from  Prairie  Schooner,  Summer,  1951 


In  1859,  William  H.  Russell,  of  the  freighting  firm  of 
Russell,  Majors,  and  Waddell,  conceived  the  then  daring 
idea  of  a  stage-coach  express  to  the  Pikes  Peak  region. 
Though  his  partners  refused  to  join  what  they  considered 
a  wild  scheme,  Russell,  with  the  aid  of  John  S.  Jones,  went 
ahead,  establishing  the  Leavenworth  and  Pikes  Peak  Ex 
press  along  the  Republican-Solomon  route.  The  "L.  &  P. 
P!r  was  in  financial  difficulty  from  the  beginning,  and 
Russell,  Majors,  and  Waddell  bailed  the  enterprise  out, 
transferring  it  to  the  Platte  Valley  route  so  that  they  could 
combine  it  with  their  Salt  Lake  mail  service. 

Meanwhile,  Senator  William  M.  Gwin  of  California  had 
persuaded  Russell  to  launch  a  pony  express  between  St. 
Joseph  and  California.  Russell's  partners  finally  were  in 
duced  to  agree,  and  Gwin,  in  turn,  promised  to  obtain  a 
government  mail  contract  for  the  Pony  Express.  On 
April  3,  1860,  to  the  accompaniment  of  celebrations  at 
both  ends  of  the  line,  the  first  riders  set  out  from  Sacra 
mento  and  St.  Joseph.  Riders,  station-keepers,  and  ponies 
functioned  with  brilliant  precision  to  bring  the  first  mail 
through  both  ways  in  the  scheduled  ten  days. 

—Condensed  from  Olson's  History  of  Nebraska 


Stage-Coaching  on  the  Great  Overland 


MARK  TWAIN 


FROM  St  Joseph,  Missouri,  to  Sacramento,  California,  by  stage-coach, 
was  nearly  nineteen  hundred  miles,  and  the  trip  was  often  made 
in  fifteen  days  (the  cars  do  it  in  four  and  a  half,  now),  but  the  time 
specified  in  the  mail  contracts,  and  required  by  the  schedule,  was 
eighteen  or  nineteen  days,  if  I  remember  rightly.  This  was  to  make 
fair  allowance  for  winter  storms  and  snows,  and  other  unavoidable 
causes  of  detention.  The  stage  company  had  everything  under  strict 
discipline  and  good  system.  Over  each  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
of  road  they  placed  an  agent  or  superintendent  and  invested  him 

34 


A  Nebraska  Reader  35 

with  great  authority.  His  beat  or  jurisdiction  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  was  called  a  "division."  He  purchased  horses,  mules,  har 
ness,  and  food  for  men  and  beasts,  and  distributed  these  things 
among  his  stage  stations,  from  time  to  time,  according  to  his  judg 
ment  of  what  each  station  needed.  He  erected  station  buildings  and 
dug  wells.  He  attended  to  the  paying  of  the  station-keepers,  hostlers, 
drivers,  and  blacksmiths,  and  discharged  them  whenever  he  chose. 
He  was  a  very,  very  great  man  in  his  "division"— a  kind  of  Grand 
Mogul,  a  Sultan  of  the  Indies,  in  whose  presence  common  men  were 
modest  of  speech  and  manner,  and  in  the  glare  of  whose  greatness 
even  the  dazzling  stage-driver  dwindled  to  a  penny  dip.  There  were 
about  eight  of  these  kings,  all  told,  on  the  Overland  route. 

Next  in  rank  and  importance  to  the  division-agent  came  the 
"conductor."  His  beat  was  the  same  length  as  the  agent's— two  hun 
dred  and  fifty  miles.  He  sat  with  the  driver,  and  (when  necessary) 
rode  that  fearful  distance,  night  and  day,  without  other  rest  or  sleep 
than  what  he  could  get  perched  thus  on  top  of  the  flying  vehicle. 
Think  of  itl  He  had  absolute  charge  of  the  mails,  express  matter, 
passengers,  and  stage-coach,  until  he  delivered  them  to  the  next  con 
ductor,  and  got  his  receipt  for  them.  Consequently  he  had  to  be  a 
man  of  intelligence,  decision,  and  considerable  executive  ability.  He 
was  usually  a  quiet,  pleasant  man  who  attended  closely  to  his  duties, 
and  was  a  good  deal  of  a  gentleman.  It  was  not  absolutely  necessary 
that  the  division-agent  should  be  a  gentleman,  and  occasionally  he 
wasn't.  But  he  was  always  a  general  in  administrative  ability,  and  a 
bull-dog  in  courage  and  determination— otherwise  the  chieftainship 
over  the  lawless  underlings  of  the  Overland  service  would  never  in 
any  instance  have  been  to  him  anything  but  an  equivalent  for  a 
month  of  insolence  and  distress  and  a  bullet  and  a  coffin  at  the  end 
of  it.  There  were  about  sixteen  or  eighteen  conductors  on  the  Over 
land,  for  there  was  a  daily  stage  each  way,  and  a  conductor  on  every 
stage. 

Next  in  real  and  official  rank  and  importance  after  the  conductor, 
came  my  delight,  the  driver— next  in  real  but  not  in  apparent 
importance— for  in  the  eyes  of  the  common  herd  the  driver  was  to 
the  conductor  as  an  admiral  is  to  the  captain  of  the  flag-ship.  The 
driver's  beat  was  pretty  long,  and  his  sleeping-time  at  the  stations 
pretty  short,  sometimes;  and  so,  but  for  the  grandeur  of  his  position 
his  would  have  been  a  sorry  life,  as  well  as  a  hard  and  wearing  one. 
We  took  a  new  driver  every  day  or  every  night  (for  they  drove  back 
ward  and  forward  over  the  same  piece  of  road  all  the  time),  and 


36  ROUNDUP: 

therefore  we  never  got  as  well  acquainted  with  them  as  we  did  with 
the  conductors;  and  besides,  they  would  have  been  above  being 
familiar  with  such  rubbish  as  passengers,  anyhow,  as  a  general  thing. 
Still,  we  were  always  eager  to  get  a  sight  of  each  and  every  new  driver 
as  soon  as  the  watch  changed,  for  each  and  every  day  we  were  either 
anxious  to  get  rid  of  an  unpleasant  one,  or  loath  to  part  with  a 
driver  we  had  learned  to  like  and  had  come  to  be  sociable  and 
friendly  with.  And  so  the  first  question  we  asked  the  conductor 
whenever  we  got  to  where  we  were  to  exchange  drivers,  was  always, 
"Which  is  him?"  The  grammar  was  faulty,  maybe,  but  we  could  not 
know,  then,  that  it  would  go  into  a  book  some  day.  As  long  as  every 
thing  went  smoothly,  the  Overland  driver  was  well  enough  situated, 
but  if  a  fellow  driver  got  sick  suddenly  it  made  trouble,  for  the  coach 
must  go  on,  and  so  the  potentate  who  was  about  to  climb  down  and 
take  a  luxurious  rest  after  his  long  night's  siege  in  the  midst  of  wind 
and  rain  and  darkness,  had  to  stay  where  he  was  and  do  the  sick  man's 
work.  Once  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  when  I  found  a  driver  sound 
asleep  on  the  box,  and  the  mules  going  at  the  usual  break-neck  pace, 
the  conductor  said  never  mind  him,  there  was  no  danger,  and  he  was 
doing  double  duty— had  driven  seventy-five  miles  on  one  coach,  and 
was  now  going  back  over  it  on  this  without  rest  or  sleep.  A  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  of  holding  back  of  six  vindictive  mules  and  keeping 
them  from  climbing  trees! 

The  station-keepers,  hostlers,  etc.,  were  low,  rough  characters;  and 
from  western  Nebraska  to  Nevada  a  considerable  sprinkling  of  them 
might  be  fairly  set  down  as  outlaws—fugitives  from  justice,  criminals 
whose  best  security  was  a  section  of  country  which  was  without  law 
and  without  even  the  pretense  of  it.  When  the  "division-agent"  issued 
an  order  to  one  of  these  parties  he  did  it  with  a  full  understanding 
that  he  might  have  to  enforce  it  with  a  navy  six-shooter,  and  so  he 
always  went  "fixed"  to  make  things  go  along  smoothly.  Now  and 
then  a  division-agent  was  really  obliged  to  shoot  a  hostler  through 
the  head  to  teach  him  some  simple  matter  that  he  could  have  taught 
him  with  a  club  if  his  circumstances  and  surroundings  had  been 
different.  But  they  were  snappy,  able  men,  those  division-agents,  and 
when  they  tried  to  teach  a  subordinate  anything,  that  subordinate 
generally  "got  it  through  his  head." 

At  noon  on  the  fifth  day  out,  we  arrived  at  the  "Crossing  of  the 
South  Platte,"  alias  "Julesburg,"  alias  "Overland  City,"  four  hun 
dred  and  seventy  miles  from  St.  Joseph— the  strangest,  quaintest, 
funniest  frontier  town  that  our  untraveled  eyes  had  ever  stared  at 


A  Nebraska  Reader  37 

and  been  astonished  with.  For  an  hour  we  took  as  much  interest  in 
Overland  City  as  if  we  had  never  seen  a  town  before.  The  reason  we 
had  an  hour  to  spare  was  because  we  had  to  change  our  stage  (for 
a  less  sumptuous  affair,  called  a  "mud-wagon")  and  transfer  our 
freight  of  mails. 

Presently  we  got  under  way  again.  We  came  to  the  shallow,  yellow, 
muddy  South  Platte,  with  its  low  banks  and  its  scattering  flat  sand 
bars  and  pigmy  islands— a  melancholy  stream  straggling  through  the 
center  of  the  enormous  flat  plain,  and  only  saved  from  being  im 
possible  to  find  with  the  naked  eye  by  its  sentinel  rank  of  scattering 
trees  standing  on  either  bank.  The  Platte  was  "up,"  they  said— which 
made  me  wish  I  could  see  it  when  it  was  down,  if  it  could  look  any 
sicker  and  sorrier.  They  said  it  was  a  dangerous  stream  to  cross,  now, 
because  its  quicksands  were  liable  to  swallow  up  horses,  coach,  and 
passengers  if  an  attempt  was  made  to  ford  it.  But  the  mails  had  to  go, 
and  we  made  the  attempt.  Once  or  twice  in  midstream  the  wheels 
sunk  into  the  yielding  sands  so  threateningly  that  we  half  believed 
we  had  dreaded  and  avoided  the  sea  all  our  lives  to  be  shipwrecked 
in  a  "mud-wagon"  in  the  middle  of  a  desert  at  last.  But  we  dragged 
through  and  sped  away  toward  the  setting  sun. 

In  a  little  while  all  interest  was  taken  up  in  stretching  our  necks 
and  watching  for  the  "pony-rider"— the  fleet  messenger  who  sped 
across  the  continent  from  St.  Joe  to  Sacramento,  carrying  letters 
nineteen  hundred  miles  in  eight  days!  Think  of  that  for  perishable 
horse  and  human  flesh  and  blood  to  dol  The  pony-rider  was  usually 
a  little  bit  of  a  man,  brimful  of  spirit  and  endurance.  No  matter 
what  time  of  the  day  or  night  his  watch  came  on,  and  no  matter 
whether  it  was  winter  or  summer,  raining,  snowing,  hailing,  or  sleet 
ing,  or  whether  his  "beat"  was  a  level  straight  road  or  a  crazy  trail 
over  mountain  crags  and  precipices,  or  whether  it  led  through  peace 
ful  regions  or  regions  that  swarmed  with  hostile  Indians,  he  must  be 
always  ready  to  leap  into  the  saddle  and  be  off  like  the  windl  There 
was  no  idling-time  for  a  pony-rider  on  duty.  He  rode  fifty  miles 
without  stopping,  by  daylight,  moonlight,  starlight,  or  through  the 
blackness  of  darkness— just  as  it  happened.  He  rode  a  splendid  horse 
that  was  born  for  a  racer  and  fed  and  lodged  like  a  gentleman;  kept 
him  at  his  utmost  speed  for  ten  miles,  and  then,  as  he  came  crashing 
up  to  the  station  where  stood  two  men  holding  fast  a  fresh,  impatient 
steed,  the  transfer  of  rider  and  mail-bag  was  made  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  and  away  flew  the  eager  pair  and  were  out  of  sight  before 
the  spectator  could  get  hardly  the  ghost  of  a  look.  Both  rider  and 


g8  ROUNDUP 

horse  went  "flying  light."  The  rider's  dress  was  thin,  and  fitted  close; 
he  wore  a  "roundabout,"  and  a  skull-cap,  and  tucked  his  pantaloons 
into  his  boot-tops  like  a  race-rider.  He  carried  no  arms—he  carried 
nothing  that  was  not  absolutely  necessary,  for  even  the  postage  on 
his  literary  freight  was  worth  five  dollars  a  letter.  He  got  but  little 
frivolous  correspondence  to  carry— his  bag  had  business  letters  in  it, 
mostly.  His  horse  was  stripped  of  all  unnecessary  weight,  too.  He 
wore  light  shoes,  or  none  at  all.  The  little  flat  mail-pockets  strapped 
under  the  rider's  thighs  would  each  hold  about  the  bulk  of  a  child's 
primer.  They  held  many  and  many  an  important  business  chapter 
and  newspaper  letter,  but  these  were  written  on  paper  as  airy  and 
thin  as  gold  leaf,  nearly,  and  thus  bulk  and  weight  were  economized. 
The  stage-coach  traveled  about  a  hundred  to  a  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  miles  a  day  (twenty-four  hours),  the  pony-rider  about  two  hun 
dred  and  fifty.  There  were  about  eighty  pony-riders  in  the  saddle 
all  the  time,  night  and  day,  stretching  in  a  long,  scattering  proces 
sion  from  Missouri  to  California,  forty  flying  eastward,  and  forty 
toward  the  west,  and  among  them  making  four  hundred  gallant 
horses  earn  a  stirring  livelihood  and  see  a  deal  of  scenery. 

We  had  had  a  consuming  desire,  from  the  beginning,  to  see  a 
pony-rider,  but  somehow  or  other  all  that  passed  us  and  all  that 
met  us  managed  to  streak  by  in  the  night,  and  so  we  heard  only  a 
whiz  and  a  hail,  and  the  swift  phantom  of  the  desert  was  gone  before 
we  could  get  our  heads  out  of  the  windows.  But  now  we  were  expect 
ing  one  along  every  moment,  and  would  see  him  in  broad  daylight. 
Presently  the  driver  exclaims: 

"HERE  HE  COMES!" 

Every  neck  is  stretched  further,  and  every  eye  strained  wider.  Away 
across  the  endless  dead  level  of  the  prairie  a  black  speck  appears 
against  the  sky,  and  it  is  plain  that  it  moves.  Well,  I  should  think 
sol  In  a  second  or  two  it  becomes  a  horse  and  rider,  rising  and  falling, 
rising  and  falling-sweeping  toward  us  nearer  and  still  nearer,  and 
the  flutter  of  the  hoofs  comes  faintly  to  the  ear— another  instant  a 
whoop  and  a  hurrah  from  our  upper  deck,  a  wave  of  the  rider's  hand, 
but  no  reply,  and  man  and  horse  burst  past  our  excited  faces,  and 
go  winging  away  like  a  belated  fragment  of  a  storm! 

So  sudden  is  it  all,  and  so  like  a  flash  of  unreal  fancy,  that  but  for 

the  flake  of  white  foam  left  quivering  and  perishing  on  a  mail-sack 

after  the  vision  had  flashed  by  and  disappeared,  we  might  have 

doubted  whether  we  had  seen  any  actual  horse  and  man  at  all,  maybe. 

Extracted  from  Roughing  It,  Harper  &  Brothers,  1899 


A  generation  conditioned  by  more  than  a  century  of  tech 
nological  revolution  finds  it  difficult  to  appreciate  the 
rapidity  with  which  the  transformation  from  wagon  to 
railroad  took  place  on  the  Plains  in  the  i86ofs.  But  it  was 
a  rapid  transformation— and  a  far-reaching  one.  .  .  .  It  is 
the  central  fact  of  Nebraska's  territorial  history. 

—James  C.  Olson,  History  of  Nebraska 


Hurrah  for  the  Iron  Horse 

i.  The  View  from  Council  Bluffs 

GEORGE  R.  LEIGHTON 

ON  THE  afternoon  of  August  13,  1859,  two  months  before  John  Brown 
made  his  raid  at  Harpers  Ferry,  an  Illinois  politician  and  railroad 
lawyer  stood  on  the  Iowa  bluff  above  the  Missouri  River  and  looked 
across  to  a  little  village  on  the  opposite  bank.  Some  town  lots  in 
Council  Bluffs  had  been  offered  him  as  security  for  a  loan  of  three 
thousand  dollars;  he  had  come  to  inspect  the  lots  himself.  Presently 
he  left  the  bluff  and  went  back  to  the  tavern  where  he  fell  into 
conversation  with  an  engineer  who  explained  why  Council  Bluffs 
was  the  point  where  the  much  discussed  transcontinental  railway 
ought  to  begin.  The  lawyer  listened  and,  the  next  day,  departed.  He 
made  the  loan.  Less  than  a  year  later,  supported  by  railroad  pro 
moters,  abolitionists,  manufacturers,  and  Free-Soilers,  he  was  elected 
President  of  the  United  States. 

The  lawyer  was  Abraham  Lincoln.  The  little  village  that  he  saw 
from  the  bluff  was  Omaha,  the  jumping-off  place  of  the  plains,  that 
Omaha  which  for  more  than  a  generation  after  meant  to  various 
persons  the  gateway  to  the  West-the  West,  that  mystic  country  where 
a  man  could  try  again,  have  another  chance,  become  an  empire 
builder,  grow  up  with  the  country,  speculate  in  land,  lend  money 
gathered  up  in  Massachusetts  and  New  Hampshire,  get  a  start  in  the 
world,  escape  the  tyrannies  of  Europe,  breathe  once  more,  be  a  free 
man,  get  a  homestead  for  nothing,  worship  as  he  chose,  and,  inciden 
tally,  help  to  pay  the  interest  on  the  foreign  capital  invested  in 
American  enterprises.  .  .  . 

39 


4o  ROUNDUP: 

Already,  in  the  fifties,  railroads  had  reached  the  Mississippi  from 
Chicago  and  were  being  pushed  across  Iowa.  Among  the  promoters 
was  Thomas  Durant,  a  prairie  physician  turned  Wall  Street  pro 
moter,  a  gentleman  fond  of  the  ladies  and  a  dispenser  of  shawls, 
diamonds,  and  yachts.  He  was  interested  not  only  in  the  Rock  Island 
Railroad  but  also  in  another  called  the  Mississippi  &  Missouri,  partly 
built  across  Iowa,  which  Durant  thought  might  be  carried  through 
to  the  Pacific.  To  further  this  plan  he  sent  ahead  his  young  engineer, 
Grenville  Dodge,  to  make  surveys  and  gather  information. 

The  panic  of  '57  stopped  railroad  construction  and  stranded  Dodge 
in  Council  Bluffs  as  a  general  storekeeper  and  small-time  banker. 
There  he  dabbled  in  politics,  sent  letters  to  Durant's  Wall  Street 
office,  and  watched  the  wagon  trains  setting  out  for  the  West.  The 
Omaha  townsite  speculators  had  rigged  up  a  ferry  to  raft  emigrants 
across  the  river.  They  didn't  have  much  of  a  town,  but  they  burned 
with  enthusiasm.  The  settlement  already  had  one  case  of  delirium 
tremens  and,  along  with  Council  Bluffs,  talked  about  the  railroad. 
Dodge  had  his  facts  in  hand  when  the  Illinois  lawyer  arrived  to 
look  over  the  town  lots. 

On  the  4th  of  March,  1861,  Lincoln  took  the  oath.  The  issue  was 
joined;  it  was  up  to  the  Illinois  lawyer  now.  The  war  was  imminent. 
.  .  .  The  Southerners  were  gone;  a  Pacific  railroad  was  a  certainty. 

The  Pacific  Railroad  situation  was  this:  A  group  of  California  pro 
moters,  headed  by  Leland  Stanford,  Charles  Crocker,  Mark  Hopkins, 
and  Collis  P.  Huntington,  had  a  railway  started  and  wanted  to  build 
east.  This  road  eventually  became  the  Central  Pacific.  Various  East 
ern  groups  wanted  to  build  west.  Durant  was  the  chief  one  of  these 
groups;  Grenville  Dodge  of  Council  Bluffs,  famous  later  not  only  as 
a  great  engineer  but  as  the  most  accomplished  railroad  lobbyist  in 
America,  was  a  minor  figure  in  the  Durant  group.  Every  one  of  the 
railroad  promoters  knew  that  if  a  road  was  to  be  built  the  govern 
ment  would  have  to  put  up  the  money.  The  great  question  was:  Who 
was  going  to  get  it?  ...  But  before  any  division  of  the  spoils  could 
be  made,  legislation  was  necessary.  .  .  . 

On  July  i,  1862,  the  Pacific  Railroad  Act,  providing  for  a 
hundred-million-dollar  corporation,  the  largest  capitalization  ever 
known  in  the  United  States-was  passed.  The  bill  "to  aid  in  the  con 
struction  of  a  railroad  and  telegraph  line  from  the  Missouri  River  to 
the  Pacific  Ocean  and  to  secure  to  the  Government  the  use  of  the 
same  for  Postal,  Military  and  other  purposes"  presented  the  pro 
moters  with 


A  Nebraska  Reader  41 

1.  A  right  of  way  through  the  public  lands,  200  feet  on  each  side,  for 
the  entire  distance. 

2.  The  free  use  of  building  materials  from  the  public  lands. 

3.  The  annulment  of  Indian  titles. 

4.  Every  alternate,  odd  numbered  section  of  public  land,  to  the  amount 
of  five  sections  a  mile  on  each  side. 

5.  A  subsidy  of  $  16,000  a  mile  on  the  plains,  and  from  $32,000  to  $48,000 
a  mile  through  the  mountains. 

Upon  the  completion  of  each  forty  miles,  the  subsidy,  in  the  form 
of  United  States  bonds,  would  be  paid  over  to  the  railroad  company. 
The  bonds  and  the  interest  were  to  be  redeemed  at  the  end  of  30 
years  and  were  to  constitute  a  first  mortgage. 

Anybody  in  the  country  could  have  the  subsidy.  All  you  had  to  do 
was  to  build  a  railroad  out  to  a  point  on  the  looth  meridian  in  the 
middle  of  the  Nebraska  plains.  Whoever  got  there  first  received  the 
subsidy  on  all  that  he  had  already  built  and  the  privilege  of  build 
ing  the  rest  of  the  way.  This  left  an  open  field  for  the  various  Eastern 
groups.  The  iron  men  had  seen  to  it  that  the  use  of  iron  manufac 
tured  in  America  was  obligatory. 

Now  the  promoters  and  the  bankers  began  to  mull  over  the  pros 
pects.  In  the  autumn  of  '62  Durant  organized  the  Union  Pacific  Rail 
road  Company  and  the  subscription  books  were  opened.  The  money 
didn't  come  in,  despite  all  the  fervor  and  publicity.  The  truth  was 
that  the  subsidy  wouldn't  satisfy.  Promoters  wanted  more.  Finally,  in 
the  summer  of  '63,  Lincoln  sent  for  Dodge,  who  by  this  time  was 
a  general  in  the  Union  Army.  They  talked  again  as  they  had  on  that 
summer  day  in  1859  on  the  tavern  porch  at  Council  Bluffs.  Dodge 
told  him  that  it  would  take  even  better  terms  to  make  the  promoters 
act;  he  advised  him  in  the  matter  of  fixing  the  eastern  terminus  of 
the  road— at  Council  Bluffs,  directly  across  from  Omaha!  Dodge 
had  been  constantly  in  correspondence  with  Durant  and  knew  that 
Durant  was  determined  to  commence  construction  at  Omaha.  Would 
Congress  loosen  up?  One  could  but  try.  The  lobbyists  were  turned 
loose  in  Washington  with  a  half-million-dollar  expense  account  and 
Durant  decided  to  waste  time  no  further. 

On  the  gd  of  December,  1863,  Durant's  chief  of  publicity,  the 
eccentric  George  Francis  Train,  arrived  in  Omaha  to  break  ground 
for  the  great  effort  that  was  to  unite  East  and  West,  all  minds  and 
hearts,  into  one  indissoluble  union.  The  feelings  of  the  people  in 
the  village  may  be  imagined.  For  so  long  all  their  speculative  hopes, 
the  very  existence  of  their  town,  had  depended  on  the  moves  in  a 


4*  ROUNDUP: 

Wall  Street  poker  game  and  the  activities  of  lobbyists  upon  the  Fed 
eral  government.  But  nowl  "The  great  Pacific  Railroad  is  com 
menced,"  Train  told  the  assembled  crowd  at  Omaha,  "and  if  you 
knew  the  man  who  has  hold  of  the  affair  as  well  as  I  do,  no  doubt 
would  ever  arise  as  to  its  speedy  completion." 

Extracted  from  Five  Cities,  Harper  &  Brothers,  1939 


2.  Promoter  De  Luxe 

MARTIN  SEVERIN  PETERSON 

DURING  the  years  when  the  Pacific  Railway  was  being  built,  there 
lived  in  Omaha  a  bushy-haired,  voluble,  dynamic  man  named  George 
Francis  Train.  His  principal  job  was  that  of  chief  of  publicity  for  the 
new  railroad,  but  in  the  comparatively  short  time  that  he  was  in 
Omaha  he  employed  his  talents  in  a  dozen  enterprises.  He  was  a 
promoter  in  the  grand  manner,  and  the  West  may  never  look  upon 
his  like  again. 

The  early  life  of  this  beady-eyed  spellbinder  could  be  used  to  con 
firm  the  stories  of  those  Horatio  Alger  heroes  who  from  humble 
beginnings  soared  to  fame  and  fortune.  He  was  born  in  Boston  on 
March  24,  1829,  and  at  the  age  o£  fifteen  entered  his  uncle's  shipping 
office  in  that  city.  There,  true  to  the  conventions  of  the  Alger  stories, 
he  swept  the  floors  early  each  morning  and  devoted  the  rest  of  the 
long  day  to  running  errands  and  doing  odd  jobs  for  the  clerks  in 
the  counting  rooms.  Then  things  began  to  pick  up.  At  the  age  of 
twenty  our  hero  went  to  Australia,  founded  a  shipping  and  com 
mission  house  of  his  own  in  Melbourne,  and  in  no  time  at  all  had 
an  annual  income  of  $95,000.  But  Alger  would  have  disapproved  of 
many  of  Train's  subsequent  adventures— particularly,  perhaps,  of  his 
having  been  jailed  seventy-five  times  during  the  course  of  his  life. 
Although  most  of  these  visits  to  the  cooler  were  the  results  of  Train's 
firm  belief  in  absolute  rather  than  relative  freedom  of  speech,  he 
leaves  something  to  be  desired  as  an  Alger  hero. 

In  Melbourne,  Train  decorated  his  office  with  expensive  tapes 
tries,  deep  Brussels  carpets,  and  marble  panels.  His  office  furniture 
was  as  sumptuous  as  that  of  a  London  club.  In  keeping  with  this 
scene  of  splendor,  he  adorned  himself  with  clothes  from  Bond  Street, 
which  he  set  off  by  a  gardenia  worn  in  the  lapel.  Each  day  at  noon,  to 


A  Nebraska  Reader  43 

all  of  his  customers  who  happened  in,  he  served  champagne  lunch 
eons.  The  high  point  of  Train's  Australian  career  came  when  he 
was  offered  the  presidency  of  that  country.  Since  Australia  was  a 
crown  colony  at  the  time,  and  since  the  little  revolutionary  coup 
to  replace  the  colonial  government  failed  completely,  no  doubt  the 
episode  was  also  the  signal  for  Train's  departure. 

It  is  somewhat  difficult  to  follow  Train's  path  for  the  next  few 
years,  but  we  do  know  that  he  was  married  in  1851,  that  he  visited 
India  and  wrote  a  book  about  that  mysterious  land,  and  that  he  is 
credited  with  introducing  street  railways  to  Europe.  It  is  certain 
that  he  capitalized  the  building  of  the  first  streetcar  line  between 
Liverpool  and  Birkenhead.  He  built  three  more  in  London,  where 
he  was  jailed  for  a  bland  disregard  of  certain  franchise  restrictions. 
When  the  Civil  War  broke  out,  Train  lectured  up  and  down  England 
in  behalf  of  the  Union  cause  and  did  much  to  prevent  England's 
recognition  of  the  Confederacy. 

In  1863  Train  returned  to  America.  One  of  the  first  things  he  did 
on  his  return  was  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Thomas  Durant,  who 
was  promoting  a  transcontinental  railroad.  Durant,  Oakes  Ames,  and 
their  Wall  Street  friends  were  quick  to  recognize  a  kindred  soul,  and 
Train  was  welcomed  to  the  table  over  which  there  was  eventually 
organized  the  Credit  Mobilier  of  America  and  later  the  Credit 
Foncier— systems  of  credit  based  on  personal  property  and  law. 
According  to  Train's  own  account,  it  was  he  himself  who  discovered 
that  the  moribund  Pennsylvania  Fiscal  Agency  could  be  purchased  by 
the  Credit  Mobilier  for  less  than  $30,000  and  be  used  to  sell  stock  in 
the  new  railway.  The  Pennsylvania  Fiscal  Agency  enjoyed  under  its 
charter  broad  privileges  and  limited  liability.  Under  this  protection, 
Durant  and  his  friends  could  sell  the  blue  sky— not  too  inaccurate  a 
description  of  Pacific  Railway  stock  at  this  time.  There  may  be  some 
question  as  to  whether  Train  suggested  the  idea,  but  it  is  on  record 
that  he  did  make  the  purchase  of  the  Pennsylvania  Fiscal  Agency  for 
slightly  more  than  $27,000.  "I  think  it  is  worth  while,"  he  remarked 
in  his  autobiography,  "to  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  this  was  the 
first  so-called  'Trust'  organized  in  this  country." 

But  Train's  services  were  not  long  employed  in  the  legerdemain 
of  early  railroad  financing.  His  talents  were  correctly  ascertained  to 
lie  in  the  promotional  field,  and  he  was  made  chief  of  publicity 
for  the  road.  Sent  to  Omaha  to  break  ground  for  the  first  mile  of 
railway  track  west  of  the  Missouri,  he  arrived  on  December  3,  1863, 
and  the  same  day  made  a  speech  forecasting  the  great  development 


44  ROUNDUP: 

of  Omaha  and  the  Northwest.  The  Pacific  Railway  was 

the  grandest  work  of  peace  that  ever  attracted  the  energies  of  man.  .  .  . 
The  President  showed  his  good  judgment  in  locating  the  road  where  the 
Almighty  placed  the  signal  station,  at  the  entrance  of  a  garden  seven 
hundred  miles  in  length  and  twenty  broad.  .  .  .  Immigration  will  soon 
pour  into  these  valleys.  Ten  millions  of  emigrants  will  settle  in  this  golden 
land  in  twenty  years. 

For  the  next  several  years  Omaha  was  his  headquarters.  One  of 
his  first  ventures  was  the  purchase,  at  $175  an  acre,  ol  500  acres  of 
land  adjoining  the  town.  This  tract  he  divided  into  lots,  which  he 
put  on  sale  at  $500  apiece.  The  subdivision,  called  Train  town,  was 
a  distinct  success  and  brought  a  handsome  profit  on  the  original 
investment  But  what  might  have  been  a  full-time  interest  for  another 
man  was  almost  a  side  issue  to  Train.  He  liked  more  dash  in  his 
business  deals. 

One  of  the  most  characteristic  stories  of  Train's  life  in  Omaha 
concerns  his  building  of  a  "spite"  hotel.  The  time  was  May  of  1867, 
and  Train  was  breakfasting  with  friends  in  the  dining  room  of  the 
Herndon  House  on  Ninth  and  Farnam  Streets. 

The  breakfast  [writes  Train  in  My  Life]  was  a  characteristic  Western  meal, 
with  prairie  chickens  and  Nebraska  trout.  While  we  were  seated,  one  of 
those  sudden  and  always  unexpected  cyclones  on  the  plains  came  up,  and 
the  hotel  shook  like  a  leaf  in  the  terrible  storm.  Our  table  was  very  near 
a  window  in  which  were  large  panes  of  glass,  which  I  feared  could  not 
withstand  the  tremendous  force  of  the  wind.  They  were  quivering  under 
the  stress  of  weather,  and  I  called  to  a  strapping  Negro  waiter  at  our  table 
to  stand  with  his  broad  back  against  the  window. 

Allen,  the  manager  of  the  Herndon,  saw  in  the  incident  an  assault  on 
the  rights  of  the  Negroes.  He  hurried  over  to  the  table  and  protested 
against  this  act  as  an  outrage.  I  could  not  afford  to  enter  into  a  quarrel 
with  him  at  the  time,  so  I  merely  said:  "I  am  about  the  size  of  the  Negro; 
I  will  take  his  place."  I  then  ordered  the  fellow  away  from  the  window, 
took  his  post,  and  stayed  there  until  the  fury  of  the  storm  abated.  Then  I 
was  ready  for  Allen. 

I  walked  out  in  front  of  the  house  and,  pointing  to  a  large  vacant  square 
facing  it,  asked  who  owned  it.  I  was  told  the  owner's  name  and  imme 
diately  sent  a  messenger  for  him  post-haste.  He  arrived  in  a  short  time,  and 
I  asked  his  price.  It  was  $5,000.  I  wrote  out  and  handed  him  a  check  for 
the  amount,  and  took  from  him,  on  the  spot,  a  deed  for  the  property. 

Then  I  asked  for  a  contractor  who  could  build  a  hotel.  A  man  named 
Richmond  was  brought  to  me.  "Can  you  build  a  three-story  hotel  in  sixty 
days  on  this  plot?"  asked  I.  After  some  hesitation  he  said  it  would  be 
merely  a  qxicstion  of  money.  "How  much?"  "One  thousand  dollars  a  day." 
"Show  me  that  you  are  responsible  for  $60,000."  He  did  so,  and  I  took  out 
an  envelope  and  sketched  on  the  back  of  it  a  rough  plan  of  the  hotel.  "I 


A  Nebraska  Reader  45 

am  going  to  the  mountains,"  I  said,  "and  I  shall  want  this  hotel,  with  120 
rooms,  complete,  when  I  return  in  sixty  days." 

When  I  got  back,  the  hotel  was  finished.  I  immediately  rented  it  to 
Cozzens,  of  West  Point,  New  York,  for  $10,000  a  year.  .  .  . 

The  foregoing  episode  was  just  an  interlude  in  the  life  of  Train. 
His  real  interest  now  lay  in  promoting  the  building  of  towns  along 
the  right-of-way,  where  on  occasion  it  was  a  real  problem  to  keep  the 
bison  off  a  certain  area  long  enough  for  the  surveyor's  helpers  to 
pound  in  the  stakes. 

The  Credit  Fonder,  the  land  development  corporation  allied  with 
the  Credit  Mobilier,  had  been  given  (according  to  a  somewhat  bilious 
contemporary)  "nearly  every  power  imaginable  save  that  of  recon 
structing  the  late  rebel  states."  Armed  with  these  broad  powers,  it 
was  no  trick  at  all  for  Train  to  stand  on  the  open  prairie  and  talk 
a  town  into  existence;  he  was,  apparently,  one  of  the  most  eloquent 
"boosters"  ever  to  travel  the  West.  Little  did  it  matter  to  him  that 
the  towns  he  fostered  were  likely  suddenly  to  pick  up  and  move  to 
a  more  advantageous  location  in  a  year  or  two.  (Quite  literally  they 
did  this.  There  is  an  authenticated  story  of  a  man  standing  at  a 
station  watching  a  long  freight  train  loaded  with  houses,  tents,  fences, 
store  fronts,  and  all  the  other  properties  of  a  town.  As  he  stood  there, 
a  brakeman  leaned  out  from  a  flat  car,  jerked  his  thumb  toward  the 
loaded  train  and  said,  "Sir,  this  here's  Julesburg.")  But  it  was  Train's 
job  to  start  towns;  his  contract  did  not  call  for  his  acting  as  anchor 
man  in  a  tug  of  war  to  keep  these  towns  in  place.  Had  he  been  hired 
to  do  so,  no  doubt  he  could  have  achieved  this  also. 

Train's  last  days  in  Omaha  were  not  quite  so  zestful  as  his  first 
ones.  The  boom  which  he  had  helped  set  in  motion  was  rapidly  losing 
its  momentum,  and  he  felt  an  urge  to  move  on.  "Move"  is  an  in 
adequate  word:  in  1870  Train  made  a  trip  around  the  world  in 
eighty  days.  It  has  been  assumed  that  from  this  exploit  Jules  Verne 
derived  the  title  and  chief  character  for  Around  the  World  in  Eighty 
Days.  Train  himself  used  to  say,  "Verne  stole  my  thunder.  I'm 
Phileas  Fogg." 

Eighteen  seventy-two  was  a  presidential  election  year,  and  in  the 
political  annals  for  that  year  the  reader  will  find  the  name  of  George 
Francis  Train  as  an  independent  candidate  for  president.  Somewhat 
later  in  the  seventies,  Train  ran  afoul  of  Anthony  Comstock  and 
was  jailed  on  a  charge  of  printing  obscenity:  His  publication  The 
Train  Ligue  had  included  some  passages  from  the  Bible.  He  wished 
to  plead  guilty  to  the  charge,  adding  to  his  plea  the  words  "based  on 


46  ROUNDUP 

extracts  from  the  Bible."  However,  the  court  refused  to  permit  a 
conditional  plea,  and  Train  remained  in  the  Tombs  for  five  months. 
Eventually  he  was  acquitted  on  the  grounds  of  insanity. 

Train  was  erratic,  all  right,  but  his  mind  was  not  unsound.  His 
mentality  was  accurately  described  by  a  contemporary,  who  observed 
that  Train  had  the  brains  of  twenty  men  in  his  skull— "all  pulling 
in  different  directions."  A  list  of  his  inventions  gives  some  notion 
of  how  restlessly  at  work  his  mind  always  was.  He  is  credited  with 
having  invented  eraser-tipped  pencils,  the  perforations  that  separate 
postage  stamps,  retractable  carriage  steps,  self-dumping  wagons,  and 
that  badge  of  elegance,  the  gardenia  worn  in  the  coat  lapel. 

In  the  middle  i88o's  Train  turned  his  attention  to  food  fads.  After 
a  period  in  which  he  used  himself  as  a  laboratory,  he  came  up  with 
this  daily  regimen:  fruit,  peanuts,  and  chocolate.  When  he  had  given 
the  diet  a  fair  trial,  he  had  a  fling  at  fasting.  The  existing  record  was 
for  forty  days:  Train  fasted  for  twenty  more.  After  a  study  of  elec 
tricity,  Train  put  forth  the  theory  that  human  beings  are  electrically 
charged,  either  negatively  or  positively,  and  that  should  a  positively 
charged  person  shake  hands  with  one  negatively  charged,  some  of 
his  precious  electricity  will  flow  across  to  the  negative  one  and  be 
lost.  From  that  discovery  dated  Train's  absolute  refusal  to  shake 
hands  with  anyone. 

George  Francis  Train  died  in  New  York  City  on  January  19,  1904, 
at  Mills  Hotel  No.  i,  one  of  a  series  of  hotels  established  for  the 
indigent  genteel  on  a  pay-as-you-can  basis.  An  autopsy  revealed 
that  his  brain  weighed  53.8  ounces,  the  twenty-seventh  heaviest 
known.  It  is  too  bad  that  there  is  not  some  means  of  weighing  the 
effect  of  Train's  influence  on  that  mystic  force,  "the  spirit  of  the 
West."  Without  a  doubt,  he  contributed  to  its  creation. 


Condensed  from  "George  Francis  Train,  Promoter  De  Luxe/'  Prairie  Schooner, 

Summer,  1942 


On  August  j,  1864,  Cheyennes,  Arapahoes,  and  Brules 
launched  a  concerted  attack  upon  stage  coaches,  emigrant 
trains,  -freight  trains,  stations,  and  ranches  all  along  the 
central  and  western  stretches  of  thePlatte  Valley.  That  day 
and  the  next  they  struck  every  stage  station  and  ranch  be 
tween  Julesburg  and  Fort  Kearny.  Fortunately,  -few  lives 
were  lost  because  a  warning  had  been  telegraphed  -from 
Plum  Creek  where  they  hit  first.  The  attack  spread  to  the 
valley  of  the  Little  Blue;  here  there  was  no  telegraph  to 
warn  the  settlers  and  station-keepers,  and  the  loss  of  life 
was  considerably  greater.  The  entire  Nebraska  frontier  was 
thrown  into  a  state  of  panic.  Almost  all  the  settlers  in  the 
Platte  and  Little  Blue  valleys  fled  eastward,  except  the 
Germans  at  Grand  Island,  who  fortified  the  O.  K.  Store 
and  decided  to  entrench  themselves. 

—James  C.  Olson,  History  of  Nebraska 


The  Defense  of  Grand  Island 

Translated  by  H.  L.  WEINGART 

This  letter  appeared  in  the  Louisiana 
Staats  Zeitung,  September  3<)-October  i,  1864. 

Grand  Island,  Hall  Co., 
Nebr.  Terr.  Sept.  10,  1864. 
DEAR  BROTHER: 

Since  mid-July  we  have  been  experiencing  turbulent  times  here,  as 
the  long-feared  Indian  War  broke  out  in  full  fury  by  the  first  of 
August.  The  red-skins  began  first  in  the  far  north  in  Minnesota  and 
Dacotah  Territory;  then  in  Kansas,  on  the  Santa  Fe  Trail.  The  War 
spread  up  here  into  Nebraska  where  finally  by  the  beginning  of 
August  strong  bands  of  hostile  Indians  invaded  the*  Platte  River 
region,  after  they  had  swept  clean  the  trail  from  Leavenworth  to  Fort 
Kearney.  On  the  Little  Blue  they  raged  fiercely.  On  the  Platte  Route 
from  Omaha  to  Denver  (on  which  we  live)  they  have  also  made 
attacks  in  several  different  places,  murdered  and  scalped  people, 
burned  down  ranches  and  driven  off  livestock,  especially  horses. 
East  of  Fort  Kearney  only  two  attacks  have  taken  place,  one  seven, 
the  other  thirty  miles  west  of  my  farm. 

47 


48  ROUNDUP: 

Both  attacks  occurred  on  the  south  side  of  the  Platte  River,  and  it 
is  especially  noteworthy  that  to  date  no  attacks  have  been  made  on  the 
north  side  of  the  Platte.  It  is  said  that  the  warring  Indians  do  not 
intend  to  disturb  us,  as  we  do  not  live  on  territory  claimed  by  them 
but  on  a  stretch  of  land  which  was  purchased  from  the  Pawnee.  Most 
of  the  Indian  tribes  of  the  plains  from  Texas  to  the  Canadian  border 
have  risen  to  wage  war  on  the  whites.  No  doubt  you  have  read  enough 
about  it  in  the  papers  already.  The  Overland  Express  goes  from 
Omaha  only  as  far  as  Fort  Kearney  (40  miles  west  of  us);  from  there  to 
Colorado  Territory  all  mail  communication  has  ceased,  and  only 
large  wagon  trains  heavily  guarded  by  military  escort  are  allowed  to 
pass  over  this  trail.  All  ranchers  have  fled  from  there  or  have  been 
murdered. 

At  the  outset  of  the  war  in  this  locality,  all  the  Americans  on  Wood 
River  fled  to  our  settlement,  that  is,  when  the  attack  occurred  30  miles 
from  here.  The  most  horrible  reports  came  in  hourly.  All  the  people 
gathered  at  my  house  and  at  the  O.  K.  Store.  My  house  was  full  of 
women,  girls,  and  children,  and  the  men  lay  around  outside.  The  next 
morning  the  excitement  lessened  somewhat,  and  it  became  clear  that 
most  of  the  reports  were  only  rumors,  the  truth  being  that  only  one 
man  had  been  killed  and  some  livestock  stolen.  Almost  all  of  the 
people  who,  the  night  before,  had  left  house  and  home  in  fear  of  their 
necks  and  heads,  now  went  back  home  believing  the  whole  affair  to 
be  a  humbug. 

I,  however,  induced  several  sensible  people  to  help  me  put  my  old 
fort,  which  had  been  built  over  three  years  ago,  in  a  better  condition 
for  defense.  While  all  around  us  everyone  was  happy  at  his  farm  work, 
eight  men  and  I  were  busy  covering  my  castle,*  which  was  enclosed 
in  a  24-foot  square,  with  three  layers  of  sod,  smearing  it  inside  and 
out  and  armoring  it  all  around  with  a  thick  wall  of  sod,  improving 
loopholes  as  well  as  placing  new  ones  on  the  corners.  We  also  built 
an  underground  stable  12  feet  wide  and  80  feet  long  near  to  and  on 
the  south  side  of  the  castle  in  which  to  shelter  our  horses.  The  top  and 
inside  of  this  stable  can  be  fired  upon  from  the  castle  as  well  as  having 
portholes  of  its  own  above  ground  and  is  connected  with  the  castle 
by  a  trench.  While  eight  men  were  taking  care  of  this  work,  three 
more  were  busy  making  cartridges  for  the  weapons,  moulding  bullets, 
and  cleaning  all  the  guns  thoroughly.  We  have  a  nice  well  in  the 
castle  which  has  plenty  of  water. 

*  After  building  the  sod  protection  for  his  home,  Stolley  used  the  word  "Kastell" 
in  referring  to  his  fortified  house. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  49 

About  the  time  everything  was  completed,  we  got  the  following 
news:  "The  Indians  have  attacked  and  taken  a  large  wagon  train  17 
miles  below  our  settlement,  killed  all  the  personnel,  and  driven 
away  all  the  draught  cattle,  after  which  the  wagon  was  burned. 
Moreover,  they  have  mortally  wounded  three  persons  seven  miles 
above  us,  namely,  a  man  and  two  grown  sons,  and  left  them  in  the 
belief  that  they  were  really  dead."  This  news  made  everyone  sit  up 
and  take  notice.  All  the  Americans  above  our  establishment  on 
Wood  River  and  clear  up  to  Fort  Kearney  packed  up  what  they  could 
on  their  wagons  and  fled,  driving  their  livestock  before  them.  These 
brainless  fugitives  had  covered  the  trail  for  a  stretch  of  20  miles,  and 
great  clouds  of  dust  showed  where  the  greatest  number  having  horses 
and  livestock  were  to  be  found. 

As  the  van  reached  our  settlement  I  rode  out  to  the  trail  and  tried 
to  stop  the  people,  explaining  to  them  that  if  the  Indians  really 
lurked  along  the  trail,  they  were  as  good  as  lost  because  they  were 
hurrying  forward  with  wives  and  children  planlessly  and  mostly  with 
out  weapons,  and  that  dust  clouds  naturally  must  betray  them  to  the 
Indians.  All  remonstrances  failed,  however;  the  train  continued  well 
into  the  night;  then  it  became  quiet  all  around;  the  Wood  River 
country  was  vacated. 

The  Germans  were  greatly  startled  by  it  and  did  not  know  what 
to  do,  and  first  this  one  and  then  that  one  asked,  "But  what  now?"  I 
said,  "I  am  staying  here,  for  I  have  no  desire  to  let  myself  be  scalped 
along  the  trail."  "We  have  secured  ourselves,"  I  said  to  those  who 
earlier  had  made  fun  of  my  fortifying  operations  and  called  me 
"cowardly."  "As  far  as  I'm  concerned  let  the  red  devils  come;  we  will 
take  scalps  instead  of  giving  them  up.  For  the  rest,  do  better  and 
secure  yourselves,  or  you  may  soon  suffer  for  it."  Other  cool-headed 
people  also  talked  to  the  timid  souls  to  the  same  end  and  now  see! 
What  foresight  and  reason  could  not  do,  fear  soon  did,  and  almost 
all  the  Germans  in  this  region  became  united.  Isn't  it  a  wonder  that 
Germans  actually  became  united  for  once?  A  relative  of  General 
Lafayette,  who  had  come  here  from  Missouri  with  his  family,  took 
charge,  and  soon  a  regular  fort  made  of  sod  was  built  two  miles  east 
of  my  house,  the  four  corners  of  which  were  provided  with  lookout 
posts.  The  O.  K.  Store  as  well  as  adjoining  buildings  were  completely 
enclosed  with  a  strong  wall  and  a  trench.  Meanwhile  all  the  Yankees 
left.  Everyone  left  who  was  able  to,  especially  below  our  settlement,  so 
that  the  Platte  Valley  was  swept  clean  from  Fort  Kearney  to  a  point 
50  miles  east  of  us— a  stretch  of  90  miles;  only  the  Germans  remained. 


50  ROUNDUP: 

New  trains  soon  came  down  from  Fort  Kearney  and  the  upper 
Platte  Valley,  in  which  Fort  they  no  longer  felt  safe  because  at  that 
time  not  more  than  60  cavalrymen  on  foot  commanded  by  our  old 
friend  Captain  Kuhl— who  sends  you  his  regards— were  there.  These 
retiring  Yankees  (some  of  them)  soon  visited  the  empty  houses  of 
their  beloved  countrymen  on  Wood  River,  slaughtered  their  hogs  and 
poultry,  drove  their  own  livestock  into  their  corn  fields  and  bravely 
fed  them  deserted  oat  fields  stubble.  These  conditions  could  not 
continue  long,  because  communication  with  the  western  territories 
could  not  be  held  up  for  any  great  length  of  time  or  it  would  result 
in  famine  there.  It  was  chiefly  this  fact  that  influenced  those  in  this 
region  not  to  leave. 

General  Curtis,  in  person,  soon  appeared  with  his  troops  also.  He 
seemed  to  be  astonished  over  the  nice  fort  which  had  been  built  by 
the  Germans  and  personally  thanked  them  for  their  brave  firmness 
and  the  fortification  and  left  at  the  Fort  as  a  tribute  to  their  achieve 
ment  a  6-pounder  which  is  now  fired  on  Sundays.  The  fort  was  named 
Fort  Curtis.  My  fort  also  was  inspected  by  the  General  and  found  to 
be  excellent;  nevertheless  I  called  it  "Castle  de  Dependence"  for  I 
had  not  received  any  cannon.  General  Curtis  is  on  the  whole  a  good- 
natured  man  who  easily  wins  the  liking  of  everyone.  He  gave  us  the 
assurance  that  the  Indians  would  be  thoroughly  disciplined,  for  he 
said,  "I  have  had  enough  of  this  war."  Since  then,  the  Yankees  who 
fled  the  country  have  found  their  way  back  and  are  figuring  up  the 
cost  of  the  trip  and  of  what  had  been  stolen  from  them,  while  they 
went  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Omaha.  In  Omaha  (150  miles  east  of  here), 
the  people  were  also  filled  with  fear  and  anxiety.  They  set  up  outposts 
and  sent  out  patrols  in  expectation  of  a  raid  on  the  city. 

Instead  of  the  60  rifles  and  1,000  cartridges  promised  by  the  Gov 
ernor  we  finally  received  16  old,  bent  blunderbusses  on  some  of 
which  the  screws  and  locks  were  missing;  the  cartridges  failed  to 
appear  altogether.  A  great  many  whites  have  fallen  on  the  plain, 
under  the  scalping  knife,  even  in  the  vicinity  of  Fort  Kearney.  Up 
until  a  few  days  ago,  I  have  been  sleeping  with  my  people  in  our 
fort,  which  is  well  provided  with  victuals,  water,  and  similar  neces 
sities,  as  well  as  with  weapons.  This  Indian  scare  has  set  us  back  in 
our  work,  however,  and  we  haven't  put  up  anywhere  near  the  amount 
of  hay  necessary  for  this  winter.  Leave  unwholesome  New  Orleans 
and  trade  it  for  rough— it  is  true— but  healthy  Nebraska. 

Your  brother,  Wm.  Stolley. 
Reprinted  from  Nebraska  History,  XVI   (Oct.— Dec.,  1935) 


See  Nebraska  on  Safari 

IN  1871,  the  Burlington  Railroad  had  completed  its  track  from 
Plattsmouth  to  Kearney  and  its  land  department  was  carrying  on  an 
intensive  advertising  campaign  in  Europe  as  well  as  in  America.  The 
following  poster,  displayed  in  England,  clearly  was  aimed  at  the  de 
luxe  tourist  trade: 


GRAND  BUFFALO  HUNT 


A  Grand  Buffalo  Hunt  will  be  held  in  September  next,  on  the  prairies  of 
NEBRASKA  AND  COLORADO,  United  States,  and  through  the  magnificent 
valley  of  the  Republican  River,  the  rich  alluvial  feeding  grounds  of  the  buffalo. 
The  valley  of  the  Republican  River  possesses  some  of  the  most  varied  and  mag 
nificent  scenery  in  America,  the  wild  pastures  are  rich  in  grasses,  and  it  is  most 
beautifully  wooded  and  watered  by  clear  streams  and  rivulets.  The  southern 
portion  of  Nebraska,  through  which  the  Republican  Valley  passes,  will  bear 
comparison  either  for  climate,  soil,  or  picturesque  scenery  with  any  country. 

The  Burlington  and  Missouri-River  Railroad  Company  own  some  millions  of 
acres  of  land. . . .  and  will  aid  and  assist  this  Hunting  Party  in  every  way,  in  order 
that  the  Sportsmen  of  England  may  see  the  Western  Country  .  .  .  Mr.  Charles 
S.  Dawson,  who  left  England  last  April,  has  made  arrangements  with  a  corps 
of  Western  Hunters,  Trappers,  and  Scouts,  of  the  Western  Frontier  of  the  United 
States,  for  a  Grand  Hunt  on  the  plains  of  Nebraska  and  Colorado,  and  in  the 
valley  of  the  Republican  River,  where  Buffalo,  Elk,  Antelope,  Red  Deer,  Beaver, 
Otter,  Wild  Turkey,  Prairie  Chicken,  &c.,  abound  in  large  numbers;  the  Buffalo 
in  herds  of  from  3,000  to  10,000.  THERE  ARE  NO  HOSTILE  INDIANS  IN  NEBRASKA 
WHATEVER;  friendly  chiefs  of  the  Otoes,  Pawnees,  &c,  will  accompany  the  party. 

Sportsmen  will  be  provided  with  army  tents  and  beds  during  the  Hunt,  and 
everything  generally  found  in  a  first-class  Hotel.  There  will  be  servants  to  take 
care  of  the  horses,  and  in  fact  all  arrangements  have  been  made  to  give  the 
Hunting  party  the  greatest  amount  of  pleasure  with  the  least  possible  trouble. 
Wagons  will  be  provided  for  the  conveyance  of  any  trophies  of  the  chase,  such 
as  Buffalo  Skins,  Elk  Horns  and  Antlers  in  limited  quantity. 

FARE— For  the  Round  Trip  of  about  Seven  Weeks  including  every  expense, 

except  Wines,  Liquors,  Cigars,  Guns,  Rifles,  and  Ammunition, 

90  guineas, 

The  arrangements  will  be  such  as  to  admit  of  Ladies  joining 
the  party,  but  the  charge  for  Ladies  will  be  100  Guineas  each. 


For  further  particulars  apply  to 

THE  BURLINGTON  AND  MISSOURI-RIVER  RAILROAD  COMPANY 


When  Grand  Duke  Alexis  of  Russia,  the  fourth  son  of 
Czar  Alexander  II,  visited  the  United  States  in  1872,  the 
high  spot  of  his  trip  (or  so  Nebraskans  like  to  think)  was 
his  buffalo  hunt  in  the  Red  Willow  valley. 

En  route  to  North  Platte,  the  twenty-two-y ear-old  Im 
perial  Highness  stopped  over  in  Omaha  long  enough  for 
a  reporter  from  the  Omaha  Tribune  to  observe  that  "he 
is  six  feet  two,  [has]  light  golden  side  whiskers  and  a 
downy  moustache/'  and  that  "his  feet  are  immense." 
There  was  time,  as  well,  for  him  to  take  dinner  at  the 
home  of  Governor  Saunders.  "Hardly  had  the  dinner  been 
completed  when  the  public  rushed  in  to  meet  the  prince. 
All  brought  more  or  less  mud  into  the  house  to  the  ruina 
tion  of  the  beautiful  carpets.  Prince  Alexis  and  General 
Sheridan  shook  hands  with  all  who  passed  them  in  the 
front  parlor.  .  . .  The  special  train  left  for  the  west  at  ten 
minutes  to  three.  The  prince,  standing  on  the  rear  plat 
form,  bowed  to  the  spectators  when  a  voice  in  the  crowd 
cried,  'Goodbye,  Aleck!' . .  /' 

Buffaloes  have  vanished  from  the  plains  and  czars  are 
an  extinct  species,  but  up  until  a  jew  years  ago  you  could 
find  many  an  old-timer  out  in  southwestern  Nebraska 
with  vivid  memories  of— 


The  Famous  Grand  Duke 
Alexis  Buffalo  Hunt 

COLONEL  W.  F.  CODY 

ABOUT  the  first  of  January,  1872,  General  Forsyth  and  Dr.  Asch  of 
Sheridan's  staff  came  out  to  Fort  McPherson  to  make  preparations 
for  a  big  buffalo  hunt  for  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis  of  Russia.  Learning 
from  me  that  there  were  plenty  of  buffaloes  on  the  Red  Willow, 
sixty  miles  distant,  they  said  they  would  like  to  go  and  pick  out  a 
suitable  place  for  the  camp.  They  also  inquired  the  location  of  the 
camp  of  Spotted  Tail,  chief  of  the  Sioux  Indians,  who  had  permission 

5* 


A  Nebraska  Reader  53 

from  the  government  to  hunt  the  buffalo  with  his  people  during  the 
winter,  in  the  Republican  River  country. 

General  Sheridan's  commissioner  asked  me  to  visit  Spotted  Tail's 
camp  and  induce  about  one  hundred  of  the  leading  warriors  and 
chiefs  to  come  to  the  Alexis  hunting  camp  so  that  the  Grand  Duke 
could  see  a  body  of  American  Indians  and  observe  the  manner  in 
which  they  killed  buffaloes.  The  Indians  also  would  be  called  upon 
to  give  a  grand  war  dance  in  his  honor. 

On  the  morning  of  the  isth  of  January,  1872,  the  Grand  Duke  and 
party  arrived  at  North  Platte  by  special  train.  Captain  Hays  and 
myself,  with  five  or  six  ambulances,  fifteen  or  twenty  extra  saddle 
horses  and  a  company  of  cavalry  under  Captain  Egan,  were  at  the 
depot  in  time  to  receive  them.  Presently  General  Sheridan  and  a 
large,  fine-looking  young  man  came  out  of  the  cars  and  approached 
us.  General  Sheridan  at  once  introduced  me  to  the  Grand  Duke  as 
Buffalo  Bill,  and  said  that  I  was  to  take  charge  of  him  and  show  him 
how  to  kill  buffalo. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  the  whole  party  were  dashing  away  to 
wards  the  south,  across  the  South  Platte  and  towards  the  Medicine, 
upon  reaching  which  point  we  halted  for  a  change  of  horses  and  a 
lunch.*  Resuming  our  ride,  we  reached  Camp  Alexis  in  the  after 
noon.  Spotted  Tail  and  his  Indians  were  objects  of  great  curiosity 
to  the  Grand  Duke,  who  spent  considerable  time  in  looking  at  them 
and  watching  their  exhibitions  of  horsemanship,  sham  fights,  etc. 
That  evening  the  Indians  gave  the  grand  war  dance  which  I  had 
arranged  for. 

General  Custer  carried  on  a  mild  flirtation  with  one  of  Spotted 
Tail's  daughters,  and  it  was  noticed  also  that  the  Duke  Alexis  paid 
considerable  attention  to  another  handsome  red-skin  maiden.  The 
Duke  asked  me  a  great  many  questions  as  to  how  we  shot  buffaloes, 
what  kind  of  a  gun  or  pistol  we  used,  and  if  he  was  going  to  have 
a  good  horse.  I  told  him  that  he  was  going  to  have  my  celebrated 
buffalo  horse  Buckskin  Joe,  and  when  we  went  into  a  buffalo  herd  all 
he  would  have  to  do  was  to  sit  on  the  horse's  back  and  fire  away. 

At  nine  o'clock  next  morning  we  were  galloping  over  the  prairies 

*  "While  the  Grand  Duke  was  modestly  dressed,  some  of  the  members  of  the 
party  were  appareled  in  gold  and  lace  and  all  of  the  trappings  of  royalty,  and 
these  gorgeous  Russian  uniforms  greatly  impressed  some  of  the  colored  troopers 
who  were  along  to  assist  with  the  camp  work.  As  the  cavalcade  moved  south  from 
the  Platte,  a  colored  sergeant  ran  his  horse  up  to  the  head  of  the  line  and,  salut 
ing  Buffalo  Bill,  said:  'Colonel,  Ah  begs  leave  to  report,  sah,  dat  another  of 
dem  kings  has  done  fallen  off  his  horse/  "—Bayard  Paine,  Pioneers,  Indians  and 
Buffaloes  (Curtis  Enterprise,  Curtis,  Nebraska,  1935) 


54  ROUNDUP: 

in  search  of  a  buffalo  herd.  We  had  not  gone  far  before  we  observed 
a  herd  some  distance  ahead  of  us  crossing  our  way;  after  that  we  pro 
ceeded  cautiously,  so  as  to  keep  out  of  sight  until  we  were  ready  to 
make  a  charge.  The  Duke  became  very  much  excited  and  anxious  to 
charge  directly  toward  the  buffaloes,  but  I  restrained  him  until,  get 
ting  around  to  windward  and  keeping  behind  the  sandhills,  the  herd 
was  gradually  approached. 

"Now,"  said  I,  "is  your  time;  you  must  ride  as  fast  as  your  horse 
will  go,  and  don't  shoot  until  you  get  a  good  opportunity." 

Away  we  went,  tearing  down  the  hill  and  throwing  up  a  sandstorm 
in  the  rear,  leaving  the  Duke's  retinue  far  behind.  When  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  the  fleeing  buffaloes,  the  Duke  fired,  but  unfortu 
nately  missed,  being  unused  to  shooting  from  a  running  horse.  I  now 
rode  up  close  beside  him  and  advised  him  not  to  fire  until  he  could 
ride  directly  upon  the  flank  of  a  buffalo,  as  the  sport  was  most  in 
the  chase.  We  dashed  off  together  and  ran  our  horses  on  either  flank 
of  a  large  bull,  against  the  side  of  which  the  Duke  thrust  his  gun  and 
fired  a  fatal  shot.  He  was  very  much  elated  at  his  success,  taking  off 
his  cap  and  waving  it  vehemently,  at  the  same  time  shouting  to  those 
who  were  fully  a  mile  in  the  rear.  When  his  retinue  came  up,  there 
were  congratulations,  and  everyone  drank  to  his  good  health  with 
overflowing  glasses  of  champagne.  The  hide  of  the  dead  buffalo  was 
carefully  removed  and  dressed,  and  the  royal  traveler  in  his  journey- 
ings  over  the  world  has  no  doubt  often  rested  himself  upon  this 
trophy  of  his  skill  (?)  on  the  plains  of  America. 

On  the  following  day,  by  request  of  Spotted  Tail,  the  Grand  Duke 
hunted  for  a  while  beside  Two  Lance,  a  celebrated  chief,  who 
claimed  he  could  send  an  arrow  entirely  through  the  body  of  the 
largest  buffalo.  There  was  a  general  denial  of  his  ability  to  perform 
it;  nevertheless,  the  Grand  Duke  and  several  other  witnessed,  with 
profound  astonishment,  an  accomplishment  of  the  feat,  and  the  arrow 
that  passed  through  the  buffalo  was  given  to  the  Duke  as  a  memento. 
On  the  same  day  of  this  performance,  the  Grand  Duke  killed  a 
buffalo  at  a  distance  of  one  hundred  paces  with  a  heavy  navy  revolver. 
The  shot  was  a  marvelous— scratch.* 

When  orders  were  given  for  the  return  to  the  railroad,  the  con 
veyance  provided  for  the  Grand  Duke  and  General  Sheridan  was  a 
heavy  double-seated  open  carriage  drawn  by  six  spirited  cavalry 

*  According  to  Buffalo  Bill's  sister,  Mrs.  Helen  Cody  Wetmore,  in  her  book 
Last  oj  the  Great  Scouts  (Partington  Adv.  Co.,  1903),  the  Grand  Duke  shot  eight 
buffaloes  altogether,  including  the  one  "he  thought  he  shot"  with  a  revolver. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  55 

horses  which  were  not  much  used  to  the  harness.  The  driver  was 
Bill  Reed,  an  old  Overland  stage  driver  and  wagon-master;  on  our 
way  in,  the  Grand  Duke  frequently  expressed  his  admiration  of  the 
skillful  manner  in  which  Reed  handled  the  reins.  General  Sheridan 
informed  the  Duke  that  I  also  had  been  a  stage  driver  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  and  thereupon  His  Royal  Highness  expressed  a  desire  to 
see  me  drive. 

In  a  few  moments  I  had  the  reins,  and  we  were  rattling  away  over 
the  prairie.  When  we  were  approaching  Medicine  Creek,  General 
Sheridan  said:  "Shake  'em  up  a  little,  Bill,  and  give  us  some  old-time 
stage-driving."  I  gave  the  horses  a  crack  or  two  of  the  whip,  and  they 
started  off  at  a  very  rapid  gait.  They  had  a  light  load  to  pull,  and 
they  fairly  flew  over  the  ground.  At  last  we  reached  a  steep  hill  which 
led  down  into  the  valley  of  the  Medicine.  There  was  no  brake  on 
the  wagon,  and  the  horses  were  not  much  on  the  hold-back.  I  saw 
that  it  would  be  impossible  to  stop  them.  All  I  could  do  was  to  keep 
them  straight  in  the  track  and  let  them  go  it  down  the  hill  for  three 
miles,  which  distance  was  made  in  about  six  minutes.  Every  once  in 
a  while  the  hind  wheels  would  strike  a  rut  and  take  a  bound,  and  not 
touch  the  ground  again  for  fifteen  of  twenty  feet.  The  Duke  and 
the  General  were  kept  rather  busy  in  holding  their  positions  on  the 
seats,  and  when  they  saw  that  I  was  keeping  the  horses  straight  in 
the  road,  they  seemed  to  enjoy  the  dash  which  we  were  making.  I 
was  unable  to  stop  the  team  until  they  ran  into  the  camp  where  we 
were  to  obtain  a  fresh  relay.  The  Grand  Duke  said  he  didn't  want 
any  more  of  that  kind  of  driving;  he  preferred  to  go  a  little  slower.* 

Condensed  from  Story  of  the  Wild  West,  Historical  Publishing  Co.,  1888 


I  recall  a  look  I  got  when  I  was  five  at  what  was  already  history. 
My  father  was  known  as  a  good  hunter,  and  often  visiting  hunters 
to  the  region  sought  him  out  when  they  were  having  bad  luck  getting 
wild  game.  One  early  fall  evening,  during  a  violent  thunderstorm, 
a  top  buggy  drew  into  our  yard.  Out  of  it  came  Buffalo  Bill  Cody 
and  a  friend  of  his  from  Alliance.  Bill  was  a  little  under  the  weather, 

*  According  to  Helen  Cody  Wetmore,  this  was  Alexis*  comment  on  the  ride: 
"I  would  not  have  missed  it  for  a  large  sum  of  money;  but  rather  than  repeat 
it,  I  would  return  to  Russia  via  Alaska,  swim  the  Bering  Strait,  and  finish  my 
journey  on  one  of  your  government  mules." 


56  ROUNDUP 

and  in  the  commotion  I  awoke  and  sneaked  a  look  out  into  our 
kitchen.  There,  leaning  against  the  closed  door,  was  the  handsomest 
man  I  had  ever  seen,  wearing  a  fine  beaded  jacket,  with  beautiful 
flowing  white  hair  that  fell  over  his  shoulders. 

I  was  ordered  back  to  bed,  and  the  next  morning,  when  breakfast 
was  ready,  Mother  sent  me  to  call  Mr.  Cody.  I  tapped  on  the  door 
where  he  slept,  but  there  was  no  answer,  no  stir,  and  I  pushed  the 
door  open  a  crack.  The  bed  was  empty;  Buffalo  Bill  was  up  and  gone 
hunting  for  quail  with  my  father,  but  on  the  bedpost  hung  that 
beautiful  head  of  flowing  white  hair. 

— Mari  Sandoz 


"The  Look  of  the  West-i854,"  Nebraska  History,  XXXV  (Dec.,  1954) 


What  the  spirit  of  *j6  was  to  the  thirteen  original  states 
of  the  American  democracy,  the  spirit  of  the  iSjo's  was 
to  the  emerging  state  of  Nebraska.  "In  those  years/'  wrote 
Addison  E.  Sheldon,  "was  created  the  soul  of  Nebraska- 
characteristic  mind,  vision,  and  form  of  action.  Soil  and 
sun  and  wind,  hardship  and  conflict,  spirit,  institutions, 
debates,  and  experiences  shaped  the  type  of  man  who  still 
lives  upon  these  prairies.  The  blendings  of  different  racial 
stocks,  begun  then,  still  goes  on.  But  the  Nebraska  type 
was  created  in  the  'jo's. . .  " 

Mont  Hawthorne  was  nine  years  old  when  he  first  saw 
Nebraska.  He  had  been  born  in  1865  on  an  old  land-grant 
claim  in  Pennsylvania.  The  family  moved  to  Virginia 
when  he  was  five;  they  lived  there  for  three  years  before 
moving  on  again  to  Nebraska.  In  its  essential  elements,  the 
story  of  the  Hawthorne  family's  journey  and  their  first 
experiences  as  homesteaders  is  the  story  of  hundreds  of 
Nebraska  families  of  the  'jo's.  Mont  Hawthorne's  niece 
has  recreated  that  story  from  the  point  of  view,  and  in 
the  words,  of  the  boy  who  said  of  himself:  "I  done  my 
learning  on  the  plains." 


The  Road  to  Arcadia 


MARTHA  FERGUSON  MCKEOWN 

FATHER  WROTE  to  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad,  telling  them  we  wanted 
to  move  west  and  asking  for  information  about  a  place  to  locate 
where  they  had  real  good  climate  with  an  even  temperature.  Well, 
they  wrote  right  back  and  sent  prices.  It  would  cost  about  thirty 
dollars  for  him  to  go  out  alone.  But  they  had  a  reduced  rate  for 
parties;  when  the  time  come  for  us  all  to  go  we  could  take  one  of 
them  trains.  But  the  first  thing  for  Father  to  do  was  to  come  right 
on  and  get  located.  If  he'd  come  clean  to  Grand  Island,  Nebraska, 
they'd  bed  and  board  him  for  a  little  while  so  he  could  take  his 
pick  of  one  of  their  good  farms. 

And  they  sent  Father  a  book  that  said  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad 
was  opening  up  12,000,000  acres  of  the  best  farming,  grazing,  and 

57 


58  ROUNDUP: 

mineral  lands  in  America  in  the  state  of  Nebraska,  and  the  territories 
of  Colorado,  Wyoming,  and  Utah.  The  Union  Pacific  had  got  1,037 
miles  of  track  laid  out  to  Grand  Island.  It  went  right  into  the  heart 
of  the  best  land  in  America,  right  into  the  valley  of  the  Platte  River. 
Father  said  he  didn't  have  to  worry  about  the  time  of  year  we  moved 
on  account  of  the  good  weather  they  had  year  around  out  in  Ne 
braska.  That  was  the  part  of  that  railroad  book  Mama  liked  best, 
where  it  told  about  the  climate  in  the  Platte  Valley.  .  .  .  "During 
Fall  and  Winter  the  weather  is  usually  dry.  The  heat  of  Summer 
is  tempered  by  the  prairie  winds,  and  the  nights  are  cool  and  com 
fortable.  The  Autumns  are  like  a  long  Indian  Summer,  extending 
into  the  latter  part  of  December.  The  Winters  are  short,  dry  and 
invigorating,  with  but  little  snow.  Cold  weather  seldom  lasts  beyond 
three  months,  with  frequent  intervals  of  mild,  pleasant  days." 

What  we  couldn't  figger  out  was  how  them  covered-wagon  pioneers 
had  missed  finding  that  valley.  They'd  kept  on  going  clean  to  the 
West  coast,  when  right  out  there  in  the  middle  was  the  best  country 
in  the  world.  By  then  the  East  coast  was  pretty  well  built  up,  and 
the  West  coast  was  getting  settled  too.  But,  except  for  the  railroad 
and  them  covered-wagon  roads,  nobody  knowed  much  about  the 
country  in  between.  That  must  of  been  how  they'd  left  that  Great 
Platte  Valley  empty  all  this  time.  .  .  . 

We  all  went  down  to  the  train  to  see  Father  off  to  Nebraska,  and  it 
wasn't  long  until  we  was  getting  letters  from  him  telling  about  how 
he'd  hit  some  snags.  You  see,  in  1869  when  the  railroads  met  out  at 
Salt  Lake,  the  Union  Pacific  passed  a  ruling  that  they  was  only  going 
to  open  up  the  first  200  miles  of  the  grant  for  settlement,  and  they 
wouldn't  open  no  more  until  what  they  had  was  settled  because  they 
couldn't  be  hauling  empty  freight  trains  all  along  the  line.  So,  as  far 
as  the  settlers  was  concerned,  Grand  Island  was  the  end  of  the  line. 

The  trouble  was  that  Grand  Island  had  first  been  settled  in  1866 
when  the  Union  Pacific  had  made  it  a  storage  place  for  supplies  while 
the  men  building  track  moved  on  ahead.  They  figgered  that  it  took 
over  three  hundred  tons  of  material  for  each  mile  of  railroad  that 
they  built.  They'd  had  to  have  food,  too,  for  their  men  and  horses. 
So,  farmers  had  filled  in  close  to  town  when  the  railroad  family  men 
started  sending  back  for  their  folks;  and  doctors,  and  teachers,  and 
preachers  and  other  folks  that  go  to  make  up  a  town,  had  moved  in 
too.  The  single  fellows  working  on  the  railroad  had  got  tired  being 
out  there  in  front  without  nothing  to  come  back  to;  so  them  other 
kind  of  folks  that  helped  them  blow  off  steam  come  out  there  too. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  59 

For  a  while  the  saloon  keepers  and  dance-hall  girls  had  followed 
along  as  close  as  they  could  to  the  track  builders.  But  when  Father 
got  there  in  1873  the  railroad  building  boom  was  over.  A  lot  of  folks 
didn't  want  to  go  back  East,  so  they  had  stopped  off  in  Grand  Island 
and  had  filed  on  them  homesteads  around  nearer  the  town.  .  .  . 

Father  wrote  Mama  things  was  costing  him  more  than  he  figgered, 
like  the  filing  fee  would  be  eighteen  dollars  instead  of  the  ten  they'd 
figgered  on,  but  he  only  had  to  pay  fourteen  of  it  when  he  made  the 
application.  He  said  it  was  good  country,  and  he'd  kept  going  up 
the  valley  until  he'd  found  a  real  good  farm.  It  was  close  to  the 
Middle  Loup  River  and  it  had  a  spring  on  it.  Of  course  it  was  the 
farthest  one  out  beyond  the  twenty-mile  railroad  grant,  because  he'd 
had  to  keep  going  quite  a  ways  until  he  found  land  close  to  the  river 
that  wasn't  already  homes teaded.  He  didn't  have  no  wood  for  corner 
stakes,  so  he'd  gone  around  on  his  quarter  section  and  gathered  up 
and  piled  buffalo  skulls  on  each  corner  and  put  his  name  on  them. 
He  said  they  was  as  high  as  he  could  make  them  and  he'd  marked 
his  name  real  plain  on  top  of  each  pile,  but  he  wanted  to  get  out 
there  before  some  squatter  moved  in  and  kicked  them  over  so  the 
grass  would  cover  them.  Anyhow  he'd  filed  and  he'd  paid  his  fee  at 
the  land  office  in  Grand  Island  and  if  we  didn't  get  out  there  and 
settle  within  six  months  we'd  never  have  another  chance  at  a  free 
farm  as  long  as  we  lived.  .  .  . 

[Mr.  Hawthorne  returned  to  Virginia  to  collect  his  family  and,  in  February  1873, 
they  began  the  journey  west.] 

We  shipped  our  stuff  in  boxes  straight  through  to  Grand  Island  by 
freight,  and  we  said  goodbye  to  the  folks  in  the  stores  at  Meherrin. 
When  we  got  off  the  train  in  Richmond,  we  all  followed  Father  over 
to  where  a  fast-talking,  promoting  man,  named  G.  B.  Cady,  was 
lining  up  families  from  a  paper  he  had  in  his  hand.  While  we  was 
waiting,  Aaron  and  Father  and  me  walked  over  to  the  track  where  we 
got  to  see  one  of  them  new  Pullman  cars  that  was  made  with  berths 
so  that  folks  could  undress  and  go  to  bed  at  night.  But  we  didn't  get 
to  ride  in  nothing  like  that.  Them  railroad  companies  was  using  up 
the  last  of  their  oldest  cars,  with  the  slat  seats  and  the  bare  floors,  to 
take  emigrant  parties  out  West  at  a  family  rate. 

All  along  the  way  the  train  would  stop  and  another  emigrant  car 
would  be  hooked  on  behind  ours.  Most  of  them  folks  getting  on 
hadn't  never  been  out  there,  but  they'd  read  that  book  and  could 
hardly  wait  until  they  got  located  in  that  Platte  River  Valley.  When 


60  ROUNDUP: 

they  found  Father  had  been  there  they  all  begun  firing  questions 
his  way,  and  he  told  them  about  how  pretty  the  land  lay,  and  how  it 
didn't  have  to  be  cleared,  and  how  Nebraska  had  a  herd  law  that 
every  man  must  keep  his  own  cattle  in  so  that  a  man  could  start 
farming  there  without  having  to  build  no  fences  to  keep  cattle  out. 
Father  really  believed  in  that  country  up  where  he  had  staked  his 
claim.  .  .  . 

Omaha  was  a  mighty  big  place  with  all  kinds  of  folks  crowded  in 
at  the  depot.  Mr.  Cady  told  us  we'd  have  almost  a  day's  layover  be 
fore  our  train  left  for  Grand  Island.  Mama  went  into  the  women's 
room  and  she  was  gone  a  real  long  time.  She  sent  the  girls  back  to 
tell  Father  to  call  someone  in  charge  there  at  the  depot.  The  ticket 
agent  went  in  and  talked  to  Mama,  then  when  he  come  back  out 
again  he  said  she'd  found  an  old  woman  who  was  terrible  sick  and 
had  told  him  to  send  for  a  doctor  quick.  After  awhile  Mama  and 
another  woman  brung  her  out  and  they  had  the  folks  all  clear  away, 
then  they  stretched  the  old  lady  out  on  a  bench  and  put  her  coat 
under  her  head. 

It  wasn't  long  after  that  until  Father  got  back  with  a  doctor  who 
looked  at  the  old  lady  and  said  she  was  critically  ill  with  erysipelas 
and  wasn't  in  no  condition  to  travel;  that  it  was  a  shame  for  us  to  be 
dragging  her  around  like  that  when  we  ought  to  have  her  home  in 
bed;  that  he  had  an  emergency  call;  that  since  it  was  obvious  that 
we  was  transients  going  through  their  city  he'd  like  to  have  Father 
pay  him  his  five  dollars  now  so's  he  could  be  on  his  way.  In  no  time 
he  was  gone  and  so  was  Father's  money.  Father  went  over  to  the 
ticket  taker  and  asked  him  to  pay  back  his  five  dollars.  But  that 
ticket  taker  got  real  mean  and  said  he  was  running  a  depot  and  not 
a  charity  hospital. 

The  old  woman  was  traveling  all  alone  and  she  didn't  have  no 
money.  She'd  told  Mama  that  the  only  kin  folks  she  had  was  on  ahead 
in  a  covered  wagon.  After  they  had  left  their  home  back  East  she 
had  got  to  thinking  about  how  she  didn't  want  to  die  without  seeing 
her  daughter  again.  She  knowed  they  was  going  to  stop  in  Lincoln 
to  pick  up  their  mail,  and  she  had  figgered  the  train  would  get  her 
there  in  time  to  catch  them.  We  was  too  short  of  money  ourselves  to 
pay  for  her  ticket,  so  the  only  thing  we  could  do  would  be  to  take 
up  a  collection.  The  folks  each  took  a  side  of  the  depot  and  started 
asking  anyone  setting  there  for  money.  They  collected  over  three 
dollars  but  that  wasn't  enough  to  buy  her  ticket. 

Then  Mama  set  right  down  and  she  wrote  out  a  paper  because 


A  Nebraska  Reader  61 

she  said  she  wasn't  going  out  begging  unless  folks  knowed  what 
it  was  for.  She  wrote,  "This  money  is  to  help  an  old  lady  to  get  to 
where  she  ought  to  be."  Then  she  started  up  the  main  street  with  it. 
When  Mama  stopped  two  handsome,  dressed-up  stylish  men  who  was 
walking  by  real  fast,  one  of  them  says,  pointing  to  the  other  fellow, 
"Don't  bother  this  man,  he's  the  governor  of  Nebraska,  and  he's  in  a 
hurry." 

Mama  says,  quick,  "Well,  I've  come  to  live  in  Nebraska,  and  I've 
got  a  right  to  know  what  kind  of  a  governor  we  have.  If  he  won't 
take  care  of  his  own  people,  he  don't  amount  to  much." 

The  governor  picked  up  his  ears  and  got  sort  of  red.  Then  he 
laughed  and  says,  "I  guess  she's  right  about  that."  Blamed  if  them 
two  men  didn't  turn  right  around  in  their  tracks  and  follow  Mama 
back  to  the  depot.  She  showed  the  governor  the  old  woman  laying 
there,  still  as  death,  and  Mama  says,  "We  haven't  any  money  to  spare 
but  I'll  take  care  of  her  on  the  train  if  you  will  get  her  passage  and 
telegraph  to  the  police  in  Lincoln  so  they  will  locate  her  family  and 
meet  us  there." 

Mama  bossed  that  governor  around  just  like  he  was  one  of  us 
children,  and  she  looked  so  handsome  in  her  black  alpaca  suit,  with 
her  cheeks  sort  of  flushed  and  her  eyes  real  blue  because  she  was 
excited  and  wanting  her  own  way,  that  the  governor,  and  Father,  and 
everyone  else  around  there  was  real  happy  to  see  she  got  it.  He  took 
time  out  to  tell  us  his  full  name.  He  was  Governor  Robert  W.  Furnas, 
and  she  took  time  out  to  show  him  her  children.  Then  he  went  over 
to  the  ticket  man  and  he  wrote  out  an  order  saying  that  the  old  lady 
with  erysipelas  was  to  have  a  free  ride  to  Lincoln. 

When  he  come  back,  he  shook  hands  with  Mama,  and  he  says, 
"Mrs.  Hawthorne,  I  hope  you  like  our  state.  Nebraska  needs  women 
like  you."  Then  he  patted  Father  on  the  shoulder  and  says:  "You're 
a  lucky  man.  Take  good  care  of  her." 

And  Father  looked  real  proud  and  says,  "Most  of  the  time  she's 
taking  care  of  us." 

Then  the  governor  and  his  friend  said  goodbye  to  us  and  we 
got  on  the  train.  Us  children  stayed  close  to  Father  until  we  got 
to  Lincoln.  The  old  lady  was  pretty  weak  by  then  but  the  police  had 
located  her  kin  folks  where  they  was  camped  in  a  covered  wagon 
out  on  the  edge  of  town,  and  they  had  drove  down  to  the  depot  and 
had  a  bed  all  fixed  in  the  back  of  their  wagon.  Father  helped  lift  her 
off  the  train,  and  they  put  her  in  the  wagon,  and  she  opened  her  eyes 
and  seen  her  daughter  was  there,  and  she  reached  out  and  took  her 


6s  ROUNDUP: 

hand  and  said,  "Mary."  Then  she  dozed  off  again.  We  never  knowed 
what  happened  to  her.  .  .  . 

We  was  tired  and  glad  to  get  off  that  train  in  Grand  Island,  but 
the  Railroad  House  was  small  and  the  eating  part  so  crowded  that 
we  waited  a  long  time  to  get  fed.  Victuals  come  high.  Mama  priced 
everything  first  and  then  told  the  girl  what  we  was  to  eat.  While  we 
was  eating,  her  and  Father  talked  about  how  we'd  better  get  out 
to  our  homestead  quick. 

When  Father  was  out  there  before,  he'd  stayed  his  first  nights  with 
James  Michelson,  who  owned  The  Nebraska  House.  He  said  rooms 
was  dear,  but  it  was  the  only  safe  place  he  knowed  to  take  us.  Father 
told  us  about  how  Mr.  Michelson  had  used  his  head  when  his  wagon 
broke  down  when  he  was  trying  to  ford  the  Platte  River  a  piece 
from  town.  That  had  happened  before  the  coming  of  the  railroads, 
and  he'd  had  to  drop  out  of  his  wagon  train  right  there.  Because 
he'd  been  a  blacksmith  back  East  and  had  brung  his  tools  along,  he 
set  up  shop  beside  that  ford.  It  wasn't  long  until  he  was  sending  back 
1  East  for  more  equipment.  He  charged  sixteen  dollars  to  shoe  a  yoke 
of  oxen,  and  them  wagon  trains  was  coming  through  there  so  thick 
that  before  long  he  had  other  men  hired  to  help  him. 

Some  other  fellows  come  along  and  started  farming  in  along  the 
Platte  River.  Clean  back  in  1862,  Henry  A.  Koenig  and  Fred  Wiebe 
got  tired  of  folks  borrowing  when  the  wagon  trains  stopped  and  so 
they  opened  the  O.  K.  Store  right  on  their  farm.  All  them  fellows 
made  money.  When  the  railroad  come  they  moved  up  to  town.  In 
1866  James  Michelson  took  the  money  he'd  saved  blacksmi thing  and 
built  The  Nebraska  House.  And  Henry  Koenig  and  Fred  Wiebe 
was  doing  a  lot  of  business  in  their  O.  K.  Store  where  we  bought  what 
provisions  we  had  to  have.  Them  boys  was  smart;  besides  the  store, 
they'd  put  in  the  first  mill,  and  they'd  opened  the  State  Central  Bank 
of  Nebraska  in  1871,  and  because  they  didn't  gamble  or  make  fool 
loans,  they  was  doing  business  all  during  that  panic  when  folks  back 
East  was  going  under.  Trouble  was  they  was  so  careful  we  couldn't 
get  no  credit,  and  we  didn't  have  much  to  eat  along  with  us  when 
we  left  town  in  our  new  wagon  that  was  drawed  by  a  team  of  green 
oxen  that  was  the  best  Father  could  get  with  the  money  he  had  to 
spend.  After  we  got  our  hand  luggage  loaded  we  set  in  the  wagon 
and  rode  down  to  the  depot  to  pick  up  our  freight.  Father  walked 
alongside  them  oxen  with  his  goad  stick,  but  the  rest  of  us  got  to  ride. 
After  we  picked  up  our  bedding  and  them  other  boxes  from  Virginia, 
Aaron  and  me  just  walked  along  in  back  of  the  wagon.  Then  when 


A  Nebraska  Reader  63 

we  rode  over  to  Jim  Cleary's  store  to  get  Mama's  new  Charter  Oak 
stove  that  she'd  been  down  and  bargained  for,  and  Father's  plow 
and  other  farm  implements  that  he  just  had  to  have,  we  seen  we  was 
up  against  it  for  room  in  the  wagon-box. 

So,  Father  drawed  off  to  the  side,  and  him  and  Aaron  took  a  lot  of 
the  things  out  of  the  wagon,  and  they  put  the  stove  in  the  middle  and 
up  toward  the  front.  Then  they  opened  one  of  the  boxes  and  we 
packed  the  oven  and  the  firebox  as  full  as  they  would  hold.  We  seen 
we'd  be  lucky  if  we  got  all  of  our  stuff  in  the  wagon,  and  by  then  we 
knowed  we'd  all  have  to  walk.  The  baby  was  too  heavy  to  carry,  so 
Father  left  a  little  place  for  her  in  back  and  to  the  right.  He  tied  the 
load  good  so  nothing  would  topple  over  or  slide  down  and  mash 
her.  Mama  said  she'd  walk  in  the  right-hand  wagon  rut  all  the  way 
so's  she  could  watch  her.  .  .  . 

We  got  to  Noland's  place  about  noon.  By  then  us  children  figgered 
we  ought  to  be  about  to  our  homestead,  so  we  told  Mr.  Noland  we 
was  going  to  be  his  new  neighbors.  But  he  just  looked  at  us,  sad-like, 
and  shook  his  head.  Then  he  started  talking  to  Father  about  the  best 
places  for  us  to  make  our  all-night  stops.  That's  the  first  time  I 
realized  we'd  only  covered  six  miles,  and  our  homestead  was  over 
sixty  miles  from  Grand  Island  on  up  the  Middle  Loup  River.  The 
good  land  along  the  Platte  River  had  all  been  staked  before  Father 
got  there,  although  nobody  was  living  on  a  lot  of  the  places.  The 
Loup  River  was  the  largest  river  running  into  the  Platte.  The  Middle 
Loup  had  looked  the  likeliest  of  any  of  them  rivers  he  come  to,  so 
he'd  followed  up  it  and  staked  the  first  good  claim  with  a  spring 

After  dinner  we  started  out  again.  Father  set  a  slow  pace  because 
of  them  oxen  and  us  children.  By  night  we  had  only  got  as  far  as 
Noland's  daughter's  place.  They  was  pleasant  enough  folks  but  I'd 
never  slept  in  a  sod  house  with  a  dirt  floor  before  and  I  figgered  they 
must  be  awful  poor.  When  we  got  up  the  next  morning  it  was  snow 
ing,  but  it  let  up  a  little  and  we  made  a  late  start.  By  keeping  right 
at  it,  no  matter  how  hard  the  going  was,  we  made  it  to  Dannebrog 
before  night.  Quite  a  bunch  of  Danes  had  come  out  there  and  filed 
on  land  all  together.  They  called  it  the  Danish  Land  and  Home 
stead  Company;  their  government  and  a  bunch  of  their  relatives  up 
in  Wisconsin  had  helped  them  get  there.  Mostly  they  lived  back 
from  the  road  in  little  dugouts,  but  Noland  had  told  us  to  go  see 
Lars  Hannibal,  who  had  the  postoffice  in  his  house,  and  to  see  if  he 
wouldn't  put  us  up.  He  spoke  English  some,  but  it  was  terrible 
broken.  He  said  he  couldn't  put  up  all  the  strangers  that  come 


64  ROUNDUP: 

through  Dannebrog,  but  Mama  come  around  from  her  side  the 
wagon,  and  he  seen  that  the  snow  was  caked  thick  in  agin  her  hair  at 
the  edge  of  her  'kerchief.  She  says,  "Could  I  buy  some  milk  from  you 
for  my  baby?" 

He  looked  us  all  over  standing  there  with  the  snow  coming  down 
on  us  and  our  stuff  in  that  open  wagon,  and  he  opened  the  door  for 
Mama  and  motioned  us  children  inside.  Him  and  Father  put  the 
oxen  in  with  his.  Father  brung  in  some  of  the  bakery  stuff  we  had 
left  to  sort  of  pay  our  way,  and  we  put  our  victuals  in  with  theirs. 
His  wife  and  Mama  was  real  smiley  with  each  other  even  if  Mrs. 
Hannibal  couldn't  talk  to  her  in  English  and  Mama  couldn't  speak 
Danish.  Then  us  children  was  bedded  down  with  theirs  along  one 
wall.  I  was  so  tired  I  could  hardly  keep  my  eyes  open  long  enough  to 
see  Mr.  Hannibal  and  Father  setting  over  by  the  fire  drinking  some 
thing  steaming  out  of  a  couple  of  them  big,  tall  steins,  and  Mama 
shaking  her  head  at  Father  and  wishing  that  he  wouldn't. 

Next  morning  we  was  snowed  in.  We  stayed  over  that  day,  but 
it  was  plain  to  see  that  we  had  too  many  folks  in  that  one  cabin.  No 
matter  how  hard  we  tried  we  couldn't  keep  out  of  each  other's  way. 
The  second  morning,  early,  we  left.  It  had  quit  snowing  and  a  couple 
of  teams  had  been  through  and  broke  the  road  on  ahead.  We  figgered 
the  storm  was  over. 

We  made  a  good  many  miles  that  morning,  but  about  mid- 
afternoon  a  blizzard  struck.  Father  said  there  wasn't  nothing  to  do 
but  keep  on  going  until  we  reached  Loup  City  where  some  folks 
had  been  laying  out  a  new  town  when  he  went  through  there  on 
his  way  to  locate  our  homestead.  By  that  time  we  was  all  scared.  We 
couldn't  see  six  foot  in  front  of  us;  the  snow  was  about  halfway  to 
my  knees.  Father  and  Aaron  was  taking  turns  walking  ahead,  leading 
the  oxen;  the  rest  of  us  followed  single  file  after  one  of  the  wagon 
wheels.  Then  the  storm  really  hit  us.  One  of  the  oxen  stumbled  and 
fell.  We  had  trouble  getting  him  up,  and  Father  knowed  they  was 
through. 

The  baby  was  crying  in  the  wagon.  The  girls  was  jumping  up  and 
down  and  blowing  on  their  hands  and  a-screaming.  Aaron  run  back 
and  pulled  me  in  under  his  coat  to  see  if  he  could  warm  me  a  little. 
Father  grabbed  Mother  by  the  shoulders  and  yelled,  "Martha,  can 
you  make  out  while  I  try  to  go  back  for  help?" 

She  said,  "Sam,  we'll  be  all  right  in  under  the  wagon.  Shovel  part 
of  the  snow  away.  Get  the  featherbeds  and  pile  them  on  the  wind 
side,  so  we  don't  get  buried  by  drifts/1 


A  Nebraska  Reader  65 

Blamed  if  she  didn't  go  right  to  work  helping  him.  It  wasn't  no 
time  until  they  had  a  place  scooped  out  for  us  under  the  wagon. 
Mama  handed  the  baby  to  Julia,  because  she  was  the  oldest,  and  sent 
her  in  first.  Then  Sadie  and  me  crawled  in  after  her.  Aaron's  legs 
was  as  long  as  Father's,  so  they  went  back  for  help  together,  taking 
turns  breaking  trail.  Before  they  left,  they  tied  the  oxen  on  the  lee 
side  of  the  wagon  to  protect  them  all  they  could  from  the  wind. 

That  just  left  Mama  to  come  in  under  the  wagon  with  us.  The 
wind  was  howling  through  there  as  she  pulled  the  last  of  the  feather 
pillows  in  after  her.  Us  four  children  cuddled  up  to  her  like  a  bunch 
of  little  puppies,  and  before  long  I  could  feel  my  feet  tingling  and 
sort  of  coming  to  life  again.  Mama  started  right  in  talking  to  us 
about  how  we  was  within  twenty-five  mile  of  our  new  home  and  how 
it  would  soon  be  springtime  out  there  on  the  prairie. 

"I  want  you  children  to  remember,"  says  she,  "that  no  matter  how 
bad  things  may  be  for  you  some  day,  you  can  always  be  thankful 
that  it's  bound  to  be  better  than  it  was  in  '73."  .  .  . 

[Mr.  Hawthorne  returned,  having  secured  the  promise  of  help  from  a  stranger 
who  agreed  to  come  with  his  team  and  a  cart  when  the  storm  let  up.  The 
Hawthornes  spent  the  night  under  their  wagon.  By  morning  the  storm  had  blown 
itself  out,  and  Mont,  his  mother  and  sisters  went  on  to  Loup  City  with  the 
stranger,  waiting  there  while  his  father  and  Aaron  followed  with  their  wagon. 
After  another  night  in  the  Loup  City  hotel,  they  started  on  again.] 

We  put  our  stuff  in  the  wagon  and  left  right  after  breakfast.  The 
snow  was  melting  fast,  and  we  could  follow  the  ruts  plain.  The  road 
followed  along  the  bank  of  the  Middle  Loup  River;  the  valley  wasn't 
very  wide  in  there  and  we  couldn't  tell  much  about  it  excepting  that 
sandhills  rolled  back  from  each  side  and  there  wasn't  much  to  see, 
no  matter  how  hard  we  looked.  Father  said  we  only  had  fourteen 
more  miles  to  go  and  we'd  be  home,  so  Mama  and  us  children  kept 
peering  around  the  sides  of  the  wagon  as  we  went  sloshing  along 
through  that  melting  snow  trying  to  see  all  we  could  and  still  keep 
our  feet  in  the  wheel  ruts. 

When  the  oxen  had  to  rest  or  the  baby  cried  too  hard,  Father 
would  stop  long  enough  for  Mama  to  feed  her.  Then  she'd  reach 
into  our  provisions  and  pass  something  out  for  us  children  so  we 
could  gnaw  on  it  and  half  forget  how  the  water  felt  running  between 
our  toes  in  them  hard,  old  shoes  we  was  wearing. 

Father  was  walking  out  in  front  of  the  oxen,  taking  real  big  steps 
and  looking  proud  of  hisself,  but  us  children  was  walking  along  in 
back  thinking  of  how  warm  we'd  been  back  in  Virginia.  By  and  by 
the  going  got  harder.  We  didn't  have  no  ruts  to  follow.  The  valley 


66  ROUNDUP: 

widened  out  until  it  was  about  three  mile  across.  Down  by  the  river 
we  seen  a  log  cabin  with  smoke  coming  out  of  it.  Then  Father 
stopped  the  ox  team.  We  looked  around  the  back  end  of  the  wagon- 
box,  and  there  he  was— off  to  one  side,  scratching  around  in  the 
snow— looking  at  some  old  buffalo  skulls.  The  girls  and  me  just 
looked  at  each  other.  Why,  there  wasn't  a  thing  to  be  seen  around 
there  but  snow,  and  a  clump  of  cottonwoods  off  a  piece  to  the  right, 
and  we  was  all  of  a  half  mile  from  the  Middle  Loup  River. 

Then  Sadie  begun  to  cry  about  how  she  wanted  a  home  'stead  of 
a  homestead.  Julia  put  her  arms  around  Sadie,  but  Mama  waded 
right  out  in  the  snow  to  stand  beside  Father.  She  took  a  deep  breath, 
and  us  children  seen  her  shoulders  stiffen  as  she  looked  out  over 
that  big  field  of  snow.  Then  she  says,  real  slow,  "Is  this  it,  Sam?" 

And  Father  stood  real  straight,  and  puffed  out  his  chest. 

"Yes,  Martha,  this  is  itl  Yonder  is  the  spring  by  them  cottonwoods," 
he  says,  pointing  at  them  few  trees.  "You'll  have  water  handy  to  your 
kitchen,  and  there  ain't  no  better  ground  outdoors." 

He  dropped  down  on  his  knees  to  scrape  the  snow  away,  then  he 
come  up  with  a  double  handful  of  rich  soil.  Mama  pulled  off  her 
gloves  and  squeezed  some  of  it  between  her  fingers.  After  a  minute 
she  looked  up,  smiled,  and  says,  "Yes,  Sam,  this  is  a  lot  better  than 
we  had  back  in  Virginia."  . . . 

II 

It  ain't  no  wonder  Father  bragged  about  that  soil.  Before  the  house 
was  finished,  the  garden  was  up.  I  never  seen  things  pop  out  of  the 
ground  like  they  done  there  that  spring.  Every  night,  after  supper, 
we'd  go  past  our  sod  corn  to  see  how  it  was  doing,  and  then  we'd 
walk  over  to  the  garden  to  see  how  good  it  had  growed  that  day;  and, 
of  course,  Mama  would  have  us  take  a  few  minutes  to  pull  any  weeds 
that  had  begun  to  grow.  Father  figgered  things  was  doing  so  well  that 
he  could  leave  long  enough  to  get  things  that  we  was  needing,  and  to 
find  out  who'd  give  him  cows  on  credit  since  we'd  have  to  go  in 
debt  for  them.  Word  got  around  that  he  was  going  and  the  neigh 
bors  give  him  their  lists  of  what  they  had  to  have  from  Grand  Island, 
and  he  took  in  the  letters  that  had  to  be  mailed  and  promised  to 
pick  up  the  mail  that  was  being  held  there  at  the  post  office.  Sixty 
mile  was  quite  a  ways  to  haul  what  groceries  and  other  stuff  we  had 
to  have.  There  was  a  store,  fourteen  mile  away  at  Loup  City,  but 
they  had  to  haul  stuff  by  wagon  theirselves  and  after  they  tied  their 
money  up  in  it  and  took  the  risks  they  sure  wasn't  giving  it  away. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  67 

By  the  time  Father  got  back  from  that  trip  we  wasn't  even  sure 
if  it  was  him  coming  or  not  because  by  then  we  was  used  to  seeing 
clouds  of  dust  in  the  distance.  Every  day  prairie  schooners  was  stop 
ping  down  by  the  spring,  and  women  was  visiting  with  Mama  and 
washing  out  their  clothes  and  talking  her  into  selling  them  some  of 
her  good,  homemade  bread.  And  their  men  folks  was  inquiring 
around  about  the  country  on  beyond.  On  each  side  of  the  railroads, 
wagonloads  of  folks  was  branching  out  along  the  streams  looking 
for  homesteads.  The  prairie  was  filling  in.  Fathered  had  enough 
trouble  locating  our  claim  when  he  was  out  in  1873,  but  by  the  spring 
of  '74  things  was  getting  plumb  crowded  in  Nebraska.  But  them 
folks  stopping  at  our  place  went  right  on  because  they  was  hoping 
to  find  springs  and  creeks  and  timber,  and  all  them  things  they'd 
read  about  in  them  wore-out  books  they  was  carrying  under  their 
wagon  seats. 

Us  children  was  over  weeding  in  the  garden  when  I  looked  up 
and  seen  Father  driving  up  to  our  sod  house.  I  lit  out  of  there  lickity- 
cut  and  when  Father  seen  me  he  reached  right  down  under  the 
wagon  seat,  and  he  picked  the  blackest  little  kitten  you  ever  seen 
right  out  of  a  box  that  was  in  back  of  his  feet,  and  he  give  her  to  me! 
We  took  turns  holding  the  kitten  and  helping  Father  get  unloaded. 
He  told  us  all  about  how  we  was  going  to  buy  fresh  cows  from  a 
fellow  named  Stevens  who  was  running  a  big  herd  of  eighty  head  on 
farther  down  toward  Grand  Island.  He  said  a  good  cow  brung  $16.00, 
but  he  was  dickering  for  a  special  price  because  he  was  buying  so 
many  to  eat  up  our  hay.  But  when  Mama  got  to  asking  about  that 
part  of  it,  and  how  was  he  figgerin'  on  taking  care  of  the  milk  in  hot 
weather,  he  sort  of  hemmed  and  hawed  a  little  bit  and  I  wasn't 
sure  but  what  the  sparks  might  begin  to  fly  a  mite,  so  I  took  my  kitten 
and  went  on  out  to  look  at  the  garden  again. 

Golly,  it  was  pretty.  I  never  seen  stuff  growing  as  good  as  that  in 
all  my  life..  And  Mama  had  brung  some  flower  seeds  along  and  Julia 
had  planted  hers  to  the  right,  and  Sadie  had  planted  hers  to  the  left 
of  the  door  at  the  house,  and  they'd  covered  some  little  rocks  with 
white  clay  so  folks  couldn't  walk  into  our  flowerbeds.  I  felt  sorry 
for  them  children  that  had  just  pulled  out  in  a  covered  wagon  from 
down  by  the  spring.  Why,  we  had  as  pretty  a  sod  house  as  you  could 
ever  see,  and  before  long  we'd  have  cows  giving  milk,  right  there  in 
our  shed,  and  we  had  a  garden  with  potatoes  and  other  stuff  just 
ready  to  eat,  and  sod  corn  almost  growed.  Excepting  for  money,  we 
had  just  about  everything  a  family  could  ever  hope  to  have. 


68  ROUNDUP: 

But  while  I  was  standing  there  looking  over  the  prairie,  I  seen 
a  little  fire  starting  way  off  to  the  west.  I  started  to  run  to  the  house 
to  tell  the  folks  about  it,  when  I  seen  it  wasn't  a  fire  but  a  storm, 
because  it  was  off  the  ground  and  coming  towards  us  like  a  big  cloud, 
and  I  run  fast  and  started  yelling  that  a  snowstorm  was  going  to  hit 
us.  It  was  a  storm  all  right.  In  no  time  grasshoppers  begun  raining 
down  on  us.  The  air  was  so  full  of  them  we  could  hardly  see.  Mama 
give  me  the  broom  and  told  me  to  run  for  the  garden  and  to  beat 
them  off  the  cabbage  plants.  Mama  worked  out  there  longer  than  I 
did,  and  I  never  give  up  until  the  sharp  barbs  on  their  legs  had  cut 
me  so  bad  I  was  bleeding  all  over  and  had  to  go  to  the  house.  Sadie 
had  pulled  off  her  apron  and  throwed  it  over  her  little  flower  garden 
before  she  run  out  to  try  to  help  Mama.  When  they  come  back  to 
the  house,  they  seen  that  the  grasshoppers  had  et  clean  through  her 
apron  and  that  the  plants  in  underneath  was  gone.  Julia  and  Father 
was  down  by  the  spring,  carrying  boards,  trying  to  cover  it  over  and 
save  our  water  supply,  but  thousands  of  grasshoppers  drowned  in 
there,  and  before  it  was  fit  to  use  again  Father  had  to  take  their 
bodies  out  by  the  bucketful.  Aaron  had  run  out  to  see  about  the 
sod  corn,  but  he  come  in  and  said  that  every  cornstalk  was  as  thick  as 
a  man's  upper  arm  with  them  grasshoppers. 

By  then  we  knowed  that  we  was  helpless  to  fight  them,  and  that 
all  we  could  do  was  to  hole  up  in  our  sod  house  until  the  wind 
changed  and  they  moved  on  some  place  else.  Grasshoppers  is  like 
that.  When  the  wind  is  blowing  from  the  west,  they  light,  and  they 
don't  go  on  again  until  the  wind  changes.  .  .  .  Over  at  Kearney  they 
stopped  the  railroad  train  because  them  mashed  grasshopper-bodies 
made  the  tracks  so  slick  and  oily  that  they  couldn't  get  no  traction. 
But,  of  course,  we  didn't  know  nothing  about  that  then.  We  was  all 
in  the  house,  and  Mama  was  using  the  elm  bark  salve  as  sparing  as 
she  could  because  she  knowed  it  would  never  last  to  fix  all  them  cuts 
on  our  faces  and  hands  and  feet  and  legs  where  them  grasshoppers 
dug  their  sharp  barbs  into  us. 

And  those  of  us  that  wasn't  being  doctored  had  to  run  around 
killing  the  ones  that  had  got  in  the  house  and  was  jumping  all  oVer 
the  place,  and  Father  was  using  the  broom  and  a  thin  board  for  a 
dustpan,  scooping  them  up  and  dropping  them  into  the  fire  where 
we'd  hear  them  sizzle  as  the  flames  licked  around  that  oil  in  their 
insides.  And  for  days  we  had  nothing  to  eat,  nothing  but  some  boiled 
wheat  and  boiled  corn  with  nothing  to  put  on  top.  Them  was 
terrible  days.  I'm  glad  I'll  never  be  coming  over  them  again. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  69 

After  the  grasshoppers  moved  on  and  we  opened  the  door  and  tried 
to  start  living  again,  we  seen  long  lines  of  covered  wagons  coming 
back.  Mama  said  we  couldn't  turn  back  like  they  was  doing.  They  was 
still  adrift.  But  we  was  anchored.  We  had  to  stay  right  there  and 
toughy  it  out  because  there  wasn't  nothing  wrong  with  our  sod 
house— or  with  the  land  we'd  built  her  on.  .  .  . 

Because  the  grasshoppers  had  got  so  bad  they  stopped  the  trains, 
they  was  news.  Word  got  out  about  how  folks  in  Nebraska  was  starv 
ing  and  was  needing  most  everything,  and  the  government  voted 
money  to  send  help,  and  all  over  the  country  folks  started  packing 
relief  boxes  and  shipping  them  in.  The  boxes  got  there  first.  Waugh, 
who  got  hisself  elected  judge  and  then  was  put  in  charge  of  grass 
hopper  relief,  sent  word  up  that  he  had  appointed  Father  and  Mama 
and  Porter  Brown  as  a  committee  to  open  and  divide  a  big  box  of 
clothing  that  was  for  the  settlers  in  our  valley,  and  would  they  please 
come  and  get  it  and  see  that  it  was  distributed.  So  Porter  come  down, 
and  him  and  the  folks  went  to  town  and  got  the  box.  There  was  a 
surplus  of  buckwheat  somewhere  else  and  so  the  government  was 
sending  it  to  Nebraska,  and  they  was  shipping  in  them  old  Civil 
War  uniforms  too  that  had  been  stored  in  warehouses  ever  since 
the  soldiers  had  quit  fighting. 

When  all  the  folks  had  gathered  at  our  house,  Father  took  his 
single-bitted  ax  and  he  struck  right  through  the  lid.  He  knocked  off 
the  iron  bands  and  Mama  stood  up  by  the  table  and  started  taking 
the  things  out  from  inside.  First,  come  a  man's  suit.  It  was  made  of 
black  and  white  checks,  real  wide  ones,  and  all  the  fellows  let  out  a 
yell  when  she  held  it  up  because  they'd  never  seen  nothing  as  sporty 
as  that.  A  man  couldn't  of  wore  it  milking;  them  blamed  checks  was 
so  loud  they'd  of  scared  the  cows  so  bad  they  wouldn't  give  down  no 
milk.  That  one  suit  was  all  they'd  sent  for  men.  There  wasn't  a  single 
thing  in  the  box  for  children.  All  the  rest  of  the  box  was  packed  tight 
with  the  fanciest  dresses  I  ever  seen.  They  was  made  of  real  heavy 
silk,  with  nothing  up  around  the  top  where  a  woman's  shoulders  sun 
burns  bad,  and  they  had  all  them  trailers  hanging  down  in  back 
where  she  needs  her  clothes  cut  off  floor  length  so's  to  have  her  legs 
loose  for  walking.  When  Mama  got  about  half  done  with  lifting  them 
dresses  out  of  the  box  she  just  quit  and  set  down  on  a  bench  and  cried 
like  a  baby.  Porter  Brown,  trying  to  cheer  her  up,  grabbed  one  of 
them  big  feathered  hats  that  had  been  mashed  down  flat  in  the 
packing,  and  shoved  the  crown  up  enough  to  get  his  head  in  and 
says,  "See,  Martha,  what  I've  got  to  wear  plowing?" 


70  ROUNDUP: 

Blamed  if  Mama  didn't  stop  crying  and  start  in  laughing.  Nobody 
could  get  her  stopped  for  awhile,  neither.  But  before  long  she  entered 
into  things  and  was  having  just  as  much  fun  as  anybody  there.  The 
men  and  the  women  and  us  children  got  into  them  fancy  dresses  and 
we  had  a  dance.  No,  sir,  we  never  had  so  much  fun  in  our  lives  as 
we  did  that  night  we  unpacked  the  relief  box  that  had  come  to  us 
straight  from  New  York.  We  laughed  so  hard  at  how  folks  looked  in 
them  dresses,  that  nobody  minded  having  to  go  home  without  no 
refreshments.  Them  days,  folks  was  used  to  cinching  up  their  belts; 
and  having  that  party  done  us  all  a  lot  of  good. 

The  buckwheat  come;  we  all  got  hives.  No  matter  how  hungry 
folks  is,  they  can't  get  away  with  eating  straight  buckwheat. 

So  we  planted  most  of  our  buckwheat  to  get  a  quick  crop,  but  we 
kept  enough  back  to  keep  everyone  in  the  valley  scratching  all  the 
rest  of  the  summer.  Of  course,  we  had  more  prairie  chickens  than  we 
could  eat.  They  was  in  fine  shape  because  they  hadn't  been  eating 
nothing  but  grasshoppers.  Even  the  fish  we  caught  in  the  Middle 
Loup  tasted  like  them  grasshoppers.  .  .  . 

During  the  late  fall,  when  the  weather  was  too  bad  to  work  out 
in  the  fields,  Charley  Matthews  got  up  gumption  enough  to  ride  all 
over  with  a  petition  for  the  government  to  establish  a  mail  route  up 
through  our  part  of  the  state.  It  would  run  from  Kearney  on  up  to 
Loup  City  and  then  to  where  we  was.  That  was  about  half  way.  Then 
he  wanted  it  to  go  from  there  on  up  to  a  little  settlement  where  he 
lived,  sixty  mile  north  of  us.  Him  and  a  fellow  named  Oscar  Smith 
had  filed  on  some  real  fine  mineral  springs  that  bubbled  up  in 
Victoria  Creek,  close  to  where  it  run  into  the  Middle  Loup  River. 
It  was  right  at  the  edge  of  them  Cedar  Canyons,  and  they'd  throwed 
up  a  store  on  Smith's  place  and  put  some  sleeping  rooms  in  above  it. 
But  they  was  a  hundred  and  twenty  mile  from  the  nearest  post  office, 
and  he  wanted  to  see  if  something  couldn't  be  done  about  it.  He 
stayed  at  our  place  overnight,  and  the  folks  told  him  they  liked  the 
idea  fine,  only  they  didn't  figger  we  had  no  more  chance  of  getting 
that  petition  answered  straight  than  we  had  of  getting  a  fort  built 
between  us  and  them  Sioux  Indians.  But  when  he  asked  right  out 
if  Mama  would  be  willing  to  have  the  post  office  at  our  house,  she 
was  real  glad  to  sign  the  paper  saying  she  would.  We  never  got  our 
mail,  them  days,  unless  someone  was  going  to  Grand  Island,  and  we 
couldn't  hope  for  that  more  than  maybe  once  a  month. 

We  didn't  have  no  name  for  our  valley;  up  until  then  nobody  had 
thought  about  needing  one.  But  the  paper  had  a  place  to  fill  a  name 


A  Nebraska  Reader  71 

in,  so  Mr.  Matthews  stayed  around  and  him  and  Father  rode  all  over 
to  get  the  names  on  the  petition  and  ask  folks  what  they  thought  of 
Brownsville  for  a  name.  Rightly,  the  place  should  of  been  named 
for  the  McKellers,  who  was  the  first  settlers,  but  they  was  so  mean, 
nobody  would  have  it.  The  Browns  come  next,  so  we  .sent  in  their 
name.  After  a  long  time  a  letter  come  back  saying  Nebraska  already 
had  a  Brownsville,  and  it  was  up  to  us  to  pick  another  name.  By  that 
time  Uncle  Boone  and  his  family  was  pretty  well  settled  in  their 
dugout.  His  wife,  Aunt  Sadie,  was  real  fanciful  and  hadn't  seen  no 
grasshoppers  nor  nothing  like  that  yet,  so  she  says,  "Why  not  call 
it  Arcadia?" 

It  sounded  real  pretty,  and  it  suited  our  valley,  too.  You  couldn't 
ask  for  a  better  place  to  live  when  things  was  going  good.  We  was 
just  a  piece  from  the  river,  where  we  could  catch  bass  and  catfish, 
while  wild  plums,  gooseberries,  grapes,  choke-cherries,  and  black 
berries  growed  thick  along  the  banks  of  the  creeks  and  up  in  the 
draws.  And  that  ground  in  there  can't  be  beat.  Yes,  sir,  we  figgered 
she  was  right,  and  that  was  the  name  we  sent  in,  and  that's  what 
they  call  the  town  and  the  post  office  today.  Them  folks  that  bought 
Uncle  Boone  out,  cut  his  homestead  up  into  city  lots,  and  then  they 
subdivided  our  old  place  next.  When  I  went  back  in  1924,  after 
being  away  for  forty-three  years,  I  seen  a  big  sign  saying  Hawthorne's 
addition  to  Arcadia,  and  I  was  real  glad  that  Aunt  Sadie,  after  look 
ing  out  across  that  bare  field  where  there  wasn't  another  house  in 
sight,  says:  "Let's  call  it  Arcadia." 


Condensed  from  Them  Was  the  Days,  Macmillan,  1952 


I  want  to  be  a  cowboy  and  with  the  cowboys  stand, 
Big  spurs  upon  my  bootheels  and  a  lasso  in  my  hand; 
My  hat  broad-brimmed  and  belted  upon  my  head  I'd  place. 
And  wear  my  chaperajos  with  elegance  and  grace. 

The  first  bright  beam  of  sunlight  that  paints  the  east  with 

red 
Would  call  me  forth  to  breakfast  on  bacon,  beans  and 

bread; 

And  then  upon  my  bronco  so  -festive  and  so  bold 
I'd  rope  the  frisky  heifer  and  chase  the  three  year  old. 

And  when  my  work  is  over  to  Cheyenne  then  I'll  heady 
Fill  up  on  beer  and  whisky  and  paint  the  d~  town  red. 
I'll  gallop  through  the  front  streets  with  many  a  frightful 

yell; 
I'll  rope  the  staid  old  heathen  and  yank  them  all  to  h~l. 

Quoted  in  Folk-Song  of  Nebraska  and  the 
Central  West  by  Louise  Pound 


The  Real  Cowboy 


ROBERT  STURGIS 

FOR  MOST  PEOPLE  the  word  "cowboy"  conjures  up  the  image  of  a 
swashbuckling,  noisy,  danger-loving  fellow,  who  would  rather  fight 
than  eat  and  who  shoots  to  kill  on  the  slightest  provocation.  This 
is  the  cowboy  of  fiction— a  romantic  figure,  endowed  with  heroic 
qualities  that  the  average  man  did  not  possess. 

In  reality  the  cowboy  was  just  an  ordinary  human  being  doing  an 
ordinary  (to  him)  job  in  an  ordinary  way.  It  is  true  that  he  loved 
danger;  it  is  true  that  he  was  sometimes  compelled  to  kill;  and  it  is 
true  that  his  job  was  often  a  hazardous  one.  But  he  worked  at  it  in 
exactly  the  same  way  as  another  man  works  at  farming  or  engineer 
ing.  It  was  a  means  of  earning  a  livelihood. 

The  American  cowboy  owes  his  vocation  to  the  Mexican.  In  1821, 
when  the  first  Americans  began  to  drift  into  Texas,  they  found  many 
Mexicans  who  owned  large  tracts  of  land  and  bred  cattle  for  their 
personal  use.  They  did  not  sell  the  cattle,  because  they  were  hun- 

72 


A  Nebraska  Reader  73 

dreds  of  miles  from  the  markets.  They  simply  allowed  the  herds  to 
multiply,  killing  what  they  needed  for  food,  and  letting  the  rest 
wander  where  they  would.  The  Americans  captured  some  of  these 
wild  herds,  added  to  them  unbranded  cattle  stolen  from  the  Mexi 
can  herds,  and,  after  a  few  ineffectual  attempts  to  find  a  market, 
settled  into  the  easy-going  ranching  routine  of  their  Mexican  neigh 
bors. 

Then  in  1869  came  the  railroads,  providing  the  ranchers  with  a 
means  of  transporting  their  stock  to  the  markets.  The  cattle  industry 
grew  to  gigantic  proportions  and  became  the  chief  occupation  in 
the  territory  between  Central  Nebraska  and  the  mountains  of  the 
Pacific  slope.  It  was  in  those  rousing  days  that  the  cowboy  first  cap 
tured  the  country's  imagination  and  became  a  hero  to  every  Amer 
ican  boy. 

Cowboy  dress  was  picturesque,  but  it  was  worn  because  it  was 
functional,  not  because  it  was  photogenic.  Every  item  of  the  cow 
boy's  apparel  had  its  own  especial  use,  and  since  it  was  designed  for 
service  rather  than  appearance,  the  style  has  never  changed. 

The  broad-brimmed  sombrero  protected  the  puncher's  face  and 
neck  from  the  burning  sun  and  in  wet  weather  served  as  an  umbrella. 
It  also  was  used  as  a  drinking  cup  and,  when  rolled  up,  made  a 
comfortable  pillow.  Often  his  "ten-gallon  hat"  was  the  finest  article 
in  a  cowboy's  wardrobe:  it  was  by  no  means  unusual  for  a  puncher 
to  spend  six  months'  wages  for  a  sombrero.  To  hold  it  in  shape, 
there  was  a  belt  of  adjustable  length  at  the  base  of  the  crown.  Most 
of  these  belts  were  leather,  but  in  some  sections,  particularly  in  the 
Southwest,  they  might  be  woven  of  silver  or  gold  wire.  Leather 
belts  usually  were  studded  with  ornamental  nails  or  with  "conchas"— 
flat  silver  or  gold  plates—which,  if  the  owner's  purse  permitted,  could 
be  set  with  jewels. 

The  handkerchief  which  every  cowboy  wore  about  his  neck  was 
not  an  article  of  dress,  but  served  as  a  mask  to  shield  his  face  from 
the  dust  and  biting  wind  of  the  prairies.  While  there  was  nothing 
distinctive  about  his  shirt  and  pants,  which  were  cotton  or  wool 
of  a  subdued  color,  the  puncher's  "going- to- town"  vest  of  plush  or 
shaggy  wool  often  was  brilliantly  hued.  His  "ordinary"  vest  had 
many  pockets  for  storing  those  various  articles  which  the  cowboy 
carried  along  with  the  "makings"-cigarette  papers  and  a  bag  of 
Bull  Durham. 

Most  of  the  men  wore  gloves  when  working,  and  some  wore  them 
during  all  their  waking  hours.  Usually  they  were  made  of  buckskin, 


74  ROUNDUP: 

with  long,  flaring  gauntlets  embroidered  with  silk  thread  or  silver 
or  gold  wire.  Tightly  fitting  leather  cuffs  of  brown  or  black  were 
almost  always  worn  to  protect  the  wrists. 

The  puncher's  high-heeled  boots  were  constructed  of  the  finest 
quality  of  thin,  pliable  leather.  They  came  up  to  the  knee  and  were 
covered  with  fancy  stitching.  The  two-inch  heel  prevented  the  rider's 
foot  from  slipping  or  becoming  entangled  in  the  stirrup,  and  the 
sole  was  quite  thin  so  the  rider  could  always  feel  the  stirrup  under 
his  foot.  Since  vanity  demanded  that  the  boots  fit  tightly  and  the 
puncher  considered  it  beneath  his  dignity  to  wear  any  other  type  of 
footgear,  cramped  toes  and  highly-arched  insteps  were  physical  char 
acteristics  of  the  cowboy  throughout  the  range. 

Spurs  were  another  indispensable  item  of  his  attire:  it  is  said 
that  when  a  cowboy  appeared  in  public  he  would  as  soon  be  with 
out  his  trousers  as  his  spurs.  They  were  of  far  heavier  make  than 
those  used  anywhere  else  in  the  country.  As  a  rule  the  blunt  rowels 
were  half  an  inch  in  length,  and  the  wheels  tipping  them  slightly 
more  than  an  inch  in  diameter.  However,  the  spurs  imported  from 
Mexico  and  used  extensively  in  the  Southwest  had  two-and-a-half- 
inch  wheels  with  rowels  of  corresponding  length. 

Chaps,  or  to  give  them  their  real  name,  chapejaros,  were  skeleton 
trousers  worn  over  the  regular  trousers  to  protect  the  rider's  legs 
when  he  was  thrown,  or  when  riding  through  sage-brush,  cactus, 
or  chaparral.  They  were  made  of  heavy  leather  covered  with  thick 
wool  or  hair.  If  the  leather  was  free  from  hair,  the  chaps  might  be 
decorated  with  drawings  of  women's  heads,  frontier  animals,  and  the 
like. 

It  is  a  popular  fallacy  that  the  cowboy  always  carried  a  gun.  The 
truth  is  he  went  armed  only  when  absolutely  necessary:  that  is,  when 
expecting  a  personal  attack,  when  riding  in  Indian  country  or  near 
the  border,  or  when  riding  the  range  where  he  might  meet  injured 
or  diseased  cattle  which  would  have  to  be  shot.  He  also  wore  a  gun 
when  on  a  holiday  visit  to  town  or  when  he  called  on  a  girl.  At  such 
times  the  gun  was  as  necessary  for  correct  cowboy  dress  as  a  white 
tie  is  for  formal  evening  wear. 

The  gun  was  the  single-action  Colt  revolver  of  forty-four  or  forty- 
five  caliber.  It  had  an  eight-inch  barrel  and  weighed  two  and  a 
quarter  pounds.  It  was  perfectly  balanced  by  the  long  barrel,  and 
aiming  it  was  akin  to  pointing  the  finger.  Usually  the  gun  was  car 
ried  in  an  open  holster,  swung  low  on  the  thigh,  and  fastened  to  the 
boot-top  or  near  the  knee  with  a  raw-hide  thong.  The  holster  was 


A  Nebraska  Reader  75 

attached  to  a  wide  belt,  which  hung  around  the  waist  and  was 
looped  for  extra  cartridges.  Sometimes  the  gun  was  concealed  and 
bolstered  on  the  breast,  or  attached  to  the  end  of  a  strap  and  car 
ried  in  the  coat  sleeve.  However,  these  deviations  from  the  conven 
tional  were  seldom  favored  by  the  cowboys,  although  much  used  by 
peace  officers  and  outlaws. 

To  facilitate  rapid  firing,  the  majority  of  the  punchers  removed 
the  trigger,  firing  the  gun  by  pulling  back  the  hammer  and  releas 
ing  it— "thumbing"  the  weapon.  Another  method  was  to  fasten  the 
holster  to  the  gun  belt  by  means  of  a  swivel  and  fire  by  tilting  the 
holster  and  thumbing  the  hammer.  Since  this  eliminated  drawing 
the  weapon  from  the  holster,  it  saved  precious  split  seconds  in  get 
ting  it  into  action.  Many  of  the  cowboys  were  so  quick  on  the  draw 
that  the  eye  could  not  follow  the  movements  of  their  hands.  Few 
would  miss  a  target  as  large  as  a  man  at  one  hundred  feet  under  any 
conditions,  and  many,  at  a  moment's  notice,  could  pour  six  shots 
into  a  two-inch  circle  at  the  same  range. 

Contrary  to  much  fiction,  the  cowboy  did  not  notch  his  gun.  He 
was  not  a  killer,  and  he  disliked  those  who  used  this  method  of 
crudely  recording  and  advertising  the  number  of  men  they  had  slain. 
While  the  cowboy  never  avoided  trouble,  he  did  not  look  for  it;  and 
although  when  he  shot,  he  shot  to  kill,  he  did  it  as  a  matter  of  self- 
preservation.  In  the  early  West  the  "bad  men"  were  divided  into 
two  classes.  There  was  the  pseudo  bad  man  who  was  an  arrogant 
braggart  and  quickly  faded  at  the  first  sign  of  trouble;  and  there 
was  the  genuine  bad  man  who  rarely  said  anything  about  himself 
and  shot  at  the  slightest  pretext.  As  a  general  rule  he  did  not  last 
very  long.  The  West  wanted  no  part  of  him,  and  either  forced  him 
to  move  on  or  killed  him. 

Horse-stealing,  cattle-rustling,  murder,  and  robbery  were  the  major 
crimes,  but  compared  to  horse-stealing,  the  latter  three  were  rather 
minor  offences.  To  a  cowboy  a  horse  thief  was  the  lowest  form  of  life, 
vermin  to  be  shot  or  hanged  on  sight.  There  were  two  reasons  for 
this  attitude.  A  man  who  was  deprived  of  his  horse  in  wild  country 
might  die  before  he  could  reach  help.  Then,  too,  living  a  lonely  life 
when  on  duty  on  the  range,  the  puncher  became  deeply  attached  to 
his  mount.  Men  who  regarded  sentimentality  as  an  unforgivable 
weakness  were  not  ashamed  to  pour  their  troubles  into  their  horse's 
sympathetic  ear.  The  average  cowboy  looked  after  the  comfort  of 
his  horse  before  he  did  his  own. 

Literally  he  lived  on  his  horse.  The  high-heeled  boots  made  walk- 


76  ROUNDUP: 

ing  difficult,  and  if  there  were  more  than  two  hundred  feet  to  be 
traversed  the  puncher  got  in  the  saddle.  Most  had  learned  to  ride 
almost  before  they  had  taken  their  first  steps,  and  they  considered 
it  undignified  to  walk.  As  a  consequence  another  unmistakable  mark 
of  the  puncher  was  bowlegs. 

The  cowboy's  hours  were  from  sunrise  until  his  tasks  were  done, 
which  often  was  long  after  dark.  There  were  horses  to  be  broken 
and  trained  and  inspection  trips  to  be  made  about  the  range— "out- 
ridings"  as  they  were  called— to  locate  and  check  on  the  condition 
of  the  scattered  groups  of  cattle,  and  to  drive  them  to  better  territory 
if  food  or  water  was  found  to  be  insufficient.  There  were  strays  to 
be  driven  back  to  the  herd,  and  mired  stock  to  be  pulled  at  rope's 
end  from  the  mud  bogs.  There  was  the  need  to  keep  a  constant  look 
out  for  signs  of  thieves  and  predatory  animals,  and  to  set  traps  for 
any  beasts  that  might  endanger  the  herds.  The  daily  round  was  a 
hard  one,  but  it  was  a  life  which  the  cowboy  probably  would  not 
change  for  yours. 

The  "roundups"  were  made  in  the  spring  and  the  fall.  The  spring 
roundup,  often  called  the  "calf  roundup,"  was  made  for  the  purpose 
of  branding  the  stock  which  had  been  born  since  the  previous  spring, 
and  for  computing  how  many  head  had  been  lost  during  the  winter. 
The  roundup  in  the  fall,  known  as  the  "beef  roundup,"  was  made 
for  the  purpose  of  selecting  stock  for  market,  the  selected  cattle 
then  being  driven  to  the  railroad.  Necessarily  a  cattle  drive  was 
a  slow  affair:  the  cattle  were  driven  in  slowly  so  that  they  would  not 
lose  weight  and  decrease  in  value.  Since  the  danger  of  a  stampede 
was  great  on  these  drives,  it  was  necessary  to  have  one  man  to  every 
two  hundred  and  fifty  cattle. 

A  cattle  stampede  was  the  most  dreaded  of  all  the  dangers  on  the 
plains.  An  unusual  noise,  the  sudden  movement  of  a  rider,  and  the 
herd  would  be  off  on  a  wild  charge.  The  noise  of  their  furiously 
pounding  hoofs  was  like  thunder,  and  nothing  short  of  a  solid  wall 
could  stop  them.  When  a  stampede  occurred,  the  punchers  would 
fire  their  guns  and  make  as  much  noise  as  possible,  and  try  through 
furious  riding  to  draw  the  herd  out  in  a  long,  thin  line.  Next  they 
would  force  the  ends  of  the  line  together  into  a  U-shape,  then  drive 
the  cattle  together  and  close  the  gap,  forming  a  circle  in  which  the 
cattle  would  run  about,  or  "mill,"  until  they  became  exhausted. 
The  danger  of  a  stampede  was  greatest  at  night.  Working  in  two- 
to  four-hour  shifts,  cowboys  would  ride  around  the  cattle,  quieting 
them  with  ballads  sung  in  a  doleful  voice. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  yy 

Courage  was  the  cowboy's  dominant  trait.  Danger  always  rode  at 
his  side.  He  had  to  face  the  terrible  blizzards  of  the  North  and  the 
pitiless  deserts  of  the  Southwest.  Broken  bones  and  injury  in  the 
form  of  hernia  received  from  bucking  gave  the  average  hand  but 
seven  years  of  active  riding.  After  that  he  had  to  be  content  with 
less  mettlesome  mounts. 

Cheerfulness  was  another  trait  he  cultivated.  If  the  food  was  bad 
he  ate  it;  if  the  work  was  arduous  he  performed  it.  The  axiom  that 
nobody  wants  to  hear  about  your  troubles  was  a  part  of  the  philos 
ophy  of  the  range. 

Reserve  toward  strangers  also  was  a  cowboy  characteristic,  and 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  saw  no  one  but  intimates,  and  not  even 
them  for  days  at  a  time.  Besides,  the  stranger  might  be  an  enemy 
and  was  regarded  as  such  until  he  proved  himself  to  be  a  friend; 
but  when  this  reserve  was  broken  down,  a  man  could  not  wish  for 
a  better  friend  than  a  cowboy. 

This  suspicion  of  strangers  was  reflected  in  two  customs.  When  a 
rider  approached  another  rider  he  was  bound  not  to  change  his 
course  until  he  came  up  and  spoke  a  word  of  greeting;  and  if  ap 
proaching  from  the  rear  he  was  supposed  to  hulloa  before  coming 
within  pistol  shot.  Similarly,  a  rider  approaching  a  camp  was  sup 
posed  to  come  from  the  point  from  which  he  could  be  seen  most 
easily.  Failure  to  comply  with  these  rules  was  regarded  as  an  un 
friendly  act,  for,  as  the  saying  was,  "None  came  West  save  for  health, 
wealth,  or  a  ruined  reputation." 


Condensed  from  Prairie  Schooner,  Winter,  1932 


The  horse  opera  as  an  art  -form  has  been  perfected  in 
Hollywood,  California— a  place  about  as  far  from  Ne 
braska  as  you  can  get  without  using  a  boat.  But  where,  in 
real  life,  was  the  stamping  grounds  of  a  "passel"  of  the 
flesh-and-blood  originals  from  whom  Hollywood  peren 
nially  derives  its  heroes  and  villains?  Where  but  in— 


Ogallala 


i .  Nebraska's  Cowboy  Capital 

NORBERT  R.  MAHNKEN 

GATEWAY  to  the  northern  plains—that  was  Ogallala  from  1875  to 
1885.  At  the  little  village  on  the  Platte,  Texas  drovers  during  this 
decade  delivered  their  trail  herds  of  longhorn  cattle  by  the  thou 
sands.  Shrewd,  hard-bitten  Wyoming  and  Nebraska  cattlemen  met 
in  Ogallala's  hotel  and  saloons  with  the  Texas  cattle  kings  and 
haggled  over  prices  to  be  paid  for  the  longhorns.  A  quick  handshake, 
a  jovial  round  of  backslapping,  a  nip  at  die  bar,  and  bargains  were 
sealed.  Gold  flowed  freely  across  the  tables,  liquor  across  the  bar,  and 
occasionally  blood  across  the  floor  as  a  bullet  brought  some  unlucky 
cowhand  to  the  end  of  the  trail  on  the  stained  boards  of  "Tuck's" 
Saloon. 

Ogallala's  early  history  was  singularly  unspectacular.  It  was  a  by 
product  of  the  Union  Pacific  railroad  and  for  its  first  few  years 
seemed  destined  to  be  little  more  than  a  section  house  and  water 
tank.  Then,  in  the  spring  of  1868  there  appeared  three  men  whose 
fortunes  are  closely  interwoven  with  the  early  growth  of  Ogallala: 
the  two  Lonergan  brothers,  Philip  and  Thomas,  and  Louis  Aufden- 
garten. 

The  Lonergans  came  to  do  construction  work  for  the  Union 
Pacific,  while  Louis  Aufdengarten  arrived  with  the  U.  S.  Army.  A 
regiment  of  cavalry  had  pitched  its  summer  camp  here  during  the 
troublesome  July  of  1868  when  Indian  raids,  real  and  imagined, 
were  striking  fear  into  the  hearts  of  settlers  as  far  east  as  the  Blue 
River  Valley.  Aufdengarten,  in  business  as  a  sutler,  found  his  trade 
expanding  when  the  first  wave  of  professional  buffalo  hunters  reached 
78 


A  Nebraska  Reader  79 

western  Nebraska  during  that  summer.  Upward  of  a  hundred 
hunters  made  this  military  post  and  Aufdengarten's  "store"— it  ap 
pears  to  have  been  a  combination  of  dugout,  soddy,  and  canvas  tent 
—their  base  of  operations.  Buffaloes  were  plentiful,  and  Aufdengarten 
broadened  his  activities,  buying  up  the  hides  for  shipment  east.  The 
next  year,  1869,  saw  him  back  at  the  same  stand,  his  connection 
with  the  army  severed  and  his  interest  now  centered  chiefly  on  fur 
nishing  supplies  and  equipment  for  trappers  and  buffalo  hunters. 

It  was  in  this  year  that  a  number  of  large  herds  of  longhorns  were 
driven  westward  along  the  Platte  to  find  their  last  range  in  Idaho, 
and  in  this  year,  too,  that  the  first  Texas  cattle  were  brought  into 
the  region.  After  the  Lonergan  brothers  and  other  outfits  had  suc 
cessfully  wintered  herds  along  the  river  from  near  town  to  O'Fallon's 
Bluff,  Ogallalans  were  convinced  their  community's  future  depended 
on  the  growth  of  the  cattle  trade. 

During  1874  the  step  was  taken  which  initiated  Ogallala's  career 
as  a  cowtown.  Hoping  to  recapture  the  profitable  trade  it  had  en 
joyed  at  Schuyler  and  Kearney,  earlier  shipping  points  for  Texas 
longhorns,  the  Union  Pacific  constructed  a  cattle  pen  and  landing 
chute  just  west  of  town.  Ogallala's  prospects  were  improved  by  two 
developments  which  at  first  might  appear  only  indirectly  related  to 
the  cattle  trade.  The  truculent  Oglala  and  Brule  Sioux  had  been 
moved  from  their  Platte  River  agency  on  the  Nebraska-Wyoming 
border  to  the  new  Red  Cloud  and  Whetstone  agencies  in  northern 
Nebraska.  The  Republican  River  valley  was  closed  to  their  hunt 
ing  expeditions,  and  cattlemen  could  now  move  into  that  entire 
area  with  little  fear  of  the  marauding  followers  of  Red  Cloud.  At 
the  same  time  the  westward  surge  of  farmers  along  the  rivers  in 
Nebraska  and  Kansas  was  closing  the  trail  to  Abilene,  Schuyler,  and 
Kearney.  Forced  to  seek  new  markets,  trail  bosses  and  ranchers  be 
gan  to  realize  that  Ogallala  might  be  the  ideal  site  for  a  new  cow- 
town. 

The  trail-driving  business  recovered  rather  slowly  from  the  effects 
of  the  financial  panic  of  1873,  and  it  was  not  until  1876  that  the 
volume  of  cattle  moving  up  the  trail  to  Ogallala  reached  the  high 
level  it  maintained  thereafter.  The  increasing  importance  of  Ogal 
lala  was  partly  due  to  the  emergence  of  Dodge  City  as  the  leading 
Kansas  cattle  mart.  A  new  trail,  known  as  the  Western  or  Texas 
Trail,  gradually  supplanted  the  earlier  Chisholm  Trail.  For  many 
longhorns  and  a  few  cowboys  the  end  of  the  trail  came  at  Dodge 
City,  but  for  outfits  handling  younger  stock  cattle  "Dodge"  soon 


80  ROUNDUP: 

became  only  a  point  where  man  and  beast  could  rest  a  few  days 
before  starting  on  the  long  road  to  Ogallala.  With  increasing  fre 
quency  contracts  signed  in  Dodge  City  required  delivery  of  cattle 
at  the  Nebraska  village.  Similarly,  an  increasing  number  of  drovers 
who  failed  to  find  a  buyer  on  the  Arkansas  went  on  up  the  trail. 

Before  1876  the  only  real  demand  for  older  stock  in  this  area 
had  come  from  contractors  supplying  the  Indian  agencies.  The 
Black  Hills  gold  strike  unexpectedly  added  a  second  market  for 
grass-fed  steers;  moreover,  the  call  for  younger  stock  was  becoming 
insistent.  Previously  the  North  Platte  River  had  marked  the  limits 
of  the  cattleman's  domain  in  Nebraska  and  Wyoming:  though  most 
of  the  Sioux  had  been  settled  in  the  Red  Cloud  and  Whetstone 
agencies  by  1874,  small  bands  of  marauders  still  were  common  along 
the  North  Platte.  But  the  campaigns  of  General  Crook  and  Colonel 
Miles  in  1876  ended  this  menace,  and  the  region  was  thrown  open 
to  cattlemen.  By  1878  dozens  of  new  operators  on  scores  of  new 
ranch  sites  were  demanding  stock  cattle  at  Ogallala,  and  the  boom 
had  begun— a  boom  which  was  to  bring  there  from  75,000  to  125,000 
Texas  longhorns  each  season. 

Ogallala  in  1876  had  changed  little  since  its  tank-town  days.  The 
town  itself  was  but  a  block  long.  The  stores  were  all  south  of  the 
tracks,  fronting  what  was  popularly  known  as  "Railroad  Street." 
Louis  Aufdengarten's  general  supply  store  was  on  the  corner  of  the 
intersection  of  this  street  and  the  trail  leading  south  to  the  Platte. 
Westward  from  his  store  extended  the  rest  of  the  town,  including 
the  saloons  and  gambling  establishments,  operating  under  changing 
management,  but  generally  carrying  the  same  colorful  names,  the 
"Cowboy's  Rest'1  and  the  "Crystal  Palace."  The  last  building  in  the 
row  was  the  newly  constructed  hotel,  the  Ogallala  House,  run  by 
S.  S.  Gast  and  later  by  his  son-in-law  Sam  Rooney.  One  new  build 
ing  of  note  constructed  during  1875  was  "the  most  substantial  jail 
west  of  Omaha."  Its  accommodations  were  soon  to  prove  as  inade 
quate  as  those  of  the  hotel. 

The  tempo  of  living  in  Ogallala  changed  with  the  seasons.  Dur 
ing  the  winter  months  life  was  dull  and  dreary,  but  with  the  coming 
of  spring,  bets  were  placed  as  to  when  the  first  herds  would  arrive, 
and  the  whole  community  took  on  an  expectant  air.  Around  the  first 
of  June,  Ogallala  came  alive  with  a  bang.  The  roundup  conducted 
by  the  Nebraska  cattlemen  of  the  area  generally  reached  town  about 
that  time,  and  June  10  soon  came  to  be  the  date  on  which  the  first 
longhorns  from  the  south  were  expected. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  81 

June,  July,  and  August  were  bonanza  months  for  saloonkeeper, 
storekeeper,  and  hotelkeeper.  Ten  or  twelve  herds,  each  of  2,500 
head,  could  usually  be  located  south  of  the  town,  a  bawling  mass 
carpeting  the  plains.  The  presence  of  a  hundred  or  more  trail  hands 
meant  that  sleeping  rooms  were  at  a  premium,  and  many  visitors 
to  Ogallala  spent  their  first  night  napping  on  the  "soft  side  of  a 
walnut  board."  For  a  brief  time  in  early  summer  the  white  tents 
of  soldiers  out  after  Indians  were  pitched  close  to  the  town.  On 
their  free  nights,  when  the  troops  mingled  with  Texans  in  the 
saloons,  many  a  near-riot  started  between  the  hard-fisted  boys  in 
blue  and  the  lanky,  hot-tempered  drovers  who  not  too  long  before 
had  worn  the  grey.  Loose  talk  about  "rebels"  or  "Yankee  bean- 
eaters"  was  enough  to  touch  off  a  full-scale  brawl. 

The  Ogallala  House  was  the  center  of  social  activities  for  the 
townspeople  and  the  big  cattlemen.  Parties  and  dances  were  held 
regularly  there,  but  these  gatherings  were  comparatively  sedate- 
more  restful  certainly  than  the  parties  in  the  Cowboy's  Rest.  Fre 
quently,  the  dancing  lagged  until  "Old  Number  Seven"  would  chug 
in  from  the  east,  bringing  Ed  Hepner,  a  trainman  with  considerable 
finesse  in  handling  the  fiddle. 

Activity  in  Ogallala  continued  at  fever  pitch  until  the  end  of 
August.  By  then  the  season's  drives  were  ending,  and  the  drovers 
who  had  chaperoned  the  herds  up  the  trail  were  beginning  to  head 
back  to  Texas.  Business  revived  briefly  during  the  fall,  especially 
in  October,  when  the  cattlemen  brought  their  steers  in  off  the  grass 
for  shipment  east.  By  November,  however,  Ogallala  had  relapsed  into 
a  state  of  suspended  animation  which  endured  until  the  first  thaws 
of  spring  set  everyone  to  speculating  about  the  extent  of  the  year's 
drives. 

Except  for  her  sparse  population,  Ogallala  differed  only  slightly 
from  the  other  cowtowns  of  the  prairies.  In  her  saloons  the  clink 
ing  of  glasses  perpetually  accompanied  the  shrill  screech  of  the 
dancing-master's  violin.  Try  as  he  would,  this  one-man  orchestra- 
it  was  a  great  day  when  the  first  piano  arrived— could  hardly  make 
himself  heard  above  the  stamping  feet  of  booted  cowmen  partnered 
enthusiastically  by  painted  ladies.  Money  changed  hands  quickly 
and  in  sizeable  sums.  Gold  carefully  counted  out  went  into  the 
pokes  of  cautious  Texas  drovers  who  had  not  yet  accustomed  them 
selves  to  using  Yankee  greenbacks  or  bank  notes.  By  1877,  however, 
drafts  on  the  more  widely  known  banks  were  coming  to  be  the  ac 
cepted  method  of  payment. 


8s  ROUNDUP: 

For  its  first  few  years  as  a  major  cattle  market,  Ogallala  experi 
enced  little  of  the  vicious  lawlessness  which  brought  fame  of  a  sort 
to  Wichita  and  Dodge  City.  Crime  came  to  Ogallala  in  1877  in  the 
person  of  a  nervous  and  acquisitive  Texan,  Joel  Collins,  who  had 
delivered  a  herd  of  Texas  cattle  to  purchasers  in  Nebraska.  Intrigued 
by  reports  of  the  gold  strikes  in  the  Black  Hills,  Collins  and  his 
side-kick  Sam  Bass  appropriated  the  money  due  the  Texas  cattle 
men  and  hot-footed  it  for  Dakota.  When  gambling  losses  and  in 
vestments  in  unproductive  mines  left  the  pair  with  empty  pockets, 
they  recruited  an  assortment  of  kindred  spirits  and  turned  to  the 
exciting  but  generally  profitless  business  of  stage  robbery.  The  ap 
pearance  of  federal  troops  hastened  their  departure  from  the  Hills, 
and  about  September  i  Collins  and  Bass  turned  up  again  in  Ogallala, 
Over  a  corner  table  at  the  Crystal  Palace  they  worked  out  the  details 
of  their  next  venture,  which  involved  robbing  the  pay  coach  of  the 
Union  Pacific. 

In  the  early  morning  hours  of  September  19,  word  came  that  the 
eastbound  Union  Pacific  had  been  held  up  twenty  miles  west  of 
Ogallala,  at  Big  Springs  station.  A  posse  was  hastily  formed  and  rode 
out  to  trail  the  bandit  crew,  but  found  no  trace  of  them. 

News  of  the  robbery  created  a  furor  throughout  the  Midwest.  Not 
only  was  it  the  first  time  a  Union  Pacific  train  had  been  robbed,  but 
the  loot  totalled  $60,000,  all  in  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces.  The  wildest 
guesses  were  tossed  about  as  to  the  identity  of  the  robbers.  In  Omaha, 
most  people  were  convinced  that  either  Jesse  James  and  his  gang 
or  the  remnants  of  the  Younger  gang  had  done  the  dirty  work.  But 
within  a  day  or  two  after  the  Union  Pacific  officials  posted  a  $10,000 
reward  for  the  arrest  of  the  bandits  and  the  recovery  of  the  gold,  it 
was  known  that  Collins  was  one  of  the  bandits.  He  was  an  acquaint 
ance  of  a  passenger  on  the  train,  Andy  Riley  of  Omaha,  who  iden 
tified  him  positively  for  the  railroad  detectives. 

Meanwhile,  one  of  Ogallala's  citizens,  M.  F.  Leech,  proprietor  of 
a  supply  store,  had  been  building  up  his  own  case  against  Collins 
and  Bass.  At  the  scene  of  the  robbery  he  had  picked  up  a  piece  of 
red,  white,  and  black  cloth  which  had  been  used  as  a  mask  by  one 
of  the  bandits.  Leech  recognized  it  as  material  sold  in  his  store,  and 
also  remembered  that  he  had  very  recently  sold  a  strip  of  this  cloth 
to  one  of  Collins'  crew  of  Texans.  Determined  to  obtain  the  Union 
Pacific  reward,  he  saddled  his  best  horse  and  started  off  to  track 
down  the  train-robbers. 

After  camping  on  the  Republican  River  for  a  day,  the  gang  had 


A  Nebraska  Reader  83 

split  into  three  groups.  Collins  and  his  partner,  Bill  Heffridge,  were 
trapped  and  both  killed  while  resisting  arrest  at  Buffalo  Station, 
Kansas.  Jim  Berry,  who  was  being  closely  trailed  by  Leech,  met  the 
same  fate  in  Mexico,  Missouri,  shot  down  by  officers  who  wanted  to 
question  him  about  the  gold  which  he  had  carelessly  deposited  in 
banks  in  the  area.  Only  Sam  Bass  and  his  crony  Tom  Nixon  got 
their  share  of  the  loot  safely  back  to  Texas;  they  had  traveled  in 
the  guise  of  land-seeking  grangers.  Ten  months  of  notoriety  were 
still  ahead  of  Sam  Bass.  Then  he  too  would  be  cut  down  by  the 
bullets  of  Texas  Rangers,  but  his  fame  would  live  on  in  the  most 
celebrated  of  all  cowboy  ballads. 

For  Leech  it  had  been  a  discouraging  pursuit.  Always  he  would 
catch  up  with  one  of  his  quarries,  only  to  find  him  dead  or  in  the 
hands  of  peace  officers.  Yet  he  received  a  warm  welcome  home,  and 
shortly  after  his  return  was  elected  sheriff  of  Keith  County.  Ever 
since  the  office  had  been  created,  five  years  earlier,  the  turnover 
among  job-holders  had  been  very  high.  Six  men  had  served  at 
various  times  as  sheriff,  but  none  had  relished  the  task  of  keeping 
the  boisterous  trail-hands  in  line.  Leech  was  no  exception:  after  a 
few  months  he  resigned,  to  be  succeeded  by  J.  C.  Hughes,  a  fearless 
old  buffalo-hunter  who  could  always  be  relied  upon  to  take  over 
temporarily  after  the  elected  officials  "thro wed  up  the  job." 

Until  the  election  of  1879,  *aw  anc*  order  rested  on  rather  un 
stable  foundations  in  Ogallala.  The  low  point  came  during  the 
summer  of  1878  when  Barney  Gillan  was  appointed  sheriff.  Gillan 
considered  it  his  duty  to  protect  the  cowmen  rather  than  the  com 
munity.  He  became  involved  in  the  Custer  County  "war"  between 
homesteaders  and  cattlemen,  and  for  his  part  in  the  lynching  of 
Mitchell  and  Ketchum,  was  arrested,  indicted  for  complicity  in  the 
murder,  and  eventually  tried  along  with  other  defendants  in  this 
most  notorious  trial  in  Nebraska's  early  history.* 

William  Gaslin,  elected  district  judge  for  southern  and  western 
Nebraska  in  1876,  did  as  much  as  anyone  to  bring  respect  for  the 
law  into  this  stormy  sector  of  the  frontier.  Judge  Gaslin,  who  (so 
went  the  stories,  anyway)  at  times  mounted  the  bench  armed  with 
a  Winchester  as  well  as  with  the  legal  documents,  soon  was  known 
as  a  fearless  and  ruthless  judge. 

A  second  major  step  in  effective  law  enforcement  came  in  1879 
when  Martin  DePriest  was  elected  sheriff  of  Keith  County.  He  was 

*  See  page  91. 


84  ROUNDUP: 

a  Texan  who  had  come  up  the  trail  in  1877,  had  settled  in  Ogallala, 
and  opened  a  livery  stable  in  connectioVi  with  the  hotel.  Short,  but 
stocky  and  wiry,  DePriest  had  few  equals  in  a  rough-and-tumble  fight. 
It  was  this  ability,  plus  his  coolness  in  the  face  of  danger,  rather 
than  any  unusual  proficiency  as  a  gunman  which  gained  him  the 
respect  of  troublemakers.  DePriest  understood  the  longing  of  the 
trail-hand  for  rowdy  fun  at  the  end  of  the  drive,  but  when  some 
drink-crazed  or  trigger-happy  cowhand  began  using  the  water  tower 
as  a  target  or  endangering  life  in  the  community,  DePriest  would 
take  down  and  buckle  on  his  Colts  and  call  to  his  deputy,  Joe 
Hughes,  to  grab  up  his  shotgun  or  buffalo  gun.  The  word  that  this 
duo  was  on  the  prowl  would  generally  be  enough  to  restore  the  peace. 

Unexpected  support  for  order— if  not  for  law— came  from  Bill 
Tucker,  the  long-time  proprietor  of  the  Cowboy's  Rest.  Tucker,  a 
lusty,  boisterous  character,  had  drifted  over  from  North  Platte  as 
early  as  1876.  At  the  Cowboy's  Rest,  during  his  regime,  the  gaming 
tables  were  never  empty,  the  bar  never  dry,  and  the  ladies  never  too 
preoccupied  but  what  the  newly  arrived  cowhand  found  a  welcome. 
Yet  Bill  Tucker  disliked  the  sight  and  noise  of  guns,  except  for  the 
shotgun  he  kept  under  the  counter  as  the  final  arbiter  in  any  dispute. 
On  several  occasions  he  rallied  the  support  of  Ogallala's  citizenry 
to  put  the  quietus  on  trail  crews  who  were  threatening  to  shoot  up 
the  town. 

In  spite  of  the  efforts  of  Gaslin,  DePriest,  and  Tucker,  during 
Ogallala's  ten  years  of  fame  seventeen  violent  deaths  were  recorded, 
a  not  inconsiderable  number  for  a  community  whose  permanent 
population  was  about  one  hundred.  In  Ogallala's  Boot  Hill  cemetery 
were  laid  the  bodies  of  those  cowhands  who  had  lost  a  debate  with 
gamblers,  refought  the  Civil  War,  or  had  found  DePriest  too  much 
for  them. 

The  cattle  trade  at  Ogallala  continued  at  a  brisk  pace  from  1879 
to  1884.  By  this  time  the  stories  of  profits  in  the  range  cattle  busi 
ness  were  spreading  throughout  the  eastern  United  States  and  to  the 
British  Isles  as  well.  After  1879  eastern  and  English  capital  moved 
in,  stimulating  the  incorporation  of  several  great  cattle  companies 
capitalized  at  from  five  hundred  thousand  to  a  million  dollars. 
Purchasing  land  sites,  hiring  expensive  range  managers,  buying  cattle 
at  inflated  prices  and  on  the  book  count,  these  companies  introduced 
a  new  speculative  fever  into  the  area.  Their  constant  quest  for  young 
stock  cattle  kept  the  herds  moving  up  from  the  south  in  spite  of 
mounting  costs  and  the  increasing  difficulties  of  trail  driving.  In  the 


A  Nebraska  Reader  85 

period  between  1879  and  1884,  between  100,000  and  125,000  cattle 
annually  made  their  way  through  the  Nebraska  cowtown. 

As  the  years  passed,  the  herds  from  the  south  tended  to  pass  more 
and  more  into  the  hands  of  a  few  purchasers.  During  1882-83,  many 
wise  old  pioneers  of  the  range  disposed  of  their  stock  at  $30  to  $35 
a  head  for  mixed  range  stock,  yearlings  included,  that  as  late  as  1880 
would  have  brought  only  $20  or  less  per  head.  When  the  trail-driving 
business  collapsed,  its  sudden  end  surprised  everyone  except  these 
old-timers. 

The  last  great  drives  of  Texas  cattle  over  the  Western  Trail  into 
Nebraska  came  in  1884.  No  longer  was  the  western  part  of  the  state 
the  cattlemen's  exclusive  paradise.  A  succession  of  years  during 
which  the  rainfall  in  western  Kansas  and  Nebraska  was  unusually 
heavy  convinced  the  venturesome  granger  that  farming  was  profit 
able  in  these  areas.  Along  the  Republican  River  in  Nebraska  and 
the  Smoky  Hill  and  Arkansas  rivers  in  Kansas  numerous  new  settle 
ments  mushroomed.  By  cooperative  action,  the  frontier  farmers  gen 
erally  were  able  to  turn  aside  the  herds  which  might  be  driven  over 
their  lands,  or  could  at  least  exact  a  sizeable  cash  payment  for  such 
passage.  In  June,  1881,  Frontier  County  settlers  constructed  a  corral 
near  Stow  post  office,  where  cattle  trespassing  on  their  land  claims 
were  to  be  held  until  ransomed  by  their  owners.  As  the  despised 
"nesters"  became  more  numerous,  the  drovers  found  it  ever  more 
difficult  and  more  expensive  to  attempt  to  force  their  way  through 
the  settlements  and  on  to  Ogallala. 

The  Kansas  state  legislature  under  pressure  from  western  settlers 
enacted  a  stream  of  laws  designed  to  push  the  quarantine  line  against 
Texas  cattle  farther  west.  The  law  of  1884  moved  the  line  west  of 
Dodge  City,  while  a  more  stringent  measure  of  the  next  year  closed 
the  entire  state  to  Texas  cattle  from  March  to  December.  This  law, 
backed  as  it  was  by  public  opinion,  forced  those  few  cattlemen  who 
sought  to  continue  trail-driving  to  move  northward  through  eastern 
Colorado. 

While  herds  still  made  their  way  to  the  Platte  in  spite  of  settlers 
and  quarantine  laws,  their  number  was  small.  Instead  of  cracking 
pistols  and  boisterous  cowboy  oaths,  the  noisy  clatter  of  construction 
crews  filled  the  Nebraska  air.  The  advance  guard  of  the  farming 
frontier  reached  Keith  County  in  the  summer  of  1884  and  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  great  wave  of  settlers  in  1885.  When  the  Union  Pacific 
began  to  push  the  sale  of  its  lands  along  the  South  Platte,  this 
further  stimulated  the  migration,  and  within  a  few  months  Ogallala 


86  ROUNDUP: 

underwent  a  metamorphosis  from  cowtown  to  farmer  shopping  cen- 
ter.-The  population  of  the  county,  which  in  1880  had  been  181,  had 
jumped  to  700  at  the  end  of  1884,  while  Ogallala  itself,  to  judge  by 
the  columns  of  the  local  press,  was  approaching  the  500  figure.  Nu 
merous  new  business  houses  were  added,  among  them  two  news 
papers,  lumber  and  hardware  stores,  a  millinery  shop,  and  two  land 
offices.  Only  three  saloons  were  still  operating,  and  they  under  the 
handicap  of  an  $800  license  fee  which  went  into  the  school  fund. 

A  fire  broke  out  in  one  of  the  stores  south  of  the  tracks  on  August  6, 
1884,  and  a  good  portion  of  the  old  business  section  burned  down. 
A  few  days  later  Ed  Whorley  was  killed  in  the  Crystal  Palace  by  a 
gambler  named  Lank  Keyes:  it  was  the  last  murder  of  the  trail- 
driving  days,  and  it  might  well  have  marked  the  end  of  Ogallala  as 
a  cowtown.  The  Lonergans  were  gone— Tom  killed  on  a  roundup 
down  on  Red  Willow  Creek,  Phil  to  Colorado.  DePriest  sold  out 
his  livery  stable  in  1887  anc*  the  next  year  was  relieved  of  his  position 
of  sheriff  when  he  moved  to  Perkins  County.  Tucker  sold  his  saloon 
after  the  1885  season,  went  back  to  North  Platte,  and  later  drifted 
down  into  New  Mexico  in  search  of  new  wealth  and  excitement. 

Soon  after  Ogallala's  demise  as  a  cowtown,  nesters,  adverse 
weather,  overcrowding  of  the  range,  and  inflationary  and  unwise 
financing  brought  an  end  to  the  most  romantic  phase  of  the  cattle 
industry.  Yet  the  industry  was  to  emerge  again  in  modified  form, 
based  on  the  firmer  foundations  of  blooded  stock,  fenced  pastures, 
and  careful  financing.  Once  again  Ogallala  was  to  become  the  center 
of  the  cattle  industry  in  the  Platte  valley,  but  never  again  was  it  the 
lurid,  hectic  cowboy  capital  it  had  been  from  1875  to  1885. 

Condensed  from  Nebraska  History,  XXVIII   (Jan-March,  1947) 


2.  "They  Went  Thataway  I" 

JAMES  H.  CLARK 

AMONG  the  men  who  participated  in  the  gay  life  of  Ogallala  were 
some  who  became  notorious  characters  of  the  west.  One  of  these 
men  went  by  the  name  of  "Doc  Middleton"  on  the  ranges  of  the 
North.  In  Texas  he  was  called  by  another  name.  I  think  it  was  in 
the  spring  and  summer  of  the  year  1876  that  he  and  his  brother,  or 
half-brother,  worked  with  the  same  trail  herd  I  did,  from  Texas 


A  Nebraska  Reader  87 

as  far  north  as  the  Arkansas  River.  During  the  two  months  in  which 
I  saw  Doc  Middleton  quite  frequently,  I  failed  to  see  that  he  was 
a  first-class  cowhand,  that  is,  one  whose  first  thought  was  the  safety 
of  a  cow  or  a  herd,  and  last  the  comfort  and  safety  of  himself.  His 
brother,  Joe,  was  the  opposite.  No  nights  were  too  dark,  no  rivers 
too  wide  for  him  to  tackle  when  the  safety  of  a  cow  or  herd  was  at 
stake. 

I  met  Doc  Middleton  on  numerous  occasions  after  I  worked  with 
him  on  the  trail.  He  preferred  gambling  and  other  forms  of  recrea 
tion  to  trail-driving  or  ranch  work.  He  did  work  for  the  Powers 
Bros,  outfit  near  the  place  now  called  Bridgeport,  on  the  North 
Platte  River,  but  soon  went  to  the  town  of  Sidney  to  do  some 
"shopping."  While  there  he  had  a  row  with  some  soldiers  and  killed 
one  or  two  of  them.  He  escaped  from  the  peace  officers  and  soldiers 
who  made  an  attempt  to  capture  him.  He  joined  a  bunch  of  horse- 
thief  outlaws,  and  not  long  after  becoming  their  leader,  he  became 
famous  as  the  greatest  outlaw  in  the  state  of  Nebraska.  He  was 
given  credit  for  all  of  the  crimes  committed  in  the  way  of  stealing 
livestock  within  the  radius  of  five  hundred  miles  of  his  hideouts 
in  the  sandhills  of  Nebraska.  He  was  captured  at  last,  after  being 
wounded,  and  did  time  in  the  state  penitentiary.  After  serving  his 
sentence,  he  gambled  and  operated  saloons.  In  the  meantime  he  was 
married.  Not  long  before  his  death,  which  occurred  at  Douglas, 
Wyo.,  when  under  arrest,  he  lived  at  Ardmore,  South  Dakota.  His 
business  there  was  running  a  saloon.  He  came  to  visit  me  in  my 
home  and  told  me  some  of  his  experiences  after  the  time  when  we 
worked  on  the  Texas  cattle  trail. 

The  following  incident,  which  he  related  to  me,  illustrated  a  rather 
unusual  phase  of  horse-stealing.  He  and  three  others,  all  of  whom  I 
knew,  conceived  the  idea  that  they  could  go  up  into  the  country  near 
the  Red  Cloud  Indian  Agency,  where  they  thought  the  Indians  would 
not  feel  that  they  had  to  guard  their  horse  herds  very  carefully, 
and  run  off  a  big  band  of  ponies,  which  they  could  turn  over  to 
some  confederates  in  the  country  lying  just  north  of  North  Platte 
city.  They  all  had  good  horses  and  took  no  pack  horse  with  them, 
but  each  man  had  an  extra  blanket  and  a  little  food,  which  he  car 
ried  on  his  saddle  horse.  All  of  them  were  well  armed.  Three  of 
them  carried  Winchester  rifles.  The  other  man  carried  a  government 
"Long  Tom  needle  gun"  across  his  saddle. 

When  they  arrived  within  a  few  miles  of  the  Agency  buildings, 
they  discovered  a  large  encampment  of  Indians  on  a  creek  named 


88  ROUNDUP: 

Little  White  Clay  near  the  Red  Cloud  Agency,  now  Fort  Robinson, 
Nebraska.  These  Indians  had  a  big  band  of  ponies,  but  they  kept 
a  guard  of  several  men  with  it  night  and  day.  Doc  and  his  associates 
were  concealed  in  the  rocks  and  timber  on  an  elevation  where  they 
could  overlook  the  Indian  camp  and  horse  herd.  They  waited  for 
a  favorable  moment  when  the  herd  was  left  unguarded.  Food  ran 
low,  and  the  horse  thieves  were  none  too  comfortable  or  safe  from 
discovery  by  the  Indians.  One  evening,  Doc,  who  was  watching  the 
herd  of  ponies  from  his  perch  among  the  rocks,  saw  a  fresh  lot  of 
Indians  ride  out  of  camp  to  night-herd  the  ponies.  Acting  on  the 
impulse  of  the  moment,  Doc  pumped  a  lot  of  lead  out  of  his  Win 
chester  into  the  midst  of  the  Indians'  camp.  Naturally  the  camp 
swarmed  out  after  them.  The  only  thing  left  for  those  enterprising 
horse  thieves  to  do  then  was  to  make  a  very  hasty  departure. 

They  certainly  did  so,  but  in  speeding  over  some  open  ground 
the  horse  ridden  by  the  man  who  carried  the  long  needle  gun  stepped 
into  a  gopher  hole  and  turned  a  somersault.  His  rider  was  not  in 
jured  much,  so  the  moment  he  and  the  horse  could  get  on  their 
feet  and  the  gun  had  been  secured  from  where  it  had  been  thrown, 
all  were  off  again  for  the  land  of  safety.  Not  until  they  had  ridden 
an  hour  or  so  from  the  place  where  the  horse  fell  did  they  discover 
that  the  barrel  of  the  long  gun  was  bent  into  an  arc  and  was  a 
worthless  impediment  to  their  flight.  They  arrived  safely  in  the 
white  man's  country,  but  that  was  their  last  venture  in  stealing  a 
big  band  of  Sioux  ponies. 

Another  man  whose  face  was  familiar  to  people  in  Ogallala  at 
one  time,  who  later  became  one  of  the  most  notorious  characters 
of  the  Southwest,  was  Luke  Short.  He  was  a  gambler  by  profession, 
but  at  times  he  became  interested  in  the  Indian-pony-stealing  busi 
ness.  I  met  him  and  became  interested  in  him  when  I  happened  to 
see  him  doing  some  pistol  practice  one  day  on  the  banks  of  the 
South  Platte  River,  about  a  mile  from  Ogallala.  He  could  draw  and 
fire  a  six-shooter  more  rapidly  and  accurately  at  short  range  than 
any  other  man  I  ever  knew.  After  leaving  Ogallala,  he  went  to 
Arizona,  and  from  there  to  Texas.  In  a  gun  fight  there  with  Jim 
Courtright,  a  noted  quick  shot  gunman  of  Texas,  Courtright  was 
killed.  Short  left  Texas,  and  I  never  heard  of  him  afterward. 

Six  other  men  who  left  their  mark  as  desperadoes  of  the  West 
were  for  a  short  time  a  part  of  the  population  of  Ogallala.  I  think 
it  was  during  the  cattle  season  of  1877.  At  the  time  I  happened  to 
be  in  the  town,  and  noticed  a  bunch  of  six  men,  with  pack  horses, 


A  Nebraska  Reader  89 

ride  into  town.  They  made  camp  about  one  hundred  yards  west  of 
the  Rooney  Hotel,  as  they  had  their  camping  outfit  on  pack  horses. 
Soon  after  their  arrival  I  met  one  of  the  men  and  recognized  him 
as  a  cattleman  I  had  met  in  one  of  the  Kansas  cowtowns.  His  name 
was  Joel  Collins.  He  remembered  me  and  told  me  that  he  and  the 
outfit  of  riders  with  him  had  just  delivered  a  herd  of  cattle  to  some 
buyers  up  in  the  Black  Hills  country.  I  soon  after  met  his  outfit, 
and  I  spent  some  of  my  time  with  them  in  their  camp.  The  names 
of  these  men  were  Jim  Berry,  Bill  Heffridge,  Jack  Davis,  Sam  Bass 
and  John  Underwood. 

Joel  Collins  was  an  inveterate  gambler  as  well  as  being  a  cowman. 
One  evening  after  having  been  playing  Spanish  Monte,  he  came  to 
me  and  asked  me  to  loan  him  seventy-five  dollars  for  a  day  or  two. 
I  did  so,  although  it  was  about  all  I  had,  as  I  had  spent  a  goodly 
portion  of  my  wages  for  an  outfit  of  good  clothes,  a  saddle,  bridle, 
and  blankets,  such  as  I  could  well  be  proud  of.  For  some  reason 
Jim  Berry  and  I  took  a  liking  to  each  other,  although  there  was  a 
great  difference  in  our  ages.  Little  did  I  imagine  that  the  outfit  of 
which  he  was  a  member  would  soon  be  engaged  in  a  train  robbery 
such  as  they  pulled  off  at  a  little  station  located  about  twelve  miles 
west  of  Ogallala. 

Just  prior  to  the  time  when  they  robbed  that  train,  I  was  in  the 
parlor  of  the  Rooney  Hotel  with  Joel  Collins  and  some  of  his  crew 
when  some  shooting  began  in  the  street,  and  a  bunch  of  cowboys 
rode  by  shooting  "high,  wide,  and  scattering."  Miss  Cast  and  another 
woman  or  two  came  into  the  parlor,  very  much  frightened.  Joel 
Collins,  who  was  a  very  gentlemanly  man  to  meet,  assured  the 
women,  in  his  low,  kindly  voice,  that  there  was  little  danger.  "The 
boys  were  just  having  a  little  play  spell,  and  would  harm  no  one  in 
tentionally/' 

I  never  knew  the  facts  connected  with  the  train  robbery,  other 
than  that  the  robbers  left  their  camp,  robbed  the  train,  and  were 
back  in  their  camp  when  the  news  arrived  in  Ogallala  that  a  train 
had  been  held  up  and  robbed.  It  was  one  of  the  best  through  pas 
senger  trains  on  the  Union  Pacific  Railway. 

During  the  days  when  Joel  Collins  and  his  crew  of  "cowboys" 
were  camped  in  Ogallala  and  no  doubt  making  their  plans  for  hold 
ing  up  the  overland  train  at  Big  Springs,  a  gent  from  somewhere 
arrived  in  town  with  an  outfit  for  starting  a  shooting  gallery.  He 
secured  a  space  between  two  of  the  buildings,  and  some  old  railroad 
ties,  with  which  he  built  butts  which  would  stop  the  bullets  fired 


go  ROUNDUP 

from  the  small-bore  target  rifles  at  the  targets  he  used.  He  made  a 
charge:  six  shots  for  a  quarter,  and  if  a  certain  high  score  was  made 
by  a  patron,  a  prize  of  six  cigars  was  to  be  given  him.  When  he 
had  everything  ready,  he  began  to  call  the  attention  of  the  numerous 
men  on  the  street  by  shouting,  "Right  this  way,  gentlemen,  and 
show  your  skilll"  Joel  Collins  and  some  of  his  outfit,  also  Luke  Short 
and  several  others,  sauntered  up  to  look  at  the  "Gent's  layout." 
Someone  in  the  bunch  remarked  that  he  could  "bust  a  bull's-eye" 
as  he  produced  a  Colts  "45"  from  somewhere  about  his  waistband 
and  cut  loose  at  a  target. 

The  proprietor  of  the  shooting  gallery  voiced  a  protest,  but  in 
a  very  short  time  after  that  first  shot  a  dozen  or  more  guns  were 
brought  into  action,  the  result  being  that  within  a  few  minutes'  time 
the  entire  shooting  gallery  was  wrecked,  rifles  and  all,  including 
many  boxes  of  twenty-two  caliber  cartridges.  The  owner  was  then 
invited  to  have  a  drink.  Seeing  that  he  had  taken  his  wares  to  the 
wrong  market,  he  had  the  good  sense  to  behave  and  act  the  part  of 
a  good  fellow  by  taking  a  drink  of  lemonade  "with  a  stick  in  it" 
and  then  buying  drinks  for  all  thirsty  shooters.  He  made  such  a 
good  impression  on  the  boys  that  a  collection  was  taken  up  and  he 
was  paid  the  sum  his  outfit  had  cost  him  and  his  fare  on  the  train 
back  to  North  Platte  city. 


Condensed  from  "Early  Days  in  Ogallala,"  Nebraska  History, 
XIV  (April-June,  1933) 


Although  almost  every  farmer  raised  a  few  cattle,  the 
cattle  industry,  in  the  strictest  sense,  generally  was  carried 
on  by  large-scale  operators.  Initially  the  ranchers  simply 
ran  their  cattle  on  the  public  domain,  for  which  privilege 
they  paid  neither  taxes  nor  rent.  This  range,  of  course, 
was  theoretically  "open";  but  the  cattlemen  generally 
were  able  to  control  it  as  they  saw  fit,  keeping  out  any  who 
tried  to  encroach  upon  it.  Particularly  obnoxious  were  the 
"nesters"  who  ventured  into  the  range  country  to  take 
quarter-section  homesteads,  build  their  little  soddies,  and 
fence  their  land,  thus  breaking  up  the  open  range.  Wire- 
cutters  became  standard  equipment  for  the  cowboys,  and 
when  harassment  would  not  drive  the  homesteaders  away, 
some  of  the  ranchers  resorted  to  stronger  methods,  includ 
ing,  on  occasion,  outright  murder. 

—Condensed  from  Olson's  History  of  Nebraska 


Necktie  Parties 


i.  The  Mitchell  and  Ketchum  Tragedy 

S.  D.  BUTCHER 

IN  1877  a  number  of  settlers  located  on  Clear  Creek,  near  the  western 
border  of  Custer  County,  among  them  Luther  Mitchell  and  Ami 
Ketchum.  Mitchell,  who  came  from  Merrick  County,  was  a  farmer 
about  sixty-five  years  old,  and  married.  Ketchum,  formerly  a  black 
smith,  had  decided  to  become  a  farmer,  although  he  still  did  some 
work  at  his  trade  for  the  neighbors.  He  was  unmarried  and  lived 
with  the  Mitchells. 

One  of  the  wealthiest  men  in  Nebraska  at  that  time  was  I.  P.  Olive, 
who  lived  on  Plum  Creek  east  of  what  is  now  Callaway  and  owned 
many  thousands  of  cattle  that  grazed  over  the  South  Loup  valley 
and  the  adjoining  country.  While  he  was  generous  and  courteous  to 
those  with  whom  he  was  on  good  terms,  he  was  an  implacable  enemy 
and  a  dead  shot.  His  brother  Bob  had  left  Texas  under  indictment 
for  two  murders;  on  Olive's  advice,  rather  than  stand  trial,  he  had 
fled  to  Nebraska,  where  he  assumed  the  name  of  Stevens.  It  was  as 
Stevens  that  he  was  known  during  his  career  in  Custer  County. 


gs  ROUNDUP: 

Like  other  ranchers,  I.  P.  Olive  had  suffered  heavy  losses  from  the 
depredations  of  the  cattle  thieves  and  had  become  the  prime  mover 
in  an  attempt  to  drive  them  out.  The  confession  of  one  Manley 
Capel,  arrested  on  a  charge  of  cattle-stealing,  seemed  to  implicate 
Ami  Ketchum.  When  information  obtained  from  a  man  named 
Mclndeffer,  who  acted  as  a  sort  of  spy  for  the  cattlemen,  also  seemed 
to  point  to  Ketchum,  the  Olives  determined  to  arrest  him.  Not 
withstanding  the  enmity  that  was  known  to  exist  between  him  and 
Bob  Olive,  Sheriff  Anderson  of  Buffalo  County  deputized  Olive  to 
make  the  arrest. 

On  November  27,  1878,  in  the  company  of  two  rough  and  reckless 
cowboys,  Barney  Armstrong  and  Pete  Beaton,  and  with  Mclndeffer 
as  a  guide,  Bob  Olive  started  for  Clear  Creek.  Arriving  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  Mitchell  place,  three  of  the  men  remained  concealed  behind 
a  small  hill  while  the  fourth  rode  on  to  the  homestead  and  asked 
to  have  his  horse  shod.  Ketchum  explained  that  he  and  the  Mitchells 
were  about  to  go  to  a  neighbor's  to  return  a  borrowed  animal.  If 
the  stranger  would  come  back  next  day,  he  would  do  the  job  then. 

The  "stranger"  reported  back  to  Olive  that  their  ruse  to  separate 
Mitchell  and  Ketchum  had  failed,  and  the  four  men  now  rode 
boldly  up  to  the  settlers.  Mrs.  Mitchell  already  had  taken  her  seat 
in  the  wagon;  her  husband  and  Ketchum  were  occupied  in  tying 
the  animal  to  the  hind  axle.  When  a  short  distance  away,  the  posse 
made  a  dash,  four  abreast,  and  Bob  Olive  shouted  to  Ketchum  to 
throw  up  his  hands  in  the  name  of  the  law,  at  the  same  time  pre 
senting  his  revolver.  Ketchum  threw  up  his  right  hand  with  a  Colt 
.45  in  it,  and  both  men  fired.  Several  shots  were  exchanged,  one  of 
which  broke  Ketchum's  left  arm. 

As  soon  as  the  shooting  began,  the  elderly  Mitchell  grabbed  his 
Winchester  and  took  deliberate  aim  at  Olive,  who  cried  out:  "My 
God,  old  man,  don't  shootl"  But  it  was  too  late.  Olive  reeled  in 
his  saddle  and  only  the  cowboys  prevented  him  from  falling.  Sup 
porting  him  on  his  horse,  they  wheeled  and  galloped  away,  followed 
by  bullets  from  Ketchum's  Winchester,  which  was  loaded  for  him 
by  a  step-daughter  of  Mitchell.  One  of  the  bullets  cut  in  two  a 
scarf  around  Beaton's  neck;  the  next  shaved  off  his  hat  brim;  and 
another  went  through  Armstrong's  foot.  The  wounded  Bob  Olive 
was  taken  to  a  dugout  farther  down  the  creek.  There  he  made  his 
will  and  sent  for  his  wife.  He  died  three  days  later. 

At  the  news  of  the  shooting  there  was  great  excitement  among 
the  cattlemen  and  cowboys.  That  same  night  a  large  force  returned! 


A  Nebraska  Reader  93 

to  the  Mitchell  homestead  to  wreak  vengeance  on  the  two  men. 
Finding  them  gone,  they  set  fire  to  the  house  and  burned  up  the 
roof,  that  being  the  only  combustible  spot. 

Mitchell  and  Ketchum  had  fled  to  their  former  home  in  Merrick 
County.  After  Ketchum's  arm  had  been  seen  to  and  they  had  found 
a  place  of  safety  for  Mitchell's  family,  the  two  men  started  to  re 
trace  their  steps  to  Custer  County,  intending  to  give  themselves  up. 
Passing  through  Loup  City,  they  consulted  an  attorney,  who  advised 
them  to  proceed  no  farther  as  they  would  surely  be  lynched.  Finally, 
they  decided  to  surrender  to  Sheriff  E.  P.  Crew  of  Howard  County 
and  went  to  a  homestead  on  Oak  Creek  where  Crew  and  Sheriff 
William  Letcher  of  Merrick  County  met  them  and  took  them  into 
custody.  Since  Crew  and  Letcher  would  not  assume  the  responsi 
bility  of  taking  the  prisoners  to  Custer  County  and  handing  them 
over  to  the  cowboys,  Mitchell  and  Ketchum  were  taken  to  Buffalo 
County  and  lodged  temporarily  in  the  Kearney  jail,  in  charge  of 
Sheriff  Anderson  of  that  county. 

They  were  held  at  first  without  legal  authority,  as  Olive  had  given 
the  warrant  for  their  arrest,  issued  in  Custer  County,  into  the  hands 
of  Sheriff  Barney  Gillan  of  Keith  County.  Olive  also  had  offered  a 
$700  reward,  and  all  four  sheriffs  were  anxious  to  collect  the  money. 
A  dispute  arose  over  the  division  of  the  reward,  but  Olive  declined 
to  pay  a  cent  of  it  until  the  prisoners  were  delivered  to  Custer 
County.  Mitchell  and  Ketchum,  meanwhile,  had  engaged  Thomas 
Darnell  and  E.  C.  Calkins  as  counsel. 

At  last  it  was  arranged  among  the  sheriffs  that  Barney  Gillan 
should  take  the  prisoners  back.  Not  knowing  Gillan's  desparate 
character,  Darnell  and  Calkins  consented  on  condition  they  be 
notified  of  the  departure  in  time  to  accompany  their  clients.  None 
theless,  on  the  forenoon  of  December  10,  Gillan  removed  the  pris 
oners  by  stealth,  hustling  them  aboard  the  westbound  emigrant  train 
just  as  it  pulled  out.  As  soon  as  he  learned  this,  Darnell  telegraphed 
to  Gillan  at  a  station  en  route,  asking  him  to  hold  the  prisoners 
at  Plum  Creek  until  the  next  train.  Gillan  replied  that  he  would 
do  so.  Darnell  also  telegraphed  to  a  Plum  Creek  attorney,  Captain 
C.  W.  McNamar,  to  keep  an  eye  on  things  until  he  could  get  there. 
The  train  pulled  into  Plum  Creek  at  three  in  the  afternoon.  Wait 
ing  at  the  depot  were  Olive  and  a  party  with  wagons  into  which 
Mitchell  and  Ketchum  were  loaded,  in  spite  of  Captain  McNamar's 
protests.  Convinced  that  they  intended  murder,  McNamar  followed 


94  ROUNDUP: 

the  wagon  train.  When  they  saw  they  were  being  followed,  the 
wagons  separated,  but  McNamar  kept  after  the  one  containing 
the  prisoners  until  it  became  so  dark  that  he  lost  the  trail  among  the 
hills. 

The  two  groups  of  the  Olive  party  kept  on  all  night,  meeting  on 
the  South  Loup  about  five  miles  from  the  Olive  ranch.  There  Sheriff 
Gillan  turned  the  prisoners  over  to  Dennis  Gartrell,  Pedro  Domin- 
icus  and  Bion  Brown.  After  the  transfer  had  taken  place,  Gillan 
and  another  Olive  man,  Phil  Dufrand,  walked  away  a  short  distance 
while  the  party  left  with  the  prisoners.  Their  destination  was  a  place 
known  as  the  "Devil's  Gap,"  in  a  wild  canyon  about  halfway  be 
tween  the  Loup  and  Wood  River  valley,  some  five  miles  southeast 
of  where  Callaway  now  stands. 

Olive  and  Gartrell  drove  the  wagon  with  the  prisoners  under  a 
small  elm  tree.  A  couple  of  ropes  were  passed  over  a  limb.  Gartrell 
tied  one  around  Ketchum's  neck,  and  Pedro  Dominicus  fastened 
the  other  around  the  neck  of  Mitchell.  Ketchum  was  drawn  up  first. 
Olive  then  took  a  rifle  and  shot  Mitchell,  after  which  he  was  drawn 
up  until  he  dangled  beside  his  companion. 

When  they  were  found  the  next  afternoon,  the  bodies  were  fright 
fully  burned,  that  of  Ketchum  still  hanging  to  a  limb,  while  that 
of  Mitchell  was  resting  on  the  ground,  the  rope  by  which  he  had 
been  suspended  having  been  either  broken  or  burned  in  two.  The 
men  were  handcuffed  together,  one  of  Mitchell's  arms  being  drawn 
up  to  Ketchum  by  the  handcuffs,  the  other  burned  off  to  the 
shoulder. 

It  probably  will  never  be  known  who  burnt  the  bodies.  After  the 
lynching,  the  Olive  gang  rode  about  a  mile  toward  the  Olive  ranch, 
where  two  of  the  men  were  given  fresh  horses  for  the  return  to  Plum 
Creek.  As  they  had  to  pass  the  scene  of  the  crime  on  the  way,  it  is 
generally  supposed  that  these  two,  crazed  with  drink,  resolved  to 
put  the  finishing  touches  on  the  terrible  night's  work  by  emptying 
their  liquor  flasks  over  the  hanging  bodies  and  setting  them  on  fire. 
It  does  not  appear  that  Olive  was  a  party  to,  or  had  any  knowledge 
of,  this  part  of  the  crime. 

The  whole  state  was  horror-stricken  at  the  sickening  details  of  the 
tragedy,  but  the  well  known  desperate  characters  of  most  of  the 
Olive  men  made  the  question  of  apprehending  them  a  very  serious 
one.  The  Kearney  paper  declared  that  there  was  one  man  in  Ne 
braska  who  would  see  that  the  criminals  were  brought  to  justice, 
and  the  man  was  Judge  William  Gaslin.  And,  in  fact,  Judge  Gaslin 


A  Nebraska  Reader  95 

adjourned  court  in  Sidney  and  hurried  to  Plum  Creek  to  do  so. 

I  learned  [he  wrote  later]  that  all  the  officials  of  Custer  County  either 
belonged  to,  or  were  under  the  influence  of  the  Olive  gang,  and  as  they 
could  not  be  moved  against  by,  or  through,  any  of  the  officials  of  that  county, 
I  left  on  the  first  train  for  Kearney  to  look  up  the  law  and  see  if  I,  as  an  ex 
amining  magistrate,  could  not  issue  warrants  for  their  arrest.  I  soon  satisfied 
myself  I  had  the  authority.  After  I  had  made  out  the  warrants,  I  offered 
them  to  Sheriff  James  of  Dawson  County  and  Sheriff  Anderson  of  Buffalo 
County,  and  both  declined  to  take  or  serve  them  on  account  of  a  fear  of 
their  lives,  as  they  said. 

Previously,  a  citizen  of  Kearney,  Mr.  J.  P.  Johnson,  had  told  me  that  if 
the  officers  were  afraid  to  arrest  the  criminals  he  would  furnish  the  men  to 
do  it.  I  now  turned  to  him  and  deputized  them  then  and  there.  There  were 
five  or  six  in  all,  one  being  Lawrence  Ketchum,  a  brother  of  the  man  who 
was  lynched.  In  strictest  secrecy  it  was  arranged  for  one  group  of  deputies  to 
arrest  those  of  the  gang  who  were  at  the  Olive  ranch.  Another  group 
boarded  a  freight  at  Kearney  about  midnight,  arriving  in  Plum  Creek  a 
little  before  daybreak.  The  railroad  people,  who  were  in  the  secret,  halted 
the  train  outside  Plum  Creek;  the  officers  walked  into  town  and  arrested  all 
the  gang  who  were  there. 

When  the  other  party  arrived  at  the  Olive  ranch  they  found  that  the 
men  they  were  after  had  fled  the  country.  Among  them  was  the  delectable 
Barney  Gillan,  sheriff  of  Keith  County,  who  had  delivered  Mitchell  and 
Ketchum  over  to  the  murderers,  and  who  secured  the  $700  blood  money 
paid  by  Olive. 

All  kinds  of  lawyers,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  were  employed  by  the 
defense,  some  for  ability  and  legal  lore,  and  some  to  insult  and  bulldoze 
the  court— for  which  they  occasionally  got  fined  for  contempt.  The  trial  had 
not  progressed  long  before  the  prosecuting  attorney  privately  informed  me 
that  he  had  made  a  secret  arrangement  with  one  of  the  prisoners,  Bion 
Brown,  to  turn  state's  evidence.  Brown  was  in  jail  with  the  other  defend 
ants,  heard  and  knew  all  their  plans,  and  daily  communicated  the  same  to 
General  Dil worth,  the  prosecuting  attorney.  He  said  at  one  time  that  they 
talked  of  having  their  friends,  who  were  in  disguise  in  the  town,  shoot 
General  Dilworth  and  me  and  have  horses  ready  for  the  prisoners,  who 
would  escape  in  the  excitement.  I  then  gave  orders  for  no  one  to  occupy 
the  gallery  opposite  where  I  sat,  and  I  had  a  large  number  of  bailiffs, 
secretly  heavily  armed,  scattered  over  the  court  room.  One  day  it 'was 
reported  that  a  number  of  the  Texas  friends  of  the  prisoners  were  lurking 
in  the  hills  near  the  Platte,  armed  to  the  teeth  and  provided  with  good 
horses  with  which  to  swoop  down  on  the  court  and  liberate  the  prisoners. 
Other  things  came  to  the  knowledge  of  Sheriff  Lewis  Martin  of  Adams 
County  which  induced  him  to  procure  a  company  of  regulars  from  Omaha: 
the  soldiers  were  tented  on  the  public  square  of  Hastings,  opposite  the  hall 
where  the  court  was  being  held. 

The  trial  commenced  in  Hastings  in  April.  An  indictment  was 
found  against  I.  P.  Olive  and  eleven  others  for  the  murder  of  Luther 


96  ROUNDUP: 

Mitchell,  and  he  and  Fred  Fisher  were  put  on  trial  for  the  crime. 
There  were  about  100  witnesses,  among  them  Captain  McNamar 
and  Phil  Dufrand,  one  of  the  defendants,  who,  along  with  Bion 
Brown,  turned  state's  evidence.  The  case  was  given  to  the  jury  on 
the  evening  of  April  16,  and  a  verdict  was  arrived  at  before  morning 
to  the  effect  that  I.  P.  Olive  and  Fred  Fisher  were  guilty  of  murder 
in  the  second  degree.  Judge  Gaslin  sentenced  them  to  the  peni 
tentiary  for  the  rest  of  their  natural  lives. 

Immediately  after  the  sentence  of  Olive  and  Fisher,  their  friends 
began  proceedings  for  their  release.  The  following  year  their  efforts 
were  successful,  the  supreme  court  handing  down  a  decision  to  the 
effect  that  the  prisoners  had  a  right  to  trial  in  the  county  where 
the  crime  with  which  they  were  charged  was  committed.  This  not 
having  been  done,  the  prisoners  were  sent  to  Custer  County  for 
trial.  The  following  shows  the  disposition  of  the  celebrated  Olive 
case: 

I.  P.  Olive,  W.  F.  Fisher,  in  custody  of  Sheriff  O'Brien,  the  court  finding 
no  complaint  on  county  docket  and  no  complaining  witnesses,  the  court 
orders  that  the  prisoners  be  discharged  till  further  proceedings  can  be  had. 

This  i7th  day  of  December,  1880. 

E.  J.  BOBLITS,  County  Judge. 

The  decision  of  the  supreme  court  of  course  put  an  end  to  the 
proceedings  against  the  other  defendants,  but  in  the  meantime  most 
of  them  had  been  allowed  to  escape  from  the  various  jails  in  which 
they  had  been  confined,  and  as  far  as  we  know  Olive  and  Fisher 
were  the  only  ones  that  ever  had  to  do  any  time  in  the  penitentiary. 
Four  years  after  his  release,  I.  P.  Olive  and  his  son  William  were  in 
Colorado.  One  evening  young  Olive  had  a  quarrel  with  a  stranger 
over  a  game  of  billiards  and  was  shot  dead.  The  next  day,  while  the 
elder  Olive  was  participating  in  a  roundup  of  some  cattle,  he  got 
into  a  quarrel  and  was  instantly  killed  while  trying  to  draw  his 
revolver. 

Condensed  from  Pioneer  History  of  Custer  County   (Broken  Bow,  Nebraska)  1901 


According  to  a  biographical  sketch  of  Judge  William  Gaslin  con 
tributed  to  the  Pioneer  History  of  Custer  County  by  his  court  re 
porter,  F.  M.  Hallowell,  the  Judge  was  born  in  Kennebec  County, 
Maine,  in  1837.  His  boyhood  was  a  rugged  one:  he  worked  on  his 
parents'  "sterile,  rocky  farm/'  hired  out  by  the  month  to  cut  lumber, 


A  Nebraska  Reader  97 

and  went  to  sea,  at  first  serving  as  cook.  In  1852  he  entered  Bowdoin 
College  from  which  he  graduated  in  1856,  "having  paid  his  own 
way  by  teaching  school  and  earning  money  at  anything  he  could 
do."  While  he  read  for  the  law  in  the  chambers  of  an  Augusta, 
Maine,  judge,  he  continued  to  teach  school  to  support  his  mother 
and  younger  brother  and  sister.  After  being  admitted  to  the  bar,  he 
began  to  practice  on  his  own,  but  in  1865  a  disastrous  fire  destroyed 
most  of  the  business  part  of  Augusta,  including  Gaslin's  office  and 
all  its  contents,  and  he  decided  to  go  west. 

Gaslin  arrived  in  Omaha  in  March,  1868,  remaining  there  until 
1871,  when  he  took  a  homestead  in  Harlan  County,  opening  a  law 
office  at  Lowell  the  following  year.  Business  was  booming  in  Lowell: 
as  well  as  Ipeing  the  location  of  the  United  States  land  office,  it  was 
the  terminus  of  the  Texas  cattle  trail  and  the  outfitting  post  for 
southwestern  Nebraska  and  northern  Kansas.  However,  in  1874  when 
the  land  office  was  moved  to  Bloomington  and  the  railroad  ex 
tended  to  Kearney,  "like  Carthage,  Babylon,  Nineveh,  and  Sandusky, 
Lowell  fell." 

In  1875  Gaslin  was  elected  district  judge  on  the  Republican  ticket. 
So  successful  was  he  in  clearing  out  desperadoes  that  when  he  ran 
for  a  second  term  "he  had  five  more  votes  than  the  Republican 
and  Democratic  vote  combined."  When  Gaslin  was  first  elected, 
his  district  embraced  Webster,  Adams,  Buffalo,  Sherman,  and  Custer 
counties,  the  unorganized  county  of  Sioux,  which  was  attached  to 
Cheyenne  County  for  judicial  purposes,  and  all  the  state  west  of 
these  counties,  comprising  at  least  one-half  the  territory  of  the  state. 
Yet  despite  the  size  of  this  district  and  the  fact  that  he  traveled  by 
wagon  to  reach  two-thirds  of  the  counties  in  it,  he  held  court  less 
than  one-third  of  the  time. 

Judge  Gaslin  contended  that  the  way  to  put  a  stop  to  crime  was 
by  dealing  out  "speedy,  sure,  and  severe  punishment  to  confirmed 
and  abandoned  criminals,"  and  he  had  the  nerve,  strength,  and  iron 
will  to  execute  the  law  without  fear  or  favor.  "His  clean-cut,  un 
sophisticated,  blunt,  crisp  way  of  running  his  court  and  disposing 
of  its  business  without  any  frills  made  him  many  enemies  among 
the  lawyers."  The  first  three  years  he  was  judge  he  presided  over 
twenty-six  murder  trials,  and  during  his  full  sixteen  years  of  office, 
over  a  total  of  sixty-eight.  "The  felony  cases  would  have  to  be  num 
bered  by  the  hundred— in  fact,  the  warden  of  the  penitentiary  re 
garded  him  as  one  of  his  most  reliable  patrons." 

His  last  three  terms  as  judge,  Gaslin  was  nominated  by  both 


98  ROUNDUP: 

parties  and  elected  without  opposition.  On  leaving  the  bench  in  1892, 
he  went  to  live  in  Kearney  where  he  continued  to  practice  law  until 
his  death. 


The  Whiton  Hotel,  a  blood-red  stucco  building  on  a  cor 
ner  of  Bassett's  sandy  main  street,  is  a  relic  of  the  days 
when  the  town  was  less  sedate.  Known  then  as  the  Martin 
Hotel,  it  was  frequented  by  the  fast-shooting,  hard-riding, 
hard-drinking  Pony  Boys,  a  notorious  gang  of  outlaws  led 
by  Kid  Wade  and  David  C.  (Doc)  Middleton.  .  .  .  In 
1884  vigilantes  caught  Wade  east  of  Bassett.  .  .  . 

—Nebraska:  A  Guide  to  the  Gornhusker  State 


2.  The  Lynching  of  Kid  Wade 

T.  JOSEPHINE  HAUGEN 

ON  THE  morning  of  February  8,  1884,  the  little  village  o£  Bassett, 
Rock  County,  Nebraska,  awoke  to  learn  that  it  had  been  host  to 
a  lynching  party  during  the  night:  the  body  of  Kid  Wade  had  been 
discovered  hanging  from  a  whistling  post  a  mile  east  of  town. 

For  a  number  of  years  the  Niobrara  country  had  been  infested  by 
gangs  of  horse  thieves,  one  of  the  most  active  being  headed  by  Doc 
Middleton,  who  was  captured  and  sent  to  prison  in  1879.  At  this 
time,  Albert  (Kid)  Wade,  probably  the  most  notorious  of  his  fol 
lowers,  eluded  the  arresting  officers,  but  the  law  caught  up  with  him 
in  Iowa  some  months  later.  Late  in  1884  he  was  back  again  along 
the  Niobrara,  resuming  operations  near  Cams,  where  twenty-five 
or  thirty  horses  were  stolen.  This  was  too  much  for  "Cap"  Burn- 
ham's  Vigilance  committee,  and  from  that  day  on  events  moved 
rapidly. 

A  number  of  the  gang  were  captured  in  Middleton's  Canyon  on 
Holt  Creek,  but  Kid  and  Eph  Weatherwax  escaped.  Tradition  says 
that  Kid  and  his  companion  drove  the  stolen  stock  north  to  the 
Black  Hills  country,  then  followed  the  White  River  to  the  Missouri, 
continuing  down  the  latter  to  the  mouth  of  the  Niobrara,  where 
they  started  back  west  on  the  north  side  of  the  Niobrara  through 
the  Indian  country.  Until  now  Kid  had  kept  all  the  horses,  but 


A  Nebraska  Reader  99 

when  he  turned  westward  he  began  selling  them  along  the  way,  and 
it  was  this  that  led  to  his  capture.  Among  the  stolen  horses  was  one 
having  a  split  hoof,  a  mark  easily  detected.  He  sold  the  horse  to 
a  farmer,  but  evidently  saw  his  blunder  almost  immediately,  for 
he  soon  returned  and  bought  the  horse  back.  The  farmer's  suspicions 
were  naturally  aroused,  and  he  followed  a  short  distance  after  to  see 
what  happened.  Kid  and  a  helper  drove  the  horse  out  a  mile  or 
so,  shot  and  buried  it.  The  farmer  notified  officers,  who  dug  up  the 
horse  and  identified  it  as  one  of  those  stolen  near  Cams.  From  the 
description  given  them,  they  recognized  Kid  Wade  as  one  of  the  two 
men.  Kid  was  traced  to  Iowa  where  he  was  captured  near  Le  Mars 
a  couple  of  months  later. 

The  O'Neill  Frontier  of  January  24  stated  that  Kid  had  been 
arrested  and  was  being  held  near  there;  and  a  dispatch  of  Febru 
ary  3rd  reported  him  in  custody  of  the  "Regulators"  near  Red  Bird 
where  he  was  giving  away  all  that  he  knew.  It  had  been  generally 
accepted  that  he  was  guilty,  but  not  believed  that  he  would  squeal. 
However,  when  he  learned  that  others  were  passing  the  buck  to 
him,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  tell  and  take  his  chances  with  the  law. 

From  Red  Bird,  Kid  was  taken  to  the  north  side  of  the  Niobrara, 
then  west  in  the  direction  of  Cams.  He  was  in  the  custody  of  Henry 
Richardson  and  two  other  Vigilantes  when  they  stopped  at  my 
father's  for  lunch.  The  question  has  frequently  been  asked  whether 
Kid  displayed  any  apprehension  as  to  his  possible  fate.  My  mother 
said  that  the  prisoner  showed  no  concern;  he  sat  playing  with  the 
doorknob  and  laughed  freely  as  he  answered  the  cross-examination 
by  Richardson.  To  one  query  of  Richardson's  as  to  his  whereabouts 
in  the  past,  he  gave  the  significant  reply,  "Yes,  I've  had  many  warm 
breakfasts  at  your  house."  Had  Kid  known  that  his  father  had  disap 
peared  some  weeks  earlier,  he  would  probably  have  shown  less  forti 
tude.  But  he  had  been  a  fugitive  for  several  months,  and  the  chances 
are  that  he  never  heard  his  father  had  also  been  taken  by  the  Vigi 
lantes.  While  the  belief  was  general  that  the  elder  Wade  had  been 
put  to  death,  nothing  definite  was  learned  until  the  following  sum 
mer  when  his  body  was  discovered  in  a  ditch  near  Ash  Creek. 

After  lunch  the  four  went  on  to  Cams  where  they  again  crossed 
the  Niobrara.  That  evening  three  other  men  came  to  ask  accom 
modations  for  the  night.  They  too  were  seeking  Kid,  but  whether 
or  not  they  belonged  to  the  same  Vigilante  company  was  not  learned. 
Vigilantes  were  no  more  welcome  than  horse  thieves,  but  pioneer  hos 
pitality  shared  with  all. 


ioo  ROUNDUP: 

This  news  item,  taken  from  the  Long  Pine  Journal  and  reprinted 
in  the  Omaha  Herald  of  February  13,  1884,  throws  much  light  on 
the  subsequent  move  of  the  Vigilantes: 

On  Tuesday  afternoon  our  town  was  set  agog  when  Kid  Wade,  the 
notorious  horse  thief,  was  brought  in  by  one  Kinney,  a  sort  of  lieutenant 
to  Capt.  Burnham.  The  Kid  is  a  young  man  of  less  than  25  years,  of  rather 
slender  build,  and  medium  height,  a  shambling  gait,  a  low  forehead  and 
massive  jaws,  and  a  face  inclined  to  angular  and  sharp  features,  on  which 
the  beard  scarcely  yet  grows;  in  fact  the  general  makeup  of  the  man,  and 
especially  the  facial  expression  is  one  more  fitting  a  levee  loafer  or  sneak 
thief  than  one  denoting  the  higher  aspirations  of  a  horse  thief. 

The  object  of  the  Vigilantes  in  bringing  the  prisoner  before  the  public 
was  to  give  the  people  an  opportunity  to  question  him  as  to  his  treatment 
since  capture,  and  thus  refute  the  charges  that  have  been  made  against  the 
Vigilantes  as  to  their  "holding  up"  their  prisoners  and  extorting  confes 
sions  from  them  at  the  rope's  end.  The  Kid  said  he  had  been  well  treated, 
his  appearance  before  us  was  voluntary,  and  any  statements  he  made  were 
wholly  of  his  own  free  will;  that  he  had  not  been  intimidated  by  threats 
of  violence,  or  influenced  by  promise  of  leniency— but  it  was  the  only  means 
left  him  of  retaliating  upon  numerous  parties  who  had  been  "rounded  up" 
by  Vigilantes,  and  who  invariably  strove  to  throw  all  blame  on  him.  He 
denies  any  knowledge  of  a  regularly  organized  band  of  thieves  as  has  been 
so  extensively  believed  and  reported;  and  his  statements,  if  true,  seriously 
implicate  several  heretofore  prominent  citizens  of  this  county  as  being  in 
complicity  with  the  thieves,  and  measures  will  soon  be  taken  that  will 
establish  their  innocence  or  prove  their  guilt. 

Tuesday  night  another  party  of  Vigilantes,  controlled  by  one  Capt. 
O'Neill,  arrived  from  Holt  County  and  relieved  Kinney  of  the  prisoner, 
saying  they  should  take  the  Kid  to  Holt  County,  where  he  would  be  held 
for  trial,  before  the  proper  authorities,  and  on  Wednesday  forenoon  left 
Long  Pine  with  their  charge.  The  prisoner  was  taken  to  Morris  Bridge, 
fifteen  miles  northeast,  and  turned  over  to  the  sheriff  of  Holt  County,  Ed 
Hersheiser,  who  was  in  waiting  there,  and  who,  employing  two  men  to 
accompany  him,  started  for  O'Neill,  arriving  in  Bassett  about  7:30  p.m., 
and  putting  up  for  the  night  at  Martin's  Hotel. 

Kid  preferred  lying  on  the  floor  on  a  blanket,  to  going  to  bed,  and  was 
so  disposed  in  the  same  room  where  the  sheriff  and  several  other  men  kept 
vigil.  About  12  in  the  night,  a  band  of  some  dozen  masked  men  entered 
the  room  with  revolvers  drawn  and  ordered  "All  hands  up."  In  this  position 
Kid  was  roused  up  and  marched  off;  but  knowing  full  well  the  penalty 
he  would  soon  pay,  he  begged  piteously  with  his  captors  for  mercy,  promis 
ing  to  lead  a  better  life,  using  his  best  powers  of  utterance  to  gain  a  respite 
from  the  inevitable  and  ignominious  fate  he  felt  he  was  fast  approaching. 
Appeals  were  made  to  deaf  ears.  He  was  taken  away,  the  masked  party 
when  leaving  the  hotel  forbidding  any  one  to  follow  them  under  penalty 
of  death.  The  next  morning  Kid  was  found  hanging  to  a  railway  whistling 
post. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  101 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  the  route  followed  by  the  Vigilante 
committee  in  taking  Kid  Wade  on  his  last  ride.  The  arrest  was  pre 
sumably  made  for  stealing  horses  in  Brown  County,  and  the  proper 
place  for  holding  trial  would  have  been  at  Ainsworth,  the  county 
seat.  O'Neill  is  east  and  a  trifle  south  of  Long  Pine.  It  has  always 
been  the  consensus  of  opinion  that  the  devious  route  taken  from 
Red  Bird  was  for  the  sole  purpose  of  giving  the  Vigilantes  every 
possible  chance  of  preventing  legal  trial. 

The  question  has  been  properly  raised:  Why,  if  the  law-abiding 
citizens  felt  that  the  law  should  have  been  permitted  to  take  its 
course,  was  no  investigation  made  as  to  the  lynching  of  the  Wades? 
Two  replies  are  given.  First,  the  family  had  a  bad  name,  yet  whether 
it  was  merited  by  others  than  Kid  is  doubted  by  most.  Second,  the 
country  was  sparsely  settled,  and  decent  people  were  thankful  at 
being  permitted  to  go  about  their  accustomed  duties,  hoping  that 
if  they  attended  strictly  to  their  own  affairs  they  would  not  be 
molested.  Those  familiar  with  local  history  have  always  maintained 
that  both  the  Wades  were  put  out  of  the  way,  not  for  stealing,  but 
because  they  knew  too  much  about  some  of  the  Vigilantes. 
Condensed  from  Nebraska  History,  XIV  (Jan.-March,  1933) 


Judge  Lewis  Cannenburg  wrote  the  following  account  of  events 
following  the  discovery  of  Kid  Wade's  body: 

.  .  .  the  coroner  at  Ainsworth  was  notified  by  telegraph  and  came  down 
by  team  before  noon.  The  body  of  Kid  Wade  was  then  cut  down  and 
brought  to  the  store  and  laid  on  the  counter  and  there  the  inquest  was 
held.  The  hands  of  the  corpse  were  tied  together,  and  a  common  halter 
rope  around  his  neck.  The  corpse  was  frozen  stiff  and  hard  as  a  rock.  After 
the  inquest  was  over,  the  store  people  took  the  corpse  and  laid  it  on  a 
pile  of  cord  wood  in  front  of  the  store.  The  coroner  informed  me  by  virtue 
of  my  office  as  justice  of  the  peace  and  overseer  of  the  poor  he  must  leave 
the  disposition  of  the  body  to  me.  ...  I  applied  to  Mr.  Martin  for  the 
privilege  of  taking  the  body  to  his  house  previous  to  burial,  but  he  de 
manded  $10,  and  as  I  had  no  authority  to  pay  $10,  I  declined.  There  was 
then  only  my  own  house  left,  and  as  my  better  half  was  opposed,  I  requested 
Fred  Kramer,  the  constable,  to  take  the  remains  to  my  barn  and  watch  over 
it  until  it  was  buried,  which  was  done. 

When  the  train  arrived  from  the  west  the  next  morning,  the  passengers 
had  a  view  of  the  dead  outlaw,  and  all  wanted  a  piece  of  rope  he  was  hung 
with  as  a  keepsake.  The  rope  was  cut  in  small  pieces  .  .  .  and  when  that 
was  all  gone  the  boys  took  all  the  halter  ropes  and  cut  them  up  for  relics. 
The  next  day  the  noted  horse  thief  was  buried  on  top  of  Bassett  Hill. 

—Nebraska  History,,  XIV  (Jan.-March,  1933) 


July  4,  1874.  On  the  train  I  met  the  once-notorious  Gen 
eral  O'Neill  who  led  the  great  invasion  of  Canada  which 
ended  so  suddenly  in  a  most  inglorious  fizzle.  O'Neill  is 
a  fine,  handsome  and  very  gentlemanly  fellow  of  about 
thirty-five,  and  he  is  now  engaged  in  the  laudable  en 
deavor  to  draw  some  of  his  countrymen  from  the  tempta 
tions  and  poverty  of  eastern  cities  to  the  purer  life  and 
eventual  comfort  and  plenty  of  homestead  settlers  in  the 
Far  West.  An  Irish  colony  under  his  auspices  is  expected 
to  settle  in  Holt  County,  far  up  towards  the  sources  of  the 
Elkhorn. 

—Edwin  A.  Curley,  Nebraska,  Its  Advantages, 
Resources  and  Drawbacks 


O'Neill 


ARTHUR  F.  MULLEN 

I  FOUND  the  West  in  a  long  Nebraska  twilight.  A  nine-year-old 
explorer,  eighty  years  after  Lewis  and  Clark  had  passed  that  way,  I 
stood  on  the  short-grassed  hillock  and  saw  for  the  first  time  the  vast 
immensity  of  the  wild,  wide  land  spread  out  beneath  a  darkening 
blue  sky  that  lifted  into  infinity.  On  the  horizon  hung  the  smoke  of 
an  Indian  tepee.  Under  my  feet  ran  the  trail  to  the  Black  Hills. 
Before  me,  on  that  high  plateau  between  the  winding  ribbon  of 
the  Elkhorn  and  the  sharp  cleft  of  the  Niobrara,  widened  toward 
the  rising  sandhills  a  vista  of  utter,  absolute  space,  miles  and  miles 
of  limitless,  unfettered  prairie.  No  fences.  A  boundless  empire, 
owned  by  no  man  and  every  man.  The  Westl 

O'Neill,  J  came  to  know  later,  was  an  outward  sign  of  an  inward 
urge.  Every  western  town  in  the  early  eighties  was  a  symbol  of  the 
desire  of  man  for  wider  opportunity,  for  greater  freedom.  In  O'Neill 
the  desire  was  intensified  by  the  racial  elements  of  the  little  com 
munity.  Directly  founded  in  1874  by  General  John  O'Neill  (no  one 
called  him  anything  else,  although  the  Army  records  set  him  down 
as  Colonel),  the  town  in  the  Elkhorn  Valley  had  some  of  the  char 
acteristics  of  that  scholarly  dreamer.  It  was,  drunk  or  sober,  always 
a  little  headlong.  It  was  always  essentially  and  preponderantly  Irish; 
but  its  Celtic  undertone  always  remained  an  undertone.  Irish  of 

102 


A  Nebraska  Reader  103 

birth  or  blood  its  people  might  be,  but  first,  last  and  always  they 
were  loyal  to  the  nation  that  promised  and  gave  them  the  liberties 
which  they  or  their  ancestors  had  been  denied. 

They  might,  and  did,  stir  to  Irish  causes.  No  town  of  General 
O'Neill's  founding  could  do  less  than  that.  O'Neill  had  been  asso 
ciated  with  the  leaders  of  the  1848  uprising  in  Ireland  and  had  fled 
to  the  United  States  with  Thomas  Francis  Meagher,  afterward  to  be 
territorial  governor  of  Montana.  He  had  told  his  close  friend  Presi 
dent  Andrew  Johnson  of  his  plans  to  lead  a  raid  into  Canada,  con 
quer  the  Dominion,  and  hold  it  in  order  to  force  England  to  give 
freedom  to  Ireland.  And  O'Neill  did  have  the  satisfaction,  at  the 
battle  of  Ridgway,  of  seeing  the  backs  of  the  red-coated  Queen's 
Own  as  they  retreated  before  his  Feinians.  But  the  expedition  ended 
in  defeat  when  the  British  ambassador  served  notice  to  the  President 
that  England  would  regard  as  cause  for  war  the  presence  of  Amer 
ican  citizens  in  the  Feinian  army.  Johnson  had  to  threaten  O'Neill 
with  prosecution  for  treason,  but  he  let  him  escape  without  punish 
ment. 

O'Neill  then  went  on  lecture  tours  to  promote  the  freedom  of 
Ireland,  and  out  of  his  campaigning  had  come  the  Irish  Coloniza 
tion  Society.  He  had  come  by  wagon  more  than  a  hundred  miles 
from  the  end  of  the  railroad,  and  had  located  the  town,  first  known 
as  O'Neill's  place,  then  as  O'Neill  City,  finally  as  O'Neill.  I  never 
saw  him,  for  he  died  of  pneumonia  in  Omaha  and  was  buried  there 
before  I  was  a  part  of  his  community;  but  the  influence  of  his  ad 
venturous  personality  remained  strong.  But— not  in  spite  of  but 
because  of—our  boiling  Irish  blood,  we  children  of  immigrants  were 
American.  Better  than  those  who  had  never  known  persecution  for 
faith  or  for  race,  we  knew  what  freedom  meant. 

In  those  earliest  years  we  Mullens  were  a  fairly  self-centered, 
self-sufficient  family.  Although  we  inevitably  had  the  sense  of  strug 
gle  that  is  part  of  all  new  country,  we  lived  in  comfort.  Our  house 
grew  from  a  four-roomed  cabin  to  a  larger  dwelling.  Potatoes  and 
turnips  and  other  root  vegetables  stocked  the  cellar  through  the 
winters.  Apples  were  plentiful.  Mother's  foresight  kept  us  with 
enough  fresh  cows  to  provide  us,  even  through  the  hardest  winters, 
with  milk  and  butter.  Our  clothing  was  homemade,  but  always  warm 
enough  or  cool  enough.  In  some  respects,  we  were  as  comfortable 
as  we  had  been  in  the  softer  civilization  we  had  left.  It  was  only 
in  contact  with  the  outside  world  of  the  prairies  and  the  hills  that 
we  felt  the  force  of  our  transplanting. 


104  ROUNDUP: 

In  time,  as  a  boy  does,  I  found  the  capacities  for  pleasure  which 
a  town  can  offer  a  country  lad.  We  went  to  Mass  every  Sunday  in 
decorous  procession.  When  Mass  was  over,  I  explored  the  possibilities 
of  the  town  as  I  waited  for  Father  and  Mother.  It  was  a  wide-streeted 
town  of  possibly  less  than  a  thousand  inhabitants,  as  western  as  sage 
brush,  swept  by  hot  winds  in  summer  and  cold  winds  in  winter,  set  on 
top  of  the  world  there  on  that  high  tableland,  and  endowed  with  that 
spirit  which  has  made  it  one  of  the  biggest  little  places  in  the  West. 
I  don't  know  whether  men  brought  it  to  the  place  or  whether  the 
place  gave  it  to  men.  To  far  more  than  to  me,  though,  O'Neill  has 
always  been  a  strangely  thrilling  field  of  effort  and  adventure. 

In  my  early  teens  life  moved  swiftly  and  violently.  Desperadoes 
still  rode  through  the  streets.  Vigilantes  still  sought  horse  thieves  and 
cattle  thieves.  Murders  were  done  on  the  wooden  sidewalks.  Sheriffs 
took  their  lives  in  their  hands  when  they  set  out  to  do  their  duties. 
I  was  not  above  hoping  to  see  some  of  these  major  excitements,  but, 
waiting  for  them,  I  contented  myself  with  minor  but  more  permanent 
means  of  entertainment  and  listened  to  the  town  sagas  of  hotel  and 
restaurant  and  drugstore. 

O'Neill  had  a  passion  for  information  upon  current  events.  The 
men  who  could  read  poured  over  newspapers,  chewing  the  cud  of 
reflection  before  they  gave  editorial  pronouncement.  Those  who 
couldn't  read  found  others  willing  to  read  for  them.  McKenna,  the 
blacksmith,  who  was  so  deaf  from  the  clanging  on  his  anvil  that  he 
could  scarcely  hear,  came  out  from  his  smithy  night  after  night  to 
sit,  with  cupped  ear,  listening  to  Jack  Murphy.  "Hi-hear,"  he  would 
shout  in  approval  or  disapproval  as  Jack,  with  Irish  deviltry,  spun 
out  yarns  that  had  never  seen  print. 

I  found  a  gold  mine  of  unbought  and  discarded  reading  matter 
down  in  the  basement  of  the  town  drugstore.  The  record  of  events 
in  the  world  beyond  the  horizon  always  fascinated  me.  Always,  as 
I  read,  the  bugles  of  that  world  sounded  across  the  wide  slopes  of  the 
cattle  country. 

Cattle  pasturage  the  short-grass  district  was,  and  is  again;  but  in 
the  years  we  lived  on  the  ranch  beside  the  Blackbird,  the  home 
steaders  and  other  settlers  strove  to  make  it  the  kind  of  farm  country 
they  had  known  in  the  East.  With  the  rest  of  our  community  we 
planted  wheat  and  barley  and  rye,  and  waited  for  rains  that  came 
too  seldom  and  grasshoppers  that  came  too  often.  At  Mother's  in 
sistence  we  had  some  cattle,  thereby  conforming  to  the  real  character 


A  Nebraska  Reader  105 

of  the  land  on  which  we  lived  and  forestalling  the  disasters  which 
sometimes  overwhelmed  the  region.  No  one  could  miss,  though,  the 
destiny  of  doubt  that  was  and  is  a  farmer's  life  in  the  West;  the  long 
days  and  weeks  and  months  of  drought;  the  sky  a  great  blue  bowl 
of  endless  sunshine,  the  wind  a  never-ending  roar.  There  were  two 
kinds  of  years,  two  only,  wet  and  dry,  and  the  dry  far  outnumbered 
the  others.  Nothing,  not  foresight  nor  thrift,  could  provide  against 
them.  We  were  creatures  of  the  sun  and  wind,  fighting  conditions 
which  no  man  in  his  sober  senses  should  have  fought. 

Our  fight  was  not  wholly  in  vain.  If  the  land  won  back,  in  time, 
its  old  and  elemental  usage,  we  had  in  the  meantime  molded  our  own 
characters.  If  we  couldn't  raise  wheat  in  that  country,  we  could  raise 
men,  and  by  God,  we  did!  It  was  cattle  country— Holt  County  is  still 
one  of  the  first  ten  counties  of  the  United  States  in  cattle  breeding— 
and  cattle  country,  in  the  eighties,  was  the  last  great  American 
frontier. 

Bull  trains  to  the  Black  Hills  plodded  over  the  road  before  us. 
There  were  three  points  of  freighting  to  Deadwood,  but  the  trail 
from  Fort  Pierre  ran  through  hostile  Indian  lands,  the  trail  from 
Sidney  through  Fort  Robinson  meant  a  longer  rail  haul  from  Omaha, 
and  so  the  trail  from  O'Neill,  longest  of  them  all,  remained  the  most 
used  until  that  time  when  all  trails  closed  with  the  building  of  the 
railroad  into  the  hills. 

Law  came  to  the  Blackbird  long  before  enforcement  officers  ap 
peared.  In  a  land  and  a  time  of  no  fences,  men  of  the  cattle  country 
had  to  guard  their  stock.  When  the  outlaws  began  to  band  together 
for  theft,  the  ranchers  had  to  band  together  for  their  own  protection. 
John  Hopkins  and  John  A.  Robertson  were  both  declared  vigilantes, 
but  neither  of  them  ever  attended  any  of  the  necktie  parties  with 
which  the  honest  citizens  sometimes  defended  law  and  order.  Both 
Hopkins  and  Robertson  were  great  constructive  forces  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  and  Robertson  was  afterward  one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
Nebraska  legislature.  A  big  man,  always  black-shirted,  with  a  bris 
tling  black  moustache,  he  looked  like  all  the  pictures  of  all  the 
western  sheriffs.  He  could  have  taken  on  a  gang  of  outlaws  at  any 
time;  but  the  outlaws  saw  John  coming  and  let  him  alone.  In  his 
home  on  the  range  he  raised  twelve  children  and  acquired  through 
them  enough  college  diplomas  to  paper  the  walls,  but  his  own  ac 
complishment  has  remained  an  ability  to  shoot  birds  on  the  wing 
straighter  and  quicker  than  Buffalo  Bill  ever  did  at  a  moving  target. 

Thieves—cattle-  and  horse-stealers— were  so  common  that  almost 


io6  ROUNDUP: 

any  night  we  might  hear  their  whistled  signals  to  each  other.  That 
was,  I  think,  why  Mother  hated  to  hear  any  one  of  us  whistle.  Too 
often  she  must  have  come  close  to  danger  when,  in  Father's  absence, 
she  went  out  at  night  to  the  barn.  Fearful  she  must  have  been  at 
times,  but  never,  no  matter  what  happened,  did  I  ever  hear  her 
express  fear.  She  was  no  born  pioneer.  Back  in  Canada  all  her  interest 
had  been  in  the  gentler  ways  of  living,  but  on  the  Nebraska  prairie 
she  met  each  day  and  night  with  high  courage  and  an  initiative  which 
set  herself  and  everyone  else  working  at  something.  In  time  there 
were  nine  of  us  children.  For  every  one  of  us  she  found  a  task  and 
a  way  to  interest  us  in  it. 

Every  Sunday,  rain,  shine,  snow— except  in  the  week  of  the  Great 
Blizzard— we  drove,  usually  in  the  wagon,  fourteen  miles  to  church. 
Our  mother  went  fasting— and  Mass  was  at  half-past  ten  and  she'd 
been  up  for  hours— and  came  home  fasting.  Even  before  O'Neill  be 
came  consciously  devotional,  Mother  observed  all  the  feasts  and  fasts, 
the  rules  and  regulations  of  our  faith  with  the  same  exactitude  she 
would  have  exercised  in  a  grown  city. 

No  task  of  the  many  hard  labors  on  the  ranch  was  ever  too  much 
for  her.  "I  love  the  cattle,"  she  would  say.  "There's  nothing  I 
wouldn't  do  for  the  men  who  take  care  of  cattle." 

Father  bought  and  sold  horses.  Most  of  them  were  the  wild  horses 
brought  in  by  the  Flanigans  and  Wilcoxes  from  Nevada.  All  of  them 
were  devils,  stamping,  rearing,  biting,  snorting,  roaring  brutes  which 
resisted  breaking.  They  would  rise  on  their  hind  feet  so  suddenly  it 
was  a  struggle  to  hang  on  or  to  slide  off  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  be 
killed.  They  would  strike  out  at  a  thrown  rider  and  kick  at  anyone 
or  anything  near  them.  But  they  were  our  means  of  livelihood,  our 
means  of  locomotion,  our  way  to  a  wider  freedom,  and  we  had  to 
conquer  them.  There  was  hardly  a  lad  in  Holt  County  who  couldn't 
do  as  well  as  the  riders  of  the  rodeo  do  now. 

Southward  and  westward  from  O'Neill  ran  the  sandhills;  cattlemen 
had.  already  found  that  the  short  grass,  growing  thick  as  moss  upon 
its  more  sheltered  surfaces,  fattened  the  cattle  as  did  no  other  grazing 
in  the  West.  Year  after  year  shrewd  Texans  had  been  driving  their 
herds  up  the  Chisholm  Trail  and  from  Ogallala  into  the  valleys 
of  the  great  sandy  spaces  which  spread  across  Nebraska  from  the 
Platte  to  the  Niobrara  and  from  the  Fort  Robinson  trail  to  the  Elk- 
horn.  Jim  Dahlman,  afterward  mayor  of  Omaha,  drove  herds  from 
El  Paso. 

Already  the  valleys  within  sight  and  sound  of  our  claim  were 


A  Nebraska  Reader  107 

feeding  thousands  of  cattle  for  the  Chicago  market.  Great  droves  of 
cattle,  beef  to  the  heels,  went  toward  the  railroad.  With  them  went 
cowboys,  tight-lipped,  grim-eyed,  while  duty  held  them,  but  ready  to 
celebrate  as  soon  as  the  job  was  done. 

There  were  always  saloons  where  whisky  of  all  varieties  might  be 
bought  and  consumed.  The  West  was  won  on  whisky.  Cattlemen, 
railroad  builders,  miners,  freighters,  all  had  to  meet,  as  part  of  their 
lives,  the  high  chance  of  death  from  violence  o£  wind  or  weather  or 
their  fellow  men.  If  they  fortified  their  bodies  or  lightened  their 
spirits  by  liquor,  the  frontier  they  were  pushing  forward  neither 
abused  nor  excused  them  for  the  habit.  O'Neill  accepted  the  custom, 
and  put  the  fallen  brothers  to  bed. 

Wilder  revelry  than  any  O'Neill  countenanced  went  westward  with 
the  railway  builders.  The  End  of  Steel  was  always  a  place  of  drinking 
and  carousing.  The  railhead  at  the  Thatcher  Cut  was,  for  the  two 
years  of  its  existence,  as  notorious  throughout  Nebraska  and  Dakota 
Territory  as  Dodge  City  was  to  Kansas  or  Virginia  City  to  Montana. 
There  desperadoes  from  all  over  the  country,  fancy  women  from 
Chicago  and  Omaha  and  St.  Paul,  deserting  soldiers  from  farther 
forts,  gamblers  and  tricksters,  sought  to  take  money  away  from  the 
railroad  builders.  A  tent  city— its  tents  had  no  floors— it  flourished 
while  the  builders  sought  to  bridge  the  swift  flow  of  the  Niobrara. 
Murders  were  frequent.  Once  a  gambler  killed  a  woman  in  a  tent 
saloon.  Her  body  lay  there  all  day  till  some  of  the  boys  from  the  rail 
road  camp  paid  a  man  to  bury  her.  Later  her  brother  came  to  take 
her  back  to  Chicago,  but  nothing  was  ever  done  to  her  murderer. 
Then  one  day  steel  ran  from  wooded  slope  to  wooded  slope  of  the 
river,  and  the  settlement  had  gone  like  tumbleweed  on  the  plains. 

I  used  to  walk,  seven  miles  each  way,  to  Eden  Valley  and  back 
(arriving  home  at  three  A.M.)  to  be  present  at  entertainments  there. 
Hamilton  Hall,  who  directed  them  as  a  sideline  to  his  teaching,  was 
establishing  the  sort  of  rural  theater  which  is  now  a  matter  of  wider 
experiment.  He  taught  us  our  lines,  devised  costumes  and  make-up, 
and  directed  our  performances. 

There  were  sadder  times,  too,  when  we  rode  long  miles.  Death 
comes  often  on  the  frontier.  Always  strangely  dramatic  to  us  Irish, 
it  must  have  struck  those  of  us  on  the  frontier  with  terrific  impact; 
for,  in  spite  of  all  the  drinking  there  might  be  in  the  town  saloons,  I 
never  but  once  saw  any  drinking  in  any  place  of  death— and  that  was 
at  the  wake  of  a  woman  of  ninety-three. 

The 'Great  Blizzard  of  1888  marked  the  end  of  the  heyday  of  the 


io8  ROUNDUJ 

cattle  men.  Stock,  the  staple  of  the  Niobrara  Valley,  had  been  de 
stroyed  almost  beyond  belief.  Ranchers  who  had  been  struggling  to 
ward  a  little  profit  were  penniless.  Although  they  held  power  on  the 
farther  ranges  beyond  the  turn  of  the  century,  their  undisputed 
sway  had  come  to  a  crisis.  Already  in  the  sandhills  they  were  putting 
up  fences  against  the  coming  of  the  homesteaders;  but  month  aftei 
month  they  kept  coming  northward  and  westward,  pushing  out  upon 
the  ranges  of  the  sandhill  valleys,  bringing  in  their  wake  schools  and 
churches  and  courts  and  law  officers. 

The  metamorphosis  of  the  town  was  Father  Cassidy's  work.  He 
found  it  one  of  the  wildest  settlements  of  a  wild  frontier.  By  force 
of  personality,  fortified  by  ecclesiastical  authority,  he  subdued  tur 
bulence,  established  order,  and  substituted  ambition  for  ebullience. 
A  tall,  grave  man  always  garbed  in  sober  black,  he  walked  the  streets 
of  the  town  with  a  dignity  which  subdued  his  more  pugnacious 
parishioners  and  aroused  the  pride  of  his  quieter  ones.  He  was  the 
first  priest  in  the  country  west  of  the  Missouri  to  establish  First 
Friday  devotions.  He  was  a  builder  of  brick  and  stone,  but  he  was, 
still  more,  a  builder  of  men  and  women.  His  only  other  pastorate  had 
been  Laramie,  but  his  manner  was  that  of  places  far  from  the  frontier; 
Richelieu  never  wore  his  red  robe  with  more  elegance  than  Father 
Cassidy  wore  his  black  cassock. 

We  did  not  yet  know  in  those  days  of  our  young  endeavor  that  the 
world  of  our  childhood  had  gone.  Already  the  valleys  of  the  Elkhorn 
and  Niobrara  had  been  peopled.  Sitting  Bull  had  gone  from  Fort 
Randall  to  the  Grand  River  and  to  death.  No  more  ghost  dancers 
swayed  on  the  Pine  Ridge  or  the  Rosebud.  The  eagle-bone  whistles 
sounded  no  more.  No  more  bullwhackers  popped  their  buckskin 
whips  over  the  heavy  oxen  of  the  bull  trains.  No  more  coaches  went 
to  the  Hills. 

The  Kinkaiders  were  still  ten  years  away,  but  the  old  free  range 
was  gone.  Railroads  spanned  the  rivers.  The  great  herds  from  Texas 
no  longer  darkened  the  hills.  Cowboys  no  longer  drove,  singing, 
from  El  Paso  to  Ogallala,  from  Ogallala  to  the  Missouri.  The  half- 
century  of  the  cattle  kings  was  ended,  yet  as  the  short  but  golden 
age  of  Pericles  influenced  the  culture  of  the  world,  so  the  fenceless 
era  of  the  American  West  had  marked  the  minds  of  men.  Fences 
might  now  restrict  western  prairie  and  plain  and  valley,  but  no 
fences  yet  restrained  the  horizon  of  the  minds  of  the  western  men. 

Condensed  from  Western  Democrat,  Wilfred  Funk,  1940 


II.  Family  Album  I 


The  history  of  every  country  begins  in 
the  heart  of  a  man  or  a  woman. 


— Willa  Gather,  O  Pioneers! 


"Native  adults/'  Edwin  A.  Curley  reported  eighty  years 
ago,  "are  scarce  in  Nebraska.  It  was  unlawful  to  be  born 
there  before  May  2,3,  J"#5^  when  the  territory  was  first 
opened  for  settlement."  .  .  .  But  once  the  stork  had  re 
ceived  permission  to  land,  the  family  doctor  became  an 
indispensable  figure  on  the  prairie  scene. 


Prairie  Doctor 

i.  The  Doctor 

FRANCIS  A.  LONG 

ON  JUNE  27,  1882, 1  came  to  Madison,  Nebraska,  a  county-seat  town 
said  to  have  a  population  o£  one  thousand,  though  it  never  seemed 
to  me  it  had  half  that  number  of  inhabitants.  I  had  friends  living 
there  from  whom  I  had  learned  that  the  place  had  but  one  physician, 
and  this  decided  me.  My  colleague  was  the  community  idol;  none 
theless,  he  was  not  anxious  to  have  a  competitor.  Could  he  have  fore 
seen  how  little  competition  my  advent  would  bring,  he  would  not 
have  worried. 

During  my  first  summer's  residence,  a  new  brick  bank  building 
was  erected,  and  I  rented  the  old  one  for  an  office.  There  were  three 
rooms,  the  rental  being  seven  dollars  a  month.  As  soon  as  my  income 
justified  the  expenditure,  I  purchased  an  adjustable  office  and  ex 
amining  chair—the  latest  model,  ornamented  with  tassels.  My  arma 
mentarium  consisted  of  a  pocket  medicine  case  containing  twelve 
remedies,  namely;  Bismuth,  Dover's  Powder,  Morphine,  Podophylin, 
Compound  Cathartic  Pills,  Calomel,  Mercury  with  Chalk,  Bromide 
of  Potassium,  Tincture  Aconite,  Fluid  Extract  of  Ergot,  Tincture 
Belladonna,  Tincture  Hydrastis.  I  had  a  pocket  case  of  instruments, 
a  fever  thermometer,  and  an  obstetric  forceps.  An  esteemed  friend 
in  town  made  me  an  oilcloth  roll  to  wrap  the  forceps.  My  library 
consisted  of  seven  medical  books. 

My  father  had  promised  me  a  young  horse,  but  when  I  claimed  it  he 
substituted  an  old  pony  that  I  had  once  owned  which  was  subject 
to  heaves.  Only  the  direst  necessity  forced  me  to  accept  the  nag.  I 
soon  disposed  of  the  pony  and  got  a  better  one. 

111 


iis>  ROUNDUP: 

Practicing  medicine  pony-back  or  horseback  required  a  pair  of 
saddlebags.  A  saddlebag  consisted  of  two  leather  pouches  fitted  with 
compartments  for  bottles,  connected  together  with  a  heavy,  broad 
leathern  strap  which  fitted  across  the  saddle  and  held  the  medicine 
pouches.  After  a  year  my  saddlebag  career  ended,  and  I  purchased 
an  old  open  buggy  from  a  liveryman.  Gradually  I  acquired  a  second 
pony  and  drove  a  span.  Prosperity  of  a  sort!  Eventually  I  owned  two 
spans  of  horses  and  physician  phaetons  which  I  drove  until  the  auto 
mobile  age  appeared. 

Many  times  during  the  first  years  I  would  gladly  have  quit  and 
taken  any  kind  of  a  job  if  I  could  have  paid  my  obligations  and  left 
honorably.  In  my  third  year  I  collected  about  a  thousand  dollars; 
the  fourth  year  about  twelve  hundred;  the  sixth  twenty-one  hundred. 
One  reason  for  this  slow  progress  was  that  at  one  time  there  were  five 
physicians  in  the  town  and  business  was  much  divided;  but  the 
principle  reason  for  lack  of  clientele  was,  I  suspect,  inherent  in  my 
self.  I  was  green,  countrified,  and  without  a  practical  knowledge  of 
the  world  and  its  ways. 

Just  seven  years  after  I  located,  the  pioneer  competitor  moved  to 
the  Puget  Sound  country.  My  opportunity  had  come,  and  my  busi 
ness  increased  a  thousand  dollars  during  the  next  year.  I  had  arrivedl 

The  practice  of  medicine  that  prevailed  in  the  early  eighties  pre 
sented  many  difficulties.  Epidemics  were  prevalent,  for  there  were 
no  means  of  preventing  them.  The  first  autumn  (1882),  there  was  an 
epidemic  of  diphtheria,  dreaded  scourge  o£  the  pioneer.  I  was  em 
ployed  to  care  for  several  families,  and  fortunately  my  first  patients 
recovered.  I  thought  I  had  some  pretty  severe  cases,  but  they  may 
not  have  been  so  severe  as  I  thought  for  I  had  never  seen  a  case 
before.  My  competitor  lost  several  cases.  In  desperation,  on  the  theory 
that  the  new  doctor  could  do  no  worse,  several  families  changed 
physicians,  so  that  before  I  realized  it,  I  was  busy  in  the  midst  of  an 
epidemic. 

Tracheotomy  was  an  operation  in  vogue  in  laryngeal  diphtheria. 
If  the  patient  failed  to  breathe  when  the  windpipe  was  opened,  one 
of  the  things  recommended  in  extreme  cases  was  to  lay  a  handker 
chief  over  the  wound  made  in  the  trachea  and,  with  the  lips,  suck  the 
secretions  from  the  larynx.  I  did  that  once  and  succeeded  in  getting 
the  patient  to  breathe.  I  told  this  experience  to  an  Omaha  surgeon, 
who  said  that  one  night  he  was  taken  out  in  the  country  to  a  similar 
case.  He  aspirated  the  trachea  with  his  lips.  On  the  way  home  he 
reflected  on  what  he  had  done  and  was  prompted  to  beg  a  chew  of 


A  Nebraska  Reader  113 

tobacco  from  the  driver's  plug  and  on  reaching  town  he  indulged 
freely  in  spiritus  frumenti  as  an  antidote! 

Those  were  the  days  when  sulphur  and  molasses  was  given  as  a 
blood  purifier;  when  asafoetida  was  placed  in  a  little  bag  and  hung 
around  the  neck  to  prevent  contagious  diseases;  when  bacon  rind 
or  bread-and-milk  poultice  or  possibly  fresh  warm  cow  manure  as 
a  poultice  was  used  to  "ripen'*  boils;  when  a  red  flannel  or  kerosene- 
soaked  rag  or  fried  onions  was  swathed  around  the  throat  for  sore 
throat;  when  onion  syrup  was  made  for  a  cough,  and  so  on. 

The  early  settlers  followed  the  water  courses.  Where  streams  were 
not  near  at  hand,  they  dug  open  wells  of  a  few  feet  depth  for  water. 
Those  who  came  a  little  later  had  to  take  the  upland  prairie,  and 
their  wells  also  tapped  the  upper  or  surface  streams  of  water. 
Typhoid  fever,  being  for  the  most  part  a  water-borne  disease,  be 
came  very  prevalent.  The  cattle  yards  were  close  to  the  open  wells 
for  convenience,  and  surface  contamination  was  inevitable. 

In  the  later  eighties  the  two  physicians  then  occupying  the  field 
must  have  had  seventy-five  cases  of  typhoid  to  treat  one  fall.  Whole 
families  were  stricken,  one  after  another.  I  was  in  charge  of  one 
family  consisting  of  father,  mother,  and  ten  children,  all  of  whom 
contracted  the  fever  except  the  mother  and  nursing  babe.  The  father 
was  one  of  the  last  to  develop  the  fever,  and  as  his  was  a  mild  case, 
he  had  much  time  for  reflection  and  speculation  as  to  the  cause 
of  the  epidemic.  A  deeply  religious  man,  he  wondered  why  the  Lord 
had  visited  this  scourge  upon  his  family.  He  asked  me  what  could 
have  caused  this  plague.  I  told  him  that  his  open  well  located  by  the 
cattle  yard  must  be  at  fault.  At  first  he  could  not  believe  it,  but  after 
he  had  recovered  he  cleaned  out  the  well,  bringing  up  rotten  corn 
cobs  and  corn  husks,  dead  rats  and  mice  and  a  dead  rabbit! 

We  had  no  quarantine  laws  and  regulations,  and  the  public  knew 
almost  nothing  about  contagion  and  infection.  It  was  the  custom  of 
pioneers  to  go  to  the  assistance  of  their  sick  neighbors.  In  the  eighties 
the  Odd  Fellows  had  a  provision  in  their  by-laws  that  members, 
listed  alphabetically,  were  called  in  turn  to  "sit  up"  with  sick  mem 
bers.  Thus  a  person  ill  with  typhoid  and  perhaps  in  delirium  had  a 
different  person  "sit  up"  with  him  each  succeeding  night.  A  worse 
method  of  providing  nursing  care  for  the  sick  could  not  have  been 
devised. 

The  fees  in  the  early  days  were  one  dollar  for  town  visits,  day  or 
night.  Country  calls  were  made  on  the  basis  of  fifty  cents  a  mile. 
Theoretically,  one  was  supposed  to  charge  something  extra  for  visits, 


ii4  ROUNDUP: 

but  this  was  rarely  done.  Confinements  were  cared  for  at  the  flat 
rate  of  ten  dollars,  whether  in  town  or  country;  but  instrumental  or 
manual  deliveries  were  charged  extra.  Physicians  were  rarely  called 
to  confinements  in  the  country  unless  there  was  trouble  in  the 
delivery. 

Very  few  physicians  ever  get  overpaid  or  receive  more  than  they 
charge.  I  have  always  cherished  one  exception.  A  young  man  and 
wife  acquired  1,000  acres  of  land  in  the  community,  went  there  and 
improved  it  by  the  most  extensive  tree-planting  program  ever  under 
taken  in  the  county.  I  attended  the  young  woman  in  confinement, 
and  when  about  to  leave,  the  husband  asked  for  the  bill.  I  told  him 
ten  dollars.  He  said,  "That  is  not  enough,"  wrote  out  a  check  which 
I  stuck  in  my  pocket  without  looking  at  it.  When,  later,  at  home  I 
looked  at  it,  it  read  "Fifteen"  dollars.  This  is  perhaps  a  small  thing 
to  publish,  but  it  made  a  lasting  impression  on  me. 

When  a  doctor  was  called  to  a  patient,  even  though  it  was  diph 
theria,  pneumonia,  or  typhoid,  many  persons  expected  the  doctor 
to  leave  enough  medicine  to  last  for  the  cure.  They  would  tell  the 
doctor,  "We  will  let  you  know  how  we  get  along."  It  took  some  argu 
ment  to  convince  people  that  the  patient  needed  daily  attention. 

Rural  Nebraska,  like  the  rest  of  the  nation,  had  not  become 
hospital-conscious  when  I  came  to  the  state  to  practice.  The  physician 
of  the  eighties  had  to  be  truly  an  all-around  man.  I  remember  the 
case  of  a  man  who  was  accidentally  shot.  The  bullet  entered  above 
and  to  the  outer  side  of  the  knee  and  lodged  below  the  knee  in  the 
soft  tissues  of  the  posterior  surface  of  the  leg.  The  near-by  physician 
first  called  was  afraid  to  attempt  removal  of  the  bullet  and  advised 
leaving  it.  Not  satisfied,  the  patient  had  me  called  to  go  some  twenty 
miles  to  remove  the  bullet,  an  operation  easily  accomplished.  The 
first  physician  merely  lacked  the  nerve. 

About  1883  or  1884, 1  assisted  a  railroad  surgeon  in  a  neighboring 
town  in  amputating  a  trainman's  foot  in  the  roundhouse.  A  table  was 
improvised  by  using  a  door  laid  on  blocks,  and  hot  water  obtained 
from  the  engine  boiler.  The  foot,  which  had  been  caught  under  a 
car  wheel,  was  amputated.  The  next  day  the  surgeon  put  the  patient 
on  the  train  and  took  him  to  the  home  of  his  parents. 

Without  a  doubt  the  very  first  operation  for  the  removal  of  the 
appendix  ever  performed  in  north  Nebraska  was  done  by  Dr.  F.  L. 
Frink  of  Newman  Grove,  Nebr.,  and  myself  on  December  18,  1892, 
at  a  farm  home  sixteen  miles  in  the  country.  I  was  called  to  see  the 
patient,  a  sixteen-year-old  girl,  in  consultation;  a  previously  made 


A  Nebraska  Reader  115 

diagnosis  o£  appendicitis  was  confirmed,  and  operation  advised  and 
agreed  upon. 

The  kitchen  table  was  requisitioned  for  an  operating  table.  Basins 
were  scarce  at  the  home,  but  several  earthenware  milk  crocks  were 
sterilized  by  boiling  in  a  wash  boiler.  The  instruments  were  steri 
lized  by  boiling.  Sheets,  towels,  and  gowns  were  sterilized  by  dry 
heat  in  the  oven  of  the  kitchen  stove.  Dr.  Frink  had  been  gold 
medalist  in  surgery  in  medical  school,  and  naturally  I  supposed  he 
would  do  the  operation;  but  he  insisted  (no  doubt  in  deference  to 
my  seniority  in  years)  that  I  do  it.  He  gave  the  anaesthetic  and 
also  assisted.  The  appendix  lay  under  the  incision  made  when  the 
abdomen  was  opened— and  this  may  have  saved  us  some  embar 
rassing  moments,  for  has  not  one  heard  of  cases  of  young  surgeons 
hunting  for  the  appendix  in  vain? 

This  case  demonstrates  a  bit  of  courage  of  two  frontier  general 
practitioners  at  a  time  but  a  few  years  after  the  first  operations 
were  done  by  specialists  in  the  larger  cities.  Emergency  surgery  had 
to  be  done  in  all  kinds  of  homes,  including  sod  houses,  many  of 
them  under  the  most  unsanitary  conditions.  But  with  it  all,  if  oper 
ators  were  fairly  well  grounded  in  pathological  anatomy  and  had 
some  manual  dexterity,  the  results  were  satisfactory— particularly 
when  practical  antisepsis  was  employed. 

If  we  pioneer  country  doctors  struggled  along  performing  our 
surgery  in  homes,  it  should  be  remembered  that  even  the  larger 
cities  had  only  meager  hospital  facilities  at  this  time.  Not  only  had 
the  laity  not  become  hospital-conscious,  but  early-day  surgeons  did 
not  feel  the  need  of  hospitalization.  That  is  a  development  which 
has  come  largely  since  the  turn  of  the  century. 


2.  The  Doctor's  Wife 

MRS.  FRANCIS  A.  LONG 

THE  PIONEER  doctor  in  his  frock  coat  and  impressive  beard  was 
usually  a  young  man— as  were  most  of  the  pioneer  settlers.  After 
graduation,  he  selected  a  location,  hung  out  his  sign  with  the  hard- 
won  "M.D."  attached,  gave  it  an  approving  look,  and  waited  for 
business. 

Of  course  he  had  a  best  girl  by  this  time,  and  he  convinced  him 
self  that  if  he  could  persuade  her  of  the  great  future  that  lay  ahead 


n6  ROUNDUP: 

of  him  in  his  profession,  she  might  be  willing  to  get  married  at 
once  and  share  with  him  this  dream  of  the  future.  The  bride  of 
that  day  usually  brought  to  her  new  home  the  bedding,  linens, 
"dishes,  the  little  silver  her  friends  gave  her,  good  clothes,  and  per 
haps  a  little  money  with  which  to  buy  furniture.  This  was  fortunate, 
for  in  many  cases  the  doctor  had  not  been  able  to  repay  the  money 
he  borrowed  to  put  himself  through  college. 

There  were  few  families  of  means,  and  we  shared  what  we  had. 
We  all  had  babies,  took  care  of  them  ourselves,  made  their  clothes, 
washed,  ironed,  cooked,  baked,  scrubbed,  and  had  time  to  visit 
'  the  neighbors.  We  knew  everybody  in  town,  exchanged  patterns  and 
recipes,  taught  in  Sabbath  school,  attended  church  services,  Mis 
sionary  society,  Aid  society,  held  bazaars,  and  gave  church  dinners 
.and  dime  socials.  The  doctor's  wife  was  usually  the  center  of  all 
these  activities.  She  was  held  in  high  esteem  by  all,  and  much  was 
expected  of  her.  The  Germans  addressed  her  as  "Frau  Docterin." 

The  first  ten  years  for  a  pioneer  doctor  were  years  of  pinching 
financially.  I  recall  how  ten  days  before  the  stork  visited  our  home 
for  the  first  time,  we  did  wish  someone  would  pay  his  bill  so  we 
could  buy  the  necessary  flannels  for  the  little  one.  These  had  to 
come  by  mail  from  Omaha,  over  a  hundred  miles  away  I ,  Finally  a 
bill  was  paid.  The  flannels  were  ordered  and  arrived  on  a  late  train 
on  Saturday  evening.  The  child^was  born  before  five  o'clock  on  Mon 
day  morning.  If  we  never  before  believed  in  Providence,  we  learned 
to  do  so  then. 

-  A  store  building  around  the  corner  from  our  home  was  completed, 
and  the  church  we  attended  celebrated  by  giving  a  big  supper  in 
this  building  on  our  first  wedding  anniversary.  We  did  not  have 
the  fifty  cents  to  pay  for  the  supper,  so  we  stayed  home.  The  baby 
girl  had  been  added  to  the  family,  and  this  gave  us  the  excuse  for 
not  being  there— "We  could  not  take  her  out  and  we  had  no  one 
with  whom  to  leave  her."  I  believe  that  was  one  of  the  hardest  trials 
I  ever  had  to  face— married  a  year  and  not  even  fifty  cents  to  pay  for 
the  church  supper. 

The  office  in  the  home  in  those  early  years  was  a  necessity,  for 
the  wife  could  act  as  office  girl— not  that  there  was  so  much  business, 
but  to  hang  on  to  every  bit  of  it.  Families  came  to  the  office  early 
in  the  afternoon,  expecting  to  get  attention  at  once  and  return  to 
their  homes  in  time  to  do  the  chores  on  the  farm.  The  doctor  might 
be  out  on  a  ten-mile  trip.  You  knew  he  could  not  be  home  before 
five,  but  you  told  them  to  make  themselves  comfortable;  he  would 


A  Nebraska  Reader  117 

be  along  about  four.  Custom  demanded  you  stay  at  home  with 
them—help  to  amuse  the  children,  and  keep  the  father  from  fretting 
too  much  because  it  was  getting  late.  No  doctor  at  four  and  none  at 
four-thirty!  By  this  time  you  had  on  hand  a  restless  man  and  woman, 
and  it  was  your  job  to  keep  them  from  going  to  the  other  doctor. 
Finally,  after  an  hour  of  watching  down  the  street,  the  doctor's 
team  was  seen  driving  toward  home.  Social  obligations  and  house 
work  were  forgotten  in  that  hour,  but  you  held  the  patient,  only 
to  learn  they  were  a  family  that  never  paid! 

My  husband  was  the  medical  member  of  the  Commission  of  In 
sanity,  and  it  was  customary  for  the  sheriff  to  bring  such  cases  to 
the  office.  About  ten  o'clock  one  morning  the  sheriff  walked  in  with 
a  man  and  told  me  to  "watch  the  man  and  not  let  him  get  away." 
Then  the  sheriff  departed.  I  was  dumbfounded.  Two  babies  in  the 
kitchen  and  an  insane  man  in  the  office!  We  sat  and  talked  ^awhile,  , 
then  I  suggested  that  he  lie  down  and  rest  until  the  doctor  arrived. 
He  gave  me  a  sharp  look  and  said,  "If  you  do  what  I  tell  you, 
then  I  will  do  what  you  want."  My  heart  beat  wildly.  I  had  pre 
viously  locked  the  outside  office  door.  I  thought  of  those  babies, 
then  screwed  up  my  courage  and  laughingly  said,  "All  right,  I'll  do 
it,  but  I  would  like  to  get  you  a  cup  of  coffee."  When  I  brought  the 
coffee  he  seemed  to  think  he  had  played  a  great  joke  on  me,  drank 
his  coffee  and  we  chatted  another  half  hour.  It  was  an  immense  re 
lief  when  I  saw  the  doctor  drive  up  in  front  of  the  house. 

Occasionally  people  asked  me  for  some  of  those  "pink  pills"  they 
had  been  getting  for  fever.  They  thought  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  go 
to  the  medicine  shelf  and  shake  a  few  pills  out  of  the  bottle.  But 
the  only  remedy  I  ever  handed  out  was  earache  medicine.  I  knew 
where  this  was  kept,  because  I  often  used  it  for  our  own  children. 

My  husband  and  I  realized  that  unless  you  got  the  money  when 
a  man  came  to  pay,  the  bill  might  be  forgotten,  so  from  the  very 
first  I  had  access  to  the  business  records  and  could  tell  a  man  the 
amount  of  his  bill  in  a  few  minutes.  In  the  early  days,  foreigners 
hesitated  to  pay  a  woman,  but  as  time  went  on  they  grew  accustomed 
to  American  ways,  and  paid  me  without  hesitation. 

Operations  were  done  in  the  patients'  homes,  and  all  laundry 
was  brought  to  our  home,  surgical  aprons,  sheets,  towels,  and  every 
thing.  Even  if  the  operation  occurred  Saturday  noon,  the  laundry 
had  to  be  done  that  afternoon,  regardless  of  previous  plans,  for  it 
might  be  needed  again  before  the  regular  Monday  washday.  More 
over  the  soiled  garments  required  attention  at  once.  In  case  of  a 


n8  ROUNDUP: 

fracture,  the  bandages  were  laundered— ironed— and  then  yards  and 
yards  of  bandages  rolled  over  the  knee  on  a  clean  towel.  Later  a 
small  hand  roller  lightened  the  work. 

Consultations  with  doctors  from  other  towns  were  hailed  as  events. 
It  was  usually  arranged  for  the  morning  so  that  the  consultant  could 
come  back  with  the  doctor  for  dinner.  When  possible  the  wife  came 
along  and  the  women  enjoyed  the  visit  together. 

It  was  sometimes  necessary  for  the  doctor's  wife  to  arrange  to 
send  out  fresh  teams  to  cross-roads  to  meet  him  to  save  driving  to 
town  and  then  back  again  over  part  of  the  same  road.  It  was  a 
wonderful  day  for  us  when  rural  telephones  were  installed,  but  at 
times  it  had  its  drawbacks.  I  recall  one  case  in  particular  when  my 
husband  had  a  call  to  an  obstetric  case  in  which  he  was  very  much 
interested,  for  it  was  his  first  contact  with  that  family.  I  called  and 
called  but  got  no  response,  for  this  family  was  on  a  party  line.  I 
could  hear  them  discuss  a  new  apron  pattern,  the  setting  of  hens, 
and  what  they  were  preparing  for  dinner.  Finally,  when  I  was  able 
to  get  my  party,  I  was  told  he  had  gone  four  miles  further  north  to 
see  another  case.  Another  doctor  was  called  to  the  obstetrical  case. 

I  think  back  on  those  days  and  wonder  how  a  young  mother  could 
possibly  do  all  that  I  did.  In  the  midst  of  washing,  ironing,  bak 
ing,  or  cleaning,  that  office  doorbell  sounded,  and  everything  was 
dropped.  I  smoothed  my  hair,  straightened  my  apron,  and  dashed 
for  the  office  to  receive  the  patients.  These  constant  interruptions 
delayed  my  housework,  particularly  on  Saturday,  when  the  farmers 
came  to  town.  One  of  my  daughters  recalls  many  Saturday  after 
noons  when  she  was  bathed  and  dressed  and  placed  upon  the  kitchen 
table  away  from  mischief,  while  mother  scrubbed  the  kitchen  floor 
and  watched  the  evening  supper  cook  on  the  one-burner  kerosene 
stove  at  the  same  time!  That  kitchen  table  was  a  treasure  and  could 
tell  some  tales  of  pioneer  surgery  if  it  would.  It  was  six  feet  long 
and  about  two  and  one-half  feet  wide  and  had  been  the  all-important 
piece  of  furniture  in  my  husband's  first  office,  where  it  served  as 
operating  table  or  patient's  couch,  etc.,  as  occasion  demanded.  When 
he  reached  the  stage  of  financial  prosperity  which  enabled  him  to 
buy  a  proper  office  examination  chair,  I  was  only  too  glad  to  have 
this  as  an  addition  to  my  meagre  kitchen  furniture. 


Condensed  from  A  Prairie  Doctor  of  the  Eighties,  Huse  Publishing  Co.,  1937 


A  Nebraska  Reader  119 

3.  Country,  Doctor,  1950 

i 

EVEN  in  the  age  of  specialization  in  medicine,  three-fourths  of  the 
people  in  the  U.S.  are  born,  live  and  die  under  the  care  of  a  general 
practitioner,  their  family  doctor.  In  country  districts  the  proportion 
is  far  higher.  There,  the  relationship  between  the  ailing  and  their 
doctors  has  not  changed  much  since  homesteading  days.  But  there 
has  been  a  great  change  in  country  doctors  themselves. 

Last  week,  the  change  was  evident  in  the  tiny  (pop.  approx.  1,000) 
crossroads  town  of  Arnold,  in  the  rolling  sand-hill  country  of  western 
Nebraska.  Dr.  E.  (for  Elmer)  Howard  Reeves  and  his  partner,  Dr. 
Robert  A.  McShane,  received  300  patients  in  their  office,  made  40 
house  calls,  delivered  four  babies,  performed  two  operations.  All 
the  babies  were  born  and  both  the  operations  were  performed  in 
Arnold's  ten-bed  private  hospital.  None  of  the  cases  was  medically 
unusual,  but  this  kind  of  service  was  the  reason  for  the  doctor's 
being.  At  30,  Dr.  Reeves  is  the  senior  member  of  a  two-man  medical 
team  which  is  responsible  for  the  health  of  about  5,000  people 
scattered  within  45  miles  of  Arnold. 

Outwardly,  the  routine  of  Arnold's  doctors  is  much  like  that  of 
the  traditional  horse-and-buggy  doctor.  Up  every  day  of  the  year 
by  7:30,  Dr.  Reeves  takes  time  for  a  good  breakfast  with  his  pretty 
brunette  wife  Jean  and  their  children,  Steven,  5,  and  Pamela,  3. 
By  9  o'clock  he  is  off  to  the  partners'  office  on  Highway  92, -half  a 
block  from  Main  Street,  where  blonde  Mrs.  Audleye  Nelson,  recep 
tionist  and  bookkeeper,  gives  him  a  list  of  the  day's  first  house  calls. 
These,  with  morning  hospital  calls,  afternoon  office  hours  and  after- 
dinner  calls,  keep  him  busy  until  11  P.M.  And  nearly  every  night 
he  has  to  get  up  and  dress  to  go  to  a  patient's  home  or  the  hospital 

Also  like  the  oldtimers'  is  Dr.  Reeves's  relationship  with  his  pa 
tients.  He  knows  most  of  them  by  their  first  names.  (Nobody,  not 
even  his  wife,  now  calls  him  anything  but  "Doc.")  Born  &  raised 
on  a  farm  near  Madison  in  eastern  Nebraska,  Doc  Reeves  can  talk 
with  his  patients  about  stock  and  crops,  fodder  and  weather.  In  his 
office  or  at  the  hospital  he  can  hear  the  shrill  yipping  of  cowboys 
as  they  drive  a  herd  of  red  Herefords  through  the  middle  of  town  to 
a  feed  lot.  Many  of  his  cases  are  cowboys  with  broken  bones  or  farm 
boys  with  mangled  hands. 

Where  Dr.  Reeves  and  his  partner,  roly-poly  Dr.  McShane,  26, 
differ  from  oldtime  physicians  is  in  their  methods.  They  carry  few 


120  ROUNDUP: 

pills  in  their  black  bags,  and  rarely  dispense  medicine.  (Their 
patients  give  the  local  drugstore  $12,000  in  prescription  business  a 
year.)  In  two  years  Dr.  Reeves  has  never  delivered  a  baby  at  home, 
nor  performed  surgery  outside  the  little  yellow  stucco  hospital  on 
the  edge  of  town. 

As  he  sees  it,  the  days  of  appendectomies  on  farmhouse  kitchen 
tables  are  gone,  and  good  riddance.  "You  can  train  the  public  to 
plan  in  advance  and  get  to  the  hospital,"  says  Dr.  Reeves.  "It's 
better  for  the  patient  and  better  for  the  doctor.  In  this  day  &  age, 
there  isn't  much  point  in  practicing  under  pioneer  conditions." 

To  get  farther  away  from  pioneer  conditions,  Dr.  Reeves  has  lent 
the  hospital  an  electrocardiograph.  Last  week  the  partners  installed 
a  $5,000,  hospital-sized  X-ray  machine  to  replace  a  portable  model 
they  had  been  using.  Come  spring,  they  will  start  building  an  office 
of  their  own  to  replace  their  present  rented  quarters  (which  re 
placed  a  wooden  shack  where  Dr.  Reeves  had  to  practice  at  first). 
It  will  be  big  enough  to  serve  as  an  out-patient  clinic.  In  it  will 
be  still  more  modern  equipment,  notably  diathermy  and  basal 
metabolism  machines.  ("With  those,"  says  Dr.  Reeves,  "well  have 
all  the  essentials.")  Finally,  there  will  be  facilities  for  a  skilled 
laboratory  technician  to  make  the  countless  tests  demanded  by 
modern  diagnostic  methods. 

Dr.  Reeves's  objective  is  clear:  "We  want  to  be  able  to  practice 
medicine  in  such  a  way  that  fewer  &  fewer  people  will  go  to  Omaha 
or  the  Mayo  Clinic  in  Rochester.  I  want  everyone  in  the  community 
to  have  the  advantages  now  limited  to  those  who  have  the  money 
to  go  to  some  distant  clinic." 

Husky  Doc  Reeves  looks  what  he  is:  an  ex-football  player.  Just 
short  of  six  feet,  he  still  has  a  lithe,  athletic  bearing,  no  trace  of 
waistline  bulge.  To  encourage  high-school  athletics,  Dr.  Reeves 
serves  (without  fee)  as  physician  for  the  football  and  basketball 
teams.  Graduated  in  1946  from  the  University  of  Nebraska's  College 
of  Medicine  in  Omaha,  Dr.  Reeves  served  a  year's  internship  at 
Southern  Baptist  Hospital  in  New  Orleans,  then  cast  about  for  a 
place  to  settle  where  he  would  feel  at  home.  An  advertisement  in 
the  Journal  of  the  American  Medical  Association  took  him  to 
Callaway,  Neb.,  as  assistant  to  a  general  practitioner.  The  young 
doctor  had  to  make  several  calls  in  nearby  Arnold,  where  a  doctor 
had  recently  died.  He  liked  the  place,  and  within  a  few  weeks  moved 
in. 

The  first  months  were  even  busier  than  Dr.  Reeves  had  expected. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  121 

Before  a  year  had  passed,  he  called  in  Dr.  McShane,  just  graduated 
from  his  own  old  school,  and  made  him  a  partner.  Dr.  Reeves  hoped 
that  a  partner  would  cut  down  his  1 6-hour  day,  seven  days  a  week. 
It  helped,  but  he  still  has  few  chances  to  get  away  to  the  irrigation 
spillways  to  cast  for  bass,  or  onto  the  prairie  to  hunt  for  quail,  or 
to  the  hills  for  antelope.  Grinning,  he  sees  a  connection  between 
last  winter's  blizzards  (when  he  had  to  make  farm  calls  by  horse 
team  or  "weasel"  tractor)  and  the  heavy  obstetrical  practice  in  the 
last  weeks  of  1949:  "The  blizzards  kept  most  people  home,  and  we're 
just  reaping  the  benefits  now." 

Materially,  country  doctors  are  far  better  off  than  they  used  to 
be.  Though  their  fees  are  moderate  ($50  for  a  delivery,  an  average 
of  $125  for  an  appendectomy),  Drs.  Reeves  and  McShane  are  esti 
mated  to  gross  more  than  $20,000  a  year  each.  And  still,  like  old- 
timers,  they  give  one-fifth  of  their  service  to  those  who  cannot  afford 
to  pay. 

Dr.  Reeves  believes  that  he  could  never  be  happy  out  of  general 
practice.  "I  don't  think  a  doctor  should  be  a  scientific  automaton," 
says  he.  "He  has  to  be  a  warm-blooded  human  being,  capable  of 
sympathy  and  understanding."  And  Arnold's  general  practitioner  is 
resigned  to  the  long  hours:  "A  doctor  ought  to  be  busy;  he  can't  be 
happy  or  proficient  otherwise.  But  of  course  there  is  that  matter  of 
fishing.  A  man  can  go  stale  from  too  much  work,  so  everybody  ought 
to  go  fishing  now  8c  then." 


Reprinted  from  Time,  January  9,  1950.  ©  Time,  Inc.,  1950 


For  most  Americans,  the  man  with  the  plow  symbolizes 
the  conquest  of  the  plains.  But  in  northwestern  Nebraska, 
victory  depended  on  the  man  with  the  spade. 


Dutch  Joe:  Frontier  Hero 

A.  E.  SHELDON 

MEN  who  risk  their  lives  on  fields  of  battle  are  justly  held  as  heroes. 
Those  who  risk  and  lose  them  in  the  cause  of  making  human  homes 
in  what  was  once  a  desert  are  no  less  deserving  of  the  appellation. 
Among  them  I  write  the  name  of  Joseph  Grewe. 

"Dutch  Joe"  we  called  him.  We  were  the  homesteaders  upon  the 
high  tables  and  in  the  rich  black  valleys  of  the  sandhills  west  of 
Valentine  in  the  eighties.  We  were  upon  the  skirmish  line  of  the 
American  advance,  fighting  to  prove  that  American  homes  could  be 
made  in  the  heart  of  the  sandhills.  We  plunged  into  the  deep  can 
yons  of  the  Niobrara  and  tore  from  their  rugged  entrenchments 
thousand-year-old  cedar  trees,  "snaked"  them  down  the  canyon, 
split  them  into  posts,  hauled  them  forty  miles  to  Valentine,  and 
traded  them  at  six  cents  apiece  for  flour  and  bacon.  We  followed 
the  trail  of  deer  and  elk  for  a  week  to  bring  home  a  bit  of  fresh 
venison.  Pitch  pine  logs  were  our  fuel.  Water  was  our  first  necessity 
and  our  greatest  difficulty.  From  the  rich,  smooth  grama  grass  table 
lands  where  most  of  us  had  built  our  cabins  and  staked  our  hopes 
for  a  free  American  home,  we  could  look  miles  away  down  the  pine- 
clad  canyons  of  the  Niobrara.  At  the  bottom  of  the  canyons  ran 
splendid,  gurgling  brooks  of  clear,  cold  water.  Lazy  settlers  home- 
steaded  there  and  built  their  cabins  at  the  water's  edge,  where 
there  was  no  plow  land.  The  high-table  homesteaders  hauled  their 
water  in  barrels,  sometimes  a  distance  of  seven  milds,  while  they 
broke  out  their  first  fields  and  laid  foundations  for  a  real  farm  home. 

The  first  experiments  at  digging  wells  on  the  high  table  were 
failures.  Some  dry  holes  were  sunk  two  hundred  feet  and  abandoned. 
It  was  then  that  Dutch  Joe  appeared  on  the  horizon.  His  real  name 
was  Joseph  Grewe.  He  was  born  in  Westphalia,  Germany,  in  1854, 
came  to  Nebraska  in  1879,  and  homesteaded  in  Cherry  County  in 
June,  1884.  Jle  wa$  a  sturdy  fellow  of  medium  height,  with  a  pleas- 


A  Nebraska  Reader  123 

ant  smile,  determined  lips,  and  extraordinary  muscular  develop 
ment.  This  was  the  man  who  undertook  to  prove  that  water  could 
be  obtained  upon  the  high  tables,  and  who  dug  his  first  wells  more 
than  two  hundred  feet  through  the  hard,  dry  Niobrara  chalk  to 
the  underflow  of  pure,  cold  water. 

What  a  celebration  was  held  when  the  first  Dutch  Joe  well  reached 
water  upon  the  "German  table"!  It  was  a  measuring  rod  by  which 
each  settler  could  calculate  the  cost  of  securing  water  upon  his  own 
homestead.  From  then  on,  Dutch  Joe  was  in  constant  demand.  Other 
settlers  would  do  his  farm  work,  break  out  prairie,  and  haul  cedar 
logs  for  him  while  he  dug  their  wells.  In  the  next  seven  years  he 
dug  over  6,000  feet  of  wells,  ranging  in  depth  from  100  to  260  feet. 
There  was  no  well-digging  machinery  in  the  region  then,  and  the 
settlers  were  too  poor  to  import  any. 

Dutch  Joe's  wells  were  large,  round  cylinders,  straight  as  a  gun 
barrel  from  the  grama  grass  roots  to  the  gravel  underflow.  Some 
of  us  who  watched  him  work  called  him  'The  Human  Badger."  In 
a  single  day  he  was  known  to  dig  a  well  sixty-five  feet  deep.  I  have 
never  seen  a  man  who  could  strike  his  spade  into  the  topsoil  and 
sink  out  of  sight  in  such  an  astonishingly  short  space  of  time. 

One  day  in  1894  Joe  had  to  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  first  well  he 
had  dug  in  the  sandhill  settlement  to  clear  out  some  obstruction. 
From  the  bottom  of  the  well  he  gave  the  signal  to  hoist  a  bucket 
full  of  loose  rock.  When  it  was  almost  at  the  top,  the  bucket  slipped 
from  the  steel  catch  holding  it  to  the  rope  and  fell  200  feet,  crush 
ing  Joe's  head.  The  steel  catch  was  his  own  invention,  made  by 
himself,  and  designed  to  save  time  by  quickly  detaching  the  bucket 
from  the  rope  for  unloading.  Many  years'  service  had  worn  the 
steel  catch,  unnoticed,  until  it  was  ready  for  this  last  act  in  a  fron 
tier  tragedy. 


Condensed  from  "A  Hero  of  the  Nebraska  Frontier,"  Nebraska  History  and 
Record  of  Pioneer  Days,  Vol.  I,  No.  i   (Febr.,  1918) 


Perhaps  there  are  certain  advantages  for  an  artist  grow 
ing  up  in  an  empty  country;  a  country  where  nothing  is 
made)  and  everything  is  to  be  made.  Except  for  some  of 
the  people  who  lived  in  it,  I  think  no  one  had  ever  found 
Nebraska  beautiful  until  Willa  Gather  wrote  about  it.  A 
new  convention  had  to  be  created  for  it;  a  convention  that 
had  nothing  to  do  with  woods  and  water-falls,  streams 
and  valleys  and  picturesque  architecture.  .  .  .  There  it 
lay;  and  it  was  as  new,  as  unknown  to  art  as  it  was  to 
the  pioneer. 

—Edith  Lewis,  Willa  Gather  Living 


Willa  Gather  of  Red  Cloud 


MILDRED  R.  BENNETT 

WHEN  nine-year-old  Willa  Gather  came  from  Winchester,  Virginia, 
in  1883  to  Webster  County,  Nebraska,  she  was  already  old  enough 
to  absorb  material  which  she  was  to  use  in  her  first  short  stories  at 
the  University  of  Nebraska  and  later  in  O  Pioneers!,  My  Antonia, 
and  One  of  Ours.  "This  country  was  mostly  wild  pasture  and  as 
naked  as  the  back  of  your  hand,"  she  said  in  a  1921  interview.  "I 
was  little  and  homesick  and  lonely,  and  my  mother  was  homesick, 
and  npbody  paid  any  attention  to  us.  So  the  country  and  I  had  it 
out  together,  and  by  the  end  of  the  first  autumn,  that  shaggy  grass 
country  had  gripped  me  with  a  passion  I  have  never  been  able  to 
shake.  It  has  been  the  happiness  and  the  curse  of  my  life." 

Catherton,  the  precinct  in  which  the  Gathers  lived,  had  been 
named  for  George  Gather,  Willa's  uncle,  who  had  come  to  Nebraska 
ten  years  before  and  who  had  helped  survey  the  county.  A  group  of 
settlers  from  Virginia  had  formed  a  community  called  New  Virginia; 
but  Willa's  closest  neighbors  were  the  Lambrechts  who  had  come 
from  Germany.  Her  first  playmate  was  Lydia  (Leedy)  Lambrecht, 
a  girl  about  her  own  age;  and  the  children  spent  happy  hours  in 
the  attic  of  Grandfather  Gather's  house  where  Willa's  parents  were 
living,  trying  on  grownups'  garments  and  pretending  to  be  clowns 
or  out  in  the  tall  grass  snake-hunting  with  Lydia's  brother  Henry 
and  his  little  dog. 

1*4 


A  Nebraska  Reader  125 

In  her  play  Willa  (Willie)  had  no  use  for  dolls  and  preferred  to 
dramatize  something  grownups  were  doing;  but  she  liked  to  leave 
the  prosaic  details  of  her  projects  for  her  playmates  to  accomplish. 
One  of  her  greatest  fascinations  was  the  life  of  the  foreign  immi 
grants,  and  since  the  trail  toward  Red  Cloud  led  past  the  Lam- 
brechts'  sod  house,  she  often  wandered  over  and  into  the  kitchen, 
where  she  pestered  Mrs.  Charlotte  Lambrecht  with  all  sorts  of  ques 
tions.  To  this  generous-hearted  woman,  the  child's  curiosity  was 
something  very  commendable,  and  she  would  often  stop  her  work 
to  explain,  or  she  would  slowly  demonstrate  how  foods  were  cooked 
or  garments  fashioned  in  the  old  country. 

Willa  saw  with  an  exceptionally  clear  eye,  experienced  vicariously, 
and  remembered.  Her  friendship  of  those  early  days  flourished  until 
death.  To  Mrs.  Lambrecht,  who  had  cared  for  Willa's  mother  dur 
ing  an  illness  with  pneumonia,  and  to  the  girls  "Leedy"  and  Pauline, 
Miss  Gather  sent  gifts  of  handmade  woolen  sweaters,  scarfs  from 
abroad,  and  other  beautiful  and  useful  things.  Particularly  during 
the  depression  years  she  worried  about  these  friends,  regretting  that 
she  had  recently  moved  into  a  more  expensive  apartment  in  New 
York,  for  she  wanted  to  aid  them  financially  when  she  felt  the  need. 
It  was  not  so  much  that  they  needed  what  she  could  do,  but  rather 
that  she  derived  great  pleasure  out  of  any  opportunity  to  express 
her  love  for  them.  Repeatedly  she  wrote  to  Red  Cloud  merchants, 
giving  detailed  instructions  and  sending  money  to  buy  coffee,  dried 
fruits,  and  delicacies  to  be  dispatched  to  the  Lambrechts.  She  knew 
what  farming  would  be  like  in  bad  years,  and  although  her  friends, 
who  were  in  some  ways  as  reticent  as  Willa  herself,  would  never 
write  her  of  their  struggles,  she  was  sure  that  sometimes  there  wasn't 
enough  money  to  buy  the  select  brand  of  coffee  roasted  in  Boston 
which  Mrs.  Lambrecht  so  greatly  enjoyed. 

Whenever  the  author  returned  to  Red  Cloud,  no  matter  what  the 
weather,  she  went  out  to  Catherton,  preferably  by  horse  and  buggy. 
(She  returned  to  the  Catherton  locality  in  her  last  story,  "The  Best 
Years"  in  The  Old  Beauty.)  On  one  occasion  when  the  younger 
Lambrecht  girls,  Clara  and  Delia,  were  preparing  lunch,  they  set 
on  the  table  a  dish  of  wild  plum  jam.  Their  mother  reproved  them 
in  German,  saying  it  wasn't  good  enough  for  their  important  guest; 
but  Miss  Gather,  familiar  with  German,  understood  and  would  not 
allow  the  dish  to  be  removed.  At  lunch,  to  the  delight  of  the  girls, 
she  ate  several  helpings  of  the  jam.  One  time  she  was  shown  a 
quilt  embroidered  with  all  the  state  flowers.  So  much  did  Miss 


126  ROUNDUP: 

Gather  admire  it  that  as  soon  as  possible  Mrs.  Lambrecht  and  the 
girls  made  her  a  duplicate,  which,  she  told  them  later,  she  used  all 
the  time  as  a  counterpane  on  her  bed  in  the  New  York  apartment. 

Willa  liked  to  visit  with  Julius,  the  younger  son,  who  raised  pure 
bred  white-faced  cattle  and  who  faced  life  with  such  imperturba 
bility  that  he  was  a  challenge  to  her  understanding.  Her  curiosity 
piqued  her  into  spending  as  much  time  as  she  could  out  at  the  barn 
talking  with  him.  In  New  York  she  kept  track  of  events  through 
the  Red  Cloud  paper,  The  Commercial  Advertiser;  and  if  Julius 
sold  a  prize  bull,  she  was  certain  to  comment  on  it  in  her  next 
letter  home.  If  one  of  them  had  a  crop  failure,  she  managed  to  send 
a  check—as  a  valentine,  as  a  Christmas  gift,  as  a  birthday  remem 
brance.  Even  after  her  death,  the  usual  Christmas  checks  came  to 
these  intimate  friends. 

The  impression  that  engraved  itself  so  deeply  on  this  youngster 
may  have  been  more  enduring  because  up  to  the  family  move  to 
Catherton,  she  had  been  protected  from  seeing  the  actual  struggle 
for  life  and  sustenance.  Into  the  sod  houses  and  dugouts  she  went, 
watching  the  immigrant  women,  savoring  their  old-world  back 
ground,  sensing  how  unfitted  many  of  them  were  for  the  rigorous 
life  in  the  wilderness.  H.  W.  Boynton  in  the  New  York  Evening 
Post,  November,  1915,  quoted  her:  "I  have  never  found  any  intel 
lectual  excitement  more  intense  than  I  used  to  feel  when  I  spent 
a  morning  with  one  of  these  pioneer  women  at  her  baking  or  butter- 
making.  I  used  to  ride  home  in  the  most  unreasonable  state  of 
excitement;  I  always  felt  as  if  they  told  me  so  much  more  than 
they  said— as  if  I  had  got  inside  another  person's  skin.  If  one  begins 
that  early,  it  is  the  story  of  the  man-eating  tiger  over  again— no 
other  adventure  ever  carries  one  quite  so  far." 

Living  in  Catherton  in  1883-84  was  something  like  living  at  the 
crossroads  of  the  world.  Within  a  few  miles  of  the  Gather  home 
were  settlements  of  Russians,  French,  Irish,  Norwegians,  Germans, 
and  Czechoslovakians,  each  with  a  rich  heritage  of  tradition  and 
superstition.  Tragedy  abounded,  for  many  were  too  weak  to  survive 
the  uprooting  and  replanting,  and  insanity  or  suicide  was  not  in 
frequent.  The  bitter  comment  in  some  of  Miss  Gather's  earliest 
stories  is  that  after  ten  years  on  the  divide,  one  is  ready  to  commit 
suicide— a  common  practice  of  the  Poles  when  they  were  too  dis- 
'couraged  to  shave  was  to  keep  their  razors  to  cut  their  throats;  but 
the  Danes  usually  hanged  themselves. 

In  the  Norwegian  settlement  lived  Yance  Sorgensen,  a  bachelor 


A  Nebraska  Reader  127 

who  built  up  a  very  ample  estate.  His  older  sister  had  come  first 
to  Council  Bluffs,  Iowa,  and  worked  until  she  could  pay  passage 
for  Yance.  Then  the  two  had  saved  until  they  could  send  for  the 
mother,  the  father,  and  the  others.  Finally  Yance  had  his  own  house, 
not  very  well  furnished  by  some  standards.  On  several  occasions 
Mr.  Gather  suggested  that  he  should  modernize  his  home:  "Why  do 
you  live  like  this?  It's  shameful  for  you  to  go  without  a  bathroom 
and  heat." 

Yance  explained,  "I'm  so  much  more  comfortable  than  I  ever  ex 
pected  to  be.  When  I  first  came  here  at  nineteen,  I  had  only  my 
shirt  and  jeans."  And  not  all  the  wealth  Yance  could  ever  acquire 
would  cause  him  to  change  his  ways. 

When  Miss  Gather  sent  a  copy  of  O  Pioneers!  to  Carrie  Miner 
Sherwood,  she  inscribed  on  the  flyleaf:  "This  was  the  first  time  I 
walked  off  on  my  own  feet— every  thing  before  was  half  real  and  half 
an  imitation  of  writers  whom  I  admired.  In  this  one  I  hit  the  home 
pasture  and  found  that  I  was  Yance  Sorgensen  and  not  Henry  James." 

Once  when  Miss  Gather  returned  to  visit  her  home,  she  and  her 
father  went  out  to  see  the  little  church  that  Yance  had  rebuilt  and 
had  decorated.  He  hired  a  Czech  named  Ondrak  to  paint  a  picture 
at  the  front  above  the  altar.  Ondrak  had  gone  to  art  school  at  Prague 
and  Munich,  and  eventually  drifted  to  America.  He  had  done  some 
rather  crude  murals  as  wall  decorations  of  some  Red  Cloud  homes, 
but  as  a  rule,  he  just  painted  houses.  Willa  liked  him  because  he 
talked  about  the  old  country,  music,  and  culture,  and  he  spoke  ex 
cellent  French.  She  once  asked  him  to  do  some  painting  in  the 
Gather  home  and  invited  him  to  lunch  with  her— a  privilege  he 
never  forgot. 

The  painting  he  chose  for  the  church  was  "Christ  in  the  Garden." 
When  Mr.  Gather  saw  it,  he  hesitatingly  pointed  out  to  Willa  the 
crudities  of  the  work.  She  was  furious.  "Father,  you  know  you  don't 
know  a  thing  about  art!" 

"But,"  he  protested  mildly,  "look  at  that  halo.  Just  like  a  ring 
of  cheese." 

Willa  would  not  agree.  To  her  any  sincere  effort  was  worthy. 
However  much  she  might  shun  society  and  withdraw  from  people, 
yet,  in  her  presence,  humble  sincere  men  like  Yance  and  Ondrak 
always  felt  at  home—appreciated. 

Living  at  the  edge  of  Catherton  Precinct  and  over  in  the  Bohe 
mian  settlement  were  the  Czech  families  who  were  to  be  immor 
talized  in  My  Antonia.  When  the  Gathers  moved  to  Nebraska,  the 


128  ROUNDUP: 

father  in  one  family  had  just  killed  himself.  The  tragedy  was  retold 
at  every  fireside,  and  Willa  said  later  that  the  tale  made  such  an  im 
pression  on  her  that  if  she  were  ever  to  write  anything,  it  would  have 
to  include  that  story. 

When  the  girl  from  whom  My  Antonia  takes  its  name  first  came 
to  the  Miners  (the  Harlings  of  My  Antonia),  she  was  about  fifteen 
and  had  never  done  anything  but  hard  field  work.  It  is  possible  that 
she  came  through  the  suggestion  of  Grandmother  Gather  and  Mrs. 
Grice,  a  woman  who  lived  on  the  same  section  as  the  Bohemian 
family  and  who  had  always  taken  an  interest  in  the  girl.  In  any  case, 
Willa  had  an  opportunity  to  know  Annie  very  well. 

Knowing  Annie  and  her  never-failing  energy  was  an  inspiration. 
Although  she  had  never  tried  before,  she  soon  learned  to  cook  and 
sew;  and  when  Mrs.  Miner  gave  her  permission  to  use  the  machine, 
she  made  all  the  clothes— shirts,  jeans,  overalls,  and  husking  gloves 
for  her  family.  For  herself,  she  fashioned  everyday  shoes  with  a 
cardboard  sole  and  several  thicknesses  of  suiting  or  denim,  covered 
on  the  bottom  with  oilcloth.  These  she  tied  on  her  feet  with  black 
tape.  Their  flapping  never  delayed  her  in  her  breathless  scurrying 
to  do  everything  she  could.  In  spare  moments  she  picked  out  hickory 
nuts— it  took  a  week  to  get  enough— to  make  Hughie,  the  Miner 
boy,  a  special  Sunday  cake. 

On  their  part  the  Miner  children  took  Annie  with  them  to  opera- 
house  performances  and  other  diversions.  She  would  work  all  day 
and  dance  all  night  if  opportunity  offered.  She  soon  learned  to  copy 
any  kind  of  dress  and  made  herself  duplicates  of  those  she  liked, 
much  to  the  embarrassment  of  some  of  the  society  ladies.  When, 
later,  she  went  west  to  marry  a  brakeman,  she  had  many  beautiful 
clothes;  but  her  happiness  was  short-lived.  After  a  week  her  lover 
deserted  her  and  Annie  returned  to  Red  Cloud. 

When  Miss  Gather  first  conceived  the  story  of  Antonia,  she  had 
temporarily  lost  track  of  many  of  the  "hired  girls"  and  did  not 
know  how  their  lives  had  actually  turned  out.  As  it  happened,  how 
ever,  the  facts  were  much  like  fiction.  Annie  had  married  a  Bohe 
mian  boy  and  mothered  a  large  family  of  which  she  was  justly  proud. 
The  girls  were  beautiful,  and  the  boys  couldn't  be  defeated  in  the 
county  weight-lifting  and  boxing  contests  or  the  high-school  basket 
ball  or  football  games.  Annie's  husband  ("Neighbor  Rosicky"  in 
Obscure  Destinies)  was  equally  proud  of  his  children.  When  neigh 
bors  told  him  that  he  should  sell  his  cream,  get  more  money,  and 
buy  more  land,  he  and  Annie  agreed  that  roses  in  the  cheeks  of 


A  Nebraska  Reader  129 

their  children  were  more  important  than  land  or  money  in  the  bank. 

There  is  a  story  that  at  one  time  Annie's  husband  went  to  the 
Hastings  Hospital,  and  when  asked  something  about  himself,  replied, 
"I  am  the  husband  of  My  Antonia."  He  is  now  buried  in  the  little 
Bohemian  cemetery  in  the  northern  part  of  the  county— the  cemetery 
which  overlooks  cornfields  and  rich  sloping  pastures. 

After  re-establishing  contact  with  Annie,  Miss  Gather  never  failed 
to  visit  her  whenever  possible.  She  enjoyed  the  long  table  in  the 
cheerful  kitchen,  the  crowd  of  happy-faced  children,  the  Bohemian 
cooking— kolaches  and  Annie's  special  banana-cream  pie.  Willa  was 
particularly  pleased  with  Annie's  sons,  one  of  whom  won  rapid 
military  advancement  in  the  recent  war.  All  of  them,  according  to 
Miss  Gather,  had  the  manners  of  children  of  a  grand  duke.  Always 
sensitive  to  any  change  in  the  weather,  Miss  Gather  carried  an  assort 
ment  of  scarfs,  capes,  wraps;  and  when  Annie's  boys  took  her  to 
the  carriage  at  their  farm  gate,  each  one  would  have  some  garment 
draped  over  his  arm,  ready  to  help  her  into  it  or  with  a  flourish 
lay  it  at  her  feet  in  the  conveyance.  The  admiration  was  mutual; 
and  after  visiting  this  family,  Miss  Gather  would  be  so  breathless 
with  excitement  that  she  could  scarcely  speak,  and  she  was  completely 
exhausted. 

Once  Willa  sent  Annie  a  check  for  fifty  dollars  with  instructions 
to  buy  herself  something;  but  taxes  were  due  and  Annie  paid  them, 
never  revealing  that  the  money  had  gone  for  necessities.  Too  proud 
to  admit  any  need,  the  family  never  asked  for  help;  but  Willa  kept 
track  of  things.  "Is  Annie's  oldest  boy  planting  hybrid?  If  not,  I 
shall  see  that  he  can  afford  it  another  year."  Similarly,  she  sent 
money  to  provide  seed  wheat  during  the  bitter  drought  years.  Annie 
applied  another  gift  check  on  a  washing  machine.  When  Miss  Gather 
found  out  that  the  machine  had  cost  more  than  the  money  she  had 
sent,  she  wrote  another  check  requesting  that  she  be  allowed  to  pay 
in  full  for  the  machine  and  that  it  be  christened  "Willie's  Washer." 

Annie's  final  years  were  alert  and  active,  and  filled  with  many 
friends.  "I  had  a  hard  life,"  she  used  to  say,  "but  now  I  have  things 
easy  and  the  children  are  so  good  to  me."  Having  things  easy  in 
Annie's  language  did  not  mean  idleness.  Her  cooking  did  not  fail 
to  please  any  guest  who  dropped  in— and  there  were  many  of  them 
from  all  over  the  country,  especially  after  her  picture  and  some 
thing  of  her  story  appeared  in  Life.  And  visitors  were  offered  a 
choice  of  her  crocheting  or  needlework,  much  of  which  bore  blue 
ribbons  from  the  county  fair.  She  received  many  letters  asking  about 


130  ROUNDUP 

My  Antonia,  to  which  she  replied  with  memories  of  the  trip  across 
Bohemia  to  Prague  when  she  was  twelve,  of  her  first  days  in  America, 
and  of  her  work  in  Red  Cloud  homes.  She  even  made  a  recording 
in  Czech  for  the  Voice  of  America  broadcast. 

In  Annie's  neat  drawers  and  cupboards  were  gifts  from  Miss 
Gather:  a  set  of  Italian  dishes,  some  prints  from  Czechoslovakia  (a 
gift  to  the  author  from  Thomas  Masaryk),  and  a  warm  shawl  sent 
after  Miss  Gather's  death.*  A  small  photo  of  her  famous  friend 
always  stood  on  Annie's  dresser  and  a  packet  of  letters  telling  how 
much  she  enjoyed  hearing  from  Annie  and  how  during  an  illness 
these  words  from  home  comforted  her. 

However,  it  should  not  be  thought  that  Annie  lived  in  the  past. 
She  was  concerned  with  world  and  neighborhood  affairs  and  the 
latest  movies.  A  Catholic,  she  would  worship  with  any  group—  telling 
her  beads,  she  said,  within  herself.  One  of  her  greatest  pleasures 
was  her  yard  in  which  were  trees  that  she  had  started  from  peach 
and  apricot  pits.  There  was  the  cherry  tree  a  son-in-law  had  planted, 
a  rose  bush  given  her  by  a  son,  and  a  bit  of  red  clover  "just  like  the 
old  country." 

On  April  24,  1955,  eight  years  to  the  day  after  the  death  of  Willa 
Gather,  Annie  Pavelka  died.  "My  work  is  all  finished,"  she  had  told 
her  daughter  a  few  days  before.  "Finished  and  put  away."  But  Annie 
and  her  work  still  live,  and  will  live  on  so  long  as  American  letters 
endure,  in  the  pages  of  Willa  Gather's  My  Antonia. 

She  lent  herself  to  immemorial  human  attitudes  which  we  recog 
nize  by  instinct  as  universal  and  true.  .  .  .  She  was  a  battered  woman 
now,  not  a  lovely  girl;  but  she  still  had  that  something  which  fires 
the  imagination,  could  still  stop  one's  breath  for  a  moment  by  a 
look  or  gesture  that  somehow  revealed  the  meaning  in  common 
things.  She  had  only  to  stand  in  the  orchard,  to  put  her  hand  on  a 
little  crab  tree  and  look  up  at  the  apples,  to  make  you  feel  the  good 
ness  of  planting  and  tending  and  harvesting  at  last.  All  the  strong 
things  of  her  heart  came  out  in  her  body,  that  had  been  so  tireless 
in  serving  generous  emotions. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  her  sons  stood  tall  and  straight.  She  was  a 
rich  mine  of  life,  like  the  founders  of  early  races. 

Condensed  from  "Cathexton,"  Prairie  Schooner,  Fall, 


*  Many  of  these  gifts  may  now  be  seen  at  the  Willa  Gather  Pioneer  Memorial 
in  Red  Cloud.  Organized  in  March,  1955,  its  purpose  is  to  keep  alive  the  memory 
of  the  people  and  the  places  that  Willa  Gather  loved. 


"Nothing  in  the  world/9  wrote  Willa  Gather,  "not  snow 
mountains  or  blue  seas,  is  so  beautiful  in  moonlight  as 
the  soft,  dry  summer  roads  in  farming  country,  roads 
where  the  white  dust  falls  back  from  the  slow  wagon 
wheel." 

Among  the  old-time  road  traders,  most  likely  there 
were  many  with  an  eye  for  this  kind  of  beauty.  But  when 
ever  they  met  a  wagon  on  a  country  road,  they  found  the 
animal  pulling  it  far  and  away  the  most  important  object 
on  the  scene. 


Road  Trader 


B.  F.  SYLVESTER 

I  SING  OF  the  road  trader,  in  whom  horse-trading  reached  its  apogee. 
Road  trading  was  a  vast,  unorganized  commerce  grounded  in  the 
peculiar  economics  that  often  made  a  poor  horse  more  valuable— 
to  the  trader— than  a  sound  one.  Most  anyone  could  swap  horses, 
but  the  road  trader  was  an  artist.  The  touch  of  the  master  was  to 
trade  and  then  to  get  back  the  twenty-dollar  snide  to  use  again  and 
again.  A  snide  was  a  good-looking  horse  with  a  hole  in  him— that 
is,  with  one  or  more  major  disabilities.  Worthless  as  an  animal,  he 
was  invaluable  as  a  pawn,  his  loss  a  blow  to  the  owner. 

The  range  of  the  road  trader  was  the  Missouri  Valley.  It  is  no 
disrespect  to  New  England  and  New  York  State  to  say  that  here  were 
men  who  would  have  turned  David  Harum  over  to  their  herd  boys 
for  practice.  The  man  who  made  a  route  from  St.  Joseph  to  the 
Canadian  line  and  back  each  year  could  be  said  to  have  had  the 
benefits  of  travel. 

The  Missouri  Valley  road  trader  began  his  season  toward  the  first 
of  May,  when  there  was  grass  for  the  animals  and  reasonable  warmth 
in  the  air.  At  that  season,  for  forty  years  or  so  before  the  Model  T, 
there  was  a  stir  in  the  covered  wagon  camps  from  Yankton,  South 
Dakota,  to  Kansas  City. 

Ed  Hilliker  was  the  most  celebrated  of  western  road  traders.  His 
word  was  good.  The  man  who  said,  "Ed,  pick  me  out  a  team,"  was 
with  the  Bank  of  England,  but  most  of  Hilliker's  customers 


13*  ROUNDUP: 

approached  him  with  something  to  be  got  rid  of.  Then  it  was  a 
horse  trade.  Hilliker  was  six  feet,  two  and  a  half  inches  tall  and 
weighed  285  pounds.  He  could  hold  a  wild  horse.  When  his  first 
automobile  failed  to  stop  at  his  "Whoa!  Whoa!"  he  pulled  off  the 
steering  wheel.  He  broke  the  critter.  On  one  hand  in  his  later  days 
he  wore  a  four  and  a  half  carat  diamond,  on  the  other  a  ring  with 
the  Lord's  Prayer  engraved  upon  it.  He  paid  fifty  dollars  for  his 
Stetson  hats,  and  as  an  eater  was  celebrated;  his  children  say  every 
day  was  Thanksgiving.  During  World  War  I,  he  and  his  partners 
sold  75,000  horses  and  mules  to  the  armies.  He  spent  and  gave  away 
a  fortune. 

At  twelve  he  ran  away  from  home  at  Red  Oak,  Iowa,  after  trad 
ing  ponies  with  a  preacher's  son.  His  father,  a  blacksmith,  ordered 
him  to  trade  back.  "No,"  Ed  said.  "It  was  a  trade."  He  joined  Hi 
Miller,  then  the  greatest  trader  of  all,  and  at  sixteen  had  his  own 
wagon  and  four  horses. 

In  an  Atlantic,  Iowa,  hotel,  Hilliker,  then  about  nineteen,  over 
heard  a  man  speak  offensively  to  a  girl  employed  in  the  restaurant 
—a  girl  Hilliker  never  had  seen  before.  He  dragged  the  man  out 
side,  gave  him  a  beating,  and  returned  to  his  wagon.  The  next 
spring  he  married  the  girl— sixteen-year-old  Catherine  Talty— and 
they  went  honeymooning  in  the  covered  wagon.  The  town  thought 
it  wasn't  much  of  a  match  for  her.  For  twenty  years  she  went  along, 
drove  a  wagon,  bore  children  in  camp,  and  when  Hilliker  quit  the 
road,  broke,  he  founded  a  fortune  on  $500  she  secretly  had  saved. 

Once  Hilliker  reached  Council  Bluffs  with  neither  money  nor 
food.  Leaving  his  family  in  camp,  he  took  a  horse  around  to  the 
barns  to  make  a  swap  that  would  yield  a  few  dollars.  He  tried  all 
day  and  failed.  When  he  returned  to  camp,  supper  was  on  and  flour, 
bacon,  and  other  supplies  on  hand. 

"Kate,  where  did  this  come  from?"  he  asked. 

"Do  you  miss  anything  around  here?"  she  countered. 

"No,  nothing  except  the  dog." 

"That's  it,"  she  said.  She  had  made  her  own  swap. 

His  chief  diversion  was  poker.  At  Grand  Island,  Nebraska,  an 
important  war-horse-inspection  point,  there  was  a  game  that  ran  for 
eleven  days,  with  large  sums  on  die  table  most  of  the  time.  He  played 
every  night,  sometimes  all  night,  but  by  day  he  attended  to  business. 

As  Hilliker  prospered,  he  built  a  barn  a  block  long  and  an  eight- 
room  house  across  the  street  in  Fremont,  Nebraska.  There  was  com 
pany  all  the  time,  but  no  servants.  Mrs.  Hilliker  and  her  three 


A  Nebraska  Reader  133 

daughters  were  equal  to  all  domestic  situations.  Every  tramp  was 
fed,  and  visitors  had  to  stay  for  dinner  or  all  night. 

At  a  time  when  his  firm  was  making  $1,000  a  day  on  war-horse 
contracts,  a  real-estate  agent  suggested  that  a  man  of  his  means 
should  live  in  a  more  fashionable  district. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "I  wouldn't  have  a  house  where  I  couldn't  smell 
the  barn." 

Traders  were  not  in  court  as  often  as  might  be  inferred.  First,  the 
losing  swapper  wasn't  eager  to  advertise  his  defeat;  second,  the  win 
ner  was  skilled  in  talking  his  way  out.  Then,  too,  the  horse  sense 
of  the  justices  of  the  peace  was  not  always  Blackstone. 

A  trader  was  summoned  before  a  Nebraska  justice  on  complaint 
of  a  dealer  who  said  he  had  paid  $175  for  a  balky  team. 

"Did  you  tell  this  man  the  team  would  pull?"  asked  the  bench. 

"No,  Your  Honor." 

"What  did  you  tell  him?" 

"I  said,  'You'll  be  surprised  to  see  them  work.' " 

The  justice  was  seized  with  an  attack  of  coughing  and  hid  his  face 
behind  a  law  book.  Presently  he  emerged  and  addressed  the  com 
plaining  party:  "How  long  have  you  been  trading  horses?" 

"Since  I  was  seven,  Your  Honor." 

The  J.  P.  reflected  upon  this  answer  for  a  moment,  then  ruled: 
"The  judgment  of  this  court  is  that  you  better  trade  with  somebody 
else." 

Yes,  the  trader  was  a  handy  explainer.  There  was  the  old  one 
about  the  farmer  who  complained:  "One  horse  of  that  team  I  got 
from  you  is  blind." 

"No,  he  ain't  really  blind,"  the  trader  said. 

"He's  blind  as  a  bat,"  the  farmer  insisted.  "He  runs  into  things. 
He  runs  into  the  fence.  He  runs  into  the  barn." 

"Well,  he  ain't  blind,"  was  the  soft  answer.  "He  just  doesn't  care." 

Charley  Mitchell,  later  to  become  wealthy  with  Hilliker  in  the 
horse-commission  trade,  tells  of  his  kidney-dropper  mare.  The  mare 
had  a  quick  turn-over.  Shown  in  harness,  she  seemed  all  right,  yet 
the  instant  she  was  unhitched,  she  would  lie  down  and  roll.  There 
after  she  would  raise  herself  on  her  front  legs  and  sit.  Mitchell,  a 
huge  man,  could  lift  her  the  rest  of  the  way  by  the  tail,  an  advantage 
not  owned  by  others.  His  customers  sold  back  or  traded  back  with 
out  haggling.  The  last  thing  they  needed  was  a  sitting  horse. 

The  trader  was  a  good  actor.  His  wife  and  children  were  part 
of  the  setting.  Not  only  did  they  lend  verity  to  the  idea  that  these 


134  ROUNDUP: 

were  homesteaders  on  their  way  to  a  new  location,  but  a  wife's 
plea  not  to  sell  Ginger,  her  own  property,  or  Nellie,  the  children's 
pride  and  joy,  was  disarming.  Ed  Miller  had  been  a  road  trader 
out  of  Louisville,  Nebraska,  for  years  when  he  was  taken  in  by  this 
comedy. 

"One  of  my  team  was  a  dummy,"  he  tells,  "making  the  other 
horse  and  me  plenty  of  trouble.  He  wouldn't  lead,  he  wouldn't 
pull.  I  passed  another  trader  with  a  nice-looking  young  mare.  I  said 
would  he  trade.  He  said  he  might.  The  mare  had  an  ankle  bandage 
where  he  said  a  ringbone  had  been  cut  out,  but  she  didn't  seem 
to  be  lame  any,  and  I  thought  if  she  could  pull  her  half  of  that 
top  wagon,  there  couldn't  be  anything  wrong  with  her  that  I 
couldn't  fix.  But  something  told  me  to  watch  out,  and  I  began  back 
ing  away.  That's  when  the  old  lady  speaks  up:  Ta,  you  ain't  goin' 
to  trade  off  Hannah!  Why,  we  raised  her  from  a  colt.'  I  thinks  now 
maybe  the  mare's  all  right,  so  I  trade.  I'm  not  fifty  yards  down  the 
road  before  she  goes  lame.  The  fellow  had  her  hitched  up  and  just 
standing  there  waiting  for  a  sucker  like  me.  I  have  to  give  her  away." 

The  terminology  of  the  trader  was  crisp.  To  "come  back  with  the 
halter"  was  to  be  beaten  in  a  deal.  A  man  without  money  in  the 
spring  had  been  "winter-killed."  "Shut  'em  down"  was  to  give  tem 
porary  relief  to  windies  and  heavies  or  heavers.  A  bull-windy  would 
go  down  at  a  little  exertion.  A  windy  was  shut  down  by  a  sponge 
pushed  up  its  nose.  It  then  would  breathe  through  the  mouth.  A 
string  attached  to  a  sponge  permitted  its  removal.  Another  method, 
if  the  horse  was  being  shown  in  motion,  was  a  clamp  over  the 
nostrils,  painted  the  color  of  the  hair. 

A  wiggler,  or  bobby,  had  a  spinal  weakness  that  caused  it  to 
wabble  behind.  Such  an  animal  would  be  hitched  closely,  traces 
and  pole  straps  drawn  up  so  there  was  no  room  to  move.  A  freezer 
was  one  that  couldn't  back.  A  smooth-mouth  was  any  horse  past 
nine  years  old.  That  meant  that  the  last  dark  cup  in  the  teeth  of 
the  lower  mouth— the  cups  disappeared  two  a  year  after  five  years- 
had  gone.  "Bishoping"  or  "cupping"  was  to  drill  small  depressions 
in  certain  teeth  and  color  them  with  sulphate  of  iron,  depending 
upon  how  "young"  the  horse  was  to  be.  The  trader  could  do  a  bit 
of  face-lifting,  making  the  sunken  places  above  the  eyes  match  the 
new  teeth.  A  hatpin  incision  would  let  in  air  and  temporarily  puff 
out  the  skin.  If  the  horse  were  a  grayhead,  he  would  paint  the  eye 
brows.  The  last  touch  was  a  rubber  band  around  the  base  of  an 
ear,  so  that  the  horse  held  it  forward  instead  of  letting  it  flop  back. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  135 

A  trader  watched  the  eyes  of  another  as  a  boxer  does.  Where  he 
looked  for  defects  in  your  horse  was  a  good  place  to  watch  in  his.  A 
poke  in  the  horse's  ribs  was  revealing  to  a  smart  dealer.  It  could 
disclose  bad  wind,  heaves,  or  a  tendency  to  fits.  The  trader  had  the 
percentage  in  his  favor.  The  other  fellow  might  know  how  to  detect 
one,  but  rarely  more  than  one,  of  a  dozen  ailments  to  which  horses 
are  subject. 

The  trader  had  plenty  of  time.  He  hurried  no  deals,  had  no  quotas, 
no  pep  talks.  So  far  as  known,  no  one  tried  to  organize  him.  No 
congressman  wept  over  his  sad  case.  He  got  along  well  with  others 
in  the  same  line.  Trading  among  themselves  was  largely  accom 
modation.  One  needing  a  windy  for  a  deal,  another  would  help 
him  out.  All  took  care  of  their  animals.  A  trader  might  have  a  poor 
coat  for  himself,  but  there  was  a  rubber  or  canvas  blanket  to  keep 
the  rain  off  his  snide. 

Men  made  a  side-line  business  of  supplying  snides  to  traders,  a 
topsy-turvy  traffic  in  which  the  buyer  made  the  seller  prove  that  the 
horse  was  no  good.  A  balker  would  be  hitched,  and  every  trick  ex 
hausted  to  make  it  pull.  A  bull-windy  must  be  demonstrated  to  be 
a  collapser,  not  now  and  then,  but  always.  Some  horses  got  the  idea 
and  would  drop  at  the  tug  of  a  halter. 

Ed  had  a  bleeder  mule  worth  his  weight,  if  not  in  gold,  at  least 
in  silver.  The  mule  was  hauled  from  camp  to  camp  in  a  wagon,  but 
once  in  camp,  would  be  hitched  with  a  horse.  As  every  horse-swapper 
sought  matched  teams,  Hilliker's  misfits  were  the  signal  for  a  trade. 
If  he  could  get  a  modest  boot,  Hilliker  didn't  mind  what  sort  of 
snide  he  got  in  exchange  for  his  mule,  knowing  that  the  mule  would 
never  get  more  than  100  yards  away;  that  was  as  far  as  the  bleeder 
could  travel  under  his  own  steam.  Hilliker  had  another  jewel,  a  big 
sorrel  that  couldn't  be  led  to  water  or  anywhere  else.  But  where 
the  trader's  wagon  led,  the  sorrel  would  follow  without  halter  or 
tie  rope,  on  the  understanding  that  it  was  of  his  own  free  will. 
This  self-respect  was  much  admired  by  other  traders  to  whom  Ed 
would  let  the  sorrel  out  on  a  percentage  basis.  One  season  his  share 
was  $300. 

When  cars  began  to  be  cheap  and  dependable,  the  road  trader's 
decline  set  in.  Roads  were  paved  and  no  longer  safe  or  comfortable 
to  horse  traffic.  Tractors  began  to  displace  the  horses  and  mules  in 
the  fields.  Farmers  were  not  so  sociable.  Once  they  had  welcomed 
a  chance  to  visit;  now  they  had  to  be  going  somewhere  in  their  cars. 
Boys  were  graduating  from  agricultural  schools  and  appraising  the 


136  ROUNDUP 

trader's  stock  with  a  cold  eye.  There  were  laws  against  camping 
along  the  road.  Water  and  grass  no  longer  were  to  be  found  freely. 

At  the  end,  the  road  traders  had  just  about  what  they  began  with. 
The  business  went  into  the  hands  of  dealers  who  bought,  sold,  and 
shipped.  Trading  became  negligible  and  confined  for  the  most  part 
to  neighborhoods. 

Charley  Mitchell  had  seen  what  was  coming  and  had  interested 
some  twenty  horsemen,  most  of  them  road  traders  in  the  commission- 
sales  business.  A  company  was  formed  with  Hilliker  as  president.  It 
prospered,  but  when  the  wartime  boom  in  horseflesh  began  in  1914 
with  the  arrival  of  the  first  remount-buying  details  from  the  Allied 
armies,  Mitchell,  Hilliker,  and  Frank  Simpson  organized  a  new  firm, 
and  the  business  mounted  dizzily  until  Armistice  Day.  Such  as  these 
made  fortunes,  but  when  the  war  ended,  the  commission-sales  trade 
and  the  horseflesh  boom  deflated  among  the  first,  and  there  was  no 
road  trading  to  return  to. 

Ed  Hilliker's  last  deal  was  on  a  single  span  of  mules,  two  weeks 
before  he  died  in  1934.  A  farmer  appeared  at  the  house  and  told 
what  he  wanted. 

"Chris,"  said  Hilliker,  "my  days  are  about  gone.  I  don't  feel  like 
any  more  business.  But  there's  a  team  over  at  the  barn  I  think 
would  suit  you.  Cost  you  $400."  The  man  paid  the  money  and  went 
for  his  sight-unseen  team. 


Condensed  from  "Hoss-TradinV  Saturday  Evening  Post,  January  6,  1934 


In  his  history  of  the  state,  James  Olson  has  remarked  that 
"Early  pioneers  seem  to  have  come  to  Nebraska  in  signifi 
cant  numbers  for  the  express  purpose  of  carving  political 
careers  for  themselves.  .  .  /'  The  tendency  has  persisted: 
in  fact,  some  observers  have  maintained  that  the  perpetual 
wind  on  the  prairies  is  due  less  to  the  action  of  the  ele 
ments  than  to  the  high  incidence  of  politicians  in  the 
population. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  the  state  has  long  been  recognized  as 
a  national  guidepost  of  political  trends  and  tendencies; 
and  since  i86j  gentlemen  from  Nebraska  have  been  dem 
onstrating  to  the  country  at  large  that  democracy  has  no 
stouter  pillar  than  the  cracker  barrel. 


Politicians  of  the  Old  School 

RUDOLPH  UMLAND 

i.  Henry  C.  Richmond 

You  MEET  his  sort  in  the  lobbies  of  hotels,  on  trains,  in  the  galleries 
of  legislative  chambers;  you  recognize  them  by  their  courtly  man 
ners,  their  dignity,  their  dictatorial  air.  They  are  nearly  always  large 
men  who  smoke  fat  cigars  and  talk  in  a  loud  voice.  The  names  of 
Mark  Hanna,  Champ  Clark,  and  W.  J.  Bryan  roll  off  their  tongues 
smoothly  as  butter.  There  is  something  Pickwickian  about  them. 
Henry  C.  Richmond— Colonel  Richmond,  sir— of  Nebraska,  is  one 
of  these:  a  politician  of  the  old  school. 

In  1912,  Richmond,  then  Democratic  candidate  in  Nebraska  for 
state  auditor,  went  to  Washington,  D.  C.,  for  a  brief  visit.  As  soon 
as  he  got  into  town,  congressmen  greeted  him  with  smiles  of  recog 
nition.  They  could  not  remember  his  name,  they  could  not  recall 
from  what  district  or  state  he  came,  but  they  were  quite  certain  that 
he  had  been  in  Congress  and  that  they  knew  him.  Colonel  Rich 
mond  availed  himself  at  once  of  the  privileges  of  an  ex-member. 
As  he  entered  the  floor  of  the  House,  a  doorkeeper  requested  his 
card.  "Ex-member,  son/'  said  Richmond  with  a  lordly  air,  and 
breezed  in.  On  the  floor  he  had  a  bully  time,  greeting  surprised 

137 


138  ROUNDUP: 

acquaintances  and  others  who  thought  they  were  acquaintances. 
Later,  in  the  Senate  restaurant,  he  met  a  solon  who  was  full  of 
reminiscences  about  Richmond's  visit  to  Austin,  Texas,  years  before. 
The  fact  that  he  had  never  been  in  Austin  did  not  deter  Richmond 
from  contributing  his  quota  of  fond  recollections  of  the  visit. 

Colonel  Richmond  was  born  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  1870,  in 
Gentry  County,  Missouri.  When  he  was  still  very  young,  the  family 
homesteaded  in  Kansas  and,  when  he  was  twelve,  came  on  to  a 
farm  in  Webster  County,  Nebraska.  His  first  job  was  as  country  news 
correspondent  for  the  Red  Cloud  Chief,  and  it  wasn't  long  before 
he  knew  all  there  was  to  know  about  running  a  country  weekly.  In 
1894  he  became  editor  of  the  Red  Cloud  Nation,  a  seething  red-hot 
Populist  publication  that  was  continually  damning  Wall  Street  and 
other  eastern  "special  interest"  groups  for  the  hard  times  prevailing 
in  Nebraska.  The  Colonel's  editorials  were  reprinted  throughout 
the  state,  and  his  trenchant  pen  won  him  the  attention  of  many 
politicians.  In  1897,  after  losing  out  for  chief  clerk  of  the  House  of 
Representatives  in  the  state  legislature,  Richmond  was  offered  a  job 
by  Richard  L.  Metcalfe  on  the  Omaha  World-Herald.  He  left  the 
paper  nine  years  later  to  become  editor  of  the  Fremont  Daily  Herald, 
a  post  which  he  obtained  largely  through  the  influence  of  Edgar 
Howard. 

In  1908  Colonel  Richmond  gave  up  the  editorship  and  served  as 
clerk  at  the  Democratic  National  Convention  in  Denver,  which 
nominated  William  Jennings  Bryan  for  the  third  time.  Previously, 
in  1904,  he  had  accompanied  Bryan  on  a  campaign  tour.  They  wound 
up  a  day  of  busy  speeches  at  the  little  town  of  Stuart,  in  Holt  County. 
"I  shall  never  forget  a  tall,  gangling,  dark-eyed  young  man  of  serious 
mien  named  Arthur  F.  Mullen  who  was  running  for  county  attor 
ney,"  the  Colonel  says.  "He  was  one  of  the  best  boosters  our  party 
had.  That  night  in  a  hotel,  Bryan,  young  Mullen,  and  I  were  as 
signed  a  single  large  room  which  had  one  bed  and  a  cot.  Bryan  and 
I  were  to  occupy  the  bed  and  Mullen  the  cot.  I  was  mighty  tired 
and  I  quickly  skinned  off  my  clothing  and  got  into  bed.  A  moment 
later  Mullen  donned  his  nightshirt  and  knelt  to  say  his  prayers.  A 
little  later  Bryan  did  the  same  and  then,  joining  me  in  bed,  re 
marked,  'Henry,  I  guess  you  are  the  only  pagan  in  the  crowd/  Of 
course  I  had  to  come  back  at  him  in  some  way  or  other,  so  I  said, 
*Yes,  but  what  of  it?  You  fellows  pray  in  opposite  directions  any 
way/  Bryan  laughed  uproariously.  You  see  he  was  Protestant  and 
young  Mullen  a  Catholic" 


A  Nebraska  Reader  igg 

There  are  few  Nebraska  politicians  and  editors  of  the  period  from 
1894  to  1940  about  whom  Colonel  Richmond  cannot  tell  some  anec 
dote.  Like  most  politicians  of  the  old  school,  he  will  spin  yarns  by 
the  hour,  provided  he  has  a  liberal  supply  of  cigars  at  hand. 

Colonel  Richmond  tells  the  following  one  about  Samuel  McKelvie, 
governor  of  Nebraska  from  1919  to  1923.  Although  McKelvie  was 
thirty-seven,  he  looked  so  boyish  he  often  was  mistaken  for  a  youth 
just  old  enough  to  cast  his  first  vote.  Shortly  after  his  inauguration, 
he  had  business  in  Chicago.  During  his  visit,  he  was  guest  of  honor 
at  a  luncheon  in  on^  of  the  clubs.  Directly  across  the  table  from 
Governor  McKelvie  was  the  prominent,  but  bibulous,  mayor  of 
a  large  Indiana  city.  One  of  Governor  McKelvie's  hosts  greeted  him 
and  said:  "I  want  you  to  meet  our  honor  guest  for  today,  Sam 
McKelvie,  Governor  of  Nebraska." 

The  mayor  fastened  his  wavering  gaze  on  McKelvie,  then  turned 
to  their  host  with  an  air  of  rebuke.  "Look,  friend/1  he  said,  "I'm 
pret-ty  damn  drunk,  but  not  that  drunk!" 

The  peak  of  Colonel  Richmond's  political  career  came  during  the 
years  1915-19,  when  he  was  serving  as  a  member  of  the  House  of 
Representatives  from  Douglas  County.  In  1917  he  introduced  a  bill 
which  provided  for  the  construction  of  a  new  capitol;  and  while  his 
bill  failed  to  become  law,  it  started  the  movement  which  led  to  the 
building  of  the  present  State  House.  It  also  won  for  the  Colonel 
the  sobriquet  which  he  relishes  above  all  others— "Father  of  the  Ne 
braska  State  Capitol." 


2.  Moses  P.  Kinkaid 

EXCEPT  in  the  deep  south,  there  are  few  men  who,  once  aboard  the 
political  merry-go-round,  have  displayed  greater  aptitude  at  latch 
ing  on  to  the  brass  ring  than  Moses  P.  Kinkaid  of  O'Neill.  His  most 
noteworthy  accomplishment  during  nearly  ten  terms  of  office  (aside, 
of  course,  from  getting  re-elected)  was  in  securing  passage  of  the 
"Kinkaid  Homestead  Act."  This  legislation,  originally  formulated 
by  Congressman  William  Neville  of  North  Platte,  permitted  settlers 
in  thirty-seven  northwest  Nebraska  counties  to  take  up  640  acres 
of  land  instead  of  160  as  provided  in  the  original  Homestead  Act  of 
i86s>. 

As  a  fellow  townsman  and  a  Democratic  national  committeeman, 
Arthur  F.  Mullen  was  uniquely  well-qualified  to  report  on.Kinkaid's 


i4o  ROUNDUP: 

career.  In  his  autobiography,  Western  Democrat,  Mr.  Mullen  wrote: 

Moses  P.  Kinkaid— his  district  called  him  Many  Platforms  Kinkaid— was 
one  of  the  earliest  and  most  successful  of  the  Patent-Medicine  School  of 
Politics.  He'd  been  district  judge  from  1897  to  1900,  and  had  apparently 
become  as  stationary  in  O'Neill  as  the  hitching  post  in  front  of  the  post 
office.  Day  after  day  he  used  to  stand  at  a  corner  near  the  bank  .  .  .  chew 
ing,  spitting,  spitting,  chewing,  eating  crackers,  drinking  medicine  from 
a  bottle,  shaking  hands  with  every  one,  not  once  but  every  time  he  met 
him.  Then,  in  1902,  he  was  elected  to  Congress,  staying  there  until  he  died 
in  1922.  .  .  . 

His  political  strength  was  not  in  causes,  not  in  eloquence,  but  in  direct 
communication  with  the  voters  of  his  district.  He  sent  flower  and  vegetable 
seeds,  free,  from  the  Department  of  Agriculture,  to  the  wives  of  all  the 
voters.  He  sent  what  he  and  they  called  literature,  free  documents  of 
various  governmental  agencies,  all  posted  under  his  frank.  A  lot  of  con 
gressmen  do  that,  and  don't  get  far.  Judge  Kinkaid  had  a  better  system. 

.  .  .  He  had  classified  his  constituents  by  their  ailments,  rheumatism, 
asthma,  bronchitis,  heart  trouble,  sour  stomach,  biliousness,  all  the  more 
ordinary  ills  of  mankind.  For  each  group  he  had  a  letter,  similar  in  tone 
but  different  in  recommendation.  Each  letter  began,  "You  and  I  both 
suffer  from  the  same  trouble.  I  have  found  a  remedy  which  has  helped  me, 
and  I  hope  it  will  help  you."  Sometimes  the  remedies  were  efficacious. 
Sometimes  they  weren't— for  anyone  but  Moses  P.  They  always  helped  him 
to  stay  in  office.  And  the  nation  has  had  lots  worse  representatives  than 
he  was,  even  though  his  adoption  of  the  Neville  Act  just  about  changed 
the  face  of  the  West.  For  it  brought  in  thousands  upon  thousands  of  home 
steaders  who  couldn't  cope  with  the  conditions  of  life  in  the  sandhills,  and 
stirred  up  a  lot  of  trouble  before,  in  time,  the  cattlemen  bought  out  most 
of  the  Kinkaiders. 

It  was  lucky  for  him  that  typewriting  had  arrived  before  he  went  to 
Washington.  He  wrote  so  badly  that  once,  when  a  man  asked  Doc  Morris, 
the  local  druggist,  to  decipher  a  recommendation  Kinkaid  had  written, 
Morris  took  it  back  of  the  counter,  then  returned  with  a  filled  bottle  of 
dark  liquid.  "Seventy-five  cents,"  he  said,  "and  it's  the  best  damned  cough 
syrup  I  ever  put  up." 

The  value  of  the  legislation  associated  with  his  name  has  long  been 
a  debatable  point.  However,  the  voters  of  the  sixth  district  were 
sufficiently  well  impressed  to  send  Kinkaid  back  to  Congress  until 
his  death--in  harness— in  1925.  What  some,  at  least,  of  his  constit 
uents  thought  of  him  was  expressed  in  a  song,  "The  Kinkaiders/' 
which  goes  in  part: 

Then  let  us  all  with  hearts  sincere 
Thank  him  for  what  has  brought  us  here, 
And  for  the  homestead  law  he  made, 
This  noble  Moses  P.  Kinkaid. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  141 

3.  Edgar  Howard 

IN  1895  the  membership  of  the  Nebraska  legislature  was  made  up 
mostly  of  Populists.  There  was  a  mere  handful  of  Republicans,  and 
only  one  simon-pure,  unadulterated  Democrat— Edgar  Howard  of 
Papillion,  Sarpy  County.  When  the  legislature  convened,  hundreds 
of  people  from  all  parts  of  the  state  came  to  Lincoln  by  train  and 
buggy  to  witness  the  opening  of  the  session.  Few  of  them  had  ever 
heard  of  Edgar  Howard.  He  was  just  a  country  newspaper  editor, 
newly  elected.  But  before  the  day  was  ended,  they  were  all  talking 
about  the  drawling,  long-jawed,  long-haired  young  fellow  from  Papil- 
lion. 

The  procedure  in  electing  legislative  officials  was  for  the  presid 
ing  member  to  ask  the  parties  in  turn  for  their  nominations  for 
speaker.  The  Populist  Party,  which  had  polled  the  largest  vote,  was 
asked  for  its  nominee  first;  then  the  Republican  Party.  Next  both 
names  were  put  before  the  house,  and— as  was  a  foregone  conclusion 
—the  Populist  caucus  nominee  got  the  big  vote. 

"We  will  now  proceed  to  the  election  of  a  chief  clerk,"  announced 
the  chairman. 

"Mr.  Chairman!  Mr.  Chairman!"  came  a  shrill  voice. 
"For  what  purpose  does  the  gentleman  rise?"  asked  the  chairman, 
who  clearly  did  not  know  the  member  from  Papillion. 

"Mr.  Chairman,  before  passing  on  to  the  election  of  a  chief  clerk, 
I  suggest  that  you  consider  the  nominee  of  the  Democratic  caucus 
which  met  at  the  Lincoln  Hotel  last  night,"  said  Howard.  "We  had 
a  big  meeting." 

As  a  snicker  started  around  the  hall,  the  chairman  grew  suspi 
cious.  "How  could  that  be  with  but  one  Democrat  in  the  house? 
Who  was  nominated  for  speaker?" 

"Edgar  Howard,"  declared  the  member  from  Papillion.  "He  is 
a  great  Democrat  and  a  great  man.  I  second  his  nominationl" 

Accompanied  by  roars  of  laughter,  the  name  of  Edgar  Howard 
was  then  put  to  vote  for  speaker.  There  was  one  ringing  "yea"— 
from  the  member  from  Papillion,  and  it  was  another  show-stopper. 
During  a  career  in  politics  and  journalism  which  covered  sixty- 
eight  years,  Edgar  Howard  could  be  counted  on  to  enliven  any 
assemblage  in  which  he  played  a  part.  Quick-witted,  salty  of  speech, 
and  unpredictable,  as  often  as  not  he  kept  his  colleagues  on  tenter 
hooks  but  never  failed  to  delight  newspapermen.  According  to  an 


142  ROUNDUP: 

article  which  appeared  in  Outlook  in  1930,  when  Congressman 
Howard  was  serving  his  sixth  year  in  the  House: 

The  Nebraska  Representative  has  many  virtues.  He  bursts  into  song  on 
the  floor  of  the  House,  denounces  lobbying  ex-Congressmen  who  "spit  in 
the  face  of  the  goddess  of  justice,"  ranks  with  Will  Rogers  as  a  favorite 
after-dinner  speaker,  and  violates  parliamentary  canons  almost  daily  with 
the  encouragement  rather  than  the  disapproval  of  his  good  friend,  Speaker 
Longworth.  It  was  Howard  who,  fresh  from  a  social  function  at  which 
politically  dry  members  drank  deep  from  a  "little  green  bottle,"  once 
delivered  an  allegorical  address  describing  a  visit  to  the  House  of  Dreams, 
where  hypocrisy  assumed  the  guise  of  good  fellowship.  Wet-drinking,  dry- 
voting  members  fidgeted  wretchedly,  but  Edgar  did  not  name  names. 

.  .  .  WKile  he  served  as  probate  judge,  state  legislator  and  lieutenant 
governor,  his  capsule  autobiography  in  the  Congressional  Directory  states 
that  he  "held  contemporaneously  the  higher  office  of  editor  of  a  country 
newspaper."  Senator  Norris  insists  that  journalism  lost  a  great  man  in 
Howard.  The  loss  is  not  complete.  He  still  sends  caustic  editorials  back  to 
Columbus,  Nebraska. 

During  the  same  year,  Time  summed  up  the  career  of  "Nebraska's 
Howard"  as  follows: 
Born:  at  Osceola,  Iowa,  September  16,  1858 
Start  in  life:  a  printer's  devil 

Career:  aged  13,  he  went  to  work  in  a  print  shop  in  Glenwood,  la.  He 
went  to  public  school,  worked  his  way  through  Western  Collegiate  Institute, 
attended  Iowa  College  of  Law.  He  became  a  tramp  printer,  a  wandering 
newswriter,  worked  for  journals  throughout  the  U.  S.  Last  subordinate 
job:  as  city  editor  of  the  Dayton  (Ohio)  Herald.  In  1884  he  married 
Elizabeth  Paisley  Burtch  of  Clarinda,  Iowa,  and  settled  in  Nebraska.  She 
gave  him  one  son,  Findley,  for  the  past  five  years  financial  adviser  to  Sal 
vador,  and  two  daughters.  He  edited  the  Papillion  (Neb.)  Times.  In  1891 
he  was  already  full  of  Democratic  sentiments;  William  Jennings  Bryan 
took  him  to  Washington  (paying  his  expenses  but  no  salary).  This  posi 
tion  lasted  but  a  few  months.  Howard  returned  to  Papillion,  entered 
politics.  Only  straight  Democrat  running  against  the  American  Protective 
Association,  Populist  ("Demipop")  and  Republican  candidates.  He  was 
elected  to  the  state  legislature  in  1895.  From  1896  to  1900  he  served  as 
Probate  Judge  of  Sarpy  County.  He  purchased  the  Columbus  (Neb.) 
Weekly  Telegram,  edited  it.  In  1917  he  had  one  term  as  Nebraska's  lieu 
tenant  governor,  returned  to  journalism,  made  the  Telegram  a  daily  in 
1922.  In  1923  he  was  elected  to  Congress,  sold  control  of  the  Telegram, 
though  he  still  writes  for  it  daily  and  receives  an  editorial  salary. 

In  Congress:  most  entertaining  of  representatives,  but  no  down,  he  is  a 
cogent  contributor  to  the  work  of  the  committees  on  Public  Lands,  Ter 
ritories,  Indian  Affairs,  Coinage,  Weights  &  Measures.  He  calls  himself  a 


A  Nebraska  Reader  143 

"Free  Democrat,"  but  is  seldom  not  "regular."  ...  He  is  one  of  the  last 
of  the  old-school  Democratic  "statesmen."  .  .  .  Regarding  foreign  affairs,  he 
describes  himself  as  "an  old-fashioned  American,"  favoring  isolation,  the 
Monroe  Doctrine. 

Legislative  hobbies:  farm  relief,  protection  of  U.  S.  Indians,  veterans'  care. 
On  the  first  two,  at  least,  he  is  an  expert  along  party  lines. 

In  appearance,  he  tries  to  resemble  Bryan,  facially  better  resembles  Ben 
jamin  Franklin.  He  is  heavy-set,  bobbed-haired,  mild-mannered.  He  dresses 
in  the  traditional  rusty-grey  frock  coat,  the  wide-brimmed  black  hat  of 
Bryan  and  the  old-timers,  which  helps  distinguish  him  among  the  more 
babbity  modern  members.  In  the  House  his  voice  assumes  a  peculiar,  almost 
clerical  (but  not  monotonous)  drone.  Then  he  is  meek,  likes  to  remind 
his  listeners  that  his  mother  was  a  Quaker.  His  own  faith  is  the  Episcopalian. 
He  drives  out  of  Washington  for  Sunday  services  in  country  churches.  He 
smokes  three  cigars  a  day,  does  not  chew,  swears  privately.  His  fraternal 
affiliations:  Masons  (32nd  degree),  Knights  Templar,  Shriner,  Rotary,  Odd 
Fellows. 

Outside  Congress:  he  lives  with  his  wife  at  a  modest  hotel  opposite  the 
House  Office  Building.  There  almost  nightly  he  holds  a  non-betting  card 
game  with  such  Congressmen  as  Garner  of  Texas,  Ohio's  Brand.*  He  likes 
to  watch  baseball  games,  horseraces.  He  says:  "I  am  a  natural  sport."  He 
bitterly  opposes  Sunday  blue-laws,  will  not  attend  Sabbath  sporting  events. 
When  in  Nebraska  he  talks  to  farmers  in  their  own  language,  and  to  the 
Indians  in  theirs,  being  particularly  adept  at  Santee  Sioux,  with  which  he 
baffled  stenographic  reporters  at  the  Interparliamentary  Union  in  Paris. 

Impartial  House  observers  rate  Edgar  Howard  thus:  a  fine  example  of 
what  congressmen  were  in  the  last  century,  plus  a  pointed,  ubiquitous  sense 
of  humor.  An  adept  at  floor  strategy  able  to  transcend  House  rules  of 
debate  by  his  witty,  original  methods,  thus  an  insidious  protagonist  of 
minority  measures.  Perhaps  the  greatest  "character"  in  the  House  and  the 
most  universally  liked  Congressman. 

Despite  his  defeat  in  1934  after  twelve  years  in  Congress,  the  "Old 
Roman"— as  he  had  come  to  be  known— continued  to  play  an  active 
part  in  state  and  national  politics.  He  was  an  all-out  supporter  of 
FDR,  but  would  not  go  along  with  Truman,  saying  that  he  could 
not  support  one  of  the  Pendergast  gang.  His  views  on  foreign  affairs 
were  considerably  modified  by  the  second  World  War:  In  1942  Life 
quoted  him  as  saying:  "There  will  be  no  more  isolationism  after  this 
war." 

*  He  was  not  always  a  non-betting  player.  "There  is  a  story  (told  on  himself) 
that  a  few  days  before  his  marriage,  Elizabeth  Burtch's  uncle  gave  them  $500 
as  a  wedding  present.  But  he  made  the  mistake  of  giving  it  to  Edgar  instead 
of  Elizabeth.  Edgar  then  slipped  off  to  Omaha  and  lost  it  in  a  faro  game  but 
kept  the  news  from  her  until  after  their  marriage."— J.  R*  Johnson,  Representa 
tive  Nebraskans 


ROUNDUP 

Throughout  his  ninety-three  years,  Edgar  Howard  remained  stead 
fastly  unpredictable.  He  also  managed  to  keep  his  thinking  geared 
to  the  times.  According  to  one  of  his  biographers,  J.  R.  Johnson,  in 
1949*  two  years  before  he  died,  the  long-haired  "Patriarch  of  'the 
Prairies"  ambled  into  Andy  Mlinar's  barber  shop  in  Columbus  and 
got  himself  a  crew-cut. 


Condensed  from  Prairie  Schooner,  Fall,  1941 


In  1935  appeared,  the  most  important  piece  of  prose  liter- 
ature  to  come  from  Nebraska  since  My  Antonia— Mart 
Sandozf  Old  Jules,  the  biography  of  her  father.  During  the 
previous  year  she  had  written  a  paper  on  pioneer  women, 
published  in  revised  form  in  1936,  which  included,  this 
portrait  of  her  mother. 


The  Wife  of  Old  Jules 

MARI  SANDOZ 

THE  AMERICAN  FRONTIER  is  gone,  we  like  to  say,  a  little  sadly.  And 
with  it  went  the  frontier  woman  who  followed  her  man  along  the 
dusty  trail  of  the  buffalo  into  the  land  of  the  hostile  Indian.  Never 
again  will  there  be  a  woman  like  the  wife  of  Marcus  Whitman,  who, 
in  1836,  looked  out  upon  a  thousand  miles  of  empty  West  from  the 
bows  of  a  wagon  rolling  up  the  Platte  toward  Oregon.  But  there  was 
a  later,  a  less  spectacular,  and  a  much  more  persistent  frontier  in 
America,  a  frontier  of  prairie  fire,  drought,  and  blizzard,  a  frontier 
of  land  fights  and  sickness  and  death  far  from  a  doctor,  yet  with 
all  the  characteristic  gaiety,  deep  friendships,  and  that  personal 
freedom  so  completely  incomprehensible  to  the  uninitiated. 

Among  my  acquaintances  are  many  women  who  walked  the  virgin 
soil  of  such  a  frontier  and  made  good  lives  for  themselves  and  those 
about  them.  And  when  they  could  they  did  not  turn  their  backs 
upon  the  land  they  struggled  to  conquer.  They  stayed,  refusing  to 
be  told  that  they  occupy  the  last  fringes  of  a  retreating  civilization, 
knowing  that  life  there  can  be  good  and  bountiful. 

One  of  these  frontierswomen  is  Marlizzie,  living  more  than  thirty 
miles  from  a  railroad,  over  towering  sandhills  and  through  valleys 
that  deepen  and  broaden  to  hayflats,  with  scarcely  a  house  and  not 
a  tree  the  whole  way. 

No  matter  when  you  may  come,  you  will  find  her  away  somewhere: 
chasing  a  turkey  hen;  looking  after  the  cattle;  repairing  fence  with 
stretchers  and  staples;  trimming  trees  in  the  orchard,  or  perhaps 
piling  cow  chips  for  winter  fuel.  A  blow  or  two  on  the  old  steel  trap 
spring  that  hangs  in  place  of  a  dinner  bell  at  the  gate  will  bring 
her— running,  it  seems  to  strangers,  but  really  only  at  her  usual  gait, 
a  gait  that  none  of  the  six  children  towering  over  her  can  equal. 


146  ROUNDUP: 

She  comes  smiling  and  curious,  shading  her  faded  blue  eyes  to 
see  who  you  may  be,  and  eager  to  welcome  you  in  any  event.  And 
as  she  approaches,  you  see  her  wonderful  wiry  slightness,  notice  that 
her  forearms,  always  bare,  are  like  steel  with  twisted  cables  under 
dark  leather— with  hands  that  are  beautiful  in  the  knotted  vigor  that 
has  gripped  the  hoe  and  the  pitchfork  until  the  fingers  can  never 
be  straightened,  fingers  that  still  deftly  mix  the  ingredients  for  the 
world's  most  divine  concoction— Swiss  plum  pie. 

And  while  you  talk  in  the  long  kitchen-living  room,  she  listens 
eagerly,  demanding  news  of  far  places— the  Rhineland,  not  so  far 
from  the  place  of  her  birth;  Africa,  and  the  political  games  in  the 
Far  East.  Apologetically  she  explains  that  the  mail  is  slow  and  un 
certain  here.  Her  daily  papers  come  a  sackful  at  a  time,  and  there 
is  no  telephone.  Besides,  the  decayed  old  stock  station  thirty  miles 
away  is  little  more  than  a  post  office  and  shipping  pens.  News  still 
travels  in  the  frontier  manner,  by  word  of  mouth. 

And  while  Marlizzie  listens,  perhaps  she  will  make  you  a  pie  or 
two  or  even  three— for  one  piece,  she  is  certain,  would  be  an  ag 
gravation.  Gently  she  tests  the  plums  between  her  fingers,  choos 
ing  only  the  firmest,  to  halve  and  pit  and  lay  in  ring  after  ring 
like  little  saucers  into  crust-lined  tins.  Then  sugar  and  enough  of 
the  custard,  her  own  recipe,  to  cover  the  plums  to  dark  submerged 
circles.  She  dots  the  top  with  thick  sweet  cream,  dusts  it  with  nut 
meg,  or,  if  you  insist— but  it  is  a  serious  sacrilege— with  cinnamon, 
and  slips  them  into  her  Nile-green  range,  gleaming  as  a  rare  piece 
of  porcelain  and  heated  to  the  exact  degree  with  corncobs.  And  as 
she  works,  her  hair,  that  she  had  so  carefully  smoothed  with  water 
before  she  began  the  pies,  has  come  up  in  a  halo  of  curls,  still  with 
a  bright,  glinting  brown  in  it,  for  all  her  sixty-nine  years. 

It  is  a  little  difficult  to  see  in  this  Marlizzie,  so  like  a  timberline 
tree,  but  stanchly  erect,  the  woman  of  forty  years  ago,  delicate  of 
skin,  with  white  hands,  and  what  was  known  as  "style"  in  the  days 
of  the  leg-o'-mutton  sleeve,  the  basque,  and  the  shirred  taffeta  front. 
She  came  hopefully  to  western  Nebraska,  with  eight  new  dresses  of 
cashmeres  and  twills  and  figured  French  serges  in  navy,  brown,  gray 
and  green.  One  had  a  yard  and  a  half  in  each  sleeve,  and  one— a 
very  fine  light  navy— had  two  yards  of  changeable  gold-and-blue 
taffeta  pleated  into  the  front  of  the  basque.  Marlizzie  got  so  many 
because  she  suspected  that  it  might  be  difficult  to  find  good  tailor 
ing,  with  good  style  and  cloth,  right  at  the  first  in  this  wilderness. 
It  was,  and  still  is;  but  she  found  no  occasion  for  the  clothes  she 


A  Nebraska  Reader  147 

brought,  or  the  renewal  of  her  wardrobe  with  anything  except  calico 
or  denim.  Gradually  the  fine  dresses  were  cut  up  for  her  children. 

Within  three  months  of  the  day  that  she  struggled  with  her  absurd 
rosetted  little  hat  in  the  wind  that  swept  the  border  town  and  all 
the  long  road  to  her  home  in  the  jolting  lumber  wagon,  Marlizzie 
had  ceased  for  all  time  to  be  a  city  woman.  She  had  learned  to  de 
coy  the  wily  team  of  Indian  ponies  and  had  converted,  without  a  sew 
ing  machine,  a  fashionable  gray  walking  skirt  and  cape  into  a  pair 
of  trousers  and  a  cap  for  her  new  husband. 

Ten,  years  later  her  children  found  the  tape  loops  once  used  to 
hold  the  trailing  widths  of  the  skirt  from  the  dust  of  the  street.  When 
they  asked  what  the  loops  were  for,  she  told  them  and  laughed  a 
little  as  she  buttoned  her  denim  jacket  to  go  out  and  feed  the  cattle. 
She  had  married  an  idealist,  a  visionary  who  dreamed  mightily  of 
a  Utopia  and  worked  incessantly  to  establish  his  dream  and  forgot 
that  cattle  must  be  fed  to  stand  the  white  cold  of  thirty-below-zero 
weather. 

By  the  time  the  calluses  of  her  hands  were  as  horn,  her  arms 
gnarling,  and  she  had  somehow  fed  every  hungry  wayfarer  that  came 
to  her  door,  she  had  learned  many  things— among  them  that  on  the 
frontier  democracy  was  an  actuality,  and  that,  despite  the  hardships, 
there  was  a  wonderful  plenitude  of  laughter  and  singing,  often  with 
dancing  until  the  cows  bawled  for  their  morning  milking,  or  winter- 
long  storytelling  around  the  heater  red  with  cow  chips. 

The  six  children  of  Marlizzie  were  brought  into  the  world  and 
into  maturity  whole  and  sound  without  a  doctor  in  the  house. 
Though  sugar  was  a  luxury  and  bread  often  made  from  grain  she 
ground  in  a  hand  mill,  they  were  fed.  Despite  the  constant  menace 
of  rattlesnakes  to  bare  feet,  and  range  cattle  and  wild  horses  and 
the  daredeviltry  the  frontier  engenders  in  its  young,  not  one  of  the 
children  lost  so  much  as  a  little  finger. 

Marlizzie  learned  the  arts  of  the  frontier:  butchering,  meat  care, 
soapmaking,  and  the  science  of  the  badger-oil  lamp,  with  its  under 
wear  wick  speared  on  a  hairpin.  Stores  were  remote,  even  had  there 
been  money.  Not  for  twenty-five  years,  not  until  she  was  subpoenaed 
on  a  murder  case,  was  she  on  a  train.  Finally,  in  1926,  she  was  in 
town  long  enough  to  see  her  first  moving  picture.  She  stayed  in  the 
dark  little  opera  house  all  the  afternoon  and  the  evening  to  see  it 
over  and  over,  and  talked  of  it  as  she  talked  so  long  ago  about  the 
wonders  of  Faust. 

During  those  years  Marlizzie  saw  many  spring  suns  rise  upon  the 


148  ROUNDUP 

hills  as  she  ran  through  the  wet  grass  for  the  team  or  stopped  to 
gather  a  handful  of  wild  sweet  peas  for  her  daughter,  who  was  tied 
to  the  babies  and  had  little  time  for  play.  Often  before  the  fall 
dawnings  Marlizzie  stripped  the  milk  from  her  cow.  It  was  far  to 
the  field,  and  she  and  her  husband  must  put  in  long  days  to  husk 
the  little  corn  before  the  snow  came. 

In  those  forty  years  Marlizzie  saw  large  herds  of  range  cattle  driven 
into  the  country,  their  horns  like  a  tangled  thicket  over  a  flowing 
dusty  blanket  of  brown.  'She  saw  them  give  way  to  the  white-faced 
Hereford  and  the  thick-skinned  black  cattle  that  crawled  through 
all  her  fences.  She  saw  the  hard  times  of  the  East  push  the  settler 
westward  and  the  cattleman  arm  against  the  invasion.  She  helped 
mold  bullets  for  the  settlers'  defense  or  listened  silently,  her  knitting 
needles  flying,  to  the  latest  account  of  a  settler  shot  down  between 
the  plow  handles  or  off  his  windmill  before  the  eyes  of  his  wife  and 
children. 

She  knitted  only  a  little  more  rapidly  when  it  was  her  own  man 
that  was  threatened,  her  brother-in-law  that  was  shot.  And  always 
there  was  patching  to  be  done  when  her  husband  was  away  for  weeks 
on  settler  business  and  she  could  not  sleep.  In  the  earlier  days,  when 
there  was  no  money  for  shoes,  she  made  the  slippers  for  the  little 
ones  from  old  overalls  on  these  nights,  making  a  double  agony  of 
it.  Nothing  hurt  her  pride  more  than  the  badly  shod  feet  of  her 
children. 

She  dug  fence-post  holes  along  lines  of  virgin  land,  hoed  corn, 
fought  prairie  fires.  She  saw  three  waves  of  population,  thousands 
of  families,  come  into  the  free-land  region,  saw  two-thirds  of  them 
turn  back  the  next  day  and  more  dribble  back  as  fast  as  they  could 
get  money  from  the  folks  back  home,  until  only  a  handful  remained. 

Marlizzie  still  lives  on  the  old  homestead.  With  a  hired  hand  she 
runs  the  place  that  she  helped  build  through  the  long  years  with 
those  gnarled  hands.  Now  that  her  husband  has  planned  his  last 
ideal  community,  even  the  larger  decisions  are  hers  to  make:  the 
time  for  the  haying,  the  branding  and  vaccinating  of  the  cattle,  the 
replacing  of  trees  in  her  orchards.  As  the  frontier  women  before  her, 
she  looks  to  the  sky  for  the  time  of  planting  and  harvest,  to  the 
earth  for  the  wisdom  and  strength  she  yields  to  those  who  walk  her 
freshly  turned  sod. 


Extracted  from  "The  New  Frontier  Woman/'  Country  Gentleman,  Sept.,  1936 


III.  The  Gateway 


Omaha  is  one  of  the  most  masculine  cities 
in  America.  ...  It  is  full  of  dust,  guts, 
noise,  and  pith. 

—John  Gunther,  Inside  U.Sji. 


ODD 
00  0 
BUB 

one 

BOB 
QOQ 

SD0 
0QO 
SDD 


Omaha 


DEBS  MYERS 

THE  PEOPLE  of  Omaha  believe  the  Almighty  must  have  a  particular 
fondness  for  Nebraska  weather,  because  He  furnishes  such  a  sump 
tuous  variety  of  it.  The  citizens  were  not  unduly  alarmed,  therefore, 
one  warm  spring  day  when  the  skies  suddenly  blackened  and  the 
pleasant  March  breeze  changed  within  half  an  hour  to  a  fifty-five- 
mile-an-hour  gale  which  blew  ten  windows  out  of  a  downtown  de 
partment  store  and  toppled  a  brick  wall  on  an  automobile.  The 
calmness  with  which  Omaha  viewed  this  disturbance  was  not  shared 
by  a  visiting  businessman  from  the  East  who  took  refuge  in  a 
saloon  and  announced  that  never  had  he  encountered  a  wind  so 
powerful,  and  that  he  was  leaving  that  night  never  to  return. 
"Stranger,  you  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  the  bartender  said. 
"Around  here  we  don't  pay  much  attention  to  the  wind  until  we 
see  a  chicken  coop  or  hog  shed  flying  by.  Even  then  we're  not 
much  concerned  for  ourselves— it's  just  that  we  know  the  crops  and 
livestock  across  Nebraska  to  the  west  are  catching  hell  and  that's 
cause  for  worry/' 

To  understand  this  random  bit  of  philosophy— overdrawn  but 
containing  considerable  wry  truth— it  is  necessary  to  understand  that 
to  Omaha  the  farm  land  sprawling  to  the  west  is  a  wampum  belt 
that  keeps  the  city  prosperous;  a  garden,  feed  lot,  and  granary  sup 
plying  butter  and  eggs,  corn  and  hogs  which  Omaha  processes  and 
sends  across  the  world.  When  the  farmers  are  happy,  so  is  Omaha; 
when  they  are  ailing,  Omaha  has  a  long  face. 

Even  Omaha's  most  ardent  boosters  admit  the  climate  is  inclined 
to  be  skittish.  The  temperatures  range  from  a  record  114°  above 
to  a  record  32°  below,  and  it  is  not  unprecedented  on  a  spring  day 
for  the  city  to  experience  sunshine,  rain,  dust,  hail,  and  snow,  all 
within  a  few  hours.  This  does  not  seem  to  faze  Omaha  a  bit;  instead, 
the  city  thrives  on  it.  The  climate  has  to  be  pretty  good  for  all  its 
eccentricities,  the  citizens  reason,  or  the  corn  wouldn't  grow  so  tall, 
the  hogs  get  so  fat,  or  human  beings  live  so  long. 

This  westward  look  is  not  a  new  thing  with  Omaha.  The  town 
was  born  in  1854  as  a  junction  for  steamboats  coming  down  the 
Missouri  River  and  wagon  trains  heading  for  Utah  and  Oregon. 
Stage  coaches  and  teams  of  mules  and  oxen  rumbled  through  the 


152  ROUNDUP: 

dusty  streets;  gamblers,  gunmen,  and  claim-jumpers  rubbed  shoul 
ders  with  honest  men  looking  for  a  patch  of  land  to  plant  a  crop, 
and  the  clamor  of  the  honky-tonks  mingled  with  the  street-corner 
exhortations  of  frontier  preachers  whose  leather-lunged  piety  made 
even  the  mule-skinners  take  off  their  hats  and  marvel.  It  was  a  mule- 
skinner's  town,  tough  as  a  bullwhip,  and  there  was  a  saying  that 
the  devil  himself,  coming  up  from  the  nether  regions  to  admire  his 
handiwork,  was  scared  away  by  the  noise  while  still  three  miles 
underneath  the  Crystal  Saloon.  But  even  in  those  days  the  town, 
alpng  with  its  more  rambunctious  characters,  included  a  stubborn 
core  of  pioneer  builders  who  believed  that  the  prairies  would  be 
made  into  a  farm  empire  and  that  Omaha,  at  the  gateway  to  the 
West,  someday  would  become  big,  rich,  and  respectable. 

Today  Omaha,  with  a  population  of  5551,117,*  is  the  largest  city 
in  Nebraska.  It  is  known  as  the  "Gate  City  to  the  West,"  "The  City 
Surrounded  by  the  United  States,"  and,  more  elegantly,  as  the 
"Golden  Buckle  of  the  Corn  Belt."  Boiled  down,  this  means  that 
Omaha  long  ago  has  laid  aside  the  bullwhip  for  the  adding  ma 
chine  and  become  a  comfortable,  front-porch  kind  of  place,  proud 
of  its  parks,  schools,  and  business  buildings,  admiring  the  famous 
paintings  in  the  $4,000,000  Joslyn  Memorial,  but  feeling,  deep  down, 
that  there  never  will  be  a  prettier  picture  anywhere  than  a  straight 
furrow  cut  into  the  earth  by  a  plow. 

In  appearance,  inclination  and  habits,  Omaha  is  stanchly  mid- 
western.  The  city  spreads  out  on  the  west  bank  of  the  Missouri  River 
for  twelve  miles  and  rises  far  up  on  the  hills  to  the  west.  Like  most 
midwestern  towns,  it  is  sprawling  and  loose-jointed.  When  viewed 
from  the  top  of  the  Woodmen  of  the  World  building,  whose  seven 
teen  stories  make  it  the  city's  tallest  structure,  Omaha  looks  bigger 
than  it  actually  is.  The  people  are  neighborly,  practical,  and  mind 
their  own  business.  They  have  been  through  too  much  to  be  scared, 
or  intimidated,  by  anything.  In  common  with  most  prairie  people, 
they  have  a  deep  strain  of  earthy  individualism. 

An  illustration  of  this  was  overheard  in  a  conversation  in  the 
lobby  of  the  Blackstone  Hotel,  where  a  middle-aged  man  wearing 
a  cowboy  hat  was  describing  to  friends  a  parade  of  soldiers  he  had 
watched  that  day  in  downtown  Omaha.  "I'm  standing  there  with 
my  Uncle  Ben,"  the  man  said,  "and  these  soldiers  are  marching 
as  good  as  I've  ever  seen  soldiers  march,  never  missing  a  step.  And 

*  According  to  estimates  of  the  Census  Bureau  and  City  Planning  Department, 
an  January  i,  1957,  Omaha's  population  was  320,000. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  153 

I  turn  to  Uncle  Ben  and  say  to  him  that  that's  what  training  and 
discipline  will  do  for  country  boys,  and  I  tell  him  it  sure  is  a  mighty 
fine  sight.  And  Uncle  Ben  snorts  and  spits  tobacco  juice  at  the 
ground  and  he  says  to  me:  *Yep,  maybe  so,  but  I'd  like  it  better 
and  it  would  be  a  sight  more  in  line  with  the  way  this  town  grew 
up  if  a  few  of  'em  were  hollerin',  raisin*  a  little  hell  and  turnin' 
handsprings/  " 

There  is  a  belief  among  many  people  that  Omaha's  business  well- 
being  depends  exclusively  on  agriculture.  This  is  not  completely 
true,  although  it  is  a  fact  that  two  out  of  every  three  dollars  of 
Omaha's  income  are  obtained  from  the  processing  or  handling  of 
foods.  Omaha  is  also  the  fourth  largest  railroad  center  in  the  country, 
with  ten  trunk  lines;  it  has  more  than  thirty  insurance  companies, 
of  which  the  Mutual  Benefit  alone  employs  more  than  2,000;  and 
it  is  headquarters  for  the  Northwestern  Bell  Telephone  Company, 
which  operates  in  five  states. 

There  are  excellent  department  stores,  shops,  restaurants,  and 
hotels.  The  Brandeis  Department  Store,  ten  stories  high  and  a  block 
long,  is  the  largest  department  store  in  Nebraska  and  also  does  a 
prodigious  restaurant  business,  serving  more  than  2,000,000  meals 
a  year.  Omaha  has  a  dozen  top-notch  restaurants,  most  of  which 
specialize  in  steak,  and  boasts  one  of  the  most  cosmopolitan  dining 
rooms  west  of  the  Mississippi  in  the  Orleans  Room  of  the  Blackstone 
Hotel. 

When  pleasure-seekers  set  out  to  sample  Omaha  night  life,  they 
often  wind  up  in  South  Omaha.  In  this  section— a  separate  town 
during  Omaha's  early  days— are  located  some  of  the  town's  less  in 
hibited  night  clubs  and  saloons,  as  well  as  several  excellent  restau 
rants.  South  Omaha  is  chiefly  notable,  however,  as  the  home  of 
Omaha's  vast  meat-packing  industry,  probably  the  city's  greatest 
single  asset— it  outranks  Chicago  as  a  livestock-marketing  center.  At 
the  Union  Stock  Yards— including  more  than  160  acres  of  buildings, 
paved  pens,  and  alleys— more  than  a  million  and  a  half  dollars  of 
business  is  transacted  each  working  day.  This  tremendous  volume 
of  business  is  accomplished,  incidentally,  without  written  agreement, 
contract  or  down  payment.  The  livestock  is  bought  and  sold  on  the 
basis  of  the  spoken  word  or  a  nod  of  the  head. 

The  best  way  to  get  an  idea  of  how  this  is  done  is  to  follow  a 
packing-house  buyer  through  the  yards.  One  of  the  best  known  of 
the  buyers  is  a  big,  genial  man  named  Grant  Middaugh,  with  a 
reputation  for  knowing  as  much  about  beef  on  the  hoof  as  any  man 


154  ROUNDUP: 

around.  On  this  particular  morning  a  drizzling  rain  is  falling  and 
Middaugh,  wearing  boots,  cowboy  hat,  and  a  slicker,  walks  from 
pen  to  pen,  appraising  the  cattle,  dickering  over  prices  with  the 
owners  and  trading  small  talk. 

The  buying  of  cattle  is  seldom  a  quick  procedure;  usually  it  is 
accompanied  by  haggling  and  robust  insults,  which  are  considered 
a  mark  of  bargaining  craftsmanship.  At  the  first  pen  Middaugh 
shakes  his  head  gloomily.  "How  much?"  he  asks.  The  farmer  who 
owns  the  cattle  sets  a  price.  "At  the  price,"  Middaugh  answers,  "I 
would  not  buy  them  if  they  were  the  last  of  the  barnyard  species 
and  I  wanted  to  stuff  them." 

At  his  next  stop  Middaugh  encounters  a  grizzled  farmer  sitting 
on  a  fence  rail.  Middaugh  looks  over  the  cattle  with  solemn  delib 
eration.  Neither  he  nor  the  farmer  speaks.  Finally,  the  farmer  says, 
"Nice  day."  Not  a  man  to  side-step  a  ritual  Middaugh  answers, 
"For  ducks."  Middaugh  sits  on  the  rail  next  to  the  farmer  and, 
after  a  pause,  asks  the  price  of  the  cattle.  The  negotiating  begins. 
Middaugh  walks  away  and  the  farmer  walks  after  him,  tugging  at 
his  slicker,  lowering  the  price.  Then  the  farmer  climbs  back  on  the 
rail  and  folds  his  arms  in  the  manner  of  a  man  whose  patience  is 
exhausted.  Middaugh  raises  his  price  and  the  farmer  closes  the  deal 
with  a  brusque  bob  of  his  head.  "It's  mighty  lucky,"  Middaugh 
says,  "that  my  ancestors  were  Dutch  and  stubborn."  The  farmer 
sniffs.  "For  you  to  talk  about  your  ancestors,"  he  says,  "is  plain  reck 
less." 

When  the  morning  is  over  Middaugh  has  bought  six  pens  of  cattle. 
In  doing  this  he  has  haggled  over  prices  with  more  than  three  dozen 
farmers  and  has  walked  more  than  five  miles,  which  is  about  half 
the  distance  he  walks  on  a  day  he  considers  really  busy. 

Most  of  Omaha's  civic  undertakings  are  linked  to  the  outlying 
farms,  and  this  is  true  of  the  unique  organization  known  as  Ak-Sar- 
Ben,  which  is  Nebraska  spelled  backwards.  During  the  depression 
year  of  1895,  a  group  of  Omaha  businessmen  founded  the  organiza 
tion  in  an  effort  to  retain  the  state  fair  for  the  city,  provide  a  shot 
in  the  arm  for  Omaha  business,  and  co-ordinate  the  aims  of  the  city 
and  country  people.  These  businessmen  staged  a  series  of  parades, 
festivals,  and  entertainments  which  attracted  thousands  of  rural 
dwellers  into  Omaha  and  garnished  this  hospitality  with  ritualistic 
fanfare  which  made  it  into  a  prairie  version  of  the  New  Orleans 
Mardi  Gras.  Today  Ak-Sar-Ben  is  a  flourishing  nonprofit  civic  or 
ganization  with  more  than  15,000  members  and  an  impressive  plant 


A  Nebraska  Reader  155 

six  miles  outside  Omaha.  The  plant  includes  a  race  track,  a  coliseum, 
and  excellent  facilities  for  livestock  shows  and  4-H  Club  activities. 
The  annual  Ak-Sar-Ben  ball  is  the  major  event  of  the  Omaha  social 
season. 

Ak-Sar-Ben  prides  itself  on  its  contributions  to  the  public  service, 
such  as  the  occasion  when  it  assumed  the  debt  on  two  Missouri  River 
bridges  joining  Nebraska  and  Iowa  and  made  them  both  toll  free. 
Fundamentally,  though,  Ak-Sar-Ben  concentrates  on  helping  Ne 
braska's  rural  farm  and  youth  organizations.  Ak-Sar-Ben  leaders  feel 
they  know  Nebraska  farm  youngsters  as  well  as  anyone,  but  occasion 
ally  they  get  surprised.  There  was  the  time  at  a  livestock-judging 
contest  when  a  fourteen-year-old  farm  boy  was  leading  a  bull  into 
the  ring  to  be  judged  and  later  sold.  Two  Ak-Sar-Ben  officials  were 
watching,  and  one  said  to  the  other:  "You  can  tell  this  kid  loves  that 
bull  and  hates  to  sell  it." 

'Teah,"  the  other  official  agreed,  "probably  hell  break  into  tears." 

Gravely  the  boy  brought  the  bull  into  the  ring  and  removed  its 
rope.  Then  he  kicked  the  bull  in  the  hind  quarters.  "I'm  glad  to  be 
seeing  the  last  of  you,"  the  boy  said,  "you  always  have  been  an 
ornery  — " 

Omaha's  foremost  tourist  attraction  is  not  within  the  city  limits, 
but  ten  miles  to  the  west.  This  is  the  site  of  Boys  Town,  the  home 
and  school  made  famous  by  the  late  Rt.  Rev.  Msgr.  Edward  J. 
Flanagan.  Riding  the  bus  from  Omaha  across  the  rolling  prairie  to 
see  Boys  Town,  I  talked  with  a  fifteen-year-old  Negro  boy.  He  grew 
up  in  the  South,  his  parents  were  dead,  he  had  been  homeless  two 
years,  and  now  he  was  bound  for  Boys  Town,  and  he  was  scared. 

"I  wonder  how  those  white  boys  are  going  to  treat  me,"  he  said. 

The  first  sight  of  Boys  Town  is  something  people  remember.  This 
is  not  a  collection  of  somber  school  buildings  and  dormitories,  hint 
ing  of  reformatory  bleakness;  instead,  it  resembles  the  campus  of  a 
college  that  takes  pride  in  itself.  The  buildings  are  bright  and 
modern,  clustered  on  a  hill,  overlooking  long  acres  of  farm  land. 

The  Negro  boy,  getting  off  the  bus,  was  met  by  two  white  boys 
about  the  same  age.  One  of  them  picked  up  the  Negro  boy's  battered 
suitcase.  The  Negro  boy  was  startled.  "You  mustn't  do  that,"  he  said. 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  boy  carrying  the  suitcase.  "You've  had  a 
hard  trip."  The  three  boys  walked  up  the  road  toward  Boys  Town. 
The  Negro  boy  was  shaking  his  head.  "Think  of  that,"  he  said,  "a 
white  boy  carrying  my  suitcase  for  me." 

Boys  Town  is  the  "youngest"  incorporated  village  in  the  country, 


156  ROUNDUP: 

with  its  own  boy  mayor,  councilman,  and  commissioners,  its  own 
post  office,  newspaper,  schoolrooms,  field  house,  carpentry  shops, 
barbershop,  chapel—in  fact,  a  complete  community. 

Founded  by  Father  Flanagan  in  Omaha  in  1917  on  ninety  bor 
rowed  dollars,  the  institution  today  has  an  enrollment  of  nearly  1,000 
boys  of  varied  creed  and  color  and  covers  1,200  acres,  more  than  half 
of  which  are  in  cultivation.  The  boys  who  live  in  the  well-kept 
cottages  surrounding  the  campus  come  to  Boys  Town  from  all  over 
the  United  States.  They  are  admitted  between  the  ages  of  ten  and 
sixteen,  homeless  and  underprivileged,  and  some  of  them  delinquent. 
At  Boys  Town  they  go  to  the  church  of  their  own  choice,  attend 
grade  school  and  high  school,  and  learn  a  trade. 

Upon  the  death  of  Father  Flanagan  in  1948,  the  Rt.  Rev.  Msgr. 
Nicholas  H.  Wegner  became  the  managing  director  of  Boys  Town. 
Father  Wegner  is  a  quiet-spoken  native  Nebraskan  who  turned  down 
two  major-league  baseball  contracts  to  study  for  the  priesthood.  On 
the  wall  above  his  office  desk  is  a  drawing  by  Cartoonist  Percy  L. 
Crosby  portraying  the  youthful  comic-strip  character,  Skippy,  cap 
pulled  down,  hands  thrust  into  pockets,  chin  lowered  dejectedly.  The 
caption  states:  "When  you  feel  like  this  there's  nothing  like  talking 
it  over  with  Father  Flanagan."  Father  Wegner  points  to  the  cartoon 
and  smiles,  "I  can  sum  up  my  aims  briefly,"  he  says.  "I  am  trying  to 
follow  in  the  footsteps  of  Father  Flanagan." 

Just  as  Boys  Town  is  a  mingling  of  races  and  creeds,  so  is  Omaha 
itself.  Of  the  entire  population,  84.6  per  cent  is  native-born  white, 
but  this  does  not  tell  how  many  thousands  of  its  citizens  are  of  foreign 
extraction.  Large  foreign-born  groups  include  Germans,  Italians, 
Poles,  Czechs,  Swedes,  Irish,  and  Danes.  Many  of  them  have  their  own 
social  centers  and  festivals,  but  this  does  not  mean  that  they  remain 
aloof  from  civic  affairs.  To  the  contrary,  when  the  Omaha  World- 
Herald,  the  city's  only  newspaper,  sounds  the  call  for  any  kind  of 
civic  improvement  campaign,  the  foreign-born  pitch  in  as  readily  as 
anyone. 

Like  all  monopoly  newspapers,  the  World-Herald  is  cussed  by 
many  of  the  citizens,  but  there  isn't  anyone  who  challenges  the  fact 
that  it  is  a  powerful  force  in  the  community.  It  was  founded  in  1885 
by  Gilbert  M.  Hitchcock,  who  served  eighteen  years  in  the  United 
States  Senate  and  House  as  a  Democrat.  The  present  boss  of  the 
World~Herald  is  Henry  Doorly,  who  came  to  Omaha  in  1900  as  a 
draftsman  for  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad,  fell  in  love  with  Hitch 
cock's  daughter,  and  married  her.  Hitchcock,  wanting  to  bring  his 


A  Nebraska  Reader  \yj 

new  son-in-law  Into  the  business,  went  to  the  managing  editor, 
William  R.  Watson,  and  asked  him  to  give  Doorly  a  job. 

"Sure,  glad  to  do  it/'  Watson  said.  "Ill  start  him  out  in  the  way 
I  start  all  cub  reporters,  covering  the  night  police  beat/* 

Hitchcock  fidgeted,  "Look,  Bill,"  he  said,  "you  know  me,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  ask  you  any  special  favors.  But  if  that  boy  is  put  to 
working  nights,  my  daughter  is  going  to  give  me  unshirted  hell/' 

Whereupon  Doorly  was  made  a  day  police  reporter.  After  a  year 
of  this  he  went  into  the  business  department  and  is  credited  with 
furnishing  much  of  the  acumen  which  eventually  drove  out  all  com 
petition  and  made  the  World-Herald  a  solid  and  prosperous  prop 
erty. 

It  is  almost  forgotten  in  Omaha,  but  the  editor  of  the  World- 
Herald  for  two  years  during  the  'go's  was  William  Jennings  Bryan. 
An  old-timer  who  remembers  Bryan  during  this  period  says  of  him: 
"He  was  more  talker  than  writer,  and  I  suspect  not  much  of  an  editor, 
but,  believe  me,  you  forgot  all  that  when  you  got  into  a  conversation 
with  him  and  he  smiled.  He  had  the  biggest  grin  I  ever  saw— it  looked 
as  though  he  was  whispering  in  his  own  ear." 

Bryan  helped  to  furnish  the  flavor  of  Omaha's  early-day  politics, 
which  were  gaudy  and  sometimes  violent.  The  most  colorful  of 
Omaha's  politicians  was  a  former  cowboy  named  James  C.  Dahlman 
who  boasted  that  he  grew  up  with  a  branding  iron  in  one  hand  and 
a  six-shooter  in  the  other.  He  served  five  terms  as  mayor,  starting 
in  1906,  and  there  are  still  old  men  around  who  tell  of  how  Dahlman 
in  his  first  race  for  mayor  outwitted  an  opponent  who  said  that  Dahl 
man  was  too  uneducated  to  write  a  veto  message. 

"It's  true  that  I  haven't  had  much  schooling,"  Dahlman  told  the 
voters,  "but  I  know  this  is  an  independent-minded  town  full  of  un- 
branded  mavericks  like  me,  and  if  any  ordinance  com6s  up  to  me  as 
mayor  that  takes  one  copper  cent  unjustly  from  the  people,  I'll  get 
the  biggest  ink  bottle  and  the  biggest  stub  pen  in  Omaha,  and  I'll 
write  across  that  ordinance  as  big  as  I  can  write,  'nothing  doing/ 
and  I'll  sign  it  'Jim  Dahlman'  and  if  there's  any  sucker  who  don't 
understand  what  that  means,  he  ain't  as  well  educated  as  I  am/' 

During  the  town's  infancy  it  had  more  than  Its  share  of  rogues  and 
swindlers,  and  the  honest  people  had  trouble  driving  them  out. 
Finally  they  got  the  upper  hand  of  these  undesirable  gentry— by 
lynching  them,  shooting  them,  ducking  them  into  the  cold  waters  of 
die  Missouri  River,  or  simply  by  scaring  them. 

The  story  still  endures  of  a  respected  pioneer  who  became  indig- 


158  ROUNDUP: 

nant  over  the  conduct  of  a  stranger  in  a  trading  post,  tapped  the 
man  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  to  him  politely:  "I  am  Peter  A.  Sarpy, 
the  old  horse  on  the  sandbar,  sir.  If  you  want  to  fight,  I  am  your  man, 
sir.  I  can  whip  the  devil.  If  you  want  satisfaction,  sir,  choose  your 
weapons— bowie  knife,  shotgun,  or  revolver." 

Having  disposed  of  these  formalities,  Sarpy  drew  a  gun  and  fired 
at  a  candle  on  a  table.  The  bullet— so  the  story  goes— extinguished  the 
candle  and  the  stranger  disappeared. 

Omaha's  more  lasting  memories  are  connected,  not  with  its  ram 
bunctious  beginnings,  but  with  festivals  and  celebrations.  One  of 
the  greatest  shows  in  Omaha  history  was  the  Trans-Mississippi  and 
International  Exposition  of  1898,  which  helped  put  Omaha  on  the 
map.  It  was  a  forerunner  of  other  fairs  to  follow,  and  was  replete 
even  to  a  jiggily  young  woman  known  as  Little  Egypt,  who  danced 
with  her  clothes  on— influenced  possibly  by  the  action  of  an  un 
identified  reformer  who  roamed  the  fairgrounds  one  night  smash 
ing  all  the  nude  sculpture  with  an  ax.  Forty-one  years  later,  in  1939, 
many  of  the  same  beaver  hats,  crinoline  dresses,  hoop  skirts,  and 
bonnets  worn  by  Omahans  during  the  exposition  were  dug  out  of 
trunks  for  a  celebration  known  as  the  Golden  Spike  Days.  Actually,  it 
was  a  whopping  publicity  stunt  to  call  attention  to  the  premiere  of 
a  movie,  Union  Pacific,  but  it  gave  the  city  a  chance  to  honor  an  es 
teemed  partner  in  the  community,  the  Union  Pacific. 

Omaha's  affection  for  the  Union  Pacific  is  understandable.  It 
hires  10,000  employees  in  the  Omaha  area,  with  an  annual  payroll 
of  $26,000,000.  The  president  of  the  Union  Pacific  is  rugged,  friendly 
Arthur  E.  Stoddard,  who  started  in  the  railroad  business  at  twelve  a? 
a  water  boy  making  twenty-five  cents  a  day.  Although  not  so  colorful 
as  some  of  his  predecessors,  Stoddard  exerts  an  effective  influence  on 
the  city's  affairs. 

Omaha  also  has  one  of  the  most  impressive  museums  in  the  Mid 
west,  the  Joslyn  Art  Memorial.  Located  on  top  of  a  hill  where  the 
territorial  capitol  once  stood,  the  building  houses  a  wide  variety  of 
art  and  artcraft  exhibits  as  well  as  serving  as  a  lecture  and  music 
hall  The  museum  director  is  an  energetic  young  man  named  Eugene 
Kingman,  who  has  done  a  remarkable  job  of  making  the  museum  a 
part  of  the  city's  day-to-day  life.  One  day  Kingman  was  stopped  in 
the  entrance  hall  by  a  man  who  inquired:  "Pardon  me,  but  can  you 
tell  me  the  name  of  this  mortuary?"  Then  and  there,  Kingman  de 
cided  to  popularize  the  museum  with  the  town. 

Much  of  Omaha's  cultural  impetus  is  furnished  by  its  universities. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  159 

Omaha  Municipal  University  is  a  school  with  an  enrollment  of  more 
than  4,000.  The  campus,  spread  over  fifty-two  acres,  is  located  in  the 
middle  of  one  of  Omaha's  best  residential  districts,  bordered  on  the 
north  by  the  Lincoln  Highway.  The  university  offers  wide  academic 
coverage,  including  the  largest  evening  school  of  adult  education  be 
tween  Chicago  and  Denver. 

Creighton,  Omaha's  other  major  school,  is  a  Jesuit  institution  with 
a  pleasant  campus  on  a  hill  overlooking  part  of  the  business  district. 
Creighton  is  known  throughout  the  United  States  for  its  courses  in 
law  and  medicine:  since  the  University  of  Nebraska  also  has  a  medi 
cal  branch  in  Omaha,  the  city  is  one  of  the  medical  centers  of  the 
Midwest. 

Whenever  money  is  needed  for  a  civic  project,  Omaha  calls  on 
W.  Dale  Clark,  chairman  of  the  board  of  the  Omaha  National  Bank. 
In  the  bleak  days  of  1932,  when  banks  were  closing  around  the 
country,  a  line  of  depositors  formed  one  day  in  front  of  the  bank 
where  Clark  was  working.  Clark  studied  the  line  with  concern. 
"Those  people  are  hot  and  hungry,"  he  said,  and  sent  them  iced  tea 
and  sandwiches.  The  depositors  figured  that  any  bank  solvent  enough 
to  feed  them  when  they  wanted  to  take  out  money  was  in  good 
shape— and  the  line  quickly  disappeared. 

Another  of  Omaha's  better-known  businessmen  is  a  husky  six- 
footer  named  J.  Gordon  Roberts,  president  of  the  Roberts  Dairy 
Company,  who  writes  for  the  World-Herald  a  column  of  comment 
and  opinion  which  he  pays  for  at  advertising  rates.  In  these  editorial 
essays  he  states  his  views  on  anything  which  he  considers  important 
to  Omaha  at  the  time.  His  subjects  have  included  midget  football, 
politics,  philosophy,  the  rights  of  stockholders,  free  enterprise,  and 
the  Bible.  Needless  to  say,  Roberts  took  a  strong  position  in  favor  of 
stockholders,  free  enterprise,  and  the  Bible.  Nonetheless,  some  of  his 
friends  at  the  outset  considered  him  slightly  daft  for  taking  a  chance 
on  offending  part  of  the  public— this  was  something,  they  said,  which 
a  solid  midwestern  businessman  simply  couldn't  do.  To  this  Roberts 
answered  in  print:  "Nuts.  I  have  something  to  say  and  I'd  rather  be 
broke  than  a  coward." 

Today  Omaha,  rising  far  above  the  muddy  waters  of  the  Missouri 
River,  is  a  scrapper  come  up  the  hard  way,  a  city  born  in  the  prairie 
tradition  with  a  faith  in  itself  that  comes  from  kinship  with  the  soil. 

There  is  a  story  about  a  New  York  City  financier  who  once  paid  a 
visit  to  Mayor  Jim  Dahlman.  Dahlman,  as  usual,  was  painting  a 
bright  picture  of  Omaha's  future.  "Your  optimism  is  poorly  taken," 


160  ROUNDUP 

the  financier  said.  "This  city  is  a  long  way  from  the  factories,  pro 
duction  lines,  and  money  markets  of  the  East."  Dahlman  grinned, 
grabbed  the  financier  by  the  arm,  and  said,  "Come  with  me." 

The  two  of  them  went  to  the  banks  of  the  Missouri  River,  climbed 
a  bluff,  and  Dahlman  waved  toward  the  West.  "There  are  our  fac 
tories,  our  production  lines,  and  our  money  markets,  all  in  one  big 
piece  of  land,"  Dahlman  said,  "created  not  by  man  but  by  the  Al 
mighty,  and  this  town  will  do  all  right  as  long  as  the  land  is  good,  the 
hogs  are  fat,  and  we  have  the  common  gumption  to  keep  our  roots 
deep  in  the  soil." 


Reprinted  by  special  permission  from  Holiday,  Oct.,  1952,  copyright  1952  by  The 
Curtis  Publishing  Company 


People  from  other  regions  have  not  always  understood  the 
origin  of  breezy  western  manners,  the  love  of  horseplay 
and  noisy  fun  characteristic  of  plainsmen.  Yet  it  is  a  very 
old  tradition,  and  .  . .  still  seems  a  valid  one. 

In  old  times  on  the  Plains,  Indian  enemies  sneaked  up 
in  silence,  but  Indian  friends  always  came  yelling  and 
making  a  loud  noise.  That  was  their  custom.  After  fire 
arms  were  brought  in  by  traders,  Plains  Indians  natu 
rally  made  their  peaceful  salute  by  firing— and  so  empty 
ing—their  guns  whenever  they  approached  a  friendly 
camp  or  fort  or  settlement.  And  their  custom  was,  very 
naturally— and  indeed  of  necessity— taken  up  by  all  trad 
ers,  trappers,  rivermen,  and  frontiersmen. 

This,  in  fact,  is  the  origin  of  that  old  cowboy  custom  of 
riding  in  at  a  high  lope,  whooping  at  the  top  of  the  lungs, 
and  "shooting  up  the  town." 

—Stanley  Vestal,  The  Missouri 


Iron  Horseplay 


LUCIUS  BEEBE 

PERHAPS  the  most  typical— certainly  the  most  spirited  and  splendid— 
of  all  American  jollifications  during  the  nineteenth  century  was  the 
railroad  celebration.  Other  convocations  and  foregatherings  of  the 
people  laid  claim  on  the  attention  of  posterity— barn-raisings,  revival 
meetings,  veterans'  encampments,  political  rallies,  peace  jubilees,  and 
the  field  days  and  musters  of  the  Ancients  &  Honorables  and  the 
Fencible  Light  Guards.  However,  none  approached  the  uproar,  the 
barrel-broaching,  the  oratorical  hosannahs,  the  fireworks,  trans 
parencies,  and  band  music,  the  parades,  barbecues,  and  square 
dances,  the  slugging,  nose-pasting,  and  falling  down  in  alcoholic 
swoons  of  entire  populaces  which  accompanied  the  railroad  celebra 
tion.  Here  the  eagle  screamed  while  hovering  most  gloriously  visible 
over  a  people  favored  of  fortune  and  providence.  Here  was  the 
achievement  of  what  was  in  actual  fact  the  great  American  preoc 
cupation  and  obsession  throughout  the  seventies,  eighties,  and  nine 
ties.  Here  was  salvation  through  the  agency  of  the  coefficient  of  ex- 

161 


i6*  ROUNDUP: 

panding  steam,  glory  at  the  throttle,  and  wealth  illimitable  beckon 
ing  down  vistas  o£  steel  rails  that  led  straight  to  the  Shining 
Mountains  of  Destiny  itself. 

The  celebration  that  greeted  the  arrival  of  the  first  teapot  loco 
motive,  its  thin  and  cheerful  whistle  coming  in  advance  from  far 
over  the  prairie,  took  on  aspects  of  religious  ecstasy  tempered  with 
Medford  rum.  Here  were  the  politicians  in  plug  hats  and  congress 
gaiters  to  show  their  kinship  with  car  tonk  and  gandy  dancer.  Here 
the  railroad  presidents  in  wonderfully  flowered  waistcoats  and  gold 
Albert  watch  chains  and  corporate  titles  all  ending  in  the  magic 
work  Pacific.  Here  the  contractors  and  locomotive  salesmen  with 
liberal  expense  accounts  and  all-Havana  "seegars." 

To  know  the  incredible  impact  of  the  coming  of  the  steamcars, 
one  must  turn  to  the  yellowing  files  detailing  the  jubilation  at  both 
ends  of  the  track  and  all  intermediate  points  that  greeted  the  in 
augural  of  service  over  the  Western  Railroad  between  Albany  and 
Boston.  He  should  read  of  the  epic  convulsions  along  the  right  of 
way  that  accompanied  the  first  through  train  over  the  Erie  from 
Piermont  on  the  Jersey  shore  opposite  Manhattan  all  the  way  to 
Dunkirk  on  Lake  Erie,  and  enlisted  the  presence  and  oratory  of  the 
godlike  Daniel  Webster  himself.  But  the  most  significant  of  all 
railroad  celebrations,  albeit  limited  in  its  immediate  participants 
while  millions  rejoiced  elsewhere  on  the  continent,  was  fated  to  be 
held  far  to  the  west  even  of  Lake  Erie  on  a  wet  and  windy  upland 
called  Promontory  Point,  Utah  Territory,  on  a  day  that  will  be 
forever  starred  in  the  American  record,  May  10,  1869. 

From  earliest  times,  even  before  the  completion  of  its  tracks  to 
their  eventual  meeting  with  the  Central  Pacific  at  Promontory,  Utah, 
in  1869,  the  Union  Pacific  had  been  a  favorite  with  western  excur 
sionists,  the  pioneer  railroad  that  opened  limitless  vistas  to  a  nation 
on  the  march  toward  continental  destinies.  As  early  as  1867  when  its 
railhead  was  still  in  mid-Nebraska  and  the  Hell-on-Wheels  that  ac 
companied  it  was  making  night  hideous  far  short  of  unborn 
Cheyenne,  an  excursion  was  arranged  out  of  New  York  to  ride  the 
steamcars  as  far  as  the  hundredth  meridian  at  Platte  City.  Heading 
out  of  Omaha  in  a  train  whose  consist  included  five  coaches,  "the 
Lincoln  car  and  the  sumptuous  director's  car  of  the  Union  Pacific," 
the  expedition  bristled  with  names  that  made  the  news  of  the  day: 
Thomas  C.  Durant  and  Sidney  Dillon,  vice-presidents  of  the  railroad, 
Grenville  M.  Dodge,  its  chief  engineer,  and  Silas  Seymour,  consult 
ing  engineer,  George  Mortimer  Pullman,  the  Earl  of  Airlie  and  serv- 


A  Nebraska  Reader  163 

ant,  the  Marquis  de  Chambrun,  the  Hon.  Rutherford  B.  Hayes,  and 
a  frock-coated  gaggle  of  railroad  presidents  representing  the  Illinois 
Central,  Burlington,  Michigan  Southern  and  Alton  lines,  all  pre 
sumably  digging  their  toes  in  the  ballast  and  hefting  loose  sections 
of  rail  to  see  if  the  U.  P.  was  living  up  to  government  specifications. 
There  were  also  numberless  womenfolk,  two  military  brass  bands, 
and  Indians  past  counting. 

The  menus  of  the  receptions,  dinners,  collations,  and  banquets 
arranged  along  the  right  of  way  by  a  Chicago  caterer  are  a  noble 
commentary  on  the  capacities  of  the  pioneers;  and  whenever  things 
got  dull  the  Indians  could  be  counted  on  to  provide  a  floor  show  with 
war  dances  and  simulated  attacks  on  the  palefaces,  causing  the 
womenfolk  to  scream  prettily  and  silk-hatted  captains  of  industry  to 
reach  tentatively  for  die  Remington  .41  calibre  derringers  without 
which  nobody  in  his  right  mind  would  travel  west  of  Wabash  Avenue 
in  those  days. 

But  although  many  a  gaudy  hurrah  had  accompanied  the  Iron 
Horse  westward  In  the  nineteenth  century,  it  remained  for  Omaha 
in  the  latter  nineteen-thirties  to  be  the  setting  for  the  most  epic  of 
all  railroad  tumults,  a  civic  convulsion  at  the  memory  of  which  a 
thousand  elbows  bend  in  ceremonial  gesture,  a  reflex  action  delayed 
but  still  instinctive  over  the  years.  The  occasion  was  the  launching  of 
a  film  called  Union  Pacific,  devised  for  Paramount  Pictures  by  Cecil 
B.  DeMille  and  a  supporting  cast  of  experts,  technicians,  words 
artists,  howdah  bearers,  and  acolytes,  of  which  demented  congress  the 
author  of  this  brief  chronicle  was  a  member. 

Conceived  in  the  grand  manner  of  all  DeMille  sagas,  Union  Pacific 
was  a  fairly  realistic  re-creation  of  empire-building  days,  into  which 
there  had  been  introduced  a  romance— compounded  of  suitable 
amounts  of  sentimentality,  bathos,  and  hokum— between  Mr.  Joel 
McRae  and  Miss  Barbara  Stanwyck.  The  location  company  shot 
the  vast  panoramic  scenes  of  railroad  construction  at  Iron  Springs, 
Utah,  in  the  presence  (among  others)  of  William  Jeffers,  President 
of  Union  Pacific,  and  myself.  On  hand  in  advisory  capacities,  we  saw 
whole  tribes  of  imported  Indians  massacred  by  the  United  States 
Cavalry,  trains  wrecked,  and  frontier  towns  demolished  by  roistering 
extras.  Nearly  a  year  had  been  devoted  to  shooting  the  interiors  and 
editing  this  nonesuch,  and  now  the  payoff  was  at  hand,  the  world 
premiere  at  Omaha. 

The  effulgence  of  the  launching  of  Union  Pacific  derived  from  a 
variety  of  circumstances.  There  hadn't  been  a  big  show  of  any  sort 


164  ROUNDUP: 

in  Nebraska  in  some  years,  not  even  the  circus,  and  the  countryfolk 
were  spoiling  for  fun.  Funds  for  this  monster  flag-raising  were  jointly 
raised  from  four  impeccably  solvent  sources,  the  state  of  Nebraska, 
the  city  of  Omaha,  Paramount  Pictures,  and  the  Union  Pacific  Rail 
road.  Together  they  contrived  quite  a  bundle.  The  junket  climaxed 
a  long  tally  of  similar  expensive  and  charming  follies  which  had 
translated  Sunset  Boulevard  and  Fifty-second  Street  almost  intact  to 
Dodge  City,  Kansas,  Virginia  City,  Nevada,  and  Santa  Fe,  New 
Mexico.  It  was  the  heyday  of  the  big  film  opening  in  a  vaguely  ap 
propriate  geographic  locale.  A  million  dollars  was  the  sum  most 
frequently  mentioned  in  the  bar  of  the  Fontenelle  Hotel  to  under 
write  the  gunfire  that  was  even  then  resounding  in  the  street  outside, 
and  the  sum  seemed  not  only  probable  but  perhaps  modest. 

Sometimes  it  required  half  a  year  to  get  the  communities  favored 
with  the  full  treatment  in  film  premieres  back  in  running  order. 
Often  the  inhabitants  simply  found  it  more  expedient  to  go  else 
where,  leaving  the  ruins  smouldering  in  the  desert.  That  Omaha 
survived  an  invasion  and  pillage  compared  to  which  the  sack  of 
Babylon  by  Cyrus  the  Persian  was  the  merest  rehearsal  for  chaos  is 
ample  testimony  to  the  .durable  qualities  of  the  valley  of  the  Platte. 

I  was  present  Thursday,  April  27,  1939,  at  the  opening  of  Union 
Pacific  and  have  marks  of  Indian  warfare  on  my  person  to  prove  it. 

Signs  and  portents  of  an  uprising  near  the  Council  Bluff  of  the 
Missouri  had  been  perceptible  in  Chicago  as  long  as  three  days  before 
the  actual  outbreak  of  festivities.  I  had  lunched  with  Chicago  hotel- 
man  Ernie  Byfield  and  Playwright  Charlie  MacArthur  in  the  Pump 
Room,  and  MacArthur,  fresh  from  the  Coast,  brought  disquieting 
rumors  of  war  parties  assembling  in  Paramount's  back  lot.  "Some  of 
the  lesser  chiefs  are  off  the  reservation  already,"  he  reported.  "The 
whisky  smugglers  have  been  selling  a  powerful  lot  of  firewater,  and 
they've  got  ball  ammunition  and  breech-loading  press  agents.  The 
word  is  that  Bill  Hebert  did  the  Ghost  Dance  on  a  table  at  Chasen's 
night  before  last,  and  you  know  what  that  means.  It  looks  like  war." 

Since  Hebert  was  Mr.  DeMille's  personal  publicity  man,  a  maker 
of  big  medicine  without  whose  counsel  the  Old  Man  undertook  no 
major  war  party,  I  boarded  the  special  train  of  Averell  Harriman 
that  night,  reflecting  that  we  might  well  be  rolling  westward  into  an 
ambush  of  cataclysmic  proportions.  On  the  platform  two  bands 
played  "Garry  Owen,"  the  fateful  tune  to  which  Custer  marched  out 
of  Fort  Lincoln,  Dakota  Territory,  bound  for  death  and  glory,  and 
under  the  circumstances  this  seemed  to  me  a  singularly  tactless  bit 


A  Nebraska  Reader  165 

of  programming.  But  I  was  cheered  on  entering  my  stateroom  to  find 
that  Mr.  Harriman  had  thoughtfully  sent  each  of  his  guests  a  mag 
num  of  Bollinger— to  save  wear  and  tear  on  the  club  car  while  they 
were  dressing  for  dinner. 

The  arrival  of  the  Harriman  Special,  nicely  timed  to  meet  the 
guests  coming  in  on  the  DeMille  Special  as  they  were  decanted  onto 
the  platform  at  Omaha,  was  the  signal  for  dancing  in  the  streets 
comparable  to  that  which  accompanied  the  Fall  of  the  Bastille  and 
the  Relief  of  Lucknow.  There  was  a  cheerful  blaring  of  massed  bands 
and  a  master  of  ceremonies  at  the  microphone  who  batted  an  even 
.1000  in  misidentifying  each  and  every  celebrity  to  totter  from  the 
cars.  Having  breakfasted  off  rib  steak  and  Dom  Perignon  '29,  my 
morale  was  good,  and,  on  the  arm  of  an  Illinois  Central  division 
superintendent  who  happened  still  to  be  wearing  his  dinner  clothes 
of  the  evening  before,  I  wandered  into  the  rotunda  of  the  depot. 

Ten  thousand  schoolchildren  had  been  corralled  therein  to  sing 
"Crinoline  Days"  to  welcome  the  august  visitors;  and  the  master  of 
ceremonies,  seeing  our  precedence  in  the  procession  and  noting  the 
conspicuously  aristocratic  attire  of  my  companion,  promptly  an 
nounced  over  the  public  address  system  that  I  was  W.  Averell  Harri 
man,  chairman  of  the  board  of  Union  Pacific,  "a  public  benefactor 
of  conspicuous  achievements  and  our  honored  guest  today  within 
the  civic  confines  of  festive  Omaha."  Thus  invested  with  grandeur, 
I  allowed  myself  to  be  conducted  to  the  microphone,  where  I  was 
given  a  generous  hand,  and  was  preparing  to  do  Mr.  Harriman  proud 
in  a  brief  address  when  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Harriman  in  his  proper 
person  caused  me  to  be  ushered  politely,  albeit  swiftly  and  firmly, 
into  a  waiting  carriage. 

Of  the  hospitality  that  surged  at  times  knee-deep  through  down 
town  Omaha  for  the  next  three  days,  what  pen  shall  write  justly, 
what  lyric  measures  lend  it  immortality?  There  were  colossi  among 
those  present— imperfectly  visible,  to  be  sure,  through  a  thick  pro 
tective  foliage  of  false  whiskers  provided  by  a  prudent  management 
so  that  complete  anonymity  was  achieved  by  several  score  of  captains 
of  industry  who  would  never  have  cut  loose  as  they  did  without  crepe 
beavers  and  henna  rugs.  Who  might  know  if  it  was  indeed  J.  C. 
Penney  who  pushed  a  bystander  through  the  plate  glass  window  of 
Brandeis  basement  store,  or  Felix  Warburg  of  Kuhn-Loeb  8c  Com 
pany  who  charged  into  the  bar  of  the  Fontenelle  Hotel  with  a  rebel 
yell,  the  Stars  and  Bars  in  one  hand,  in  the  other  a  Coifs  Frontier 
handgun  with  which  he  shot  Steve  Hannagan  in  the  stomach?  (Of 


i66  ROUNDUP: 

course  at  this  stage  of  the  game  all  ammunition  was  blank,  but  still 
it  could  start  a  nasty  brush  fire  in  anybody's  false  beard.)  Somewhere 
in  the  shuffle  was  Heber  Grant,  President  of  the  Latter  Day  Saints;  he 
alone  was  not  suspected  of  any  of  the  multiplicity  of  misdemeanors 
and  minor  outrages  committed  by  heavily  bearded  strangers  who 
always  pointed  to  somebody  else  when  the  police  arrived. 

Who  shall  tell  of  the  parades,  the  civic  receptions,  the  unveiling 
of  Golden  Spikes,  the  speeches  by  Mr.  DeMille,  the  speeches  by 
William  Jeffers,  the  speeches  by  governors,  mayors,  chamber  of  com 
merce  coordinators,  game  wardens,  and  visiting  dignitaries  past  all 
counting?  The  Hunkpapa  Sioux  gave  a  war  dance;  the  Old  Timers 
of  the  Union  Pacific  gave  a  dinner  party  for  6,000;  and  at  all  times 
limitless  cheer  radiated  from  a  wonderful  person  whose  memory,  at 
this  remove,  is  still  green,  an  Omaha  nabob  named  Otto  Swanson. 
Mr.  Swanson,  splendid  in  a  white  beaver  hat,  lavender  frock  coat, 
spongebag  trousers,  and  gambler's  waistcoat,  was  a  personage  of  mien 
at  once  menacing  and  enchanting.  Wherever  one  encountered  him, 
and  that  was  everywhere,  he  was  in  a  mood  to  set  them  up. 

A  notable  characteristic  of  the  film  premieres  of  the  1930*5,  to 
which  Union  Pacific  was  no  exception,  was  that  none  of  them  ever 
terminated  on  schedule.  Special  trains  might  depart,  press  agents 
might  urge  their  valuable  charges  to  cease  and  desist,  but  nobody 
paid  any  mind.  The  gala  first  showings  of  Union  Pacific  were  held, 
the  final  oratory  surged  out  of  city  hall  and  civic  auditorium,  the 
special  trains  left  for  the  east  and  the  west,  the  captains  and  the 
kings  departed.  But  was  the  Fontenelle  bar  in  any  way  abated  of 
tumult  or  diminished  of  patronage?  Think  again.  Two  days  after  the 
festival  was,  in  theory,  over,  Bill  Hebert  and  I  found  ourselves  lean 
ing  against  that  substantial  structure  still  in  the  company  of  the 
indestructible  Otto  Swanson  and  a  somewhat  smaller  dignitary  in 
bright  red  Dundreary  whiskers  and  a  lemon-colored  top  hat,  whose 
professional  card  announced  that  he  was  the  official  city  coroner  of 
Omaha  and  maintained  a  private  practice  in  physic  and  surgery  on 
the  side.  In  the  corner  were  the  words  "Gunshot  Wounds  a  Specialty.1' 

"I  only  had  them  run  up  special  this  morning,"  he  announced  in 
brisk  medical  tones.  "So  many  slugs  going  around  now  you  never 
know  when  you'll  need  a  good  doc." 

As  though  in  answer  to  the  sentiment,  a  terrific  burst  of  gunfire 
broke  out  at  the  other  end  of  the  bar,  and  a  long  panel  of  plate  glass 
mirror  leapt  from  its  frame  in  approximately  a  million  pieces. 

"You  see  what  I  mean?"  said  the  specialist. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  167 

Unwilling  to  suspend  its  merry-making  just  because  most  of  the 
guests  had  gone  home,  Omaha  was  still  abroad  in  frontier  costume 
shooting  glad  salutes  to  nothing;  but  blank  ammunition  had  run 
out  in  every  hardware  store  and  all  that  was  available  were  ball 
cartridges.  To  the  glory  of  the  Old  West  it  may  be  said  that  this  fell 
circumstance  did  nothing  at  all  to  abate  the  party.  Indeed  it  lent  it 
a  hitherto  lacking  cachet  of  authenticity.  How  much  more  satis 
factory  to  shoot  at  the  chandelier  and  have  the  fixture  disintegrate 
and  descend  in  a  rain  of  crystal  debris! 

To  add  to  the  glad  tumults  of  the  day,  a  steam  locomotive,  a 
reasonable  facsimile  of  gallant  No.  119  that  played  the  leading  role 
opposite  the  Central  Pacific's  Jupiter  at  Promontory,  had  been  em- 
placed  behind  the  bar  with  live  steam  available  to  its  whistle  and 
whistle  cords  strategically  spaced  around  the  room  for  each  to  pull 
to  his  satisfaction. 

I  cherish  doubts  if  in  hell  there  will  ever  be  such  a  tumult  as  the 
final  day's  demented  symphony  orchestrated  to  gunfire,  the  crash  of 
glass  fixtures  of  gratifying  dimensions,  the  deafening  whistle  of  a 
live  steam  locomotive,  and  the  war  cries  of  that  resolute,  nay,  in 
domitable  little  band  of  Omaha  ^frontiersmen  who  refused  to  admit 
that  the  party  was  over.  Let  us  leave  them  there  forever  in  the  mind's 
eye,  beards  down  among  the  beer  pumps,  boots  and  spurs  entangled 
in  the  cuspidors,  here  and  there  a  fallen  soldier  of  the  legion  at  peace 
on  the  floor  while  the  tide  of  battle  ebbed  and  flowed  and  the  An- 
heuser  Busch  lithographs  snapped  their  picture  wires  and  the  walls 
cascaded  noisily  into  die  picturesque  debris  of  pioneers  below.  The 
Little  Big  Horn  they  depicted  was  nothing  to  the  present  reality  of 
carnage. 

Film  openings  at  distant  places  are  no  longer  in  vogue.  Railroad 
celebrations  are  history,  but  in  a  national  periodical  a  few  months  ago 
I  read  a  piece  on  Nebraska  by  Mari  Sandoz  in  which  she  said  that 
still  embedded  in  the  bar  of  the  Fontenelle  is  a  .45  caliber  leaden 
slug.  May  it  remain  there  in  perpetuity,  for  it  is  a  monument  to  the 
last  of  the  Old  West,  to  a  golden  week  when  there  were  giants  abroad 
in  the  valley  of  the  Platte. 


Not  all  visitors  to  Omaha  have  carried  away  such  lively 
memories  as  Mr.  Beebe.  For  instance,  Mr.  Rudyard  Kip 
ling—a  transcontinental  traveler  of  1889— seems  to  have 
been  concerned  chiefly  with  local  burial  customs. 


Omaha  Between  Trains 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 

OMAHA,  NEBRASKA,  was  but  a  halting-place  on  the  road  to  Chicago, 
but  it  revealed  to  me  horrors  that  I  would  not  have  willingly  missed. 
The  city  to  casual  investigation  seemed  to  be  populated  entirely  by 
Germans,  Poles,  Slavs,  Hungarians,  Croats,  Magyars,  and  all  the 
scum  of  the  Eastern  European  States,  but  it  must  have  been  laid  out 
by  Americans.  No  other  people  would  cut  the  traffic  of  a  main  street 
with  two  streams  of  railway  lines,  each  some  eight  or  nine  tracks 
wide,  and  cheerfully  drive  tram  cars  across  the  metals.  Every  now 
and  again  they  have  horrible  railway-crossing  accidents  at  Omaha, 
but  nobody  seems  to  think  of  building  an  overhead-bridge.  That 
would  interfere  with  the  vested  interests  of  the  undertakers. 

Be  blessed  to  hear  some  details  of  one  of  that  class. 

There  was  a  shop  the  like  of  which  I  had  never  seen  before:  its 
windows  were  filled  with  dress-coats  for  men,  and  dresses  for  women. 
But  the  studs  of  the  shirts  were  made  of  stamped  cloth  upon  the 
shirt  front,  and  there  were  no  trousers  to  those  coats— nothing  but 
a  sweep  of  cheap  black  cloth  falling  like  an  abb£'s  frock.  In  the  door 
way  sat  a  young  man  reading  Pollock's  Course  of  Time,  and  by  that  I 
knew  that  he  was  an  undertaker.  His  name  was  Gring,  which  is  a 
beautiful  name,  and  I  talked  to  him  on  the  mysteries  of  his  Craft. 
He  was  an  enthusiast  and  an  artist.  I  told  him  how  corpses  were  burnt 
in  India.  Said  he:  "We're  vastly  superior.  We  hold— that  is  to  say, 
embalm— our  dead.  Sol"  Whereupon  he  produced  the  horrible  weap 
ons  of  his  trade,  and  most  practically  showed  me  how  you  "held"  a 
man  back  from  that  corruption  which  is  his  birthright.  "And  I  wish 
I  could  live  a  few  generations  just  to  see  how  my  people  keep.  But 
I'm  sure  it's  all  right.  Nothing  can  touch  'em  after  I've  embalmed 
'em."  Then  he  displayed  one  of  those  ghastly  dress-suits,  and  when 
I  laid  a  shuddering  hand  upon  it,  behold  it  crumpled  to  nothing,  for 

168 


A  Nebraska  Reader  169 

the  white  linen  was  sewn  on  to  the  black  cloth  and— there  was  no 
back  to  itl  That  was  the  horror.  The  garment  was  a  shell.  "We  dress 
a  man  in  that/'  said  Gring,  laying  it  out  tastily  on  the  counter.  "As 
you  see  here,  our  caskets  have  a  plate-glass  window  in  front"  (Oh  me, 
but  that  window  in  the  coffin  was  fitted  with  plush  like  a  brougham- 
window!),  "and  you  don't  see  anything  below  the  level  of  the  man's 
waistcoat.  Consequently  .  .  ."  He  unrolled  the  terrible  cheap  black 
cloth  that  falls  down  over  the  stark  feet,  and  I  jumped  back.  "Of 
course  a  man  can  be  dressed  in  his  own  clothes  if  he  likes,  but  these 
are  the  regular  things:  and  for  women  look  at  thisl"  He  took  up  the 
body  of  a  high-necked  dinner-dress  in  subdued  lilac,  slashed  and 
puffed  and  bedevilled  with  black,  but,  like  the  dress-suit,  backless, 
and  below  the  waist  turning  into  a  shroud.  "That's  for  an  old  maid. 
But  for  young  girls  we  give  white  with  imitation  pearls  round  the 
neck.  That  looks  very  pretty  through  the  window  of  the  casket— you 
see  there's  a  cushion  for  the  head— with  flowers  banked  all  round." 
Can  you  imagine  anything  more  awful  than  to  take  your  last  rest  as 
much  of  a  dead  fraud  as  ever  you  were  a  living  lie— to  go  into  the 
darkness  one  half  of  you  shaved,  trimmed,  and  dressed  for  an  evening 
party,  while  the  other  half— the  half  that  your  friends  cannot  see— is 
enwrapped  in  a  flapping  black  sheet? 

I  know  a  little  about  burial  customs  in  various  places  in  the  world, 
and  I  tried  hard  to  make  Mr.  Gring  comprehend  dimly  the  awful 
heathendom  that  he  was  responsible  for— the  grotesquerie— the  gig 
gling  horror  of  it  all.  But  he  couldn't  see  it.  Even  when  he  showed 
me  a  little  boy's  last  suit,  he  couldn't  see  it.  He  said  it  was  quite  right 
to  embalm  and  trick  out  and  hypocritically  bedizen  the  poor  innocent 
dead  in  their  superior  cushioned  and  pillowed  caskets  with  the 
window  in  front. 

Bury  me  cased  in  canvas  like  a  fishing-rod,  in  the  deep  sea;  burn 
me  on  a  back-water  of  the  Hughli  with  damp  wood  and  no  oil;  pin 
me  under  a  Pullman  car  and  let  the  lighted  stove  do  its  worst;  sizzle 
me  with  a  fallen  electric  wire  or  whelm  me  in  the  sludge  of  a  broken 
river  dam;  but  may  I  never  go  down  to  the  Pit  grinning  out  of  a 
plate-glass  window,  in  a  backless  dress-coat,  and  the  front  half  of  a 
black  stuff  dressing-gown;  not  though  I  were  "held"  against  the 
ravage  of  the  grave  for  ever  and  ever.  Amenl 


Reprinted  from  From  Sea  to  Sea;  Letters  of  Travel, 
Doubleday  &  McClure  Co.,  1899 


In  the  history  of  every  town,  there  are  certain  happenings, 
seemingly  of  earth-shaking  import  at  the  time,  whose  sig 
nificance  diminishes  with  the  passage  of  the  years,  yet 
which  continue  to  bulk  large  in  local  lore.  Such  events 
usually  are  referred  to  as  The  This  or  The  That,  as  if  each 
were  the  only  one  of  its  kind. 

In  Omaha,  there  have  been  The  Fair  and  The  Kidnap 
ping  and  The  Tornado. 


Omaha  News? 'eel 

i.  The  Fair 

GEORGE  R.  LEIGHTON 

FROM  June  to  November  in  1898,  Omaha  held  the  Trans-Mississippi 
Exposition.  What  had  commenced  in  the  dark  days  of  '95  as  the  mad 
scheme  of  a  few  Omaha  men  and  other  Western  capitalists  to  help 
revive  trade  turned  out  to  be  a  stunning  advertisement  of  American 
business  and  returning  prosperity.  Only  a  few  days  before  the  fair 
opened,  the  war  with  Spain  began.  The  admired  sculpture  of  the 
time  might  have  represented  this  at  Omaha  with  an  allegorical  group: 
Triumphant  business  enterprise  crowning  itself  with  laurel  and 
reaching  for  the  sword  at  the  same  time. 

Some  Omaha  businessmen  looked  cross-eyed  at  the  idea  of  a  fair. 
Where  was  the  money  to  come  from?  But  they  didn't  all  feel  that 
way,  least  of  all  Gurdon  W.  Wattles,  a  former  Iowa  banker  who  had 
come  to  Omaha  on  the  eve  of  the  panic  of  '93.  Of  all  the  promoters 
of  the  exposition,  Mr.  Wattles  was  the  most  ardent  and  the  most 
vocal.  He  had  gone  through  a  strenuous  youth  on  a  poor  Iowa  farm 
and  had  accumulated  a  number  of  small-town  banks  before  he  sold 
out  and  came  to  Omaha.  Investing  a  part  of  his  accumulation  in  a 
bank,  he  set  out  to  be  an  energetic  citizen.  He  joined  right  and  left, 
wore  a  mustache  and  a  stiff  collar,  spoke  at  luncheons  and  did  it  all 
with  a  high  moral  tone.  Not  for  him  the  bibulous  habits  of  Count 
Creighton— who  had  received  his  patent  of  nobility  from  Leo  XIII 
in  '95— nor  the  raucous  ejaculations  of  Bill  Paxton.  Those  two 
worthies  still  lived,  but  the  old-timers,  the  pioneers,  were  passing 

170 


A  Nebraska  Reader  171 

from  the  scene.  The  new  types  for  the  new  era  were  in  sight.  Wattles 
was  it;  the  twentieth  century  go-getter  had  arrived  in  Omaha  and  the 
Trans-Mississippi  Exposition  gave  him  the  chance  to  show  what  he 
could  do. 

The  main  trouble  was  in  raising  the  money,  but  Mr.  Wattles  and 
his  colleagues  could  not  be  daunted.  The  Street  Railway  and  the  Gas 
Company  chipped  in  ten  thousand  apiece  and  so  did  Mr.  Kountze, 
the  banker;  the  Stockyards  Company  and  the  New  York  Life  Insur 
ance  Company  were  good  for  five  thousand  and  so  was  P.  D.  Armour. 
"Influential  citizens  made  frequent  trips  to  New  York,  Chicago,  St. 
Louis  and  elsewhere  for  the  sole  purpose  of  inducing  officials  of  in 
surance  companies,  railways,  packing  houses,  etc.,  to  make  subscrip 
tions  to  the  capital  stock  of  the  exposition."  For  a  time  the  railroad 
people  doubted  the  whole  thing,  but  finally  Mr.  Holdrege  was  per 
suaded  to  go  over  to  Burlington  and  see  Mr.  Perkins.  Once  upon  a 
time  a  locomotive  engineer  on  the  Burlington  bought  his  wife  a  silk 
dress,  Mr.  Perkins  was  outraged  at  the  extravagance  and  denounced 
it.  But  the  exposition  was  another  thing.  He  put  the  Burlington 
down  for  a  donation  of  thirty  thousand  dollars,  and  the  other  roads 
fell  into  line.  Work  on  the  exposition  proceeded  apace  and  the  fair 
was  opened  on  the  ist  of  June,  1898.  It  was  a  triumph  and  everybody 
in  Omaha  knew  it. 

During  the  worst  of  the  hard  times  one  could  catch  a  streetcar 
on  Farnam  Street  and  ride  out  through  a  sad  part  of  town  filled 
with  building  lots  which,  after  the  real  estate  collapse  of  the  eighties, 
had  gone  back  to  cornfields.  Here  in  this  tract,  not  far  from  the  river 
bluff,  a  depression  had  been  scooped  out  for  a  lagoon  and  round  it 
were  built,  out  of  plaster  of  Paris  and  excelsior,  a  group  of  glittering 
white  buildings.  The  architecture,  "freely  inspired  by  the  classic 
and  the  renaissance,"  had  no  relation  whatever  to  the  life  history  of 
the  plains  and  mountain  country.  Nor  was  it  intended  to  have.  More 
even  than  an  advertisement  of  Omaha  and  the  West,  the  fair  was  a 
reflection  of  the  state  of  mind  of  its  promoters.  It  was  like  a  shot  in 
the  arm  to  leave  the  well-worn  corner  of  Sixteenth  and  Farnam,  with 
all  the  familiar  feeling  of  everyday  Midwestern  existence,  and  step 
inside  an  enclosure  half  a  mile  long,  all  set  about  with  "old  Ivory" 
domes,  sodded  'grass  plots,  flaming  canna  beds,  and  Corinthian  col 
umns.  Flights  of  broad  stairs  looked  down  on  a  sheet  of  Missouri 
River  water,  dotted  with  gondolas  and  buttressed  with  dead-white 
balustrades. 

The  Fine  Arts  included  Bouguereau's  "Return  of  Spring";  "a  life 


172  ROUNDUP: 

« 

size  figure  of  a  young  woman  surrounded  by  cupids  and  flowers. 
The  picture,  valued  at  $50,000,  came  into  prominence  years  ago 
when  hung  in  an  art  loan  exhibit  in  Omaha.  At  that  time  a  young 
man,  Gary  J.  Warbinton,  threw  a  chair  through  the  canvas,  which 
was  subsequently  repaired/'  For  the  men,  Little  Egypt  would  shake 
that  thing  in  the  Streets  of  Cairo  and  Judge  Dundy's  gambler  son, 
Skip  Dundy,  had  the  concession  for  the  Infant  Incubator.  This  ex 
perience  was  enough  to  send  Skip  to  New  York  to  build  the  Hippo 
drome,  and  Luna  Park  at  Coney  Island.  But  the  chief  place— after 
the  pavilion  of  the  Federal  government  was  provided  for—was  re 
served  for  the  now  politically  impotent  Agriculture. 

Cass  Gilbert,  the  young  architect  of  St.  Paul,  was  selected  to  design 
this  mausoleum,  "free  Renaissance"  also,  with  its  garlands  of  wheat, 
corn,  and  fruit  tinted  in  brilliant  colors.  To  crown  all,  "the  monotony 
of  the  sky  line  was  relieved  by  statuary  represented  by  a  fine  group— 
Prosperity— supported  by  Labor  and  Integrity."  Where  was  the  sod 
house  now?  .  .  . 

"The  mission  of  the  exposition,"  said  the  acidulous  Mr.  Ingalls  of 
Kansas,  "is  to  communicate  to  mankind  the  impulses  to  which  it 
owes  its  origin."  Mr.  Wattles  certainly  could  agree  to  that.  Fittingly 
enough,  a  conspicuous  place  was  given  to  a  huge  plaster  warrior  in  a 
chariot  drawn  by  four  lions  and  inscribed  simply:  OMAHA. 

"Not  a  cloud  marred  the  perfection  of  the  cerulean  vault,  ...  all 
the  cardinal  and  semi-cardinal  points  of  the  compass  converged  at 
Omaha"  on  that  first  of  June.  A  platform  had  been  set  up  at  one  end 
of  the  shimmering  Grand  Court  and  on  it,  facing  the  crowd,  were 
the  notables.  All  were  waiting  in  the  white,  hot  sunshine  for  Mr. 
McKinley  to  press  the  telegraph  key  in  Washington.  The  message 
came;  the  parson  prayed.  Then  Mr.  Wattles  took  off  his  top  hat  and 
faced  the  crowd.  "Fifty  years  ago,"  said  he,  "the  larger  part  of  the 
country  west  of  the  Mississippi  River  was  .  .  .  indicated  on  the  map 
as  the  Great  American  Desert.  No  less  than  80,000  miles  of  railroad 
have  been  constructed  in  the  Trans-Mississippi  country  during  the 
last  fifty  years  at  the  fabulous  cost  of  two  thousand  million  dollars. 
.  .  .  Great  cities  have  been  built  and  manufacturing  has  assumed 
enormous  proportions.  .  .  .  This  magnificent  exposition,  illustrating 
the  products  of  our  soil  and  mines  and  factories  .  .  .  will  pale  into 
insignificance  at  the  close  of  the  twentieth  century.  When  the  agri 
cultural  resources  of  this  rich  country  are  fully  developed;  .  . .  when 
the  sugar  as  well  as  the  bread  and  meat  for  the  markets  of  the  world 
shall  be  produced  here  and  carried  to  the  markets  by  the  electric 


A  Nebraska  Reader  173 

forces  of  nature;  when  the  minerals  in  our  mountains  and  the  gold 
and  silver  in  our  mines  shall  be  extracted  and  utilized  by  this  same 
force;  when  our  natural  products  shall  be  manufactured  here,  then 
this  Trans-Mississippi  country  will  support  a  population  in  peace  and 
plenty  greater  than  the  population  of  any  other  nation  in  die  world. 
This  exposition  . . .  opens  new  fields  to  the  investor,  inspires  the  am 
bition  of  the  genius,  incites  the  emulation  of  states  and  stands  the 
crowning  glory  in  the  history  of  the  West" 

Extracted  from  Five  Cities,  Harper  &  Brothers,  1939 


While  no  doubt  ii>  is  a  distinction  the  city  would  be  happy  to  do 
without,  the  fact  remains  that  Omaha  was  the  scene  of  the  twentieth 
century's  first  nationally  headlined  kidnapping.  What  made  the  story 
sensational  news  in  1900  was  the  wealth  and  prominence  of  the  kid 
napped  boy's  family:  Edward  A.  Cudahy,  Jr.,  was  the  only  son  of  a 
millionaire  meat-packer,  and  heir-apparent  to  the  Cudahy  Packing 
Company.  However,  in  recent  years  it  is  not  the  plutocratic  lineage 
of  the  victim  which  causes  newspapers  to  revive  the  story  from  time 
to  time.  To  a  generation  which  regards  kidnapping  as  the  most  de 
testable  of  crimes,  the  real  shocker  is  the  verdict  of  the  jury. 


2.  The  Kidnapping 

RUTH  REYNOLDS 

AT  SEVEN  P.M.,  on  December  18,  1900,  Edward  A.  Cudahy,  Sr.,  asked 
his  fifteen-year-old  son  Eddie  to  deliver  a  pile  of  periodicals  to  Dr. 
Fred  Rustin's  house.  The  young  fellow  walked  briskly  from  the 
Cudahy's  ornate  home  at  518  South  gyth,  in  the  heart  of  Omaha's 
"Gold  Coast,"  to  the  Rustin's,  about  three  blocks  away.  Having  duly 
delivered  the  magazines,  he  declined  an  invitation  to  step  in  and 
get  warm  and  set  off  again  in  the  bright  winter's  night. 

Along  about  nine  o'clock  Father  Cudahy  suggested  that  Eddie  had 
found  the  Rustins  so  hospitable  he  was  overstaying  his  welcome.  But 
Mother  Cudahy  was  uneasy,  and  at  her  urging  Cudahy  telephoned 
the  Rustins.  He  was  told  that  Eddie  had  left  there  almost  two  hours 
before. 

Uneasiness  changed  to  alarm.  Eddie  wasn't  given  to  staying  away 


174  ROUNDUP: 

from  home  in  the  evening  or  to  going  places  without  first  asking 
permission.  After  a  progressively  nerve-wracking  interval  of  waiting, 
Cudahy  called  the  police.  By  morning  he  had  wired  Chicago  to  send 
out  twenty  Pinkerton  detectives. 

Omaha  was  rocked  by  the  news  that  the  only  son  of  the  town's 
wealthiest  man  had  disappeared.  Police  were  called  off  their  regular 
assignments  and  sent  to  search  resorts  and  gambling  joints;  and  the 
usual  assortment  of  tips  and  false  alarms  began  to  pour  into  head 
quarters  and  the  Cudahy  home.  At  nine  A.M.  the  Cudahy  coachman 
discovered  a  red  flag  fastened  to  a  stick  on  the  front  lawn.  Although 
it  must  have  been  there  most  of  the  night,  not  one  of  the  crowd  of 
police,  reporters,  and  sightseers  had  noticed  it. 

Fastened  inside  the  red  flag  were  five  pages  of  rambling,  discursive 
threats  pencilled  in  a  small,  fine  hand.  The  writer  demanded  $25,000 
in  gold,  on  pain  of  putting  acid  in  Eddie's  eyes  if  the  money  was  not 
delivered.  Cudahy  was  told  to  start  alone  at  seven  P.M.  and  drive  out 
a  prairie  road  until  he  saw  a  lantern  tied  with  black  and  white  rib 
bons.  The  money  and  the  ransom  note  were  to  be  left  beside  the 
lantern. 

The  police  persuaded  the  Cudahys  to  ignore  the  letter.  They  did— 
until  five  P.M.  Dodging  the  police,  Cudahy  reached  the  president  of 
the  Merchants  National  Bank  and  arranged  to  get  five  bags  of  gold 
in  the  specified  denominations.  Then  he  ordered  his  driving  mare 
hitched  to  his  buggy  and  at  seven  P.M.  was  on  his  way.  When  he  came 
to  the  point  where  two  transcontinental  railroad  lines  converged, 
the  road  turned  into  a  cleft  of  two  abrupt  hills.  By  now  Cudahy  had 
driven  ten  miles,  and  was  half  convinced  that  he  was  the  victim  of  a 
cruel  practical  joke.  Then  he  saw  the  lantern  several  hundred  feet 
away.  After  making  sure  that  it  bore  the  black  and  white  ribbons, 
he  dragged  out  the  heavy  bags  of  gold  and  piled  them  beside  the 
lantern. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  he  got  home.  With  his  wife  and  his 
attorney,  he  waited  while  the  minutes  ticked  away.  At  half-past  one 
the  men  begged  Mrs.  Cudahy  to  lie  down  and  try  to  rest.  She  was 
insisting  that  she  couldn't  possibly  sleep  when  they  heard  a  footfall. 
In  a  moment  Eddie  was  in  their  arms. 

The  police  were  called,  and  he  told  his  story.  On  his  way  back  after 
leaving  the  magazines,  Eddie  said,  three  or  four  doors  from  his  own 
home  he  was  accosted  by  two  men.  Their  hats  were  pulled  down,  and 
he  couldn't  see  their  faces  very  well,  but  one  was  tall  and  one  was 
short.  They  addressed  him  as  Eddie  McGee,  said  that  they  were 


A  Nebraska  Reader  175 

police  officers  and  that  he  was  wanted  for  theft.  He  protested  that 
he  was  Eddie  Cudahy,  but  they  hustled  him  into  a  carriage  and  drove 
away.  They  bound  and  gagged  and  blindfolded  him  and  told  him 
he  was  being  kidnapped. 

After  about  an  hour's  drive  they  took  him  into  what  seemed  to  be  a 
two-story  cabin.  Although  he  coudn't  see,  he  could  tell  from  the  voices 
that  it  was  the  short  man  who  acted  as  his  guard.  The  tall  man  kept 
going  away  and  coming  back  and  going  away  again.  He  seemed  to  be 
the  short  man's  boss.  They  were  both  very  good  to  him;  and  they  both 
drank  a  lot.  A  few  hours  ago  they  had  put  him  into  the  carriage 
again,  driven  for  about  an  hour,  then  unbound  him  and  put  him 
out  on  the  street.  He  took  the  bandage  off  his  eyes  and  found  himself 
only  a  few  blocks  from  home. 

In  due  course  of  time  the  police  located  the  cabin  where  Eddie  had 
been  held.  The  owner  was  able  to  give  some  description  of  the  two 
men— one  tall,  one  short—who  had  rented  it  A  farmer,  twenty  miles 
away,  remembered  he  had  sold  a  mare  to  two  men— one  tall,  one  short. 
Another  man  remembered  their  buying  a  carriage  from  him. 

The  description  of  the  tall  man  tallied  perfectly  with  the  descrip 
tion  of  a  bad  hat  named  Pat  Crowe.  As  a  young  man  he  worked  in  his 
own  Omaha  butcher  shop.  Squeezed  out  of  his  business  by  the 
packers,  he  had  taken  a  job  at  the  Cudahy  plant.  He  was  dismissed 
for  dishonesty,  and  had  gone  in  for  train  robberies  and  roadside 
holdups.  He  once  had  boasted  that  he  had  "earned"  as  much  as 
$700,000  by  such  activities.  The  description  of  the  short  man  sounded 
like  Crowe's  less  dangerous  pal  James  Callahan,  an  ex-brakeman 
on  the  Union  Pacific. 

Crowe  had  disappeared,  but  Callahan  was  soon  picked  up  and 
brought  to  trial  in  April,  1901.  Although  he  virtually  admitted  his 
part  in  the  kidnapping,  he  was  tried  only  for  robbery.  Eddie  testified 
that  he  recognized  Gallahan's  voice  as  that  of  the  guard  at  the  cottage 
where  he  was  held  prisoner;  the  prosecution  brought  out  that 
Callahan  was  on  parole  after  serving  one  year  of  an  eight-year  sen 
tence  for  highway  robbery;  neighbors  testified  to  seeing  Callahan 
about  the  kidnap  hideout  while  young  Cudahy  had  been  missing. 

The  jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of  not  guilty.  Later,  Callahan  was 
tried  for  perjury.  He  was  acquitted.  Thirty-five  years  after  the  trial, 
Judge  Ben  Baker  told  a  reporter:  "There  was  no  legitimate  reason  for 
Callahan's  acquittal.  The  man  was  proven  guilty.  I  can  only  account 
for  it  on  the  ground  that  the  jury  was  prejudiced  against  wealthy 
people  as  represented  by  the  Gudahys." 


176  ROUNDUP: 

And  where  was  Pat  Crowe?  Police  learned  he  had  sent  a  letter  and  a 
draft  on  an  old  debt  to  an  Omaha  attorney.  The  letter  said  he  had 
gone  to  South  Africa,  had  joined  the  Boer  forces,  was  twice  wounded, 
had  been  decorated  for  bravery,  and  was  now  done  with  crime.  The 
news  sent  up  official  blood  pressure.  There  was  a  $55,000*  reward  on 
Crowe's  head:  thirty  thousand  of  it  was  offered  by  Cudahy,  the  rest 
by  the  city  of  Omaha.  But  they  couldn't  seem  to  lay  hands  on  Crowe. 
At  one  point  when  he  was  negotiating  surrender  terms,  the  police 
tried  to  capture  him  at  Butte.  But  Crowe  hadn't  built  up  his  bad- 
man  reputation  for  nothing.  Three  men  were  wounded;  he  escaped. 
In  fact,  not  even  his  feelings  were  hurt:  he  went  right  on  negotiating, 
his  condition  being  that  the  reward  be  withdrawn.  This  tune  the 
Omaha  police  held  out  their  arms  and  said  "Come  home.  Almost  all 
is  forgiven." 

The  trial  began  in  February,  1906.  Crowe  offered  no  real  defense 
and,  as  in  Callahan's  case,  did  all  but  admit  that  he  was  guilty.  The 
prosecution's  ace  in  the  hole  was  a  letter  written  August  22,  1904,  by 
Crowe  to  a  priest  in  Vail,  Iowa,  the  town  of  his  birth.  "I  am  guilty 
of  the  Cudahy  affair,"  he  wrote.  "I  am  to  blame  for  the  whole  thing. 
After  it  was  over,  I  regretted  my  act  and  offered  to  return  $21,000  to 
Mr.  Cudahy,  but  he  refused  to  take  it." 

After  debating  seventeen  hours,  the  jury  found  Pat  Crowe  not 
guilty*  And  when  the  verdict  was  read,  the  courtroom  rang  with 
cheers.  As  soon  as  Judge  W.  W.  Slabaugh  could  make  himself  heard, 
he  expressed  his  displeasure  in  no  uncertain  terms.  "This  court,"  he 
thundered,  "is  very  much  surprised  that  a  jury  would  pass  a  verdict 
clearing  such  a  notorious  criminal,  that  you  citizens  would  make 
such  a  demonstration  as  this.  You  should  be  ashamed  of  yourselves." 

Crowe  was  cheered  again  in  the  streets.  Police  had  to  clear  a  way 
for  him  through  all  his  well-wishers.  The  Beef  Trust,  of  which 
Edward  A.  Cudahy,  Sr.,  was  Public  Member  No.  i,  was  in  disrepute 
with  the  common  people,  who  paid  high  meat  prices.  They  felt  that 
if  £  man  could  bilk  a  packer  of  $25,000,  more  power  to  him. 

For  nearly  thirty-five  years,  much  of  Pat  Crowe's  career  consisted 
of  attempts  to  cash  in  on  his  notoriety:  he  wrote,  or  at  least  was 
credited  with  the  authorship  of,  three  autobiographical  books  on  the 
crime-does-not-pay  theme;  he  was  arrested  countless  times  for  drunk 
enness,  vagrancy,  and  misdemeanors;  and  announced  his  "reforma 
tion"  with  the  regularity  of  clockwork. 

When  Eddie  Cudahy,  Jr.,  was  married,  Crowe  could  not  resist 
getting  in  the  act  again.  He  wired  the  bridegroom: 


A  Nebraska  Reader  177 

No  one  could  wish  you  greater  happiness  in  the  hands  of  your  new  kid 
napper  than  I  do.  Here's  hoping  you  will  cherish  no  ill  will  over  our  former 
escapade,  and  enjoy  this  one  more. 

In  1938,  at  the  age  of  seventy-five,  Crowe  died  a  drunken  bum. 
Condensed  from  New  York  Sunday  News,  June  7,  1936 


Compared  to  present-day  weather  bureaus.,  with  their  array  of  ob 
servational  equipment  and  facilities  for  receiving  up-to-the-minute 
weather  data  from  all  points  of  the  compass,  the  bureaus  of  forty  or 
fifty  years  ago  operated  on  pretty  much  of  a  wet-finger-in-the-wind 
and  crystal-ball  basis.  Nevertheless,  then  as  now,  the  citizenry  often 
gave  vent  to  an  irrational  tendency  to  blame  it  all  on  the  weatherman 
whenever  the  weather  failed  to  perform  as  advertised  or  the  elements 
suddenly  got  out  of  line. 

On  Sunday  morning,  March  23,  1913,  readers  of  the  Omaha  Bee 
noted  that  "PROF.  WILLIS  MOORE,  CHIEF  OF  WEATHER 
BUREAU,  RESIGNS"  In  view  of  what  was  to  bust  loose  later  that 
day,  it  could  hardly  have  been  a  timelier  move. 


3.  The  Tornado 

AMY  MITCHELL 

THE  greatest  calamity  in  the  history  of  Omaha  was  the  big  blow  of 
Easter  Sunday,  March  23,  1913.  Up  until  that  time  no  tornado  had 
ever  occurred  in  the  United  States  that  was  so  destructive  of  life  and 
property  as  this  one;  and  although  on  prior  occasions  Omaha  had 
been  visited  by  atmospheric  disturbances,  the  Easter  Sunday  twister 
surpassed  in  damage  all  of  them  combined. 

About  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  light  grew  strangely  lumi 
nous,  and  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  a  black  funnel-shaped 
cloud  materialized  on  the  southwest  horizon.  With  a  mighty  roar 
it  swooped  down  upon  Omaha,  whirling  diagonally  across  the  city 
through  the  thickly  populated  residential  districts  to  Levi  Carter 
Park,  where  it  crossed  over  into  Iowa.  In  its  wake  it  left  a  path  one- 
fourth  of  a  mile  wide  and  seven  miles  long  strewn  with  the  bodies  of 


178  ROUNDUP 

140  killed  and  350  injured,  and  the  debris  of  ruined  homes— impos 
ing  mansions  and  humble  dwellings— churches  and  schools.  So  sudden 
had  been  its  descent  and  so  swift  its  passage  that  people  in  down 
town  hotels  were  unaware  of  the  disaster  until  it  had  been  all  over 
for  an  hour  or  more. 

Fire  broke  out  in  the  ruins,  threatening  Omaha  with  a  general 
conflagration  as  hydrants  were  buried  under  the  debris  and  masses  of 
wreckage  blocked  many  streets,  making  it  impossible  to  get  the 
engines  and  hose  carts  near  the  flames.  The  greatest  damage  was  done 
in  the  vicinity  of  Twenty-fourth  and  Lake,  where  fifty  or  sixty 
persons  were  killed.  When  the  rumor  spread  that  a  motion  picture 
theater  in  that  neighborhood  had  been  levelled  and  everyone  in  the 
audience  killed,  people  rushed  to  the  scene  from  all  parts  of  the  city. 
The  rumor  was  untrue,  but  the  crowd  further  hampered  the  work 
of  the  police  and  fire  departments.  A  heavy  rain  began  about  eight 
o'clock  and  continued  for  an  hour.  This  aided  the  fire  department, 
but  it  added  greatly  to  the  plight  of  the  2,500  persons  who  were 
homeless  that  night. 

The  tornado  brought  an  abrupt  end  to  a  wedding  ceremony  in  the 
German  Lutheran  Church  at  Twenty-eighth  and  Parker  Streets.  The 
organ  and  choir  had  just  embarked  on  "O  Promise  Me"  when  the 
storm  struck  the  building,  carrying  away  part  of  the  roof  and  the 
marriage  license,  which  the  minister  was  holding  in  his  hand.  The 
bride  and  groom  hurried  to  an  automobile,  intending  to  start  for 
home,  but  were  compelled  instead  to  seek  shelter  in  the  church 
cellar.  The  machine  in  which  they  attempted  to  flee  was  never  found. 

Three  days  after  the  tornado,  another  force  of  nature,  Madame 
Sarah  Bernhardt,  announced  she  would  give  a  benefit  performance 
in  Denver  for  the  storm  victims. 


Omahans  never  forget  that  theirs  is  by  far  Nebraska's 
largest  city,,  and  sometimes  tend  to  be  a  mite  patronizing 
to  their  country  cousins.  But  on  the  night  the  world's 
heavyweight  wrestling  championship  was  decided  at  old 
Rourke  Parky  the  town  belonged  to  a  couple  of— 


Country  Boys 


HOWARD  WOLFF 

WRESTLiNG—from  the  schoolboy  recess  tussles  to  the  lamp-lighted 
county  fair  matches  for  a  three-dollar  stake— has  been  as  much  a  part 
of  the  Nebraska  scene  as  the  billowing  grassy  seas  of  the  sandhills 
and  dusty  country  lanes,  the  meandering  Platte  and  the  tawny 
Missouri. 

The  story  of  wrestling  in  Nebraska  is  the  story  of  the  Stechers. 
While  there  were  many  others— Farmer  Burns,  John  Pesek,  Pat 
McGill— "the  boy  in  overalls,"  Joe  Stecher  of  Dodge,  and  his  shadow, 
Brother  Tony,  are  the  king-size  figures. 

The  Stecher  story  begins  with  a  celebration  at  Dodge  in  the  spring 
of  1913.  Brothers  Tony  and  Joe  had  tested  their  developing  muscles 
in  almost  daily  wrestling  matches  behind  the  schoolhouse.  They  had 
made  trips  to  the  Fremont  YMCA  where  they  had  been  given  formal 
instruction  by  volunteer  tutors.  In  matches  there,  impromptu  but 
deadly,  the  brothers  had  fought  off  all  challengers. 

Came  then  the  fateful  day  when  the  champ,  Frank  Butler,  was 
booked  for  an  exhibition  at  Dodge.  But  Butler's  fame  had  preceded 
him,  and  when  promoters  sought  an  opponent,  there  were  no  takers— 
until  young  Tony  was  offered  the  bout.  He  jumped  at  the  chance. 
Although  his  successes  had  been  confined  strictly  to  amateurs  and 
Butler  was  a  seasoned  pro,  Tony  threw  him  twice  in  jig-time. 

The  next  day  the  brothers  left  home.  Their  father,  Tony  says,  had 
"really  laid  me  out"  for  wrestling  for  money.  They  landed  at 
Atlantic,  Iowa,  on  the  first  leg  of  an  adventure  that  was  to  send  them 
to  the  four  corners  of  the  world  in  one  of  the  great  success  sagas  of 
American  sports. 

"Joe  and  I  hired  out  to  a  farmer  near  Atlantic,"  Tony  recalls.  "Just 
as  at  Dodge,  Fremont,  Hooper,  and  other  towns  near  our  home, 
Atlantic  had  its  favorite  wrestler.  This  was  a  young  fellow  named 

179 


i8°  ROUNDUP: 

Earl  Caddock.  Days,  he  delivered  meat  for  the  Atlantic  butcher  and 
at  night  took  on  all  comers  in  matches  at  the  livery  stable." 

A  match  was  made  with  Joe,  because  his  200  pounds  were  nearer 
Caddock's  weight  than  Tony's  165.  Taking  two  of  three  falls,  Joe 
collected  the  winner's  purse  which,  Tony  remembers,  was  four  dol 
lars.  Seven  years  later,  on  January  30,  1920,  Stecher  was  to  beat 
Caddock  again— this  time  in  New  York  City  with  the  world's  cham 
pionship  on  the  line.  The  gate  for  that  1920  "return  bout"  was 
$85,452. 

After  six  months  as  hired  hands  on  the  Atlantic  farm,  the  brothers 
went  home  to  Dodge  to  find  that  the  welcome  mat  was  out.  Week 
by  week  Tony  and  Joe  had  been  gaming  fame,  and  by  now  Papa 
Stecher's  neighbors  were  slapping  him  on  the  back  at  every  meeting. 

"Funny  thing,"  says  Tony.  "Today  when  we  think  of  a  'ringer' 
we  think  immediately  of  the  racetrack,  with  a  fast  horse  substi 
tuting  for  a  slower  one  to  bring  off  a  betting  coup.  But  in  those 
early  days  of  wrestling,  many  a  tough  pro  was  sent  out  of  Chicago 
or  Kansas  City  or  Denver  to  pose  as  a  home-town  boy  and  await 
an  eventual  match  with  one  of  the  Stechers  from  Dodge— and  a 
killing  for  the  city  sharpies.  But  it  never  turned  out  that  way.  Joe 
and  I  beat  every  'ringer'  the  smart  boys  sent  at  us.  And  our  farmer 
friends  took  the  gamblers,  often  betting  4  and  5  to  i  on  a  Stecher." 

During  this  period  Joe  developed  what  probably  is  the  most 
famous  hold  in  wrestling— the  leg  scissors.  "Joe  had  exceptionally 
long  and  powerful  legs,"  Tony  says.  "He  used  to  clamp  those  scissors 
on  a  full  grain  sack  and  then  put  on  the  pressure  until  the  sack 
broke.  Any  wonder  he  nearly  killed  half  a  hundred  wrestlers  with 
that  hold?  Then,  when  he  had  developed  the  muscles  and  learned 
the  proper  pressure  to  rip  the  grain  sacks,  Joe  shifted  to  the  hogs 
in  Papa's  feed  lot.  That  was  the  best  kind  of  practice,  because  the 
pigs  had  a  natural  tendency  to  resist,  so  they  worked  very  hard  to 
break  the  hold." 

January  5,  1915,  marks  another  milestone  in  the  Stecher  story. 
It  was  on  this  date  that  a  syndicate  of  Chicago-Kansas  City-Omaha 
gamblers  planted  a  ripe  melon  for  a  juicy  carving.  The  melon  was 
Ad  Santel,  a  top-notcher  of  the  time;  and  the  carving  was  to  be  per 
formed  on  the  loyal  farmer  backers  of  scissors-expert  Joe.  Santel 
had  slipped  unobtrusively  into  Omaha  as  Adolph  Ernst.  He  was 
"exhibited"  in  a  half-dozen  matches  within  a  hundred  miles  of 
Omaha,  never  showing  too  much— just  enough  to  convince  the  Fre 
mont  promoters  that  he'd  be  a  good  test  for  the  undefeated  Stecher. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  181 

The  day  before  the  match,  the  syndicate  men  fanned  out  to  the 
towns  where  Joe  was  a  hero.  Licking  their  chops,  the  city  slickers 
snapped  up  all  bets  on  Joe,  often  getting  as  high  as  10  to  i.  Right 
up  to  the  time  Stecher  and  Santel  stepped  into  the  ring,  the  flood 
of  cash  continued.  Telegraph  wires  had  relayed  the  word  to  gam 
bling  establishments  throughout  the  nation  that  Cuming  County 
farmers  were  hellbent  to  give  their  money  away,  and  runners  at  the 
ringside  were  armed  with  fresh  ammunition  from  as  far  off  as  San 
Francisco.  So  successful  were  they  in  goading  the  farmers  into 
making  more  bets  that  if  Joe  had  lost  that  night  many  a  Cuming 
County  farm  would  have  changed  hands. 

Not  a  farm  was  lost.  Putting  his  scissors  into  devastating  action 
almost  at  the  outset,  Joe  won  in  straight  falls  at  a  minute  and  eleven 
seconds  and  seven  minutes  flat.  The  gamblers  were  flat  too,  but 
they  hadn't  had  enough. 

By  now,  Frank  Gotch,  the  great  world's  champion  from  Humboldt, 
Iowa,  had  retired,  and  Charlie  Cutler  had  inherited  the  title.  This 
time,  the  sure-thing  boys  figured,  there'd  be  no  slip-up.  A  Cutler- 
Stecher  match  would  bring  back  all  that  lost  loot— with  interest. 
Omaha  promoter  Gene  Melady  got  the  plum  for  July  4,  1915,  at  old 
Rourke  Park.  Once  again  the  gamblers  moved  in  for  the  kill— in 
fact,  Cutler's  manager,  Billy  Rochelle,  came  to  Omaha  early  to 
make  certain  no  stray  Nebraska  dollars  would  be  overlooked. 

Ed  W.  Smith,  old-time  Chicago  sports  writer  and  wrestling  referee, 
gives  us  an  interesting  side  light  on  this  "shearing  of  the  sheep." 
Wrote  Smith: 

When  Rochelle  went  up  to  Fremont  a  week  before  the  match  to  line 
up  some  bets  on  his  boy  he  ran  into  Ed  Reetz  of  Hooper,  a  strong  Stecher 
backer.  Rochelle  told  Reetz  he'd  like  to  bet  three  thousand  dollars  on  his 
boy.  "Why,  I  thought  you  wanted  to  make  a  bet,"  Reetz  shot  back.  "I'll 
just  take  your  three  thousand  and  here's  twenty-seven  thousand  more  on 
Stecher."  And  Reetz  produced  thirty  thousand  dollars  right  under  the 
nose  of  the  bug-eyed  Rochelle. 

Later  Smith  reported  that  "it  was  probably  the  biggest  dean-up 
in  wrestling  history.  Once  more  the  farmers  put  it  over  the  smart 
chaps  from  the  city."  And  Joe  put  it  over  Cutler  without  much 
trouble  before  16,000  cheering  fans.  The  scissors  did  the  damage  in 
both  falls  at  17:03  and  ten  minutes. 

Reprinted -from  the  Omaha  World-Herald ,  May  23,  1954 


Omaha  has  had  many  citizens  whose  careers  have  com 
manded  the  nation's  attention  and  respect.  But  among 
them— at  least  since  frontier  days— there  has  been  only  one 
who,  reputedly,  was  so  tough  that  he  broke  half-dollars 
with  his  teeth. 

At  the  time  the  following  profile  was  written,  the  late 
William  Martin  Jeffers  was  serving  the  country  as  admin 
istrator  of  the  wartime  synthetic  rubber  program.  News 
papers  then  referred  to  him  as  the  "Rubber  Czar."  But 
first,  last,  and  always,  William  Martin  Jeffers  was  a— 


Railroad  Man 


RAY  MACKLAND 

BILL  JEFFERS  comes,  specifically,  from  Omaha,  Nebr.,  but  his  real 
home  stretches  across  13  states,  along  the  io,ooo-odd  miles  of  the 
Union  Pacific  Railroad.  Fifty- three  years  ago,  at  the  age  of  14,  Jeffers 
started  working  on  that  railroad,  and  he  has  been  president  since 
1937.  He  is  a  big  man,  225  pounds  and  almost  six  feet,  who  has  been 
around  locomotives  so  long  that  he  vaguely  resembles  one.  Trained 
in  the  tough  school  of  one  of  the  toughest  U.S.  industries,  Jeffers 
has  settled  scores  of  arguments  with  his  fists. 

Back  in  1909,  when  he  had  just  become  superintendent  of  the 
U.P.'s  Mountain  Division,  where  old-time  railroaders  liked  to  make 
their  own  rules,  he  once  asked  a  conductor  in  the  station  at  Rawlins, 
Wyo.,  where  he  was  going. 

"You  may  not  believe  it,"  the  conductor  answered,  with  more 
insolence  than  Jeffers  will  take,  "but  I'm  going  to  leave  here  on  a 
train." 

"That's  what  you  think,"  the  new  superintendent  said,  swinging 
with  his  right.  The  conductor  was  still  out  cold  on  the  station  floor 
when  Jeffers'  train  left  for  Green  River. 

Though  Jeffers  did  not  become  president  of  the  U.P.  until  1937, 
he  had  been  running  the  road  since  1932.  Railroads  were  harder 
hit  by  the  depression  than  almost  any  other  industry,  and  many 
went  into  receivership.  But  the  Union  Pacific  stayed  on  a  paying 
basis  and  maintained  its  $6  dividend  rate.  The  reason  was  Jeffers, 

182 


A  Nebraska  Reader  183 

who  boasts  that  with  him  the  railroad  always  comes  first.  Because 
he  feels  that  way,  he  was  willing  to  make  the  decision  to  fire,  demote, 
and  cut  temporarily  the  pay  o£  thousands  of  U.P.  workers.  No  one, 
including  Jeffers,  liked  it,  but  for  the  success  of  the  railroad  it  was 
necessary. 

The  tawny  roadbed  of  the  U.P,,  stretching  from  the  midland 
plains  to  the  California  coast,  is  Jeffers'  love.  He  has  walked  every 
mile  of  its  main  line  and  many  of  the  branch  lines  to  boot.  He 
knows  every  depot,  water  tower,  underpass,  coal  chute,  and  bridge 
on  the  system.  Once  he  fired  his  own  brother  because  he  was  not 
doing  a  good  job  for  the  U.P.,  and  the  two  have  been  estranged 
ever  since.  Jeffers  does  not  regret  that  action.  "The  Union  Pacific/' 
he  says,  "is  greater  than  people  or  anything  else." 

He  boasts,  with  reason,  that  he  can  fill  any  job  from  tracklayer 
to  president  on  the  railroad,  and  he  has  an  intolerably  sharp  eye 
for  detail.  While  riding  past  an  obscure  mountain  station,  he 
spotted  a  freshly  painted  elevation  marker  that  read  "8,014  ft." 
"Have  that  sign  changed,"  he  told  his  secretary.  "It  should  be  8,013 
ft."  Another  time,  he  was  traveling  on  a  U.P.  passenger  train  when 
the  engineer  stopped  a  little  too  abruptly.  Jeffers  looked  up,  scowl 
ing,  and  dictated  an  order  to  have  the  engineer  removed  from  pas 
senger  service  and  sent  back  for  more  training.  In  due  time  Jeffers 
saw  to  it  that  the  engineer  was  restored  to  his  job. 

He  prides  himself  on  quick  action.  Once  he  was  prowling  through 
a  women's  car  on  the  U.P/s  streamlined  Challenger  and  asked  a  lady 
passenger  how  she  liked  the  service.  She  said  she  liked  it  fine  but 
objected  to  the  cuspidors  in  the  smoking  compartment.  "We  smoke," 
she  explained,  "but  we  don't  spit."  This  was  at  Cheyenne,  Wyo. 
Jeffers  wired  ahead  to  the  division  superintendent  at  Ogden,  Utah. 
During  the  night  the  cuspidors  were  replaced  by  standing  ashtrays. 

In  1868,  a  year  before  the  celebrated  golden  spike  was  pounded 
into  a  laurel  wood  tie  at  Promontory,  Utah,  an  illiterate  Irishman, 
William  Jeffers,  emigrated  direct  from  County  Mayo  to  North 
Platte,  Nebr.,  and  took  a  tracklayer's  job  on  the  railroad.  His  peak 
earnings  were  $55  a  month.  Bill  Jeffers  was  one  of  nine  children. 
The  family  had  enough  to  eat  but  not  much  more,  and  his  sisters 
were  the  first  girls  to  clerk  in  the  stores  of  North  Platte.  Bill  was  a 
sturdy,  freckled  youngster  who,  when  the  town  boys  came  to  court 
his  sisters,  would  entertain  them  by  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  and  singing  "Billy  with  the  Stunning  Pair  of  Legs." 

That  period  was  very  brief.  "I  can't  remember  when  I  was  a  boy," 


184  ROUNDUP: 

Jeffers  sometimes  says.  "It  seems  I've  always  been  a  man,  a  working 
man."  He  quit  school  after  a  fist  fight  with  his  teacher— "it  was  a 
draw,"  he  boasts— and  at  14  went  to  work  as  janitor  and  callboy  on 
the  U.P.  As  callboy  his  job  was  to  round  up  crews  whose  names 
were  posted  for  runs.  Older  men  liked  this  kid  who  took  all  the 
work  they  could  give  him  and  asked  for  more.  They  taught  him 
telegraphy,  and  at  16  he  was  working  as  night  operator  in  the  way 
stations. 

It  was  a  telegrapher's  duty  to  report  every  train  that  passed,  and 
a  boy  of  16  had  trouble  staying  awake  all  night.  As  insurance  he 
invented  an  automatic  waker.  He  suspended  a  coal  scuttle  over  his 
head,  with  a  string  leading  through  the  station  window  to  the 
rails.  When  a  train  went  by,  it  cut  the  string  and  the  coal  scuttle 
banged  Jeffers  on  the  head.  The  system  worked  fine  except  for  one 
occasion  when  a  locomotive  stopped  short  of  the  string  and  the 
district  superintendent  found  him  asleep. 

Steadily  Jeffers  climbed  the  U.P.  ladder—from  clerk  to  timekeeper 
to  spare  foreman.  By  the  time  he  was  19  he  was  a  train  dispatcher, 
and  had  started  courting  Lena  Schatz,  the  daughter  of  a  Union 
Pacific  blacksmith  and  sister-in-law  of  the  sheriff  of  North  Platte. 
Lena,  who  had  gone  to  an  academy  at  Salt  Lake  City,  was  a  rural 
schoolteacher  and  dressed  unusually  well  for  North  Platte.  When 
he  wanted  to  visit  Lena,  he  could  flag  down  a  train  for  a  ride  into 
town.  That  was  a  more  casual  era  of  railroading  when  handcars 
were  commonly  used  for  hunting  along  the  right  of  way  or  taking 
girls  on  dates  to  nearby  towns.  In  June,  1898  the  pair  was  married 
at  7:30  A.M.,  so  that  they  could  leave  for  their  honeymoon  on  the 
8:00  A.M.  Portland  express.  This  train  had  a  great  reputation  of 
being  on  time,  but  on  Jeffers'  wedding  day  it  was  three  hours  late. 

The  honeymoon  was  Jeffers'  only  time  off  during  his  first  forty 
years  on  the  Union  Pacific.  He  has  relaxed  a  bit  since  then,  and 
actually  took  two  brief  vacations  in  the  last  twelve  years.  The  rail 
road  is  the  sum  total  of  Jeffers'  interests,  and  any  other  pursuit 
seems  dull  by  comparison.  He  couldn't  understand  a  man  who 
would  rather  loaf  or  play  golf  than  work.  Jeffers  himself  used  to 
enjoy  golf,  but  gave  up  the  game  when  he  decided  that  it  was  taking 
time  that  might  be  spent  working.  He  likes  to  say  that  he  has  worked 
more  than  a  hundred  years  for  the  Union  Pacific.  On  the  basis  of 
an  eight-hour  day,  this  is  literally  true,  because  Jeffers  habitually 
works  twelve  to  sixteen  hours,  Sundays  and  holidays  included. 

Jeffers  knows  thousands  of  his  workers  by  their  first  names,  and 


A  Nebraska  Reader  185 

he  is  "Bill"  to  the  old-timers.  But  few  employees  would  talk  back 
to  him  like  the  stripling  callboy  whom  he  bumped  into  at  Green 
River,  Wyo. 

"Why  don't  you  watch  where  you're  going?"  the  U.P.  president 
growled. 

"Why  don't  you  whistle  for  the  curves?"  the  U.P.  callboy  retorted. 

Fear  and  respect  are  blended  about  equally  in  the  U.P/s  attitude 
toward  "the  boss."  Train  crews  say  that  anyone  who  "does  business" 
doesn't  have  to  worry.  "The  boss"  will  overlook  one  honest  mistake, 
but  not  a  second.  A  man  does  his  job  as  Jeffers  wants  it  done,  or 
gets  out.  On  the  other  hand,  Jeffers  never  has  had  any  labor 
trouble.  He  himself  still  holds  a  card  in  the  telegraphers'  union, 
and  is  described  by  labor  men  as  a  hard  bargainer  but  a  good  man 
to  do  business  with. 

Though  he  has  honorary  law  degrees  from  five  colleges,  JefEers  is 
strongly  conscious  of  his  humble  origins  and  lack  of  education.  In 
philosophical  mood,  it  pleases  him  to  remark  that  a  college  educa 
tion  isn't  necessary,  and  that  some  of  the  most  outstanding  men  in 
the  world  have  little  formal  education.  His  intellectual  interests 
are  limited.  He  reads  the  newspapers,  detective  stories,  and  books 
about  the  West,  but  disdains  any  literature  that  he  can't  easily  un 
derstand.  Once  a  librarian  asked  him  what  books  he  had  read  when 
he  was  a  small  boy.  "Then  and  now,  the  Union  Pacific  Book  of 
Rules"  Jeffers  replied. 

His  closest  friend— a  Chicagoan  named  Joe  Buker  who  always 
called  him  "Mr.  Jeffers"— died  two  years  ago,  and  since  then  his 
only  intimate  has  been  his  assistant,  John  Gale,  known  along  the 
U.P.  as  "Friday"  or  "Iron  Hat,"  because  of  a  fondness  for  bowlers. 

On  the  rare  occasions  when  Jeffers  takes  a  hand  in  social  functions, 
he  likes  to  have  them  run  the  way  he  runs  the  Union  Pacific.  The 
1957  dinner  celebrating  his  promotion  to  president  was  planned  to 
the  finest  detail.  "You  can't  slip  up  on  something  like  this,"  Jeffers 
explained.  "It  can  be  the  biggest  thing  of  its  kind  put  on  in  the 
country.  And  not  for  me,  remember.  Presidents  come  and  go,  but 
the  railroad  goes  on  forever."  There  were  2,400  dinner  guests  from 
all  the  U.P.  states,  plus  4,000  non-dining  spectators.  Seating  arrange 
ments  were  planned  by  railroad  engineers  and  special  tables  built 
from  their  blueprints.  Every  cup,  plate  and  piece  of  silver  was  lined 
up  with  strings.  Conductors  and  brakemen  in  freshly  pressed  uni 
forms  served  as  ushers.  Diners  at  the  speakers'  table  were  led  out 
in  platoons  by  blue-uniformed  stewardesses  from  the  U.P.'s  trains. 


i86  ROUNDUP 

A  bugle  blew  mess  call  and  400  waiters,  marching  in  military  forma 
tion,  served  everyone  in  eighteen  minutes  flat. 

Even  bigger  than  the  dinner  was  the  coronation  Q£  Jeffers  at  the 
1940  festival  of  Ak-Sar-Ben.  In  Omaha,  a  city  still  young  enough  to 
ladle  out  its  social  gravy  to  first-generation  tycoons,  Jeffers  made  a 
memorable  king.  Dragging  a  thirty-five-pound  train,  wearing  black 
silk  panties  and  looking  a  bit  like  Ole  King  Cole,  'he  was  crowned 
King  Ak-Sar-Ben  XL VI  of  the  mythical  Kingdom  of  Quivera.  The 
setting  was  described  by  the  ecstatic  Omaha  World-Herald  as  "a  com 
position  of  ivory,  aquamarine,  and  lotus  pink,  with  moon  and  stars, 
fluted  columns  and  glistening  portals,  silver  curtains  and  green 
smilax."  He  was  the  first  king  who  ever  patted  his  queen  (Gwen 
dolyn  Sachs)  on  the  cheek  while  crowning  her,  and  within  ten 
minutes  had  his  own  crown  tilted  rakishly  on  the  side  of  his  head. 
Theoretically  the  identity  of  the  Omaha  royalty  is  secret,  but  Jeffers 
took  no  chances  on  that.  He  brought  railroad  men  by  special  train 
from  all  over  the  country  and  invited  Steve  Hannagan,  the  master 
press  agent,  from  New  York.  A  battery  of  motion-picture  camera 
men  and  photographers  frantically  recorded  the  great  event  for 
posterity.  Afterward,  Jeffers  gave  a  party.  The  style  and  scope  of 
Jeffers'  hospitality  were  so  lavish  that  Ak-Sar-Ben  decided  to  pro 
hibit  private  parties  in  the  future,  lest  new  kings  go  bankrupt. 

Jeffers  makes  no  secret  of  his  pride  in  his  own  career  and  his 
reputation  as  the  world's  greatest  railroad  manager.  In  their  Omaha 
home  his  daughter  keeps  voluminous  scrapbooks  which  tell  of  his 
rise  in  the  world.  One  of  these  books  has  the  revealing  title,  Top 
Rung. 


Condensed  from  "Battling  Bill  Jeffers/'  Life,  February  «g,  1943.  ©  Time,  Inc.,  1943 


1932 


VANITY  FAIR'S 

NEBRASKA 


Nebraska  on  the  Make 

ROBERT  BURLINGAME 


THERE  is  no  place  like  Nebraska/'  Twenty  thousand  voices  regularly 
join  in  this  paean  of  praise  to  a  conquering  Cornhusker  football 
team  after  its  accustomed  victory  in  the  Memorial  Stadium  on  an 
autumn  afternoon.  For  be  it  known  that  the  pride  of  Nebraska  is 
her  gangling  university  on  the  flats  of  Lincoln,  and  the  chief  busi 
ness  of  the  university  is  the  manufacture  of  championship  football 
teams. 

This  business  the  university  dispatches  with  regularity,  barring 
a  few  untoward  incidents,  such  as  a  44  to  o  trouncing  at  the  Uni 
versity  of  Pittsburgh  in  1931.  But  the  Pittsburgh  boys  were  only 
iron  puddlers  and  coal  miners,  who  scarcely  count  Out  in  the  real 
America  the  Cornhuskers  are  kings,  and  lost  is  that  October  Satur 
day  whose  low  descending  sun  does  not  find  them  proclaiming  their 
royalty  over  the  prostrate  form  of  another  corn-belt  university.  Best 
of  all  do  the  Lincoln  boys  love  to  pummel  the  high-hats  from  Iowa 
City,  softened  by  their  contact  with  the  effete  East— Illinois,  Wis 
consin,  and  even  Ohio. 

To  the  outlander  beyond  the  Missouri  or  west  of  Scottsbluff,  it 
may  seem  impious  to  open  a  Nebraska  narrative  in  the  university 
stadium,  passing  by  such  distinguished  citizens  as  George  Norris, 
the  embattled  liberal  of  the  federal  Senate,  and  Wflla  Gather,  the 
chronicler  of  prairie  life.  But  only  thus  can  Ogallala  and  Wahoo 
and  Broken  Bow  be  made  comprehensible,  for  the  city  of  Lincoln 
and  its  university  are  practically  the  only  forces  that  hold  this 
hodgepodge  state  together. 

The  North  Platte  country,  for  instance,  has  always  disliked  the 
South  Platte,  and  the  South  Platte  retorts  by  expressing  the  pious 
wish  that  it  may  some  day  cast  loose  the  North  Platte  millstone  and 
make  a  more  profitable  alliance  with  Kansas.  Omaha,  with  its  back 
to  Nebraska  and  its  face  turned  east  across  the  Big  Muddy,  is  either 
a  pariah  or  a  rose  in  a  cabbage  patch,  depending  on  whether  the 
commentator  lives  outstate  or  in  the  city  itself.  The  southeast  sec 
tion  of  the  state  is  fat  and  middle-aged  and  prosperous;  the  north- 

189 


!9°  ROUNDUP: 

west  has  the  sweep  and  rawness  of  Wyoming  and  the  Dakota  bad 
lands.  Catholics  jostle  Lutherans  and  Mennonites  elbow  Orthodox 
Russians,  while  the  racial  picture  of  the  commonwealth  is  a  con 
tracted  map  of  all  Europe.  In  short,  Nebraska  is  the  product  of  the 
later  frontier  and  the  work  of  the  melting-pot  when  it  was  bubbling 
its  merriest. 

Only  the  gilded  capitol  tower  and  the  horseshoe-shaped  stadium 
a  half-dozen  blocks  away  bring  some  degree  of  unity  out  of  these 
discordant  themes.  And  the  stadium  deserves  a  degree  of  precedence 
over  the  $10,000,000  state  house,  because  it  takes  the  ranch-hand 
from  Cherry  County,  the  sugar-beet  laborer  from  the  western  pan 
handle,  and  the  packing-house  boy  from  South  Omaha,  and  for 
three  months  each  fall  makes  them  a  crusading  host  for  the  defense 
of  Nebraska  honor.  During  the  dull  months  of  spring  the  coaching 
staff  barnstorms  the  state,  preaching  to  Rotary  Clubs  and  Chambers 
of  Commerce  the  revealed  gospel  of  higher  football.  Every  Nebraskan 
is  pledged,  by  the  head  of  the  emperor,  to  assist  in  swelling  the  en 
rollment  of  the  stadium  courses  at  the  university.  Football  has 
given  this  school  a  hold  over  its  entire  constituency  such  as  no  other 
state  university  approaches,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Wisconsin. 

Each  football  victory,  by  a  remarkable  system  of  logic,  serves  to 
convince  the  Nebraska  citizen  that  his  university  is  the  equal  of 
Harvard,  Oxford,  Leipzig,  and  the  Sorbonne,  done  up  in  one 
package  and  with  Cambridge  and  Stanford  added  for  good  measure. 
His  pride,  however,  does  not  touch  his  purse.  He  continues  to  com 
plain  like  a  stuck  pig  at  the  burden  of  the  university  appropriation, 
and  to  applaud  the  legislature  for  heroically  keeping  the  salary  scale 
of  teachers  below  that  of  almost  any  other  recognized  university  in 
the  country.  The  disarray  of  angular  brick  buildings  strewn  over 
the  campus  does  not  trouble  his  aesthetic  sense,  for  aesthetics  is  a 
closed  book  to  the  Nebraskan.  Only  a  smart-aleck  easterner  would 
listen  to  the  national  fraternity  secretary  who  dismissed  Nebraska 
with  a  reference  to  "its  location  on  the  endless  plain,  and  a  student 
body  of  typical  middle-class  German  people—who  make  good  citizens 
but  offer  little  of  special  social  life." 

Nebraska  boasts  of  Roscoe  Pound  and  the  Prairie  Schooner/  a 
literary  quarterly  praised  by  so  fastidious  a  critic  as  Henry  Mencken, 
but  is  content  to  send  her  children  to  one  of  the  most  inadequate 
public  school  systems  in  America.  Outside  of  Omaha  Central  High 
School,  where  a  true  classicist  wages  a  lone  battle  against  his  motor- 
minded  constituency,  the  state  offers  no  adequate  preparation  for 


A  Nebraska  Reader  191 

college.  Latin  is  displaced  by  Smith-Hughes  agriculture,  and  if  a 
hardy  soul  ventures  into  foreign  language,  he  stops  with  two  years 
of  Spanish,  which  is  vaguely  thought  to  be  helpful  in  a  South  Amer 
ican  business  career. 

Sole  rival  to  the  university  for  the  state's  affection  is  Mr.  Bertram 
Grosvenor  Goodhue's  extraordinary  capitol,  which  is  only  now  reach 
ing  completion  after  ten  years  of  construction.  A  single-story  lime 
stone  structure,  two  blocks  square  and  surrounding  a  courtyard,  it 
is  surmounted  by  a  tower  that  rises  more  than  four  hundred  feet 
above  the  surrounding  plain.  Distinctly  Egyptian  or  even  Assyrian  in 
line,  it  would  seem  as  appropriate  to  a  Mesopotamian  setting  as  to 
Lancaster  County.  Groups  of  coatless  farmers  come  in  daily  from 
Box  Butte  and  Keya  Paha  counties,  bringing  their  wives  and  chil 
dren  to  see  what  God  hath  wrought.  On  pleasant  Sundays  the  sight 
seers  reach  the  proportions  of  a  mob,  whom  a  corps  of  university 
students  escort  from  marvel  to  marvel,  declaiming  a  carefully 
memorized  speech  on  the  costs  of  construction.  One  by  one,  the 
visitors  sit  in  the  governor's  chair,  caress  the  Italian  marble  pillars, 
and  exclaim  at  the  hundreds  of  kinds  of  wood  in  the  Supreme  Court 
bench.  Only  a  few  grumblers  remark  that  the  money  might  better 
have  been  spent  on  paved  roads. 

Except  for  the  capitol  and  university,  Lincoln  is  a  smug  middle- 
class  town,  conventional  enough  to  satisfy  the  Methodist  clergy  and 
the  Republican  Party.  Travelling  men  avoid  Lincoln  on  weekends 
because  of  its  rigid  Sunday  blue  laws,  which  close  theatres  and  all 
other  places  of  amusement  Roadhouses  are  patronized  only  by 
university  students  trying  to  be  devilish,  and  nightclubs  do  not 
thrive  on  a  midnight  curfew.  A  two-million-dollar  bank  robbery 
two  years  ago  caught  the  police  department  unprepared  for  any 
crime  more  heinous  than  running  through  traffic  signals;  for  several 
months  the  arm  of  the  law  bargained  with  the  underworld  for  the 
return  of  the  loot,  a  procedure  that  was  not  edifying  to  the  state 
at  large. 

Churches,  mostly  Protestant,  have  hemmed  in  Lincoln  with  a 
fringe  of  suburbs,  ranging  from  a  Methodist  community  which  has 
largely  surrendered  its  purity  to  a  Seventh  Day  Advent  colony  which 
eschews  the  devil  by  observing  Sunday  on  Saturday  and  concealing 
the  fact  that  women  have  ankles.  The  Protestant  clergy  occupies  the 
same  favored  position  which  it  held  in  Geneva  under  Calvin. 

For  a  town  that  has  not  yet  reached  its  three  score  and  ten,  Lincoln 
has  a  glamorous  past.  At  one  time  in  the  early  nineties,  William 


*9*  ROUNDUP: 

Jennings  Bryan  was  teaching  a  Presbyterian  Sunday  School  class, 
Charley  Dawes  was  starting  in  the  business  world,  and  John  J.  Persh- 
ing  was  drilling  university  cadets.  The  Bryan  legend  is  kept  fresh 
by  the  Great  Commoner's  brother,  now  governor  of  Nebraska. 

Divested  of  the  skullcap  which  made  him  famous  as  Democratic 
candidate  for  vice-president  in  1924,  Brother  Charley  is  serving  his 
third  term  on  a  platform  of  low  taxes  and  few  frills.  Verbose,  domi 
neering,  and  profane,  the  governor  knows  how  to  appeal  to  the  Ne 
braska  farmer  in  his  own  language.  Unlike  Bryan,  Pershing  figures 
in  Lincoln  society.  His  sister  has  long  been  a  resident  of  the  city, 
his  son  went  through  the  Lincoln  schools.  On  a  memorial  tablet  in 
the  nave  of  Holy  Trinity  Church,  John  J.  Pershing's  name  heads  the 
roll  of  parishioners  who  served  in  the  World  War.  For  the  rest, 
Lincoln's  aristocracy  resembles  the  cave-dwellers  of  Washington,' 
content  with  its  own  life  along  Sheridan  Boulevard,  its  intermar 
riages,  and  its  trips  to  Europe  and  the  East.  Like  all  of  Lincoln,  it 
is  respectable,  does  its  sinning  and  drinking  quietly,  and  is  not 
notable  for  public  spirit. 

Fifty-six  miles  east  of  Lincoln,  over  a  new  paved  road,  is  Omaha, 
three  times  as  large,  ten  times  as  cosmopolitan,  but  scarcely  a  part 
of  Nebraska.  A  true  Nebraskan  feels  ill  at  ease  on  its  steep  hills, 
which  are  entirely  unlike  the  topography  in  the  rest  of  the  state. 
Omaha  sneers  at  Lincoln  as  her  country  cousin,  and  Lincoln  retal 
iates  by  lifting  her  eyebrows  at  the  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  of  the 
packing-plants. 

Omaha  is  a  city;  she  has  a  beer  racket,  a  political  machine,  and 
a  night  life,  to  say  nothing  of  having  furnished  Lady  Charles  Caven 
dish,  nee  Adele  Astaire,  to  Broadway.  She  is  sophisticated  but  not 
intellectual,  and  she  smiles  in  mild  amusement  at  a  $100,000  suit 
brought  by  one  socialite  against  another  for  alienating  the  affections 
of  a  deceased  husband. 

Omaha's  wealth  is  based  on  her  location  in  the  center  of  the 
western  rail  system,  which  makes  the  city  a  natural  terminus  for 
livestock  and  grain  shipments.  Cattlemen  congregate  at  the  Rome 
Hotel,  as  they  once  did  at  the  old  Paxton,  and  a  remnant  of  the' 
"line"  still  exists  below  Fourteenth  Street  for  those  who  will  have 
their  fling  at  scarlet  sin  before  returning  to  the  country. 

Omaha  has  lately  gone  artistic  under  the  influence  of  a  new  mu 
nicipal  university  and  the  three-million-dollar  Joslyn  Memorial, 
opened  with  great  fanfare  last  November.  It  is  the  gift  of  Mrs. 
Sarah  Joslyn  out  of  a  fortune  which  her  husband  amassed  from  the 


A  Nebraska  Reader  193 

sale  of  newspaper  boiler-plate  and  venereal-disease  remedies.  To 
direct  her  project  Mrs.  Joslyn  drafted  Professor  Paul  Henry  Grum 
man  from  the  state  university.  Professor  Grumman  enjoyed  a  local 
reputation  for  polite  naughtiness  in  his  course  on  Ibsen.  The  re 
maining  cultural  enterprise  of  the  city  is  Creighton  University,  a 
Jesuit  citadel,  which  was  built  from  the  proceeds  of  telegraph  wire 
strung  over  the  Rocky  Mountain  area  by  Count  Creighton  in  the 
i86o's. 

Lincoln  and  Omaha  are  Nebraska  to  all  intents  and  purposes. 
Extending  to  the  state  line  on  the  west  are  450  miles  of  flat  country, 
only  occasionally  broken  by  a  town.  Grand  Island,  "the  third  city," 
has  a  population  of  eighteen  thousand,  mostly  conservative  German 
burghers  who  like  their  beer,  maintain  a  Turner  Society,  and  ap 
propriately  call  their  city  auditorium  Liederkranz  Hall.  Columbus, 
on  the  Platte  River,  is  predominantly  Irish,  while  at  Scottsbluff,  on 
the  western  edge  of  the  state,  a  large  colony  of  Russians  till  the  ir 
rigated  sugar-beet  fields  of  the  North  Platte  valley.  Geologists  work 
each  summer  among  the  buttes  and  escarpments  of  the  Scott's  Bluff 
region,  excavating  remains  of  a  pre-Indian  culture  which  once  flour 
ished  there.  To  the  north  is  Cherry  County,  five  times  as  large  as 
Rhode  Island  and  abounding  in  vast  cattle  ranches  that  foster  as 
vigorous  a  frontier  spirit  as  survives  anywhere  in  America. 

The  central  part  of  the  state  is  a  drear  waste,  called  the  sandhills, 
with  roads  that  must  be  tied  down  to  keep  them  from  blowing  away 
and  clusters  of  tiny  lakes  that  provide  excellent  fishing.  Just  above 
the  Kansas  border,  in  the  Republican  River  valley,  the  New  England 
settlement  of  Red  Cloud  is  the  family  home  of  Willa  Gather,  who 
has  done  the  saga  of  the  Bohemian  immigrants  in  My  Antonia. 
Ninety-five  per  cent  of  the  names  in  Wilber  are  vowelless,  like  Brt 
and  Srb,  and  until  a  few  years  ago  beer-gardens  existed,  reminiscent 
of  old  Prague.  Wilber  is  perhaps  the  only  town  in  America  which 
has  publicly  hanged  and  burned  in  effigy  the  leaders  of  the  prohibi 
tion  movement.  This  it  did  during  a  state  campaign  a  generation 
ago.  Sidney,  tucked  away  in  the  southwest  corner  of  the  state,  was 
once  the  end  of  the  cattle  trail,  known  far  and  wide  as  the  "wickedest 
town  in  the  West."  An  occasional  sheriff  is  still  shot  there,  just  to 
keep  old  memories  alive. 

For  a  state  that  was  settled  by  disappointed  people  who  stayed 
only  because  they  couldn't  get  farther  west,  Nebraska  has  done  fairly 
well.  Wind,  drought,  grasshoppers,  and  bad  banks  have  inflicted 
on  it  most  of  the  evils  of  man  and  nature,  but  in  spite  of  them 


194  ROUNDUP 

George  W.  Norris  sits  in  the  Senate  and  Willa  Gather  writes  her 
novels.  The  Methodists  held  prayer  meetings  for  Al  Smith's  defeat 
in  1928,  but  eight  hundred  saloons  paid  license  fees  into  the  state 
treasury  until  the  federal  government  undertook  a  great  experiment. 
Choppy  Rhodes  and  Monte  Munn  are  more  illustrious  alumni  of 
the  university  than  all  the  Rhodes  scholars  since  Jameson's  raid,  but 
Nebraska  has  been  spared  the  dullness  of  her  Anglo-Saxon  neigh 
bors  by  preserving  the  native  flavor  of  the  Slav,  the  German,  and  the 
Irishman. 


Reprinted  from  Vanity  Fair,  November,  1938 


IV.  The  Sower 


Wlien  tillage  begins,  other  arts  follow. 
The  fanners  therefore  are  the  founders  of 
kuman  civilization. 

— Daniel  Webster,  Remarks 
on  Agriculture 


"A  scholar  of  high  repute  in  the  field  of  the  social  sciences, 
a  novelist,  editor  of  the  New  Republic,  a  teacher,  Direc 
tor  of  the  New  School  for  Social  Research  in  New  York 
City  .  .  /'  So  standard  reference  works  describe  the  boy 
born  on  a  farm  near  Homer,  December  18,  1874. 


Education  of  a  Nebraskan 

ALVIN  S.  JOHNSON 

i.  Homer 

HOME  AGAIN,  in  my  native  Nebraska. 

The  westbound  tourist,  seeing  Nebraska  from  the  Pullman  win 
dow,  thinks,  "Good  Lord,  how  monotonous!"  He  acquired  his  sense 
of  landscape  from  the  romanticists,  who  needed  mountain  scenery 
as  background  to  their  cloud-topped  heroes.  The  rational  classic 
writers  detested  the  mountains.  In  Latin  literature  the  only  com 
ments  on  the  Alps  are,  "horrid,  miserable,  detestable."  The  classics 
loved  the  sweet  plains,  fertile,  homelike,  and  homemaking,  the  rich 
lands  along  the  sluggish  streams  exuberant  with  harvests,  and  the 
gentle  slopes  above. 

The  Romans  never  laid  eyes  on  such  magnificent  plains  as  those 
of  Nebraska,  and  neither  has  modern  man  really  seen  them,  his 
eyes  blinkered  by  the  literature  of  romance.  For  the  Nebraska-born 
the  gently  winding  streams  with  their  flower-bedecked  margins,  the 
fertile  bottom  levels,  the  long  swales  of  grassy  hills,  are  quintessen- 
tially  home,  free  and  sunlit  home. 

Soon  after  arriving  in  Nebraska  I  visited  the  farm  where  I  was 
born.  There,  on  a  grassy  slope,  was  a  small  oak  tree,  perhaps  six 
inches  in  diameter;  it  had  been  six  inches  in  my  earliest  memory. 
It  chose  to  live,  not  to  grow.  It  was  the  tree  to  which  my  father  tied 
up  his  horse  when  he  came  from  Wisconsin,  years  before  I  was  born. 
I  looked  out  upon  the  landscape,  with  my  father's  pioneer  eyes. 
Before  me  a  descent  to  a  stream;  beyond,  level  ground  covered  with 
a  plum  thicket,  rising  to  a  green  slope  embraced  by  two  hill  spurs 
reaching  forward  from  a  long  green  range  closing  the  horizon,  with 
a  saucy  knoll  coming  forward  between  the  embracing  main  hill 

197 


1 98  ROUNDUP: 

arms.  As  I  looked  and  contemplated,  dusk  came  on,  and  over  the 
range  o£  hills  the  evening  star  appeared,  dim  at  first  and  then  a 
brilliant  gem.  I  was  back  in  my  father's  spirit.  This  is  home.  Home. 

It  was  a  country  of  recent  settlement  when  I  was  a  child.  There 
were  a  few  families  that  had  come  at  the  time  of  the  Kansas-Nebraska 
struggle,  intending  to  help  hold  the  region  against  the  Slave  Power, 
without  getting  too  close  to  the  firing  line.  There  was  an  old  fellow 
who  had  set  out  from  Maine  in  an  oxcart  to  try  his  luck  at  California 
gold.  He  found  the  gold  diggings  packed  with  pistol-carrying  rut 
fians  and  turned  back  for  Maine.  In  our  vicinity  one  of  his  oxen 
died,  and  he  had  to  settle  down. 

Most  of  the  settlers  came  with  a  rush  at  the  close  of  the  Civil  War. 
There  was  a  thick  sprinkling  of  veterans,  who  had  learned  to  hate 
work  in  the  confusion  of  campaigning  over  the  South.  There  was 
one  man  who  had  fought  in  the  Confederate  Army.  My  father  stood 
up  for  him  against  the  taunts  of  the  Union  veterans.  What  was 
wrong  in  fighting  for  one's  own  state?  As  my  father  had  a  better 
military  record  than  most,  and  looked  dangerous  besides,  Wigle 
was  let  alone.  There  was  a  man  who  had  escaped  the  penitentiary 
in  Sweden  for  poaching,  that  is,  killing  a  deer  that  was  destroying 
his  garden,  and  eating  it.  Lindstrom,  to  my  boyish  way  of  think 
ing,  was  grand.  He  was  blithe  as  a  bird,  singing  Swedish  lays  in  a 
rich  baritone,  dancing  like  a  wild  dream.  He  carried  a  big  knife 
to  settle  accounts  with  any  other  Swede  who  dared  to  throw  in  his 
face  his  near-penitentiary  record. 

Lindstrom  had  a  whole  repertory  of  crafts:  stone  masonry  and 
bricklaying,  carpentry,  furniture  making.  He  was  quick  as  lightning 
at  farm  work.  Binding  sheaves  in  my  father's  field,  he  did  exactly 
three  times  the  work  of  the  next  best  man.  But,  alas,  he  had  a  wife 
twenty  years  older  than  himself,  no  doubt  fair  once  but  now  a  hag 
burning  with  jealousy.  He  ran  away  finally.  America  is  large,  and 
what  was  the  use  of  abiding  in  the  one  spot  that  was  hell?  The  hag 
remained  with  us,  to  make  all  the  trouble  she  could  by  carrying 
tales. 

We  also  had  our  local  idiot.  Gyp  was  an  ape  man— long  arms  end 
ing  in  crooked  fingers,  sparse  bristly  hair  all  over  his  face,  rolling 
eyes,  His  lower  lip  hung  away  from  teeth  sown  broadcast.  His  only 
flight  of  speech  was  in  the  words,  "Pass  the  'lasses,  hahl"  His  passion 
was  for  adolescent  girls,  and  if  he  saw  one  passing  on  the  road  he 
would  utter  a  sound,  half  growl  and  half  obscene  laughter,  and 
start  to  pursue  her.  Nobody  bothered  about  that.  He  was  club-footed, 


A  Nebraska  Reader  199 

and  any  girl  could  outrun  him.  As  for  the  girls,  they  could  pose  as 
heroines  if  they  had  been  chased  by  Gyp. 

There  was  a  philosopher  from  a  German  university,  Winkhaus, 
held  by  the  other  settlers  to  be  brain-broke.  From  a  promising  aca 
demic  career  he  was  dumped  upon  an  inappreciative  America  by 
the  abortive  Revolution  of  1848.  He  was  deeply  absorbed  in  the 
implications  of  a  mathematical  formula  he  had  worked  out,  which 
proved  to  his  satisfaction  that  time,  space,  matter,  and  the  causal 
nexus  were  all  different  manifestations  of  the  same  thing,  capable 
of  expression  in  a  single  equation.  He  had  the  books  of  ELant  and 
Hegel,  Schopenhauer  and  Feuerbach,  and  could  tell  you  precisely 
where  each  philosopher  went  wrong  or  fell  short  The  time  he  should 
have  given  to  cultivating  his  corn  or  getting  in  his  hay  he  spent  in 
scribbling  on  the  margins  of  his  books  or  in  the  composition  of  a 
monumental  treatise.  His  worried  wife  and  daughters  made  shift 
to  live  on  the  scanty  product  of  his  weedy  fields.  A  good  husband 
and  father  he  was,  they  said;  pity  that  he  was  brain-broke. 

My  Uncle  George,  the  only  other  educated  man  in  the  community, 
maintained  that  Winkhaus  was  no  more  brain-broke  than  any  other 
German  philosopher;  that,  in  fact,  he  was  a  philosopher  of  power 
ful  and  original  ideas.  My  uncle  wanted  me  to  cultivate  Winkhaus. 
But  I  had  enough  to  do  in  struggling  with  my  nickname,  Professor 
Frog,  conferred  on  me  for  my  long  legs  and  my  zeal  for  knowledge. 
I  didn't  want  to  be  associated  with  brain-brokes. 

There  were  two  dusters  of  Danish  settlement:  one,  a  group  of  rela 
tions  from  my  mother's  island,  Fyn,  industrious  and  retiring  folk, 
concealing  their  thought  in  a  dialect  not  even  my  father  could  un 
derstand;  the  other,  a  group  of  emigres  from  Schleswig,  which  had 
been  annexed  to  Prussia  and  was  therefore  intolerable  for  Danes. 
They  seemed  a  race  apart,  huge,  noisy  men,  eager  for  a  fight  but 
dominated  by  their  wives,  who  were  prevailingly  little. 

There  was  a  Little  Deutschland  of  Germans  who  hated  Bismarck 
but  loved  beer  and  a  high  voltage  cheese,  which  they  made  by  ma 
turing  it  in  jars  at  the  center  of  a  heap  of  green  grass,  whose  fermen 
tation  would  keep  it  warm  for  weeks.  The  result  was  something  that 
made  Limburger  pap  for  babes  and  sucklings. 

There  was  a  community  composed  of  new  immigrants  from  the 
Emerald  Isle,  the  men  Paddies  with  snub  noses  and  long  upper  lips, 
the  women  thin  and  crooked.  On  Nebraska  food  their  boys  were 
growing  tall  and  handsome  and  irresistibly  charming,  their  girls 
graceful  and  bright-eyed,  proving  the  old  German  principle,  "Man 


200  ROUNDUP: 

ist  was  man  isst."  Too  bad  the  pun  can't  be  reproduced  in  English. 
But  one  is  what  one  eats. 

There  was  a  colony  of  real  Americans  who  originated  in  "York 
State";  good  solid  farmers,  God-fearing  men  who  kept  their  religion 
in  their  great  hearts  and  raised  hell  with  nobody  about  his  beliefs 
or  lack  of  beliefs.  There  was  an  inset  of  settlers  who  claimed  origin 
in  Old  Virginny,  who  had  moved  westward  by  generation  stages.  For 
several  generatiohs  they  had  moved  through  malaria  country,  and 
the  men  were  born  tired.  The  Nebraska  winds  are  intolerable  to 
the  anopheles,  and  malaria  could  not  survive  among  us.  But  the 
malaria  psychology  is  good  for  two  generations,  if  not  three.  The 
only  man  among  them  who  amounted  to  anything  was  the  illegiti 
mate  son  of  one  of  the  faithful  wives  of  the  tribe.  He  was  industrious, 
steady,  ambitious.  He  set  up  in  business  as  a  cattle  feeder  and 
proved  the  wisest  and  most  skillful  in  the  trade,  made  money,  mar 
ried  a  choice  girl  out  of  the  rising  upper  class,  got  elected  to  a  county 
office,  and  would  sooner  or  later  have  been  in  Congress.  But,  alas, 
he  got  "inflammation  of  the  bowels"— appendicitis,  then  fatal— and 
died. 

It  was  a  discordant  community.  The  Protestants  disliked  and  dis 
trusted  the  Irish— they  were  dominated  by  the  priest,  and  the  priest 
took  his  orders  from  Rome.  My  father  regarded  all  that  as  nonsense. 
He  had  seen  the  priest,  a  tall,  grave  man,  standing  outside  the  door 
of  the  saloon,  saying  nothing,  but  making  it  impossible  for  any 
Irishman  to  go  beyond  a  single  glass.  He  almost  made  a  Protestant 
out  of  the  saloonkeeper,  whose  business  was  shrinking  to  a  mere 
trickle.  My  father  used  to  say  he'd  give  all  the  preachers  in  the  county 
for  that  one  priest.  As  for  orders  from  the  Pope,  the  Pope  had  his 
own  job  to  do,  way  off  in  Italy. 

The  chief  butt  o£  old  American  dislike  was  the  Dane.  He  was 
taking  over  the  damn  country.  He  lived  on  what  the  pigs  wouldn't 
eat.  He  was  unspeakably  gross  in  his  disgusting  broken  speech. 

At  that  time  native  American  speech  in  the  presence  of  women 
was  highly  refined.  It  was  an  insult  to  pure  womanhood  to  say  at 
dinner  that  you  preferred  the  leg  of  a  chicken.  Refined  folk  said 
"limb."  You  could  not  use  the  word  stallion;  you  said  "horse," 
with  a  peculiar  intonation.  But  above  all  you  could  not  use  the 
word  bull.  If  a  neighbor  precipitately  climbed  your  barbed-wire 
garden  fence  and  appeared  with  long  rips  in  his  shirt  and  pants  he 
complained,  "Your  gentleman  cow  chased  me.  Like  to  of  killed  me." 
And  suppose  you  told  a  Dane  it  wasn't  decent  to  use  such  words. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  201 

His  reply  was,  "Dat's  Pjank"  (nonsense).  Now  listen  to  that  word 
Pjank.  Is  that  a  language? 

There  was  a  graver  indictment  of  the  Danes.  Around  the  thresh 
ing  machine,  no  women  being  present,  it  was  the  rule  to  express 
every  obscenity  known  to  man.  The  Danes  did  not  contribute  to 
the  bawdy  talk;  therefore  they  must  be  deep  in  some  kind  of  secret 
sin.  For  sound  men  talk  bawdy. 

I  first  encountered  the  prejudice  against  the  Danes  when,  at  four, 
I  was  taken  by  my  sisters  to  visit  the  school.  A  tall  girl  of  ten,  named 
Hattie,  took  me  by  the  hand  and  led  me  around.  I  was  in  a  daze; 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  experienced  a  sense  of  overwhelming 
beauty,  Hattie's  eyes,  "nut  brown  pools  of  Paradise." 

A  big  girl,  Bertha,  came  up.  "Hattie!  Take  your  hand  away  from 
that  nasty  little  Dane.  He  isn't  fit  to  touch  your  hand." 

Hattie  squeezed  my  hand,  let  her  lovely  eyes  shine  upon  me,  and 
moved  away. 

I  hadn't  known  that  I  was  a  Dane— only  Alvin,  a  man  child. 
Nasty?  I  looked  at  my  hands.  They  were  clean.  Apparently  that 
big  girl  didn't  like  me.  But  I  remembered  Hattie's  wonderful  eyes. 
I  never  got  another  good  look  at  them,  J>ut  two  or  three  years 
later  I  saw  just  such  two  beautiful  eyes  in  a  calf,  and  I  named  it 
Hattie. 

In  this  community  my  family  lived  in  individualistic  isolation. 
We  were  on  speaking  terms  with  a  wide  range  of  people,  but  of 
fast  family  friends  we  had  few.  My  three  uncles,  particularly  Uncle 
George  Bille,  stood  first.  William  Holsworth,  an  exceedingly  bril 
liant  man,  who  could  make  a  more  effective  speech  than  any  I  have 
ever  heard  except  from  William  Jennings  Bryan,  was  my  father's 
closest  friend;  his  sons,  Charlie  and  Willie,  were  mine.  Uncle  Jesse 
Wigle,  the  ex-Confederate,  illiterate,  but  a  repository  of  the  sweetest 
folk  songs,  stood  high  with  us.  Dibble,  a  man  who  had  got  his 
tongue  inextricably  tied  through  a  medical  course,  in  which  he  had 
to  observe  major  operations  without  anesthetics  or  antiseptics,  and 
had  fled  from  the  ghastly  profession  to  the  prairie,  was  our  wisest 
friend,  though  we  saw  him  seldom. 

My  friends  among  boys  of  my  own  age  were  few.  I  had  no  enemies 
to  reproach  me  with  my  Danish  origin,  and  that  was  because  I  had 
a  redoubtable  protector  in  Charlie  Holsworth.  He  was  six  years 
older,  and  why  he  bothered  to  defend  me  I  never  could  make  out 
No  boy  could  twit  or  bully  me  without  a  fierce  look  from  Charlie. 

The  old-fashioned  farm  home  is  itself  an  educational  institution. 


202  ROUNDUP: 

A  child  with  open  eyes  learns  the  ways  of  plants  and  animals,  domes 
ticated  and  wild.  He  learns  to  distinguish  the  characters  of  people 
in  the  family  and  in  the  neighborhood.  The  data  of  his  experience 
are  set  up  with  large  blank  spaces  around  them,  offering  opportunity 
for  thought  and  appraisal.  The  talk  of  his  elders,  mostly  tedious 
reminiscence  or  more  tedious  boasting  of  miraculous  crops  or  mar 
velous  fattened  stock,  does  nevertheless  float  nuggets  of  wise  old 
sayings,  of  unique  situations,  of  legal  maxims  collected  through  jury 
service. 

I  was  fortunate  in  living  in  a  community  of  mixed  origins.  The 
difference  in  the  status  of  the  peasant  or  worker  in  Europe,  as  con 
trasted  with  the  status  of  the  American  farmer,  was  vivid  in  the 
experience  of  the  community.  I  was  never  to  get  over  a  sense  of  the 
wide  difference  between  American  liberty  and  the  few  acquired 
rights  of  the  European  working  class,  between  the  so-called  classes 
of  America,  in  which  no  ambitious  youth  expected  to  rest,  and  the 
rigid  classes  of  Europe,  which  held  their  members  secure,  in  default 
of  a  miracle.  Above  all  I  was  fortunate  in  having  natural  educators 
for  parents,  and  particularly  the  inspiration  of  my  uncle,  George 
Bille,  who  had  a  farm  a  mile  away. 

In  the  farm  community  there  were  only  two  fields  offering  sci 
entific  stimulus,  geology  and  botany.  On  my  father's  farm  the  creek 
had  cut  a  deep  gully,  and  the  erosion  that  preceded  the  plow  that 
broke  the  plains  had  made  many  dry  confluent  gullies.  There  before 
your  eyes  was  the  record  of  some  millions  of  years,  if  you  could  read 
it. 

High  on  the  hillsides  there  was  a  limestone  outcrop  which  reap 
peared  at  the  same  level  for  a  dozen  miles.  It  was  overlaid  by  a 
yellow  earth  the  neighbors  called  clay,  but  which  my  uncle  ascribed 
to  the  dust  blown  in  from  the  southwest  for  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  of  years.  When  my  father  opened  his  quarry  my  uncle 
taught  me  to  read  the  geologic  record.  In  the  surfaces  uncovered  by 
my  father's  gunpowder  were  all  kinds  of  shells,  some  like  oyster 
shells,  some  rather  like  crabs— trilobites,  I  think— some  of  totally  un 
known  character. 

"You  can  see,  Alvin,"  my  uncle  said,  "this  land  was  once  ocean, 
shallow  ocean,  for  there  can't  be  many  shellfish  in  deep  water.  These 
shells  are  millions  of  years  old.  There  are  none  like  them  today." 

Botany  was  more  a  matter  of  the  here  and  now.  There  were  no 
primordial  plants  to  be  discovered  in  our  lime  quarry.  But  the  prairie 
was  covered  with  plants  for  which  there  were  no  local  names.  My 


A  Nebraska  Reader  203 

uncle  asked  me  how  many  flowering  plants  I  had  seen.  At  least 
thirty,  I  thought.  Then  he  brought  me  Gray's  Manual.  With  Gray's 
Key  I  discovered  the  names  of  more  than  two  hundred  flowering 
plants,  most  of  which  I  had  never  noticed.  Without  names  you  do , 
not  see  things,  or  their  differences.  You  call  things  gadgets,  and  let 
it  go  at  that.  By  the  end  of  our  botanizing  phase,  I  knew  a  hundred 
times  more  about  plant  life  than  I  had  known  before.  And  I  knew 
more  about  human  life,  for  all  flesh  is  grass. 


For  a  man  destined  to  become  one  of  America's  most  dis 
tinguished  educators^  his  first  experiences  at  an  institution 
of  higher  learning  hardly  could  fail  to  remain  a  vivid  and 
significant  memory.  Curiously  enough,  it  was  the  Com- 
mandant  of  the  Cadet  Corps  who  made  the  deepest  im 
pression  on  young  Alvin  Johnson. 


2.  Lieutenant  Pershing 

IT  WAS  A  late  afternoon  in  early  November  when  my  train  arrived  at 
Lincoln.  I  got  out,  a  little  stiff  from  the  novel  experience  of  sitting 
still  a  whole  day.  There  was  a  trolley  waiting,  marked  for  a  destina 
tion  unknown  to  me,  but  it  would  no  doubt  go  through  the  town. 
I  asked  the  conductor  how  one  got  to  the  university.  Get  out  at 
Eleventh  Street  and  walk  north  two  or  three  blocks. 

There  before  me,  as  I  got  out  of  the  streetcar,  was  University  Hall, 
as  it  was  pictured  in  the  university  catalogue.  I  walked  up  to  the 
gate,  where  I  was  almost  trodden  down  by  students  scurrying  from 
the  classrooms.  The  building  before  me  seemed  huge  and  majestic. 
It  had  four  strata  of  windows,  some  of  them  lighted,  under  a  man 
sard  roof.  The  building  was  topped  with  a  square  tower.  To  the 
right  were  three  other  buildings  of  varying  architecture,  all  hand 
some  to  my  country  eyes. 

But  night  was  approaching,  and  I  needed  shelter.  I  picked  up  my 
bag  and  walked  about  in  the  streets  near  the  campus  until  I  came 
upon  a  sign,  "Boarders."  I  knocked  and  was  admitted  by  an  ema 
ciated  landlady,  aproned  and  smelling  of  cooking.  She  led  me  to  a 
room,  about  eight  feet  by  twelve,  with  narrow  bed,  washstand,  and 
table.  Three  dollars  a  week,  room  and  board. 


204  ROUNDUP: 

The  next  morning,  having  risen  at  five,  I  took  a  long  walk  to  see 
the  city  and  to  kill  the  time  until  breakfast,  served  at  the  late  city 
hour  of  half-past  seven.  I  took  another  long  walk  to  kill  time  until 
nine  o'clock,  when  I  surmised  the  offices  would  be  open.  What  office? 
I  did  not  know,  but  went  to  the  campus  and  accosted  a  hurrying 
student.  I  said  I  wanted  to  enter  the  preparatory  department. 

"Oh,  then  you  go  to  the  registrar,  Ma  Smith.  But  say,  you're  awful 
late.  Shell  kill  you.  She  nearly  broke  my  neck  because  I  was  two 
weeks  late.  But  you  can  try  her.  First  floor,  offices  to  the  left."  The 
student  raced  on. 

Ma  Smith  was  an  elderly  woman  with  thin  gray  hair  done  in  a  • 
hairpinned  bun  at  the  base  of  her  head.  She  was  hauling  an  un 
lucky  student  over  the  coals,  and  the  longer  she  talked  the  angrier 
she  got.  When  I  presented  my  modest  request  she  almost  frothed  at 
the  mouth.  "Enter  now,  with  the  term  half  over?  No  sirree!"  She 
turned  her  back  on  me.  I  retreated,  not  pleased  but  not  crushed.  I 
would  try  the  chancellor. 

Chancellor  James  H.  Canfield  was  a  robust  figure,  not  tall  but,  in 
a  friendly  way,  very  imposing.  His  mobile  face  was  well  bronzed,  his 
dark  eyes  were  bright  and  understanding.  I  was  able  to  put  my  case 
without  embarrassment. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  "you  are  too  late.  You  can't  make  it.  My  advice 
is,  go  home  to  the  farm  and  come  back  September  fifteenth." 

"That  wouldn't  work,"  I  objected.  "I  can't  go  back  to  the  farm 
to  do  nothing.  I'd  have  to  plant  another  crop  of  corn  and  I'd  have 
to  husk  it.  You  know,  you  can't  husk  corn  before  the  end  of  October. 
I'd  be  just  as  late  next  year." 

The  chancellor  smiled.  "As  I  said,  you  can't  make  it.  At  least  I 
think  you  can't  make  it.  But  if  you  want  to  try  it,  the  chancellor 
has  no  right  to  forbid  you." 

"Will  you  give  me  a  note  to  Ma  Smith?" 

"Miss  Smith,"  he  corrected*  "Yes."  He  wrote  a  note  in  his  delicately 
perfect  script,  signed  it  with  a  flourish,  and  gave  it  to  me.  He  offered 
his  warm,  cordial  hand.  "My  boy,  you'll  make  it" 

In  my  senior  year,  when  I  counted  Ma  Smith  among  my  best 
friends,  she  told  me  how  near  she  had  come  to  a  "cat  fit"  when  I 
presented  the  note  from  the  chancellor.  She  said  that  in  fixing  up 
my  program  she  tried  to  give  me  the  toughest  teachers  on  the  faculty, 
of  whom  the  very  toughest  was  the  "Lieut"— Lieutenant  John  J. 
Pershing,  Commandant  of  Cadets,  who  taught  elementary  mathe 
matics  and  studied  law  on  the  side. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  205 

Most  of  my  teachers  were  very  considerate  and  gave  me  more  time 
than  I  needed  to  catch  up.  Not  so  Lieutenant  John  J.  Pershing.  I 
had  been  in  his  class  one  week  when  he  ordered  me  to  the  board 
to  work  out  a  complicated  problem  jn  algebra.  I  asked  to  be  excused 
on  the  ground  that  I  had  not  had  time  to  catch  up  with  the  class. 

"You  have  been  here  a  week,"  he  said  grimly.  "Next  Monday,  be 
caught  up." 

I  was. 

Of  all  my  teachers  Lieutenant  Pershing  interested  me  most.  I  de 
voted  myself  more  to  studying  him  than  to  the  progress  of  the 
class.  He  was  my  first  experience  of  a  professional  soldier.  Lieutenant 
Pershing  was  tall,  perfectly  built,  handsome.  All  his  movements,  all 
play  of  expression,  were  rigidly  controlled  to  a  military  pattern.  His 
pedagogy  was  military.  His  questions  were  short,  sharp  orders,  and 
he  expected  quick,  succinct  answers.  Woe  to  the  student  who  put 
a  problem  on  the  board  in  loose  or  slovenly  fashion!  Pershing's  soul 
appeared  to  have  been  formed  on  the  pattern  of  "Present— arms! 
Right  shoulder— arms!  Fours  right!  Forward  march!" 

The  ladies  of  the  city  were  cra2y  about  him— so  it  was  gossiped 
among  us  students.  But  their  adoration  was  vain— so  the  gossip  ran 
—for  the  Lieut  was  ambitious  and  could  not  use  a  wife  who  did  not 
bring  a  fortune.  There  were  no  adequate  fortunes  in  Lincoln. 

I  admired  Lieutenant  Pershing,  as  a  soldier.  But  never  in  the 
whole  year  did  he  give  us  a  single  glimpse  of  the  Pythagorean  en 
thusiasm  for  mathematics  as  an  incomparable  weapon  for  subjugat 
ing  even  the  unknowable.  Where  Pershing's  abilities  shone  brilliantly 
was  in  his  handling  of  the  cadet  battalion.  He  could  take  a  body 
of  cornfed  yokels  and  with  only  three  hours  of  drill  a  week  turn 
them  into  fancy  cadets,  almost  indistinguishable  from  West  Pointers. 
The  year  before  I  came  to  Lincoln,  Pershing  had  taken  a  body  of 
his  Nebraska  cadets  to  a  national  cadet  corps  meet  at  St.  Louis,  and 
all  but  beat  West  Point. 

The  next  year  I  was  confronted  with  the  problem  of  military  drill. 
I  was  a  proto-pacifist  and  would  have  been  glad  to  see  the  cadet 
corps  abolished.  But  there  it  was,  a  condition  of  certain  grants  from 
the  federal  government  which  the  university  needed.  One  could 
substitute  gymnasium  work  if  one  had  good  reasons  for  doing  so, 
such  as  having  to  work  in  the  late  afternoon  for  board  and  room. 
I  had  begun,  in  desultory  fashion,  to  do  odd  jobs  to  replenish  my 
purse,  but  I  had  no  time  schedule  that  would  serve  as  an  excuse.  My 
friends  urged  me  to  go  in  for  drill  while  still  a  prep.  Thus  I  could 


206  ROUNDUP 

get  five  years  of  it  and  be  fairly  sure  of  an  officer's  commission.  But 
that  was  distinctly  what  I  did  not  want.  My  pacifism  took  the  pe 
culiar  turn  of  willingness  to  accept  the  training  of  a  private  but  not 
of  an  officer.  I  couldn't  explain  the  distinction;  it  seemed  to  me 
like  a  mathematical  axiom. 

If  you  were  out  for  a  commission  you  served  one  year  as  a  private, 
one  as  corporal,  and  a  third  as  sergeant.  If  you  were  any  good  at  all 
you  got  a  lieutenancy,  or  even  a  captaincy,  the  fourth  year,  and  on 
graduation  you  got  a  commission  in  the  National  Guard—mostly  a 
paper  organization.  Most  cadets  were  dying  to  go  up  the  promotion 
ladder  and  sycophanted  the  Lieutenant  as  intimately  as  they  could 
sycophant  that  disintimate  soldier.  I  looked  on  the  whole  process 
with  equalitarian  contempt. 

At  the  end  of  the  year  I  heard  my  name  read  out  before  the  corps 
as  one  of  the  corporals  for  the  next  year.  I  wouldn't  have  it  and  went 
to  Lieutenant  Pershing  to  have  my  name  taken  off  the  list. 

"Why?"  he  demanded  in  the  first  surprised  tone  I  ever  heard  from 
him. 

I  tried  to  explain,  but  my  explanation  didn't  get  through  to  him. 

He  frowned  and  said,  "If  you  don't  want  it,  there  is  another  cadet 
who  does." 

About  half  a  century  later  I  met  General  Pershing  at  a  party 
given  by  Bernard  M.  Baruch  for  the  War  Industries  Board.  "I  think 
I  have  met  you  before,  Doctor  Johnson,"  said  the  great  general. 

"Certainly,"  I  said.  "You  have  met  hundreds  of  thousands,  who 
all  remember  you,  but  you  can't  remember  the  hundreds  of  thou 
sands." 

"Was  it  in  Nebraska,  when  I  was  Commandant  of  Cadets?" 

"It  was." 

"And  you  were  the  cadet  who  refused  to  be  a  corporal.  I  never  did 
understand  your  reasoning." 

Imagine  such  a  memory!  Caesar  was  said  to  have  known  the  names 
of  all  the  soldiers  in  his  legions.  Commanding  an  army  of  ten  regi 
ments,  to  correspond  with  Caesar's  army,  Pershing  might  have 
learned  the  names  of  his  men.  He  had  had  morq  to  command  his 
attention  in  his  brilliant  military  career,  first  as  Black  Jack  in  the 
Philippines  and  finally  in  command  of  the  huge  American  armies  in 
World  War  I. 


Extracted  from  Pioneer's  Progress,  The  Viking  Press,  1952 


Charles  Gates  Dawes,  later  to  be  vice-president  of  the 
United  States,  ambassador  to  Great  Britain,  and  first 
president  of  the  Reconstruction  Finance  Corporation, 
lived  in  Lincoln  from  i88j  to  1895.  In  the  foreword  to 
Dawes'  A  Journal  of  the  McKinley  Years,  Bascom  N.  Tim- 
mons  writes: 

The  nine  Nebraska  years,  hard  years  most  of  them,  were  de 
cisive  in  molding  the  sort  of  man  Charles  Gates  Dawes  was  to 
be.  They  saw,  too,  the  forming  of  two  of  the  many  great  Dawes' 
friendships-those  with  William  Jennings  Bryan  and  John  J. 
Pershing.  . .  . 

The  Bryan  and  Dawes  families  attended  the  same  Presby 
terian  church  and  went  to  its  Wednesday  night  prayer  meet 
ings.  They  were  to  live  on  the  same  street,  their  houses  only 
two  blocks  apart.  A  modicum  of  prosperity  came  to  Bryan  first. 
He  acquired  a  two  story  house  and  a  one  horse  surrey,  while 
Dawes  still  lived  in  an  |i8  per  month  rented  cottage  and  had 
no  horse  and  carriage. 

The  Pershing  friendship  began  when  Lieutenant  Pershing 
came  to  the  University  of  Nebraska  as  its  military  instructor. 
That  close  relationship  continued  the  remainder  of  Pershing's 
life  and  led  to  the  appointment  of  Dawes  on  the  staff  of  Persh 
ing  as  General  Purchasing  Agent  of  the  A.E.F. 

The  panic  and  depression  year  of  1893  .  .  .  marked  the  sub 
stantial  beginning  of  a  financial  career  which  brought  him 
eminence  in  his  own  country  and,  at  one  stage,  pre-eminence 
in  Europe  above  and  beyond  any  American. 


The  Panic  of  1893 


CHARLES  G.  DAWES 

Lincoln,  Nebr.,  January  j.  We  are  living  in  a  "rapid"  time.  Changes 
in  the  business  world  are  more  numerous  and  portending  than  ever 
before.  The  tendency  is  toward  consolidation  and  concentration  of 
wealth  and  power  into  the  hands  of  the  few;  and  we  are  all  striving 
with  might  and  main  to  become  one  of  the  "few"— often  at  the  en 
tire  sacrifice  of  all  efforts  looking  toward  a  better  condition  of  mind 
and  morals.  My  own  business  as  it  grows,  becomes  more  and  more 
absorbing;  and  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  combat  the  tendency  to  occupy 
myself  with  it  so  entirely.  But  lack  of  attention  generally  means  lack 
of  success. 

207 


*o8  ROUNDUP: 

January  3.  I  have  the  north  west  corner  of  igth  and  "O"  streets 
constantly  in  mind— 25  feet  by  142  feet.  It  is  held  at  $18,500.  I  am 
as  sure  of  its  rapid  and  permanent  increase  in  value  as  I  am  that 
the  day  follows  night.  Would  like  to  leave  it  to  my  children.  Two 
little  wooden  shanties  are  on  it  now.  My  idea  would  be  to  improve 
it  immediately  if  I  purchased  it. 

January  7.  Fearing  that  continued  gold  exports  may  cause  a  pre 
mium  on  gold— or,  rather,  that  the  gold  exports  will  cause  such  a 
discussion  of  the  question  of  the  inadequacy  of  gold  reserve  in  the 
U.  S.  Treasury  to  total  circulation,  as  may  excite  distrust  which 
might  cause  a  premium  on  gold,  I  advised  the  teller  [of  the  Amer 
ican  Exchange  National  Bank]  to  increase  his  gold  in  vaults  by 
paying  out  silver  and  silver  certificates,  and  retaining  all  gold  de 
posited. 

January  23.  Was  roused  out  of  sleep  at  6  A.M.  by  a  message  from 
Dan  Wing  of  the  American  Exchange  National  Bank  that  the  Cap 
ital  National  Bank  had  failed,  and  to  come  down  town  at  once. 
Went  down,  and  found  the  word  correct.  While  nothing  definite 
can  be  learned  as  to  the  condition  of  the  closed  bank,  it  looks  like 
a  bad  failure. 

January  28.  The  week  has  passed  without  any  flurry  in  banking 
circles  other  than  that  caused  by  the  failure  of  the  Capital  National 
Bank— which  seems  a  bad  failure.  By  the  assessment  of  stockholders 
the  depositors  may  get  out  whole. 

There  is  today  in  this  State  a  great  public  grievance— exorbitant 
local  rates  on  railroad  freight.  And  yet,  the  leading  men  of  the 
State  and  of  this  city  pose  as  apologists  for  this  robbery  because 
they  fear  the  robbers.  They  stand  by,  and  see  the  proper  internal 
development  of  the  State  retarded  by  these  high  local  rates,  and 
keep  their  mouths  shut  lest  their  annual  pass  takes  wings  and  flies. 
The  disproportion  existing  between  the  high  local  rates  in  the  State, 
and  the  low  (by  comparison  only)  through  rates  from  outside  points 
to  the  State,  shuts  out  the  producers  of  interior  Nebraska  from  deal 
ing  in  their  own  home  markets— the  cities  of  eastern  Nebraska— as 
against  shippers  three  and  four  times  the  distance  from  these  cities. 
The  railroads  make  rates  upon  the  'long  haul"  theory.  They  dis 
criminate  against  those  industries  of  interior  Nebraska  which  have 
a  tendency  to  produce  for  home  markets  those  commodities  upon 
which  they  can  get  a  long  haul  from  the  East.  They  encourage  only 
those  industries  producing  commodities  for  distant  markets  upon 
which  they  can  get  a  long  haul.  This  plan  prevents  the  development 


A  Nebraska  Reader  209 

and  diversification  of  the  industries  of  interior  Nebraska  upon  nat 
ural  lines.  It  increases  the  burden  the  people  are  carrying.  In  the 
long  run,  it  injures  the  railroads  themselves;  for  the  interest  of  the 
State  and  its  common  carriers  are,  from  an  industrial  standpoint, 
identical. 

February  4.  Closed  the  purchase  from  Miss  Maria  Lillibridge  of 
Lot  18  Blk  40  Lincoln— being  the  north  west  corner  of  i3th  and  O 
Streets-on  joint  account  of  Gen.  J.  D.  Cox  of  Cincinnati  and  myself. 
I  have  long  had  my  eye  on  this  corner.  For  future  increase  in  value 
I  consider  it  one  of  my  best  purchases— if  not  the  best.* 

February  6.  The  Populists  and  Democrats  combining,  W.  V.  Allen 
was  elected  U.  S.  Senator  from  Nebraska  by  a  majority  of  five.  The 
people  have  gained  a  victory,  and  all  the  friends  of  good  government 
ought  to  rejoice.  Though  a  Republican,  I  am  for  honest  treatment 
of  the  people's  desires  to  have  railroad  domination  in  politics  ended. 

February  n.  The  export  of  gold  at  New  York  still  continues;  I 
cannot  see  how  we  can  avoid  having  a  premium  on  gold  in  this 
country  in  a  very  short  time. 

March  10.  The  monetary  situation  is  not  reassuring.  The  fact  is 
that  under  our  present  methods  of  doing  business,  periods  of  tight 
ness  in  the  money  markets  are  becoming  much  more  frequent  than 
ever  before.  The  means  of  multiplying  credit  have  themselves  been 
so  multiplied  that  credits  become  too  extended  in  a  very  short  time 
after  a  period  of  liquidation,  and  force  a  second  liquidation  sooner 
than  formerly.  The  probabilities  are,  however,  that  the  present  sit 
uation  is  only  temporary  due  to  the  demand  for  currency  from  in 
terior  points  on  money  centers,  and  also  to  the  gold  exports  which 
excite  apprehension. 

April  23.  Almost  a  money  panic  prevails  in  the  land  owing  to  the 
long  continued  exports  of  gold  which  leads  people  to  fear  a  pre 
mium  on  gold,  and  the  consequent  degradation  of  our  currency. 
The  $100,000,000  gold  reserve  has  been  encroached  upon;  but  the 
banks  are  affording  a  relief  by  furnishing  some  gold  to  the  U.  S.  Treas 
ury  in  return  for  greenbacks.  .  .  .  Under  our  system  of  credits,  finan 
cial  panics  generally  follow  a  period  of  inflation  in  general  business. 
There  has  not  been  a  period  of  inflation  preceding  this  stringency; 
but  there  has  been  an  inflation  (to  a  moderate  degree)  of  currency 
by  the  operation  of  the  Sherman  Law  which  provides  for  the  issue 
of  Treasury  Notes  based  on  bullion  deposits  of  silver. 

*  It  was  a  good  buy.  For  nearly  fifty  years  "i^th  and  O"  has  been  Lincoln's 
main  intersection— the  center  of  the  city.  (Editor's  note) 


210  ROUNDUP: 

April  24.  Attended  a  meeting  of  the  Round  Table  Club  at  Con 
gressman  William  Jennings  Bryan's  where  we  discussed  a  good  sup 
per  as  well  as  the  silver  question. 

April  2j.  Many  failures  are  occurring.  Locally  we  are  in  compara 
tively  good  condition.  Uncle  Sammy  is  pretty  hard  up.  His  hands 
are  tied  by  the  Sherman  Law  which  compels  him  to  buy  silver 
bullion,  which  is  worthless  for  purposes  of  redemption,  and  issue 
notes  which  are  inflating  his  currency  and  weakening  public  con 
fidence  in  his  financial  ability  to  redeem  them  in  gold  on  demand. 
His  failure  to  redeem  in  gold  on  demand  any  portion  of  his  currency, 
paper  or  silver,  means  a  premium  on  gold,  a  contraction  of  credits, 
and  a  paralysis  of  business  (perhaps  temporarily  only).  Meanwhile, 
gold  exports  are  likely  which  will  still  further  diminish  his  gold 
reserve. 

May  5.  The  Panic  on  Wall  Street  does  not  extend  over  the  country. 
Stocks  took  a  great  drop  and  a  few  failures  are  announced.  At  the 
close  of  the  market,  however,  there  was  a  rapid  advance  over  lowest 
prices.  The  time  has  long  since  past  when  a  clique  of  gamblers  can 
break  this  country;  though  there  is  no  doubt  that  they  do  great 
harm—especially  the  grain  and  provision  gamblers. 

May  14.  I  fear  the  panic,  for  which  I  have  been  looking  so  long, 
and  for  which,  thank  heavenl  I  have  been  preparing  my  business, 
is  at  last  upon  us.  The  paper  is  full  of  failures— banks  are  breaking 
all  over  the  country,  and  there  is  a  tremendous  contraction  of  credits 
and  hoarding  of  money  going  on  everywhere.  As  to  what  the  con 
sequences  will  be,  will  be  determined  simply  by  the  duration  of  the 
money  shortage.  If  it  continues  for  a  great  length  of  time  great 
disasters  will  result.  The  causes  which  have  led  up  to  the  panic  are 
many— one  of  the  chief  being  the  widespread  discussion  of  the  con 
dition  of  the  U.  S.  Treasury  in  connection  with  the  silver  question. 
When  you  set  a  nation  to  talking  about  money,  you  advertise  very 
broadly  the  adverse  side  of  national  finances.  Another  cause  is  a 
deeper  one—and  that  is  that  we  have  now  reached  another  cycle. 
All  over  the  world  there  is  now  going  on  the  same  trouble. 

May  16.  At  the  close  of  the  day  the  Nebraska  Savings  Bank  had 
only  $2,000  cash  on  hand  as  against  $120,000  deposits.  The  clearing 
house  decided  to  bolster  them  up— times  being  too  critical  to  allow 
a  bank  to  break. 

May  18.  The  big  run  on  the  Nebraska  Savings  Bank  came  today, 
and  continued  till  evening.  About  $18,000  was  paid  out  over  the 
counters.  .  .  . 


A  Nebraska  Reader  211 

May  21.  I  have  the  Chicago,  New  York  and  Omaha  papers.  The 
outlook  seems  to  me  to  be  growing  darker  all  the  time;  and  wide 
spread  trouble  is,  in  my  judgment,  at  hand— in  fact,  we  are  now 
passing  through  it.  ... 

June  21.  The  financial  situation  is  such  in  the  city  that  it  seemed 
something  should  be  done  to  fortify  the  American  Exchange  Na 
tional  Bank  against  the  liability  of  further  withdrawals  of  deposits. 
The  directors  decided  to  send  I.  M.  Raymond  and  myself  East  to 
arrange  for  $100,000  to  be  used  if  necessary. 

Raymond  announced  that  he  could  not  go,  and  E.  F.  Brown  and 
D.  E.  Thompson  and  myself  were  sent  as  a  committee  east.  We  took 
with  us  ten  notes  of  $10,000  each  signed  by  all  the  Directors  present 
(ten)  left  blank  as  to  payee  and  interest  for  us  to  fill  in.  We  also 
took  $130,000  good  commercial  paper  belonging  to  the  bank.  While 
the  bank  is  in  good  shape  with  26%  cash  on  hand,  the  situation  is 
so  critical  in  the  city  that  we  must  get  ready  for  bad  times. 

July  p.  The  country  is  passing  through  a  great  panic  which,  in 
its  severity,  has  been  approximated  only  by  1873.  .  .  .  The  city  and 
state  are  standing  the  strain  wonderfully  well,— especially  the  banks 
which  are  all  in  as  good  shape  as  could  be  expected.  .  .  .  The  finan 
cial  panic  is  a  very  interesting  thing  to  study.  Human  nature  asserts 
itself  always,  and  once  a  crowd  gets  started,  there  seems  to  be  nothing 
to  do  but  to  do  nothing  until  they  get  over  it. 

July  15.  One  day  matters  seem  better— the  next  worse.  Men  are 
being  thrown  out  of  employment,  and  the  trade  of  retailers  and 
wholesalers  has  almost  come  to  a  standstill.  There  is  almost  no 
money  in  circulation.  It  is  very  difficult  to  collect  any  rents.  Banks 
are  failing  in  Denver  and  Kansas  City.  The  hoarding  of  money  is 
still  going  on.  Where  things  will  end  no  one  can  tell.  Money  is  all 
in  the  banks  or  in  the  stockings  or  in  the  safety  deposit  boxes. 

July  20.  Reports  of  bank  failures  all  over  the  country  continue 
to  come  in.  There  is  much  free  silver  talk,  etc.,  all  of  which  serves 
to  render  the  public  more  uneasy,  and  to  cause  a  feeling  of  appre 
hension  which  manifests  itself  in  the  continued  falling  off  of  bank 
deposits. 

July  28.  Panic  in  progress  in  New  York.  ...  It  is  with  much  re 
luctance  that  I  prophesy  a  still  worse  condition  of  things  in  the 
future.  Notwithstanding  Congress  is  to  meet  and  endeavor  to  out 
line  a  financial  policy  for  the  government,  confidence  will  return 
very  slowly.  .  .  .  You  cannot  legislate  apprehension  out  of  the  mind 
of  the  masses. 


212  ROUNDUP 

August  12.  Conditions  of  business  over  the  country  slowly  improve. 
Deposits  at  the  bank  this  week  show  a  decided  increase,  and  the 
worst  of  the  times  are  certainly  over.  The  heavy  importation  of 
gold  and  the  increase  in  national  bank  circulation  are  having  their 
legitimate  effect  in  gradually  restoring  confidence.  .  .  .  The  relief 
is,  of  course,  first  experienced  by  the  banks,  and  soon  will  reach 
business  men  generally. 

September  5.  The  recovery  from  "panic"  conditions  is  very  evi 
dent;  but  business  of  every  kind  is  more  or  less  stagnant.  In  the  great 
money  centers,  the  improvement  in  conditions  is  most  marked.  In 
this  locality  the  feeling  of  relief  comes  from  the  disasters  which  have 
been  avoided  rather  than  from  the  condition  into  which  we  have 
emerged.  As  a  general  thing  deposits  are  increasing.  The  packing 
house  is  running  again.  The  repeal  bill  (repeal  of  Sherman  Law  for 
purchasing  of  silver  bullion  and  issue  of  Treasury  Notes  thereon) 
is  now  being  discussed  in  the  Senate— the  House  has  passed  it  by  a 
very  large  majority.  ^ 

October  23.  .  .  .  The  chief  effect  of  the  panic  here  is  now  notice 
able  in  the  number  of  "good"  men  whom  it  has  left  hard  up.  It  is 
an  experience  to  go  through;  but  "to  him  who  over-cometh"  there 
is  a  rich  reward  as  a  general  rule.  There  will  be  widespread  distress 
this  winter  which  it  will  be  the  duty  of  everyone  to  try  and  alleviate. 

October  29,  The  Senate  of  the  United  States  will  unconditionally 
repeal  the  Sherman  Law.  The  events  of  the  week  in  the  Senate 
seem  to  settle  the  fact  that  it  is  impossible  to  bring  the  silver  men 
together  on  any  compromise  measure. 


Extracted  from  A  Journal  of  the  McKinley  Years,  Lakeside  Press,  1950 


It  is  easy  to  ridicule  Bryan;  he  was  often  absurd,  he  was 
usually  ignorant,  and  he  had  the  narrow  outlook  of  a  man 
who  has  failed  to  sublimate  inhibitions  devoid  of  mean 
ing.  But  when  all  is  said  against  Bryan  that  can  be  said, 
his  alliance  with  the  silver  interests,  for  example,  the  fact 
remains  that  he  was  the  voice  of  the  authentic  American 
yearning  that  the  forgotten  man  should  be  remembered. 
—Harold  J,  Laski,  The  American  Democracy 


Bryan,  Bryan,  Bryan 

i.  The  Voice 

GERALD  W.  JOHNSON 

WILLIAM  JENNINGS  BRYAN  could  speak  to  thirty  thousand  people  in 
the  open  air  and  make  every  word  heard  at  the  fringes  of  the  crowd 
without  the  aid  of  microphones  and  amplifiers  or  any  other  me 
chanical  device.  He  was  a  big  man,  somewhat  spindleshanked,  but 
with  a  chest  like  a  beer  keg  and  a  mouth  that  could  have  received 
a  billiard  ball  with  effortless  ease.  His  head  was  thickest  through 
the  jowls,  slanting  to  a  relatively  narrow  ridge  at  the  top,  but  in 
his  youth  he  wore  a  great  mane  of  black  hair  that  gave  the  casual 
observer  a  contrary  impression;  his  head  seemed  to  be  widest  at  the 
brow,  a  triangle  standing  on  its  apex.  Even  in  his  last  days  the  hair 
still  clustered  thickly  above  his  ears,  and  although  a  pointed,  bald 
dome  loomed  up  through  it,  most  people  still  failed  to  note  how 
the  power  of  the  head  was  concentrated  in  the  mouth  and  jaws,  with 
a  comparatively  small  brainpan  above  them. 

But  when  Bryan  spoke  nobody  was  interested  in  such  details.  In 
later  years  his  voice  acquired  a  note  of  stridency,  but  at  the  height 
of  his  powers  it  was  a  superb  musical  instrument  with  never  a  wolf 
tone  through  all  the  register.  Even  when  in  volume  it  rose  to  thun 
der,  still  it  caressed  the  ears,  a  thirty-two  foot  open  diapason,  not  a 
foghorn.  This  apparent  ease  was  deceptive,  of  course;  actually  the 
man  expended  a  terrific  amount  of  energy  in  each  of  his  orations, 
as  is  evidenced  by  the  fabulous  quantities  of  food  he  consumed  on 
an  active  campaign  without  suffering  any  appreciable  impairment 

213 


ROUNDUP: 

of  his  health.  A  man  who  ate  like  Bryan  had  to  expend  energy  at  a 
furious  rate;  had  he  not  done  so,  he  would  either  have  blown  out 
every  gasket  in  his  internal  mechanism,  or  he  would  have  ended 
the  tour  weighing  seven  hundred  pounds. 

Yet  at  his  most  impassioned  he  seemed  to  be  well  within  his  limits, 
with  plenty  of  reserve  power  still  untouched,  and  this  gave  an  ex 
traordinary  effect  of  mastery  to  his  utterance.  To  the  common  man 
it  seemed  that  whatever  Bryan  said  had  more  behind  it;  at  least 
this  was  so  in  the  early  days  and  measurably  so  up  until  1908.  The 
ironical  fact  that  Bryan  actually  knew  less  than  almost  any  other 
man  who  figured  prominently  in  public  life  at  the  time  is  beside 
the  point.  He  seemed  to  know.  .  .  . 

To  do  him  justice  Bryan  had  the  answers  to  some  questions  that 
seemed  unanswerable  then,  to  an  astonishingly  large  number,  in 
fact.  His  trouble  was  that  when  he  had  the  answer  he  almost  in 
variably  had  it  by  the  wrong  end  and  so  could  not  make  it  fit.  His 
knowledge  was  intuitive  rather  than  empirical,  which  is  to  say,  he 
played  hunches  oftener  than  he  thought  things  through;  but  be 
cause  his  hunches  were  usually  good,  he  has  made  an  indelible  im 
pression  upon  United  States  history,  and  is  today  a  major  prophet, 
however  he  may  have  failed  as  a  statesman. 

Consider,  as  a  shining  example,  the  issue  on  which  he  first  shook 
the  country,  the  free  coinage  of  silver  at  the  ratio  of  sixteen  to  one. 
Modern  schoolboys  in  the  history  class  probably  find  one  of  the 
dreariest  moments  in  the  whole  course  that  in  which  they  confront 
the  task  of  learning  what  was  meant  by  "free  silver"  and  "sixteen  to 
one."  It  is  a  dreary  task  because,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  didn't  mean 
anything,  being  assertions  that  put  effect  ahead  of  cause.  Yet  in  the 
presidential  campaign  of  1896  these  slogans  occupied  the  attention 
of  the  country  almost  to  the  exclusion  of  anything  else,  and  Bryan 
employed  them  so  effectively  that  he  almost  shattered  the  Republican 
party  a  full  generation  ahead  of  its  fated  moment. 

Obviously,  then,  the  people  who  participated  in  that  campaign 
thought  that  these  expressions  carried  tremendous  significance,  and 
the  reasons  why  they  thought  so  are  more  interesting  than  the  fact 
One  of  the  reasons  was  that  Bryan  had  the  answer,  but  had  it  by  the 
wrong  end.  In  the  course  of  the  campaign  he  thundered  against  "the 
Money  Devil  of  Wall  Street"  and  threw  bankers,  brokers,  and  in 
dustrialists  into  paroxysms  of  wrath  and  fear.  The  truth  is,  there 
was  a  Money  Devil,  but  his  habitat  was  not  Wall  Street.  His  lair  was 
in  the  colleges  and  universities,  in  the  textbooks  on  economics,  in 


A  Nebraska  Reader  215 

the  minds  of  farmers,  businessmen  and  teachers,  in  the  mind  of  Bryan 
himself.  The  devil  of  it  was  that  we  were  trying  to  manage  an  elastic 
economy  with  a  rigid  currency.  Every  time  the  crops  were  harvested, 
money  became  tight  and  borrowers  had  to  pay  through  the  nose; 
every  time  business  slacked  off  a  bit,  money  lost  value  and  lenders 
could  get  little  or  no  return.  This  was  true  because  the  dollar  repre 
sented,  not  a  true  economic  value,  but  a  certain  weight  of  gold; 
since  there  was  a  fixed  amount  of  gold  in  the  world,  there  could  be 
only  a  certain  number  of  dollars,  no  matter  how  much  the  move 
ment  of  business  called  for  more  money. 

Bryan  perceived  the  trouble  plainly  enough,  but  not  the  remedy. 
He  had  the  idea  that  the  recurrent  economic  crises  were  due  to  the 
fact  that  the  dollar  was  stuck  tight  to  the  rare  metal,  gold,  and  that 
it  could  be  relieved  by  attaching  it  in  part  to  the  relatively  more 
abundant  metal,  silver.  He  therefore  proposed  to  enact  into  law  the 
principle  that  the  number  of  dollars  equivalent  to  one  ounce  of 
gold  should  always  be  equivalent  to  sixteen  ounces  of  silver. 

But  the  trouble,  of  course,  was  not  that  gold  had  been  selected  as 
the  standard.  The  trouble  was  that  the  currency  had  no  elasticity 
and  could  have  none  as  long  as  it  was  rigidly  bound  to  any  metal 
in  limited  supply.  Twenty  years  later  we  turned  Bryan's  answer 
around  and  then  it  was  so  beautiful  a  fit  that  the  currency  system 
sustained  the  shock  of  two  frightful  wars  with  almost  no  trouble.* 

So  it  was  with  Bryan's  chief  issue  in  his  second  campaign,  that 
of  1900.  This  time  it  was  Imperialism  that  Bryan  opposed,  and  again 
his  opposition  itself  was  correct,  but  again  it  was  badly  aimed.  Im 
perialism  lurked  in  the  minds  of  some  young  and  ebullient  politi 
cians,  notably  the  Republican  candidate  for  Vice-President  in  1900, 
but  that  political  imperialism  was  frank,  aboveboard,  and  not  very 
dangerous.  The  imperialism  that  made  headway  was  the  economic 
imperialism  of  men  of  a  very  different  type— the  elder  Rockefeller, 
satrap  of  oil,  Harriman  of  railroads,  Baer  of  coal,  Duke  of  tobacco, 
Morgan  and  his  associates,  the  financiers. 

They  all  had  perceived  the  reality  of  economic  power  and  had 
gathered  it  into  their  hands  to  an  appalling  extent.  Bryan  knew  it, 
and  he  knew  that  in  some  instances  they  had  achieved  their  ends  by 
manipulating  and  perverting  the  power  of  the  law,  political  power; 
so  he  decided  that  the  way  to  halt  them  was  to  prevent  the  erection 

*  The  device  was  the  Federal  Reserve  note,  based,  not  on  gold,  but  on  economic 
goods  actually  in  existence.  As  the  goods  were  consumed,  the  notes  were  canceled, 
to  be  issued  again  when  more  goods  were  produced.  Thus  the  currency  auto 
matically  expanded  and  contracted  as  the  volume  of  business  rose  and  fell. 


216  ROUNDUP 

of  a  political  empire.  Unfortunately  for  his  theory,  political  im 
perialism  was  by  no  means  indispensable  to  the  creation  of  industria 
cartels,  shipping  agreements,  and  banking  associations.  So  once  mon 
Bryan  had  the  answer  to  the  problem,  but  had  it  by  the  wrong  end 
But  all  this  became  clear  only  after  many  years.  When  the  cen 
tury  began  Bryan  was  the  Voice  that  spoke  the  heart's  desire  of  tb 
common  man,  the  ancient  desire  that  has  driven  him  since  histor 
began,  the  aspiration  toward  freedom  from  want  and  freedom  fron 
fear.  At  the  Democratic  National  Convention  in  Chicago,  in  1896 
Bryan  had  adroitly  seized  the  moment  to  stampede  the  Democrat! 
party  into  accepting  the  more  important  demands  of  the  Populists 
He  achieved  it  by  an  extraordinary  oratorical  effort  that  went  dowi 
in  history  as  "the  Cross  of  Gold  speech"  and  that  established  him  a 
once  as  the  greatest  master  of  the  platform  in  American  politics 
But  it  did  more.  It  made  him  also  the  leader  of  the  disinherited— th 
discontented,  the  disappointed,  and  the  mentally  incompetent,  toe 
but  mainly  those  who  had  lost  through  no  fault  of  their  own.  H 
knew  the  problems  that  harassed  millions,  and  persuaded  them  tha 
he  knew  the  answers  too,  so  for  twenty  years  he  was  politically  ir 
destructible. 

Extracted  from  Incredible  Talet  Harper  8c  Brothers,  1950 


July  9,  1896.  Went  to  Convention.  Sat  on  platform.  Heart 
my  old  friend,  William  J.  Bryan,  make  his  speech  on  th 
platform's  silver  plank.  His  oratory  was  magnificent— hi 
logic  pitifully  weak.  I  could  not  but  have  a  feeling  of  prid 
for  the  brilliant  young  man  whose  life  for  so  many  yeaj 
lay  parallel  to  mine,  and  with  whom  the  future  may  ye 
bring  me  into  conflict  as  in  the  past. 

—Charles  G.  Dawes,  A  Journal  of  the  McKinley  Years 


2.  "A  Good  Many  Votes  on  D  Street55 

M.  R.  WERNER 

WHEN  the  Convention  convened,"  wrote  Bryan,  "I  felt  as  I 

do  before  a  speech  of  unusual  importance.  I  usually  have  a  feelin 

of  weakness  at  the  pit  of  my  stomach— a  suggestion  of  faintness. 


A  Nebraska  Reader 

want  to  lie  down.  But  this  being  impossible  in  the  Convention,  I  got 
a  sandwich  and  a  cup  of  coffee  and  devoted  myself  to  these  as  I 
waited  for  the  debate  to  begin.  .  .  ." 

The  setting  as  Bryan  rose  to  speak  was  just  the  setting  to  put 
before  an  orator.  The  voices  of  the  other  speakers  had  not  carried  in 
the  huge  auditorium,  but  every  one  of  the  fifteen  thousand  in  the 
audience  heard  Bryan's  first  words,  beautifully  modulated. 

"I  would  be  presumptuous,  indeed,"  he  began,  "to  present  my 
self  against  the  distinguished  gentlemen  to  whom  you  have  listened, 
if  this  were  a  measuring  of  abilities;  but  this  is  not  a  contest  between 
persons.  The  humblest  citizen  in  all  the  land,  when  clad  in  the 
armor  of  a  righteous  cause,  is  stronger  than  all  the  hosts  of  error. 
I  come  to  speak  to  you  in  defense  of  a  cause  as  holy  as  the  cause  of 
liberty— the  cause  of  humanity." 

He  then  traced  very  briefly  the  organization  of  the  free  silver 
forces,  and  he  said  triumphantly:  "With  a  zeal  approaching  the  zeal 
which  inspired  the  crusaders  who  followed  Peter  the  Hermit,  our 
silver  Democrats  went  forth  from  victory  unto  victory  until  they  are 
now  assembled,  not  to  discuss,  not  to  debate,  but  to  enter  up  the  judg 
ment  already  rendered  by  the  plain  people  of  this  country.  In  this  con 
test  brother  has  been  arrayed  against  brother,  father  against  son. 
The  warmest  ties  of  love,  acquaintance,  and  association  have  been 
disregarded;  old  leaders  have  been  cast  aside  when  they  have  refused 
to  give  expression  to  the  sentiments  of  those  whom  they  would  lead, 
and  new  leaders  have  sprung  up  to  give  direction  to  this  cause  of 
truth.  Thus  has  the  contest  been  waged,  and  we  have  assembled  here 
under  as  binding  and  solemn  instructions  as  were  ever  imposed 
upon  representatives  of  the  people." 

Leading  up  from  his  introduction  with  a  few  careful  words  con 
cerning  the  gentlemen  who  had  preceded  him,  Bryan  sailed  into 
an  offensive  with  these  rolling  words: 

"When  you  [turning  to  the  gold  delegates]  come  before  us  and  tell 
us  that  we  are  about  to  disturb  your  business  interests,  we  reply 
that  you  have  disturbed  our  business  interests  by  your  course. 

"We  say  to  you  that  you  have  made  the  definition  of  a  business 
man  too  limited  in  its  application.  The  man  who  is  employed  for 
wages  is  as  much  a  business  man  as  his  employer,  the  attorney  in 
a  country  town  is  as  much  a  business  man  as  the  corporation  counsel 
in  a  great  metropolis;  the  merchant  at  the  crossroads  store  is  as 
much  a  business  man  as  the  merchant  of  New  York;  the  farmer  who 
goes  forth  in  the  morning  and  toils  all  day— who  begins  in  the  spring 


*i8  ROUNDUP: 

and  toils  all  summer— and  who  by  the  application  of  brain  and 
muscle  to  the  natural  resources  of  the  country  creates  wealth,  is 
as  much  a  business  man  as  the  man  who  goes  upon  the  board  of 
trade  and  bets  upon  the  price  of  grain;  the  miners  who  go  down 
a  thousand  feet  into  the  earth,  or  climb  two  thousand  feet  upon  the 
cliffs,  and  bring  forth  from  their  hiding-places  the  precious  metals 
to  be  poured  into  the  channels  of  trade,  are  as  much  business  men 
as  the  few  financial  magnates  who,  in  a  back  room,  corner  the  money 
of  the  world.  We  come  to  speak  for  this  broader  class  of  business 
men." 

The  audience  rose  to  Bryan's  eloquence  in  a  manner  which  he 
described  as  "like  a  trained  choir." 

"Ah,  my  friends,"  he  continued,  "we  say  not  one  word  against 
those  who  live  upon  the  Atlantic  coast,  but  the  hardy  pioneers  who 
have  braved  all  the  dangers  of  the  wilderness,  who  have  made  the 
desert  to  blossom  as  the  rose— the  pioneers  away  out  there  [pointing 
to  the  West],  who  rear  their  children  near  to  Nature's  heart,  where 
they  can  mingle  then:  voices  with  the  voices  of  the  birds— out  there 
where  they  have  erected  schoolhouses  for  the  education  of  their 
young,  churches  where  they  praise  their  Creator,  and  cemeteries 
where  rest  the  ashes  of  their  dead— these  people,  we  say,  are  as  deserv 
ing  of  the  consideration  of  our  party  as  any  people  in  this  country. 
It  is  for  these  that  we  speak.  We  do  not  come  as  aggressors.  Our  war 
is  not  a  war  of  conquest;  we  are  fighting  in  the  defense  of  our  homes, 
our  families,  and  prosperity.  We  have  petitioned,  and  our  petitions 
have  been  scorned;  we  have  entreated,  and  our  entreaties  have  been 
disregarded;  we  have  begged,  and  they  have  mocked  when  our 
calamity  came.  We  beg  no  longer;  we  entreat  no  more;  we  petition 
no  more.  We  defy  them."  There  was  a  thunder  of  applause. 

Then  Bryan  answered  with  generalities  the  general  objections  to 
silver  offered  by  those  who  had  spoken  before  him.  "If  they  ask  us," 
he  concluded  in  this  phase  of  his  speech,  "why  it  is  that  we  say  more 
on  the  money  question  than  we  say  on  the  tariff  question,  I  reply 
that,  if  protection  has  slain  its  thousands,  the  gold  standard  has  slain 
its  tens  of  thousands."  Then  he  spoke  of  Mr.  McKinley:  "Mr. 
McKinley  was  the  most  popular  man  among  the  Republicans,  and 
three  months  ago  everybody  in  the  Republican  party  prophesied 
his  election.  How  is  it  today?  Why,  the  man  who  was  once  pleased 
to  think  that  he  looked  like  Napoleon— that  man  shudders  today 
when  he  remembers  that  he  was  nominated  on  the  anniversary  of 
the  battle  of  Waterloo.  Not  only  that,  but  as  he  listens  he  can  hear 


A  Nebraska  Reader 

with  ever-increasing  distinctness  the  sound  of  the  waves  as  they  beat 
upon  the  lonely  shores  of  St.  Helena."  An  "indignant  people,"  Bryan 
thought,  would  visit  their  "avenging  wrath"  on  a  man  who  would 
"place  the  legislative  control  of  our  affairs  in  the  hands  of  foreign 
potentates  and  powers."  He  then  expressed  his  confidence  that  the 
Democrats  would  win,  and  described  the  two  opposing  theories  of 
government:  "There  are  those  who  believe  that,  if  you  will  only 
legislate  to  make  the  well-to-do  prosperous,  their  prosperity  will 
leak  through  on  those  below.  The  Democratic  idea,  however,  has 
been  that  if  you  legislate  to  make  the  masses  prosperous,  their  pros 
perity  will  find  its  way  up  through  every  class  which  rests  upon 
them."  And  then  in  mellow,  resounding  tones  he  uttered  his  famous 
peroration: 

"You  come  to  us  and  tell  us  that  the  great  cities  are  in  favor  of  the 
gold  standard;  we  reply  that  the  great  cities  rest  upon  our  broad 
and  fertile  prairies.  Burn  down  your  cities  and  leave  our  farms,  and 
your  cities  will  spring  up  again  as  if  by  magic;  but  destroy  our  farms 
and  the  grass  will  grow  in  the  streets  of  every  city  in  the  country. 

"My  friends,  we  declare  that  this  nation  is  able  to  legislate  for 
its  own  people  on  every  question,  without  waiting  for  the  aid  or 
consent  of  any  other  nation  on  earth;  and  upon  that  issue  we  expect 
to  carry  every  State  in  the  Union.  ...  It  is  the  issue  of  1776  over 
again.  Our  ancestors,  when  but  three  million  in  number,  had  the 
courage  to  declare  their  political  independence  of  every  other  nation; 
shall  we,  their  descendants,  when  we  have  grown  to  seventy  millions, 
declare  that  we  are  less  independent  than  our  forefathers?  Therefore, 
we  care  not  upon  what  lines  the  battle  is  fought.  If  they  say  bimetal 
lism  is  good,  but  that  we  cannot  have  it  until  other  nations  help 
us,  we  reply  that,  instead  of  having  a  gold  standard  because  England 
has,  we  will  restore  bimetallism,  and  then  let  England  have  bimetal 
lism  because  the  United  States  has  it.  If  they  dare  to  come  out  in 
the  open  field  and  defend  the  gold  standard  as  a  good  thing,  we  will 
fight  them  to  the  uttermost  Having  behind  us  the  producing  masses 
of  this  nation  and  the  world,  supported  by  the  commercial  interests, 
the  laboring  interests,  and  the  toilers  everywhere,  we  will  answer 
thek  demand  for  a  gold  standard  by  saying  to  them:  You  shall  not 
press  down  upon  the  brow  of  labor  this  crown  of  thorns,  you  shall 
not  crucify  mankind  upon  a  cross  of  gold." 

All  through  his  speech  there  had  been  spontaneous  outbursts  of 
applause,  but  when  Bryan  had  finished,  the  convention  went  col 
lectively  insane.  Men  yelled,  wept,  shrieked,  and  marched,  grabbing 


220  ROUNDUP: 

the  standards  of  the  various  States  and  making  for  the  seat  of 
Mr.  Bryan. 

The  effect  on  the  entire  nation  was  tremendous:  "Through  the 
nerves  of  the  telegraph,"  wrote  William  Allen  White,  "that  speech 
thrilled  a  continent,  and  for  a  day  a  nation  was  in  a  state  of  mental 
and  moral  catalepsy.  If  the  election  had  been  held  that  July  day, 
Bryan  would  have  been  chosen  President." 


September  4,  1896.  (Chicago)  William  J.  Bryan  and  his 
wife  were  at  the  Auditorium  Annex.  Called  on  them  and 
had  quite  a  talk.  Bryan,  somehow,  imagines  he  has  a 
chance  to  be  elected  President.  He  referred  to  our  old  silver 
debates  and  gave  me  a  conditional  invitation  to  visit  the 
White  House. 

— Charles  G.  Dawes,  A  Journal  of  the  McKinley  Years 

THE  TENSITY  was  greater  than  that  of  any  election  since  the  Civil 
War.  In  New  York  City  the  campaign  had  ended  with  the  monster 
gold  parade  of  Saturday.  Sunday  was  a  restless  day  full  of  suspense, 
and  Monday  seemed  interminable.  Early  in  the  morning  of  Tuesday, 
November  3,  men  hurried  to  the  polls,  and  the  small  boys  began 
their  bonfires.  Toward  evening  huge  crowds  gathered  in  City  Hall 
Park  and  around  the  newspaper  buildings.  Thousands  of  tin  horns 
sputtered.  .  .  . 

In  his  house  in  Lincoln,  Nebraska,  Bryan  was  in  bed.  He  needed 
rest  badly.  Downstairs  in  the  library  newspaper  men  gathered  with 
Mrs.  Bryan  and  received  the  bulletins,  which  she  carried  upstairs 
to  the  bedroom  at  regular  intervals.  "As  the  evening  progressed," 
wrote  Bryan,  "the  indications  pointed  more  and  more  strongly  to 
defeat,  and  by  eleven  o'clock  I  realized  that,  while  the  returns  from 
the  country  might  change  the  result,  the  success  of  my  opponent  was 
more  than  probable.  Confidence  resolved  itself  into  doubt,  and 
doubt,  in  turn,  gave  place  to  resignation.  While  the  compassionless 
current  sped  hither  and  thither,  carrying  its  message  of  gladness  to 
foe  and  its  message  of  sadness  to  friend,  there  vanished  from  my  mind 
the  vision  of  a  President  in  the  White  House,  perplexed  by  the  cares 
of  state,  and,  in  the  contemplation  of  the  picture  of  a  citizen  by  his 
fireside,  free  from  official  responsibility,  I  fell  asleep."  A  stranger 
stopped  Bryan's  eleven-year-old  daughter,  Ruth,  and  asked  her 
whether  she  thought  her  father  would  be  elected.  "I  think  he  will 


A  Nebraska  Reader  221 

get  a  good  many  votes  on  D  Street,  but  I  do  not  know  about  the  rest 
of  the  country/'  she  replied. 

The  final  result  of  the  election  showed  that  McKinley  received 
7,035,638  and  Bryan  6,467,946.  In  the  electoral  college  the  vote  was 
271  for  McKinley,  176  for  Bryan.  A  change  of  some  900  votes  in 
California  would  have  given  Bryan  that  State's  electoral  vote,  and  a 
change  of  142  votes  would  have  given  him  Kentucky.  A  total  change 
of  14,001  votes  distributed  in  the  proper  States  would  have  given  him 
a  majority  of  three  electoral  votes. 

Condensed  from  Bryan,  Harcourt,  Brace  &  Co.,  1929 


March  3,  1897. 1  took  the  train  for  Baltimore  to  meet  the 
Presidential  train  from  Canton.  By  a  curious  coincidence 
my  old  associates,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  W.  J.  Bryan,  and  their 
little  daughter  were  on  the  same  parlor  car  with  us.  I 
introduced  them  to  Abner  McKinley*  and  his  wife  and 
daughter,  and  had  a  long  talk  with  them.  Bryan  did  not 
express  any  disappointment.  I  had  a  talk  with  Mrs.  Bryan. 
She  talked  very  sensibly  and  pleasantly  about  "old  times" 
and  her  husband.  She  believes  that  her  husband  will  some 
time  lead  to  triumph  in  a  presidential  race  the  elements 
which  stood  for  him  in  the  last  conflict. 

—Charles  G,  Dawes,  A  Journal  of  the  McKinley  Years 


3.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Jennings  Bryan  (1900) 

WILLA  GATHER 

WHEN  I  first  knew  William  Jennings  Bryan,  he  was  the  Democratic 
nominee  for  the  First  Congressional  District  of  Nebraska,  a  district 
in  which  the  Republican  majority  had  never  fallen  below  3,000.  I 
was  a  student  at  the  state  university  when  Mr.  Bryan  was  stumping 
the  state,  which  he  had  stumped  two  years  before  for  J.  Sterling 
Morton,  now  his  bitterest  political  enemy.  My  first  meeting  with  him 
was  on  a  streetcar.  He  was  returning  from  some  hall  where  he  had 
been  making  an  address,  and  carried  a  most  unsightly  floral  offering 

•President  McKinley's  brother 


222  ROUNDUP: 

of  large  dimensions,  the  tribute  of  some  of  his  devoted  constituents. 
The  car  was  crowded,  and  the  candidate  had  some  difficulty  in  keep 
ing  his  "set  piece"  out  of  the  way  of  the  passengers.  A  sympathetic 
old  lady  who  sat  next  to  him  enquired:  "Is  it  for  a  funeral?" 

Mr.  Bryan  looked  quizzically  at  his  encumbrance  and  replied 
politely:  "Well,  I  hope  not,  madam." 

It  certainly  was  not,  for  that  fall  he  carried  the  Republican  dis 
trict  by  a  majority  of  7,000.  Before  that  time  Mr.  Bryan  had  been 
a  rather  inconspicuous  lawyer  in  Lincoln.  He  had  come  there  in  1887 
at  the  solicitation  of  his  old  college  chum,  A.  R.  Talbot,  with  whom 
he  went  into  partnership.  He  was  never  a  man  who  frequented  ward 
caucuses,  for  he  was  an  idealist  pure  and  simple,  then  as  now,  and 
he  had  practically  nothing  to  do  with  Nebraska  politics  until  he 
stumped  the  state  for  Morton.  Then  he  began  to  make  a  stir.  His 
oratory  "took  hold,"  and  his  own  nomination  came  to  him  entirely 
unsought.  In  those  days  Mr.  Bryan  used  to  have  leisure  to  offer  oc 
casional  good  advice  to  university  students,  and  I  believe  he  drilled 
several  for  oratorical  contests.  He  wrote  occasionally  for  the  college 
paper  of  which  I  was  editor,  and  was  always  at  home  to  students  in 
his  library  in  the  evening. 

The  man's  whole  inner  life  was  typified  in  that  library.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  very  bad  old-fashioned  engravings  of  early  statesmen, 
and  those  pictures  were  there  because  Mr.  Bryan  liked  them.  Of 
books  there  were  many,  but  of  the  kind  of  books  that  are  written  for 
art's  sake  there  were  few.  There  were  many  of  the  old  classics,  and 
many  Latin  and  French  books,  much  worn,  for  he  read  them  con 
stantly.  There  were  many  lives  of  American  statesmen,  which  were 
marked  and  annotated,  schoolboy  fashion.  The  works  on  political 
economy  were  mostly  by  quacks—men  who  were  mentally  one-sided, 
and  who  never  rose  to  any  true  scientific  eminence.  There  was  much 
poetry  of  a  didactic  or  declamatory  nature,  which  is  the  only  kind 
that  Mr.  Bryan  has  any  taste  for.  In  the  line  of  fiction  there  was 
little  more  recent  than  Thackeray.  Mr.  Bryan  used  always  to  be 
urging  us  to  read  Les  Miserables  if  we  hadn't,  and  to  reread  it  if 
we  had.  He  declared  that  it  was  the  greatest  novel  written,  yet  I 
think  he  had  never  considered  its  merits  or  demerits  as  a  novel  at 
all.  It  was  Hugo's  vague  hyperbolic  generalizations  on  sociological 
questions  that  he  marked  and  quoted.  In  short,  he  read  Hugo,  the 
orator  and  impractical  politician,  not  Hugo,  the  novelist. 

The  last  ten  years  have  changed  Mr.  Bryan  very  little  personally. 
He  is  now,  as  he  was  then,  a  big,  well  planted  man,  standing  firmly 


A  Nebraska  'Reader  223 

on  the  soil  as  though  he  belonged  there  and  were  rooted  to  it,  with 
powerful  shoulders,  exhilarating  freedom  of  motion,  and  a  smile  that 
won  him  more  votes  than  his  logic  ever  did.  His  prominent  nose  and 
set  mouth  might  have  belonged  to  any  of  the  early  statesmen  he 
emulates.  His  hair  is  rather  too  thin  on  top  and  rather  too  long  be 
hind.  His  eyes  are  as  sharp  and  clear  as  cut  steel,  and  his  glance  as 
penetrating  as  a  searchlight.  He  dressed  then  very  much  like  a 
Kentucky  judge,  and  I  believe  he  still  dings  to  the  low  collar  and 
black  string  tie.  I  have  seen  him  without  his  coat,  but  never  without 
a  high  moral  purpose.  It  was  a  physical  impossibility  for  him  to  loaf 
or  dawdle,  or  talk  nonsense.  His  dining  room  was  a  forum.  I  do  not 
mean  that  he  talked  incessantly,  but  that  when  he  did  talk  it  was 
in  a  manner  forensic.  He  chipped  his  eggs  to  the  accompaniment  of 
maxims,  sometimes  strikingly  original,  sometimes  trite  enough.  He 
buttered  his  toast  with  an  epigram,  and  when  he  made  jokes  they 
were  of  the  manifest  kind  that  the  crowd  catch  quickly  and  applaud 
wildly.  When  he  was  at  his  best,  his  conversation  was  absolutely 
overwhelming  in  its  richness  and  novelty  and  power,  in  the  force 
and  aptness  of  his  illustrations.  Yet  one  always  felt  that  it  was  meant 
for  the  many,  not  the  few,  that  it  was  addressed  to  humanity,  and 
that  there  should  be  a  stenographer  present  to  take  it  down. 

There  is  nothing  of  f amiliarity  or  adroitness  in  the  man;  you  never 
come  any  closer  to  him  than  just  within  the  range  of  his  voice.  The 
breakfast  room  was  always  too  small  for  him;  he  exhausted  the  air; 
he  gave  other  people  no  chance  to  breathe.  His  dynamic  magnetism 
either  exhausted  you  or  overstimulated  you.  He  needs  a  platform, 
and  a  large  perspective  and  resounding  domes;  and  he  needs  the 
enthusiasm  of  applauding  thousands  to  balance  his  own.  The  al 
mighty,  ever-renewed  force  of  the  man  drives  one  to  distraction;  his 
everlasting  high  seriousness  makes  one  want  to  play  marbles.  He  was 
never  fond  of  athletics.  He  takes  no  care  of  himself.  After  his  own 
fashion  he  studies  incessantly,  yet  his  vitality  comes  up  with  the  sun 
and  outburns  the  street  arc  lights. 

In  his  business  relations,  in  his  civic  relations,  in  his  domestic 
relations,  Mr.  Bryan  is  always  a  statesman,  large-minded,  clean,  and 
a  trifle  unwieldy.  If  all  this  were  not  .so  absolutely  natural  to  the 
man,  so  inseparable  from  him,  it  might  be  called  theatric. 

Mrs.  Bryan's  life  is  simply  a  record  of  hard  work.  She  first  met 
Mr.  Bryan  in  Illinois  when  he  was  a  college  student  and  she  was 
attending  the  "annex"  of  the  institution.  He  graduated  valedictorian, 
and  she  achieved  a  like  honor  in  her  class.  Two  such  brilliant  and 


ROUNDUP: 

earnest  young  people  were  naturally  drawn  to  each  other.  It  was  a 
serious  wooing.  The  days  of  their  courtship  were  spent  among  books 
and  in  conversations  upon  dry  subjects  that  would  terrify  most 
women.  From  the  outset  their  minds  and  tastes  kept  pace  with  each 
other,  as  they  have  done  to  this  clay.  Bryan  never  read  a  new  book, 
never  was  seized  by  a  new  idea  that  she  did  not  share.  Away  out  west, 
where  there  are  no  traditions,  no  precedents,  where  men  meet  nature 
singlehanded  and  think  life  out  for  themselves,  those  two  young 
people  looked  about  them  for  the  meaning  of  things.  And  the  strange 
thing  about  these  two  people  is  that  neither  of  them  has  lost  that 
faith  and  fervor  and  sincerity  which  so  often  die  with  youth.  It  is 
not  wholly  practical,  perhaps,  but  it  is  a  beautiful  thing  to  see. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bryan  were  engaged  when  she  was  nineteen  and  he 
twenty,  but  they  were  not  married  until  four  years  afterwards.  They 
lived  in  Illinois  a  little  time,  then  moved  to  Lincoln,  Nebraska. 
There  Mr.  Bryan,  a  young  man  and  a  poor  one,  began  to  practice 
law  in  a  country  none  too  rich.  In  order  to  be  better  able  to  help 
him,  Mrs.  Bryan  studied  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  She  has 
never  practiced  law,  but  when  her  husband  began  to  mingle  in 
politics  many  of  the  duties  of  the  law  office  fell  upon  her.  To  society 
she  paid  little  or  no  attention.  For  there  is  such  a  thing  as  society, 
even  in  Nebraska.  There  are  good  dancing  clubs  and  whist  clubs, 
but  she  never  found  time  for  them.  Except  at  political  meetings  and 
university  lectures,  and  occasionally  at  the  theater,  she  was  seldom 
seen  in  public.  Into  one  social  feature,  however,  Mrs.  Bryan  has  al 
ways  entered  with  all  her  characteristic  enthusiasm.  She  is  a  most 
devout  club  woman.  She  organized  the  Lincoln  Sorosis  and  has  been 
an  active  worker  in  the  State  Federation  of  Woman's  Clubs.  There 
is  in  Lincoln,  as  in  all  university  towns,  a  distinct  college  clique,  and 
in  this  Mrs.  Bryan  has  always  figured  prominently.  Mrs.  Bryan  is 
a  wheelwoman,  but  she  has  never  gone  wild  over  it  or  made  any 
"century"  runs.  She  is  an  expert  swimmer,  and  Wednesday  mornings 
she  and  her  friends  used  to  go  down  to  the  plunge  in  the  sanitarium 
and  spend  the  morning  in  the  water.  But  she  carried  none  of  these 
things  to  excess. 

Before  all  else  she  is  a  woman  of  intellect,  not  so  by  affectation  or 
even  by  choice,  but  by  necessity,  by  nature.  Eastern  newspapers  have 
devoted  a  great  deal  of  space  to  criticizing  Mrs.  Bryan's  dress.  It  is 
doubtful  if  she  ever  spent  ten  minutes  planning  the  construction 
of  a  gown.  But  many  and  many  an  hour  have  she  and  her  husband 
spent  by  their  library  fire  talking  over  the  future  of  the  West  and 


A  Nebraska  Reader  225 

their  political  beliefs.  In  Washington  they  worked  out  that  celebrated 
tariff  speech  together,  line  by  line.  When  the  speech  was  delivered 
she  sat  unobserved  in  the  gallery  and  by  signals  regulated  the  pitch 
of  her  husband's  voice,  until  it  reached  just  the  proper  volume  to 
fill  the  house.  She  knew  every  word  of  that  speech  by  heart.  Much  of 
the  reading,  searching  for  historical  references,  and  verification  fell 
upon  her.  Several  days  before  the  speech  which  made  Bryan  famous 
was  delivered,  he  was  called  upon  to  make  a  eulogy  upon  a  dead 
comrade.  Mrs.  Bryan  sat  in  the  gallery  and  carefully  noted  what  tones 
and  gestures  were  most  effective  in  that  hall.  They  prepared  that 
speech  and  its  delivery  as  an  actor  makes  out  his  interpretation  of  a 
role.  At  the  reception  given  the  Bryans,  Mrs.  Bryan  did  not  appear 
in  evening  dress,  and  the  couple  stood  about  ill  at  ease  until  the  affair 
was  over.  The  people  who  work  most  earnestly  do  not  always  play 
the  most  skilfully. 

The  distinctive  feature  of  Mr.  Bryan's  career  Is  that  he  began  at 
the  top.  At  an  age  when  most  lawyers  have  barely  succeeded  in  build 
ing  up  a  good  practice,  he  was  the  leader  of  one  of  the  two  great 
political  parties  of  America.  He  attained  that  leadership  quite  with 
out  financial  backing  or  an  astute  political  impresario,  attained  it 
singlehanded.  His  constituents  are  controlled  not  by  a  commercial 
syndicate  or  by  a  political  trust  but  by  one  man's  personality.  Behind 
this  personality  there  is  neither  an  Invincible  principle  nor  an  un 
assailable  logic,  only  melodious  phrases,  a  convincing  voice,  and  a 
hypnotic  sincerity.  During  these  last  four  years,  instead  of  sealing  in 
fluential  allies  to  himself,  he  has  been  engaging  in  various  crusades 
of  sentiment.  If  he  were  struck  dumb,  he  would  be  as  helpless  as  a 
tenor  without  his  voice. 

He  is  an  orator,  pure  and  simple,  certainly  the  greatest  In  America 
today.  After  all,  it  is  not  a  crime  to  be  an  orator,  and  not  necessarily 
ridiculous.  It  is  a  gift  like  any  other  gift,  and  not  always  a  practical 
one.  The  Hon.  William  McKeighan  was  one  of  the  first  free-silver 
agitators  in  Nebraska  and  had  gone  from  a  dugout  to  the  halls  of 
Congress.  When  McKeighan  died,  Bryan  came  down  to  the  sun- 
scorched,  dried-up,  blown-away  little  village  of  Red  Cloud  to  speak 
at  his  funeral.  There,  with  an  audience  of  some  few  hundreds  of 
bronzed  farmers  who  believed  in  him  as  their  deliverer,  the  man 
who  could  lead  them  out  of  the  bondage  of  debt,  who  could  stay 
the  drought  and  strike  water  from  the  rock,  I  heard  him  make  the 
greatest  speech  of  his  life.  Surely  that  was  eloquence  of  the  old  stamp 
that  was  accounted  divine,  eloquence  that  reached  through  the  callus 


2*6  ROUNDUP 

of  ignorance  and  toil  and  found  and  awoke  the  stunted  souls  of  men. 
I  saw  those  rugged,  ragged  men  of  the  soil  weep  like  children.  Six 
months  later,  at  Chicago,  when  Bryan  stampeded  a  convention,  ap 
propriated  a  party,  electrified  a  nation,  flashed  his  name  around  the 
planet,  took  the  assembled  thousands  of  that  convention  hall  and 
moulded  them  in  his  hands  like  so  much  putty,  one  of  those  ragged 
farmers  sat  beside  me  in  the  gallery,  and  at  the  close  of  that  never-to- 
be-forgotten  speech,  he  leaned  over  the  rail,  the  tears  on  his  furrowed 
cheeks,  and  shouted,  "The  sweet  singer  of  Israeli" 

Of  Mr,  Bryan's  great  sincerity  there  can  be  no  doubt.  It  is,  indeed, 
the  unsophisticated  sort  of  sincerity  which  is  the  stamp  of  the  cru 
sader,  but  in  a  man  of  his  native  force  it  is  a  power  to  be  reckoned 
with.  His  mental  fiber  is  scarcely  delicate  enough  to  be  susceptible 
to  doubts.  It  is  failure  and  hope  deferred  that  lead  a  man  to  modify, 
retrench,  weigh  evidence  against  himself,  and  Mr.  Bryan's  success 
has  been  uninterrupted. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that'  he  has  no  finesse.  His  book,  The 
First  Battle,  is  an  almost  unparalleled  instance  of  bad  taste.  But  his 
honesty  is  unquestionable.  He  favored  the  ratification  of  the  treaty 
with  Spain  when  his  party  opposed  it.  In  the  Kansas  City  convention 
he  drove  his  party  to  the  suicidal  measure  of  retaining  the  i6-to-i 
platform.  He  is  the  white  elephant  of  his  party,  and  yet  they  cannot 
escape  the  dominant  influence  of  his  personality. 

Alphonse  Daudet  all  his  life  made  notes  for  a  book  he  never  wrote, 
a  book  which  should  embody  in  the  person  of  Napoleon  the  entire 
race  of  the  south  of  France.  So  I  think  William  Jennings  Bryan 
synthesizes  the  entire  Middle  West;  all  its  newness  and  vigor,  its 
magnitude  and  monotony,  its  richness  and  lack  of  variety,  its  in 
flammability  and  volubility,  its  strength  and  its  crudeness,  its  high 
seriousness  and  self-confidence,  its  egotism  and  its  nobility. 


Reprinted  from  "The  Personal  Side  of  William  Jennings  Bryan/* 
Prairie  Schooner^  Winter,  1949 


At  the  turn  of  the  century,  the  doings  of  a  real  live  presi 
dential-nominee  and  his  spirited  family  undoubtedly  were 
Lincoln's  best  entertainment.  But  those  were  the  daysy  too, 
of  the  town's  theatrical  glory.  "Players  came  to  Lincoln/' 
wrote  E.  P.  Brown,  "even  before  the  railroad  did.  With 
the  growth  of  railroads  it  became  part  of  ethe  road.9  On 
that  road  toured  the  great  ones  of  the  stage  and  a  lot  of 
the  little  ones.  Lincoln  saw  them  all.  ...A  list  of  the  names 
of  players  who  came  to  Lincoln  in  those  days  reads  like  a 
Who's  Who  of  the  American  stage" 

However,  in  the  nineties  the  news  that  Nebraska's  cap- 
ital  had  been  "pencilled  in"  could  not  always  have  been 
of  unalloyed  delight  to  touring  artists.  For  the  word  had 
spread  that  Lincoln's  leading  dramatic  critic,  a  Miss  Willa 
Gather >  wrote  with  "biting  frankness"  when  performers 
failed  to  give  their  best. 

If  critics  disagree  on  a  production's  merits,  the  show 
is  said  to  have  received  mixed  notices.  And  judging  by 
the  reminiscences  of  Colonel  Barney  Oldfield;  who  covered 
all  sectors  of  the  Footlight  Front  in  Lincoln  during  the 
twenties  and  thirties,  this  term  would  be  a  fair  description 
of  show  people's  reaction  to  the  audiences  they  played  to 
there. 


Mixed  Notices 


COLONEL  BARNEY  OLDFDELD 

HER  SERENE  HIGHNESS  Princess  Grace  of  Monaco  has  never,  so  far 
as  I  baow,  been  to  Nebraska,  but  one  of  her  relatives  made  it  a  few 
times  and  never  got  over  it— or  over  lamenting  about  it.  He  was 
Walter  C.  Kelly,  who  travelled  under  the  billing  of  "The  Virginia 
Judge/*  and  was  one  of  vaudeville's  greats.  Great  everywhere  but 
Nebraska,  that  is.  Audiences  in  the  Ck>rnhusker  State  watched  his 
act  with  faces  of  stone  and  sat  on  their  mitts.  Invariably,  on  each 
of  his  engagements  Kelly  played  to  such  thunderous  silence  that  he 
may  well  have  wondered  if  the  curtain  was  up,  yet  elsewhere  in  the 
forty-eight  he  was  rated  as  a  top  entertainer  and  one  of  the  premier 

227 


2*8  ROUNDUP: 

dialecticians  of  all  time.  This  was  in  a  day  when  dialect  was  standard 
comedy— before  Hitler  &  Company  had  put  the  successors  to  Weber 
8c  Fields  out  of  business. 

Kelly  carried  his  scorn  of  the  Nebraska  theater-goer  to  Variety,  the 
show-business  Bible,  and  wrote  vitriolically  therein  of  the  apathetic 
hayshakers  out  where  the  Middle  West  ends.  (He  seemed  to  think 
it  should  have  ended  sooner.)  However,  although  Nebraska  never 
was  considered  an  important  sector  of  the  road  by  vaudevillians  or 
touring  companies,  it  was  one  of  the  kindest  in  terms  of  loyal  and 
lasting  interest  in  the  live  performer.  And  in  the  late  thirties,  long 
after  the  great  circuits  had  dwindled  to  nothing,  Lincoln— despite 
Kelly's  conviction  that  audiences  there  had  predeceased  vaudeville- 
had  two  competing  houses  offering  a  pit  orchestra  and  a  few  acts  as 
breathers  between  movies.  But  the  legend  that  Nebraska  theater 
goers  suffered  from  retarded  uptake  had  spread  through  the  trade, 
disseminated  by  men  like  Walter  C.  Kelly;  and  in  conversations  in 
front  of  New  York's  Palace— where  "at  liberty"  artists  gathered  to 
boast,  bleat,  and  boo,  as  the  subject  called  for— the  state  received 
poor  notices. 

A  sign  backstage  at  the  old  Orpheum  (now  the  Nebraska)  in 
Lincoln  indicated  a  reluctance  to  "give"  on  the  part  of  the  manage 
ment  as  well  as  the  audience.  "Notice  to  actors,"  it  read.  "Please  do 
not  ask  for  passes.  If  your  friends  won't  pay  to  see  you,  who  the  hell 
will?" 

Actors  who  could  get  away  with  it  reciprocated  in  kind.  When 
Sarah  Bernhardt  played  the  state,  she  demanded—and  got— her  day's 
pay  in  cash  before  she  went  on.  When,  in  the  course  of  his  innumer 
able  farewell  tours,  Sir  Harry  Lauder  came  to  Lincoln,  he  would 
never  permit  the  box  office  to  hang  up  the  SOLD  OUT  sign.  For 
every  additional  pasteboard  sold,  the  Scotch  star  had  them  put  an 
other  chair  on  the  stage— and  usually  worked  the  last  show  with  bare 
clearance  for  his  kilts. 

Scheduled  for  a  matinee  one  time,  Al  Jolson  came  on  and  after 
a  quick  look  out  front— quick,  but  plenty  long  enough  to  enable 
him  to  count  the  house— told  everyone  to  go  on  home  and  come  back 
later,  and  himself  went  off  to  shoot  some  golf.  Al  was  probably  the 
brassiest  actor  ever  to  skip  through  the  state.  Each  morning  he  used 
to  hand  the  bellboy  a  dollar  with  instructions  to  "Page  me  every 
half  hour.  I  won't  answer,  but  people  will  know  I'm  in  town." 

It  was  largely,  I  believe,  because  of  trade  talk  designating  Nebraska 
as  the  Land  of  the  Square  that  I  became  correspondent  o£  the 


A  Nebraska  Reader 

New  York  daily  PM ,  when  Ralph  Ingersoll  started  his  great  adless 
newspaper  experiment  in  1940.  His  theater  editor,  Cecelia  Ager, 
wrote,  asking  me  to  do  a  weekly  piece  about  what  was  going  on  in 
Nebraska,  her  reason  being  that  there  was  no  place  in  America  like 
lier  to  register  the  far  end  of  the  pendulum  swing  from  Broadway's 
sophistication!  This  in  the  face  of  the  famous  Variety  headline  STIX 
NIX  HIX  FIX,  and  the  fact  that  Mllbilly  music  was  taking  over 
Tin  Pan  Alley. 

However,  I  dutifully  wrote  my  weekly  despatches,  and  Cecelia  duly 
printed  them.  Of  the  many,  the  story  which  really  sent  her  concerned 
one  Jules  Rachman,  who  had  killed  his  two  partners  in  a  scramble 
over  the  till.  He  became  booker,  manager,  entrepreneur,  and  some 
time  projectionist  at  the  Nebraska  State  Penitentiary.  Out  of  con 
sideration  for  the  guards  who  always  chaperoned  the  lockstep  set  at 
his  presentations,  he,  too,  posted  a  sign:  "If  the  cop  gets  shot  in  the 
picture,  kindly  refrain  from  laughing." 

Although  Lincoln  was  inclined  to  regard  theater  people  as  beyond 
the  pale,  it  was  big  enough  to  elect  one  of  its  best-known  managers, 
Frank  C.  Zehrung,  mayor  of  the  capital  city.  The  dapper  Frank, 
Nebraska's  answer  to  New  York's  Jimmy  Walker  and  undoubtedly 
Lincoln's  best-dressed  mayor,  could  deliver  himself  of  a  "welcome 
to  our  fair  city"  with  an  aplomb  which  compared  favorably  with  that 
of  the  most  accomplished  of  the  monologists  who  sometimes  worked 
for  him. 

Nebraska  gave  the  circus  world  one  of  its  best  and  best-liked  man 
agers  in  the  person  of  the  late  Ralph  J.  Clawson,  who  died  in  1956. 
And  the  Nebraska  State  Fair  was  the  scene  of  a  dramatic  demise 
portending  the  end  of  the  mightiest  travelling  show  of  them  all— 
Ringling  Brothers,  Barnum  &  Bailey,  which  folded  its  tents  forever 
in  Pittsburgh,  Pa.,  July  16,  1956.  The  prophetic  episode  occurred 
when  the  John  Robinson  Circus,  of  Dixie  origin  and  a  top  favorite, 
played  the  State  Fair  as  a  grandstand  attraction  in  September,  1930. 
Stowed  aboard  its  long  string  of  railroad  cars  at  the  end  of  the  en 
gagement,  the  show  whistled  out  of  town  and  into  oblivion  from 
Lincoln's  Rock  Island  yards.  It  was  the  first  of  the  big  ones  to  be 
snuffed  out  completely,  twenty-six  years  before  the  last  stake  would 
be  pulled  on  these  rail-borne  monsters.  Since  John  Robinson's  per 
formers  had  played  at  the  Fair  on  bare  rigging— they  had  no  canvas 
up  because  the  spectators  sat  in  the  grandstand— the  symbolism  of 
the  prophecy  was  complete:  the  circus  has  literally  lost  its  shirtl 

Nebraska  has  given  many  personalities  to  Broadway  and  Holly- 


ROUNDUP: 

wood,  even  if  the  state  itself  is  not  a  popular  place  for  the  practice  of 
their  art.  Harold  Lloyd  made  Burchard  so  proud  that  the  town  put 
up  a  sign  on  the  grain  elevator  proclaiming  to  all  passers-by  that  he 
was  a  favorite  son.  Just  about  the  time  Omaha's  Marlon  Brando  and 
Montgomery  Clift  were  learning  to  walk,  Robert  Taylor  and  his 
widow's  peak  were  making  the  ladies  palpitate  from  the  Embarcadero 
to  the  Bronx— quite  a  shake  for  a  kid  from  Filley  whose  first  perform 
ing  venture  was  as  one-third  of  an  instrumental  trio  sponsored  by  a 
fly  spray  account  on  KMMJ  in  Clay  Center.  And  Henry  Fonda  had 
left  Grand  Island  and  Omaha  twenty-five  years  before  Sharon  Kay 
Ritchie,  the  Third  City's  beauty,  was  to  become  Miss  America  of 
1955. 

Hoot  Gibson  (remember  Hoot?)  of  Tekamah  went  west  hunting 
for  the  cowboys  who  were  supposed  to  abound  "out  there"  and  kept 
going  until  he  hit  Hollywood.  The  story  was  that  he  never  rode  a 
horse  until  he  got  in  front  of  a  camera  and  when,  for  the  first  time, 
he  threw  a  leg  over  a  saddle,  he  found  himself  facing  the  horse's 
stern.  But  unfortunately  the  wildest-eyed  press  agent  couldn't  get 
even  Louella  Parsons  to  buy  that  one! 

Little  Freddie  and  Adele  Astaire,  born  Austerlitz,  saw  the  first  light 
of  day  within  easy  sniffing  distance  of  South  Omaha's  stockyards,  but 
they  went  off  east,  made  the  grade  on  Park  Avenue  as  well  as  Broad 
way,  and  never  looked  back.  Another  Omahan,  George  Givot,  as 
sumed  the  title  of  "Greek  Ambassador  of  Good  Will"  and  won 
plaudits  from  Walter  Winchell  at  a  time  when  WW  was  making 
journalistic  hay  out  of  his  "feud"  with  Maestro  Ben  Bernie. 

That  old-time  palace  of  sweat,  laughter,  and  tears,  the  tent  reper 
tory  company,  lingered  on  in  Nebraska  at  Hebron.  Every  summer  for 
years  the  Chic  Boyes  Players  would  materialize  from  the  canvas  lofts 
in  Hebron.  The  company  was  remarkably  versatile:  it  could,  if  need 
be,  change  its  bill  twice  a  day  for  a  week,  all  its  offerings  being  about 
one  jump  ahead  of  "The  Perils  of  Pauline."  In  these  days  of  easy 
payments,  government  subsidy,  and  insurance  against  crop  loss,  the 
dilemma  of  how  to  meet  the  mortgage  payment  may  seem  lacking 
in  drama;  but  in  the  tent  show's  heyday  this  situation  would  put  the 
audience  in  a  state  of  suspense  fit  to  make  them  pause  at  their  pop 
corn  and  pray  a  little. 

Speaking  for  myself,  I  always  will  remember  Nebraska  show  busi 
ness  gratefully.  Wages  earned  the  hard  way  on  a  circus  payroll  paid 
part  of  my  first  tuition  at  the  University  of  Nebraska;  and  ushering 
in  the  Paramount-Publix  theaters  of  old  helped  pay  my  keep.  To  this 


A  Nebraska,  Reader  231 

day  I  never  pass  the  House  of  Murphy  in  West  Hollywood  without 
remembering  how  its  owner,  in  his  vaudeville  days,  used  to  give  me 
fifty  cents  to  run  errands  for  him,  at  a  time  when  four  bits  was  i/soth 
of  my  weekly  take  flashlighting  customers  to  their  seats. 

On  the  many  occasions  that  I  saw  Al  Jolson  before  his  death,  I 
would  always  recall  the  time  he  was  in  Lincoln  in  1930  with  his 
ill-fated  "Wonderbar."  He  was  the  first  theatrical  bigtimer  I  ever 
interviewed,  and  I  approached  his  hotel  door  damp-handed  and  dry- 
mouthed:  in  a  word,  scared  spitless.  A  booming  "Come  in!"  re 
sponded  to  my  knock,  and  when  I  stumbled  through  the  door  there 
he  was,  large  as  life,  a  big  cigar  in  his  hand. 

"Who're  you?"  he  asked. 

"Al,"  I  quavered,  "I'm  a  newspaper  man." 

"Well,  don't  blame  me,"  he  said.  "It's  your  own  damn  fault." 

It  was  my  stint  in  Lincoln  reviewing  films  for  the  Nebraska  State 
Journal  and  Variety  that  won  me  the  dubious  distinction  of  being 
named  champion  seer  of  motion  pictures— more  than  five  hundred  a 
year  for  a  five-year  period.  This  landed  me  in  Ripley's  "Believe  It  or 
Not,"  John  Hix's  "Strange  as  It  Seems,"  and  on  Cecil  B.  DeMille's 
Lux  Radio  Theatre;  it  also  put  me  irrevocably  in  league  with  people 
in  show  business  the  world  over.  In  war  and  in  peace,  in  uniform 
and  out,  their  fraternity  and  friendship  have  been  worth  a  lot,  a 
never-ending  source  of  amusement  and  fun. 

It  is  odd,  though,  how  they  remember  Nebraska.  In  the  spring  of 
1956,  as  Ringling  Brothers,  Barnum  &  Bailey  was  about  halfway 
through  its  opening  performance  at  Madison  Square  Garden,  a  man 
sat  down  next  to  me  and  said:  "You  Barney  Oldfield?" 

I  nodded,  peering  at  him  in  the  dim  light 

"My  name's  Rudy  Bundy,"  he  said,  "I  used  to  have  an  orchestra. 
You  once  gave  me  a  bum  notice  when  I  played  the  Orpheum  in 
Lincoln." 

Shades  of  the  memories  of  the  Virginia  Judge,  Walter  C.  Kelly! 


Although  the  University  of  Nebraska  first  opened  its  doors 
in  iSji;  its  birth— on  paper— was  coeval  with  that  of  the 
city  of  Lincoln.  Perhaps  because  they  literally  grew  up  to 
gether  there  always  has  been  an  unusually  strong  bond 
between  the  town  and  the  university.  While  they  ac 
knowledge  that  it  belongs  to  the  whole  state}  Lincoln  peo 
ple  have  a  proprietary  feeling  about  Nebraska  U:  they 
take  a  special  pride  in  it  and  have  a  special  affection  for 
it. 

They  feel  much  the  same  way  about  Nebraska's  Dr. 
Louise  Pound. 


First  Lady  of  Letters 

i.  Retrospective  —  *957 

B.  A.  BOTKIN 

AM  I  BECOMING  a  professional  patriarch?"  asked  Louise  Pound,  in 
her  presidential  address  before  the  Modern  Language  Association  of 
America,  December,  1955.  She  was  referring  to  the  many  commemo 
rative  honors  heaped  upon  her  since  her  retirement  from  the  Uni 
versity  of  Nebraska  ten  years  before-Lincoln  Kiwanis  Club  medal 
in  1947;  election  as  first  woman  president  of  the  MLA  in  1954;  first 
woman  to  be  named  to  the  Nebraska  Sports  Hall  of  Fame,  1955. 
Was  she  not,  rather,  becoming  a  tradition,  after  the  fashion  of  genu 
ine  folk  songs,  which,  according  to  her  definition,  "have  retained 
their  vitality  through  a  fair  period  of  time"  and  "are  not  static  but 
are  in  a  state  of  flux"? 

Like  every  tradition,  she  has  her  roots  in  a  state  of  society,  a 
region,  and  has  never  lost  her  feeling  for  these  roots.  Nebraska  and 
the  Middle  West  are  written  large  all  over  her  life  and  work.  As  her 
girlhood  friend,  Dorothy  Canfield  Fisher,  has  written  of  her,  "It 
is  not  only  that  she  is  a  first-rater,  but  that  she  stayed  in  Lincoln  and 
became  one."  She  was  born  in  Lincoln,  June  30,  1875,  five  years  after 
Nebraska  became  a  state  and  one  year  after  the  university  was  opened. 
From  the  Pound  home  at  1632  L  Street,  where  she  has  lived  for  the 
past  sixty-five  years,  the  three  Pound  children-Roscoe,  Louise, 


A  Nebraska  Reader 

Olivia— watched  the  town  grow  from  raw  prairie  and  frontier  com 
munity  to  capital  and  university  city.  The  Pound  household  was  a 
microcosm  of  this  developing  society.  Her  father,  Stephen  Bosworth 
Pound,  who  had  come  to  Lincoln  from  New  York  in  1869,  set  the 
children  a  high  standard  of  character  and  achievement  as  probate 
and  district  judge  and  member  of  the  city  council,  the  first  con 
stitutional  convention,  and  the  first  state  senate.*  Her  mother,  Laura 
Biddlecome  Pound,  who  had  taught  in  New  York  after  graduating 
from  Lombard  College  and  was  dissatisfied  with  the  Lincoln  public 
schools,  was  her  only  teacher  until  she  was  fourteen.  In  the  family 
library,  learning  was  an  adventure  instead  of  a  chore  and  developed 
early  habits  of  independent  research  and  original  thinking— habits 
which  Louise  Pound  has  in  turn  encouraged  in  her  students. 

Olivia  Pound  recalls  that  "When  Roscoe  and  Louise  were  about 
twelve  and  ten  respectively,  they  were  offered  a  dollar  each  if  they 
would  read  through  Macaulay's  History  of  England.  They  read  to 
gether  and  tried  to  see  who  could  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  page  first. 
To  prevent  'fudging/  they  asked  each  other  questions  before  turning 
the  page.  The  tradition  is  that  Louise  read  the  faster,  but  Roscoe, 
who  had  a  photographic  memory,  retained  more  of  the  facts." 

Entering  the  two-year  Latin  or  Preparatory  School  at  the  uni 
versity,  Louise  went  on  to  take  two  degrees  and  a  diploma  in  piano 
and  to  make  Phi  Beta  Kappa.  In  the  "slightly  radical"  Literary 
Society  she  was  associated  with  a  group  of  young  intellectuals,  in 
cluding  Willa  Gather  and  Hartley  Burr  Alexander.  In  1894  she  be 
came  an  assistant  instructor  in  English,  and  from  then  until  her 
retirement  in  1945  she  has  taught  continuously  in  the  department, 
except  for  a  year  at  Heidelberg  (where  she  took  her  doctor's  degree 
magna  cum  laude  in  1900,  in  two  semesters  instead  of  the  usual 
seven)  and  summers  at  California,  Yale,  Chicago,  Columbia,  and 
Stanford— refusing  all  other  offers. 

With  her,  as  with  every  great  teacher  and  scholar,  education  and 
research  are  more  than  a  profession;  they  are  a  way  of  life.  This  way 
of  life  had  its  roots  in  her  Colonial  Quaker  heritage  and  in  her 
family  environment,  with  their  stress  on  integrity,  truth,  service, 
and  sociability.  All  these  qualities  she  brought  to  her  teaching,  plus 
a  simple,  warm  humanity,  zest  for  life  and  learning,  common  sense, 

*  "...  the  young  lawyer  had  so  good  a  reputation  for  honesty,  even  in  that 
early  day,  that  a  jury  of  six  men  refused  to  give  a  verdict  against  his  dient  on 
the  sole  ground  that  three  of  the  men  declared  it  to  be  their  unalterable  con 
viction  that  Mr.  Pound  would  not  defend  a  case  that  was  not  absolutely  correct 
and  true"— Collections  of  Nebraska  Historical  Society,  Vol.  XVI 


234  ROUNDUP: 

and  a  power  of  simple,  clear  expression.  Her  devotion  and  generosity 
to  her  students  have  been  as  heart-warming  as  their  loyalty  to  her. 
"I  believe  the  pleasantest  thing  that  has  happened  to  me  is  that  I've 
had  a  number  of  books  dedicated  to  me,"  she  told  a  reporter  on  her 
retirement. 

Her  graduate  students  have  testified  gratefully  to  her  "hundred 
per  cent"  support,  her  fertility  in  suggesting  thesis  and  other  subjects 
suited  to  them,  her  readiness,  tact,  and  understanding  in  criticism 
and  guidance.  Women  members  of  Chi  Delta  Phi,  national  honorary 
literary  society,  and  men  in  the  English  Club  recall  cozy  meetings 
in  the  Pound  home,  with  its  old-fashioned  fireplaces,  carved  dark 
woodwork,  stained  glass  windows,  and  the  family  cat  on  the  Oriental 
rug.  Many  young  writers  were  encouraged  not  only  by  her  criticism 
but  by  opportunities  for  browsing  in  her  library  and  study.  She  also 
instituted  the  pleasant  custom  of  stopping  in  at  Andrews  Hall  in 
the  afternoon  and  taking  a  earful  of  English  instructors  and  graduate 
students  out  to  the  suburbs  for  a  coffee  break. 

On  the  lighter  side,  from  1917  to  1924,  she  was  active  in  the  Order 
of  the  Golden  Fleece,  an  organization  (named  by  her)  of  red-headed 
coeds  on  the  campus.  Twenty-eight  shades  were  approved  for  mem 
bership,  and  prizes  were  given  for  the  most  fiery,  abundant,  or  best- 
coiffured  hair  as  well  as  for  the  most  fascinating  bob,  freckles,  green 
eyes,  and  so  on.  Louise  Pound  still  wears  her  gleaming  auburn  hair 
in  classic  braids  about  her  head. 

A  crusader  for  equal  rights  for  women  in  higher  education  and 
graduate  study,  Louise  Pound,  combining  brain  and  brawn,  also 
pioneered  in  sports.  She  was  a  champion  in  golf  and  tennis,  a  medal 
winner  in  cycling  (100  miles  a  day  and  5,000  miles  a  year),  intro 
duced  skiing  in  Lancaster  County,  and  competed  in  figure-skating, 
swimming,  riding,  and  bowling.  "When  I  coached  the  girls'  basket 
ball  team,"  she  recalls,  "I  had  three  Phi  Beta  Kappas  on  the  team. 
They  kept  their  heads  better.  We  played  men's  rules;  we  couldn't 
stand  those  sissy  rules." 

As  a  scholar  she  has  been  true  to  her  midwestern,  frontier,  and 
regional  heritage.  About  one-fifth  of  the  two  hundred-odd  titles  in 
her  bibliography  deal  with  literature,  lore,  language,  and  education 
beyond  the  Mississippi.  Her  first  publication,  in  1915,  was  a  syllabus 
of  Folk-Song  of  Nebraska  and  the  Central  West.  Folk  songs  and  folk 
lore  have  continued  to  interest  her  as  much  for  their  reflection  of  the 
life  of  the  people  of  the  region  as  for  the  light  they  throw  on  prob 
lems  of  origin  and  diffusion.  In  Poetic  Origins  and  the  Ballad  (1921), 


A  Nebraska  Reader  235 

she  demolished  the  theory  of  communal  origins.  But  it  is  in  philology 
that  her  pioneering  leadership— "courageous  and  of  a  very  high 
scholarly  order"—  has  had  the  greatest  influence  and  borne  the  most 
fruit.  Her  work  in  the  Dialect  Society  and  on  American  Speech 
(which  she  helped  found  in  1925)  have,  in  the  words  of  Mencken, 
"put  the  study  of  American  English  on  its  legs." 

In  matters  of  usage  she  has,  in  theory  and  practice,  eschewed 
"gobbledygook,"  saying:  "All  is  not  literature  that  litters,  but  there 
is  considerable  litter  about  our  official  language  as  there  is  about 
professional  jargons  in  general." 

The  remarkable  career  of  this  brisk,  pleasant  woman  has  for 
sixty-odd  years  continued,  by  their  own  admission,  to  "astonish  a 
nation  of  scholars  unused  to  the  company  of  ladies  who  knew  quite 
as  much  as  they  did."  With  her  perennial  youthfulness  of  mind  and 
spirit,  her  wide  range  of  interests  and  activities,  she  has  broken 
records  and  precedents  and  shattered  for  all  time  the  popular  con 
ception  of  the  "lady  professor"  as  schoolmarm,  bluestocking,  prig, 
or  bookworm.  Nor  is  there  anything  cloistered  or  stuffy  about  her 
personal  life.  Distinguished  visitors  to  her  house  on  L  Street  are  as 
apt  to  find  her  in  her  work  clothes-painting  the  green  board  fence, 
mending  the  roof,  mowing  the  lawn— as  in  her  party  clothes.  Male 
chauvinism  hasn't  a  chance  around  Louise  Pound,  but  masculine 
assistance-yes.  "When  a  journalist  interviewed  her  a  few  months 
ago  on  American  folklore,  he  offered  to  shovel  her  snow-covered 
walks.  She  accepted  gratefully:  'I  was  just  going  to  do  it  myself/  she 
said." 


The  foregoing  sketch  has  presented  Louise  Pound  from 
the  point  of  view  of  a  former  student,  who  has  since 
attained  national  eminence  in  his  own  right  as  a  folk- 
lorist  and  author.  Concerning  the  author  of  the  following 
"colleagues-eye  mew"  Dr.  Pound  has  written:  "Many 
Nebraskans  remember  Hartley  Alexander  (1873-1939)  <* 
the  University's  most  distinguished  professor  in  the  hu 
manities  division.  A  scholar,  philosopher,  lyric  and  dra 
matic  poet,  a  teacher,  a  patriot,  and  a  much-sought-for 
associate  of  architects  of  public  buildings,  he  left  a  long 
list  of  printed  works.  His  best  books  are  perhaps  his 
My  thology  of  the  North  American  Indians,  Truth  and  the 


236  ROUNDUP: 

Faith,  and  God  and  Man's  Destiny.  For  the  last-named, 
the  Commonwealth  of  California  awarded  him  a  medal. 
France  made  him  a  Knight  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  for  his 
help  in  World  War  L  He  furnished  the  inscriptions  and 
the  art  symbolism  for  the  Nebraska  State  Capitol  and  for 
many  other  buildings.,  including  the  Los  Angeles  Public 
Library,  the  Fidelity  Mutual  Life  Building,,  Philadelphia, 
the  Mutual  Life  Building,  New  York  City,  and  for  build 
ings  at  Rockefeller  Center." 


2.  In  medias  res  —  1933 

HARTLEY  BURR  ALEXANDER 

WHEN  LOUISE  POUND  first  began  to  teach  in  the  University  of 
Nebraska,  she  was  already  far  better  known  to  the  majority  of  the 
student  body  than  many  of  the  professors  of  that  day.  She  had 
graduated  from  the  college  not  only  with  all  the  scholastic  honors 
(which  came  as  a  matter  of  course  in  the  Pound  family),  but  with  an 
athletic  record  such  as  no  woman  had  approached  and  which,  I 
dare  say,  no  Nebraska  woman  has  since  matched,  and  which  for  a 
number  of  years  continued  to  grow,  with  every  type  of  trophy  hers. 
And  these  trophies  were  by  no  means  local,  for  in  '97  she  defeated 
the  Canadian  and  our  national  champions  in  tennis  singles  and 
later  carried  away  palms  in  women's  and  mixed  men's  doubles.  All 
these  things  were  of  course  known  to  the  students,  who  are  alive  to 
athletics,  I  suspect,  before  scholarship  seriously  excites  them;  and 
they  contributed  not  a  little  to  a  certain  £clat  which  attached  to  the 
name  of  Louise  Pound  well  before  her  intellectual  interests  were 
understood.  Certainly  it  was  a  grand  introduction  for  a  young  in 
structress,  even  if  in  a  way  somewhat  deceptive. 

Deceptive,  I  say,  just  for  the  reason  that  athletics  was  after  all  just 
an  incident  in  Louise  Pound's  personality,  a  lateral  expression,  if 
one  may  so  put  it.  Back  of  this  devotion  (as  it  appeared)  to  cham 
pionships  lay  something  much  more  significant,  and  puzzling.  No 
doubt  to  the  student  there  appeared  to  be  an  incongruity  in  the 
combination  in  one  young  woman  of  great  athletic  skill  and  clear 
intellectual  attainment.  But  this  union  in  Louise  Pound's  case, 
conspicuous  as  it  was,  by  no  means  sufficed  to  explain  the  hold  upon 


A  Nebraska  Reader  237 

imagination  which  she  exercised.  There  was  something  enigmatical 
about  her  personality,  almost  cryptic,  and  I  think  that  the  feeling 
that  here  was  an  instructor  whom  no  one  could  quite  read  was  at 
the  bottom  responsible  for  a  feeling  akin  to  awe  which  touched  the 
mind  of  many  a  youngster  where  she  was  concerned. 

One  factor  which  helped  to  give  Miss  Pound  her  half-mythical 
elevation  was  doubtless  her  quite  striking  appearance,  for  she  was 
(and  of  course  is)  a  person  to  be  noticed  in  any  assembly  as  a  human 
being  of  distinction.  This,  however,  is  not  merely  a  matter  of  physical 
gifts,  but  much  more  it  is  the  result  of  a  type  of  innerly  contained  and 
controlled  expression  quite  out  of  the  ordinary  gamut.  Most  of  us 
spend  our  lives  half  in  the  effort  to  read  the  countenances  of  our 
companions  in  life,  and  in  the  main  this  is  not  too  difficult  even  for 
the  most  pokerset  features.  But  Louise  Pound  here  belonged  to  a 
category  all  her  own.  Few  faces  give  more  constantly  the  impression 
of  alert  and  vivid  seeing.  It  is  the  type  of  face  which  carries  a  dignity, 
and  sometimes  for  others  a  discomfiture,  which  none  but  the  dullest 
can  fail  to  observe;  and  which,  I  suspect,  partly  accounts  for  the 
curiosity  that  attached  to  the  instructress's  powers  and  motives  and 
attached  to  her  description  the  adjective  "hypnotic."  I  recall  very 
well  how  in  those  days  our  mutual  friend  Derrick  Lehmer  informed 
me  that  he  was  going  to  Johns  Hopkins  to  acquire  a  doctorate  in 
mathematics,  a  beard,  and  dignity— the  first  of  which  materialized  in 
due  course.  But  when  Louise  Pound  came  back  from  Heidelberg 
with  her  doctorate  in  Germanic  philology  and  a  few  overseas  cham 
pionships  in  athletics,  to  most  of  us  these  laurels  seemed  incon 
sequential:  they  had  not  been  needed  for  any  external  purpose  cer 
tainly.  It  was  all  clear  that  the  title  was  less  than  a  circumstance,  as 
incidental  as  the  athletic  scores. 

And  in  later  years  it  has  struck  me  that  the  same  thing  is  true. 
All  sorts  of  honors  have  come  to  Professor  Pound,  in  America  and 
abroad.  But  in  the  case  of  a  real  instructor,  it  is  never  the  badges  of 
scholarship  that  give  that  account  of  his  personality  or  influence; 
and  assuredly  this  is  not  the  case  with  Louise  Pound.  As  I  have  in 
timated,  all  such  things  are  lateral,  expressions  and  not  cores  of 
personality.  No  doubt  they  are  excellent  for  college  publicity,  but 
after  all  what  reading  is  so  dry  as  Who's  Who? 

But  for  me  the  interest  is  quite  other.  It  was  a  grand  thing  in  the 
early  days,  as  today  it  is  a  grand  thing,  to  be  counted  as  one  of  this 
instructor's  friends,  and  the  reason  lies  back  of  outward  glamors. 
Of  course  I,  with  others,  have  thought  about  it— this  unique  impres- 


238  ROUNDUP 

sion  of  a  famed  Nebraska  woman,  not  as  famed  but  as  a  woman. 
And  while  I  hope  that  I  have  not  come  to  any  conclusion  (which 
God  forbid  in  regard  to  any  of  my  friends!) ,  nevertheless  as  I  look 
back  through  certain  years  of  association  some  things  do  stand  out 
as  painting  the  character  more  clearly.  For  example,  there  were  the 
Carrollers.  This  society  devoted  to  Alice  in  Wonderland  and  all 
gorgeous  nonsense  was  born  in  the  Pound  home,  and  it  had  more 
than  one  life,  too. 

Am  I  not,  then,  ready  to  give  the  answer— what  is  the  lady  back 
of  the  life?  No;  for  truth  is,  I  cannot.  And  indeed  I  am  glad  of  it. 
It  is  no  part  of  honesty  to  wish  to  sound  out  the  soul  of  a  friend, 
and  of  all  manners  the  most  ill  is  to  pronounce  a  eulogy  upon  the 
livingl 

But  I  will  add  one  more  type  of  incident.  Some  years  ago  the 
English-literaturists  of  the  country  were  under  the  spell  of  a  biolog 
ical  romance  as  to  the  origin  of  balladry,  English  and  other.  The 
whole  fictitious  scenario  was  a  solemnly  accepted  dogma,  with  pon 
derous  books  supporting.  Turning  aside  from  her  real  concern  for 
linguistic  development,  Louise  Pound  brought  forth  a  book,  Poetic 
Origins  and  the  Ballad,  and  the  whole  house  of  cards  collapsed, 
before  a  woman's  singlehanded  challenge.  Not  so  very  recently  I 
saw  her  review  of  the  work  of  one  who  had  been  first  in  abuse  of 
her  enterprise,  but  is  now  with  no  apology  or  recanting  making 
use  of  her  results  without  credit— a  sin  of  scholarship  unfortunately 
not  unknown.  Professor  Pound,  reviewing,  merely  complimented 
the  author  upon  seeing  the  light.  Again,  it  was  only  an  incident, 
lateral  to  life.  And  I  remember,  too,  my  own  dear  lady  once  remark 
ing  anent  our  mutual  friend  (it  was  in  a  day  when  "tatting"  had 
vogue),  "I  just  cannot  imagine  Louise  tatting."  The  nearest  holiday 
brought  her  a  beautifully  tatted  handkerchief  with  Professor  Pound's 
compliments.  Even  in  those  first  days,  with  which  I  started  out,  folk 
used  to  inquire,  "Is  there  anything  Louise  Pound  cannot  do?" 


Condensed  from  Nebraska  Alumnus,  Oct.,  1933 


Some  years  ago  I  was  visiting  an  agricultural  experiment 
station  in  an  out-of-the-way  corner  of  England.  My  host's 
face  lighted  up  when  I  identified  myself  as  from  Lincoln, 
Nebraska. 

"Ah,  yes,  Lincoln!"  he  exclaimed. 

I  wondered  if  he  was  about  to  say  something  about  hav 
ing  seen  pictures  of  our  renowned  capitol,  or  about  Lin 
coln  and  William  Jennings  Bryan.  But  he  went  on, 
"That's  the  place  where  you  test  tractors." 

—Editorial,  Lincoln  Evening  Journal,  August  4,  1956 


The  "Supreme  Court"  of  Tractors 

B.  F.  SYLVESTER 

AT  DAYBREAK,  the  sky-blue  tractor  was  out  on  the  2,2oo-foot  oval, 
humming  along  at  a  steady  gi^-mile  clip.  For  ten  hours  she  rolled 
that  way  without  stopping— 35  miles,  So-odd  laps  around  the  course. 
When  at  last  the  driver  turned  off  the  motor,  a  small  band  of 
observers,  who  had  been  waiting  like  expectant  fathers  for  more 
than  a  week,  mopped  their  brows  and  hurried  off  to  call  long  dis 
tance. 

Test  No.  500,  a  new  Fordson  Major  diesel  which  had  come  5,000 
miles  from  England  for  just  this  purpose— testing  by  the  world's  most 
important  tractor  laboratory,  part  of  the  Nebraska  College  of  Agri 
culture  at  Lincoln— was  over  the  hump.  As  the  Fordson  rolled  off, 
men  busied  themselves  on  the  next  track,  readying  it  for  the  next 
test.  To  L.  F.  Larsen,  engineer  hi  charge,  Test  No.  500  was  merely 
a  part  of  the  day's  work.  To  Fordson,  it  was  much  more.  A  shipload 
of  other  new  Fordsons  waited  at  a  dock  in  New  Orleans.  They  could 
be  delivered  now.  And  Fordson  dealers  all  over  the  world  could 
now  assure  their  customers  that  their  machine  had  been  tested  and 
okayed  at  the  supreme  court  of  tractors.  For  that  is  the  first  thing 
that  tractor  buyers  all  over  the  world  want  to  know:  Was  it  tested 
at  Nebraska? 

For  answer,  observers  from  almost  every  country  travel  to  this 
sprawling  midwest  station.  Thousands  of  others  get  the  station's 
meticulous  reports  on  tractor  performance.  In  some  countries— India, 

239 


24o  ROUNDUP: 

for  example,  and  others  in  South  America— a  pass  mark  by  Nebraska 
is  a  prerequisite  for  sale.  Foreign  governments  are  attempting  to 
avoid  tractor  evils  which  beset  this  country  about  the  time  of  World 
War  I,  when  power  machinery  began  slowly  to  displace  the  horse. 
In  the  general  turmoil,  many  factories  went  out  of  business  and 
orphan  tractors  stood  in  the  fields. 

One  victim  was  Wilmot  F.  Crozier  of  Osceola,  Nebr.,  whose  tractor 
quit  cold  one  day  in  the  middle  of  his  wheat  field.  Dealer  and  manu 
facturer  had  gone  out  of  business.  No  service,  no  parts.  Crozier  said 
there  ought  to  be  a  law,  and  his  neighbors  agreed.  They  elected  him 
to  the  legislature  and,  by  cracky,  he  put  through  a  law.  No  tractor 
could  be  sold  in  Nebraska  without  prior  testing  and  provision  by 
the  manufacturer  for  a  supply  of  parts  within  reasonable  shipping 
'  distance.  Result  was  the  testing  laboratory,  set  up  in  1920.  Fees, 
paid  by  the  manufacturers,  support  the  program. 

Tests  cover  two  phases  of  performance:  belt  load— the  power  avail 
able  for  running  such  equipment  as,  say,  a  feed  grinder  or  corn 
sheller;  and  drawbar  load-pulling  power.  In  addition,  careful  meas 
urements  are  made  of  fuel  and  lubricating-oil  consumption,  extra 
water  used  for  cooling  purposes,  engine  speeds  and  m.p.h.  speeds 
at  different  gears  and  under  varying  loads,  radiator  and  air  tempera 
tures,  and  wheel  slippage.  Breakdowns,  or  necessary  repairs  or 
adjustments,  are  also  noted  in  the  final  report,  as  are  minor  misfunc- 
tionings  such  as  lube  leakage. 

First  test  of  the  series  calls  for  a  1 2-hour  warmup  period,  during 
which  the  manufacturer's  representatives  may  make  any  adjustments 
they  consider  necessary.  Fussy  engineers  have  been  known  to  take 
four  hours  merely  to  set  a  carburetor,  and  in  one  case  75  hours 
passed  before  the  factory  reps  were  satisfied  that  all  conditions,  in 
cluding  atmospheric,  were  exactly  right.  Muggy  days  are  bad  for 
testing,  and  rain  or  even  excessive  humidity  (90  per  cent)  will  result 
in  postponement.  But  the  day  on  which  Test  500  was  to  begin  was 
perfect,  weather-wise.  The  Fordson  hummed  like  a  happy  top 
through  her  12  hours  of  limbering-up  exercises. 

Then  fuel  lines  were  attached  and  the  tractor  hooked  up  to  the 
belt.  For  over  an  hour,  the  engine  was  warmed  up  before  being 
connected  with  an  electric  dynamometer  that  would  keep  score.  Now 
followed  a  two-hour  run  at  100  per  cent  of  maximum,  throttle  all  the 
way  out  and  a  dynamometer  load  on  the  belt  to  keep  the  engine 
turning  at  the  rated  (manufacturer's  recommended)  speed  of  1,600 
r.p.m. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  241 

Next  came  a  rated-load  run,  with  85  per  cent  o£  the  first  dyna 
mometer  load  being  placed  on  the  belt.  This  is  a  somewhat  better 
guide  to  performance,  since  the  maximum  may  not  be  expected 
in  the  field,  and  not  every  tractor  will  attain  the  exact  performance 
shown  on  the  test.  Then  followed  six  runs  of  20  minutes  each  with 
varying  loads:  no  load,  quarter  load,  half  load,  three-quarter  load, 
rated  load,  and  maximum  load  at  full  throttle. 

Torque  tests  came  next,  to  determine  the  horsepower  obtained 
at  different  engine  speeds.  Torque  is  the  twisting  effect  that  turns 
the  axles  of  the  rear  wheels. 

At  5:30  next  morning,  the  test  crew  and  Fordson  reps  assembled 
on  the  track  for  the  drawbar  (coupled-weight)  tests,  in  which  the 
pulling  power  is  measured.  Since,  in  all,  the  drawbar  tests  call  for 
20  hours  of  driving  and  the  average  speed  is  about  five  m.p.h.,  each 
tractor  covers  100  miles,  or  about  240  laps.  The  Fordson  was  hitched 
to  a  dynamometer  car  full  of  self-registering  instruments,  every  as 
pect  of  performance  being  tested  by  gauges  and  a  stylus  which  makes 
tracings  on  sensitized  paper.  Behind  the  test  car  was  a  tractor  in 
gear,  which  provided  a  load  of  5,000  pounds.  The  machine  was  tested 
in  each  of  its  six  gears  for  speed,  horsepower,  slippage,  the  load 
pulled,  and  crankshaft  speed. 

Daylight  the  next  morning  saw  the  same  little  group  out  on  the 
track  for  the  big  one:  a  continuous  ten-hour  run  in  one  gear  with 
a  three-quarter  load.  Fordson  reps  chose  the  third  gear  for  this  as 
offering  the  best  balance  between  horsepower  and  traction.  Two 
other  tests  followed,  but  by  now  the  worst  was  behind.  Up  to  this 
point  the  tractor  had  carried  ballast,  iron  weights  of  1,292  pounds 
on  each  wheel.  But  now,  Test  J  was  run  without  ballast.  Test  K, 
the  last  one  in  the  series,  was  run  with  the  smallest  tires  recom 
mended  by  the  tractor's  manufacturer. 

That  did  it.  The  tractor  had  performed  according  to  its  specifica 
tions  and  claims,  and  this  would  be  certified  to  the  Nebraska  Rail 
way  Commission  which,  in  turn,  would  issue  a  sale  permit.  The 
laboratory  does  not  tag  any  tractor  as  good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  It 
merely  records  and  publishes  its  findings  on  a  world-wide  mailing 
list,  sending  out  some  40,000  reports  a  year  to  farmers,  county 
agents,  teachers  of  agriculture,  and  others  who  write  in. 

There  is  a  dedicated  spirit  out  at  the  testing  station.  One  crew 
with  two  John  Deere  tractors  started  at  daybreak  on  a  Friday.  All 
day  they  plugged  away,  finishing  up  with  the  limbering-up  tests 
after  dark.  Somebody  said,  "Let's  keep  going,"  and  they  started  the 


242  ROUNDUP 

belt  test.  They  went  all  night  until  8:30  Saturday  morning.  Saturday 
night  looked  like  a  fine  night  for  more  belt-testing,  so  they  all  came 
back  and  ran  the  test  on  the  second  John  Deere,  until  it  was  finished 
at  8:30  Sunday  morning.  Then,  because  everybody  still  felt  great, 
they  started  work  on  the  track,  packing  it  down  for  the  drawbar 
tests,  which  would  start  on  Monday.  Monday  night,  they  were  still 
at  it. 


Reprinted  from  "They  Torture  Tractors,"  Popular  Science,  May,  1954 


Reams  of  articles  have  been  devoted  to  the  pros  and  cons 
of  intercollegiate  sports,  in  particular  football  Chiefly 
these  discussions  have  demonstrated  that  there  is  a  lot  to 
be  said  on  both  sides. 

In  the  Age  of  Pericles,  the  bays  and  laurels  were  not 
reserved  only  for  the  philosophers  and  poets  and  artists, 
the  statesmen  and  generals.  The  stadia  were  thronged  as 
well  as  the  theaters.  Courage  and  skill  in  the  sports  arena 
were  admired  and  rewarded. 

The  University  of  Nebraska  has  been  fielding  an  eleven 
for  more  than  seventy-five  years.  The  names  of  its  pigskin 
"greats"  are  familiar  not  only  to  old  grads,  but  to  Ne- 
braskans  who  have  never  set  foot  on  the  campus  except  on 
the  way  to  the  stadium. 

We  do  not  exalt  an  All-American  halfback  to  the  stat 
ure  of  a  Shakespeare  or  an  Abraham  Lincoln  or  a  Newton. 
But  the  emotions  we,  as  spectators  or  participants,  share 
at  athletic  contests  are  keen  and  valid.  Take  away  the  "big 
game"  and  we  are  deprived  of  an  experience  of  drama  and 
emotional  community  for  which,  it  may  be,  there  already 
are  too  few  opportunities. 


Nebraska's  "Mr.  Touchdown" 


BILL  FAY 

A  FEW  MINUTES  before  the  opening  kickoff  of  the  1950  football  game 
between  Oklahoma  and  Nebraska  at  Norman,  Oklahoma,  the  an 
nouncer  on  the  public  address  system  invited  the  54,000  spectators 
to  pay  particular  attention  to  a  sophomore  Nebraska  halfback  named 
Bobby  Reynolds. 

"There  he  goes!"  the  announcer  declared,  as  a  white-jerseyed  Ne- 
braskan  grabbed  a  practice  punt  on  the  dead  run.  "That's  Reynolds 
—Number  12—  the  nation's  leading  college  scorer.  Reynolds  started 
the  season  with  three  touchdowns  against  Indiana  .  .  .  then  kept 
right  on  rolling  with  two  touchdowns  against  Minnesota  ,  .  .  three 
against  Colorado  .  .  .  three  more  against  Penn  State  .  .  .  one  against 
Kansas  .  .  .  three  against  Missouri  .  .  .  three  against  Kansas  State 


244  ROUNDUP: 

.  .  .  and  one  against  Iowa  State.  That's  nineteen  touchdowns  in 
eight  games,  and  it's  beginning  to  look  like  Nebraska's  Mr.  Reynolds 
can't  be  stopped.  .  .  ." 

Coach  Bud  Wilkinson's  Oklahoma  lads  were  unbeaten  and  un 
tied  in  twenty-nine  consecutive  games  and  ranked  No.  i  nationally 
in  the  Associated  Press  poll.  By  way  of  showing  their  disdain  for 
Reynolds'  reputation,  they  seized  the  opening  kickoff  and  pounded 
76  yards  in  ten  plays  for  a  touchdown.  What's  more,  when  Nebraska 
went  on  the  offensive,  the  Oklahomans  bounced  Reynolds  backward 
on  three  successive  running  attempts  for  a  total  net  loss  of  seven  yards. 
Having  thus  put  Nebraska's  sophomore  phenomenon  in  his  place, 
the  Sooners  slammed  65  yards  for  another  TD  and  a  14-0  lead. 

Then  a  red-jerseyed  Oklahoma  back  fumbled,  and  Nebraska  re 
covered  on  the  Oklahoma  20. 

Quarterback  Fran  Nagle  called  Reynolds'  favorite  maneuver— a 
slant  off  right  tackle.  Bobby  scampered  into  the  end  zone.  Touch 
down!  An  exchange  of  punts  later,  Nebraska  drove  40  yards  to  the 
Oklahoma  13.  Nagle  called  upon  Reynolds  and  Bobby  scooted 
around  left  end.  Touchdown!  Five  plays  after  that,  the  disconsolate 
Oklahomans  fumbled  again  on  their  1 6-yard  line.  Nagle  called  Reyn 
old's  signal.  Bobby  sliced  off  left  tackle.  Touchdown! 

Eventually,  Oklahoma's  manpower  overwhelmed  Nebraska,  49  to 
35,  but  Reynolds'  three-touchdown  blitz  on  this  last  day  of  the  season 
(spectacularly  executed  within  the  span  of  thirty-three  plays  against 
1950*8  national  champions)  made  Bobby  the  highest  intercollegiate 
scorer  in  more  than  thirty  years.  Averaging  2.4  touchdowns  per 
game,  he  rolled  up  157  points  (twenty- two  touchdowns  and  twenty- 
five  conversions),  for  the  biggest  total  since  Jim  Leech  compiled  the 
all-time  high  of  210  points  for  Virginia  Military  Institute  in  1920. 

Oddly  enough,  when  Reynolds  arrived  on  the  Nebraska  campus 
in  1949,  he  was  ballyhooed  not  as  a  potential  grid  star,  but  as  a 
great  basketball  prospect.  There  also  was  talk  that  the  New  York 
Yankees— impressed  by  Bobby's  sand-lot  baseball  activities— had  of 
fered  him  a  minor-league  tryout.  So  far  as  football  was  concerned, 
Bobby  had  been  a  regular  backfield  performer  at  Grand  Island  High 
School,  but  had  never  come  close  to  leading  his  team  in  scoring. 
Physically,  young  Mr.  Reynolds  scarcely  resembled  a  high-scoring 
halfback.  He  was  a  pleasant  blond  nineteen-year-old,  not  skinny 
exactly,  but  on  the  slender  side.  He  obviously  didn't  have  enough 
power  to  run  over  tacklers,  and  he  wasn't  fast  enough  to  run  away 
from  them,  either. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  245 

Despite  these  deficiencies,  in  his  first  scrimmage  against  the  varsity, 
Bobby  squirmed  loose  for  three  touchdowns.  "Maybe  that  kid  doesn't 
have  too  much  sustained  speed  on  the  straightaway,"  commented 
Nebraska's  head  coach,  Bill  Glassford,  "but  he's  got  a  rocket  start, 
and  he  doesn't  slow  down  on  the  curves.  Matter  of  fact,  he  runs 
around  corners  faster'n  anybody  I've  ever  seen." 

Later,  Glassford  queried  Reynolds'  high-school  coach,  Jerry  Lee, 
how  come  Bobby  hadn't  scored  more  touchdowns  for  Grand  Island. 
"Well,"  Lee  confessed,  "I  guess  it  was  my  fault  for  making  him  the 
quarterback.  Every  time  we  got  close  to  the  goal  line,  Bobby  called 
somebody  else's  number." 

Although  Glassford  saw  to  it  that  Nebraska's  quarterbacks  over 
came  Reynolds'  reluctance  to  carry  the  ball  for  a  TD,  Bobby's  record 
in  1950  did  not  result  from  an  excessive  number  of  easy  scoring  op 
portunities.  Only  four  of  his  22  touchdowns  originated  from  inside 
the  ten-yard  line;  the  other  18  scoring  dashes  ranged  from  11  to  80 
yards  (average  28.5). 

Perhaps  the  most  spectacular  exhibition  of  Reynolds'  zigzag  touch 
down  technique  took  place  against  Missouri,  when  Bobby  attempted 
to  throw  a  forward  pass  from  the  Tigers'  gg-yard  line.  Finding  his 
receivers  thoroughly  covered,  Bobby  cut  to  the  left  to  avoid  three 
tacklers,  then  reversed  his  field  and  took  for  the  right  sideline.  Still 
retreating  rapidly,  he  straight-armed  another  tackier  way  back  on 
Nebraska's  35-yard  line.  At  that  point,  he  was  exactly  32  yards  be 
hind  the  line  of  scrimmage!  Then  Bobby  turned  around  and  jack- 
rabbited  through  the  whole  Missouri  team  for  a  touchdown,  evading 
(as  movies  subsequently  revealed)  a  total  of  seventeen  tacklers  along 
his  circuitous  65-yard  route.  Although  the  play  went  into  the  record 
book  as  a  33-yard  advance,  Bobby  actually  traveled  almost  100  yards. 
During  the  course  of  the  run,  one  frustrated  Missourian  had  missed 
Reynolds  three  times. 

A  few  moments  later  when  Bobby  got  loose  on  another  long  run, 
teammate  Charlie  Toogood  blocked  Missouri's  Dale  Portmann, 
knocked  him  down,  then  rolled  on  top  of  the  Tiger  and  held  him 
down.  "Lemme  up,"  Portmann  protested.  "Reynolds  is  gone." 

"I  know,"  replied  Toogood,  "but  you  never  can  tell  when  he 
may  come  this  way  again." 

As  an  interviewee,  Reynolds  definitely  does  not  belong  to  the 
shucks-I-was-just-lucky  school  of  bashful  athletic  heroes.  Bobby  is 
articulate  and  factual;  he  discusses  his  touchdown  runs  objectively. 
"A  touchdown,"  he  remarked -recently,  "is  a  chain  of  circumstances 


246  ROUNDUP: 

involving  22  players.  And  very  often  the  least  important  link  in  the 
chain  is  the  fellow  who  carries  the  ball  across  the  goal  line/'  As  an 
instance,  he  cited  the  situation  in  the  1950  Oklahoma  game  when, 
after  scoring  twice,  the  Sooners  fumbled  and  Nebraska  recovered. 

"In  the  huddle,  our  quarterback,  Fran  Nagle,  picked  a  play  on 
which  I  was  supposed  to  feint  to  the  right,  then  cut  back  through 
center.  But  as  we  came  out  of  the  huddle,  Nagle  noticed  that  Okla 
homa's  big  eight-man  line  was  bunched  in  close.  So,  Fran  yelled  a 
warning  signal— what  we  call  an  'automatic'— which  completely 
changed  my  part  in  the  play.  Instead  of  cutting  back  through  the 
middle,  I  went  wide  outside  the  right  end— and  got  loose.  In  other 
words,"  Bobby  concluded,  "the  difference  between  my  running  into 
a  mass  of  tacklers  and  going  around  end  for  the  touchdown  was 
Nagle's  alertness  in  detecting  a  defensive  weakness  and  instantly 
redirecting  our  offense  to  exploit  it." 

Of  his  22  touchdowns,  Reynolds  recalls  that  six  were  scored  on 
Nagle's  "automatics"— plays  which  were  redirected  a  split  second 
before  the  center  snapped  the  ball.  Three  other  TD's  followed  re 
coveries  of  enemy  fumbles  ("You  gotta  get  the  ball  before  you  can 
score") ;  and  of  course  there  was  that  all-over-the-field  scramble 
against  Missouri  (".  .  .  which  actually  was  a  dumb  play— I  should 
have  passed  that  ball  instead  of  fading  back  at  the  risk  of  being 
tackled  for  a  big  loss").  As  Reynolds  reviews  his  1950  activities,  ten 
touchdowns  resulted  from  fortunate  circumstances,  and  the  other 
twelve  scores  represented  competent  running  jobs,  aided  and  abetted 
by  solid  blocking. 

Regardless  of  his  touchdown  activities  one  thing  is  certain:  Bobby 
has  a  lot  of  fun  playing  football.  If  it  wasn't  fun,  he  wouldn't  be 
playing,  because  Bobby  is  that  rarest  of  college  athletic  phenomena 
—an  unsolicited,  unproselyted  (and  virtually  unstoppable)  halfback. 
In  the  spring  of  1949,  a  scout  for  a  midwestern  university  who  visited 
Grand  Island  to  engage  Reynolds'  basketball  services  was  amazed 
to  learn  that  Bobby  had  already  enrolled  at  Nebraska  without  even 
inquiring  into  prospects  for  a  scholarship.  The  scout  pointed  out 
hopefully  that  his  school  provided  skilled  basketball  players  with 
scholarships— and  an  ample  monthly  spending  allowance.  Bobby 
thanked  the  scout  for  the  kind  offer,  but  explained  that  his  grand 
father  already  had  provided  for  his  education. 

Bobby's  late  grandfather,  Charles  Olson,  a  rugged  Swedish  im 
migrant,  settled  in  Wahoo,  Nebraska,  in  1882.  Charles,  who  was  20 
years  old  at  that  time,  had  75  cents  in  cash  and  a  notion  that  any 


A  Nebraska  Reader  247 

young  fellow  who  worked  hard  at  it  ought  to  make  a  fortune  in 
the  construction  business.  This  may  or  may  not  have  been  a  sound 
theory;  in  any  event,  it  worked  for  him.  Once,  commenting  on  his 
enormously  successful  career,  Charles  observed:  "Just  when  I  learned 
to  call  a  yob  a  job,  everybody  else  started  calling  it  a  praw-yack." 
By  the  time  Charles  learned  how  to  call  a  praw-yack  a  project,  he  was 
a  millionaire. 

Five  of  Charles  Olson's  eight  children  were  graduated  from  the 
University  of  Nebraska,  including  Bobby's  mother,  Blenda,  who  cap 
tained  Nebraska's  senior  girls  basketball  team  in  1925,  the  year  she 
married  Gil  Reynolds,  an  Omaha  paper  salesman.  Gil  had  been  a 
third-string  halfback  on  the  Cornhusker  football  squad  in  1923  and 
—to  confound  those  who  may  believe  that  football  ability  is  hered 
itary—never  scored  a  touchdown,  "There  never  was  any  question 
about  where  I  was  going  to  school,"  Bobby  says.  "Just  ab°ut  every 
body  in  our  family  went  to  Nebraska." 

Apparently  that  was  true  of  the  neighbors,  too.  Bobby  was  born 
in  Omaha,  right  next  door  to  Dave  Noble,  who  still  ranks  as  one  of 
the  most  dangerous  running  backs  in  Nebraska's  long  and  period 
ically  brilliant  football  history.  Veteran  Cornhusker  fans  recall  Noble 
as  the  halfback  whose  slashing  runs  paced  Nebraska  to  upset  victories 
over  Notre  Dame  in  1922  and  '23,  the  sophomore  and  junior  years 
of  an  Irish  backfield  known  to  fame  as  "the  Four  Horsemen." 

Bobby's  first  year  on  the  Cornhusker  squad  saw  Nebraska's  first 
winning  season  (six  victories,  two  losses,  one  tie)  in  a  decade.  Thanks 
to  a  tradition  which  decrees  that  sophomores  must  carry  senior  squad 
members'  luggage,  in  one  respect  at  least  Bobby  qualified  as  the 
hardest-working  halfback  in  the  United  States.  After  the  Penn  State 
game,  by  which  time  Reynolds  had  scored  eleven  of  Nebraska's 
fourteen  touchdowns,  tackle  Toogood,  a  senior,  observed:  "I've  heard 
of  plenty  of  triple-threat  backs,  but  I'll  bet  Bobby  is  the  only  quad 
ruple  threat  in  the  country.  He  runs,  punts,  passes,  and  totes  suit 
cases.  .  .  .  Yep,  that  Reynolds  is  a  handy  fellow  to  have  around." 


Condensed  from  Collier's,  Oct.  6,  1951 


After  Nebraska's  admission  to  the  Union,,  March  i,  i86j, 
the  question  of  the  location  of  the  capital  tended  to  over 
shadow  all  public  problems.  In  the  original  bill  the  seat 
of  government  was  to  be  known  as  "Capitol  City."  This 
unfortunate  name  was  dropped  when  an  Omaha  senator, 
in  an  effort  to  draw  South  Platte  Democratic  votes  away 
from  the  measure,  moved  the  substitution  of  "Lincoln." 
The  name  still  was  anathema  to  many  Democrats,  but 
sectional  loyalty  overrode  political  considerations,  and 
South  Platte  Democrats  promptly  approved  the  new  name. 

Having  secured  an  outfit  and  employed  a  surveyor.  Gov 
ernor  David  Butler,  Secretary  of  State  Thomas  P.  Ken- 
nard,  and  Auditor  John  Gillespie  made  a  cursory  survey 
of  all  eligible  sites.  On  July  2,9,  i86j,  they  returned  to  the 
vicinity  of  Yankee  Hill  and  Lancaster,  on  the  banks  of 
Salt  Creek.  At  Lancaster  "the  favorable  impressions  re 
ceived  at  first  sight  .  .  .  were  confirmed" 

Omahans  and  many  others  living  along  the  Missouri 
north  of  the  Platte  severely  criticized  the  choice.  "Nobody 
will  ever  go  to  Lincoln,"  prophesied  the  Omaha  Repub 
lican,  "who  does  not  go  to  the  state  legislature,  the  lunatic 
asylum,  the  penitentiary,  or  some  of  the  state  institutions/' 
Founded  on  fiat,  with  "no  river,  no  railroad,  no  steam 
wagon,  nothing,"  it  was  destined  for  isolation  and  ulti 
mate  oblivion. 

—Condensed  from  Olson's  History  of  Nebraska 


Lincoln:  Two  Views 


i.  "The  Best  Known  of  All  the  Lincolns  in  the  World" 
(J934) 

LOWRY  CHARLES  WIMBERLY 

FROM  his  travels  abroad  in  1932,  a  clergyman  of  Lincoln,  Nebraska, 
brought  back  the  following  pronouncement,  delivered  by  the  Lord 
Mayor  of  Lincoln,  England.  "Your  city  is  the  best  known  of  all 
the  Lincolns  in  the  world,"  said  His  Excellency.  "Mail  addressed  to 

248 


A  Nebraska  Reader  249 

Lincoln,  unless  it  designates  England,  is  always  sent  to  Lincoln,  Ne 
braska." 

Whether  or  not  the  Lord  Mayor  knew  what  he  was  talking  about 
or  whether  he  was  just  talking,  it  is  hard  to  say.  But  his  pronounce 
ment  was  at  once  laid  hold  of  by  the  Nebraska  capital.  For  it  not 
only  confirmed  the  city's  private  opinion  of  itself;  it  served  to  en 
large  that  opinion  somewhat.  Prior  to  His  Excellency's  statement, 
Lincoln  had  regarded  itself  as  being  the  cultural  hub  of  little  more 
than  the  Midwest.  But  upon  receipt  of  that  statement,  it  felt  not 
unjustified  in  taking  in  more  territory  still. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  the  Nebraska  capital  is  near  the  heart 
or  center  of  things  in  more  ways  than  one.  Were  it  a  trifle  farther 
south  and  west,  that  is,  it  would  be  the  geographic  center  of  the 
United  States.  And  were  it  a  bit  farther  east,  it  would  be  the  popula 
tion  center  of  Nebraska.  More  specifically,  as  regards  its  situation, 
it  is  the  principal  city  on  Salt  Creek,  a  small  tributary  to  the  Platte 
River,  and  is  some  fifty  miles  west  of  Omaha  and  about  the  same 
distance  from  the  Kansas  border.  It  is  a  typical  prairie  city,  the 
country  roundabout  being  of  a  slightly  rolling,  nondescript  char 
acter—the  sort  of  country  that  sends  Lincoln  people  scurrying  away 
to  distant  vacation  grounds  during  the  summer  months. 

Now  and  then  an  ungracious  visitor  to  the  town  asks  why  the 
capital  city  happens  to  be  situated  where  it  is,  or  why  the  Lord 
ever  put  a  town  here  at  all.  A  proper  answer  to  that  question  might 
well  be  that  the  Lord  didn't.  But  such  is  not  the  answer  that  the 
average  resident  of  the  city  would  give.  For  Lincoln  is  strong  in  the 
belief  that  its  destiny  has  always  been  a  special  concern  of  Provi 
dence.  Its  God  is,  to  be  sure,  of  the  Republican  faith  and  the  Meth 
odist  persuasion.  But  is  has  served  this  God  long  and  zealously,  with 
the  result,  so  it  feels,  that  it  has  been  the  recipient  of  many  divine 
favors. 

These  favors  an  active  Chamber  of  Commerce  is  wont  to  catalogue 
year  after  year  in  some  such  wise  as  this:  98  churches,  21  of  them 
Methodist;  n  office  buildings,  the  highest  towering  17  stories  above 
the  street;  virtually  no  crime  problem  and  not  a  single  tenement 
house;  three  national  banks  and  12,000  college  students;  many  fa 
mous  men  and  women  whose  home  is,  or  was,  in  Lincoln;  the  most 
beautiful  capitol  in  America,  and  "one-fourth  of  the  population  of 
the  United  States  within  a  radius  of  500  miles." 

The  population  of  Lincoln  itself  is  about  75,000— the  female  popu 
lation  exceeding  the  male  by  some  2,000.  This  preponderance  of 


250  ROUNDUP: 

women,  banded  together  as  the  women  are  in  various  sisterhoods, 
is  said  to  account,  in  large  measure,  for  the  sanctity  of  the  town— its 
Sunday  blue  laws,  its  expurgated  movies  and  libraries,  its  clean  alleys, 
and  its  general  freedom  from  crime.  There  are  enough  lawbreakers, 
perhaps,  to  justify  a  small  police  force  and  a  municipal  court,  but 
they  are  petty  offenders— dog  poisoners,  traffic  violators,  and  a  few 
harmless  drunks.  Such  major  crimes  as  homicide,  rape,  and  kidnap 
ing  are  virtually  unheard  of.  From  1927  to  1932,  for  example,  not 
a  single  murder  occurred  in  Lincoln,  whereas  in  other  American 
cities  of  the  same  size  there  was  an  "average  of  eight  murders  per 
year  or  a  total  of  forty  for  the  same  five-year  period/'  This  is  a  re 
markable  record.  And  it  is  doubtless  an  enviable  one,  though  a  local 
wag  did  say  that  the  foregoing  statistics  were  not  necessarily  to  the 
credit  of  the  place. 

But  this  same  wag  is  happy,  the  chances  are,  to  be  living  in  Lincoln, 
and  is  as  proud  as  the  next  man  of  its  high-class  citizenry,  its  finan 
cial  strength,  and  its  cultural  attainments.  And  he  is  at  one  with  his 
fellow  townsmen  in  resenting  any  slurs  on  his  home  town.  He  resents, 
for  example,  the  stupid  opinion— held  by  certain  Easterners— that 
Lincoln  is  nothing  more  than  a  "big  country  burg"  or  that  it  is 
merely  one  of  a  number  of  hinterland  capitals,  overrun  with  cow 
boys  and  Indians.  He  can  appreciate,  in  this  connection,  the  out 
raged  feelings  of  Jeff  Tidrow,  one  of  the  town's  octogenarians.  Jeff 
can  usually  be  found  selling  papers  at  the  corner  of  Fourteenth  and 
O  Streets.  But  last  summer  he  took  his  savings  and  went  back  East 
to  visit  his  brother  in  Philadelphia.  Shortly  after  his  return,  we  asked 
him  how  he  had  enjoyed  his  trip.  He  was  speechless  for  a  moment, 
then  went  off  into  a  high  treble  of  profanity.  But  after  a  bit  he 
calmed  down  and  told  us  what  the  trouble  was.  He  said  that  the 
whole  trip  was  spoiled  because  all  that  "Goddamned  brother"  of  his 
wanted  was  to  talk  about  cowboys  and  Indians.  "I  told  him,"  Jeff 
said,  spitting  viciously  toward  the  curb,  "that  I  hadn't  seen  a  God 
damned  Indian  in  fifty  years.  I  must  of  told  him  the  same  thing  forty 
times,  but  it  didn't  do  no  good.  So  I  cut  my  visit  short  and  come  on 
back." 

Jeff's  experience  in  the  East  is  not,  it  appears,  an  uncommon  one. 
And  short  of  his  profanity,  he  voices  the  general  resentment  of 
Lincoln  toward  Easterners  who  "low-rate"  the  town  with  their  no 
tions  about  Indians,  sod  shanties,  and  outdoor  plumbing.  It  is  true 
that  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  stands  always  ready  to  give  the  lie 
to  notions  of  this  character.  But  if  further  evidence  of  Lincoln's 


A  Nebraska  Reader  251 

modernity  is  needed,  the  city  can  bring  forward  its  factories,  airports, 
libraries,  and  schools.  And  it  can  call  the  roll  of  its  famous  citizens 
—General  Pershing  or  Charles  G.  Dawes,  for  instance,  or  Louise 
Pound,  Colonel  Lindbergh,  and  Willa  Gather.  Strictly  speaking,  only 
one  of  these  personages  now  lives  in  Lincoln,  but  the  others  have 
lived  here  in  the  not-too-distant  past.  Moreover,  there  is  Guy  Kibbee, 
well-known  movie  comedian,  and  Howard  Greer,  the  celebrated 
Hollywood  designer.  Greer  not  only  lived  in  Lincoln,  he  was  born 
here.  By  his  own  admission,  however,  he  heartily  dislikes  the  town, 
and  "avoids  it,  when  crossing  the  country,  by  taking  the  southern 
route."  His  dislike  is  easily  understood.  When  he  was  a  boy  the 
neighborhood  gang  poked  fun  at  him  for  making  doll  clothes.  On 
the  contrary,  Paul  Swan,  said  to  be  the  "most  beautiful  man  in  the 
world"  and  famous  as  a  dancer  and  sculptor's  model,  professes  to 
have  only  pleasant  memories  of  his  residence  in  Lincoln. 

But  no  matter  what  these  celebrities  may  think  of  the  city,  it  makes 
a  business  of  recalling  them  and  of  parading  their  names  every  now 
and  then  in  the  Sunday  papers.  Of  late  years  it  has  even  taken  the 
Great  Commoner  to  its  heart,  sings  his  praises  unblushingly,  and 
forgets  that  in  the  campaigns  of  1896  and  1900  it  bitterly  opposed 
him  for  President.  That  it  gave  him  a  slight  edge  in  1908  was  due 
solely  to  Bryan's  making  a  special  plea  for  the  support  of  his  home 
town.  Bryan  did  succeed  in  impressing  his  ponderous  morality  on  the 
town,  but  as  a  political  prophet  he  was  without  honor,  and  he  might 
well  be  consoled  if  he  could  know  that  his  brother,  Governor  Charles 
Bryan,  has  for  years  hounded  the  city  like  a  nemesis. 

Nevertheless,  the  Nebraska  capital,  Republican  stronghold  though 
it  is,  owes  a  debt  of  thanks  to  the  governor,  for  he  has  done  as  much 
as  any  man  to  keep  the  town  in  the  public  eye.  Not  only  has  he  been 
thrice  governor  of  his  state;  in  1924  he  was  his  party's  nominee  for 
the  vice-presidency.  Oddly  enough,  Charles  G.  Dawes,  a  one-time 
resident  of  Lincoln,  was  the  Republican  nominee  for  the  same  office. 
So  no  matter  how  the  1924  election  went,  Lincoln  was  in  a  position 
to  proclaim  the  vice-president  as  one  of  her  citizens.  The  same  may 
be  said,  moreover,  of  General  Pershing.  After  all  he  did  actually 
reside  in  Lincoln  in  the  early  nineties;  hence,  there  is  no  reason  to 
question  the  city's  right  to  boom  him  for  President  twenty-five  years 
later-in  1919,  to  be  exact.  The  first  Pershing  for  President  club  was 
organized  in  Lincoln.  The  boom  came  to  naught;  General  Pershing, 
that  is,  was  not  interested. 

Colonel  Charles  Lindbergh  might  well  be  gratified  to  learn  that 


252  ROUNDUP: 

he,  too,  is  a  Lincoln  celebrity.  True,  the  colonel  does  not  own  a 
home  there.  He  never  did,  in  fact,  but  he  did  learn  to  fly  there. 
He  enrolled  in  1922  as  a  flying  student  with  the  Nebraska  Aircraft 
Corporation,  took  his  training  with  great  seriousness,  and  was  re 
garded  as  something  of  a  grouch  by  the  other  students.  His  instruc 
tors  didn't,  moreover,  think  highly  of  his  ability,  and  wouldn't 
allow  him  to  fly  "solo/'  unless,  that  is,  he  would  put  up  a  1500  bond. 
Lindbergh  felt  that  the  demand  was  ridiculous;  so  in  high  dudgeon 
he  left  Lincoln  to  become  a  solo  and  stunt  flyer  on  his  own  responsi 
bility.  But  perhaps  at  this  distant  \time  the  colonel  has  only  kindly 
feelings  for  the  place. 

The  slogan  of  the  town  is  "Link  up  with  Lincoln."  And  under 
this  slogan  the  Nebraska  capital  has  managed,  in  one  way  or  another, 
to  link  itself  up  with  a  great  many  people  of  prominence.  It  estab 
lished  a  rather  unsavory  connection,  it  is  true,  with  the  late  Gus 
Winkler,  big-shot  gangster,  shortly  after  the  three-million-dollar 
robbery  of  the  Lincoln  National  Bank  and  Trust  Company.  The 
robbery  occurred  September  17,  1930,  and  it  was  established  that 
Winkler  couldn't  have  taken  part  in  it  directly.  Still,  he  was  accused 
of  engineering  it,  and  the  Lincoln  authorities  entered  into  an  agree 
ment  to  absolve  him  of  any  connection  with  it  if  he  would  aid  in 
recovering  the  negotiable  part  of  the  loot.  This  he  succeeded  in 
doing,  and  turned  back  to  the  city  $583,000  in  securities. 

But  to  take  adequate  note  of  all  such  personages  as  have  lived,  or 
still  live,  in  Lincoln,  or  as  have  kept  the  town  in  the  limelight, 
would  be  to  write  a  book.  A  work  of  this  sort  would  go  far,  however, 
to  squelch  all  those  who  are  inclined  to  high-hat  the  city.  Generous 
space  in  such  a  history  would  have  to  be  given  to  Roscoe  Pound,  a 
bona  fide  native  son.  Nor  would  Willa  Cather  go  unnoticed.  Miss 
Gather  was  graduated  from  the  University  of  Nebraska  in  1895. 
There  is  Dorothy  Canfield  Fisher,  moreover.  She  spent  some  years  in 
Lincoln  when  her  father  was  chancellor  of  the  university.  And  to 
this  list  of  names  they  are  now  thinking  of  adding  Stephen  Crane's. 

For  it  appears,  on  good  authority,  that  Crane  visited  Lincoln  in 
February,  1895.  He  had  little  more  than  landed  in  the  town,  though, 
when  he  was  taken  before  a  judge.  With  what  he  called  his  "eastern 
scruples"  he  had  interfered  in  a  saloon  brawl,  where  a  big  man  was 
pounding  a  rather  small  one.  "But  I  thus  offended  a  local  custom," 
wrote  Crane.  "These  men  fought  each  other  every  night.  Their 
friends  expected  it,  and  I  was  a  damned  nuisance  with  my  eastern 
scruples  and  all  that." 


A  Nebraska  Reader  253 

Crane  came  west  to  see  the  Mississippi,  to  see  a  cowboy  ride,  and 
to  be  in  a  blizzard  of  the  plains.  He  found  the  blizzard  in  Lincoln. 
It  is  true  that  he  could  have  done  better  farther  west,  but  apparently 
he  was  satisfied  with  the  Lincoln  blizzard,  or  what  he  took  for  a 
blizzard. 

Blizzards  and  tornadoes  have  a  way  of  passing  the  town  up,  as  do 
famines,  epidemics,  and  Communists.  Doubtless,  the  Republican  and 
Methodist  God  still  watches  over  it.  But  with  Omaha,  just  fifty  miles 
to  the  east,  it  is  different.  In  1913,  for  example,  a  tornado  ripped 
that  city  up  in  good  style.  But  Omaha— in  the  opinion  of  Lincoln, 
that  is— is  something  of  a  hell-hole,  casts  a  heavy  Democratic  vote, 
and  disapproves  pretty  strongly  of  Methodist  morality.  So  it  was 
altogether  right  and  proper  that  the  tornado  should  pass  over  Lin 
coln  and  raise  the  devil  with  its  big,  wicked  sister  city. 

Condensed  by  special  permission  of  The  American  Mercury,  July,  1934 


2.  The  Prairie  Capital  (1955) 

RAYMOND  A.  McCONNELL,  JR., 

A  LOT  about  Lincoln  is  told  in  the  exquisite  Navajo  hymn  on  the 
buffalo  panel  of  the  Nebraska  capitol: 

In  beauty  I  walk.  With  beauty  before  me  I  walk.  With  beauty  behind  me 
I  walk.  With  beauty  above  me  and  about  me  I  walk. 

From  the  time  Bertram  Grosvenor  Goodhue's  dream  took  reality  in 
its  midst,  Lincoln  has  not  been  the  same,  nor  Nebraska.  You  may 
say  a  mere  building  can't  change  a  city  or  state.  Its  skyline  perhaps, 
but  not  its  character  and  spirit.  But  this  building,  the  dominant 
new  fact  of  the  Lincoln  of  the  past  quarter  century,  has  done  so. 

Self-expression  always  changes  people,  and  for  richer  or  for  poorer 
depending  on  what  is  expressed.  The  capitol  crowning  Lincoln's 
skyline  expresses  Nebraska's  pioneer  faith  and  frontier  hope,  and 
the  bold  aspirations  that  sprout  tall  from  the  fertile  Nebraska  soil 
under  the  bright  Nebraska  sky.  It  symbolizes  that  which  is  noble 
in  the  spirit  of  the  Plains.  In  so  doing,  it  has  served  to  reconfirm 
Nebraska  plainsmen  in  that  spirit.  The  person  who  has  spoken  his 
mind  and  heart,  even  though  not  wholly  sure  of  his  convictions  or 
of  where  they  might  lead,  knows  that  in  the  very  expressing  he  has 
found  a  new  and  more  sure  self,  a  more  certain  sense  of  direction. 


254  ROUNDUP: 

In  the  capital,  Nebraska  spoke  its  unsure  mind,  eloquently.  This  in 
itself  helped  to  make  the  mind  up,  and  to  shape  a  more  resolute 
purpose. 

That  Nebraska's  mind  was  unsure  of  itself  twenty-five  years  ago 
is  suggested  by  the  fact  that  the  Goodhue  masterpiece,  although  con 
ceived  as  an  utterance  of  the  spirit  of  the  Plains,  still  had  to  win 
the  acceptance  of  the  Nebraska  Plains  people.  It  was  all  paid  for 
but  not  all  sold.  Those  who  had  paid  for  it  wondered  and  argued 
over  what  they  had  bought.  They  wanted  to  know,  sometimes  quer 
ulously,  disputatiously,  what  it  meant.  Goodhue's  apostles  told  them, 
and  the  structure  itself  spoke  in  strong,  true  tones.  Goodhue  sensed 
what  Nebraska  people,  once  informed,  would  take  pride  in.  Thus 
his  creation  spoke  Nebraska's  inner  mind  in  its  finest  moments. 

Twenty-five  years  ago  Lincoln  and  Nebraska  thought  big  thoughts, 
but  except  in  football  they  lacked  something  in  self-confidence.  Now 
for  twenty-five  years  Nebraskans  with  their  capitol  know  that  on 
their  plains  they  can  cultivate  as  fine  a  flower  as  any  civilization  can 
nurture.  That  knowledge,  that  new-found  self-confidence,  has  per 
meated  all  of  the  life  of  Lincoln  and  Nebraska. 

"A  community  like  an  individual  has  a  work  to  do,"  says  an  in 
scription  in  the  capitol,  whose  broad  base  symbolizes  the  material 
plane  of  prairie  life. 

Lincoln  in  1930  thought  its  economic  life  broad  enough.  It  called 
itself  "Retail  Capital  of  the  Midlands"  and  "the  most  important 
commercial  center  between  the  Missouri  River  and  the  Pacific."  It 
boasted  the  largest  aircraft  factories  west  of  Dayton.  With  thirty- 
one  home  insurance  companies  it  was  "the  Hartford  of  the  West." 
The  Security  Mutual  edifice  ("Lincoln's  only  office  building  with 
marble  corridors  .  .  .  and  iced  drinking  water")  advertised  that  its 
location  at  isth  and  O  was  "in  the  center  of  Everything."  The  town 
had  what  it  called  a  "Sound  Economic  Base,"  including  "factories, 
offices,  mercantile,  industrial  and  business  establishments  ...  in  the 
proper  number." 

Within  a  decade  nationwide  unemployment  and  regional  drought 
—5,000  fanners  marched  on  the  capitol,  demanding  a  farm  mortgage 
moratorium,  Nebraskans  migrated  with  the  Okies,  abrasive  dust 
some  days  cut  down  visibility  to  half  a  block— forced  an  agonizing 
reappraisal  of  the  material  base  of  a  city  heavily  dependent  on  retail 
trade  and  servicing  an  agricultural  area. 

The  diversification  of  the  Lincoln  economy  through  the  wartime 


A  Nebraska  Reader  255 

forties  and  into  the  fifties  was  equal  parts  circumstance  and  chance; 
Providence  and  the  fates  of  war;  and  acumen  of  citizens  who  were 
convinced  that  the  good  old  days  weren't  good  enough.  The  circum 
stance  was  that  for  industries  expanding  for  war,  Lincoln  offered  a 
safe  location  and  sane  working  populace.  The  chance  was  the  casual 
remark  of  a  business  acquaintance  of  Bennett  Martin's  that  the  im 
probably  named  Elastic  Stop-Nut  Corp.  of  New  Jersey  was  looking 
for  another  factory  location.  Martin  knew  the  right  spot.  Sadly  when 
the  Stop-Nut  scouts  came,  Salt  Creek  was  flooding  the  site,  but  prov 
identially  there  was  an  idle  warehouse  which  Stop-Nut  deemed  suit 
able.  Thus  in  1942  Lincoln  acquired  war  industry,  a  firm  employing 
1,500  and  making  a  doodad  that  had  30,000  uses  on  a  single  bomber. 

The  product's  merit  was  that  it  couldn't  unscrew.  With  war's  end, 
however,  Stop-Nut  came  unscrewed  from  Lincoln.  Fortuitously  a 
Stop-Nut  official  mentioned  the  fact  to  an  old  college  classmate,  a 
top  Elgin  Watchman.  Again,  the  sizeable  Elgin  operation— watch  and 
ordnance  mechanisms— which  succeeded  Stop-Nut  at  the  once-empty 
warehouse,  was  sired  by  chance,  out  of  local  alertness.  Meanwhile 
Western  Electric— signal  corps  equipment— had  moved  into  another 
begging  building,  and  Goodyear— leakproof  airplane  gas  tanks,  later 
tractor  belts  and  such— found  the  long-idle  Patriot  Aircraft  factory 
to  its  liking.  Local  industry,  like  Charley  Ammon's  Cushman  Motor 
Works— scooters— or  Walton  Ferris'  National  Manufacturing  Co.-— 
walking  sprinklers— had  evolved  with  military  impetus  into  big  oper 
ations.  By  1955  Lincoln  was  a  major  manufacturing  as  well  as  a  re 
tailing,  food  processing,  and  insurance  center.  If  it  still  wasn't  quite 
the  economic  center  of  everything,  the  work  its  people  had  to  do  in 
volved  more  nearly  everything. 

The  prairie  capital  of  the  late  twenties  called  itself  the  "Athens 
of  the  West."  It  remained  for  Goodhue's  Parthenon,  however,  to 
give  the  Prairie  Athens  cultural  stature.  Like  the  Parthenon  rising 
in  the  Athens  of  Pericles,  it  signaled  the  flowering  of  the  arts.  As 
with  Athens,  the  flowering  was  sometimes  disputatious.  True,  Bess 
Streeter  Aldrich  attained  her  greatest  productivity  in  quiet  dignity 
disturbed  only  when  Hollywood  brought  to  town  its  premiere  of 
her  Cheers  for  Miss  Bishop.  Lowry  Wimberly  each  quarter  nudged 
the  Prairie  Schooner  to  world  literary  repute  without  controversy. 
Emily  Schossberger  built  the  University  of  Nebraska  Press  into  a 
recognized  outlet  of  literature  and  scholarship  with  only  occasional 
tribulation.  But  denunciation  greeted  expressions  in  the  visual  arts. 
When  Keith  Martin  painted  butterflies  as  big  as  cows  over  the  Uni- 


256  ROUNDUP: 

versity  Club  mantel,  an  outraged  esthete  quit  the  club.  When  the 
Bryan  admirers  won  assent  to  locate  Rudolph  Evans'  statue  of  the 
Great  Commoner  "temporarily"  on  the  capital's  steps,  there  were 
anguished  cries.  One  critic  said  it  looked  like  someone's  forgotten 
suitcase.  The  Bryanites  stuck  William  Jennings  "temporarily"  fast 
in  concrete.  When  Kenneth  Evatt,  completing  the  rotunda  murals, 
painted  a  bull  as  ordered  ("architectural  in  feeling  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
nowhere  realistic") ,  a  state  senator  who  had  never  seen  a  purple 
cow  complained  that  he  had  never  seen  a  square  bull.  The  furore 
gave  Nebraska's  new  designation  as  "The  Beef  State"  the  fillip  the 
cattlemen  desired. 

Despite  attacks  on  its  conservatism,  the  Nebraska  Art  Association 
came  to  epitomize  in  its  annual  shows  the  whole  range  of  modern 
art,  laid  like  the  capitol  on  classical  foundations,  although  again, 
citizens  found  one  show  much  too  modern.  The  Lincoln  Artists' 
Guild's  two  annual  shows,  the  exhibits  of  the  Miller  8c  Paine  collec 
tion,  plus  one-man  and  group  shows,  brought  art  to  the  people. 
Throughout  the  state  Mrs.  M.  E.  Vance  took  the  University  Exten 
sion  Division's  all-state  art  shows,  bringing  culture  to  the  crossroads. 

The  Circlet  Theater  started,  "in  the  round,"  later  merging  with 
the  Lincoln  Community  Theater  and  switching  to  conventional  stage 
—if  the  city  bathhouse  was  conventional— before  settling  in  a  one 
time  synagogue.  New  theaters  had  been  fashioned  on  the  Wesleyan 
and  Nebraska  University  campuses,  meanwhile. 

Founded  in  1927  with  twenty-five  members  and  Rudolph  Seidl 
conducting,  the  Lincoln  Symphony  sharpened  music  appreciation. 
Merging  with  an  earlier  concert  course,  it  began  bringing  great 
artists  to  town.  By  1955  under  the  baton  of  Leo  Kopp  it  was  enter 
taining  thousands  in  "pops"  concerts  at  Pinewood  Bowl— itself  a 
striking  innovation  of  the  quarter  century.  At  the  same  Pioneers 
Park  site,  the  Singfest  Committee  was  staging  summer  operas,  and  on 
Sunday  evenings  Lincoln  folks  were  gathering  to  sing  hymns.  Over 
a  succession  of  summers,  on  the  downtown  campus,  Arthur  West- 
brook  and  David  Foltz,  starting  with  a  handful  of  eager  high  school 
students,  had  developed  an  annual  fine-arts  course  of  wide  note.  In 
the  thirties  the  remarkable  John  Rosborough  had  proclaimed  Lin 
coln's  fame  throughout  the  land  with  his  Great  Cathedral  Choir. 
The  cathedral  dream  faded.  But  Lincoln  itself,  a  quarter  century 
later,  had  become  in  a  sense  a  cathedral  of  all  the  arts,  built  by 
many  hands. 

No  portrait  of  the  Prairie  Capital  in  its  metamorphosis  from  big 


A  Nebraska  Reader  257 

small  town  to  small  big  city  would  be  complete  without  mention  o£ 
its  home  life.  For  throughout  the  quarter  century  Lincoln  has  pro 
claimed  that  its  greatest  resource  is  its  people,  and  that  it  is  pecul 
iarly  a  "city  of  homes."  In  the  narrow  sense  this  meant  simply  that 
since  there  was  little  down-town  night  life  after  the  movies  were 
over,  such  night  life  as  there  was  in  Lincoln  was  to  be  found  in 
private  homes.  In  a  broader  sense,  it  was  a  civic  boast  as  to  the  char 
acter  and  quality— and  quantity— of  Lincoln's  family  life. 

In  the  thirties,  life  at  home  was  nothing  like  that  of  the  pioneers. 
There  were  maids  at  three  to  five  dollars  a  week,  who  gave  the 
housewife  some  freedom.  "Entertaining"  meant  a  formal  dinner 
served  in  courses,  with  the  best  linens  and  chinas  and  an  elaborate 
centerpiece  of  fresh  flowers.  As  times  got  tougher  there  were  fewer 
maids  and  more  modest  preparations  for  parties.  By  the  time  the 
war  struck,  the  maid  had  become  Rosie  the  Riveter,  and  Lincoln 
women  found  themselves  doing  their  own  work,  like  their  forebears. 
The  pioneer  sought  and  found  a  neighbor's  help  in  putting  out  a 
prairie  fire;  the  parents  of  1955  were  putting  precisely  the  same 
system  to  work  in  finding  baby-sitters. 

The  earlier  Lincoln,  and  the  Lincoln  in  transition,  had  been  called 
"The  Holy  City."  Sometimes  this  was  in  mild  mockery  of  the  peace 
ful  co-existence  of  its  active  churches  and  its  occasional  rough-tough 
elements  and  civic  smog.  The  city  took  the  label  unabashedly  and  in 
good  grace,  but  the  thirties  were  the  years  of  choosing  up  sides,  be 
tween  "good"  and  "evil,"  black  or  white.  In  these  agitated  years, 
the  houses  of  prostitution  and  more  or  less  open  gambling  disap 
peared,  and  assaults  on  restrictions  in  the  sale  of  liquor  were  beaten 
back.  By  the  fifties  the  strident  notes  were  less  dominant,  and  a  true, 
strong  but  not  jarring,  clear  but  not  intolerant  community  tone  had 
been  set  and  fairly  well  settled  upon.  Sounding  the  pitch  for  this 
community  tone  was  an  augmented  diapason  of  churches— 123  in 
1955,  where  in  1930  there  had  been  100. 

The  spirit  of  change  was  contagious.  If  the  state  could  have  a 
capitol  without  a  dome  and  a  legislature  without  chambers  or 
parties,  why  couldn't  the  city  have  a  city-manager  form  of  govern 
ment  without  a  city  manager?  It  could  and  did,  replacing  the  mayor 
and  four  commissioners  in  1937  with,  a  seven-man  council  and  divid 
ing  the  managership  into  three  parts— tailor-made  for  three  extraor 
dinary  public  servants,  Theo  Berg,  Dave  Erickson,  and  Cobe 
Venner.  Eighteen  years  later  it  had  seen  the  city  through  the  pangs 
of  war  and  postwar  adjustment  and  the  worst  growing  pains  of  a 


258  ROUNDUP 

doubled  population.  Revision  of  an  obsolete  financial  limitation  in 
the  charter  in  1951  enabled  city  government  to  meet  the  community's 
mushrooming  basic  needs— for  newer  fire  engines,  more  sewers,  better 
streets.  The  water  supply  was  expanded,  a  new  viaduct  negotiated, 
an  auditorium  begun.  Cognizant  that  "political  society  exists  for 
the  sake  of  noble  living/'  as  it  is  said  on  the  capital,  the  city  was 
getting  around,  also,  to  more  of  such  niceties  of  life  as  swimming 
pools,  libraries,  and  parks. 

Two  other  innovations  marked  the  Prairie  Capital's  quarter  cen 
tury.  While  staunchly  opposed  in  principle  to  the  growth  of  big 
government,  it  developed  as  a  federal  center  of  consequence.  This 
began  in  1929  when  the  business  community  put  up  $92,000  as 
come-on  money  for  the  Veterans  Hospital,  and  reached  a  peak  in  the 
early  forties  when  the  Veterans  Administration  and  the  Soil  Con 
servation  Service  set  up  regional  shops,  and  the  Post  Office  was 
doubled  in  size.  Although  fraternization  was  only  tentative  at  first, 
the  townsfolk  discovered  that  the  federal  bureaucrats  are  people. 

These  townsfolk  blinked  a  good  deal  in  1941  when  a  unique  crea 
ture  of  Nebraska  government  called  a  public  power  district,  and 
like  the  unicameral,  bearing  Norris'  mark,  took  over  the  private 
utility  in  its  quest  for  a  firm  market  for  Nebraska's  hydroelectric 
power.  But  gradually  they  got  used  even  to  that— and  barely  in  time, 
too.  For  in  a  mere  fourteen  years  that  same  public  power  district 
was  talking  about  smashing  atoms  in  a  nuclear  power  plant. 

The  city  has  spread  broadly,  now  in  orderly  rectangles  and  mas 
sive  businesslike  horizontals,  now  in  undulating  residential  plats, 
across  the  fruited  plain.  Geometric  and  white  in  its  architecture, 
young  in  its  ranchos,  expansive  in  its  spread,  daring  in  its  planning, 
the  greater  part  of  its  face  has  changed  in  two  and  a  half  decades.  In 
those  twenty-five  years  Lincoln  has  become  not  quite  an  alabaster 
city— but  it  has  acquired  a  lot  of  Bedford  limestone,  if  not  alabaster, 
and  milk  and  honey  flow  fairly  free.  The  city's  population*  and  pay 
roll  are  up,  much.  And  over  the  years  this  city,  which  stands  for  a 
state,  has  found  more  and  more  a  oneness  about  it— an  integrity  in 
which  its  culture  and  commerce,  its  town  and  gown,  its  art  and  its 
civic  life  have  taken  on  some  of  the  same  oneness  of  spirit  of  "an 
house  of  state  where  men  live  well." 

Condensed  from  Seventy-five  Years  in  the  Prairie  Capital,  Miller  &  Paine,  1955 

*  In  January,  1957,  according  to  the  chairman  of  the  City  Planning  Commission, 
Lincoln's  population  was  128,000. 


V.  The  Weather  Report 


It's  downright  disgraceful  that  in  most 
parts  of  the  United  States  the  climate  is  of 
foreign  origin.  Florida  and  California 
openly  brag  of  their  Mediterranean  sun 
shine.  The  only  place  where  one  can  get 
real,  genuine  American  weather  is  on  the 
Great  Plains  between  the  Mississippi  and 
the  Rockies. 

-Paul  R.  Beath,  Febold  Feboldson: 
Tall  Tales  from  the  Great  Plains 


The  Seasons  in  Nebraska 

Selected  from  the  writings  of 
WILLA  GATHER 


I 

Winter  has  settled  down  over  the  Divide  again;  the  season  in  which 
Nature  recuperates,  in  which  she  sinks  to  sleep  between  the  fruitful- 
ness  of  autumn  and  the  passion  of  spring.  The  birds  have  gone.  The 
teeming  life  that  goes  on  down  in  the  long  grass  is  exterminated. 
The  prairie-dog  keeps  his  hole.  The  rabbits  run  shivering  from  one 
frozen  garden  patch  to  another  and  are  hard  put  to  it  to  find  frost 
bitten  cabbage  stalks.  All  night  the  coyotes  roam  the  wintry  waste, 
howling  for  food.  The  variegated  fields  are  all  one  color  now;  the 
pastures,  the  stubble,  the  roads,  the  sky  are  the  same  leaden  gray. 
The  hedgerows  and  trees  are  scarcely  perceptible  against  the  bare 
earth,  whose  slaty  hue  they  have  taken  on.  The  ground  is  frozen  so 
hard  that  it  bruises  the  foot  to  walk  in  the  roads  or  in  the  ploughed 
fields.  It  is  like  an  iron  country,  and  the  spirit  is  oppressed  by  its 
rigor  and  melancholy.  One  could  easily  believe  that  in  that  dead 
landscape  the  germs  of  life  and  fruitfulness  were  extinct  forever. 

II 

When  spring  came,  after  that  hard  winter,  one  could  not  get 
enough  of  the  nimble  air.  Every  morning  I  wakened  with  a  fresh 
consciousness  that  winter  was  over.  There  were  none  of  the  signs  of 
spring  for  which  I  used  to  watch  in  Virginia,  no  budding  woods  or 
blooming  gardens.  There  was  only-spring  itself;  the  throb  of  it,  the 
light  restlessness,  the  vital  essence  of  it  everywhere:  in  the  sky,  in 
the  swift  clouds,  in  the  pale  sunshine,  and  in  the  warm,  high  wind- 
rising  suddenly,  impulsive  and  playful  like  a  big  puppy  that  pawed 
you  and  then  lay  down  to  be  petted.  If  I  had  been  tossed  down 
blindfold  on  that  red  prairie,  I  should  have  known  that  it  was  spring. 

261 


5>6s>  ROUNDUP 

III 

The  sun  was  like  a  great  visiting  presence  that  stimulated  and  took 
its  due  from  all  animal  energy.  When  it  flung  wide  its  cloak  and 
stepped  down  over  the  edge  of  the  fields  at  evening,  it  left  behind 
it  a  spent  and  exhausted  world.  Horses  and  men  and  women  grew 
thin,  seethed  all  day  in  their  own  sweat.  After  supper  they  dropped 
over  and  slept  anywhere  at  all,  until  the  red  dawn  broke  clear  in 
the  east  again,  like  the  fanfare  of  trumpets,  and  nerves  and  muscles 
began  to  quiver  with  the  solar  heat. 

IV 

All  those  fall  afternoons  were  the  same,  but  I  never  got  used  to 
them.  As  far  as  we  could  see,  the  miles  of  copper-red  grass  were 
drenched  in  sunlight  that  was  stronger  and  fiercer  than  at  any  other 
time  of  the  day.  The  blond  cornfields  were  red  gold,  the  haystacks 
turned  rosy  and  threw  long  shadows.  The  whole  prairie  was  like  the 
bush  that  burned  with  fire  and  was  not  consumed.  The  hour  always 
had  the  exultation  of  victory,  of  triumphant  ending,  like  a  hero's 
transfiguration,  a  lifting-up  of  day. 


At  reunions  of  old  settlers  there  was  one  topic  of  debate 
never,  so  far  as  is  known,  satisfactorily  resolved  by  peace 
ful  or  other  means.  The  question  of  the  relative  severity 
of  the  Easter  Storm  of  1873  and  the  Blizzard  of  1888 
probably  has  disrupted  more  social  gatherings  of  Ne 
braska's  senior  citizens  than  any  other  nineteenth-century 
controversy. 

The  fact  that  an  account  of  the  latter  storm  is  included 
in  this  book  is  not  to  be  regarded  as  a  sign  of  partisanship. 
It  was  chosen  simply  because,  as  it  occurred  later  in  time, 
communication  facilities  were  better  developed,  and  the 
reports  on  the  storm  are  more  comprehensive. 


The  Blizzard  of  1888 


ORA  A.  CLEMENT 

THE  MERE  FACT  that  on  January  12,  1888,  a  storm  crossed  the  middle- 
western  states,  leaving  a  wake  of  suffering  and  death,  may  not  seem 
important  to  one  who  reads  the  statement  nearly  seventy  years  after 
the  event.  The  people  of  the  plains  have  survived  many  disasters. 
Why  should  one  snowstorm  be  remembered  more  than  others? 

While  it  is  true  that  the  same  area  has  known  stronger  winds,  lower 
temperatures,  and  heavier  snows  than  those  attending  the  famous 
blizzard,  there  have  been  few,  if  any,  other  storms  in  which  all  these 
elements  were  combined  to  attack  an  unprepared  populace.  The 
old-timers  who  remembered  the  "Easter  storm"  of  '73  may  have  recog 
nized  the  threat  of  an  unusually  warm  January  day,  but  to  the  settlers 
who  had  not  yet  learned  the  weather  signals  of  the  western  plains, 
the  storm  seemed  to  leap  upon  them  out  of  nowhere,  like  some  dia 
bolical  thing.  Its  very  suddenness  was  terrifying.  As  survivors  tell  the 
story  today,  one  detects  a  certain  disposition  to  place  the  blizzard  of 
1888  in  the  realm  of  the  supernatural,  as  something  that  had  its 
sources  outside  natural  causes.  Says  one  of  them:  "It  was  the  wicked 
est  thing  I  ever  saw." 

The  blizzard  of  1888  came  at  a  strategic  period  in  middlewestern 
history.  Free  land  was  nearly  all  taken  up.  Many  of  the  new  settlers 
had  been  lured  across  the  Mississippi  and  the  Missouri  by  agents  of 

263 


264  ROUNDUP: 

railroad  and  land  companies  and  some  of  them  had  been  disap 
pointed  in  what  they  found.  Even  the  settlers  who  had  been  on  their 
farms  or  in  small  villages  for  a  considerable  time  still  thought  of  their 
venture  as  being  in  the  experimental  stage.  There  was  always  more 
or  less  discussion  as  to  whether  they  would  stay  or  go  "back  East." 

Their  take-it-or-leave-it  attitude  of  mind  did  not  tend  toward  per 
manence.  The  man  who  was  still  undecided  about  the  future  did 
not  take  as  good  care  of  his  buildings  as  the  one  who  had  already 
put  down  roots.  This  fact,  too,  is  reflected  in  the  reminiscences  of  the 
survivors.  "The  roof  had  not  been  repaired/'  says  one.  "We  did  not 
lose  any  stock  because  our  sheds  were  good/'  says  another. 

The  terrible  experiences  of  teachers  and  pupils  in  poorly  built  and 
inadequately  heated  schoolhouses  indicate  that  the  pioneer  school 
was  also  in  an  experimental  stage.  One  man  recalls  that  the  little 
schoolhouse  in  his  district  was  kept  mounted  on  skids  so  it  could  be 
moved  to  the  part  of  the  district  where  the  most  pupils  could  be 
accommodated.  At  the  time  of  the  blizzard,  many  schools  were  with 
out  sufficient  fuel;  in  other  cases,  what  was  on  hand  had  been  thrown 
on  the  ground  outside  the  building  and  was  soon  buried  beneath 
snowdrifts.  Some  of  the  tragedies  of  the  storm  were  the  direct  result 
of  insufficient  fuel  at  the  schoolhouse.  The  teacher  had  no  choice  but 
to  try  to  find  other  shelter  for  her  charges. 

Because  of  its  dramatic  aspect,  the  blizzard  was  given  wide  pub 
licity  throughout  the  nation.  How  much  this  publicity  injured  the 
subsequent  growth  of  the  Middle  West  we  do  not  know,  but  it  could 
not  fail  to  have  its  influence  upon  the  easterners  who  had  contem 
plated  trying  their  fortunes  "out  West."  The  aftermath  of  unfavor 
able  publicity  must  certainly  have  resulted  in  a  defensive  attitude 
on  the  part  of  the  middlewesterners,  who  began  to  profess  a  con 
fidence  in  and  a  loyalty  for  their  adopted  state  or  territory. 

The  general  effect,  then,  of  the  devastating  storm  was  to  strengthen 
and  solidify  the  states  which  had  suffered  the  most  because  of  it.  It 
winnowed  out  the  weaklings.  The  families  who  felt  that  they  could 
not  endure  such  experiences  moved  away.  Those  who  remained  made 
their  decision  to  do  so  after  consideration  of  all  that  was  involved, 
and  began  to  think  in  terms  of  permanence.  This  decision  naturally 
led  to  home  improvement  and  a  growing  community  interest. 

Parents  who  realized  how  easily  their  children  might  have  become 
victims  of  the  storm  gave  more  attention  to  the  comforts  and  con 
veniences  of  their  district  schools.  Only  a  few  weeks  after  the  blizzard 
a  letter  went  out  from  the  state  superintendent's  office  requesting  that 


A  Nebraska  Reader  265 

all  rural  schools  in  Nebraska  have  their  winter  fuel  under  cover  on 
the  school  ground  before  cold  weather  began  each  year. 

For  such  reasons  as  these,  we  maintain  that  the  blizzard  of  January 
12,  1888,  had  a  peculiar  historical  and  social  significance  which 
should  not  be  lost  to  sight. 

The  cold  front  which  moved  out  of  the  Canadian  northwest  first 
appeared  in  the  United  States  on  the  nine  P.M.  map  of  January  11. 
It  had  by  then  passed  southward  into  northwestern  Montana.  The 
next  position  is  for  six  A.M.  January  12,  at  which  time  reports  in 
dicated  that  the  cold  front  had  swept  through  Montana,  entered  the 
Dakotas,  and  was  approaching  the  Nebraska  Panhandle. 

In  the  eight  hours  to  two  P.M.  of  that  day  the  front  of  cold  air  had 
almost  crossed  Nebraska  and  extended  along  the  western  boundary 
of  Minnesota  to  Sioux  City,  Iowa,  and  from  there  to  the  west  of 
Crete,  Nebraska,  and  curved  southward  over  Kansas.  The  effect  of 
the  movement  is  shown  at  Valentine,  where  the  temperature  had 
risen  to  30°  by  six  A.M.  and  fell  to  —6°  by  two  P.M.,  a  drop  of  36 
degrees  at  a  time  when  normally  the  greatest  daily  rise  occurs.  By 
nine  P.M.  the  temperature  at  Valentine  was  —14°.  Cold  air  contin 
ued  to  be  transported  southward,  and  the  further  fall  during  the  next 
two  nights  brought  temperatures  of  —35°  at  Valentine  and  North 
Platte.  By  the  morning  of  January  13  temperatures  were  —20°  to 
—30°  in  Montana.  On  the  fifteenth,  —26°  was  recorded  at  Omaha 
and  —27°  at  Lincoln. 

The  snowfall  in  Lincoln  is  recorded  at  seven  inches,  which  is  more 
than  other  places  where  officially  measured.  At  Omaha  four  inches 
were  recorded.  At  North  Platte  snowfall  was  very  light.  From  the 
available  reports  it  appears  evident  that  the  snow  in  the  air  at  the 
time  of  the  blizzard  was  derived  partly  from  snow  that  was  on  the 
ground  before  the  storm  began. 

The  blizzard  was  notable  not  simply  because  of  the  low  tempera 
tures,  for  other  cold  waves  have  been  colder.  Neither  was  the  snow 
fall  remarkably  heavy,  nor  the  depth  on  the  ground  unusual  as 
compared  with  many  other  occasions.  It  was  the  combination  of  the 
three  factors,  namely,  the  gale  winds,  the  blinding  snow,  and  the 
extremely  rapid  drop  in  temperature  from  winter  comfort  level  to 
well  below  zero  which  together  made  the  blizzard  most  dangerous. 

In  Nebraska  the  morning  of  January  12  had  been  so  mild  that 
men  were  about  in  their  shirt  sleeves  and  cattled  grazed  in  the  field. 
The  air  was  as  soft  and  hazy  as  an  Indian  summer's  day.  In  all  parts 


266  ROUNDUP: 

of  the  state  men  and  stock  were  out  in  the  fields  and  school  children 
played  out  of  doors.  Suddenly  the  wind  changed  to  the  north,  blow 
ing  more  furiously  each  minute  thick  blinding  snow,  first  in  large 
flakes  and  later  in  small  ones  with  the  impact  of  a  bullet  from  a  gun. 
There  seemed  no  limit  to  the  fury  of  the  wind,  while  the  driven  snow 
fell  more  and  more  heavily.  Men  driving  their  teams  could  not  see 
the  horses'  heads.  The  roads  were  blotted  out  and  travelers  staggered 
blindly  on,  not  knowing  where  they  were  going.  The  storm  and  the 
intense  cold  which  followed  lasted  three  days  and  were  almost  im 
mediately  followed  by  another  fierce  storm.  It  was  two  weeks  before 
the  news  from  the  farms  and  ranches  began  to  trickle  into  the  news 
paper  offices.  Then  it  was  learned  that  the  storm  was  the  greatest  ever 
known  in  the  West.  In  Holt  County  alone,  more  than  twenty  people 
lost  their  lives,  and  one-half  of  the  livestock  in  the  county  perished. 

Because  in  a  great  part  of  Nebraska  it  struck  between  three  and 
four  o'clock,  just  as  the  children  were  leaving  school  for  home,  the 
blizzard  of  1888  is  known  as  "the  schoolchildren's  storm/'  Hundreds 
of  little  ones  were  trapped,  along  with  their  teachers,  in  situations 
where  their  lives  depended  upon  cool  judgment  and  prompt  action. 

If  many  heroic  deeds  failed  to  receive  proper  recognition,  there 
were  others  which  were  widely  acclaimed.  Best  known,  perhaps,  is  the 
Minnie  May  Freeman  incident.  Miss  Freeman  was  teaching  in  a  rural 
school  called  "the  Midvale  school"  in  Mira  Valley,  near  Ord,  Valley 
County,  Nebraska.  There  were  sixteen  pupils  present  that  day,  sev 
eral  of  them  being  nearly  as  old  as  the  teacher,  who  was  still  in  her 
teens.  The  schoolhouse  was  made  of  sod,  and  there  was  enough  coal 
on  hand  to  keep  the  group  warm  if  it  were  found  advisable  to  remain 
all  night  in  the  building.  Before  time  for  dismissal  in  the  afternoon, 
the  wind  broke  the  leather  hinges  of  the  door  and  blew  it  in.  The 
boys  repaired  the  hinges  and  put  the  door  in  place.  When  it  was 
blown  in  again  they  nailed  it  shut. 

Soon  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  caught  the  corner  of  the  tarpaper- 
and-sod  roof  and  ripped  it  off,  leaving  a  large  hole  through  which 
the  snow  began  to  drift.  Both  teacher  and  pupils  knew  that  they  must 
now  prepare  to  leave  the  building,  for  it  would  be  impossible  to  keep 
warm  with  that  hole  in  the  roof.  They  expected  the  whole  roof  to  be 
torn  off  at  any  moment.  The  sturdy,  half -grown  boys  and  girls  were 
mostly  Nebraska-born  and  were  undismayed  by  the  fury  of  the  storm. 
They  agreed  to  the  teacher's  plan  to  take  the  whole  group  to  her 
bparding  place,  half  a  mile  north  of  the  schoolhouse,  and  assisted  her 
in  getting  the  smaller  pupils  through  a  south  window  and  in  lining 


A  Nebraska  Reader  267 

them  up  for  their  march  against  the  storm.  Cheeks  and  fingers  were 
frosted  and  it  was  hard  going,  but  they  struggled  on  and  eventually 
reached  their  destination  safely. 

A  few  days  after  the  storm  the  newspapers  got  the  story  of  the  trek, 
and  a  highly  colored  version  of  it  was  broadcast  across  the  country. 
Miss  Freeman  found  herself  a  heroine,  the  recipient  of  many  gifts 
and  congratulatory  notes  from  unknown  admirers  from  East  to  West. 

A  much  sadder  story  is  that  of  Lois  May  Royce  who  was  teaching 
in  District  No.  32,  near  Plainview,  Pierce  County,  Nebraska.  Miss 
Royce  had  but  nine  pupils  in  school  that  day.  Six  of  them  went  home 
at  noon  and  did  not  return.  Remaining  with  her  were  little  Peter 
Poggensee,  9,  Otto  Rosberg,  9,  and  Hattie  Rosberg,  6.  There  was 
not  enough  fuel  to  keep  the  building  warm  through  the  night,  and 
Miss  Royce  decided  to  take  the  three  children  to  her  boarding  place, 
which  was  at  the  farm  home  of  Pete  Hanson,  about  200  yards  north 
of  the  schoolhouse.  Miss  Royce,  it  will  be  noted,  had  no  grown  pupils 
to  assist  her.  Leading  her  three  little  charges  toward  safety,  she  be 
came  hopelessly  lost.  The  four  of  them  were  driven  about  by  the 
fierce  wind  until  they  sank,  exhausted,  in  a  spot  where  a  hay  or 
straw  stack  offered  some  protection.  Before  daybreak  all  three  chil 
dren  had  perished,  huddled  close  to  the  teacher's  chilled  body.  With 
her  own  feet  and  hands  frozen,  the  girl  then  crawled  to  the  nearest 
farmhouse,  which  was  but  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  to  get  help. 
She  was  given  the  best  care  possible,  but  both  feet  were  amputated 
above  the  ankles,  and  one  hand  was  permanently  disabled. 

Another  tragic  story  which  received  much  publicity  is  that  of  Miss 
Etta  Shattuck,  whose  home  was  In  Seward.  Miss  Shattuck  was  teach 
ing  in  District  No.  141,  Holt  County,  near  Emmet.  Her  pupils  had 
all  been  taken  home.  (Some  accounts  of  the  incident  state  that  she 
had  no  school  that  day.)  She  started  out,  alone,  to  reach  the  home  of 
one  of  the  directors  to  get  a  warrant  signed.  She  became  lost. 

She  wandered  about  until  she  found  a  haystack,  where  she  decided 
to  burrow  in  as  best  she  could.  When  daylight  came  she  was  too  weak 
to  break  her  way  out  through  the  snowdrift  that  had  covered  the 
stack.  Becoming  weaker  and  more  chilled  as  the  hours  passed,  she 
lay  there  helpless  from  Thursday  night  until  Sunday  morning,  when 
a  farmer  came  to  get  hay  for  his  stock  and  found  her.  For  some  time 
it  looked  as  through  her  will  to  live  might  triumph  over  the  severity 
of  her  injuries.  Both  legs  were  amputated  below  the  knee,  and 
although  she  survived  the  operation,  she  died  a  few  days  later. 

In  Dodge  County,  Nebraska,  occurred  the  pathetic  experience  of 


268  ROUNDUP 

the  Westphalen  girls,  13  and  7,  who  were  attending  school  near 
Rogers.  When  the  storm  came  up,  the  older  girl  asked  the  teacher  to 
excuse  them  so  they  might  go  home.  The  teacher  was  reluctant  to 
let  them  go,  but  the  girls  were  so  insistent,  saying  their  widowed 
mother  would  be  terribly  worried  about  them,  that  she  finally  gave 
her  consent  for  them  to  start  out.  The  children  never  reached  their 
home  and  it  was  many  days  before  their  bodies  were  found  in  the 
drifts.  When  discovered,  the  younger  girl  was  wrapped  in  the  coat 
of  her  sister,  who  had,  it  seemed,  made  this  great  sacrifice  for  the 
comfort  of  the  little  one  in  her  charge. 

Charles  Gurnsey,  only  twelve  years  old,  guided  a  group  of  children 
home  from  a  school  in  Loup  County,  Nebraska.  The  teacher  dis 
missed  school  at  four  o'clock,  without  realizing  the  danger  the  chil 
dren  would  encounter  in  attempting  to  reach  their  homes.  Charles 
took  charge  of  a  number  of  smaller  pupils  whose  parents  did  not 
come  for  them  and  personally  delivered  them  to  their  parents,  walk 
ing  about  two  miles  to  accomplish  the  task. 

While  the  daily  and  county  press  gave  ample  coverage  to  the  storm, 
there  were  many  omissions  and  discrepancies  in  their  reports  because 
of  the  difficulties  of  communication,  especially  during  the  days  im 
mediately  following  the  blizzard.  In  1888  telephones  were  in  use  only 
in  the  larger  cities,  and  the  storm  broke  down  the  lines.  Telegraph 
wires  and  trains  also  were  knocked  out  of  commission.  In  favorable 
weather  the  people  in  rural  districts  got  their  mail  but  once  or  twice 
a  week,  and  after  the  blizzard  it  was  many  days  before  some  of  these 
communities  could  make  any  contact  with  the  outside  world. 

An  interesting  controversy  resulted  from  the  various  estimates  of 
the  total  deaths  caused  by  the  storm,  which  ranged  from  one  or  two 
hundred  to  one  thousand.  The  newspapers  which  inclined  toward 
the  larger  number  accused  their  competitors  of  deliberately  suppress 
ing  the  facts  and  of  being  the  tools  of  the  railroads  and  the  land 
companies  whose  interests  were  not  furthered  by  stories  of  a  dis 
astrous  storm  in  the  territory  they  were  just  then  promoting. 

The  spectacular  heroism  of  the  few  resulted  in  much  publicity,  not 
always  favorable,  for  the  part  of  the  country  visited  by  the  blizzard, 
but  the  unexploited  courage  and  endurance  of  the  majority  have 
been  important  factors  in  casting  the  mould  for  later  generations  of 
middlewesterners. 


Extracted  from  In  AH  Its  Fury,  compiled  by  W.  H.  O'Gara, 
Union  College  Press,  1935 


The  first  question  a  stranger  asks  when  he  visits  the  Great 
Plains  is  "Does  the  wind  blow  this  way  all  the  time?"  The 
native  always  answers  "No .sometimes  it  blows  harder!' 

-Paul  R.  Beath,  Febold  Feboldson:  Tall  Tales  from  the 
Great  Plains 


Cyclone  Tarns 


GEORGE  L.  JACKSON 

ALTHOUGH  this  article  is  entitled  "Cyclone  Yarns,"  the  title  is  mis 
leading.  The  events  mentioned  herein  are  not  "yarns,"  but  are  "gospel 
truths,"  each  one  being  supported  by  authentic  and  scientific  investi 
gations.  And  although  the  term  "cyclone"  is  used,  this  being  the 
common  terminology  of  the  midwesterner,  the  true  technical  name 
for  such  an  atmospheric  phenomenon  is  "tornado." 

On  April  go,  1888,  a  cyclone  passed  over  Howard  County,  Ne 
braska.  This  cyclone  was  not  of  the  mass  of  windstorms  but  was  a 
whirlwind  with  personality.  The  idiosyncrasy  of  this  twister  was  its 
avidity  for  water.  Every  well,  stream,  and  watering  trough  that 
happened  to  be  in  its  path  was  sucked  dry  of  its  moisture  and  left 
as  parched  as  if  on  the  Sahara.  Some  wells  were  dry  for  weeks;  the 
water  in  the  creeks  flowed  into  the  dusty  sands  never  to  be  seen  again; 
even  the  cows  for  several  days  gave  never  a  drop  of  milk. 

On  July  12,  1900,  a  cyclone  with  distinct  uprooting  proclivities 
passed  near  Onawa,  Iowa.  Trees,  grass,  corn,  alfalfa,  every  form  of 
vegetation  in  its  path  was  uprooted  and  left,  for  the  most  part,  in 
tangled  heaps  and  windrows.  Striking  exceptions  were  noted.  One 
old  oak  had  been  uprooted  without  a  leaf  or  twig  being  injured, 
carried  through  the  air,  and  balanced  upright  on  the  roof  of  a  barn 
over  two  miles  away.  Twenty  birds'  nests  were  counted  in  the  tree, 
but  not  an  egg  or  a  fledgling  had  been  disturbed. 

Near  the  end  of  a  sultry  afternoon  on  August  16,  1910,  a  tornado 
passed  near  Heartwell,  Nebraska.  An  agent  for  a  patented  scrub 
brush  was  demonstrating  a  sample  of  his  wares  at  the  door  of  a  farm 
house  when  the  storm  struck,  whirling  him  high  in  the  air  and  re 
moving,  with  the  exception  of  the  house,  every  stick  and  straw  from 

269 


270  ROUNDUP 

the  premises.  The  last  gust  of  the  storm  dropped  the  agent  once 
more  at  the  farmhouse  door.  "As  I  was  saying,"  he  began,  "this  brush 
is  a  regular  cyclone.  It  sweeps  clean  and  does  a  thorough  job." 

On  June  6,  1912,  a  cyclone  passed  near  Stillwell,  Oklahoma.  One 
of  the  early  settlers  in  the  community  had  dug  a  wide,  deep  well  and 
had  curbed  the  walls  with  pieces  of  native  rock.  Misfortune  dogged 
the  steps  of  the  pioneer  until  the  point  was  reached  where  the  mort 
gage  was  due  and  he  was  about  to  be  dispossessed,  when  the  cyclone 
crossed  his  place.  The  "twister"  pulled  up  the  old  well  as  a  derrick 
would  lift  a  straw  and  carried  it  several  hundred  feet,  where  it  was 
left  firmly  planted  but  upside  down  near  the  farmer's  barn.  He 
plastered  it  inside  and  out  and  has  used  it  ever  since  as  a  silo;  from  the 
old  well  gushed  a  geyser  of  oil.  The  farmer  now  has  a  summer  home  in 
the  Adirondacks  and  a  winter  home  in  Palm  Beach. 

On  July  13, 1913,  a  cyclone  passed  near  Sweetwater,  Nebraska.  One 
of  the  members  of  the  Ladies  Aid  Society  was  filling  an  ice  cream 
freezer  with  the  unfrozen  constituents  of  that  delicacy  in  preparation 
for  the  ice  cream  social  at  the  church  in  town  that  evening.  She  had 
just  clamped  the  lid  down  when  the  storm  struck,  whisking  the 
freezer  from  her  hands  and  hurling  it  aloft.  The  freezer  was  found 
on  the  church  steps,  filled  with  hailstones,  and  the  cream  frozen  to 
a  turn. 

On  the  tenth  of  April,  1917,  a  very  freaky  cyclone  devastated  a  sec 
tion  of  the  country  near  Mason  City,  Nebraska.  At  one  place  a  farmer 
on  the  road  with  a  wagonload  of  oats  was  picked  up,  wagon,  team, 
and  all,  and  carried  to  Arcadia,  twenty  miles  distant,  where  he  was 
set  down,  unhurt,  team  and  wagon  in  good  condition  and  not  having 
lost  an  oat.  At  another  place  a  woman  owned  a  hundred  prize-winning 
Black  Langshan  chickens  from  which  the  cyclone  plucked  every 
feather  and  pin  feather  from  every  bird  in  the  flock.  None  of  the 
birds  was  killed,  but  the  fact  that  their  experience  had  been  hor 
rifying  in  the  extreme  was  attested  by  the  further  fact  that  the' 
feathers  which  grew  later  were  snow-white.  At  another  place  a  farmer 
had  just  come  in  from  a  muddy  field  and  was  sitting  with  his  feet 
in  the  oven  of  the  kitchen  range  drying  his  socks  and  reading  the 
daily  newspaper.  The  cyclone  blew  the  socks  off  the  man's  feet, 
carried  the  stove  out  the  door  and  five  miles  over  the  hills,  but  left 
everything  else  in  the  house  untouched,  not  even  tearing  the  news 
paper  that  he  held  spread  before  him. 

Condensed  from  Prairie  Schooner,  April,  1927 


Nebraska  Land,  Nebraska  Land, 
As  on  thy  desert  soil  I  stand 
And  look  away  across  the  plains 
I  wonder  why  it  never  rains. 

— Chorus  of  a  song  popular  in  the  nineties 


Nebraska  Rain  Lore 
and  Rain-Making 


LOUISE  POUND 

WHEN  the  new  and  rather  peculiar  profession  of  rain-making  arose 
in  the  late  i88o's  and  iSgo's,  a  profession  that  flourished  especially 
in  the  Great  Plains  region,  it  did  so  with  no  little  scientific  or  pseudo- 
scientific  experiment  behind  it.  Some  of  the  efforts  put  forth  were 
genuine  endeavors  to  supplement  or  to  replace  the  older  reliance  on 
prayer  by  reliance  on  science.  Other  efforts  were  associated  with 
hocus-pocus  and  attempts  to  victimize  the  public. 

Attempts  to  produce  rain  by  human  action  began,  of  course,  long 
before  the  nineteenth  century,  among  primitive  peoples  in  their 
incantations,  rituals,  and  sacrifices  to  deities.  Nearly  every  Indian 
tribe  had  the  belief  that  its  medicine  man  could  produce  rain.  Civi 
lized  man,  too,  in  all  periods  has  called  on  divine  powers  for  relief. 
Groups  are  still  brought  together  now  and  then  to  pray  for  rain.  On 
such  group  occasions  the  religious-minded  take  the  lead,  the  skeptical 
remain  a  little  apart;  and  sometimes  rain  comes. 

In  nineteenth-century  America  many  theories  of  rain-making  were 
advanced,  and  these  brought  in  their  wake  various  attempts  to  supply 
the  rain  which  would  end  the  drought  and  save  the  crops.  Rain 
makers  appeared  in  the  Plains  region  in  the  latter  half  of  the  century, 
reaching  the  Kansas-Nebraska  region  in  the  iSgo's.  Attempts  were 
made  over  a  period  of  years  and  in  many  places  before  it  was  con 
ceded  that  theories  of  rain-making  belonged  not  to  the  field  of 
science  but  to  that  of  lore,  to  which  they  are  now  relegated. 

In  1870  Edward  Powers  of  Delavan,  Wisconsin,  a  civil  engineer, 
published  War  and  the  Weather,  or  the  Artificial  Production  of 

271 


ROUNDUP: 

Rain,  the  first  elaborate  treatment  of  an  older  idea.  It  was  his  con 
viction  that  rain  could  be  produced  by  noise  or  concussion.  In  his 
book  he  tried  to  demonstrate  by  means  of  statistics  that  great  battles 
are  followed  by  rain.  He  failed  to  get  Congress  to  authorize  a  test  of 
his  theory,  yet  it  proved  long-lived  and  influential.  It  was  his  assump 
tion  that  was  responsible  for  most  of  the  bombardment  of  the  skies 
and  the  general  "foolish  fireworks"  of  the  1890*5. 1  heard  several  well 
educated  persons  remark,  during  the  rainy  spring  of  1945,  "Surely 
the  war  in  Europe  must  have  had  something  to  do  with  our  unusual 
rainfall."  On  May  31  of  that  year,  a  newspaper  story  stated  that  Dr. 
Benjamin  Parry,  chief  of  the  United  States  Weather  Bureau,  had 
said  in  reply  to  a  telephoned  question:  "No,  bombing  and  gunfire 
have  had  nothing  to  do  with  a  May  rainfall.  ...  If  I  kept  a  list  of 
the  persons  who  ask  me  this  question  I  would  use  up  a  lot  of  energy 
and  stationery,  for  the  fallacy  that  gunfire  causes  rain  is  one  of  the 
leading  popular  misapprehensions." 

James  P.  Espy,  whose  theory  published  in  his  Philosophy  of  Storms 
in  1841  brought  him  the  title  of  "The  Storm  King"  and  who  became 
meteorologist  to  the  United  States  War  Department  and  to  the  Navy, 
stated  that  "a  very  large  prairie  fire  will  cause  rain."  He  held  this 
belief  with  great  tenacity  and  in  a  special  letter  of  1845  proposed  a 
plan  for  the  bringing  of  rain  by  means  of  fire.  Edward  Powers 
repeated  Espy's  notion  in  stating,  "It  is  well  known  that  the  burning 
of  woods,  long  grass,  and  other  combustibles  produces  rain."  This 
idea,  too,  has  passed  into  lore.  Yet  a  statement  which  I  heard  in  my 
youth,  "a  very  large  prairie  fire  will  cause  rain,"  is  still  current  on  the 
plains. 

Major  J.  W.  Powell's  Report  on  the  Lands  of  the  Arid  Region 
included  an  article  by  G.  K.  Gilbert  which  furnished  disproof  of  the 
theory  that  the  increased  rainfall  of  the  decade  might  be  attributed 
to  the  laying  of  railroad  tracks  and  the  installation  of  telegraph  lines. 
"When  the  railroads  and  the  telegraph  wires  were  first  thrown  across 
the  Plains  they  offered  hope  of  increased  rainfall.  In  this  theory  was 
involved  the  idea  that  rain  would  be  produced  through  the  agency  of 
electricity  in  the  wires  and  perhaps  by  the  electrical  current  running 
through  the  rails." 

A  folk  belief  current  on  the  prairies  was  that  smoke  from  the 
chimneys  and  cabins  of  settlers  might  cause  rain.  And  in  1892  Lucien 
I.  Blake  of  the  University  of  Kansas  had  a  dust  theory  for  the  artificial 
production  of  rain. 

A  belief  current  in  the  decades  when  the  rainfall  seemed  to  be 


A  Nebraska  Reader  273 

increasing  was  that  the  great  increase  in  the  absorptive  power  of  the 
soil  wrought  by  the  cultivation  of  the  soil  and  the  growing  of  crops 
caused  the  greater  rainfall  and  would  cause  it  to  continue.  This  belief 
was  promoted  by  men  of  standing  such  as  Professor  Samuel  Aughey 
of  the  University  of  Nebraska.  Aughey's  scientific  prestige  made  the 
theory  acceptable,  and  the  railroads  then  existent  (except  the  Union 
Pacific)  took  over  enthusiastically  the  idea  that  the  land  had  increas 
ing  agricultural  possibilities.  This  belief  was  also  encouraged  by 
Charles  Dana  Wilber  of  the  Nebraska  Academy  of  Sciences,  and  by 
Orange  Judd,  editor  of  The  Prairie  Farmer  published  in  Chicago. 
It  was  given  circulation  nationally  and  in  Europe.  Orange  Judd  was 
invited  to  speak  at  the  Nebraska  State  Fair  at  Lincoln  in  September, 
1885.  He  said  confidently: 

When  enough  of  the  sod  over  a  considerable  region  is  brought  under 
the  breaking  plow,  a  change  comes  over  the  entire  country.  Rains  fall 
more  frequently  and  more  abundantly.  Today  in  the  cultivated  counties 
rainfall  is  greater  and  more  frequent  than  it  was  when  they  were  first 
settled.  As  this  goes  on  toward  your  boundary,  the  whole  state  of  Nebraska 
will  be  in  a  new  condition  as  to  its  rainfall  and  its  fertility. 

Yet  officials  of  the  United  States  Weather  Bureau  had  warned  people 
persistently  for  decades  that  climate  is  nowhere  subject  to  permanent 
change  either  in  temperature  or  in  rainfall. 

A  belief  held  especially  by  the  Latter  Day  Saints  was  that  rainfall 
had  increased  and  that  it  was  a  mark  of  special  favor  to  them  from 
the  Divine  Providence.  Another  belief  of  long  standing  was  that  the 
planting  of  trees  would  foster  rainfall,  though  this  is  not  borne  out 
by  the  statistics  of  forestry.  At  the  1883  session  of  the  Nebraska  State 
Horticultural  Society,  Samuel  Barnard  of  Table  Rock  stated,  "The 
fact  is  well  established  that  the  cultivation  of  timber  has  the  effect 
of  equalizing  the  rainfall  throughout  the  growing  season  by  provid 
ing  a  porous  surface  to  absorb  the  rain,  by  breaking  the  force  of  the 
wind,  and  by  preventing  the  rapid  evaporation  from  the  surface." 
This  idea  still  has  wide  currency  on  the  Plains. 

The  most  ingenious  suggestion  to  produce  rain  by  trees  came  be 
fore  the  National  Irrigation  Congress  at  El  Paso  in  1904.  William  T. 
Little  presented  a  paper  entitled  "Tree  and  Plain/'  His  reasoning 
was  as  follows:  High  winds  on  a  level  plain  accelerate  evaporation. 
Experiments  have  shown  that  evaporation  is  retarded  on  the  leeward 
side  of  a  grove  of  trees  or  windbreak.  The  higher  the  windbreak  and 
the  greater  the  velocity  of  the  wind,  the  greater  is  the  retardation.  It 
was  estimated  that  the  retardation  stood  in  about  the  ratio  to  the 


ROUNDUP: 

height  of  the  obstruction  as  16  to  i.  Therefore  a  windbreak  go  feet 
high  would  benefit  an  area  480  feet  wide.  In  the  Great  Plains  the  pre 
vailing  winds  blow  south  and  north.  Therefore  a  series  of  board 
walls  30  feet  high  and  480  feet  apart,  built  across  the  wind  from 
Mexico  to  Canada,  "from  Gulf  to  British  domain,  could  but  be  a 
solving."  But  since  this  may  be  impracticable,  the  same  effect  may  be 
had  by  planting  trees  for  windbreaks. 

Basic  for  all  these  theories  was  the  assumption  that  moisture  in 
abundance  exists  in  the  sky.  It  is  to  be  coaxed  down  by  magic,  incan 
tation,  or  prayer,  or  to  be  jarred  down  by  noise  or  concussion.  Or  it 
may  be  that  oxygen  or  hydrogen,  which  in  combination  precipitate 
into  rain,  may  be  set  loose  by  the  proper  combination  of  chemicals, 
helped  perhaps  by  electricity,  or  even  by  fire  or  smoke  or  dust. 

Theories  and  practical  attempts  at  rain-making  reached  Nebraska 
in  the  last  decades  of  the  century.  The  dry  years  and  crop  failures  of 
the  late  i88o's  and  early  i8go's  put  an  end  to  the  roseate  theory  of 
increasing  rainfall  as  the  country  grew  more  settled.  In  those  years 
the  long-suffering  homesteaders  might  well  have  felt  receptive  to 
nearly  anything  that  promised  hope  of  relief. 

In  the  panhandle  of  the  northwest  section  of  the  state,  the  "Rain 
God  Association"  was  formed  in  1894  to  raise— and  it  did  raise— 
,  $1,000  to  buy  gunpowder.  From  Long  Pine  to  Harrison  on  a  hot 
July  day,  on  high  peaks  known  as  "Rain  God  Stations,"  at  the  pre 
arranged  second,  gunpowder  was  discharged  in  a  steady  cannonade. 
No  rain  fell. 

Rain-making  apparatus  was  set  up  not  only  in  the  Panhandle  but 
in  many  other  parts  of  the  state,  with  cannonading  leading  as  the 
rain  inducer.  Following  are  some  illustrative  items  from  regional 
newspapers. 

July  2,  1894.  O'Neill,  Nebraska  got  a  ton  of  dynamite  to  make  the  rain 
come.  The  dynamite  was  fired  simulating  thunder  near  town  in  hope  that 
the  jarring  noise  would  cause  rain.  Two  professional  rainmakers  came  soon 
and  were  to  have  been  given  $1,000  if  they  "made"  it  rain.  It  rained  hard 
a  few  hours  after  their  time  limit  was  up. 

Special  from  Loup  City,  July  4,  1894:  C.  L.  Drake,  the  local  rainmaker, 
commenced  operations  in  a  blacksmith  shop  about  9  o'clock  this  morning 
and  at  12:30  rain  commenced.  It  came  down  in  a  steady  downpour  for 
an  hour  and  a  half.  It  was  the  first  we  had  had  for  several  weeks  and 
farmers  were  becoming  discouraged. 

July  15,  from  Ravenna:  The  Ravenna  News  avers  that  five  out  of  seven 
rainmaking  experiments  in  that  section  proved  successful. 

July  2.6,  from  Hastings:  The  rainmakers  are  having  a  sorry  time  of  it. 
The  end  of  the  five  days  in  which  they  were  to  bring  rain  is  approaching 


A  Nebraska  Reader  275 

and  prospects  of  the  promised  precipitation  are  not  more  flattering  than 
before  their  arrival. 

The  four  leading  rain-makers  -who  operated  in  Nebraska  were 
Frank  Melbourne,  Clayton  B.  Jewell,  Dr.  W.  F.  Wright,  and  Dr. 
William  B.  Swisher.  Melbourne,  known  as  "The  Rain  Wizard"  and 
later  as  "The  Rain  Fakir,"  was  the  most  famous  of  the  four  and  the 
one  who  operated  most  widely.  He  was  also  the  man  most  obviously 
in  his  profession  for  revenue.  Said  to  be  an  Australian,  he  came  to 
Cheyenne  in  the  autumn  of  1891  and  contracted  to  make  the  rain 
fall,  taking  money  for  it.  The  Cheyenne  Daily  Leader  for  September, 
1892,  stated:  "The  firm  believers  and  the  doubting  Thomases  were 
all  forced  in  out  of  the  wet,  and  those  unable  to  find  shelter  were 
drenched  to  the  skin."  In  the  spring  of  1893  he  circulated  a  pamphlet, 
"To  the  People  of  the  Arid  Regions,"  giving  testimony  that  he  had 
produced  rain  in  Ohio,  Wyoming,  Utah,  and  Kansas.  He  charged 
$500  for  a  "good"  rain— one  that  would  reach  from  fifty  to  a  hundred 
miles  in  all  directions  from  the  place  of  operation.  Associated  with 
him  was  his  "manager,"  Frank  Jones.  He  seems  to  have  operated  in 
Nebraska  as  well  as  in  Kansas  and  Colorado.  A  telegram  to  him  from 
Bertrand,  Nebraska,  read:  "Can  you  come  here  at  once  and  prospect 
for  rain.  Wire  conditions."  Another  telegram  read:  "Our  money  is 
raised.  Name  earliest  date  you  can  be  here  and  await  reply."  From 
Grand  Island,  Nebraska,  came  another  telegram:  "Wire  your  price 
for  one-inch  rain."  This  was  followed  by:  "Don't  come  until  so 
ordered." 

Ultimately  Melbourne  confessed  that  his  claims  were  fraudulent. 
"The  American  people  like  to  be  humbugged,"  he  declared,  "and  the 
greater  the  fake  the  easier  it  is  to  work."  It  was  discovered  that  the 
dates  he  fixed  upon  were  identical  with  those  in  the  long-distance 
forecasts  of  Irl  R.  Hicks  who  made  them  from  St.  Louis  for  many 
years.  Hicks  published  an  almanac  which  had  a  large:  rural  circula 
tion,  and  his  weather  forecasts  were  believed  to  have  a  scientific  foun 
dation.  If  Melbourne  went  wrong  on  his  dates,  the  prophecies  of 
Hicks  were  responsible.  Melbourne  always  announced  that  he  kept 
his  rain-making  formula  a  secret.  His  method  seemed  to  have  in 
volved  burning  chemicals  on  a  raised  platform  in  open  country.  His 
reign  as  the  "King  Rain-Maker"  was  not  long.  In  1894  or  1895  he  was 
found  dead  in  a  hotel  room  at  Denver.  His  death  was  attributed  to 
suicide. 

A  second  well-known  rain-maker  was  Clayton  B.  Jewell,  who  came 
to  be  known,  like  Melbourne,  as  "The  Rain  Fakir."  A  Kansan,  the 


276  ROUNDUP: 

chief  train  dispatcher  for  the  Rock  Island  Railway  at  Goodland, 
Kansas,  Jewell  operated  chiefly  in  Kansas  and  neighboring  regions. 
After  Melbourne's  visits  to  Kansas,  Jewell  experimented  in  rain- 
making,  believing  he  had  discovered  Melbourne's  formulas,  and  for 
a  time  he  seemingly  had  success.  In  the  dry  May  of  1893  thQ  officials 
of  the  Rock  Island  Railway  placed  at  his  disposal  the  electric  batteries 
along  the  track  from  Topeka  to  Colorado  Springs,  for  he  thought 
electricity  greatly  helped  in  rain-making.  The  Rock  Island  also  fur 
nished  him  with  balloons  for  trying  the  concussion  theory.  He  lived 
in  a  freight  car  partitioned  off  as  his  laboratory.  The  trans-Plains 
railroads  would  have  profited  greatly  by  the  success  of  rain-making 
endeavors,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  they  financed  the  experiments. 

Jewell  and  a  helper  experimented  first  at  Goodland  with  chemicals 
valued  at  $250.  In  a  few  days  their  efforts  were  followed  by  a  heavy 
rain  throughout  the  county  and,  still  later,  by  a  more  general  rain. 
Next,  the  pair  proceeded  along  the  railroad,  stopping  at  various 
places  for  experiments,  some  successful,  some  not.  The  boxcar  in 
which  they  had  started  out  was  replaced  by  a  car  especially  con 
structed  for  them  by  the  railroad.  A  trip  through  Iowa  and  Illinois 
ending  in  "Kansas  Week"  at  the  World's  Fair  was  planned,  but 
Chicago  was  not  enthusiastic  over  the  prospect.  No  account  seems  to 
survive  of  his  visit  to  the  fair,  if  he  made  one.  His  experiments  were 
free  at  this  time,  unlike  those  of  Melbourne  and  those  of  the  three 
rain-making  companies  that  had  been  established  at  Goodland. 

In  the  spring  of  1893,  experiments  were  begun  by  the  Rock  Island 
on  a  larger  scale.  It  was  intended  that  eventually  contracts  be  made 
and  successful  rain-making  be  charged  for.  Three  cars  were  started 
out  by  May,  1894.  Jewell's  methods  were  based  chiefly  on  the  hy 
pothesis  that  volatile  gases  charged  with  electricity  and  sent  high  in 
the  air  would  chill  the  atmosphere  and  bring  a  condensation  of 
vapor.  He  used  four  generators  in  his  work,  making  fifteen  hundred 
gallons  of  gas  an  hour.  Meantime  opposition  arose  for  various  rea 
sons.  There  was  too  much  rain  in  some  places.  Some  farmers  com 
plained  of  wind  and  cold  weather.  Others  held  that  the  dry  weather 
was  Divine  punishment  for  man's  impertinence  in  trying  to  take  con 
trol  of  the  rainfall.  By  the  end  of  July,  rain-making  had  died  out, 
supplanted  by  increasing  enthusiasm  for  irrigation. 

One  of  the  two  leading  rain-makers  of  Lincoln,  Nebraska,  was 
William  F.  Wright,  usually  termed  "Doctor"  Wright.  The  Lincoln 
Journal  says  of  Wright  that  he  claimed  credit  for  0.03  of  an  inch  of 
rain  after  he  had  been  trying  to  obtain  rain  for  several  days.  The 


A  Nebraska  Reader  277 

rainfall  which  he  said  his  bombardment  had  brought  on  was  so  slight 
that  it  was  of  no  practical  benefit.  After  his  first  trial  on  a  Wednesday 
night,  he  fired  at  intervals  and  on  Friday  was  still  firing.  He  had 
funnels  on  most  of  his  guns  in  order  to  induce  a  spiral  current  when 
the  shots  were  fired,  but  the  funnels  were  blown  away  by  the  force  of 
the  concussion  and  were  then  discarded  and  the  bases  alone  used. 
Wright  is  said  to  have  tried  unsuccessfully  to  obtain  legislative  aid. 
His  plan  was  to  "construct  a  huge  gun  or  cannon  of  some  sort,  which 
would  be  shot  into  the  sky."  Recalling  his  activities  some  years  later 
in  an  interview,  John  F.  C.  McKesson,  a  son-in-law  of  Dr.  W.  B. 
Swisher  who  worked  with  Wright,  said  that  E.  E.  Blackman  of  the 
State  Historical  Society  "once  helped  to  carry  a  big  black  box  up 
into  a  vacant  barn."  The  box  was  supposed  to  contain  rain-making 
material  or  equipment,  and  "to  this  day  he  does  not  know  the  magic 
which  drew  down  rain  within  the  specified  24  hours." 

Wright  was  the  author  of  a  book,  The  Universe  as  It  Is,  the  last 
section  of  which  deals  with  "Artificial  Rainfall."  The  book  is  well 
written  and  well  printed  and  reads  like  the  carefully  prepared  work 
of  a  thoughtful  student.  I  cannot  think  that  Wright  was  a  fraud. 
Certainly  he  was  no  Melbourne.  He  placed  his  reliance,  as  did  Dr. 
Swisher,  on  the  explosion  of  gases  rather  than  of  gunpowder.  He 
wrote  in  his  last  chapter: 

It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  one  or  two  men  operating  at  one  point, 
with  inadequate  apparatus  and  a  few  chemicals,  would  be  able  to  produce 
any  very  marked  results.  ...  A  sufficient  number  of  men,  equipped  with 
the  right  instruments  and  materials,  stationed  at  proper  intervals  through 
out  the  county  and  state,  all  working  harmoniously  under  a  well  directed 
system,  would  soon  remove  all  doubts  as  to  the  practicality  and  success  of 
the  undertaking. 

The  second  Lincoln  rain-maker  was  Dr.  WilHam  B.  Swisher,  a 
surgeon  in  the  Union  army  and  later  a  pioneer  doctor  in  Nebraska. 
His  daughter,  Dora  Swisher  McKesson,  and  granddaughter,  Mrs. 
Hubert  Walker,  still  live  in  Lincoln,  and  to  them  I  am  indebted  for 
considerable  information. 

Of  the  three  rain-making  companies  founded  at  Goodland,  Kansas, 
after  Melbourne's  visit  there  the  earliest  formed  was  the  Inter-State 
Artificial  Rain  Company,  established  in  1891.  A  central  station  was 
organized  from  which  "rain-making  squads"  were  to  be  sent  out.  The 
reported  success  of  the  Inter-State  Company  brought  the  formation 
of  the  Swisher  Company  of  Goodland,  chartered  January  13,  1892, 
with  a  capital  stock  of  $100,000;  this  company  made  contracts  for 


278  ROUNDUP: 

doing  business.  The  Swisher  Company  relied  mainly  upon  chemicals 
with  which  Dr.  Swisher  had  been  experimenting.  His  success  was  re 
ported  to  be  equal  to  that  of  the  Inter-State  Company  and  his  money 
reward  to  be  good.  The  third  company,  the  Goodland  Artificial  Rain 
Company,  was  chartered  February  11,  1892.  Contracts  were  made  in 
many  places  and  competition  between  the  companies  developed.  At 
one  time  the  Inter-State  Company  offered  to  furnish  rain  for  the  crop 
season  for  $2,500,  the  Swisher  Company  for  $2,000,  and  the  Goodland 
Company  for  $1,500.  In  a  telegram  from  Lincoln,  July  26,  1892,  Dr. 
Swisher  claimed:  "Rain  as  per  contract.  Time  48  hours."  According 
to  A.  E.  Sheldon,  Dr.  Swisher  was  one  of  those  "employed  by  the  Rock 
Island  railroad  to  travel  in  a  special  car  fitted  with  rain-making  ap 
paratus.  He  was  to  operate  in  Nebraska  and  Kansas  and  to  produce 
rain  along  the  Rock  Island  right-of-way." 

Dr.  Swisher  went  back  to  Lincoln  with  his  chemicals,  where  he 
made  an  agreement  with  a  real-estate  man,  J.  H.  McMurtry,  who 
owned  a  number  of  farms  in  the  vicinity,  to  bring  rain  within  three 
days.  McMurtry  promised  to  pay  him  $500  if  one-half  inch  of  rain 
fell.  Shortly  after  the  rain-maker  began  his  work  there  fell  a  drench 
ing  rain  of  one-half  inch.  McMurtry  claimed  that  it  came  from 
natural  causes,  but  Dr.  Swisher  took  the  matter  to  the  courts,  and  Mc 
Murtry  was  forced  to  pay  the  $500. 

According  to  Swisher's  son-in-law,  McKesson,  Swisher  and  Wright 
worked  out  their  theory  together  and  produced  rain.  Throughout 
the  dry  summer  of  1894  they  worked  in  various  parts  of  the  country 
and  apparently  with  success.  But  "wind  made. results  uncertain/* 
blowing  the  gases  elsewhere  from  the  place  where  precipitation  was 
desired.  Moreover  Dr.  Swisher  was  religious-minded  and  "felt  more 
and  more  that  the  plans  of  nature  and  Providence  should  not  be 
tampered  with.  And  so  the  black  box  was  put  away."  The  mysterious 
black  box,  said  McKesson,  "was  merely  a  receptacle  for  two  large 
earthen  jars  from  Germany.  As  hydrogen  and  oxygen  combined  in 
the  proper  ratio  produce  water,  we  felt  there  was  a  deficiency  in  one 
or  the  other."  They  manufactured  hydrogen  and  put  it  into  the  air 
to  start  a  nucleus  of  water  which  might  result  in  more.  The  first 
operations  took  place  on  Swisher's  farm  at  Emerald  near  Lincoln. 
Two  hundred  people  had  subscribed  to  a  fund  for  the  work.  Later, 
the  two  men  operated  elsewhere  in  Nebraska  and  in  Kansas.  McKes 
son  stated  to  his  interviewer  that  their  efforts  were  "followed  in  every 
instance  by  rain." 
Rain-making  must  have  been  a  profitable  profession  while  it  lasted. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  279 

The  largest  profit  came  from  selling  the  rain-making  secret  formula 
and  the  right  to  operate  in  a  designated  region.  Whether  farmers 
believed  in  any  of  the  systems  is  a  question.  The  contracts  read  al 
ways,  "No  rain,  no  pay."  If  it  did  not  rain  those  who  contracted  for 
it  were  out  nothing,  and  if  it  did  rain  they  thought  the  benefit  worth 
what  was  paid  for  it.  Newspapers  generally  were  skeptical.  The  rain 
makers  were  accused  of  studying  the  weather  forecasts  and  of  being 
"out  of  chemicals"  if  the  signs  were  not  auspicious.  And,  in  any  case, 
the  rain-makers  were  never  brought  in  until  there  had  been  a  long 
drought.  After  1894  little  is  heard  of  rain-making.  In  the  drought  of 
the  1930*5  rain-makers  did  not  reappear.  Instead,  came  only  occa 
sional  reversion  to  prayer  and  song. 

Perhaps  it  should  be  added,  in  conclusion,  that  there  is  one  method 
of  rain-making  that  does  not  fail,  according  to  current  Nebraska 
folklore,  and  the  saying  is  probably  to  be  heard  elsewhere  in  the 
central  states:  "Wash  and  polish  your  car  and  you  may  be  sure  rain 
will  follow." 


Condensed  from  California  Folklore  Quarterly,  April,  1946 


"Too.  thick  to  drink  and  too  thin  to  plow"— that's  the 
Missouri,  the  nation's  longest  river,  2,464  miles  from 
Three  Forks,  Montana,  to  St.  Louis.  The  man  who  knew 
the  Missouri  best,  the  late  Lt.  General  Lewis  A.  Pick,  of 
Pick-Sloan  Plan  fame,  called  it  one  of  the  wildest  on 
earth. 

As  if  aware  that  its  unharnessed  days  were  numbered, 
in  April,  1952,  the  Mighty  Muddy  went  on  the  loose 
again,  perhaps  for  the  last  time.  In  holding  back  the 
most  disastrous  flood  in  the  history  of  white  occupation 
of  the  Plains  area,  the  people  of  Omaha  and  their  Iowa 
neighbors  in  Council  Bluffs  showed  what  may  be  ex 
pected  of  civilians  in  a  crisis. 


Men  Against  the  River 

B.  F.  SYLVESTER 

BIG  Mo"  was  roaring  drunk  on  a  snow-melt  cocktail  which  could  have 
been  mixed  by  Paul  Bunyan.  It  was  made  in  Montana  and  the 
Dakotas  with  eighty  thousand  square  miles  of  deep  winter  snow 
which  was  one-third  water,  a  chinook  wind,  and  an  almost  total  run 
off  over  a  layer  of  ice.  This  was  poured  into  the  main  stem  by  the 
Milk,  Knife,  Heart,  Bad,  and  Cannonball  and  downed  all  at  once.  An 
unprecedented  volume  of  water  rolled  over  towns  and  farms  for  a 
thousand  miles,  into  a  bottleneck  at  Omaha  and  Council  Bluffs. 

The  river  comes  between  the  cities  in  the  shape  of  a  narrow  ques 
tion  mark,  tapering  to  a  quarter  mile  at  the  Douglas  Street  bridge. 
Inside  a  ten-square-mile  loop  and  against  the  stem  on  the  Nebraska 
side  were  five  thousand  people,  the  Omaha  airport,  large  industries, 
and  the  public  power  plant  serving  both  cities.  Under  the  bend  on 
the  Iowa  side  were  eleven  square  miles,  taking  in  two-thirds  of  Coun 
cil  Bluffs  and  thirty  thousand  people.  The  cities  were  protected  by 
thirty-six  miles  of  earth  levees  and  a  mile-long  floodwall  of  concrete 
and  steel,  where  Omaha  industry  crowds  the  river.  These  levees  and 
floodwall  were  designed  to  protect  against  the  greatest  flood  possible 
after  upriver  dams  are  completed— a  stage  of  26.5  feet,  with  a  safety 

380 


A  Nebraska  Reader  281 

factor  of  five  feet  against  wave  action.  The  approaching  crest  was 
forecast  at  26  feet,  then  28.5,  then  30,  then  31.5.  If  not  contained, 
the  flood  would  bury  large  sections  under  fifteen  feet  of  water. 

Brig.  Gen.  Don  G.  Shingler  of  the  army  engineers  offered  technical 
help  and  called  in  fifteen  hundred  specialists,  big  and  little  river 
rats  from  Washington  to  Dallas,  including  General  Pick.  At  Clinton, 
Mississippi,  the  engineers  produced  a  small  well-water  flood  in  a  con 
crete  replica  of  the  Missouri.  At  "Omaha-Council  Bluffs"  the  tiny 
torrent  was  3.5  inches  high  in  a  channel  six  to  eight  inches  wide  and 
tearing  along  so  fast  that  one  day's  flood  was  reproduced  in  five  and 
one-half  minutes.  The  tests  showed  the  levees  would  have  to  be 
raised  two  to  seven  feet  in  six  days,  and  held.  The  odds,  not  counted 
at  the  time,  were  estimated  later  at  ten  to  one  against.  Men  and 
boys  who  finally  numbered  sixty  thousand  left  their  homes  and  went 
to  the  dikes. 

Civil  Defense  had  a  skeleton  organization  and  a  plan  in  both  cities. 
In  Omaha,  Director  Sam  W.  Reynolds  had  medical  and  communica 
tion  services,  auxiliary  police  and  firemen,  and  a  file  of  material, 
equipment,  and  contractors.  C.  D.  became  the  co-ordinating  agency 
in  evacuating  the  threatened  area  and  raising  134  miles  of  levees. 
Reynolds'  powers  were  not  clearly  defined,  but  when  in  doubt  he 
interpreted  the  situation  and  put  the  legal  aspects  on  file.  He  au 
thorized  the  public  power  district  to  cross  private  property  in  build 
ing  a  $300,000  temporary  levee  around  its  plant  behind  the  floodwall. 
He  approved  another  levee  which  sealed  off  the  switch  tracks  of 
six  railroads.  Probably  no  other  chairman  of  a  Nebraska  delegation 
to  the  Republican  Convention  ever  contravened  so  many  federal 
regulations  in  three  days.  One-half  million  gallons  of  alcohol  might 
have  duplicated  the  1951  flood-fire  at  Kansas  City.  Because  of  U.  S. 
Treasury  rules,  it  could  not  be  moved,  so  Reynolds  moved  it.  Inter 
state  Commerce  Commission  regulations,  limiting  drivers  to  a  sixty- 
hour  week,  slowed  gas  and  oil  deliveries  to  the  levee.  He  suspended 
the  regulations.  Finally,  he  authorized  the  government,  through  the 
engineers,  to  lay  explosives  and  blow  up  a  section  of  the  floodwall 
if  the  water  got  behind  it. 

James  F.  Mulqueen  had  been  mayor  of  Council  Bluffs  one  day, 
Kennard  W.  Gardiner  acting  city  manager  one  day  when  the  army 
engineers  revealed  the  city's  danger.  Under  Iowa  law,  Civil  Defense 
was  restricted  to  disaster  from  enemy  action,  as  in  fifteen  other  states. 
It  had  good  elements  in  communications,  auxiliary  police,  and 
equipment  files.  The  mayor  could  take  over  and  did.  It  required 


282  ROUNDUP: 

an  hour  and  a  half  to  change  from  defense  against  bombs  to  defense 
against  flood.  On  a  cold  and  rainy  Good  Friday,  the  mayor  declared 
a  state  of  emergency  and  government  by  proclamation.  Including  a 
county  levee  on  the  south,  Council  Bluffs  had  29.69  miles  to  protect. 
To  get  to  them,  fifteen  miles  of  roads  had  to  be  built  over  low  and 
swampy  ground.  On  Saturday  the  mayor  issued  the  first  of  five 
evacuation  orders  and  closed  most  business  and  industry  to  release 
manpower  and  trucks.  Roads  to  the  city  were  closed  to  keep  out 
sightseers.  Vehicles  hauling  dirt  to  the  top  of  the  levees  were  stuck 
in  the  mud.  River  stage,  22.6;  mininum  temperature,  35;  precipita 
tion,  .27  inch. 

Half  the  city  had  moved  or  was  on  the  move  Easter  Sunday.  Min 
isters  held  services,  after  which  they  evacuated  their  churches  or 
turned  them  into  shelters.  The  evacuation  was  in  daylight,  to  avoid 
panic,  from  Saturday  afternoon  to  Monday  evening.  It  took  in  the 
west  end  and  fringes  of  the  business  district,  to  within  two  blocks 
of  the  city  hall.  Under  Red  Cross,  Harry  C.  Growl,  real  estate  man, 
directed  750  vehicles,  volunteered  by  Council  Bluffs  establishments, 
farmers,  Omaha  stores  which  had  suspended  deliveries,  and  forty- 
eight  towns.  Besides  trucks  of  all  sizes,  there  were  wagons  and  hay 
racks  drawn  by  horses  and  jeeps.  Six  winch  trucks  stood  by  to 
extricate  them  from  the  mud.  Funeral  homes  removed  175  bedridden 
persons  by  ambulance.  Novices  moved  out  pianos  and  refrigerators. 
Some  families  took  water  heaters  and  furnaces.  Sign  on  a  house: 
"For  Sail."  Another:  "I  Shall  Return." 

The  hill  people  took  in  the  flatlanders  until  the  district  looked 
like  a  series  of  car  parks.  Between  them  and  neighboring  towns, 
only  fourteen  hundred  went  to  shelters.  Cadillacs  were  parked  in  the 
street,  while  garages,  basements,  and  porches  held  furniture.  Auto 
mobile  dealers  removed  new  cars  to  release  showrooms.  Furniture 
was  stored  in  a  dozen  towns  and  finally  in  forty-six  freight  cars. 
Eighty-six  families  refused  or  failed  to  evacuate.  The  mayor  called 
on  the  Reverend  Denmore  J.  King,  rector  of  St.  PauFs  Episcopal 
Church,  who  whittled  the  number  to  seventeen  and  tried  again.  A 
psychiatrist  persuaded  an  expectant  young  mother  to  go  to  the 
hospital.  A  widow  of  ninety-six  said  her  late  husband  had  warned 
her  to  make  no  move  without  the  advice  of  her  lawyer.  A  retired 
sea  captain,  past  eighty,  was  entertaining  a  young  woman  from 
Omaha  and  said  to  go  away. 

Nerve  center  of  the  fight  was  the  city  hall,  which  the  mayor  put 
on  a  twenty-four-hour  basis,  along  with  himself.  He  counted  on  an 


A  Nebraska  Reader  283 

informed  public  as  the  first  line  of  defense.  Business  houses  gave 
up  their  telephones  so  the  city  hall  could  have  sixty-five  more  lines. 
The  radio  station  cleared  the  air  instantly  for  the  mayor.  In  many 
homes  the  radio  was  kept  going.  Mobilization  was  virtually  total. 
Twenty-eight  thousand  registered  volunteers  went  to  the  levees,  not 
counting  those  who  showed  up  on  their  own.  A  thousand  were  in 
the  police  auxiliary,  and  no  one  knows  how  many  more  were  in 
other  flood  activities.  There  was  one  marriage,  one  divorce  petition, 
and  no  other  lawsuit.  Doctors'  waiting  rooms  were  empty,  and  only 
the  very  old  took  time  to  die.  Two  leading  morticians  had  no  fu 
nerals.  One  obstetrician  had  no  births,  presumed  the  stork  was  flying 
patrol  over  the  levee. 

Manpower  was  dispatched  from  the  basement  of  the  city  hall. 
Workers  went  out  in  trucks,  clean,  singing  and  laughing,  and  came 
back  silent  and  covered  with  mud,  to  overflow  cots  and  fall  asleep 
on  marble  steps  and  floors.  Volunteers  came  from  ninety-nine  towns, 
often  in  delegations  headed  by  the  mayor.  One  hundred  Mennonite 
farmers  were  from  Kansas.  A  thousand  men  came  from  Creighton 
University  and  the  University  of  Omaha.  A  Jesuit  priest,  turned 
down  as  too  old,  waited  around  the  corner  for  a  dike-bound  truck 
and  was  smuggled  in.  Five  hundred  were  from  the  University  of 
Nebraska,  Midland,  Dana,  Iowa  State,  Grinnell  and  other  colleges. 
Dr.  O.  E.  Cooley,  superintendent  of  the  Council  Bluffs  district  of 
the  Methodist  Church,  who  was  throwing  sandbags,  met  ministers 
from  Atlantic,  Cumberland,  Macedonia,  Oakland,  Greenfield,  and 
Centerville,  which  was  two  hundred  miles  away. 

One  hundred  eighty  radio  hams  flocked  in  from  all  over  the 
country  and  reported  to  Leo.  I.  Meyerson,  who  had  a  communica 
tions  center  in  his  home,  which  handled  eight  thousand  messages  a 
day  to  and  from  the  levees  and  other  points.  One  hundred  fifty  mem 
bers  of  the  Civil  Air  Patrol  from  Oakland,  Iowa,  who  patrolled  the 
levees  by  air  and  on  foot,  had  their  daily  briefings  there. 

The  west  end  of  the  city  was  protected  on  the  north  by  a  levee 
anchored  to  a  north-south  bluff  line  two  hundred  feet  high.  It  ran 
due  west  for  a  mile  to  the  normal  channel,  then  followed  the  river 
gently  southwest  toward  Omaha.  The  water  was  highest  there,  five 
miles  wide  from  bluff  to  bluff  above  the  bend,  fifteen  miles  wide 
upstream.  The  east  end  of  this  pocket  was  vulnerable  for  other 
reasons.  The  Chicago  and  North  Western  and  Illinois  Central  tracks 
ran  through  it  on  a  grade  five  feet  from  the  top.  The  tracks  had 
been  torn  out  and  the  gaps  dosed  with  sandbags,  but  water  seeped 


284  ROUNDUP: 

through  the  cinder  and  gravel  ballast.  This  required  careful  watch 
ing  by  a  group  of  old  river  men  from  Memphis  and  Vicksburg. 

They  were  not  concerned  about  ordinary  seepage  which  was  only 
the  quiet  weeping  of  the  river,  relieving  pressure  and  doing  no 
harm.  This  was  even  encouraged,  almost  as  if  one  said,  "Have  your 
self  a  good  cry.  You'll  feel  better."  Relief  wells  on  the  land  side 
brought  up  seep  which  flowed  through  the  sand  underneath  the 
levee.  This  was  stepped  up  by  pumps  which  sent  some  water  back 
to  the  river  over  the  top  of  the  levee  and  some  onto  the  land  where 
it  made  pools  and  lakes  up  to  five  feet  deep.  Pent-up  seep  was  some 
thing  else,  violent  and  dangerous.  Turbulent  water,  cutting  and 
moving  dirt,  bubbled  up  in  patches  like  a  spring.  The  cry  of  "Sand- 
boill"  brought  Memphis  and  Vicksburg  on  the  run.  They  ringed  250 
of  these  spots  with  sandbags,  like  a  chimney,  as  high  as  the  level  of 
the  river  and  let  the  water  rise.  One  area,  where  the  boils  were 
cancerous  and  spread,  had  to  be  ringed  with  a  levee  that  required 
115  trucks  hauling  dirt  for  sixteen  hours. 

In  two  days  of  rain  which  made  vehicle  movement  on  top  of  the 
dikes  impossible,  engineer  Tritt  had  been  able  to  get  less  than  a 
foot  of  dirt  on  the  north  levee.  At  two  Sunday  morning  he  got  a 
dealer  out  of  bed  and  ordered  lumber  to  put  up  eight  and  a  half 
miles  of  flashboard.  This  was  a  wooden  panel,  two  and  a  half  to 
five  feet  high,  nailed  to  stakes  driven  into  the  top  of  the  levee  and 
reinforced  by  sandbags.  A  mile-long  plank  road  for  the  lumber  trucks 
was  made  on  top  of  a  muddy  section  of  the  north  levee.  In  Omaha, 
engineer  H.  H.  Nicholson  went  to  flashboards  and  mudboxes,  which 
were,  in  effect,  a  double  flashboard  with  dirt  between.  River  stage, 
24.6;  minimum  temperature,  34;  precipitation,  .04  inch;  wind,  18.4 
miles. 

At  six  Monday  morning  the  nailing  crews  went  to  work.  The  story 
is  told  in  one  section  the  workers  had  lumber  and  nails  but  no 
hammers.  A  man  went  to  get  them  and  returned  in  half  an  hour  to 
find  three  blocks  of  flashboard  were  up.  A  half  mile  of  snowfence, 
weighted  with  sandbags,  was  put  down  on  the  river  side  of  the 
north  levee  to  guard  against  wave  action.  River  stage,  25.6;  minimum 
temperature,  36;  precipitaton,  o;  wind,  9.7  miles. 

Meanwhile  one-half  mile  below  the  north  levee,  Tritt  was  build 
ing  a  second  and  higher  one.  It  was  a  mile  and  three-quarters  long, 
over  twenty-eight  sets  of  switch  tracks,  and  joined  the  north  levee 
at  the  Illinois  Central  bridge.  One  hundred  fifty  dump  trucks  and 
twenty-six  earthmovers  wheeled  their  loads  bumper  to  bumper 


A  Nebraska  Reader  285 

twenty-four  hours  a  day  over  the  rising  embankment.  Little  earth 
worms  took  twelve  tons  at  a  bite,  middle-sized  ones  twenty-seven  tons, 
and  big  ones  forty-five  tons.  The  levee  took  two  and  a  half  days  to 
build,  was  finished  at  nine  Tuesday  night,  losing  a  race  to  the 
flashboards  which  had  been  completed  at  two  that  afternoon. 

Disturbing  signs  of  saturation  appeared  Wednesday  when  the  rail 
road  fill  sections  of  the  north  levee  quivered  underfoot.  Saturation 
is  the  last  stage  before  chunks  of  earth  slough  off  and  the  structure 
melts  away.  Considerable  water  was  coming  under  the  fills.  Sandboils 
spread  until  the  danger  was  greater  under  the  levee  than  on  top.  It 
was  decided  to  build  a  third  levee  in  a  half  moon  to  ring  the  danger 
area.  It  would  impound  the  seepwater,  put  weight  on  the  soft  levee 
and,  it  was  hoped,  the  seep  would  neutralize  sandboils.  The  job  took 
twenty-four  hours.  River  stage,  28.3;  minimum  temperature,  33;  pre 
cipitation,  .01  inch;  wind,  6.8  miles. 

Thursday  was  the  day  of  the  expected  crest.  The  water  was  sixteen 
feet  higher  than  the  land  and  up  to  eighteen  inches  on  the  sandbags. 
Volunteers  and  Fifth  Army  soldiers  went  along  raising  the  levee  one 
bag  at  a  time,  keeping  ahead  of  the  river.  Water  trickled  between 
and  under  the  sandbags,  through  cracks  in  the  flashboard  and  over 
sandbag  spillways  on  the  land  side.  The  dike  fighters  were  to  stay 
and  pile  on  sandbags  until  the  river  washed  them  out.  Fifty-two 
boats  were  ready  at  eleven  stations,  with  eighty  more  standing  by,  to 
remove  them.  Planes  waited  to  give  the  signal  if  the  levees  failed. 
The  Council  Bluffs  alarm  would  be  a  siren;  Omaha's  a  buzzing  by 
day,  flares  by  night.  River  stage,  29.4;  minimum  temperature,  49; 
precipitation,  .17;  wind  9.4  miles.  Under  carbide  flares  and  electric 
lights  the  men  watched  the  river  rise  slowly  through  the  night.  There 
were  no  discussions  on  what  was  holding  it  back.  With  a  round  oath, 
a  boilermaker  exclaimed,  "I  know  the  Lord  is  on  this  dike!" 

The  official  crest  at  Douglas  Street  bridge  was  30.2  at  4:00  A.M. 
Friday,  though  it  was  32.5  on  the  north  levee.  A  woman  called  up  at 
4:20  to  ask  if  she  could  move  back.  It  was  hard  to  convince  her  that 
the  crest  would  be  constant  for  a  day,  and  danger  would  be  no  less 
for  two  or  three.  This  was  proven  on  the  Omaha  side  when  a  storm 
sewer  exploded  four  hundred  yards  behind  the  levee  at  7:00  P.M. 
Friday.  It  required  nine  hours  to  close  the  mouth,  by  dropping  steel 
I-beams  and  nine  hundred  tons  of  rock  from  a  barge. 

The  river  was  down  to  29.5  feet  by  Saturday;  27.3  Sunday;  and 
24.3  Monday.  The  Dutch  boys  of  1952  took  their  fingers  from  the 
dike  and  went  home.  The  evacuees  returned  under  precautions.  Now 


286  ROUNDUP 

there  was  time  for  the  two  cities  to  look  back.  Thirty-five  thousand 
persons  had  moved  out  of  their  homes  and  back  with  no  injury  and 
almost  no  damage  to  possessions.  No  home  had  been  entered  by 
water  or  pestilence  and  only  two  by  looters.  Except  for  one  traffic 
injury  in  Omaha,  there  had  been  no  major  accidents. 

In  July,  1953,  Omaha  Civil  Defense  Director  Reynolds  received 
a  Freedoms  Foundation  Medallion  at  the  hands  of  President  Eisen 
hower  for  his  work  in  the  flood.  The  era  of  community  good  feel 
ing  and  the  cooperation  between  Omaha  and  Council  Bluffs  con 
tinues. 


Condensed  from  "Omaha's  Flood,  1952,"  Nebraska  History, 
XXXV  (Jam-March,  1954) 


VI.  Look  East,  Look  West 


*" 


* 

dearer-bought  than  those  of  «T     ^ 
-Willa  Gather,  "A  Wagner  Matinee" 


The  shaggy  coat  of  the  prairie  .  .  .  has  vanished  for 
ever.  . . .  One  looks  out  over  a  vast  checkerboard,  marked 
off  in  squares  of  wheat  and  corn;  light  and  dark,  dark  and 
light.  Telephone  wires  hum  along  the  white  roads,  which 

always  run  at  right  angles One  can  count  a  dozen  gaily 

painted  farm  houses;  the  gilded  weather-vanes  on  the  big 
red  barns  wink  at  each  other  across  the  green  and  brown 
and  yellow  fields.  The  light  steel  windmills  tremble 
throughout  their  frames  and  tug  at  their  moorings,  as  they 
vibrate  in  the  wind  that  often  blows  from  one  week's  end 
to  another  across  that  high,  active,  resolute  stretch  of 
country. 

— Willa  Gather,  O  Pioneers! 


The  Mysterious  Middle  West  (1934) 

A.  G.  MACDONELL 

I  HAD  GONE  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  famous  Middle  West  that  has 
long  been  the  bogey  of  Europe.  If  the  United  States  Senate  refused 
to  ratify  a  treaty,  we  always  ascribed  it  to  pressure  from  the  Middle 
West;  if  a  new  and  super-efficient  tractor  began  to  undercut  British 
tractors,  it  was  always  due  to  the  mass  production  that  was  possible 
only  in  the  illimitable  Middle  West;  if  the  United  States  wanted  its 
war  debt  repaid,  it  was  owing  to  the  ignorant  clamour,  we  explained 
to  each  other,  of  the  citizens  of  the  Middle  West  who  were  so  un 
reasonable  as  to  want  their  money  back.  In  fact,  we  made  the  Middle 
West  into  a  sort  of  Colossus,  alternately  illiterate  and  politically 
acute,  alternately  half-witted  and  shrewd,  alternately  turning  its  back 
and  its  telescope  upon  European  affairs,  alternately  wrapped  up  in 
a  loutish  sleep  and  possessed  of  demonaic  vigilance. 

I  motored  out  of  Omaha  with  a  banker  friend  to  see  something 
of  this  enigmatic  land.  We  drove  out  by  a  curly,  twisty  road  that 
was  very  unlike  the  great  highroads  that  I  had  seen  so  far  in  the 
country.  But  its  twistiness  was  historical  like  that  of  so  many  English 
roads,  for  it  had  once  been  the  only  trail  westward  out  of  Omaha, 
and  in  the  days  when  that  trail  was  first  trodden  by  white  men,  it 
was  more  important  to  twist  and  curl  under  the  skyline  than  to  march 

289 


<>9o  ROUNDUP: 

arrogantly  over  hill  and  dale  in  full  view  of  lurking  marauders. 
One  of  the  first  villages  we  came  to  was  called  Elk  City,  and  a  huge 
notice-board  on  the  outskirts  announced  its  name  and  added,  with 
very  proper  civic  pride,  "Population  42." 

As  we  drew  further  and  further  away  from  Omaha,  we  were  able 
to  catch  a  glimpse  or  two  of  the  countryside,  and  at  last  we  got 
entirely  clear  of  the  billboards  and  were  able  to  stop  the  car  and 
have  a  look  at  the  Nebraskan  plains  that  lay  before  us  in  the  sun 
light.  The  country  was  not  unlike  the  Somme  country  of  France. 
There  were  the  same  gentle  slopes  and  rolls  of  ground,  the  same 
dotted  farmhouses,  and  the  same  wooded  valleys.  The  difference  was 
a  difference  of  colour,  for  Picardy  is  white  with  chalk  and  its  green 
is  a  dusty,  chalky  green,  whereas  Nebraska  is  black  with  the  black 
ness  of  its  soil,  and  its  green  is  dark  and  rich,  except  where  the  winter 
wheat  makes  a  lighter  splash  of  colour.  A  great  drought  had  just 
come  to  an  end,  and  the  landscape  was  checquered,  light  and  dark, 
with  the  deep  colour  of  the  alfalfa  crop  and  the  brassy  fields  of 
corn  that  had  been  so  scorched  by  the  endless  sun  of  spring,  summer, 
and  early  fall  that  they  were  not  worth  the  trouble  of  harvesting.  In 
the  distance  the  blue  of  the  Elkhorn  River  made  a  cheerful  patch 
between  its  tree-covered  banks  and  with  their  oaks  and  lindens  and 
walnuts,  and  here  and  there  a  cluster  of  cottonwoods  added  an  al 
most  Scandinavian  touch  of  flaxen  gold  against  the  Elkhorn's  blue. 
Far  away,  beyond  the  river,  Nebraska  stretched  to  the  horizon  and 
for  many  a  hundred  miles  beyond  the  horizon. 

Our  objective,  a  farmhouse,  was  nearer  at  hand.  It  was  a  neat 
white  building,  with  green  shutters,  of  course,  and  a  quantity  of  out 
houses,  and  a  clump  of  trees  round  about.  It  was  forty  miles  from  a 
city  of  no  outstanding  size,  and  entirely  isolated  from  village,  hamlet, 
or  even  neighbouring  farm,  and  yet  it  was  equipped  with  electric 
light,  refrigerator,  central  heating,  and  telephone.  What  percentage 
of  the  farms  within  forty  miles  of  London,  the  biggest  city  in  the 
world,  have  any  of  those  amenities,  let  alone  all  four  of  them? 

Agriculture  has  never  been  a  passion  in  my  life;  I  was,  therefore, 
rather  at  a  disadvantage  in  listening  to  the  agricultural  talk  of  the 
farmer  who  greeted  us  as  we  alighted  from  the  car.  But  in  spite  of 
my  ignorance  and  Mr.  Johansen's  professional  erudition,  I  learned 
some  interesting  things  about  the  mysterious,  Sphinxlike  Middle 
West. 

We  went  all  over  the  farm,  all  the  eight  hundred  acres  of  it.  We 
saw  the  fat  young  calves  that  had  come  in  that  week  from  the  Great 


A  Nebraska  Reader  291 

Sandhills— up  Wyoming  way—to  be  fattened  for  the  Stock  Yards.  The 
calves  had  come  from  a  ranch  350  miles  away.  With  the  strains  of 
"Git  along,  little  dogie,"  to  which  I  had  been  dancing  a  night  or 
two  before,  in  my  ears,  I  asked  how  many  weeks  it  took  to  drive 
cattle  350  miles,  in  these  days  when  the  roads  are  jammed  with  traf 
fic. 

"I  started  on  a  Monday  morning  in  my  automobile,"  said  Mr. 
Johansen,  "and  I  got  to  the  ranch  that  day.  On  Tuesday  I  selected 
my  calves,  and  I  got  back  on  Wednesday  just  in  time  to  get  ready 
for  them  when  they  arrived  in  trucks." 

It  was  several  minutes  before  I  tried  any  more  of  the  taking-an- 
intelligent-interest  stuff,  and  I  gazed  in  prudently  silent  admiration 
at  the  chestnut-coloured  son  of  the  greatest  Belgian  stallion  that  ever 
came  to  America,  and  at  the  herds  of  cattle  that  were  feeding  at  the 
corn-troughs  while  all  the  flies  in  Nebraska  buzzed  about  trying  to 
get  the  sugar  out  of  the  corn-canes.  Then  we  got  into  Mr.  Johansen's 
automobile  and  drove  across  the  farm  lands  to  see  fat  sheep  that 
were  pasturing  in  a  wooded  dell  beside  a  stream;  a  group  of  grand 
children  of  the  Belgian  stallion;  an  outhouse  filled  with  up-to-date 
machinery;  a  group  of  men  digging  a  well;  and  barns  that  were  so 
bulging  with  corn  that  the  boarding  of  the  walls  was  bending  out 
wards  and  a  brick  in  the  foundations  had  been  dislodged  by  the 
pressure. 

"Hey!"  cried  my  Omahan  companion,  as  he  saw  the  sagging  walls. 
"What's  going  to  happen  to  that  building  if  a  high  wind  gets  up?" 

"Oh,  it  won't  get  up,"  said  Mr.  Johansen  easily. 

My  banker  friend  was  not  so  simply  put  off  as  all  that.  "But  what 
will  happen  if  it  does?"  he  persisted. 

"It  will  be  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Johansen  with  a  big  guffaw.  "Some 
other  part  of  Nebraska  will  get  my  corn,  that's  all.  They'll  gain 
what  I  lose." 

The  thought  did  not  diminish  Mr.  Johansen's  joviality,  and  he 
pulled  his  car  off  the  track  and  drove  it  slap  across  a  field  so  that 
I  could  see  at  close  quarters  the  little  purple  flower  which  we  call,  I 
believe,  Lucerne  in  Britain,  but  they  call  Alfalfa.  Thence  he  steered 
briskly  up  a  dried  river-bed,  shouting  gaily  that  if  we  stuck  in  the 
sand  we  could  always  get  a  tractor  to  pull  us  out.  That  crisis  did 
not  arise,  however,  and  we  emerged  on  to  a  field  that  was  completely 
bare.  "This,"  said  Mr.  Johansen  with  some  solemnity,  "is  my  most 
important  field.  It  is  here  that  I  am  paid  by  the  Government  to 
raise  nothing  at  all.  That  is  called  National  Recovery." 


292  ROUNDUP: 

This,  of  course,  brought  us  to  those  two  great  conversational  topics, 
Depression  and  the  New  Deal.  Mr.  Johansen  had  a  lot  to  say  about 
both  of  them  and  about  a  third  that  was  mainly  confined  to  the 
Middle  West,  the  Long  Drought. 

"They  come  here/'  said  Mr.  Johansen,  "and  they  offer  me  money 
not  to  do  this,  and  they  offer  me  money  not  to  raise  that,  so  I  take 
then:  money.  Naturally  I  take  it.  Why  not?  Anybody  would.  But  I 
could  get  through  the  Depression  without  it.  I'm  not  going  bank 
rupt  so  long  as  I'm  farming  a  Nebraskan  farm." 

"Plenty  of  banks  have  gone  bankrupt/'  said  my  companion  gloom 
ily.  "Seven  hundred  out  of  thirteen  hundred  in  Nebraska  alone." 

"And  a  good  job  too,"  cried  Mr.  Johansen  gaily,  striking  the 
banker  an  ox-felling  blow  on  the  back.  "We  are  getting  down  to 
reasonable  farm-finance  at  last.  Why,  in  the  good  old  days  before 
Depression,  we  could  mortgage  our  farms  as  wildly  as  we  pleased, 
because  we  knew  perfectly  well  that  our  next  year's  profits  would 
be  so  enormous  that  we  could  probably  pay  the  whole  mortgage  off 
in  a  year.  We're  more  careful  now,  and  when  we  do  borrow,  we 
borrow  from  the  Federal  Land  Bank.  And  I'll  tell  you  another 
thing,"  went  on  Mr.  Johansen.  "Depression  has  finished  all  the  get- 
rich-quick  notions  that  we  used  to  have.  When  I  was  a  kid,  we  used 
to  arrange  our  futures  very  simply.  Get  over  college  and  then  make 
a  million  dollars.  That  was  all." 

"What  college  were  you  at?"  I  enquired  timidly.  That,  at  least, 
was  a  safe  unagricultural  question. 

"Yale,"  said  the  farmer.  "But  that  million-dollar  stuff  is  finished. 
It's  all  small  profits  now,  but  steady  ones.  We've  got  accustomed  to 
the  English  way  of  choosing  a  trade  and  sticking  to  it  for  life.  In  the 
old  days  we  went  into  farming  as  a  nice  outdoor  occupation  for  a 
few  years  while  we  made  a  fortune  on  the  stock  market.  Now  we're 
in  it  and  we've  got  to  stay  in  it,  so  we're  learning  our  job  at  last." 

"What  about  the  Drought?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  the  Drought  was  bad,"  said  Mr.  Johansen.  "We've  had 
droughts  before,  but  never  such  a  long  one.  Other  droughts  have 
been  bad  on  one  or  two  crops,  but  this  one  was  so  long  that  it  was 
bad  for  all  the  crops.  But  it  had  a  good  side  too.  We  had  to  sit 
down  and  think  out  ways  of  dodging  it,  new  farming  methods,  new 
crops,  new  ideas.  I've  learnt  more  about  farming  during  the  last 
year  than  in  all  my  life  before." 

"What  will  happen  if  you  get  another  drought  next  year?"  asked 
my  companion. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  293 

"It  will  be  bad,  very  bad,"  said  Mr.  Johansen.  "But  even  another 
drought  won't  break  us.  Even  N.R.A.  can't  break  us.  Look  at  that" 
And  he  swung  his  long  arm  in  the  direction  of  a  hillside.  "The  long 
est  drought  on  record,  and  look  at  that.  After  a  few  days'  rain,  the 
winter  wheat  is  up,  and  strong  as  you  like." 

He  swung  his  arm  on  a  wider  circle,  embracing  this  time  not  his 
own  800  acres  but  the  whole  Nebraskan  plain,  or,  wider  still,  the 
whole  of  the  Middle  West.  "The  valley  of  the  Missouri  River,"  he 
exclaimed,  "is  the  richest  in  the  world.  Seventy-five  years  ago  it  was 
nothing  but  grass  and  saplings  and  bands  of  Indians.  Look  at  the 
corn-lands  now,  and  the  cattle,  and  the  farm  buildings.  Not  a  thing 
more  than  seventy-five  years  old.  Do  you  think  you  can  get  that 
down  with  a  silly  little  drought  or  two?  Never.  Your  city-folk  may 
talk  of  bankruptcies  and  ruin.  Come  and  live  on  Nebraskan  soil 
and  learn  what  Nature  can  do  in  the  way  of  recovery  after  a  hard 
time.  Nothing  will  worry  you  then. 

"If  you  keep  close  to  Nature,"  said  Mr.  Johansen,  "you  can't  go 
wrong.  Not  in  Nebraska,  anyway.  Of  course  if  you  like  to  plough 
up  your  cattle  ranges  and  try  to  grow  wheat  as  they  did  in  South 
Dakota  when  wheat  went  to  $2.20  a  bushel  during  the  War,  then 
you  deserve  anything  you  get." 
I  asked  what  they  did  get. 

"They  got  blown  away,"  replied  the  farmer  with  a  huge  grin. 
"Yes,  sir.  There  wasn't  grass  any  more  to  hold  their  thin  top-soil 
together,  and  it  got  blown  away." 

A  herd  of  Hereford  cattle  came  past,  fat  and  sleek  and  healthy. 
"There's  a  link  with  old  England,"  said  the  farmer.  "Herefords.  Best 
cattle  in  the  world  for  us.  Your  Scotch  Angus  are  good,  but  they're 
terribly  wild.  Talking  of  Scotch  .  .  ." 

The  sun  was  setting  over  the  Elkhorn  River  as  we  drove  home 
along  the  old  trail,  and  the  population  of  Elk  City  was  still  42.  Purple 
douds  were  trailing  over  the  Nebraskan  plains,  and  lights  were  be 
ginning  to  shine  in  the  windows  of  the  lonely  farms. 

I  learnt  a  lot  of  things  that  afternoon,  besides  such  important 
agricultural  facts  as  that  you  can  bury  your  silage  in  Nebraska, 
whereas  in  Iowa  and  Kansas  you  have  to  put  it  into  towers.  For 
one  thing  I  found  that  the  Middle  West  is  a  long  way  from  Europe. 
Even  I,  a  European,  felt  incredibly  remote  as  I  stood  on  the  banks 
of  the  Elkhorn  River  that  afternoon.  I  was  ten  thousand  miles  fur 
ther  away  than  when  I  was  in  New  York  or  Chicago,  further  away 


ROUNDUP 

even  than  when  I  reached,  later  on,  San  Francisco.  The  whole  outer 
world  fades  away.  Nothing  seems  to  be  of  any  importance  except 
the  spring  sowing  or  the  fattening  of  cattle.  What  does  it  matter 
to  you,  as  you  stroll  in  the  shadow  of  the  cottonwoods,  what  the 
people  of  Memel  think  of  the  people  in  Lithuania?  Would  you 
leave  your  sheep  beside  the  Elkhorn  to  go  and  fight  for  Latvia  against 
Poland?  Would  you  lie  awake  at  night  in  your  Nebraskan  farm, 
worrying  about  the  justice  of  awarding  Eupen  and  Malm^dy  to 
Belgium? 

What  have  wars,  thousands  of  miles  away,  to  do  with  this  peace 
ful,  eternal  business  of  living  on  the  soil,  by  the  soil,  for  the  soil? 
I  used  to  think,  as  many  others  think,  that  the  Middle  West  is 
supremely  ignorant.  I  was  wrong.  The  Middle  West  is  supremely 
wise.  It  goes  on  its  way,  hating  no  man  and  fearing  no  man  and 
saying,  as  Shakespeare's  Corin  said,  "The  greatest  of  my  pride  is  to 
see  my  ewes  graze  and  my  lambs  suck." 

It  knows  very  little  about  Europe,  even  though  so  many  thousands 
of  the  farmers  are  first-generation  immigrants  from  Scandinavia,  and 
many  thousands  more  are  children  of  first-generation  immigrants. 
"My  father  was  born  in  Copenhagen,"  said  Mr.  Johansen,  "but  I 
am  an  American." 

The  Mississippi  Valley  takes  them  and  makes  them  into  Amer 
icans,  because  the  Mississippi  Valley  is  America.  The  cities  of  the 
East  and  of  the  long  Pacific  slope  are  important,  but  they  are  not 
the  heart  of  the  country.  They  talk  more,  but  they  mean  less.  They 
travel  the  world  and  broaden  their  minds,  but  when  the  ill  winds 
begin  to  blow  it  is  not  the  East  and  West  that  stand  unshakable.  It 
is  that  Valley  in  the  Middle  that  cannot  be  conquered. 


Extracted  from  A  Visit  to  America,  The  ^lacmillan  Co.,  1935 


The  great,  the  upstanding  prize  was  to  get  the  county  seat. 
The  ways  the  towns  went  about  this  seem  almost  incred 
ible.  But  there  was  a  reason:  if  a  town  grabbed  off  that 
prize,  it  stood  a  chance  to  become  the  biggest  in  the  county 
and  the  most  prosperous.  A  county-seat  town  was  tremen 
dously  important;  its  lots  sold  for  more  than  lots  in  jackleg 
towns;  the  laws  were  made  there  and  the  taxes  assessed 
and  the  political  plums  handed  out.  The  town  selected  was 
usually  the  one  nearest  the  center  of  the  county;  but  not 
always.  There  were  tricks.  Sometimes  a  town  several  miles 
away,  by  some  lucky  stroke,  walked  off  with  the  prize. 

Two  towns  in  Nebraska  were  fighting  for  the  county 
seat.  The  matter  was  to  be  determined  by  an  election  at 
which  every  person  in  the  county  could  vote.  The  people 
of  Osceola  did  some  thinking;  then  had  stiff  cardboard 
maps  printed  in  the  shape  of  the  county.  The  voters  were 
asked  to  balance  these  cutout  maps  on  a  pin,  or  a  pencil, 
then  look  to  see  which  town  was  nearest  the  balancing 
point.  That  settled  it.  Osceola  won. 

—Homer  Croy,  Corn  Country 


County  Seat 

i .  The  Stolen  Courthouse 

ROBERT  CHESKY 

THE  MOST  famous  of  all  Nebraska  county-seat  fights,  lasting  con 
siderably  longer  than  the  siege  of  Troy,  raged  in  Saline  County  from 
the  mid-seventies  until  as  recently  as  1927.  Just  as  in  the  Trojan 
War,  not  strength  but  a  strategem  broke  the  back  of  the  opposition, 
and,  like  its  classic  prototype,  the  struggle  inspired  bards  and  music- 
makers.  A  music-drama,  "The  Stolen  Courthouse,"  was  presented 
before  audiences  of  the  victorious  Wilberians  at  the  old  Wilber 
Opera  House. 

The  designation  of  Swan  City,  now  Swanton,  as  the  Saline  County 
seat  of  government  was  merely  a  prologue  to  the  drama.  At  the  time 
_186y— it  was  the  only  settlement  in  the  county.  However,  when  the 

295 


296  ROUNDUP: 

railroad  by-passed  it  and  population  centers  grew  up  farther  east, 
there  were  demands  for  relocation.  In  1871,  after  two  county-wide 
elections,  Pleasant  Hill  captured  the  prize  from  Crete  and  Dorchester, 
but  its  days  of  glory,  too,  were  numbered.  As  new  towns  were  born 
—among  them  Wilber,  platted  in  1873— there  was  again  agitation  for 
the  county  seat's  removal,  and  by  1877  the  race  was  wide  open. 
No  less  than  six  localities  were  in  the  running,  including  a  piece  of 
real  estate  called  "Center"  which  had  no  population  but  was  in  the 
center  of  the  county  (and  also,  presumably,  the  hands  of  a  sharp 
operator).  Two  elections  narrowed  the  field  to  Crete  and  Wilber, 
and  finally,  on  the  third  go-round,  Wilber  won  out  by  a  1,349  to 
1,1 10  majority. 

But  the  Cretans  had  not  yet  begun  to  fight.  Alleging  that  signa 
tures  on  the  courthouse  relocation  petition  were  forged  in  some 
cases  and  void  in  others  because  signers  hadn't  been  county  residents 
long  enough  to  qualify  as  electors,  they  obtained  a  temporary  in 
junction  against  the  scheduled  moving  of  the  records  from  Pleasant 
Hill  to  Wilber.  The  case  went  into  the  courts,  all  parties  having 
agreed  to  accept  the  decision  of  Judge  J.  A.  Weaver,  who  set  Janu 
ary  28, 1878,  as  the  day  he  would  pronounce  judgment  from  his  home 
in  Falls  City. 

The  Wilberians  at  once  arranged  to  have  an  emissary  on  the  spot 
with  instructions  to  telegraph  the  verdict  in  code  to  Dorchester, 
where  a  messenger  would  be  waiting  to  carry  the  word  to  Pleasant 
Hill.  When  the  fateful  day  arrived,  the  men  of  Wilber,  three  hun 
dred  strong,  descended  on  Pleasant  Hill  with  a  hundred  and  sixty 
wagons.  What  happened  after  that  is  a  moot  point.  According  to 
one  story,  the  Cretans,  fearing  violence  by  the  Wilber  mob,  sent  a 
message  to  Dorchester  that  the  injunction  had  been  dissolved.  An 
other  acqpunt  casts  S.  S.  Alley,  a  Wilber  attorney  and  real  estate 
promoter,  in  the  role  of  the  "crafty  Ulysses."  According  to  this  ver 
sion,  Alley  told  the  waiting  crowd  at  Pleasant  Hill  that  he  would 
go  and  obtain  the  authority  they  needed  to  act.  Having  absented 
himself  for  a  suitable  interval,  Alley  came  dashing  back  on  his  horse, 
waving  a  paper  triumphantly.  "It's  all  right,  boys,"  he  shouted.  "It's 
all  rightl" 

Barely  pausing  to  cheer,  the  Wilberians  forthwith  stuffed  the 
records  into  their  wagons  and  departed  for  the  new  county  seat. 
Nonetheless,  the  fact  remains  that  Judge  Weaver  didn't  dissolve 
the  temporary  injunction  until  January  31,  three  days  after  the 
removal  of  the  records,  and  if  anyone  knows  exactly  what  was  on  that 


A  Nebraska  Reader  297 

slip  of  paper  S.  S.  Alley  carried,  in  the  words  of  the  poet,  he  ain't 
saying. 

For  forty  years  the  issue  smouldered;  then  in  1920  came  more 
pyrotechnics.  The  old  courthouse,  built  in  1879,  was  coming  apart 
at  the  seams,  and  a  new  one  was  needed.  Cretans  figured  this  was 
the  opportunity  of  a  lifetime  to  secure  the  county  seat  once  and  for 
all.  Meanwhile,  however,  state  laws  had  been  enacted  providing  that 
only  two  localities  could  compete  in  county-seat  removal  elections 
and  that  there  must  be  a  sixty  per  cent  vote  in  favor  of  removal. 
Wilber,  of  course,  would  be  one  of  the  alternatives  on  the  ballot, 
but  there  began  to  be  some  doubt  about  the  other  when  a  petition 
was  circulated  to  locate  the  courthouse  in  that  still-vacant  cornfield 
in  the  center  of  the  county.  This  development  evoked  loud  cries  of 
skulduggery  from  the  Cretans.  It  was  obvious,  they  said,  that  the 
wily  Wilberians  had  instigated  the  movement  just  to  keep  Crete's 
name  off  the  removal  ballot.  But  the  town  on  the  Blue  rallied  its 
forces,  and  in  a  whirlwind  campaign  obtained  enough  signatures  to 
beat  the  county  center  competition  by  a  whisker. 

The  result  of  the  ensuing  election  could  hardly  have  been  better 
calculated  to  increase  mutual  feelings  of  ill-will:  although  Crete  won 
out  in  the  balloting,  it  failed  to  gain  the  required  sixty  per  cent 
majority.  It  was  a  crumb  of  comfort  to  the  Cretans  six  years  later 
when  a  bond  election  for  funds  to  replace  the  old  courthouse  also 
failed  to  get  the  necessary  majority.  During  these  years  Crete  had 
carried  its  fight  to  the  legislature  and  the  courts,  but  without  success, 
and  bitterness  between  the  towns  had  grown  so  great,  one  Wilberian 
remembers,  that  when  he  went  to  Crete  to  visit  his  parents  he 
stayed  strictly  on  home  premises. 

When  peace  came,  it  was  in  a  way  that  foreshadowed  the  Geneva 
"conference  at  the  summit"  three  decades  later.  At  the  urging  of 
Crete  businessmen,  who  felt  the  feud  had  gone  too  far,  a  series  of 
meetings  was  held  with  representatives  from  Wilber  and  other  county 
towns.  The  felicitous  result  was  a  peace  resolution,  signed  and  ap 
proved  on  neutral  ground  in  Dorchester,  June  7, 1927.  At  an  election 
the  next  month,  a  thumping  majority  approved  bonds  for  a  new 
courthouse  at  Wilber,  and  the  imposing  structure— surely  one  of  the 
finest  courthouses  in  Nebraska— was  dedicated  two  years,  almost  to 
the  day,  after  hostilities  ceased. 

The  fact  that  Crete  is  now  the  scene  of  the  annual  Saline  County 
Fair,  its  location  there  being  heartily  endorsed  by  the  Wilberians, 
may  perhaps  suggest  how  covenants  of  peace  were  arrived  at 


ROUNDUP: 


2.  Wilber 

WHEN  GENERAL  John  C.  Fremont  reached  the  Big  Blue  River  on  his 
Rocky  Mountain  expedition  some  hundred  and  fifteen  years  ago, 
he  noted:  "This  is  a  clear  and  handsome  stream,  about  120  feet 
wide,  running  with  a  rapid  current  through  a  well-timbered  valley/7 
If  he  were  to  retrace  his  steps  today,  the  handsome  stream  would 
still  lie  across  his  path,  but  in  place  of  most  of  the  timber  he  would 
find  well-cultivated  river  valley  farms.  After  trekking  for  not  quite 
a  mile  from  the  river,  across  farm  land  flat  as  a  table  top,  he  would 
find  the  town  of  Wilber  located  on  a  slight  rise  above  this  fertile 
valley. 

A  serene,  well-groomed  little  city,  Wilber  was  in  Willa  Gather's 
mind  when  she  wrote  that  there  is  a  Prague  in  Nebraska  as  well  as 
in  Bohemia.  Though  Wilber  is  by  no  means  exclusively  Bohemian, 
and  is  becoming  less  so,  an  overwhelming  majority  of  its  1,360  resi 
dents  are  of  Bohemian  extraction.  You  still  hear  the  Bohemian  lan 
guage  spoken  on  its  streets;  you  still  can  see  a  Bohemian  language 
movie  once  every  two  weeks  in  Wilber's  only  theater;  and  occa 
sionally,  still,  an  interpreter  has  to  be  used  in  Saline  County  Court 
for  a  witness  whose  best  language  is  Bohemian  rather  than  English. 

Until  a  decade  ago,  Bohemian  was  taught  in  the  schools,  but 
English  has  become  the  dominant  tongue.  However,  some  of  the  rich 
ness  of  old  Bohemia  still  remains  in  Wilber  life  and  customs,  impart 
ing  a  special  flavor  to  the  town.  One  of  the  most  durable  of  these 
customs  is  the  dance  which  follows  a  wedding— the  charivari  (pro 
nounced  "shivaree"),  in  Czech,  kocicina.  The  bride  traditionally 
wears  her  veil  until  midnight,  at  which  hour  she  ceases  to  be  a 
bride  and  becomes  a  housewife.  Her  veil  is  thrown  to  the  waiting 
girls,  and  the  lucky  one  to  catch  it  is  supposed  to  be  the  next  bride. 

The  Bohemian  influence  is  reflected  in  Wilber's  menus— in  dishes 
like  Bohemian  potato  dumplings,  kolaches  (a  happy  compromise 
between  a  cooky  and  a  fruit  tart) ,  Bohemian  rye  bread,  and  the 
wieners  and  bologna  that  are  the  town's  best-known  products.  There 
was  a  time,  too,  when  the  word  Wilber  was  associated  with  foaming 
seidls  of  beer:  there  were  eleven  saloons  in  or  near  the  town  with 
a  brewery  to  keep  them  supplied.  But  a  crack-down  came  in  the  form 
of  a  lightning  bolt  which  incapacitated  the  brewery,  and  the  num 
ber  of  taverns  has  dwindled  to  five. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  299 

The  local  units  of  the  national  Sokol  and  ZCBJ  organizations  also 
testify  to  Wilber's  European  heritage.  Zapadni  Cesko-Bratrske  Jed- 
noty,  or  Western  Brotherhood  Fraternal  Organization,  began  as  a 
fraternal-insurance  organization  and  the  insurance  aspect  is  now 
dominant.  Sokol— the  word  means  "falcon"— is  primarily  devoted  to 
physical  fitness.  The  organization  originated  in  Prague,  in  1862,  sig 
nalizing  the  awakening  of  national  spirit  after  two  centuries  of  re 
pression  under  Austrian  rule.  Its  aims  were  equality,  harmony,  and 
fraternity:  physical  training  for  the  body,  training  in  patriotism  for 
the  mind.  The  movement  spread  to  America,  the  first  unit  being 
organized  in  St.  Louis  in  1865.  Best  known  of  the  many  activities 
sponsored  by  Sokol  are  the  slets— national  and  state  festivals  with 
mass  gymnastic  exhibitions  and  competition  between  Sokol  units. 

ZCBJ  is  a  native  Nebraska  product,  founded  in  Omaha  in  1897. 
It  has  since  spread  all  over  the  country,  headquarters  remaining  in 
Omaha  where  the  group  publishes  a  monthly  magazine  in  Bohemian 
and  English.  Both  ZCBJ  and  Sokol  lodges  often  are  scenes  of  the  fes 
tive  wedding  dances  for  which  Saline  County  is  noted. 

Like  most  modern  farm  communities,  Wilber  has  an  economy  that 
seeks  a  boost  these  days.  Some  townspeople  are  commuting  ten  miles 
to  Crete  or  seven  miles  to  DeWitt  to  work  in  manufactories  and  other 
establishments,  and  some  work  in  Lincoln,  forty  miles  away.  Wil- 
berians  are  watching  with  great  interest  the  development  of  the 
atomic  power  plant  at  nearby  Hallam.  They  feel  their  town  will 
benefit  from  the  plant  during  the  construction  phase,  and  perhaps 
later  as  well. 

However,  when  boom  days  come,  you  won't  find  the  people  of 
Wilber  throwing  their  money  around.  Bohemians  have  a  great  repu 
tation  for  thrift,  and  Wilber's  three  healthy  banks— an  unusual  num 
ber  for  a  town  of  its  size— plus  the  fact  that  Saline  County  consistently 
ranks  with  far  more  populous  counties  in  purchases  of  U.  S.  Savings 
Bonds,  are  indices  that  the  reputation  is  no  myth. 


Adapted  from  "Community  Portrait,"  Lincoln  Sunday  Journal  and  Star, 

July  29,  1956 


No  such  mundane  matter  as  the  location  of  the  county  seat 
touched  off  the  feud  between  Shelby  and  David  City.  Aes 
thetic  considerations— and  maybe  a  little  home-town  pride 
—were  involved  in  their  display  of  local  choler. 


War  in  the  Corn 


DURING  an  August  week  in  1945,  one  fertile  undulating  corner  of 
Nebraska  produced  a  bumper  crop  of  artistic  excitement.  David  City 
and  Shelby— 18  miles  apart— were  each  sporting  a  one-man  painting 
exhibition  by  a  native  son.  Both  shows,  first  ever  staged  in  these 
Nebraska  towns,  were  smash  hits.  They  were  almost  too  coincidental 
for  comfort.  Almost  before  the  ink  was  dry  on  the  invitations, 
Shelbyans  and  David  Cityans  were  hopping  mad  at  each  other.  There 
was  even  talk  of  letting  the  artists  settle  their  differences  with  pitch 
forks. 

Shelby's  painter  was  Terence  Duren,  frail,  40,  ferocious  lampooner 
of  womanhood,  an  ex-Chicago  Art  Institute  instructor,  ex-Greenwich 
Village  free-lancer.  For  the  occasion,  he  dolled  up  his  studio,  a 
former  mortuary  off  Shelby's  Main  Street,  with  bouquets  of  gladioli 
in  milk  pails.  He  also  painted  his  potbellied  stove  azure  and  white. 

To  see  his  32  paintings,  700  persons— more  than  the  population  of 
Shelby  (627)— paid  50^  each,  stood  two-  and  three-abreast  in  line, 
in  their  Sunday  best.  Among  them  was  a  blind  woman  with  a  seeing- 
eye  dog,  who  had  two  friends  describe  the  pictures  to  her. 

The  opposition  (but  not  planned  that  way,  insists  David  Cityans) 
was  a  showing  of  28  oils  by  4i-year-old  Dale  Nichols,  art  editor  of 
the  Encyclopedia  Britannica,  and  a  nationally-known  painter  of 
Christmas-cardish  Midwestern  landscapes  and  Greyhound  bus  ads. 
Nichols*  specialties  are  heart-warming  red  barns,  picturesque  blue 
snowhills,  tree  branches  reaching  to  cobalt  skies. 

Both  artists  set  out  to  show  Nebraskans  what  their  state  looks 
like.  Ranged  on  the  walls  of  a  David  City  municipal  basketball 
court,  Dale  Nichols'  pictures  said  it  was  a  slick,  sweet  place.  In 
Shelby's  old  mortuary,  Terence  Duren  posted  a  tougher  pictorial 
message.  In  his  canvases,  picnic  wrappings  were  left  on  the  ground, 
fat  rolls  and  wrinkles  decorated  ladies'  faces. 

300 


A  Nebraska  Reader  301 

It  was  too  much  for  Artist  Nichols.  Said  he:  "Some  of  these 
paintings  disturb  me.  In  Art  Heritage*  I  suspect  that  Mr.  Duren  is 
looking  with  a  critical  eye  upon  my  Nebraska  friends  and  neighbors. 
If  he  is  ashamed  or  bored  or  scornful  of  Nebraska  life,  may  I  clarify 
his  erroneous  thinking?" 

Nichols  further  ventured  that  Duren  should  paint  in  a  spirit  which 
regards  manure  not  as  horrible  filth  but  as  a  farmer's  God-given  in 
strument.  Countered  Duren:  "I  refer  to  manure  but  seldom.  ...  I 
regard  it  as  neither  horrific  nor  as  beautiful  but  merely  as  unim 
portant  detail.  Obviously  Mr.  Nichols  finds  it  appealing." 

Fellow-townsmen  took  sides.  Little  Shelby  accused  bigger  David 
City  (pop.  2,272)  of  stealing  Duren's  thunder  with  the  Nichols 
show.  The  artists  themselves  took  up  prepared  positions  behind  corn 
stalks  and  blazed  away.  Nichols:  "I  shall  never  be  guilty  of  painting 
in  the  style  or  viewpoint  of  Terence  Duren.  Never!  Never!"  Duren: 
"It  is  easy  to  recognize  that  Mr.  Nichols  cannot  draw  people  .  .  . 
save  at  the  safe  distance  at  which  he  conceals  all  lack  of  anatomical 
detail.  I  concur  heartily:  Mr.  Nichols  will  never  draw  or  paint  like 
I  do.  Never!" 


Reprinted  from  Time,  August  20,  1945.  ©  Time,  Inc.,  1945 
*  Three  vacuous  frumps  depicted  with  an  assortment  of  gimcracky  "art  objects/' 


What  did  you  do  before  TV,  Daddy?" 

To  the  generation  whose  birth  was  coeval  with  that  of 
commercial  television,  life  without  TV— and  the  radio  and 
motion  pictures— must  be  almost  inconceivable.  Yet  pro 
fessional  entertainment  in  the  form  of  a  "package  show" 
was  available  in  pre-radio-and-TV  days,  even  to  farm  fam 
ilies  living  so  far  out  that  their  only  regular  outside  con 
tact  was  the  bi-weekly  visit  of  the  R.F.D.  carrier. 

To  view  it  required  more  exertion  than  twirling  a  knob, 
but  it  was  "live"  entertainment  and,  what's  more,  there 
was  an  "audience-participation"  feature  which  at  the  very 
least  meant  a  picnic,  and  might  even  run  to  ten  days  of 
camping  out. 


We  Liked  Chautauqua 


KATHERINE  BUXBAUM 


I  WONDER  how  the  historian  of  the  future  will  deal  with  the  Chau 
tauqua  movement,  whose  brief  hour  of  success  coincides  with  the 
early  years  of  this  century.  It  has  been  the  fashion  to  treat  the  Chau 
tauqua  assemblies  as  just  another  huge  American  joke,  something 
which  gave  gaping  rustics  a  chance  to  enjoy  second-  or  third-rate  en 
tertainment  and  persuaded  them  that  they  were  absorbing  culture. 
I  confess  that  this  light  treatment  has  never  suited  one  midwest  com 
munity  where  the  Chautauqua  was  a  going  concern  for  nearly  thirty 
years.  Or  else  we've  shrugged  a  little  and  said,  "Oh,  well,  maybe 
that  was  your  Chautauqua.  Now,  ours  was  different." 

It  was  different.  For  one  thing,  it  was  what  was  known  as  an  Inde 
pendent.  The  talent  was  mostly  hand-picked,  and  the  picking  was 
good  in  those  days.  Jane  Addams,  for  instance.  There  was  nothing 
shoddy  about  her.  William  Jennings  Bryan  was  the  man  of  the  hour, 
crusading  always,  it  is  true;  but  even  if  he  and  Billy  Sunday  and 
Carrie  Nation  were  the  sensation  of  their  day,  they  were  vigorous 
personalities,  good  to  see  and  hear.  Lecturers  on  movements  such  as 
the  Montessori  system  of  education  broke  ground  for  contact  with  the 
world  of  ideas.  We  heard  them  gladly. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  303 

Church-going  folk  being  well  represented  among  the  stockholders 
of  our  Chautauqua,  there  were  plenty  of  lectures  that  kept  up  the 
tone  of  the  parent  institution.  For  many  years  the  day's  session 
opened  with  a  Bible  lecture  by  a  clergyman-professor,  who  would 
present  a  series  of  background  studies  for  an  understanding  of  Scrip 
ture;  or,  perhaps,  a  symposium  of  ethical  teaching. 

The  Chautauqua  booklets,  those  printed  programs  containing 
photographs  of  the  talent,  publicity  notices,  and  advertisers'  blurbs, 
make  interesting  reading  now.  I  quote  from  the  foreword  of  the  very 
first  one.  The  year  was  1903: 

The  Chautauqua  goes  back  to  first  principles,  and  the  schools  are  held 
in  groves  as  Plato  taught,  walking  among  the  trees.  ...  It  is  a  beautiful 
commingling  of  nature  and  art.  Thus  we  may  commune  with  nature  and 
enjoy  the  feasts  of  reason  that  are  prepared  for  us.  ... 

For  a  family  outing  Chautauqua  is  the  most  reasonable  and  decorous 
scheme  yet  devised.  We  learn  a  lot,  and  we  learn  it  in  the  most  agreeable 
way,  by  surrendering  our  think-tanks  for  an  hour  or  two  to  some  pleasing 
personality  like  Sam  Jones,  Booker  T.  Washington,  or  Hobson. 

The  merchants  were  frankly  less  concerned  with  such  matters. 
Plato's  noble  brow  and  the  think-tanks  of  the  present  did  not  impress 
them.  One  wrote  his  ad  thus: 

Everybody  and  his  girl  will  be  going  to  the  big  Chautauqua  picnic 
tomorrow,  and  you  will  want  to  be  in  it  with  the  swells  who  are  wearing 
the  fashionable  jewelry  we  sell 

"Chautauqua  picnic"  was  not  a  figure  of  speech.  The  oak  grove  at 
the  edge  of  town  was  ideal  for  camping.  People  pitched  tents,  laid  in 
provisions,  and  lived  for  the  ten  days  on  the  grounds.  The  little  can 
vas  town  with  the  Big  Top,  which  was  the  auditorium,  in  the  center 
had  a  genuinely  festive  air.  No  wonder  we  whipped  up  the  horses 
when  we  caught  sight  of  it. 

For  a  farm  family  like  ours,  it  took  some  maneuvering  to  get  to 
the  morning  sessions.  Even  the  history  lecture  which  followed  the 
Bible  hour  was  a  hurdle  for  us.  It  meant  unusually  early  rising, 
breathless  haste  with  chores  and  breakfast,  extra  bathing  and  dress 
ing,  and  packing  the  noonday  lunch,  for  we  were  too  thrifty  to  eat 
at  the  dining  tent  on  the  grounds.  It  meant  hitching  up  the  team,  and 
then  eight  miles  of  jogging  over  a  dusty  road,  facing  the  sun  on  a 
sweltering  August  day. 

When  we  reached  the  tent,  we  had  brief  moments  of  envy  when  we 


ROUNDUP: 

tumbled,  flushed  and  perspiring,  into  our  seats  on  the  bleachers. 
Down  below  us  was  the  circle  of  chairs  where  the  townfolk  sat, 
looking  very  cool,  very  composed,  in  an  atmosphere  of  serenely 
moving  fans.  The  speaker  would  be  talking  of  Napoleon  or  Bismarck; 
or  he  might  have  beguiled  his  hearers  back  into  some  antique  world 
which  seemed,  for  the  moment,  as  real  as  their  own. 

I  do  not  remember  that  the  lectures  ever  dealt  with  contemporary 
affairs.  For  us,  "history**  concerned  what  was  past.  We  had  not 
learned  to  call  it  "social  science."  One  series  which  the  professor 
gave  did,  however,  furnish  a  valuable  perspective  on  our  own  day. 
It  dealt  with  such  great  crises  in  history  as  the  struggle  for  race 
supremacy;  for  independence;  for  constitutional  sovereignty;  for 
majority  rule. 

The  program  booklets  furnish  abundant  evidence  of  shifting 
points  of  view.  Even  the  cuts  are  edifying,  with  their  record  of  chang 
ing  fashions,  the  managers'  sideburns  and  the  towering  pompadours 
of  the  women  speakers  giving  way  to  smooth-shaven  faces  and  bobbed 
hair.  Lecture  topics  are  eloquent  of  attitudes;  the  romantic  view  of 
war  held  the  center  of  the  stage  until  1920.  Of  the  Civil  War  veterans 
who  addressed  us,  I  remember  best  Bishop  McCabe.  I  met  with  an 
accident  the  day  he  was  there:  just  as  I  opened  my  mouth  to  take  a 
bite  of  our  picnic  chicken,  a  honeybee  flew  in  and  stung  me  on  the 
tongue.  It  took  some  eloquence  on  the  part  of  the  speaker  to  help  me 
forget  my  pain,  but  the  Bishop's  did  just  that.  He  knew  exactly  how 
to  play  upon  our  emotions;  and  when  he  described  the  call  Lincoln 
made  for  volunteers  to  end  more  swiftly  the  strife  that  was  rending 
the  nation  apart,  he  climaxed  his  recital  with  the  song  that  was  the 
answer  of  the  North:  "We're  coming,  we're  coming,  Father  Abraham, 
with  three  hundred  thousand  more!" 

The  War  of  '98  produced  no  hero  more  popular  than  Captain 
Hobson  of  osculating  fame.  We  had  him,  of  course.  The  1905  pro 
gram  featured  a  man  who  spoke  on  "The  Evolution  of  Firearms." 
Curiously  enough,  the  publicity  for  this  has  a  sprightly  tone.  It  says: 
"This  gentleman  has  made  an  invention  which  bids  fair  to  revo 
lutionize  modern  warfare,"  and  adds  that  he  and  a  colleague  "will 
be  on  hand  with  a  batch  of  machine  guns."  But  after  1919  a  new 
note  appears.  Private  Peat  and  Norman  Hall  did  not  extol  the 
glories  of  war.  These  young  veterans  chose  subjects  that  showed  the 
direction  thought  was  taking  then:  "The  Destiny  of  Democracy"; 
"America's  Part  in  the  World's  Future";  "Secret  Diplomacy  and 
Sudden  War." 


A  Nebraska  Reader  305 

Internal  politics,  being  of  perennial  interest,  got  much  publicity 
and  drew  good  crowds.  If  two  United  States  senators  engaged  in  de 
bate,  that  was  no  sham  battle.  In  one  of  these,  "Pitchfork"  Tillman 
gave  a  performance  that  was  up  to  his  best,  laying  about  him  with 
words  that  stabbed  like  his  chosen  symbol.  I  do  not  remember  what 
he  was  inveighing  against.  I  only  know  that  he  was  fighting  mad. 
But  Bryan,  who  addressed  us  three  different  seasons,  gradually 
banked  the  fires  of  his  political  ardor.  In  1921  he  was  still  crusading, 
but  this  time  in  the  interests  of  the  other  grand  passion  of  his  life. 
His  topic  now  was  "Brute  or  Brother?"  and  to  this  he  addressed  him 
self  with  all  his  old-time  fervor. 

One  feature  of  the  Chautauqua  which  was  then  decidedly  novel 
as  lecture  material  was  the  serious  consideration  of  diet  in  relation 
to  personal  health.  The  subject  was  popularized  by  a  contingent  of 
food  experts  from  the  Battle  Creek  laboratories.  How  new  and  excit 
ing  their  talk  seemed  then:  "The  Miracle  of  Digestion";  "Common 
Food  Adulteration";  "How  to  Convert  Labor  into  Health  and  Hap 
piness."  But  although  these  people  talked  sense  part  of  the  time,  we 
regarded  them  as  food  faddists,  one  and  all.  Try  to  make  a  farming 
community  leave  off  eating  so  much  meat  and  substitute  things  made 
of  nuts! 

The  diet  of  lectures  was  spiced,  of  course,  with  lighter  entertain 
ment  On  the  days  when  the  magician  or  the  chalk-talk  artist  ap 
peared,  the  gate  receipts  were  sure  to  increase.  Then  there  was  the 
field  which  the  colleges,  abhorring  the  term  "elocution,"  now  desig 
nate  so  tamely  as  "speech."  "Theater"  with  us  was  still  a  term  of 
doubtful  import,  "Plays"  we  had,  but  it  was  understood  that  these 
were  "home  talent."  But  one  must  have  theater,  call  it  what  you  will. 
The  Chautauqua,  in  those  early  years,  called  it  impersonation.  "The 
little  elocutionist,  famous  for  her  Baby  Cry  act,"  was  much  in  de 
mand. 

Really  excellent  bands,  orchestras,  and  choruses  introduced  us  to 
the  classics.  Airs  from  operas  became,  after  a  few  seasons,  as  familiar 
as  "Home  Sweet  Home."  Welsh  choirs  that  had  taken  prizes  at  the 
Eisteddfodd  introduced  us  to  a  different  type  of  music,  beautiful  and 
strange.  The  Negro  choruses  were  something  else  again.  Groups  like 
The  Dixie  Singers,  The  Jubilee  Singers,  and  quartets  from  Fisk 
University  gave  us  our  first  glimpse  of  the  artist  soul  of  the  black 
folk.  Now  for  the  first  time  we  heard  "spirituals"  spoken  of.  Was  it 
possible  that  the  songs  we  had  always  treated  as  rather  comic  had 
such  deep  springs  of  emotion? 


306  ROUNDUP 

Yes,  we  liked  Chautauqua.  And  although  its  usefulness  came  to  an 
end  with  the  dawn  of  the  thirties,  some  of  us  were  loath  to  give  it  up. 
After  a  while  most  people  had  a  pole  out  by  the  garage  and  a  boxful 
of  tubes  within  the  house  from  which  they  could  draw  more  enter 
tainment  than  they  could  find  time  to  listen  to;  but,  even  so,  some 
loyal  patrons  kept  on  coming  to  Chautauqua  instead  of  staying  at 
home  with  the  new  plaything.  Nobody  made  any  money  from  the 
enterprise.  Money  laid  out  for  community  welfare  does  not  reappear 
in  the  profit  column  of  the  ledger.  But  in  the  bitter  years  that  fol 
lowed,  when  people  found  their  "securities"  scraps  of  paper  in  their 
hands,  this  investment  in  human  happiness  must  have  looked  to 
those  who  paid  for  it  positively  gilt-edged. 


Condensed  from  Prairie  Schooner,  Fall,  1944 


After  two  years  of  dust  storms,  of  drought,  of  destroyed 
crops,  the  writer  drove  more  than  two  hundred  miles 
through  farming  country.  It  was  one  of  the  worst  spring 
days  of  those  storms,  impossible  to  see  a  hundred  yards  on 
the  highway,  and  yet  old  men  and  young  men,  blackened 
with  flying  dust,  were  putting  seed  into  the  parched  earth. 
Many  will  not  understand  that.  It  takes  a  sublime  faith 
when  hope  seems  so  futile,  a  grandeur  of  spirit  which 
springs  from  the  soil. 

—James  E.  Lawrence,  Review  of  Reviews,  June,  1936 


Holdrege 


ROBERT  HOUSTON 

IT  WAS  to  be  a  gala  evening  for  Holdrege.  On  that  night  in  the  mid- 
thirties  the  great  Stokowski  and  his  Philadelphia  Symphony,  making 
a  tour  of  the  nation's  large  cities,  were  to  give  a  performance  in  this 
"sticks"  town  of  3,000.  The  day  had  been  hot  and  dusty,  but  late  in 
the  afternoon  the  skies  blackened  and  hail  beat  down,  riddling  the 
roof  of  Holdrege's  City  Auditorium.  After  the  hail  came  a  pelting 
rain. 

But  the  concert  went  on.  "Stoki"  and  his  musicians  were  as  game  as 
Holdrege's  music  lovers.  Listeners  brought  their  umbrellas  and  sat 
under  them  all  through  the  program.  And  Stokowski's  harpist 
strummed  the  strings  while  a  stage  hand  held  an  umbrella  over  the 
instrument.  It  was  rather  a  black  night  for  Holdrege,  but  it  was 
heartening  too,  and,  in  a  way,  symbolic.  In  those  days  of  depression 
and  drought  Holdrege  had  hit  the  depths.  But  the  perverse  elements 
hadn't  driven  the  people  off  the  land,  and  couldn't  keep  the  com 
munity  from  enjoying  its  favorite  cultural  fare— good  music. 

The  little  city  was  down  but  not  out  From  the  depths,  the  only 
way  it  could  go  was  up;  and  today,  thanks  chiefly  to  irrigation  in 
Phelps  County,  Holdrege  is  husky  and  thriving.  Its  population  grew 
thirty  per  cent  during  the  '40%  reaching  4,381  in  the  1950  census, 
and  the  expansion  goes  on.  The  town  is  still  building  close  to  one 
hundred  houses  a  year  in  an  effort  to  catch  up  with  the  housing 
shortage. 


3o8  ROUNDUP: 

One  of  the  things  that  Holdrege  has  attended  to  is  the  City  Audi 
torium.  Because  of  the  community's  tastes,  such  a  building  has  meant 
far  more  than  it  does  to  the  average  small  city.  Holdrege's  first  opera 
house,  with  a  seating  capacity  of  650,  had  been  replaced  in  1916  by 
an  auditorium  seating  2,300  persons.  It  was  not  pretty— in  fact,  it 
looked  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  big  barn— but  such  famed  singers 
as  Galli-Curci,  Alda,  Schumann-Heink,  and  John  McCormack  ap 
peared  there.  Auto  shows  were  held  annually,  but  these  were  dropped 
as  the  depression  deepened.  However,  in  1933— Holdrege's  fiftieth 
anniversary  year— the  Chamber  of  Commerce  named  a  ten-man  group 
to  promote  auditorium  activities.  Its  members  called  themselves  the 
Sod  Busters,  and  each  put  up  a  hundred  dollars  as  guarantee  money 
in  obtaining  talent.  The  Sod  Busters  brought  in  Stokowski,  civic 
opera  companies  from  New  York  and  Chicago,  the  Navy  and  Marine 
bands,  and  leading  dance  orchestras. 

Around  1943  the  auditorium  stockholders  turned  the  building 
over  to  the  city,  and  in  1948  the  citizens  voted  a  $125,000  bond  issue 
for  improving  it  inside  and  out.  Since  then  Holdrege  has  had  a  Com 
munity  Concert  Association  which  brings  five  top-flight  musical  at 
tractions  a  year.  The  Association  membership  has  grown  from  500  to 
1,600,  and  Holdrege  continues  to  be  by  far  the  smallest  town  on  the 
itinerary  of  some  of  the  musical  groups.  Although  the  Sod  Busters 
organization  dissolved,  the  name  is  carried  on  by  a  saddle  club  whose 
60  members  go  on  trail  rides  and  picnics,  take  part  in  parades,  and 
do  what  they  can  to  boost  their  indomitable  home  town. 

The  original  sod-busters  came  in  to  Phelps  County  back  in  the 
'7o's.  On  arriving  at  the  center  of  the  county,  just  north  of  present- 
day  Holdrege,  a  member  of  an  immigrating  party  wrote: 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  in  any  direction  not  a  sign  of  human 
habitation  was  visible  except  about  three  miles  southeast  where  [land 
agents  for  the  railroad  company]  were  building  an  Emigrant  House  and 
digging  a  well  for  the  accommodation  of  the  colonists.  Nothing  but  miles 
and  miles  of  level  prairie  burned  black  by  the  prairie  fires.  Hundreds  of 
thousands  of  bleaching  buffalo  skeletons  are  scattered  over  the  plains.  . .  . 

But  the  settlers  were  undaunted  by  this  bleak  picture,  and  they  broke 
the  buffalo-grass  sod. 

Ten  years  after  Phelps  County  was  organized,  Holdrege  came  into 
existence.  It  owed  its  founding  to  the  Burlington  Railroad  and  in 
particular  to  George  Holdrege,  for  years  the  Burlington's  general 


A  Nebraska  Reader  309 

manager  west  of  the  Missouri.  It  was  Mr.  Holdrege  who  talked  rail 
officials  into  extending  a  line  into  Phelps  County.  Rainfall  wasn't 
great,  and  there  was  little  surface  water,  but  the  soil  was  very  rich. 

The  town  was  laid  out  in  1885,  and  late  that  year  Burlington  trains 
began  bringing  in  settlers  of  Swedish  extraction  from  the  Galesburg 
area  in  Illinois.  Until  recently,  people  of  Swedish  descent  out 
numbered  all  others  in  Holdrege.  Now  only  about  forty  per  cent 
of  the  names  in  the  phone  book  are  Swedish.  (However,  there  are 
ninety-one  Johnsons  and  only  seven  Smiths.) 

Until  the  last  decade,  Holdrege  reflected  the  ups  and  downs  of  the 
farming  community  surrounding  it.  "You  could  almost  gamble  on  a 
wet  year  every  seven  years,"  says  one  resident.  "In  between,  rainfall 
was  up  and  down.  If  you  could  hold  out  for  seven  years,  you  were  all 
right/'  But  the  rich  soil  suffered  as  time  went  by  because  rainfall  was 
insufficient  to  allow  farmers  to  rotate  legume  crops  with  their  corn 
and  wheat  crops. 

In  the  dry  'go's,  Holdrege  and  the  county  faced  a  bleak  future,  as 
L.  J.  Titus,  president  of  the  Holdrege  First  National  Bank,  can  tell 
you.  Deposits  in  the  bank,  which  had  been  started  in  1888,  had 
dropped  to  one  million  dollars  in  1936. 

"After  graduating  from  college  in  1935,"  Mr.  Titus  says,  "I  re 
turned  to  Holdrege  and  worked  in  the  bank  for  a  year  during  those 
dust-storm  days.  Then  I  went  to  my  Dad,  who  was  president  of  the 
bank,  and  informed  him  that  the  town  was  going  to  the  dogs.  1  can 
get  a  better  job  somewhere  else,'  I  said.  My  Dad  said,  'Son,  wait  a 
year,  and  if  the  irrigation  project  for  Phelps  County  doesn't  go 
through,  I'll  leave  with  you/  " 

The  Tri~County  irrigation  project  in  the  Platte  River  Valley  was 
assured  in  1937,  and  the  Tituses  and  a  lot  of  others  decided  to  stay. 
In  1946,  the  younger  Mr.  Titus  took  over  the  presidency,  the  third 
generation  in  his  family  to  occupy  that  post,  and  now  the  bank  has 
more  than  eight  millions  in  deposits. 

"I  think  I'm  here  to  stay  all  right,"  says  Mr.  Titus  with  a  grin. 

The  first  waters  from  the  Platte  spilled  onto  farms  in  the  north 
half  of  Phelps  County  in  1941.  But  under  the  water  diversion  laws, 
the  Platte  River  watershed  stopped  about  four  miles  north  of  Hol 
drege,  and  efforts  of  the  county's  residents  to  extend  that  area  have 
failed.  ''We're  ready  to  give  up  on  that,"  says  Mr.  Titus,  "and  from 
now  on,  in  the  southern  part  of  the  county,  farmers  will  drill  more 
wells  to  provide  irrigation  water." 

A  campaign  is  being  waged  to  cross-grid  the  county  with  natural 


gio  ROUNDUP: 

gas  lines,  providing  cheaper  power  for  the  water  pumps.  There  were 
several  hundred  pumps  at  the  start  of  1954,  and  an  estimated  600 
more  will  be  put  down  some  150  feet  to  tap  the  supply  that  runs 
under  all  but  the  two  southwestern  townships.  (At  the  end  of  1956, 
according  to  the  last  estimate  of  the  Kansas-Nebraska  National  Gas 
Company,  there  were  2,000  wells  powered  by  natural  gas  within 
fifteen  to  twenty  miles  of  Holdrege.— Editors  note] 

In  1941,  when  the  first  13,000  acres  were  irrigated,  value  of  crops 
totaled  $1,841,650.  Eleven  years  later  crop  values  had  soared  to 
$11,711,122.  In  1941,  says  Mr.  Titus,  there  were  only  five  cattle- 
raisers  in  the  county,  and  the  value  of  all  the  livestock  was  a  little 
more  than  a  million  dollars.  Now  the  value  is  in  excess  of  six  million 
dollars,  and  livestock  sales  annually  gross  better  than  $1,500,000. 

This  sudden  increase  in  production  has  changed  the  looks  of 
Holdrege:  it  has  become  a  bulging  grain  storage  center.  The  Pro 
duction  Marketing  Association  of  Phelps  County  has  close  to  a 
million  bushels  in  storage.  The  Equity  Exchange  has  250,000  bushels 
of  grain  storage  space  as  does  the  Holdrege  Roller  Mills.  The  roller 
mill,  incidentally,  has  been  operated  by  the  Johnson  family  for  more 
than  50  years.  It  manufactures  flour  and  feed,  and  is  one  of  the  last 
"family  flour  mills"  left  in  Nebraska. 

One  of  the  fastest  growing  businesses  has  been  the  Holdrege  Seed 
and  Farm  Supply  Company,  started  in  1942.  Its  biggest  line  is  farm 
seed,  but  the  company  supplies  theaters  from  coast  to  coast  with 
popcorn,  and  produces  a  line  of  fertilizer.  Another  thriving  firm  is 
the  Nebraska  Dairy  Products  Company,  which  sells  milk  to  an  area 
extending  as  far  west  as  McCook  and  to  a  number  of  towns  and  cities 
to  the  east  of  Holdrege.  The  Phelps  County  Creamery  is  a  large  em 
ployer,  with  85  persons  on  the  payroll.  Besides  processing  dairy 
products,  the  plant  has  an  egg-cracking  and  -drying  unit. 

In  line  with  the  pattern  of  Nebraska's  post-war  industrial  boom, 
Holdrege  has  a  couple  of  small  industrial  firms,  and  most  Holdrege 
businessmen  agree  that  the  city  needs  more.  They  cite  the  example 
of  the  Allmand  brothers,  who  went  into  partnership  some  years  ago 
in  a  garage  and  blacksmith  shop.  In  1947  they  put  up  a  $40,000  build 
ing  where  they  turn  out  arc  welders,  stand-by  generators,  and  other 
electrical  products.  The  branch  plant  of  the  Platte  Valley  Tile 
Company  of  Scottsbluff  and  Fremont,  employing  25,  has  been  manu 
facturing  tiles  in  Holdrege  since  1948. 

Almost  half  of  the  community's  134  business  firms  were  started 
since  World  War  II.  Evidence  of  prosperity  is  the  list  of  seven  new 


A  Nebraska  Reader  311 

car  dealers,  one  of  whom  recently  built  an  $80,000  plant.  There  are 
twelve  automotive  firms  and  seven  farm  implement  dealers. 

One  of  the  city's  largest  employers  is  the  Brewster  Clinic  and 
Hospital,  founded  by  Dr.  Frank  A.  Brewster,  once  known  as  the 
state's  first  flying  doctor.  It  is  a  5?-bed  hospital  and  has  71  employees. 
On  the  medical  staff  with  Dr.  Brewster  are  his  two  sons  and  three 
other  physicians.  The  doctor  is  one  of  Holdrege's  most  remarkable 
citizens.  In  1951  he  decided  to  retire,  bought  a  farm,  and  had  fun 
riding  around  on  a  tractor.  But  two  years  later  there  was  a  doctor 
shortage  in  Franklin,  Nebraska,  so  Dr.  Brewster  set  up  a  clinic  in 
Franklin  and  now,  at  the  age  of  81,  works  there  six  days  a  week  and 
checks  in  at  the  home  clinic  on  Sundays. 

One  of  his  sons,  Dr.  Wayne  Brewster,  is  president  of  the  corpora 
tion  which  operates  KHOL-TV,  Holdrege's  TV  station,  which  was 
promoted  by  Holdrege  and  Alma  investors.  The  Holdrege  paper,  the 
Daily  Citizen,  is  only  one  year  younger  than  the  town.  A  daily  since 
1937,  it  moved  into  enlarged  quarters  in  1954. 

Since  the  dust-storm  years  of  the  '§o's,  Holdrege  has  acquired  a 
fine  city  hall  housing  all  municipal  activities,  a  1138,000  armory  for 
the  city's  National  Guard  unit,  two  new  grade  schools  which  cost 
nearly  a  half -million,  Memorial  Homes,  Inc.,  a  non-profit  home  for 
the  elderly,  and  such  recreational  facilities  as  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  beautiful  swimming  pools  in  the  state. 

It  was  just  80  years  ago  that  the  first  sod-busters  looked  out  over 
the  miles  of  blackened  prairie,  hitched  up  their  britches,  and  fell  to 
with  the  breaking  plow.  The  present  generation,  it  would  seem,  has 
not  lost  the  knack. 


Condensed  from  the  Omaha  World-Herald  Sunday  Magazine,  June  6,  1954 


Cedartown  sits  beside  a  great  highway  which  was  once  a 
buffalo  trail.  If  you  start  in  one  direction  on  the  highway— 
and  travel  far  enough— you  will  come  to  the  effete  east. 
If  you  start  in  the  opposite  direction— and  travel  a  few 
hundred  miles  farther— you  will  come  to  the  distinctive 
west.  Cedartown  is  neither  effete  nor  distinctive,  nor  is  it 
even  particularly  pleasing  to  the  passing  tourist  It  is 
beautiful  only  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  live  here  and  in 
the  memories  of  the  Nebraska-born  whose  dwelling  in  far 
places  has  given  them  moments  of  homesickness  for  the 
low  rolling  hills,  the  swell  and  dip  of  ripening  wheat,  the 
fields  of  sinuously  waving  corn,  and  the  elusively  fragrant 
odor  of  alfalfa. 

There  are  weeks  when  drifting  snow  and  sullen  sleet 
hold  the  Cedartown  community  in  their  bitter  grasp. 
There  are  times  when  hot  winds  come  out  of  the  south 
west  and  parch  it  with  their  feverish  breath.  There  are 
periods  of  monotonous  drought  and  periods  of  dreary  rain; 
but  between  those  onslaughts  there  are  days  so  perfect, 
so  filled  with  clover  odors  and  the  rich,  pungent  smell  of 
newly  turned  loam,  so  sumac-laden  and  apple-burdened, 
that  to  the  prairie-born  there  are  no  others  as  lovely  by 
mountain  or  lake  or  sea. 

—Bess  Streeter  Aldrich,  A  Lantern  in  Her  Hand 


Elmwood 


BESS  STREETER  ALDRICH 

THERE  are  fiction  writers  who  would  have  us  believe  that  just  three 
types  of  people  inhabit  small  midwestern  towns.  There  are  those  who 
are  discontented,  wanting  to  get  away;  there  are  those  who  are  too 
dumb  to  know  enough  to  want  to  get  away;  and  the  rest  are  half-wits. 
Not  qualifying  for  the  first  section,  I  must,  perforce,  belong  some 
where  down  the  line. 

Our  town  is  small.  In  fact,  to  speak  of  our  "town"  at  all  is  rank 
hyperbole,  for  it  is  not  even  a  town  but  is  incorporated  as  a  village. 
It  is  so  small  that,  with  the  exception  of  Main,  the  streets  are  not 

31* 


A  Nebraska  Reader 

called  by  their  names,  and  you  have  to  look  on  a  map  or  an  abstract 
to  find  out  what  they  are.  We  glibly  say  "over  by  Clement's"  and 
"down  by  the  high  school,"  and  in  the  last  few  years  have  been 
putting  on  airs  by  saying  "across  the  park"  instead  of  "the  meadow." 
It  is  so  small  that  we  have  to  go  to  the  post  office  for  our  mail,  where 
the  postmaster  knows  everyone  so  well  that  a  letter  coming  in  one 
day  addressed  briefly  to  "Clara,"  minus  any  surname,  immediately 
found  its  owner  by  the  process  of  elimination.  It  is  so  small  that 
whether  you  choose  to  or  not  you  are  obliged  to  hear  the  band 
practice  every  Monday  night  in  the  old  G.A.R.  Hall.  Not  that  it  is 
such  a  hardship.  To  be  sure,  its  repertoire  may  not  be  so  extensive 
as  the  late  Mr.  Sousa's  and  it  may  be  top-heavy  with  brass,  but  it's 
a  good  little  band  at  that. 

"Tell  me  why  you  continue  to  live  in  a  small  town,"  wrote  the 
editor.  The  question  makes  me  stop  and  wonder.  Perhaps  it's  just 
inertia— just  small-town  stagnation.  But  I  do  not  think  so. 

It  is  true  that  I  do  not  always  stay  here.  Out  of  the  twelve  months 
of  the  past  year,  five  of  them  were  spent  away— three  on  the  West 
Coast  and  two  in  the  pine-and-lake  region  of  northern  Minnesota. 
But  my  home  is  here.  Good  friends  are  here.  I  live  and  do  my  work 
here  where  the  streets  go  unnamed,  and  the  one  train  and  one  bus 
each  way  per  day  slip  through  town  with  few  passengers,  and  the 
band  lustily  executes  Poet  and  Peasant  and  Under  the  Double  Eagle 
March. 

No  one  and  no  circumstances  are  compelling  me  to  remain.  In  the 
eight  years  since  my  husband's  death,  there  has  not  been  a  day  that  I 
might  not  have  packed  the  typewriter  and  moved  to  Lincoln  or 
Omaha  or  to  any  big  city  east  or  west.  Not  that  I  depreciate  the  many 
advantages  of  living  in  one  of  them,  but  to  me  they  are  for  visiting, 
and  my  little  town  for  home. 

It  was  just  twenty-three  years  ago  that  as  a  young  married  woman 
with  a  two-month-old  baby  girl  in  my  arms  I  arrived  at  the  boxlike 
station  and  was  met  by  my  husband,  who  had  preceded  me  by  a  few 
weeks.  I  had  not  wanted  to  come  to  Nebraska.  My  earliest  recollec 
tion  of  hearing  the  name  of  the  state  was  a  picture  of  my  mother 
sending  me  over  to  the  church  basement  with  some  old  clothes  and 
dried  apples  which  she  explained  were  to  be  sent  to  the  poor  folks 
out  in  Nebraska.,  The  impression  persisted,  so  that  when  my  husband 
and  my  sister's  husband  negotiated  for  the  purchase  of  the  bank 
here,  I  was  not  at  all  enthusiastic  about  the  move.  I  did  not  want  to 
wear  old  clothes,  and  I  did  not  want  to  eat  dried  apples. 


3*4  ROUNDUP: 

On  the  day  on  which  we  arrived  there  was  a  typical  Nebraska  dust 
storm  of  no  modest  or  refined  proportions  under  way.  Si  Mairs,  whom 
the  menfolks  had  hired  to  meet  us,  was  at  the  station  with  a  two- 
seated  surrey  and  team  to  take  the  women  o£  the  party  up  to  the 
cottage  that  my  husband  had  rented.  Because  the  wind  was  blowing 
so  hard  that  I  would  not  trust  my  baby  out  o£  my  arms,  my  husband 
and  my  brother-in-law  wheeled  the  empty  cab  up  to  the  house, 
while  my  sister,  mother,  the  baby  and  I  rode  in  state  with  Si.  Si  was 
not  sure  which  of  three  cottages  at  the  end  of  the  street  was  the  one 
Mr.  Aldrich  had  rented,  but  it  did  not  take  me  long  to  pick  it  out, 
for  through  the  blasts  of  dust  I  could  see  my  best  upholstered  rocking 
chair,  a  wedding  present,  sitting  on  a  little  porch  with  an  arm  hang 
ing  limply  down  at  its  side,  evidently  broken  in  shipping. 

Through  the  gusts  of  dirt  we  hurried  up  to  the  little  cottage,  and 
it  was  then  that  I  had  my  first  taste  of  Nebraska  small-town  hospital 
ity.  Si's  sister  had  come  in  to  get  the  dinner,  which  was  all  ready  for 
us.  On  my  stove  and  with  my  own  dishes  she  had  prepared  a  delicious 
meal  for  the  strangers,  that  they  might  feel  welcome. 

I  have  experienced  it  a  thousand  times  since— that  warm-hearted 
hospitality,  loyal  friendship,  and  deep  sympathy  of  the  small  town. 
And  it  is  these  characteristics  and  others  of  the  better  features  of  the 
small  town  and  its  people  that  I  have  tried  to  stress  in  my  short 
stories  and  books.  .  .  . 

Once  a  story  of  mine,  syndicated  in  a  newspaper,  carried  in  brackets 
an  indulgent  explanation  from  an  editor  that  the  writer  "goes  right 
down  into  small  towns  and  mingles  among  the  people  for  her  ma 
terial."  Could  anything  sound  more  smug?  As  if  I  had  gone  slumming 
with  drawn  skirts.  I  have  not  gone  small-townish  for  material.  I  am 
small-townish. 

Of  course,  to  be  honest,  I  admit  I  would  not  choose  this  little  place 
if  I  were  driving  across  country  seeking  a  town  into  which  to  move. 
I  may  have  expressed  something  of  that  in  the  introduction  to  A 
Lantern  in  Her  Hand,  for,  while  the  Cedartown  of  the  story  is  fic 
titious,  it  is  frankly  located  in  this  section  of  the  country. 

After  all,  it  is  contact  and  familiarity  that  help  endear  people 
and  places  to  us.  I  came  here  in  a  happy  day,  and  perhaps  I  am  trying 
to  cling  to  old  happiness.  As  I  write,  I  have  only  to  glance  outside 
my  study  window  to  see  in  the  cement  of  the  driveway  the  tracings 
of  a  fat  hand  with  grotesque  square  fingers,  a  date  of  nine  years  ago, 
and  the  straggling  initials  C.  S.  A.  I  have  one  son  who  has  always  had 
a  perfect  obsession  for  leaving  his  footprints,  not  only  on  the  sands 


A  Nebraska  Reader 

of  time  but  in  every  piece  of  new  cement  about  the  place.  TTiere  are 
hands  and  feet  of  every  size,  width,  and  length  on  sidewalks,  drive 
ways,  steps,  and  posts,  all  duly  signed  and  dated.  It  would  be  absurd 
to  say  that  the  sight  of  that  traced  hand  outside  my  study  window 
holds  me  here,  but  it  may  readily  be  a  symbol  of  all  that  does.  It 
would  not  be  possible  for  me  to  follow  four  young  people  with 
widely  diversified  tastes  and  talents  out  into  the  world— and  to  keep 
the  home  with  its  old  associations  means  more  to  me  than  any  ad 
vantage  gained  by  moving  cityward. 

This  is  the  home  my  sons  and  daughter  knew  in  childhood,  and  I 
have  a  notion  that  in  this  rather  hectic  day  of  complicated  life  it  is 
well  for  young  people  to  have  some  substantial  tie  which  still  holds 
them  to  the  anchor  of  unchanging  things.  You  cannot  break  the 
radii  of  love  which  stretch  out  from  the  center  of  a  good  home. 
They  are  the  most  flexible  things  in  the  world.  They  pull  at  the 
hearts  of  the  children  until  sometime,  somewhere,  they  draw  the 
wanderers  all  back  into  the  family  circle. 

Small-town  people  are  popularly  supposed  to  be  narrow.  And  yet 
are  the  realities  of  life  narrowing?  Birth?  Marriage?  Death?  Small 
town  life  is  not  artificial.  It  need  not  be  superficial.  Calvin  Coolidge, 
in  his  autobiography,  has  expressed  it  in  his  simple,  effective  way: 
"Country  life  does  not  always  have  breadth,  but  it  has  depth."  Small 
town  people  are  no  longer  mere  isolated  villagers.  Although  the 
whiskered  farmer  gent  with  the  straw  in  his  mouth  is  still  the  joy 
of  the  cartoonists,  there  is  no  character  which  adequately  represents 
the  Main  Street  man.  Small-town  people  move  about  now,  go  places. 

When  I  was  a  little  girl,  we  used  to  drive  six  miles  out  in  the 
country  to  an  uncle's— jog  .  .  .  jog  .  .  .  jog  over  the  country  roads. 
And,  incidentally,  it  had  one  advantage.  It  gave  us  time  to  see 
things—pink  bouncing  Bets  at  the  side  of  the  road  ...  a  meadow 
lark's  nest  ...  all  the  little  wild  things  that  we  so  easily  overlook, 
now  while  the  needle  trembles  toward  sixty.  From  our  small  town, 
in  far  less  time  than  those  six  miles  used  to  consume,  we  drive  on  a 
paved  road  up  to  Lincoln;  an  hour  in  the  opposite  direction  finds  us 
in  the  still  larger  Omaha.  Our  physician  and  his  wife  recently  took 
a  Cuban  trip  ...  a  young  chap  has  just  gone  down  to  see  South 
America  for  a  month  ...  my  daughter's  girlhood  chum  across  the 
street  studied  music  in  Paris  last  summer.  Even  Heinle  Mollen,  the 
cobbler,  put  down  his  hammer  last  fall  and  went  out  to  take  a  look 
at  Hollywood  to  see  if  the  stars  really  looked  like  the  pictures  tacked 
up  on  the  walls  of  his  shop. 


3i6  ROUNDUP 

A  small  town  is  a  good  place  for  a  writer  to  live.  Not  only  is  he 
dose  to  the  people,  and  so  close  to  life  in  the  raw,  but  also  it  keeps 
him  humble.  For  instance,  if  you  are  a  professional  writer,  living  in 
a  small  town,  perhaps  on  the  day  on  which  you  are  coming  home 
from  the  post  office  with  a  letter  from  the  committee  that  a  story  of 
yours  has  been  judged  one  of  the  best  of  the  year  and  chosen  for 
the  O.  Henry  Memorial  Award  volume,  you  meet  an  old  man  who 
stops  you  and  says:  "Say,  I  just  been  readin*  one  of  your  stories."  Ah, 
you  think,  everyone  reads  them— the  O.  Henry  committee,  young 
people,  middle-aged,  old  men;  babies  cry  for  them.  "Yep,"  he  says, 
"it  was  the  one  in  the— Well,  I  forget  the  magazine,  but  it's  one  my 
daughter  takes."  You  overlook  a  little  thing  like  that  and  wait  for 
him  to  go  on.  "Anyway,  the  name  of  the  story  was— Say,"  he  apolo 
gizes,  "that  slips  me  too."  Oh,  well,  that's  a  mere  bagatelle.  What's 
a  title?  "Anyway,"  he  brightens,  "the  story  was  about—"  He  takes 
off  his  cap  and  scratches  his  head.  "Don't  that  beat  you?  I  clean  for 
get  what  the  darn  thing  was  about." 

And  there  you  are.  If  a  story  was  not  clean-cut  enough  for  a  nice 
old  man  to  remember  overnight,  it  wasn't  very  good. 

Then  there  was  the  time  I  had  received  the  annual  report  showing 
that  a  book  of  mine  had  been  third  in  sales  for  the  entire  country  for 
the  year.  With  that  rather  pleasant  bit  of  news  uppermost  in  my 
mind,  I  went  to  a  little  social  affair  in  my  small  town.  When  I  sat 
down  among  the  ladies,  I  made  a  remark  about  just  coming  home 
from  Lincoln— that  I  had  not  been  there  in  five  weeks.  A  little  woman 
looked  up  from  her  fancywork  and  said: 

"Did  you  say  you  hadn't  been  there  for  five  weeks?  Well,  isn't 
that  queer!  I  was  in  Lincoln  yesterday  myself  and  stopped  to  buy 
some  groceries.  When  I  gave  the  groceryman  a  check  he  said,  'I  see 
you're  from  the  town  where  Bess  Streeter  Aldrich  lives.  I  suppose  you 
know  her?'  Now,  will  you  tell  me,"  she  questioned  earnestly,  "if 
you  hadn't  been  in  Lincoln  for  five  weeks,  how  that  groceryman 
could  have  remembered  your  name  all  that  length  of  time?" 

Humble?  I'll  say  they  keep  you  humble.  A  prophet  in  her  own 
village  isn't  a  prophet  at  all,  but  just  a  woman  who  buys  groceries. 
And  isn't  that  as  it  should  be? 


Extracted  from  "Why  I  Live  in  a  Small  Town,"  Ladies?  Home  Journal,  June,  1933 
Reprinted  by   special  permission.  Copyright   1953   by  The   Curtis   Publishing 

Company 


Nebraska  has  been  described  as  the  state  the  west  begins 
in  the  middle  of.  However  questionable  the  syntax  of  this 
observation,  it  does  point  up  the  fact  that  in  Eastern 
Nebraska  the  way  of  life  is  predominately  middle-western, 
while  Western  Nebraska—particularly  the  Panhandle 
region— is  plain  unvarnished  western. 

There  is  more  to  Nebraska's  dual  personality  than 
meets  the  eye.  The  difference  in  point  of  view  is  a  basic 
one.  On  a  few  occasions  when  there  has  been  a  collision 
between  these  views,  the  independent,  plain-spoken 
Westerners  have  expressed  their  feelings  about  Eastern 
Nebraska  by  threatening  to  secede.  But  tempers  cool,  and 
the  commonwealth  remains  intact.  During  times  of  truce, 
all  hands  agree  that  the  East-West  diversity  is  a  beneficial, 
if  sometimes  unpalatable,  tonic  for  the  state. 

Born  with  the  twentieth  century,  the  metropolis  of 
Western  Nebraska  is  the  dynamic,  optimistic,  ambitious 
city  of  Scottsbluff. 


Scottsbluff 


ROBERT  YOUNG 


AFTER  his  unsuccessful  attempt  to  nominate  one  Joe  Smith  for  the 
vice  presidency  at  the  1956  Republican  Convention,  Delegate  Terry 
Carpenter  of  Scottsbluff  was  besieged  with  questions  about  the 
strangely  anonymous  candidate  he  had  pulled  out  of  his  sleeve.  If 
there  was  a  Joe  Smith,  where  did  he  live?  What  did  he  do?  Mr. 
Carpenter,  who  has  been  variously  described  as  a  "one-man  business 
boom"  (Scottsbluff  Star-Herald)  and  a  "political  cuckoo"  (Time) , 
obliged  with  the  information  that  Joe  lived  in  Terrytown— a  housing 
development  owned  by  Mr.  Carpenter-and  was  "a  retired  fellow." 

"Retired  from  what?"  asked  a  reporter. 

"From  work,"  stated  Mr.  Carpenter,  thereby  making  it  crystal- 
clear  to  anyone  remotely  acquainted  with  Scottsbluff  that  Joe  Smith 
existed  only  in  Mr.  Carpenter's  imagination.  A  Scottsbluff  man 
might  retire  from  his  job-yes,  sure.  But  retire  from  work?  Nonsense! 


ji8  ROUNDUP: 

Less  easily  resolved  is  the  question  as  to  whether  Scottsbluff  peo 
ple  just  happened  to  be  born  endowed  with  a  double  charge  of 
free-swinging  energy,  an  extra  supply  of  resourcefulness,  and  an 
unusual  aptitude  for  keeping  their  eye  on  the  ball,  or  whether  these 
characteristics  were  developed  in  the  course  of  the  struggle  to  put 
their  town  on  the  map.  In  any  case  it's  apparent  from  the  record  that, 
if  not  innately  go-getters,  they  certainly  qualified  for  the  rating  in 
one  hell  of  a  hurry.  In  1899  Scottsbluff  was  an  alfalfa  field.  In  less 
than  a  decade  it  had  overcome  the  johnny-come-lately  handicap  of 
its  proximity  to  two  established  trading  centers— Gering,  just  across 
the  river  to  the  south,  and  Mitchell,  nine  miles  to  the  northwest— 
and  was  firmly  established  as  the  leading  town  in  Scotts  Bluff 
County.  Before  its  fiftieth  anniversary  it  was  the  principal  city  in 
western  Nebraska  and  eastern  Wyoming. 

It  would  be  wrong,  however,  to  infer  that  rivalry  with  neighboring 
towns  is  the  theme  of  the  Scottsbluff  story,  and  the  attainment  of  its 
present  dominant  position  the  pay-off.  While  they  have  remained 
intensely  competitive,  the  people  of  the  North  Platte  Valley  region 
learned  long  ago  to  work  in  concert  for  the  common  good.  The  iso 
lated  location  of  this  irrigated  area  four  hundred  miles  west  of 
Nebraska's  capital  and  centers  of  population,  plus  what  valley  in 
habitants  regard  as  indifference  to  their  needs  and  ignorance  of 
their  problems  on  the  part  of  the  legislature  and  the  rest  of  the 
state,  have  resulted  in  an  uncommon  degree  of  regional  solidarity 
and  a  strong  feeling  of  community  of  interests.  Moreover,  as  Scotts- 
blufTs  citizens  are  the  first  to  admit— and  as  is  true  wherever  com 
merce  and  industry  are  based  on  agriculture— the  growth  and 
prosperity  of  a  city  only  mirror  the  growth  and  prosperity  of  the 
land  around  it. 

Nebraska's  historian,  Dr.  James  C.  Olson,  summarizes  the  parallel 
development  of  town  and  country  in  Scotts  Bluff  County  this  way: 

In  1900  it  had  a  population  of  only  2,552.  By  1930,  however,  it  had  be 
come  the  fourth  most  populous  county  in  the  state,  and  in  1940  it  ranked 
third  and  was  first  in  density  of  rural  farm  population.  By  1940  the  city 
of  Scottsbluff,  which  in  1900  had  been  only  a  little  huddle  of  tar-paper 
shacks,  ranked  sixth  in  the  state.  In  the  value  of  crops  produced,  the  county 
ran  well  ahead  of  every  other  county  in  the  state,  with  the  margin  being 
greatly  increased  during  dry  years.  The  county's  agricultural  economy  was 
based  to  a  large  degree  upon  specialized  cash  crops— sugar  beets,  potatoes, 
beans,  and  canning  crops— grown  under  irrigation.  In  each  of  these  it 
ranked  first  in  the  state  and  produced  a  sizable  proportion  of  the  state's  en 
tire  production— from  about  one-half  to  three-fourths.  Irrigation  farmers  also 


A  Nebraska  Reader  319 

grew  alfalfa,  corn,  barley,  and  oats  for  livestock  feed.  Other  aspects  of  the 
economy  reflected  the  high  efficiency  of  the  county's  agriculture.  In  1940 
the  county  ranked  third  in  manufacturing  and  third  in  retail  sales.  In 
freight  shipments  Scottsbluff  was  second  only  to  Omaha.* 

Since  it  is  customary  to  account  for  ScottsblufFs  jet-propelled  rise 
by  pointing  to  such  factors  as  its  strategic  location  in  the  heart  of 
the  valley,  the  irrigation  ditches,  its  beet-sugar  factory,  and  the  de 
mands  created  by  the  North  Platte  Valley  agricultural  empire,  per 
haps  it  also  should  be  pointed  out  that  in  1900  the  location  seemed 
more  redundant  than  strategic,  the  ditches  had  yet  to  be  dug,  the 
factory  had  yet  to  be  built,  and  if  anyone  had  referred  to  the  North 
Platte  Valley  as  an  agricultural  empire,  he  would  have  been  led 
gently  away  by  a  man  with  a  net. 

Scotts  Bluff  County  had  been  organized  in  1888,  one  of  four 
created  by  the  partitioning  of  Cheyenne  County,  which  originally 
had  comprised  the  whole  southern  half  of  the  Panhandle.  In  1889, 
after  considerable  acrimony  and  two  elections,  Gering,  a  centrally 
located  town  on  the  North  Platte  River,  was  named  county  seat. 
Eleven  years  went  by— years  signalized  chiefly  by  the  first  real  at 
tempts  to  practice  irrigation— and  then  along  came  Scottsbluff,  rid 
ing  on  the  back  of  the  Burlington.  The  railroad  having  decided  to 
extend  its  line  through  the  North  Platte  Valley,  the  town-site  was 
selected  and  laid  out  by  a  Burlington  subsidiary,  the  Lincoln  Land 
Company,  and  in  mid-February,  1900,  when  the  Burlington  con 
struction  crews  reached  Scottsbluff,  the  curtain  went  up. 

At  once  the  scene  exploded  into  activity.  By  March,  the  town  had 
two  store  buildings  (the  first  completed,  Andy  McClenahan's,  was 
dedicated  with  a  dance),  a  hotel,  a  church,  and  the  beginnings  of  a 
post  office,  in  the  back  part  of  which  the  newly  appointed  post 
master,  Charles  H.  Simmons  (whose  son  Robert  was  to  be  Chief 
Justice  of  the  Nebraska  State  Supreme  Court)  installed  his  family 
while  their  Gering  log  house  was  disassembled,  the  roof  sawed  in 
quarters,  the  logs  numbered  for  reassembly,  and  the  structure  carted 
across  the  river  by  team.  In  April,  E.  T.  Westervelt  of  Gering,  who 

*  According  to  the  U.S.  Bureau  of  the  Census,  1954,  Scotts  Bluff  County  was 
first  in  Nebraska  in  sugar  beets,  fourth  hi  the  U.S.;  first  in  the  state  in  sheep 
and  lambs,  eighth  in  number  and  fifth  in  value  in  the  U.S.;  first  in  the  state  in 
potatoes,  twenty-eighth  in  acreage  and  thirtieth  in  bushels  in  the  U.S.;  seventh 
in  the  state  in  cattle  (numbers)  and  sixth  (value),  forty-first  and  thirty-first 
respectively  in  the  UA  According  to  the  Sales  Management  Survey  of  Buying 
Power,  May,  1956,  hi  Gross  Cash  Farm  Income  Scotts  Bluff  County  ranked  seventy- 
sixth  in  the  U.S,,  and  in  Nebraska  was  second  only  to  Cuming  County  (sixty- 
sixth  in  the  U.S.).  The  same  source  lists  the  present  population  of  the  city  of 
Scottsbluff  as  13,700. 


320  ROUNDUP: 

had  just  finished  a  term  as  county  sheriff,  announced  plans  to  pub 
lish  a  weekly  paper,  the  Republican,  and  moved  his  family  into 
temporary  quarters  at  the  Presbyterian  church  while  he  built  himself 
a  newspaper  building. 

May  was  a  time  of  crisis  and  agonized  indecision  for  Gering.  The 
land  company  was  wooing  Gering  businessmen  with  offers  of  free 
lots,  and  there  was  an  evening  when  they  agreed  to  move  en  masse 
to  the  new  town.  Minds  changed  the  next  day— but  not  all  of  them, 
and  the  exodus  continued. 

In  June  the  town  builders  decided  that  to  delay  incorporation 
would  only  delay  needed  civic  improvements,  and  by  extending  the 
proposed  corporate  limits  to  include  a  number  of  farms,  jacked  up 
the  population  high  enough  to  qualify  Scottsbluff  for  village  status. 
On  June  22,  the  petition  to  incorporate  was  granted  and  Frank 
McCreary  appointed  chairman  of  the  board  of  trustees,  whose  mem 
bers  barely  took  time  out  to  inspect  the  town's  first  brick  building, 
Spry  &  Soder's  saloon,  before  going  into  executive  session  over  the 
problem  of  how  to  tap  the  Mitchell  Valley  trade. 

Some  of  the  richest  farms  in  the  county  were  located  there,  but  un 
fortunately  to  reach  Scottsbluff  these  prospective  customers  had  to 
go  a  roundabout  way  through  Gering,  the  result  being  they  never 
made  it.  A  bridge  affording  a  direct  route  was  the  board's  recom 
mendation,  the  voters  forthwith  approved  a  $6,500  bond  issue  to 
finance  it,  the  contract  was  let,  and  construction  started  promptly. 
It  stopped  just  as  promptly  when  it  was  discovered  that  the  board, 
in  its  eagerness  to  start  the  ball  rolling,  had  run  the  bond  advertise 
ments  one  issue  short  of  the  number  required  by  law— a  slight  error 
that  made  the  bonds  worthless.  Buttonholing  the  contractors,  elo 
quent  board  members,  property  owners,  and  merchants  made  a 
succession  of  such  persuasive  pitches  that  work  was  resumed  with 
hardly  the  loss  of  a  day.  A  new  bond  issue  was  authorized  and  the 
Mitchell  Valley  bridge  completed  in  time  to  make  Scottsbluff's  first 
Yule  a  merry  one. 

Apparently  most  of  the  first-comers  were  equipped  with  a  fair 
complement  of  children:  at  any  rate,  about  the  same  time  they  em 
barked  on  the  bridge-building  venture,  the  city  fathers  felt  called 
on  to  provide  a  school.  For  a  community  that  could  not  have  num 
bered  two  hundred  persons  to  undertake  two  such  projects  simul 
taneously  might  well  have  overtaxed  the  nerves  of  a  tribe  of  brass 
monkeys,  yet  when  it  stubbed  its  toe  on  another  legal  stumbling 
block,  the  board  lost  none  of  its  sang-froid.  Shrugging  off  the  fact 


A  Nebraska  Reader  321 

that  the  legal  bonding  limit  of  the  school  district  was  $1,400  and 
the  cost  of  the  building  $4,800,  it  issued  warrants  in  the  full  amount 
needed,  and  John  A.  Orr  bought  them.  The  illegality  of  this  pro 
cedure  worried  no  one,  least  of  all  Mr.  Orr.  He  knew  he'd  get  his 
money  in  due  time,  and  the  town  got  its  school  immediately. 

In  their  aggressive,  unconventional  handling  of  the  bridge  and 
school  projects,  and  in  their  application  of  the  principles  of  team 
play,  ScottsblufFs  businessmen  had  hit  upon  a  formula  for  effective 
action  which  was  to  pay  many  a  future  dividend.  For  the  time  being, 
however,  Scottsbluff  was  still  losing  out  to  Gering  and  Mitchell  in 
the  fight  for  the  farmers'  trade,  was  still  the  underdog,  and  pickings 
were  slim. 

Those  were  arduous  years,  but  they  were  colorful,  boisterous  years 
too:  the  business  of  building  a  city  did  not  go  at  such  a  frenetic  pace 
that  there  was  no  time  for  fun.  Almost  as  soon  as  there  were  nine 
people  in  Scottsbluff  there  was  a  baseball  team;  before  very  long  its 
inevitable  concomitant,  a  band.  The  women  organized  a  library 
club  which  held  regular  meetings  and  staged  art  exhibits;  there  were 
Fourth  of  July  celebrations,  and  dances  at  McClenahan's  hall,  and 
such  gala  affairs  as  oyster  suppers  and  strawberry  sociables, 
sponsored— unlikely  as  it  may  seem— by  the  Women's  Cemetery 
Association  to  raise  funds  for  the  cemetery.  There  were  cowboys  still 
around  in  those  days,  clattering  their  cayuses  up  and  down  the  board 
walks  to  the  fury  of  the  merchants,  and  on  Saturday  nights  a  fair 
amount  of  revolver  ammunition  was  fired,  but  seldom  at  anybody. 
When  the  town  voted  dry  in  1907,  much  of  the  rowdyism  and  some 
of  the  color  disappeared  with  the  saloons. 

By  then,  the  era  of  the  big  ditches  was  in  full  swing,  and  Scotts 
bluff  was  in  the  catbird's  seat.  In  1904  and  1905  thousands  of  men 
had  come  into  the  area  to  work  on  the  Interstate  and  Laramie  canals 
for  the  government  reclamation  service,  and  on  the  Farmers  Canal 
for  Heyward  G.  Leavitt's  Tri-State  Company.  Thanks  to  fast  foot 
work  on  the  part  of  alert  Scottsbluff  businessmen,  who  got  to  the 
ditch  contractors  and  superintendents  first,  Scottsbluff  won  the 
lion's  share  of  their  trade,  and  a  real  business  boom  started  in  every 
thing  from  groceries  to  heavy  equipment. 

In  1910,  before  the  ditch  construction  had  begun  to  taper  off,  the 
Great  Western  Sugar  Company  built  a  beet-sugar  processing  factory 
in  Scottsbluff.  Coupled  with  the  recent  development  of  irrigation, 
this  soon  made  the  raising  of  sugar  beets  a  great  agricultural  in 
dustry  in  Scotts  Bluff  and  surrounding  counties.  For  miles  around, 


322  ROUNDUP: 

farmers  hauled  sugar  beets  to  the  Scottsbluff  factory.  They  financed 
their  crops,  many  of  them,  at  Scottsbluff  banks  and  did  most  of 
their  trading  at  Scottsbluff  stores.  In  proof  that  the  town  was  keeping 
pace  with  its  business  growth,  the  1910  census  showed  a  population 
of  1,746,  entitling  it  to  replace  the  village  board  of  trustees  with  a 
full-fledged  mayor  and  city  council.  By  now  Gering  had  its  railroad 
too,  but  Scottsbluff's  second-fiddle  days  were  ended  for  good  and  all. 
The  arrival  of  the  gasoline  age  helped  consolidate  its  position  as  the 
principal  trading  center  of  the  valley,  bringing  people  from  an  ever- 
widening  area  to  the  stores  on  Main  Avenue.  And  in  1916,  having 
passed  the  5,000  mark  in  population,  Scottsbluff  quietly  advanced 
to  the  status  of  a  city  of  the  first  class. 

From  then  on  its  growth  was  unspectacular  but  steady.  The  1920*5 
saw  its  emergence  both  as  a  livestock  marketing  center  and  the  hub 
of  the  state's  potato  and  bean  industries.  Aided  by  the  beet-sugar 
industry,  with  its  feeding  by-products  of  tops  and  pulp,  the  livestock 
industry  had  gained  an  impetus  which  was  to  make  the  North  Platte 
Valley  one  of  the  principal  beef  and  lamb  producing  areas  in  the 
United  States,  and  to  add  a  meat-packing  plant  to  the  array  of 
Scottsbluff's  industries.  Wholesale  houses  started  locating  there 
about  the  time  of  World  War  I,  and  eventually  it  became  the  whole 
sale  and  warehousing  center  of  western  Nebraska  and  eastern 
Wyoming. 

While  their  record  of  achievement  had  long  held  a  high  place  on 
Nebraska's  "we  point  with  pride"  list,  a  first  taste  of  national  pub 
licity  came  to  Scottsbluff  and  Scotts  Bluff  County  in  the  thirties.  It 
was  then  that  Fred  Attebery  of  Mitchell,  already  a  legendary  figure 
in  the  cattle-feeding  industry,  was  heralded  to  the  general  public 
as  America's  No.  i  cattle  feeder,  and  the  name  of  Attebery  and 
Scotts  Bluff  County  became  synonyms  for  fine  beef.  Attebery  beef 
was  featured  by  Swift  &  Company  at  the  Century  of  Progress;  on  the 
menus  of  such  hotels  as  the  Palmer  House  and  Hotel  New  Yorker 
(which  displayed  a  neon  sign:  WE  SERVE  ATTEBERY  NEBRASKA  BEEF) 
and  o£  such  restaurants  as  Jack  Dempsey's;  by  railroad  companies 
and  steamship  lines.  Attebery,  who  had  begun  to  ship  to  the  Chicago 
market  in  1928,  during  a  nine-year  period  sold  2,343  head  of  cattle 
at  peak  market  price,  establishing  a  new  world  record.  For  three  years 
his  cattle  gave  Scotts  Bluff  County  the  distinction  of  topping  the 
cattle  market  more  times  than  any  other  county  in  the  U.S. 

While  the  depression  slowed  business  down  a  little,  in  the  years 
that  the  state  lost  64,500  persons,  Scottsbluff's  population  grew  from 


A  Nebraska  Reader  323 

under  7,000  to  8,500;  and  although  the  number  of  banks  was 
trimmed  from  five  to  two,  deposits  increased  by  something  like 
thirty- three  per  cent.  During  the  1940*5,  as  industry  surged  ahead 
under  the  forced  draft  of  war  demands,  there  was  prosperity— bank 
deposits  nearly  doubled— and  more  building;  and  when  its  Golden 
Jubilee  year  rolled  around  in  1950,  Scottsbluff  could  claim  a  popu 
lation  of  13,000,  serving  a  trade  area  of  more  than  90,000  persons. 

To  anyone  familiar  with  its  early  history,  it  should  not  be  sur 
prising  that  Scottsbluff  today  is  a  city  of  churches  and  schools  and 
parks  quite  as  much  as  it  is  a  commercial  and  industrial  center.  In 
the  post-World  War  II  years  alone,  it  has  built  seven  new  churches; 
and  added  a  junior  high  school  building,  a  stadium,  a  shop  building, 
and  improvements  totalling  more  than  $1,000,000  to  its  already  ex 
cellent  public  school  system.  The  community  is  justly  proud  of  its 
junior  college,  which  was  founded  in  1931  and  has  an  enrollment  of 
260  and  a  faculty  of  twenty-eight,  but  it  is  perhaps  even  prouder 
that  the  Scottsbluff  City  Schools  were  the  first  in  the  state  to  operate 
a  special  education  department  for  handicapped  children.  Origi 
nally  financed  by  contributions  from  citizens  and  organizations  and 
now  maintained  by  the  school  board  with  the  cooperation  of  parents, 
it  was  used  as  the  "pilot  model"  in  the  1949  legislation  which  es 
tablished  the  present  statewide  special  education  program.  The 
queen  of  the  city's  ten  parks,  another  post-war  development,  is 
Riverside  Park,  twelve  of  whose  acres  are  given  over  to  the  largest 
and  most  diversified  zoo  in  the  state. 

Set  in  the  midst  of  a  region  of  great  scenic  and  historic  interest,* 
and  with  Scotts  Bluff  National  Monument  just  across  the  river,  for 
obvious  reasons  Scottsbluff  is  far  more  tourist-conscious  than  most 
Nebraska  towns.  Since  it  was  proclaimed  a  national  monument  by 
President  Wilson  in  1919,  the  fame  of  the  old  Oregon  Trail  land 
mark,  symbol  of  a  heroic  chapter  in  the  conquest  of  the  West,  has 
attracted  as  many  as  100,000  visitor's  in  one  year.  During  the  1930*5  a 
hard-surfaced  highway  was  built  to  the  top,  and  a  historical  and 
paleontological  museum  opened,  A  wing  devoted  to  the  work  of 
William  EL  Jackson,  pioneer  artist  and  first  photographer  of  the 
West,  was  added  in  1949. 

At  the  base  of  the  towering  bluff— not  far  from  where,  in  1828,  a 
fur  trapper  by  the  name  of  Hiram  Scott  gained  a  certain  immortality 
by  perishing  alone  and  deserted  by  his  companions— the  members 

*For  a  description  of  Scotts  Bluff,  Chimney  Rock,  and  other  Oregon  Trail 
landmarks,  see  Sir  Richard  Burton's  account  on  page  389. 


ROUNDUP: 

of  the  Scotts  Bluff  Country  Club  have  built  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
club  houses  in  the  Middle  West.  Naturally  enough,  at  the  unveiling 
of  this  opulent  pleasure  dome,  it  was  bound  to  elicit  comparisons 
with  the  more  rudimentary  and  utilitarian  structures,  such  as  Andy 
McClenahan's  store,  that  had  been  the  scene  of  Scottsbluff's  earliest 
clambakes.  And  inevitably  there  were  those  who  felt  that  the  change 
from  shirt-sleeves  to  cummerbunds  portended  the  end  of  an  era— 
that  Scottsbluff's  do-it-yourself  days  were  over  and  soon  grass  would 
be  growing  under  its  businessmen's  feet  That  was  in  1948. 

When  the  Blizzard  of  1949  hit  the  Panhandle,  stockmen  and 
farmers  were  caught  unprepared.  Weather  forecasts  for  the  region 
came  from  the  Kansas  City  District  Station  six  hundred  miles  away, 
and  because  of  delays  in  transmitting  the  blizzard  warning,  people 
died  and  hundreds  of  cattle  were  frozen  and  starved. 

Before  the  end  of  the  year  there  was  a  new  United  States  District 
Weather  Station  serving  the  eleven  counties  of  the  Panhandle.  And 
where  do  you  suppose  it  was  located?  Yep;  that's  right— Scottsbluff. 


Irrigation,  paradoxically,  is  generally  considered  to  be  a  dry  sub 
ject.  Yet  its  beginnings  provided  a  chapter  in  the  development  of 
western  Nebraska  as  dramatic  at  times  as  any  in  frontier  history. 
The  irrigation  shovel  more  than  once  became  a  weapon.  The  land's 
lifeblood  is  water,  and  before  there  were  laws  regulating  its  use, 
farmers  shed  their  own  blood  and  died  upon  their  headgates  pro 
tecting  their  claim  to  it.  As  recently  as  1935  Scotts  Bluff  County  was 
declared  under  martial  law  when  Governor  Roy  L.  Cochran  ordered 
out  two  companies  of  the  National  Guard  to  prevent  farmers  of  the 
Mitchell  Irrigation  District  from  taking  water  out  of  the  North 
Platte  ahead  of  lower  districts  which  had  earlier  water  rights. 

The  earlier  ditches  were  dug  by  the  homesteaders  themselves, 
with  an  incredible  amount  of  hard  work  and  very  little  money.  The 
builders  of  the  Winter  Creek  Canal  ranged  as  far  as  eastern  Wyo 
ming  collecting  bones  from  the  prairie  to  sell  for  money  to  buy 
scrapers.  Others  went  into  Colorado  to  "pick  spuds"  for  a  "grub 
stake,"  and  on  one  trip  discovered  some  worn-out  and  discarded 
Mormon  scrapers  along  the  roadside.  Doing  a  quick  right-about-face, 
they  got  teams  and  wagons,  drove  back  after  the  old  scrapers,  and 
brought  them  home. 

From  the  sublimity  of  the  saga  of  these  early  canal  builders, 
Nebraska  irrigation  history  touched  the  ridiculous  when  central  and 


A  Nebraska  Reader  325 

eastern  Nebraska  factions,  associating  the  idea  of  irrigation  with 
desert  regions,  opposed  irrigation  legislation  on  the  ground  that  it 
would  be  detrimental  to  the  agricultural  reputation  of  the  state. 
The  Democratic  State  Convention  of  1889  even  went  so  far  as  to 
declare,  in  a  resolution,  that  there  was  "already  enough  arable  land 
to  glut  the  home  market  for  nearly  all  farm  products." 

There  were  then  only  9,000  acres  under  irrigation  in  the  state, 
2,700  of  them  in  Scotts  Bluff  County.  Fifty  years  later  the  Census  of 
Irrigation  showed  610,379  acres  irrigated  in  Nebraska,  of  which—as 
before— nearly  a  third,  or  200,468,  were  in  Scotts  Bluff  County. 

While  some  Scotts  Bluff  homesteaders  had  seen  the  light  earlier, 
the  major  phase  of  irrigation  started  in  1887,  when  W.  P.  Akers, 
John  Coy,  and  Virgil  Grout  came  from  Colorado,  where  irrigation 
had  been  practiced.  They  started  the  Farmers  Canal  Company  as  a 
private  project,  with  a  company  of  about  eleven  fanners.  Although 
there  were  not  yet  laws  regulating  irrigation,  in  accordance  with 
prevailing  custom  they  posted  a  notice  of  appropriation  of  water  on 
the  bank  of  the  North  Platte  about  a  mile  below  the  Nebraska- 
Wyoming  state  line,  and  one  of  their  group,  Charles  Ford,  rode  a 
hundred  miles  to  Sidney  to  file  the  notice  with  the  county  clerk. 
By  1890  ten  miles  of  canal,  watering  two  sections  of  land,  had  been 
completed  at  a  cost  of  $7,800.  Then  Akers  and  Company  began  to 
run  out  of  money. 

About  this  rime,  William  H.  Wright,  a  Weeping  Water  real  estate 
man  with  well-heeled  friends  back  east,  came  into  Scotts  Bluff 
County  with  an  idea— namely,  that  irrigation  on  a  large  scale  was 
needed,  and  that  it  could  be  made  to  pay  for  investors.  As  it  turned 
out,  he  was  fifty  per  cent  correct:  large-scale  irrigation  was  needed, 
all  right,  but  it  has  never  paid  investors.  (Not  long  ago  one  of  his 
sons,  Judge  Fred  A.  Wright,  summed  matters  up  with  the  comment: 
"You  cannot  separate  water  from  the  land.  The  farmers  who  own 
the  land  must  also  own  the  water  that  it  needs/') 

Wright  and  his  stockholders  took  over  the  Farmers  Canal  in  1891, 
authorized  a  $450,000  bond  issue,  and  started  digging.  During  the 
next  two  years  the  canal  progressed  twenty  miles,  and  $100,000  of 
the  bonds  were  sold.  Then  came  the  financial  panic  of  1893,  and 
Wright's  flow  of  eastern  capital  suddenly  dried  up.  Eventually,  after 
a  foreclosure  sale  and  re-sale,  a  New  Jersey  corporation,  the  Tri-State 
Land  Company,  acquired  title  to  the  canal  and  by  dint  of  spending 
more  than  $1,500,000  succeeded  in  constructing  approximately 
eighty  miles  of  canal,  with  three  hundred  miles  of  laterals,  watering 


ROUNDUP: 

about  60,000  acres.  Yet  the  enterprise  couldn't  make  money  for 
the  simple  reason  that  the  irrigation  charges  were  higher  than  the 
farmers  could  afford  to  pay.  And  in  1913  the  canal  came  into  the 
hands  of  the  users,  who,  as  the  Farmers  Irrigation  District,  issued 
$2,530,000  of  bonds  to  buy  it  from  Tri-State. 

Although  the  Farmers  Canal  group  was  the  first  to  post  a  notice  of 
appropriation,  the  Minatare  Canal  and  Irrigation  Company  was 
the  first  in  operation.  Begun  in  January,  i888—on  sixty  dollars  bor 
rowed  from  the  wife  of  one  of  the  members— by  late  summer  of  that 
same  year  the  Minatare  Canal  was  watering  five  hundred  acres. 
There  were  other  canals  built  during  this  period  of  individual  en 
terprise  and  cooperative  effort,  but  with  the  passage  of  the  Federal 
Reclamation  Act  in  1902  irrigation  entered  a  new  phase.  By  putting 
the  federal  government  in  the  irrigation  business,  it  made  possible 
irrigation  on  a  scale  that  was  beyond  even  the  most  ambitious 
private  company  or  cooperative  association. 

The  North  Platte  River  often  ran  erratically;  in  the  spring  its 
banks  were  charged  with  more  water  than  there  was  any  use  for,  while 
in  the  late  summer,  when  water  was  most  needed,  there  sometimes 
was  not  enough  to  go  around.  The  Reclamation  Act  provided  for 
the  building  of  Inige  reservoirs  to  hold  back  and  store  the  spring 
flows,  to  be  released  as  needed  during  the  dry  months. 

An  irrigation  survey  in  1904  led  to  the  establishment  of  the  North 
Platte  Project,  a  system  of  dams  and  canals  which  has  reclaimed 
150,000  acres  in  Scotts  Bluff  and  Morrill  counties.  The  first  unit  to 
be  built  was  the  Pathfinder  Dam,  about  forty  miles  southwest  of 
Casper,  Wyoming.  In  operation  since  1913,  it  has  a  storage  capacity 
of  approximately  1,000,000  acre-feet.*  An  auxiliary  channel  reser 
voir,  the  Guernsey,  one  hundred  sixty-eight  miles  downstream  from 
the  Pathfinder,  was  completed  in  1927.  With  a  net  capacity  of  61,000 
acre-feet,  it  acts  both  as  a  supplemental  storage  and  regulatory 
reservoir. 

In  Scotts  Bluff  County  two  beautiful  little  lakes,  Lake  Alice  and 
Lake  Minatare,  with  a  combined  capacity  of  78,000  acre-feet,  were 
completed  in  1914.  Two  main  supply  canals,  the  Interstate  and  the 
Gering-Fort  Laramie,  for  the  irrigation  of  lands  on  the  high  terraces 
of  the  valley,  also  were  constructed  in  the  1914-1927  period.  A  third 
canal,  the  Northport— an  extension  of  the  Farmers  Canal— brought 
water  to  lands  in  Morrill  County.  The  total  cost  of  the  North  Platte 

*  An  acre-foot  is  the  volume  of  water  required  to  cover  one  acre  to  the  depth 
of  one  foot. 


A  Nebraska  Reader 

Project,  including  two  hydroelectric  power  plants  at  Lingle  and 
Guernsey  and  an  estimated  1,600  miles  of  canals  and  laterals,  was 
approximately  $19,000,000. 

Considerable  legislating  had  to  be  done,  and  a  fair  amount  of 
suing  in  the  courts,  before  irrigation  codes  and  practices  became 
stabilized.  The  first  legislation  of  any  consequence  was  introduced 
in  the  Nebraska  legislature  in  1889  by  Henry  St.  Raymor  of  Sidney, 
and  established  the  appropriative  doctrine  of  "first  in  time,  first  in 
right/'  In  1895,  when  statewide  droughts  had  focused  public  atten 
tion  upon  the  need  for  a  sensible  use  of  water,  a  more  comprehensive 
water  law  was  enacted.  It  provided  for  state  administration  and 
irrigation  districts  and,  with  minor  changes,  remains  in  effect  today. 

Shortly  after  the  Pathfinder  Dam  was  completed,  it  developed  that 
the  big  reservoirs  stored  more  water  than  was  always  needed  in  the 
government  ditches.  Therefore,  in  1911  Congress  passed  an  amend 
ment  to  the  Reclamation  Act,  known  as  the  Warren  Act,  authorizing 
the  sale  of  rights  to  excess  storage  capacity  to  other  irrigation  dis 
tricts.  Six  such  contracts  were  entered  into  by  Nebraska  districts: 
Farmers,  Gering,  Central,  Chimney  Rock,  Brown's  Creek,  and  Beer- 
line.  The  effect  of  these  contracts  was  to  provide  for  the  release  of 
stored  water  during  the  growing  season  when  the  river  flow  was  in 
adequate,  and  thus  to  stabilize  the  farm  economy  of  the  valley. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  story  of  Scotts  Bluff  County  is  the  story 
of  the  union  of  land  and  water.  To  those  who  have  seen  the  gaunt 
and  barren  ranges  transformed  into  a  countryside  of  golden  bounty, 
done  in  seventeen  shades  of  green,  it  is  a  story  more  wonderful  than 
the  Arabian  Nights. 


Adapted  from  the  ScottsbluS  Daily  Star-Herald,  Aug.  2,  1950 


The  indiscriminate  shooting  of  late  prevalent  in  this 
town  is  becoming  an  intolerable  nuisance  and  strong 
measures  should  be  adopted  to  stop  it.  The  offenders 
should  be  taught  to  respect  the  law  if  they  won't  respect 
themselves.  The  citizens  of  Sidney  are  mostly  to  blame 
in  these  outlaws  not  being  brought  to  justice.  An  officer 
can  not  be  in  every  nook  and  cranny  in  town,  and  where 
violence  is  done,  it  is  the  duty  of  every  law-abiding 
citizen  to  inform  the  officers  whom  the  parties  are  com 
mitting  these  crimes.  Citizens,  take  this  matter  in  hand, 
and  in  a  short  time  revolver  shooters  will  be  scarce. 

—Sidney  Telegraph,  January  4,  1879 


Peace  Officer 


ROBERT  HOUSTON 

ONE  OF  THE  surest-shootin'  officers  out  west  in  Nebraska  is  Sheriff 
W.  W.  (Bill)  Schulz  of  Sidney.  He  has  never  led  a  mounted  posse 
chasing  rustlers  in  the  hills,  but  he's  a  whiz  at  shooting  off  a  tire  on 
a  car  he's  pursuing  at  eighty  miles  an  hour,  and  any  fellows  who 
think  they  can  get  away  with  something  are  hereby  warned  to  stay 
away  from  Bill's  home  grounds. 

Mr.  Schulz  is  a  western  sheriff— modern  style.  Not  for  him  an 
eight-gallon  Stetson,  levis,  fancy  boots,  and  a  drooping  moustache 
stained  at  the  edges  with  tobacco  juice.  He's  a  good-looking,  clean 
shaven  man  who'd  be  taken  anywhere  for  a  well-dressed  executive. 
And  he  spends  his  spare  time  in  Boy  Scout  work. 

Cheyenne  County  for  a  good  many  years  was  a  place  where  a 
darned  good  sheriff  was  needed  mighty  bad  sometimes.  Sheriffs  in 
these  parts  kinda  figured  they'd  get  shot  at  once  in  a  while,  and 
they  were  never  disappointed.  Fact  is,  Bill  Schulz  first  became  sheriff 
when  his  boss  was  fatally  wounded  in  1930. 

"Jim  Nelson  was  sheriff  then,"  says  Bill,  "and  I  had  been  his 
deputy  for  less  than  a  year.  An  inmate  had  escaped  from  the  Has 
tings  State  Hospital  and  had  been  living  in  Sidney  for  some  time. 
One  night  this  man  had  a  spell  and  attacked  his  dad,  who  farmed 
seven  miles  north  of  town.  He  walked  him  into  town  and  made  him 

328 


A  Nebraska  Reader 

sign  a  check  for  several  hundred  dollars.  Then  the  old  man  got  away 
and  called  the  sheriff.  Mr.  Nelson  finally  spotted  the  son  walking  up 
a  hill  north  of  town.  He  drove  up  alongside  and  just  had  time  to 
say,  'Hey—'  when  the  fellow  shot  him  through  the  head." 

Three  days  after  Mr.  Nelson  died,  the  County  Board  appointed 
34-year-old  Bill  Schulz  sheriff.  That  was  twenty-seven  years  ago,  and 
he's  still  in  office.  Although  he's  a  Republican,  the  Roosevelt  land 
slide  in  the  'go's  didn't  bother  him  a  bit,  and  he's  been  re-elected 
by  a  comfortable  margin  seven  times. 

"Sheriff  Schulz  has  become  a  legend,"  avers  Jack  Lowe,  editor  of 
the  Sidney  Telegraph.  "Everybody  seems  to  like  him.  Why,  I  bet 
they'll  still  be  voting  for  him  ten  years  after  he's  dead." 

While  there  isn't  the  turnover  in  sheriffs  there  used  to  be,  Mr. 
Schulz  has  been  a  point-blank  target  on  two  occasions.  "On  New 
Year's  Day,  1931,"  he  recalls,  "we  got  word  that  three  men,  all  armed, 
had  broken  into  a  place  in  Kimball  and  were  headed  east  toward 
Sidney.  When  we  overtook  them,  like  a  fool  I  went  between  the 
two  cars.  My  deputy  went  around  on  the  other  side.  Just  as  the 
fellow  on  his  side  dropped  his  gun,  the  fellow  near  me  fired.  I'd 
put  out  my  hand  as  I  saw  his  gun  come  up,  and  the  shot  skimmed 
between  two  fingers.  It  tore  off  the  glove,  but  I  didn't  even  get 
nicked." 

Luck  was  with  the  sheriff  again  a  few  years  later  when  a  man 
barricaded  himself  in  his  house  with  his  fourteen-month-old  child. 
Previously  the  house  had  been  occupied  by  his  estranged  wife,  who 
had  custody  of  the  child;  he  had  slipped  in  one  evening,  and  she 
had  managed  to  escape. 

Schulz  and  his  deputies  surrounded  the  house  at  4:30  A.M.,  but 
had  made  no  progress  by  three  the  next  afternoon.  "Then,"  says 
the  sheriff,  "we  fired  three  bursts  of  gas  into  the  house,  and  he  started 
shooting.  Thinking  he  had  had  a  seven-shot  weapon,  a  deputy  and 
I  went  in  as  soon  as  he'd  fired  seven  times.  We  went  upstairs  and 
searched  all  the  rooms,  but  couldn't  find  him.  I  took  the  child 
outside  and  went  back  in.  My  partner  and  I  were  standing  there, 
looking  around,  when  a  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  opened 
and  the  man  started  shooting  again  from  the  closet  where  he'd 
hidden.  It  turned  out  his  was  a  nine-shot  gun,  but  neither  my  deputy 
nor  I  was  touched." 

Something  he  learned  in  the  early  '30%  Mr.  Schulz  says,  has 
helped  sustain  his  morale  as  an  officer.  "In  prohibition  days  we 
caught  a  still  out  in  the  country.  There  was  sixty  gallons  of  the 


33°  ROUNDUP: 

finished  product  and  ninety-five  gallons  of  mash.  When  the  alleged 
operator  was  tried,  four  witnesses  testified  that  he  had  brought  the 
still  there  and  ran  it.  But  the  jury  let  him  loose.  After  the  trial  I 
asked  the  judge  what  I'd  done  wrong.  He  said,  'Bill,  you  didn't  slip 
up  anywhere.  It's  just  the  way  people  feel  about  the  liquor  law. 
But  you  accomplished  your  purpose;  you  broke  up  the  still.'  Since 
then  I've  often  consoled  myself  by  thinking  I've  carried  out  an  offi 
cer's  purpose  even  though  some  fellow  wasn't  thrown  in  jail  for  a  long 
stretch." 

Boom  towns  are  said  to  present  extra  police  problems,  and  Sidney 
has  been  a  boom  town  on  several  occasions.  It  was  an  early  rendez 
vous  for  cowboys;  in  1876  it  was  a  jumping-off  place  for  the  Black 
Hills  gold  rush;  and  in  1904,  when  Congress  passed  the  Kinkaid 
Act,  it  was  thronged  with  homesteaders.  Mr.  Schulz,  during  his  terms 
of  office,  has  lived  through  a  couple  of  booms  himself.  In  World 
War  II  years,  industrial  workers  poured  into  Sidney  when  the  Sioux 
Ordnance  Plant  was  built  ten  miles  to  the  northwest;  and  in  1949 
oil  was  discovered  in  Cheyenne  County. 

Since  then,  more  than  150  oil  and  natural-gas  wells  have  been 
brought  in,  in  Sidney's  immediate  vicinity,  and  the  population  has 
jumped  to  around  9,000,  double  that  of  1940.  But  Sidney  has  taken 
these  developments  in  its  stride.  Gambling  and  drinking  trouble, 
says  the  sheriff,  has  not  been  allowed  to  get  a  start  in  the  county. 

Following  a  visit  to  Sidney,  an  executive  of  a  large  eastern  6il 
company  remarked:  "This  is  the  quietest  boom  town  I've  ever  seen." 
Which  would  seem  to  indicate  that  "peace  officer"  is  no  misnomer 
for  Sidney's  Sheriff  Bill  Schulz. 

Condensed  from  Omaha  World-Herald  Sunday  Magazine,  April  15,  1956 


The  story  of  the  Panhandle  oil  boom  is  one  of  friendly  rivalry 
between  Cheyenne  and  Kimball  counties  and  their  county  seats, 
Sidney  and  Kimball.  Cheyenne  County  was  the  first  to  feel  the  im 
pact,  because  it  was  there,  near  Gurley,  that  the  discovery  was  made. 
Between  them  the  counties  produced  nearly  eighty  per  cent  of  the 
state's  oil  in  1955,  and  Kimball  took  over  the  lead  for  the  first  time. 

The  boom  changed  the  face  and  future  of  both  cities.  It  has 
brought  millions  of  dollars  in  leases  and  royalties,  spurred  tremen 
dous  business  activity,  and  increased  the  population  by  thousands. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  331 

There  is  growth  everywhere,  jammed  schools,  and  crowded  living 
in  some  cases. 

At  the  moment  Kimball  is  probably  the  state's  fastest  growing 
city.  A  Chamber  of  Commerce  census  in  March,  1955,  put  the  pop 
ulation  at  4,403  compared  with  an  official  2,050  in  1950.  The  new 
population  count  included  1,482  persons  living  in  412  trailers  out 
side  the  city  limits  but  for  all  practical  purposes  a  part  of  Kimball 
and  served  by  its  utilities.  Since  1951,  the  city  has  spent  nearly  a 
million  dollars  in  improving  water  and  power  services,  streets, 
sewage  disposal,  and  airport. 

"Kimball  is  becoming  a  complete  oil  center  for  the  whole  area 
as  far  west  as  Torrington,  Wyo.,  and  as  far  south  as  the  Colorado 
line  (15  miles),"  says  Art  Henrickson,  publisher  of  the  Western 
Nebraska  Observer, 

New  businesses  include  many  oil-connected  enterprises.  Depend 
ing  on  depth,  the  average  well  costs  about  $30,000  to  complete  and 
another  $20-25,000  to  put  into  operation.  This  is  money  which  for 
the  most  part  finds  its  way  into  local  trade  channels,  whereas  much 
of  the  royalties  and  other  oil  benefits  do  not. 

Because  oil  was  discovered  inside  the  city  limits,  every  property 
owner  in  Kimball  gets  his  share  of  the  royalties.  The  city  is  divided 
into  drilling  blocks  of  150  lots  each.  An  ordinance  limits  the  num 
ber  of  wells  to  two  for  every  forty  acres.  All  but  one  block  has  at 
least  one  well,  producing  about  one  hundred  barrels  daily.  The 
average  lot  owner  gets  about  $6.25  in  royalties  for  each  lot,  and 
the  person  on  whose  property  a  well  is  drilled  receives  a  fee  in 
addition. 

The  seventeenth  well  to  be  drilled  inside  the  city  was  brought  in 
one  block  from  the  site  of  excavation  for  a  new  grade  school. 

Schools,  of  course,  are  poppin*  at  the  seams.  Kimball  built  a  new 
grade  school  in  1951,  but  it  started  bulging  in  two  years.  So  another 
one's  on  the  way.  Total  enrollment  has  shot  from  588  in  1950  to 
1,169  at  tne  latest  count, 

"You  can  hear  talk  of  the  population  going  to  eight,  ten  thou 
sand,"  says  Art  Henrickson.  "Perhaps  more— if  the  oil  keeps  coming." 


Condensed  from  an  article  by  Harold  Cowan,  Omaha  World-Herald,  April  8, 1956 


When  the  winter  of  1948-49  brought  what  is  probably  the 
greatest  blizzard  in  Nebraska's  history,  it  required  the 
world's  largest  bulldozer  operation  to  dig  the  state  out. 
Under  the  command  of  the  late  Lt.  General  Lewis  A. 
Pick,  5,700  men  of  the  Fifth  Army  used  1,800  bulldozers 
and  200  plows  to  open  185,000  square  miles  in  Nebraska, 
Wyoming,  and  the  Dakotas.  All  in  all,  Operation  Snow 
bound  dug  out  200,000  people,  some  of  whom  had  been 
isolated  for  more  than  two  months,  and  opened  up  feed 
to  4,000,000  head  of  livestock. 

While  the  Blizzard  of  January  2,  1949  may  have  been 
the  biggest,  nevertheless  it  is  of  far  less  significance  in  the 
state's  history  than  an  anonymous  snowstorm  back  in 
which  led  to  the  discovery  of  a  cattleman's  paradise. 


Hyannis 


B.  F.  SYLVESTER 

IN  THE  late  '8o's,  Burlington  Railroad  officials  laid  out  three  towns 
within  twenty-one  miles  in  a  bleak  section  of  northwestern  Nebraska 
and  named  them  Whitman,  Hyannis,  and  Ashby  for  their  homes  in 
Massachusetts.  Whitman  was  the  seat  of  Grant  County,  end  of  the 
line,  had  one  store,  seven  saloons,  and  a  new  cemetery  with  tenant, 
the  first  man  to  arrive  with  five  aces.  In  Buffalo,  New  York,  a  man 
who  wanted  to  get  away  from  it  all  asked  for  a  ticket  to  hell,  and 
the  agent  sold  him  one  to  Whitman.  The  line  moved  on,  and  eventu 
ally  Hyannis  became  the  county  seat.  Today,  if  you  bought  a  ticket 
to  Hyannis,  population  449,  you  would  find  yourself  in  a  place  where 
everybody  has  a  wonderful  time  doing  what  comes  naturally. 

On  the  surface,  the  Hyannis  region  is  forbidding.  Sand  dunes, 
rolled  up  by  westerly  winds  from  the  bed  of  an  ancient  sea,  follow  one 
another  over  22,000  square  miles.  Mari  Sandoz  spoke  of  them  as 
"endless  monotony  caught  and  held  forever  in  sand."  Less  than 
seventy  years  ago,  it  was  an  unknown  land  where  Indians  would  not 
go  and  where  white  men  lost  their  way  and  died.  Through  it  runs 
the  Dismal  River,  named  after  due  consideration. 

33* 


A  Nebraska  Reader  333 

In  the  heart  of  this,  Hyaimis  sits  on  the  side  of  a  hill.  Old  frame 
buildings  stairstep  to  the  courthouse  up  Main  Street,  which  is  88 
feet  wide  and  500  feet  long,  with  a  heavy  grade.  The  town  has  no 
civic  cohesion  or  ambition  to  grow,  doesn't  care  if  it  never  gets  to  be 
500.  Save  one,  the  roads  are  twisting,  one-way  trails  that  disappear 
in  a  sandstorm.  The  drugstore  closes  at  8:30,  the  pool  hall  at  nine, 
the  movie  opens  two  nights  a  week, 

Then  why  the  complacent  state  of  mind  in  Hyannis?  The  people 
are  not  the  kind  to  brag,  but  will  acknowledge  in  simple  honesty 
that  of  the  things  promoting  man's  happiness,  they  have  the  mostest 
of  the  bestest.  Elmer  Lowe  can  cite  Webster:  "Paradise  ...  A  region 
of  supreme  felicity  or  delight,"  Widow  Ellen  Moran  doesn't  go 
that  far  and  has  a  reservation:  "It's  a  great  country  for  cattle  and 
men,  but  hell  on  horses  and  women." 

There  is  not  a  real-estate  agent,  booster  club,  or  luncheon  club 
in  the  county.  A  notion  prevails  that  parents  are  responsible  for 
their  young,  and  there  is  no  juvenile  delinquency.  There  is  no  crime. 
The  law  says  there  has  to  be  a  sheriff,  and  Calvin  Rex  serves  on  a 
part-time  basis  at  sixty-six  dollars  a  month.  The  last  killing  was 
forty-nine  years  ago,  when  the  hotel  clerk  shot  the  saloon-keeper  in 
a  squabble  over  the  saloon-keeper's  wife.  The  law  says,  too,  they 
must  elect  a  county  attorney,  but  they  don't  always  do  it,  because 
sometimes  there  isn't  any  lawyer  to  take  the  job. 

Everyone  in  Hyannis  is  a  person,  and  each  completes  the  sentence, 
"I  like  the  sandhills  because "  with  one  word,  "Free 
dom."  The  Bank  of  Hyannis  has  $3,000,000  in  deposits.  Back  of 
Main  Street  are  substantial  landscaped  homes.  The  twisting  trails 
lead  to  great  houses  with  air-conditioning,  electric  dishwashers,  oil 
portraits  of  master  and  wife,  and  as  many  as  sixty-four  guests  for 
dinner  and  bridge.  In  and  around  Hyannis  are  thirteen  millionaires, 
most  of  whom  once  burned  cow  chips  instead  of  oil  and  didn't  al 
ways  know  what  day  was  Christmas.  From  grass,  air,  and  water, 
poor  men  have  built  an  empire  in  which  fifteen  counties  have 
1,000,000  cattle— more  than  either  Idaho  or  Arizona.  Even  a  small 
ranch— say,  12,000  acres  and  1,000  cattle— represents  a  quarter  of  a 
million  dollars.  Within  fifty  miles  of  Hyannis  are  seven  outfits,  each 
in  excess  of  90,000  acres. 

Sandhills  people  admit  there  are  places  with  better  grass  that 
produce  heavier  cattle  but  believe  they  have  the  best  cow  and  calf 
country,  and  the  most  reliable,  where  300  feet  of  sand  has  100  feet 
of  water,  with  never  a  failure  of  grass  and  hay.  In  the  drought  years, 


334  ROUNDUP: 

paraphrasing  the  inscription  on  the  Statue  of  Liberty,  they  said  to 
the  stricken  areas,  "Bring  us  your  tired,  your  poor  and  hungry 
critters,  yearning  to  breathe  our  air  and  eat  our  hay,"  and  the  cattle 
came  by  the  thousands  from  as  far  as  Texas.  They  insist,  too,  that 
this  is  all  that  is  left  of  the  real  cow  country,  with  not  one  dude 
ranch.  This  is  not  to  say  that  they  don't  like  visitors.  To  their 
2,000  lakes,  thousands  of  city  men  come  to  retrieve  ducks  and  mas 
culinity.  But  cattle  production  is  big  business,  and  there  is  no  place 
for  the  half-ranch-half-hotel.  Furthermore,  the  cowboys  do  not  sing. 
Sandhills  cattle  are  well  content  and  do  not  have  to  be  soothed  like 
the  restive  animals  of  some  sections  made  nervous  by  the  yip-yipping 
of  rodeo  cowhands.  The  only  stampede  was  into  the  hills,  not  out. 

This  stampede  was  history  on  the  hoof,  the  opening  of  the  sand 
hills  by  a  bawling,  charging  herd  of  6,000  cattle.  A  line  of  riders 
stretching  along  the  border  north  and  west  of  the  Niobrara  River 
in  March,  1879  were  not  land-hungry  men  waiting  for  a  pistol  shot, 
as  in  the  run  to  the  Cherokee  Strip.  They  were  hardy  young  fellows 
not  afraid  of  man  or  beast,  but  no  personal  gain  could  have  taken 
them  across  that  line.  They  had  known  men  who  went  into  the 
mysterious  trackless  sandhills  and  did  not  return.  The  men  in  the 
line  were  cowboys  of  the  E.  S.  Newman  N-Bar  ranch.  Their  job  was 
to  keep  the  cattle  from  breaking  through  in  a  blizzard  that  was 
coming  up.  The  storm  came,  and  at  its  height  the  cattle  did  break 
through.  For  years  cattle  had  strayed  into  the  hills  and  been 
charged  off  by  the  ranchers.  Newman  would  not  send  his  men  after 
the  N-Bar  herd,  but  Cowboy  Jim  Dahlman,  later  to  be  mayor  of 
Omaha,  volunteered  with  eleven  others.  On  April  fifteenth,  the  ex 
pedition  set  out:  they  came  upon  rich  valleys  and  wild  native  cattle 
as  fat  as  ever  they  had  seen,  though  it  had  been  a  terrible  winter, 
and  there  was  no  other  food  than  grass.  They  began  finding  their 
own,  all  thriving.  In  five  weeks  they  brought  out  9,000— the  New 
man  herd  plus  3,000  that  had  drifted  in  previously,  hundreds  of 
which  had  been  there  for  years  and  gone  wild. 

The  news  that  the  hills  would  support  cattle  brought  big  outfits 
for  summer  grazing,  among  them  W.  A.  Paxton,  whose  later  strug 
gles  with  the  legislature  in  founding  the  Omaha  Stock  Yards  led 
him  to  a  definition:  "An  honest  man  is  a  so-and-so  who  will  stay 
bought."  In  the  middle  '8o's,  Rufe  Haney,  Arthur  Abbott,  J.  M. 
Gentry  and  Joe  Minor  came  up  from  Kansas,  the  first  of  the  small 
men  who  were  to  push  out  the  big  ones  and  become  big  themselves. 
Sixteen-year-old  Jim  Monahan  and  his  mother  came  from  Iowa, 


1  Nebraska  Reader  335 

hiving  two  Hereford  cows.  The  first  Peterson  came  alone,  sent  for 
lis  wife  and  seven  children,  who  got  off  the  train  and  waited  beside 
he  track  for  papa  to  come.  Finally  he  showed  up  in  a  lumber  wagon 
Irawn  by  a  horse  and  a  cow. 

Ellen  Mclntire  came  to  teach  school,  married  Rancher  Sheriff  Bud 
Moran  and  set  up  a  tradition.  Until  the  war,  teachers*  agencies 
practically  guaranteed  teachers  would  get  husbands.  Even  in  the 
ast  twenty-five  years,  sixty  young  women  have  come  to  Hyannis 
LO  teach  school  and  stayed  to  marry.  The  Morans  had  a  claim  on 
Wild  Horse  Flats  where  mosquitoes  were  bad.  They  built  hay  and 
:ow-chip  fires,  and  their  grateful  horses  would  stand  in  the  smoke 
all  night.  For  fun  on  a  Sunday,  young  Mrs.  Moran  would  accom 
pany  her  husband  to  a  wild-horse  breaking,  where  she  helped  the 
neighbors  with  the  cooking.  Ranch  houses  still  are  on  the  grub 
line,  and  anyone  arriving  around  mealtime  is  expected  to  sit  down 
with  the  family. 

Eighty-nine-year-old  J.  M.  Gentry  tells  you,  "A  group  was  invited 
to  spend  Christmas  Day  at  Bert  Proctor's,  thirty  miles  south.  Some 
went  one  day,  some  next.  None  had  calendars.  The  Proctors  didn't 
have  a  calendar,  so  we  never  did  know  who  had  the  right  date  or 
if  we  were  all  wrong." 

Sid  Manning  raced  ahead  of  the  great  prairie  fire  of  1892  to  save 
his  twelve-year-old  son  George  in  their  sod  house.  In  the  smoke  he 
fell  fifteen  feet  into  a  well,  and  from  time  to  time  put  out  fire  in 
his  clothing  as  blazing  cow  chips  and  hay  were  blown  in.  The  fire 
passed,  the  father  climbed  out  of  the  well,  and  the  boy  came  out  of 
the  soddy  unhurt. 

What  have  the  hills  done  to  the  man?  This  is  the  old  homestead 
of  free  enterprise.  From  the  day  a  calf  is  born  in  March,  perhaps  in 
a  blizzard,  it  has  no  shelter  but  a  friendly  hill.  It  is  the  rancher's 
theory  that  range  animals  do  best  with  the  fewest  man  and  man- 
made  contacts.  In  the  main,  they  feel  the  same  about  themselves 
and  Washington.  There  is  the  Hyannis  woman  who  has  met  with 
reverses,  but  all  she  will  take  from  her  well-to-do  relatives  is  the 
regular  fifty  cents  an  hour  for  doing  their  washing.  She  holds  her 
social  position  and  her  head  high,  perhaps  a  little  higher  for  having 
proved  herself  in  a  community  which  labels  self-dependence  as  top 
virtue.  Times  were  hard  in  the  J$o's,  even  for  the  Abbotts,  but  they 
refused  and  continue  to  refuse  $25,000  a  year  in  government  conser 
vation  checks  for  not  using  winter  range  in  summer— which  to  a  sand 
hills  rancher  is  like  paying  him  not  to  commit  suicide  by  overgrazing. 


3g6  ROUNDUP: 

One  rebel  in  that  region  gives  his  checks  to  the  Republican  Party. 
The  county  refused  a  new  WPA  courthouse,  the  village  a  $15,000 
WPA  water-works  extension,  doing  the  job  itself  for  $8,000.  It  was 
decided  the  old  courthouse  would  do:  about  all  they  use  it  for  is  to 
pay  taxes  in,  the  collection  rate  being  99.6  per  cent. 

The  sandhiller  is  independent,  but  not  indifferent.  A  rancher  just 
getting  started  lost  700  tons  of  hay  in  a  prairie  fire.  Doc  Plummer  at 
the  Dumb  Bell  Ranch  invited  him  to  bring  over  his  400  steers  to 
be  his  guests  for  the  winter.  An  old-timer  says  men  don't  slug  in 
business.  He  was  asked,  "Does  that  include  land  deals?"  The  reply 
was,  "Now  you  are  talking  about  the  dearest  thing  to  a  cattleman's 
heart."  At  that,  no  rancher  wants  more  than  the  place  next  to  him. 
Sam  McKelvie,  former  governor,  puts  the  sandhills'  idea  this  way, 
"There  was  a  peaceful  lake  in  front  of  our  ranch  house.  Why  not 
have  some  geese  to  grace  the  scene  while  getting  their  living  from 
the  abundant  food  that  grew  in  the  lake?  So  my  good  friend,  the 
late  Dan  Stephens,  gave  me  a  pair  of  fine  goslings.  I  took  them  home 
and  gave  them  a  good  feed  at  the  barn,  then  drove  them  down  to 
their  future  home  about  two  hundred  yards  away.  Did  they  appre 
ciate  that  goose  heaven?  They  beat  me  back  to  the  barn.  Moral:  If 
you  feed  'em  out  of  your  hand,  they  don't  dive  for  it." 

It  is  significant,  perhaps  the  key  to  his  character,  that  you  can't 
tell  a  man  from  Hyannis.  When  Robert  M.  Howard,  twenty-eight, 
came  to  be  the  new  editor  of  the  Grant  County  Tribune,  he  was 
full  of  fire  and  new  ideas.  Right  off  he  suggested  it  would  be  a  good 
idea  to  run  a  blacktop  road  to  the  Arthur  County  line.  His  editorial 
met  with  complete  silence.  Hyannis  has  two  package-liquor  stores, 
and  one  of  its  citizens  says  it  drinks  more  and  better  whiskey  per 
capita  than  any  other  place  in  Nebraska.  On  April  second  the  town 
voted  on  the  question  of  sale  by  the  drink— without  a  word  of  com 
ment  from  Editor  Howard.  He  had  learned  fast.  There  wasn't  even 
a  story  saying  there  would  be  an  election— only  the  paid  legal  notice 
of  same.  The  liquor  interests  kept  hands  off.  The  voters,  making  up 
their  own  minds,  said  no. 

One  thing  that  just  about  drove  a  preacher  out  of  Hyannis  was 
profanity,  easy  and  unconscious,  from  long  association  with  un- 
progressive  cattle.  A  wife  reproved  her  husband  for  a  remark  in  the 
minister's  presence,  "You  have  embarrassed  the  reverend."  The  man 
was  contrite.  "The  hell  I  did,"  he  said,  startled,  and  then  apologized 
to  the  preacher:  "Sorry.  Didn't  mean  a  damn  thing." 
The  people  look  after  their  own  affairs  beautifully,  but  they  are 


A  Nebraska  Reader  337 

low  on  community  spirit.  The  town  has  no  sewage-disposal  system, 
but  it  has  some  of  the  finest  private  cesspools  in  Nebraska.  The 
courthouse  has  no  restroom,  rest  being  considered  an  individual 
and  not  a  taxpayer  concern.  Even  a  community  problem  is  met  in 
an  individual  way.  For  twenty  years  the  Hyannis  Main  Street  was 
paved  with  materials  which  came  from  Bob  Hayward's  livery  stable. 
Not  altogether  satisfactory,  it  was  succeeded  by  soapweed,  then 
blacktop.  Even  today  manure  topping  is  used  on  side  streets  in 
Whitman  and  on  bad  stretches  in  the  country. 

Hyannis  is  a  credit  town,  with  no  unpaid  bills  except  those  of 
the  doctor,  who  loses  twenty  per  cent.  The  general  store  has  had  no 
loss  in  twenty  years.  A  study  of  Federal  Land  Bank  loans  in  the 
emergency-financing  period  of  1933-35  shows  no  losses  in  Grant  or 
neighboring  Hooker  and  Thomas  counties.  In  the  same  section  the 
Production  Credit  Corporation  has  had  the  same  experience  in 
twelve  years  of  financing  ranch  operations. 

The  small  businesses  are  mostly  family  owned  and  staffed.  Except 
for  the  children  of  ranchers,  there  are  few  opportunities  or  induce 
ments  for  young  people,  and  they  do  not  stay.  Some  of  the 
townspeople  level  a  finger  here.  There  is  almost  no  organized  or 
commercial  recreation.  Ashby,  population  155,  has  a  dance  hall 
open  one  night  a  week  where  village  and  ranch  meet.  Cowboys 
come  in  high-heeled  dress  boots,  levis,  two-tone  gabardine  shirts, 
and  big  hats. 

There  are  thirteen  woman's  clubs.  The  Grant  County  Golf  Club— 
sand  greens— has  thirty  members,  but  the  No.  i  men's  dub  is  the 
Hyannis  Roping  Club,  limited  to  forty  members.  Its  Sunday- 
afternoon  exhibitions  draw  cheering  crowds  of  200.  All  concerned 
have  a  wonderful  time  except  the  calves,  who  become  bored  as  the 
season  wears  on.  The  men  used  to  have  a  Chuck  Wagon  Club  with 
monthly  dinners  at  which  eastern  guests  were  introduced  to  calf 
fries  and  tall  stories.  You  can  still  hear  tall  stories  at  the  Hyannis 
Hotel  from  Bill  Renfro.  Once,  in  a  rainstorm,  Bill  left  his  double- 
barreled  shotgun  against  a  fence  post,  muzzle  up,  while  he  ran  to 
a  haystack.  The  rain  roared  right  up  to  the  fence,  but  there  turned 
off  toward  Ashby,  which  needed  rain.  Bill  crawled  out  of  the  hay 
to  get  his  gun,  and  found  the  barrel  on  his  side  dry  and  the  one  on 
the  other  side  full  of  water. 

The  hills  have  not  changed,  and  you  still  can  get  lost.  Recently 
an  Omaha  party  wandered  for  hours.  They  came  upon  a  beautiful 
white  colonial  house  with  acres  of  landscaped  grounds  and  rose 


33$  ROUNDUP: 

gardens.  A  gardener  came  out  asking  to  be  of  service.  They  looked 
around  for  Cecil  B.  DeMille,  but  the  man  who  bade  them  welcome 
was  Wally  Farrar,  the  most  spectacular  success  in  the  sandhills.  One 
item  about  the  house  twenty- two  miles  from  Hyannis:  it  has  two 
light  and  power  systems,  in  case  one  breaks  down,  and  an  electri 
cian  to  see  that  neither  does.  Farrar,  a  college  student,  married 
Helen,  one  of  Joe  Minor's  three  daughters— all  wed  to  city  men, 
who,  under  some  contriving  by  Joe,  have  become  ranchers.  When 
the  Farrars  built  their  new  home,  they  invited  Joe  to  live  with 
them.  He  looked  over  the  vast  expanse  of  rooms  and  asked,  "Will 
you  give  me  a  bicycle,  too?" 

Minor  could  outfreeze  any  of  his  men.  This  means  that  he  could 
take  more  weather.  At  seventy-six  he  still  rode,  and  often  took  a 
hand  with  the  work.  In  the  early  days  he  lassoed  wolves,  and  once, 
after  ten  miles  of  the  chase,  his  horse  fell  and  died.  He  roped  an 
other  horse,  overtook  the  spent  wolf,  dragged  it  back  and  collected 
$150  bounty.  Minor  would  not  stay  in  his  $28,000  residence  at 
Alliance,  preferring  the  old  house  on  the  ranch. 

The  most  fun  ninety-year-old  Everett  Eldred  can  think  of  is  to 
ride  out  from  his  $65,000  house,  an  enlarged  copy  of  a  three-story 
flat-top  he  saw  at  the  Chicago  World's  Fair,  and  contemplate  500 
Herefords  lying  in  two  feet  of  grass. 

Health  is  above  average,  along  with  sunshine— 153  clear  days  a 
year— air— altitude,  3,748  feet— and  water— they  use  it  straight  in  car 
batteries.  In  thirty-odd  years  Dr.  William  L.  Howell  has  found  no 
mental  breakdown  from  solitude.  "When  I  came  here,"  he  says,  "that 
was  one  of  the  things  I  particularly  inquired  about,  and  could  get 
a  history  of  only  one  case  where  the  bullsnakes  held  conversation 
with  a  man." 

Elmer  Lowe  has  been  everywhere,  but  found  no  place  so  beautiful 
or  agreeable.  On  summer  nights,  he  says,  everybody  has  natural  air 
conditioning  as  the  breeze  is  filtered  through  the  cool  green  grass 
and  the  wild  flowers— spiderwort,  ground  phlox,  prairie  violet,  wild 
sweet  peas,  niggerhead,  prairie  shoestring,  aster,  blazing  star,  Queen 
Anne's  lace,  sunflower,  and  goldenrod.  The  hills  were  even  benefited 
by  the  dust  storms,  which  added  plant  food. 

How  Lowe  feels  may  be  sensed  from  this  testimony.  He  came  out 
in  the  early  'go's  to  hunt  prairie  chickens,  worked  it  into  a  business 
of  50,000  birds  a  year,  which  he  sent  frozen  to  New  York  and  Boston. 
He  bought  a  ranch  and  did  well,  but  got  big  ideas.  He  spent  fifteen 
years  in  Denver  with  gold  mines,  oil  wells,  a  truck  factory,  and  went 


A  Nebraska  Reader 

broke.  At  sixty  he  returned  to  his  heavily  encumbered  ranch,  and 
Ed  Meyers  lent  him  $200,000.  Now,  eighty-five,  he  has  paid  off  all 
debts,  and  with  his  sons,  Knight  and  Fred,  operates  50,000  acres. 
Says  Lowe,  to  whom  the  hills  gave  two  chances,  "A  man  can  be  as 
big  as  he  wants  to  be."  But  he  adds,  "The  day  is  past  when  a  man 
can  start  a  ranch  on  prairie  chickens  or  wolf  pelts.  He  would  need 
at  least  $25,000  to  start,  with  a  minimum  of  2,000  acres  of  range 
and  hay  land  and  a  hundred  cows." 

Director  of  the  vast  Abbott  enterprises— 25o,ooo-acre  ranch,  eight 
banks,  and  four  stores— is  225-pound  Christopher  J.  Abbott,*  the 
richest  man  in  Nebraska.  Most  of  the  time  in  the  shipping  season, 
August  to  December,  Abbott  is  on  a  horse  from  4:30  in  the  morn 
ing  until  10:30  at  night,  sleeping  on  the  ground  in  between,  while 
Mrs.  Abbott,  keeping  the  same  hours,  brings  meals  to  the  outfit. 
They  are  Chris  and  Ethel  to  the  help  and  everyone  in  the  hills,  and 
vice  versa.  Abbott  is  a  director  of  the  United  States  Chamber  of 
Commerce  and  chairman  of  its  agriculture  committee.  In  the  last 
year  he  has  made  twelve  trips  to  Washington  on  cattle  problems.  He 
is  president  of  Prairie  Airways,  Inc.,  which  proposes  a  line  from 
Miami  to  Nome,  Alaska,  and  at  fifty-six  he  has  just  learned  to  fly. 

Though  ranching  is  not  a  feminine  trade,  wives  are  active  part 
ners,  and  some  on  their  own  are  among  the  largest  operators.  Ellen 
Moran  has  17,000  acres.  Mrs.  Hannah  Abbott  is  joint  owner  of  the 
Abbott  interests  with  her  sons,  Chris  and  Roy.  Mrs.  E.  P.  Meyers 
probably  is  the  largest  individual  rancher,  with  160,000  acres.  She 
was  Margaret  Gorman,  a  clerk  at  Edholm's  Jewelry  Store  in  Omaha, 
where  Meyers  went  to  buy  a  diamond  and  got  both  diamond  and 
wife.  Mrs.  Essie  Davis  was  a  milliner  who  married  Arthur  T.  Davis. 
When  he  died  she  was  left  a  four-month-old  son  and  a  small  ranch, 
solvent,  but  $80,000  in  debt.  She  paid  off,  has  30,000  acres,  and  her 
guests  include  Washington  politicos.  She  is  president  of  the  Alliance 
Production  Credit  Corporation,  where,  a  few  years  ago,  ranchers 
sat,  big  hats  in  their  hands,  to  borrow  $100,000  or  so. 

The  rich  ranch  women  do  not  live  in  unmixed  elegance.  Cattle 
still  are  the  basis  of  everything,  and  their  needs  come  first.  The  June 
social  season  means  going  from  one  house  to  another  on  branding 
bees  and  helping  cook  for  fifty  neighbors.  Between  this  and  the 
other  seasons— calving,  haying,  and  shipping— they  travel  and  buy 
jewelry  and  expensive  clothes.  Still,  except  for  those  in  town,  it  is 
twenty  miles  to  another  house. 

*  Mr.  Abbott  was  killed  in  a  plane  crash,  January  10,  1954. 


340  ROUNDUP 

The  men  buy  expensively,  too— the  leading  horse  thief  of  earlier 
days  had  his  clothes  made  in  Chicago— but  perspective  is  not  lost. 
When  John  H.  Bachelor  built  the  biggest  house  in  Valentine,  a 
piano  seemed  to  be  needed,  so  he  went  to  Omaha,  and  the  pro 
prietor  showed  him  the  best.  "How  much?"  asked  J.  H. 

"That  will  be  fifteen  hundred  dollars." 

J.  H.  snorted,  "There  ain't  nothin'  worth  fifteen  hundred  that 
can't  have  a  calf." 

The  rancher  has  worries— income  tax,  scarce  labor,  blizzards,  and 
some  say  the  price  of  cattle,  which  may  get  too  high  for  the  house 
wife.  They  expect  a  dip  sometime,  but  think  they  can  take  the  downs 
with  the  ups. 

Recently  a  rancher  who  owed  $75,000  asked  the  lender  to  drop 
around  and  be  paid  off.  He  was  fixing  a  fence  when  the  man  ap 
peared.  "Hello,  Jim." 

"Hello,  Sam.  I  left  that  up  the  line.  Want  to  walk  up?" 

They  walked  half  a  mile  to  where  a  vest  hung  on  the  fence.  From 
the  vest  Jim  pulled  out  the  $75,000  in  currency. 

"Thanks,  Jim." 

"G'by,  Sam." 


Condensed  from  "Sandhills  Paradise/*  Saturday  Evening  Post,  June  14,  1947 


The  crew  required  in  handling  a  trail  herd  consisted  of  a 
foreman,  about  eight  riders,  a  horse  wrangler,  cook,  and 
mess  wagon.  Most  of  the  outfits  from  Texas  carried  no 
tents,  the  men  all  sleeping  in  the  open.  The  distance 
traveled  per  day  -would  be  from  five  to  twenty  miles,  de 
pending  on  feed,  water,  and  weather.  At  night  the  cattle 
were  "bedded  down"  and  the  men  stood  night  guard, 
divided  into  shifts.  .  .  . 

The  cattle  would  commence  to  move  at  break  of  day. 
The  men  on  last  relief  would  wake  the  cook  and  then 
drift  the  cattle  in  the  direction  they  were  to  travel.  The 
horse  wrangler  would  bring  in  the  horses,  all  hands  were 
called,  and  the  day's  work  began— at  daylight.  When  a 
river  was  reached,  sometimes  a  mile  wide  after  heavy 
rains,  it  was  a  matter  of  swimming  the  herd  across.  Men 
on  horseback  would  swim  by  the  side  of  the  herd,  guiding 
them.  Many  times  the  herd  would  split,  some  swimming 
across,  others  swimming  back.  This  divided  the  outfit, 
and  sometimes  it  would  take  several  days  and  nights  to 
get  it  together  again.  Cowboys  would  swim  back  and  forth 
carrying  food,  and  not  a  stitch  of  dry  clothes  or  sleep  until 
the  work  was  done.  The  boys  were  stayers.  Their  slogan 
was  loyalty  and  service,  and  they  stuck  to  the  finish. 

—James  C.  DaMman,  "Recollections  of  Cowboy 
Life  in  Western  Nebraska/'  Nebraska  History, 
X  (Oct.-Dec,  1927) 


Home  on  the  Range 

i .  Branding  Time  in  Nebraska 
DON  MUHM 

WHILE  other  phases  of  animal  agriculture  have  adapted  themselves 
to  changing,  progressive  rimes,  the  art  of  burning  a  neat  brand  on  a 
sandhills  range  newcomer  differs  little  from  the  process  as  performed 
by  the  ancient  Egyptians.  Pictures  and  inscriptions  on  tomb  walls 
indicate  that  as  long  ago  as  2000  B.C.  it  was  a  common  practice  to 
identify  cattle  with  brands.  Branding  Nebraska-style— the  Old  West 


342  ROUNDUP: 

way— actually  was  copied  from  cattlemen  in  Old  Mexico,  where 
ranchers  singed  calves  with  replicas  of  family  crests  and  coats-of- 
arms. 

Brands  may  be  briefer  today,  but  the  brands  are  made  in  a  similar 
manner.  Each  spring  sees  millions  of  Nebraska-born  calves  sustain 
an  imprint  which  unmistakably  establishes  their  ownership.  The 
business  of  branding  is  two-fold:  There  are  the  cowhands  who  do 
the  job— round  up  the  calves,  chase  them  into  a  corral,  and  ready 
the  branding  irons.  And  there  are  the  agencies  which  register  and 
keep  track  of  the  brands— quite  a  chore,  too,  when  you  recall  that 
there  are  nearly  forty  thousand  of  them  on  file  at  the  State  House. 

A  look  at  the  ranching  end  can  be  taken  in  May  or  June,  when  a 
rancher  like  Don  Hanna,  Jr.,  of  Brownlee,  holds  a  "Branding  Bee" 
with  his  neighbors  the  Pounds,  the  McLeods,  and  Harley  Nutter. 
In  the  Brownlee  area,  branding  is  a  community  affair,  and  all  those 
at  the  Branding  Bee  live  within  an  eight-mile  radius. 

At  the  Hanna  Ranch,  the  "Lazy  H  Triangle"  brand  is  burned  on 
husky  Herefords  in  the  old-style  way.  Each  calf  is  roped,  dragged  to 
the  branding  area,  where  two  "wrestlers"  pin  the  animal  to  the 
ground.  In  moves  the  branding  "backfield."  In  less  than  a  minute 
the  calf  is  branded,  ear-marked  (for  quick  identification  in  winter 
time  when  hair  might  cover  the  brand),  vaccinated,  castrated,  and 
bawling  his  way  out  into  the  grassy  hills.  According  to  some 
ranchers,  burning  a  brand  is  not  painful,  and  the  bawling  comes 
mostly  from  fear. 

Although  most  brands  are  applied  the  hot-iron  way— and  contrary 
to  popular  belief,  the  irons  are  not  "red-hot"  but  "grey-hot"— there 
are  other  methods.  Some  use  electric  branding,  others  acid  branding. 
Brands  like  the  "Lazy  Triangle"  are  as  individual  as  the  ranchers 
themselves.  Any  kind  of  mark  may  go  into  a  brand— just  so  long 
as  there  is  no  room  for  confusion  as  to  ownership  of  the  branded 
cattle. 

To  keep  track  of  Nebraska  brands  is  the  job  of  the  Brands  and 
Marks  Division  of  the  office  of  the  Secretary  of  State.  This  office 
and  its  duties  often  are  confused  with  the  workings  of  the  Nebraska 
Brand  Committee. 

The  Brand  Committee  is  composed  of  five  members,  four  of  whom 
are  cattlemen  actively  engaged  in  the  cattle  business.  They  are  ap 
pointed  by  the  Governor  to  serve  four-year  terms.  The  fifth  mem 
ber,  and  chairman,  is  the  Secretary  of  State.  The  group  meets  about 
once  a  month  to  hear  complaints,  settle  disputes,  and  decide  owner- 


A  Nebraska  Reader  343 

ship  where  confusion  about  various  brands  arises.  When  inspections 
are  needed  or  cattle  thefts  reported,  ranchers  get  in  touch  with  the 
Secretary  of  the  Brand  Committee. 

During  the  busy  season  when  cattle  are  moved  in  large  numbers, 
as  many  as  150  local,  temporary,  or  permanent  brand  inspectors  are 
at  work.  All  cattle  shipped  into,  or  from,  the  "Brand  Area"  must  be 
inspected.  This  area  includes  roughly  two-thirds  of  Nebraska,  and 
is  located  west  of  Cedar,  Pierce,  Madison,  Platte,  Nance,  Howard, 
Hall,  Kearney,  and  Furnas  counties.  However,  Norfolk,  Grand 
Island,  and  Kearney  markets  also  are  included  in  the  area.  At 
Omaha,  which  is  an  "open"  market,  there  are  inspectors  who  check 
all  cattle  destined  for,  or  coming  from,  the  "Brand  Area."  Both 
brands  and  numbers  are  checked,  after  which  a  clearance  is  issued 
and  ownership  declared.  Cattle  may  be  inspected  at  ranches  for  the 
same  eight-cent-per-head  fee. 

Some  of  the  cattleman's  hatred  for  the  rustler  lingers  on  today 
as  evidenced  by  the  fact  that  writing  a  bad  check  for  $45  would 
not  draw  the  stiff  penalty  set  for  stealing  a  $45  calf.  The  minimum 
sentence  for  stealing  cattle  is  two  to  five  years  in  the  state  prison— 
the  same  as  that  for  the  branding  of  another's  cattle  or  the  defacing 
of  a  brand. 

But  there  is  none  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  Old  West  in  the  offices 
of  the  Brands  Division  at  the  state  capitol  in  Lincoln.  There,  in  a 
maze  of  paperwork,  secretaries  efficiently  cross-file  registered  brands. 
The  brand  file  is  pure  Greek— or  ancient  Egyptian— to  the  outsider. 
Brands  are  read  from  left  to  right,  from  the  top  down,  and  from 
outside  inside.  Some  look  like  birds,  boots,  bells,  bugs,  bottles,  chairs, 
ladders,  lamps,  leaves,  forks,  eyes,  fish,  flags,  what-have-you.  Then 
there  are  the  "letter"  brands,  usually  containing  the  rancher's  ini 
tials  (like  the  "Lazy  H  Triangle").  A  letter  partially  over  on  its 
face  is  "tumbling."  One  on  its  face  or  back  is,  appropriately  enough, 
"lazy."  And  there  are  "running,"  "flying,"  and  "legs"  letters. 

Nebraska's  forty  thousand  brands  are  renewed  by  law.  A  rancher 
pays  a  two-dollar  fee  to  register  his  brand  for  four  years.  One-half 
of  the  brands  must  be  renewed  every  two  years,  according  to  the 
new  brands  law.  Up  until  1941,  brand  inspections  were  conducted 
under  the  supervision  of  the  Nebraska  Stock  Growers  Association. 
Then  a  test  case  resulted  in  a  ruling  that  the  state  could  not  delegate 
this  function  to  a  private  organization,  and  the  Brands  Committee 
came  into  being. 

A  book  of  Nebraska  brands  is  published  every  five  years,  but  the 


344  ROUNDUP: 

total  number  contained  in  the  publication  might  be  misleading. 
Some  farsighted  ranchers  take  out  brands  for  their  children  before 
the  youngsters  are  knee-high  to  a  Hereford. 

Condensed  from  Omaha  World-Herald  Sunday  Magazine,  Sept.  4,  1956 


2.  Nebraska  Cowboy  Talk 

RUDOLPH  UMLAND 

MANY  of  the  words  used  in  the  sandhill  region  date  from  Texas 
Trail  days  and  are  common  to  cattlemen  in  all  the  western  states. 
A  few,  however,  are  local  in  origin.  One  such  purely  local  word  is 
chipper,,  as  applied  to  a  rancher  who  is  poor  or  who  is  in  only 
moderate  circumstances.  It  is  used  chiefly  by  the  more  prosperous 
cattlemen  or  by  their  hands  in  a  slighting  sense.  If  you  ask  them  who 
a  certain  individual  is,  they  may  reply,  "Oh,  he's  an  old  chipper 
living  near  Sandy  Lake."  Most  of  the  poorer  ranchers  in  the  sand 
hills  still  gather  cow  chips  (hence  the  word  chipper)  for  their  winter 
fuel. 

In  the  fall  of  1940  I  accompanied  a  couple  of  cowboys  to  some 
abandoned  ranch  buildings  in  the  sandhills  of  Arthur  County. 
While  we  were  there  we  saw  a  herd  of  cattle  being  trailed  toward  the 
abandoned  buildings. 

"Bet  they're  going  to  bring  them  right  through  here,"  said  one 
of  my  companions. 

"Nope,  bet  they  won't!  There'd  be  too  much  chance  of  the  cattle 
spooking,"  said  the  other. 

And  a  few  moments  later  we  saw  the  course  of  the  cattle  changed. 
They  were  trailed  away  from  the  buildings  across  the  hills  so  they 
would  not  spook.  The  word  spook  in  cowboy  parlance  means  to 
scare  or  fill  with  fright.  Cattle  that  have  been  on  pasture  through 
the  summer  are  easily  frightened.  One  animal  will  communicate 
its  fear  to  others,  and  the  entire  herd  will  spook  and  run.  Anything 
unusual,  such  as  a  tumbled-down  soddy,  washing  on  a  line,  or  even 
the  sight  of  a  man  on  foot,  is  sufficient  to  spook  a  herd. 

A  fine  cutter  is  a  horse  with  exceptional  ability  in  cutting,  or 
separating  cattle  from  a  herd.  Old  hands  still  say  carving  or  chop 
ping  instead  of  cutting.  Calves  that  have  been  cut  from  a  herd  and 
counted  are  dodged  out.  The  chute  in  which  cattle  are  held  while 


A  Nebraska  Reader  345 

being  branded  is  the  squeezer  or  snapping  turtle.  To  side-line  a 
steer  is  to  tie  two  of  its  legs  on  the  same  side  together;  to  hog-tie 
it  is  to  tie  three  of  its  legs  together.  To  rope  a  steer  is  to  put  on 
a  string.  A  waddie,  or  cowboy,  who  is  good  at  roping  is  said  to  sling 
the  catgut  well.  When  a  waddie  ropes  a  steer  without  having  the 
rope  fastened  to  the  saddle,  he  takes  a  dollie  welter. 

Many  of  the  words  referring  to  roping  or  throwing  a  cow  have 
become  popularized  by  the  rodeo.  It's  fair  ground  when  a  steer  is 
roped  around  the  head;  then,  while  it  is  still  running,  the  rope  is 
allowed  to  slip  over  the  steer's  back  to  encircle  its  legs.  When  a 
waddie  throws  a  calf  by  grasping  the  skin  of  its  opposite  flank  while 
it's  running,  he  flanks  the  animal;  when  he  throws  it  by  twisting  its 
neck,  he  bulldogs  it;  when  he  throws  it  by  giving  its  tail  a  sudden 
jerk,  he  tails  it. 

At  the  sandhill  auctions  one  occasionally  sees  a  cow  with  a  jingle- 
bob,  or  ear  slit  its  entire  length  with  the  pieces  flopping.  To  for k  a 
horse  means  to  swing  astride  or  get  into  the  saddle.  To  tooth  an 
animal  is  to  look  at  its  teeth  in  order  to  determine  its  age.  The 
boss's  house  is  often  the  white  house  to  the  hands.  The  boss  is  the 
ranch  foreman  or  manager.  The  big  boss  is  the  owner  of  the  ranch 
or  outfit.  The  assistant  to  the  manager  or  foreman  is  the  straw  boss, 
top  screw,  or  top  waddie.  The  man  in  charge  of  a  herd  on  the  trail 
is  the  trail  boss  or  ramrod.  A  hand  who  rides  along  the  fences  and 
keeps  them  in  repair  is  a  fence-rider. 

A  sandhiller  who  shows  a  lack  of  judgment  or  is  careless  is  said 
not  to  have  cow  sense.  If  he  is  a  fool,  he  is  said  not  to  know  dung 
from  honey.  To  vomit  is  to  air  the  paunch.  Watching  a  card  game 
is  sweating  a  game.  Hard  liquor  is  family  disturbance.  Bacon  is 
overland  trout.  When  a  sandhiller  dresses  well  he  rags  proper.  When 
he  grows  bold  after  taking  on  a  few  drinks  he  is  ready  to  go  lion- 
hunting  with  a  buggy  whip.  When  he  leaves  town  or  a  neighboring 
ranch  and  starts  across  the  prairie  he  hits  the  flats  for  home.  A  small 
town  is  a  wide  place  in  the  road.  Telling  a  tall  tale  is  telling  a 
windy.  A  sandhiller  who  is  washing  his  face  is  said  to  be  washing 
his  profile,  or  bathing  his  countenance.  A  cowboy  riding  fast  is 
faggin'  along.  When  a  green  hand  has  acquired  a  little  more  ex 
perience,  he  has  taken  a  little  more  hair  off  the  dog.  When  some 
thing  misfits,  it  is  said  to  fit  like  a  hog  in  a  saddle.  A  waddie  who 
has  made  a  night  of  it  is  said  to  have  stayed  out  with  the  dry  cattle. 

All  the  large  sandhill  ranches  have  a  weak,,  lame,  and  lazy  pen, 
or  a  pasture  where  sick  animals  are  kept.  Sheep  are  woolies.  Horses 


346  ROUNDUP 

used  in  drawing  the  hay  sleds  in  winter  are  called  sled  dogs.  The 
chore  of  milking  is  called  palling  cows.  Nearly  every  community 
boasts  a  Monkey  Ward  cowboy,  a  waddie  who  sports  loud  shirts, 
fancy  trousers,  fancy  boots,  and  a  big  Stetson.  The  word  cows  may 
include  cattle  of  both  sexes.  She-stuff  means  only  females  and  is 
not  always  limited  to  cattle.  I  was  standing  on  a  street  corner  in 
Arthur,  Nebraska,  one  day  when  a  couple  of  girls  passed.  A  waddie 
standing  nearby  remarked,  "Some  pretty  fancy  she-stuff,  hey?" 


Reprinted  from  American  Speech,  Febr.,  1952 


Commenting  on  the  recent  sprouting  of  ''Sunday 
painters'"  over  the  state,  Man  Sandoz  wrote  in  a  recent 
issue  of  Holiday: 

"Perhaps,  among  outdoor  men,  the  urge  to  paint  is 
stimulated  by  the  swift,  subtle  flow  of  blue  hazes  against 
the  Nebraska  hills,  the  yellow-greens,  the  tans,  russets, 
and  mauves  of  the  rolling  prairie,  the  patterns  of  the  con 
toured  fields,  and  the  unsurpassed  sunrises  and  sunsets 
over  it  all. 

"'It's  paint  rags  'stead  a  pliers  in  my  old  ditty  box 
now,'  a  gnarled  cowman  replied  when  I  wondered  about 
the  easel  beside  him  in  the  jeep  out  on  the  range.  'My  boy 
down  to  the  university  drug  me  to  look  at  some  pictures 
Fair  time.  I  seen  right  away  I  could  do  better'" 


Sandhill  Sundays 


MARI  SANDOZ 

OUT  OF  THE  East  and  the  South,  God's  country,  came  the  movers, 
pounding  their  crowbait  ponies  or  their  logy  plow  critters  on  to  the 
open  range  of  northwest  Nebraska.  They  exchanged  green  grass, 
trees,  and  summer  night  rains  for  dun-colored  sandhills  crowding 
upon  each  other  far  into  the  horizon,  wind  singing  in  the  red  bunch 
grass  or  howling  over  the  snow-whipped  knobs  of  December,  and 
the  heat  devils  of  July  dancing  over  the  hard  land  west  of  the  hills. 
No  Indian  wars,  few  gun  fights  with  bad  men  or  wild  animals— 
mostly  it  was  just  standing  off  the  cold  and  scratching  for  grub. 
And  lonesome!  Dog  owls,  a  few  nesters  in  dugouts  or  soddies,  dusty 
cow  waddies  loping  over  the  hills,  and  time  dragging  at  the  heels 
—every  day  Monday. 

Then  came  big  doings.  Cow  towns  with  tent  and  false-front 
saloons;  draw  played  Sunday  afternoons  in  the  dust  of  the  trail 
between  the  shacks;  cowboys  tearing  past  the  little  sod  churches, 
shooting  the  air  full  of  holes  while  the  sky  pilots  inside  prayed  hell 
and  damnation  on  them;  settlers  cleaned  of  their  shirts  by  card- 
sharpers  whilst  their  women  picked  cow  chips  barefooted  and  corn 
leaves  rattled  dry  in  the  wind. 

347 


348  ROUNDUP: 

When  the  settlers  got  clear  down  in  the  mouth,  the  sky  pilots 
showed  up  among  them.  The  meeting-point  of  the  revivals  was  most 
generally  Alkali  Lake,  on  the  Flats.  All  Sunday  morning  moving 
wagons,  horsebackers,  hoofers,  and  a  buggy  or  two  from  town  col 
lected  along  the  bare  bank.  Almost  every  dugout  or  claim  shack 
for  twenty,  thirty  miles  around  was  deserted.  Everybody  turned  out 
to  hear  the  walking  parson. 

From  the  back  end  of  a  buggy,  the  sky  pilot  lined  out  the  crowd 
hunched  over  on  wagon  tongues,  stretched  on  horse  blankets  or  on 
the  ground,  hot  with  the  glaring  sun. 

"You  see  them  heat  waves  out  there  on  the  prairie?  Them's  the 
fires  of  hell,  licking  round  your  feet,  burning  your  feet,  burning 
your  faces  red  as  raw  meat,  drying  up  your  crops,  drawing  the 
water  out  of  your  wells!  You  see  them  thunderheads,  shining  like 
mansions  in  the  sky  but  spurting  fire  and  shaking  the  ground  under 
your  feet?  God  is  mad,  mad  as  hell!" 

Somewhere  a  woman  began  to  moan  and  cry.  The  crowd  was  up 
like  a  herd  of  longhorns  at  the  smell  of  fire.  A  swarthy  ground- 
scratcher  from  down  on  the  Breaks  began  to  sing  "Nearer  My  God 
to  Thee/*  couldn't  remember  the  words,  and  broke  out  crying,  too. 
Others  took  up  songs.  "Beulah  Land."  Somebody  broke  into  the 
popular  parody  and  hid  his  face.  "Washed  in  the  Blood  of  the 
Lamb." 

Two  whiskered  grangers  helped  the  parson  off  the  buggy.  "Come 
to  Jesus!  Come  to  Jesus!"  he  sang  as  he  waded  into  the  already 
cooling  water  of  the  lake.  The  moaning  woman  was  ducked  first  and 
came  up  sputtering  and  coughing.  The  crowd  pushed  forward,  to 
the  bank,  into  the  water. 

And  when  the  sun  slipped  away  and  the  cool  wind  carried  the 
smell  of  stale  water  weed  over  the  prairie,  almost  everybody  was 
saved.  Mrs.  Schmidt,  with  eight  children  and  a  husband  usually  laid 
out  in  the  saloon  at  Hay  Springs,  sang  all  the  way  home,  she  was  so 
happy.  The  next  week  they  sent  her  to  the  insane  asylum.  The 
youngest  Frahm  girl  took  pneumonia  from  the  ten-mile  trip  behind 
plow  critters  and  died.  The  lone  Bohemian  who  scratched  the  thin 
ground  on  the  Breaks  strung  himself  up. 

Talk  of  the  big  revival  drifted  back  into  the  hills.  "I  wisht 
I  coulda  gone;  it'd-a  been  a  lot  of  comfort  to  me,"  Mrs.  Endow 
mumbled  when  she  heard  about  it.  But  one  of  their  horses  had 
died  of  botts,  and  her  only  chance  of  getting  out  now  was  in  a  pine 
box. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  349 

The  nesters,  well  versed  in  drainage,  were  helpless  against  the 
drought  Each  spring  there  was  less  money  for  seed,  and  Sundays 
were  more  and  more  taken  up  with  the  one  problem,  irrigation. 
Everybody  threw  in  together  here,  the  Iowa  farmer,  the  New  Eng 
land  schoolteacher  afraid  of  his  horses,  and  the  worn-out  desert 
rat,  the  European  intellectual,  and  the  southern  poor  white.  There 
was  no  place  for  women  at  these  meetings,  and  so  they  stayed  at 
home,  wrangling  the  old  hen  and  chickens  and  watering  the  dry 
sticks  of  hollyhock. 

Ten  years  later  the  drought,  the  cold,  and  too  much  buying  on 
pump  had  driven  out  the  shallow-rooted  nesters  and  the  sky  pilots. 
A  few  hilltop  churches  took  care  of  those  who  still  believed  in  a 
benevolent  God.  The  stickers  took  up  dry  farming,  pailed  cows, 
and  ran  cattle.  But  farming  and  milking  meant  long  hours;  ranch 
ing  called  for  large  pastures  and  consequent  isolation.  Night  enter 
tainment  grew  more  common.  First  came  literaries,  with  windy 
debates  on  Popular  Election  of  Our  Presidents  and  the  British 
Colonial  Policy,  followed  by  spelldowns  and  a  program— songs: 
"Love  is  Such  a  Funny,  Funny  Thing,"  "Oh  Bury  Me  Not  on  the 
Lone  Prairie*';  dialogues;  pieces:  "The  Deacon's  Courtship"  and 
"The  Face  on  the  Barroom  Floor";  food.  Then  the  long  trails  across 
the  hills,  dangerous  at  night,  particularly  along  the  gullies  and  river 
bluffs. 

Eventually  most  of  the  communities  settled  upon  dancing  as  the 
most  conducive  to  all-night  entertainment.  Everybody  went.  If  Old 
John  was  running  the  floor  at  the  dance,  there'd  be  a  snapping 
match  if  he  had  to  cuss  out  every  cowhand  or  bean-eater  there. 
He'd  begin  to  look  the  crowd  over  while  he  was  calling  the  square 
dances: 

Gents  bow  out  and  ladies  bow  under, 
Hug  'em  up  tight  and  swing  like  thunder. 

—up  on  an  old  tub  or  bench,  stomping  his  boots  to  hurry  the  fiddlers 
until  the  girls'  feet  left  the  floor  and  skirts  flew.  At  midnight  he'd 
help,  carry  in  the  wash-boiler  full  of  coffee,  dip  a  tin  cup  among 
the  floating  sacks  of  grounds,  and  pour  it  back  through  the  steam. 

"Looks  like  your  coffee  fell  in  a  crick  coming  over,"  he  always 
bawled  out. 

With  his  cud  of  Battle  Ax  stowed  away  in  a  little  rawhide  sack 
he  carried,  Old  John  would  sink  his  freed  jaws  into  a  thick  slab  of 


350  ROUNDUP: 

boiled  ham  and  bread  as  he  helped  pass  the  dishpans  full  of  sand 
wiches  and  cake  to  couples  lining  the  walls,  sitting  on  boards  laid 
between  chairs.  And  afterward,  while  he  swept  the  dust  and  bread 
rinds  into  little  piles,  he'd  egg  on  the  shapping  match. 

"Times  ain't  like  they  was,"  he'd  complain,  looking  the  crowd 
over.  "There  ain't  a  feller  here  with  spunk  'nuff  to  take  a  leatherin' 
to  git  a  purty  girl." 

Somebody  who  didn't  bring  a  girl  but  would  like  to  take  one 
home  finally  grinned  and  stood  up;  and  somebody  who  was  afraid 
of  losing  his  girl,  or  had  a  general  prod  on,  got  up  too,  and  the 
bargain  was  made. 

A  horsebacker's  leather  shaps  are  brought  in  and  unlaced  so  the 
two  legs  fall  apart.  Each  shapper  takes  half  and  the  crowd  follows 
them  to  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Coats,  if  any,  are  jerked  off,  collars 
unbuttoned.  Norm  and  Al,  the  two  shappers,  sit  on  the  floor,  facing, 
their  legs  dove-tailed,  each  with  half  a  shap.  Everybody  crowds  up, 
the  dancers  first,  then  the  older  folks,  and  around  the  edge  the  boys 
and  dogs. 

They  draw  straws  from  Old  John's  fist,  and  the  unlucky  one, 
Norm,  lies  on  his  back  and  snaps  his  legs  up  over  him.  He  takes 
the  horsehide  across  his  rump  with  all  the  sting  Al  can  spread  on  it. 
Al's  legs  are  up  now;  Norm  gets  his  lick  in  on  saddle-hardened 
muscles.  The  crowd  yells.  The  whack-whack  of  the  shaps  settles 
down  into  a  steady  clockwork  business,  the  legs  going  up  and  down 
like  windmill  rods.  After  a  while  Al  jerks  his  head  and  Old  John 
drags  him  out.  He  sits  up,  his  face  red  and  streaked  as  a  homesick 
school-ma'am's,  only  his  is  sweating. 

"Norm's  got  two  pairs  of  pants  on." 

The  accused  is  taken  out  and  fetched  back.  "Only  one  pair,"  says 
Old  John.  The  whacking  starts  again.  Girls  giggle  nervously,  their 
men  hanging  to  them.  The  crowd  is  taking  sides.  Two  sprouts  near 
the  edge  take  a  lam  at  each  other.  Old  John  separates  them.  On  the 
floor  the  whacking  is  slowing  up.  He  drags  Al  away  again,  the 
puncher's  head  lolling,  his  face  gray  as  window  putty. 

The  crowd  shies  back.  A  pail  of  water  is  brought  in.  Al's  face 
is  wet  down  with  a  towel.  He  grunts  and  turns  over  on  his  belly, 
the  sign  that  Norm's  won.  Who'll  he  pick?  There's  no  hurry.  He 
can't  dance  any  more  tonight,  and  it's  a  long  time  until  "Home, 
Sweet  Home."  Everybody  is  talking.  The  fiddlers  start: 

Honor  your  partner  and  don't  be 
afraid 


A  Nebraska  Reader  351 

To  swing  corner  lady  in  a 
waltz  promenade. 

Sunday  was  spent  in  getting  home  and  sleeping. 

As  the  nesters  pulled  out,  sheepmen  bought  in  along  the  fringe 
of  the  hills.  Here  and  there  a  settler  who  couldn't  make  a  go  of  the 
newer  farming  or  cattle  took  up  woolie  culture  too,  and  then  the 
coyote,  up  to  now  a  raider  of  hen  coops  and  scrub  calves,  developed 
into  a  killer.  Wolf-hunts  were  organized.  The  regular  hour  for  a 
hunt  was  about  nine  in  the  morning.  A  relay  of  shots  started  the 
horsebackers  off  on  a  fifteen-mile  front,  from  Mirage  Flats  to 
Kepplinger's  Bridge.  Yelling,  whistling,  tunning  any  coyote  that 
tried  to  break  the  line,  they  headed  for  Jackson's,  towards  a  big 
V,  made  of  hog  wire,  chicken  fencing,  and  lath  corncribbing,  with 
a  wire  trap  in  the  point. 

Broad-handed  women  unpacked  baskets  of  grub  in  the  big  barn 
now  for  the  dinner.  "Time  they  was  rounding  up  a  few  coyotes," 
Mrs.  Putney  says,  as  she  uncovers  a  roaster  full  of  browned  chickens. 
"Henry  lost  twenty-five  sheep  last  week,  just  killed  and  let  lay." 

"They  been  having  three,  four  hunts  a  year  since  '84  and  all  they 
does  is  make  the  critters  harder  to  catch.  They  nearly  never  gets 
none,"  Mary  Bowen,  an  old  setder,  commented.  "Dogs  or  poison, 
that  fixes  the  sneaking  devils  that  gets  my  turkeys." 

"But  where's  the  fun  in  that?"  asks  one  of  the  girls,  climbing  into 
the  mow,  late,  but  not  dressed  for  work  anyway. 

By  one  o'clock  the  black  specks  are  running  over  the  Flats  like 
bugs.  Yells,  commands,  a  cloud  of  dust.  Horses  tromping  on  each 
other's  heels.  A  few  shots.  That's  all. 

Four  rabbits,  one  badger,  and  two  coyotes  for  two  hundred 
hunters. 

"Got  sight  o£  a  couple  more,  but  they  musta  snuck  outa  the  lines. 
Not  many-a  the  Pine  Creek  bundi  showed  up/' 

Now  the  dinner,  dished  up  on  lot^boards  over  barrels  in  the 
mow.  Windy  fellows  talking  about  long-ago  hunts,  when  there  were 
real  wolves,  too  smart  for  a  mob.  Cigars  were  passed  by  the  local 
candidate  for  the  legislature;  an  invitation  to  a  hunt  at  Rushville 
two  weeks  come  Sunday  was  read,  and  the  hunt  was  over. 

But  the  grass  in  the  loose  soil  died  under  the  sharp  hoofs  and 
close  cropping  of  the  woolies.  The  ranchers  hated  sheep  and  made 
it  as  hot  for  the  woolie  nurses  as  they  could.  At  last  most  of  the 


352  ROUNDUP: 

sheepmen  pulled  their  freight.  But  just  as  the  country  was  going 
back  to  cows,  the  Kinkaid  Act  was  passed.  The  land  rush  put  a  shack 
on  every  section  of  land— easterners  mostly,  who  established  Sunday 
schools,  with  ladies'  aids  to  meet  Sunday  afternoons  because  the 
horses  must  work  on  weekdays.  Many  of  the  newcomers  objected  to 
dancing  and  had  play-parties  instead.  The  soddies  were  small,  and 
the  Kinkaider  chose  his  games  accordingly.  Charades,  guessing 
games,  or 

Tin-tin 

Come  in, 

Want  to  buy  some  tin? 

Perhaps 

Pleased  or  displeased? 

Displeased. 

What  can  I  do  to  please  you? 

Foot  races,  pussy  wants  a  corner,  drop  the  handkerchief,  or  all  outs 
in  free  on  moonlit  summer  evenings.  And  endless  songs,  many  of 
them  parodies  on  popular  tunes: 

Al  Reneau  was  a  ranchman's  name, 

Skinning  Kinkaiders  was  his  game, 

First  mortgages  only,  at  a  high  percent, 

Jew  you  down  on  your  cattle  to  the  last  red  cent. 

But  no  matter  how  much  truck  the  Kinkaider  grew,  he  couldn't 
turn  it  into  cash  profitably  unless  it  could  walk  the  thirty,  forty 
miles  to  a  shipping  point.  They  must  have  a  railroad.  Once  more 
the  women  stayed  at  home  while  the  men  gathered  at  the  local  post 
office,  chewed  tobacco,  talked,  wrote  letters,  sjgned  petitions,  and 
bought  more  machinery  on  pump,  on  the  hope  of  a  railroad  that 
never  came.  Once  more  the  shallow-rooted  left,  and  the  rest  turned 
into  combination  farmers  and  stockmen.  Sundays  became  ranch 
days,  with  a  new  crop  of  cowpunchers  to  show  off  before  the  native 
daughters  at  scratching  matches. 

The  crowd  is  perched  on  the  top  planks,  on  the  up-wind  side  of 
the  corral.  Here  Monkey  Ward  cowboys  strut  about  in  bat  wings 
and  loud  shirts.  Riders  that  are  riders  sit  on  their  haunches  in  the 
sun,  dressed  in  worn  shaps  and  blue  shirts.  In  the  corral  several 
green  hands  are  running  a  handful  of  wild-eyed  colts  around,  trying 
for  a  black  gelding.  They  snag  an  old  sorrel  mare,  have  to  throw 
her  to  get  the  rope,  try  again. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  353 

"Why  don't  y'u  do  y'ur  practisin'  on  y'ur  bucket  calves  to  home?" 
an  old-timer  laughs,  nudging  his  straw-chewing  neighbor.  Dust, 
mix-up  of  horses  and  booted  cowboys.  They  have  the  gelding,  snub 
him  short.  Now  for  the  blind  and  the  leather.  Red  climbs  on  the 
last  horse,  the  drawing  card  of  the  Sunday  afternoon. 

"Let  'er  go!" 

The  corral  gate  flies  back.  The  blind's  jerked  away.  The  black 
shakes,  gathers  into  a  hump,  pushing  Red  up  into  the  sky. 

"Rip  him  open!" 

The  spurs  rowel  a  red  arc  on  the  black  hide.  The  horse  goes  up, 
turns,  hits  the  dust  headed  north,  and  it's  over.  Red's  still  going 
south. 

A  hazer  snags  the  horse,  not  head-shy,  and  brings  him  in.  The 
fence  hoots  when  Red  gets  up,  dusts  off  his  new  hat,  and  walks  away 
to  himself.  Not  even  hurt. 

Lefty  is  prodded  off  the  fence,  not  so  keen  now  as  he  was  a  minute 
before  Red  lit.  He  climbs  on.  The  black,  instead  of  going  up, 
spraddles  out,  sinking  his  smoke  belly  to  the  ground. 

"Scratch  him!"  an  old-timer  shouts.  Lefty  does.  The  horse  is  off, 
across  the  prairie,  bucking  and  running  in  a  straight  line.  That's 
nothing.  But  he  stops  short,  all  four  feet  together.  Lefty  comes  near 
going  on. 

"Fan  him!"  a  tenderfoot  shouts.  An  old  rider  spits.  His  guess  is 
correct.  There  isn't  time  for  fanning.  The  black  leaves  the  ground, 
swaps  ends,  runs,  swaps  again.  Lefty  hangs  on  as  best  he  can,  but 
the  turns  come  too  fast.  He's  down  on  his  shoulder,  just  missing  the 
double  kick  the  black  lets  out  before  he  quits  the  country.  Lefty 
picks  himself  up,  his  arm  hanging  funny. 

"Collarbone's  bu~ted." 

A  couple  of  girls  in  overalls  slide  off  the  fence  and  fuss  over 
Lefty.  Any  rider's  a  good  rider  while  he's  hurt, 

"That  horse  belongs  in  a  rodeo  string,"  they  comfort  him. 

The  fence  is  deserted.  "See  you  all  at  my  place  tonight!"  Madge 
Miller  shouts.  The  young  people  scatter  down  the  valley,  in  little 
knots  and  couples.  Some  shag  it  over  the  chop  hills,  hurrying  home 
to  do  the  chores  so  they  can  go  to  the  party  at  Madge's. 

"Next  scratching  match  at  the  Bar  M  week  come  Sunday,"  some 
one  reminds  the  riders. 

"Hi!" 

The  country  is  scarcely  grown  up,  and  people  are  already  build- 


354  ROUNDUP: 

ing  a  tradition,  a  background.  Old  settlers  and  their  children  are 
suddenly  superior  to  newer  settlers  and  entitled  to  an  annual  bar 
becue  as  befits  the  honor.  An  old-time  roundup  dust  hangs  over 
Peck's  Grove.  Horses  shy  and  snort  at  the  smell  of  fire  and  frying 
meat.  Cars  are  lined  up  by  the  signal  stick  of  Mike  Curran,  who 
once  prodded  cows  through  the  branding  chute.  Cowboys  tear  up, 
leading  wild  horses  for  the  bucking  contest. 

"Hi!" 

"Hi!  Gonna  ride  that  snaky  bronc?  Betcha  two  bits  you  can't  even 
sit  my  old  broomtail!" 

Women  hurry  about,  lugging  heavy  baskets,  picking  a  shady  place 
for  the  old  settler's  table.  The  men  look  over  the  race  track,  the 
horses,  the  new  cars. 

"Well,  you  son  of  a  sand  turtle!  Step  down  and  look  at  your 
saddle!" 

Logan-Pomroy  grins  and  gets  out  of  his  imported  car.  He  shakes 
the  hand  of  Old  Amos,  champion  muskrat  trapper,  for  this  one  day 
a  year  forgetting  that  he  is  owner  of  a  ranch  and  three  banks  and 
that  Amos  is  in  dirty  overalls,  with  gunny  sack  and  baling  wire  for 
shoes.  Today  they  are  old  cronies,  the  two  oldest  settlers. 

"How's  the  meat  hole  coming?"  Logan-Pomroy  demands,  and 
leads  the  way  to  the  barbecue  pit.  Two  sweating  ranch  cooks  are 
turning  quarters  of  browning  beef  with  pitchforks  or  basting  the 
meat  carefully  with  a  mixture  of  water,  vinegar,  salt,  and  pepper. 
The  drippings  sizzle  and  smoke  in  the  red  bed  of  ash-wood  coals 
in  the  pit  under  the  barbecuing  racks. 

"Come  and  git  it!"  a  fat  woman  calls  after  what  seems  hours. 

The  men  trail  over  to  a  table  made  of  salt  barrels  and  planks 
covered  with  white  cloths.  At  the  head  Logan-Pomroy  and  Amos 
sit,  with  later  settlers  down  the  sides.  Old  settlers'  daughters  wait 
on  them,  passing  huge  platters  of  beef,  mutton,  and  pork,  followed 
by  unlimited  vegetables,  salads,  pies,  cake,  fruit,  and  several  rounds 
of  the  coffeepot. 

After  the  dinner  there'll  be  contests.  Fat  men's,  sack,  three- 
legged,  potato,  and  peanut  races.  For  the  women  there  is  that  old 
rip-snorter,  a  wagon  race.  Each  contestant  draws  two  horses, 
a  wagon,  and  enough  harness.  First  to  drive  around  the  track 
wins.  The  young  cowboys  with  hair  on  their  chests  will  show 
their  guts  in  the  bucking-bronco  contest,  twisting  the  broncs 
in  approved  style,  and  take  part  in  the  wild-cow,  wild-mule, 
and  surcingle  races.  But  before  that  there  are  cigars  and  speeches 


A  Nebraska  Reader  355 

and  songs.  Old  Amos  adds  his  rumblings  to  the  "Nebraska  Land": 

I've  reached  the  land  of  drought  and  heat, 
Where  nothing  grows  for  man  to  eat. 
For  wind  that  blows  with  burning  heat, 
Nebraska  Land  is  bard  to  beat. 

About  sundown  the  crowd  scatters.  Logan-Pomroy's  motor  roars 
up  the  hill.  Without  a  good-bye  Old  Amos  shuffles  away  through  the 
brush  down  the  river. 

The  big  day  is  over. 

But  the  sandhiller  lives  in  the  present  also.  The  young  folks  take 
long  car  trips  to  dances  that  break  up  at  midnight,  by  command  of 
the  law,  and  endeavor  to  spend  most  of  the  time  until  Sunday  morn 
ing  getting  home.  Sunday  is  a  good  day  for  those  who  need  it  to  sleep 
off  bad  liquor.  The  more  prosperous  ranchers  escape  the  cold  by 
going  south,  the  heat  by  going  to  the  lakes.  Some  of  these  are  old 
settlers  noted  for  forty  years  of  unfailing  hospitality.  Once  their 
invitations,  usually  printed  in  the  local  items  of  the  community 
paper,  read  something  like  this: 

Party  and  dance  at  Bud  Jennet's,  April  2. 

Dinner  from  one  to  seven. 

Beds  and  breakfast  for  all. 

Everybody  welcome. 

Seventy,  eighty  people  would  come  in  those  days,  some  of  them 
forty  miles  in  wagons  or  on  horseback.  Next  day  the  men  slept  be 
tween  suggans  in  the  haymow,  the  women  all  over  the  house.  But 
that  was  when  Yvette  was  a  baby.  Now  she  is  home  from  college  and 
formals  as  she  calls  them,  and  they  have  rounded  up  twenty  guests 
for  about  four  hours  of  housewarming  in  their  new  home.  Some  of 
them  came  a  hundred  miles,  and  it  was  worth  the  trip.  There  is  an 
orchestra  in  the  music  room,  with  flowers  from  Alliance,  and  candles, 
Japanese  prints  framed  in  Chinese  red,  and  tapestry  panels. 

"Such  a  beautiful  home!"  the  guests  exclaim  to  Mrs.  Jennet. 

And  in  three  hours  the  maid  has  the  muss  all  cleared  away.  There 
is  no  disputing  the  fact  that  the  Jennets  did  well  in  cattle  and  potash. 


356  ROUNDUP 

The  callers  were  all  prosperous  and  charming.  Not  like  the  Jennets' 
guests  once  were,  when  all  who  read  the  notice  were  welcome.  Today 
nobody  ate  with  starvation  appetite.  Nobody  had  to  be  thawed  out 
at  the  hay-burner  before  he  could  sing  "The  Little  Old  Sod  Shanty 
on  the  Claim"  or  play  "There'll  be  a  Hot  Time"  on  the  fiddle  or 
the  accordion.  Nobody  let  habitual  curses  slip  and  surely  none  of 
the  guests  today  would  ever  think  of  singing: 

Just  plant  me  in  a  stretch  of  west, 
Where  coyotes  mourn  their  kin. 
Let  hawses  paw  and  tromp  the  mound 
But  don't  you  fence  it  in. 


Reprinted  from  Midcountry,  University  of  Nebraska  Press,  1945 


VII.  Family  Album  II 


With  its  ragged  cottonwoods  against  the 
sun,  with  its  fogs  whirling  and  cascading 
by  night  over  rustling  fields  of  corn,  with 
the  Old  Timers  still  in  the  saddle,  Ne 
braska  is  a  place  to  dream  of  on  a  lazy 
afternoon.  Which  explains,  perhaps,  why 
you  can  never  get  it  out  of  your  blood- 
why,  on  any  night  in  May,  the  Burlington 
station  at  Chicago  is  jammed  with  exiles 
taking  the  6:01  back  to  Ogallala,  or  Red 
Cloud,  or  Bennet. 

-Gretchen  Lee,  "Nebraska," 
The  American  Mercury,  Jan.  1925 


Unlike  a  certain  superabundant  southwestern  state  (the 
one  where  purveyors  of  air-conditioned  Cadillacs  have 
been  forced  to  post  signs:  "Sorry— only  a  dozen  cars  to  a 
customer"),  Nebraska  is  aware  that  there  are  forty-seven 
other  states  in  the  Union,  many  of  which  are  good  places 
to  live,  too.  And  if  some  of  her  sons  and  daughters  choose 
to  move  for  a  time— or  even  permanently— to  another  part 
of  the  country,  far  from  turning  their  pictures  to  the  wall, 
she  follows  their  careers  eagerly,  is  delighted  when  they 
drop  her  a  card,  and  saves  the  clippings  when  they  get 
their  names  in  the  paper.  As  a  result,  her  stack  of  scrap- 
books  reaches  to  the  ceiling,  for  Nebraskans  have  gone 
forth  and  distinguished  themselves  in  every  area  of  na 
tional  life— in  the  professions  and  the  arts  and  politics,  as 
builders  of  everything  from  bridges  to  nuclear  reactors,  as 
financiers  and  soldiers,  entertainers  and  athletes. 

Among  the  expatriate  sons  upon  whom  she  has  kept  a 
proud  eye  is  the  man  to  whom  Serge  Koussevitzky  once 
said:  "The  real  beginning  of  American  music  was  twenty- 
five  years  ago— when  you  came  to  Rochester  and  I  came  to 
Boston" 


From  Howard  Hanson's  Scrapbook 

i.  "An  Unquestionably  American  Composer"  (1936) 

BURNET  C.  TUTHILL 

AFTER-DINNER  SPEAKERS  and  musical  essayists  have  often  seized  upon 
the  question,  "What  makes  American  music  American?"  But  the 
final  alloy  has  yet  to  come  from  the  proverbial  melting-pot  of  Amer 
ica,  if  ever  one  combination  can  be  discovered  that  will  represent 
our  vast  and  diversified  population  as  a  single  unit.  How  can  we 
expect  a  unity  of  musical  expression  in  the  face  of  the  continual 
struggle  between  the  diverse  economic  and  temperamental  view 
points  of  east  and  west,  north  and  south,  town  and  country,  moun 
tain  and  plain?  To  be  sure,  we  live  in  an  age  of  restlessness  wherein 
a  man  seldom  remains  to  pass  his  mature  years  in  his  natal  town, 

359 


360  ROUNDUP: 

but  this  only  serves  to  mix  and  confuse  the  influences  that  are  back 
of  any  creative  work.  To  complicate  matters  further,  there  are  the 
vestiges  of  national  traits  inherited  from  the  lands  whence  we  have 
come. 

The  music  of  Howard  Hanson— an  unquestionably  American 
composer—bears  telling  witness  to  all  of  these  influences.  In  the  first 
place,  he  is  but  one  generation  removed  from  Sweden,  where  both 
his  parents  were  born.  His  grandparents,  Hans  Hanson,  Sr.,  and  Per 
Munson  Eckstrom,  moved  to  the  United  States  in  the  '70*5,  both 
families  settling  in  eastern  Nebraska.  Here  Hans  Hanson,  Jr.,  and 
Hilma  Christina  Eckstrom  were  married  and  made  their  home  in 
the  small  Swedish  Lutheran  community  of  Wahoo,  Nebraska,  where 
their  son  Howard  was  born  on  October  28,  1896.  Here  he  was 
brought  up  to  the  tunes  associated  with  Martin  Luther's  simple  and 
austere  hymns. 

But  Wahoo  is  in  the  U.S.A.  and  close  to  Lincoln,  as  typical  an 
American  city  of  the  open  spaces  as  one  can  find.  In  the  former, 
Hanson  had  the  benefit  of  a  normal  boyhood,  in  which  music  was 
only  one  interest  among  many.  Here  his  mother  began  his  musical 
education.  When  he  was  seven,  Howard  entered  Luther  College, 
where  in  addition  to  the  regular  academic  courses  he  studied  piano 
and  violincello,  harmony  and  counterpoint,  and  at  once  began  to 
set  down  musical  compositions  of  his  own.  He  was  confirmed  in  the 
Lutheran  Church  and  was  seriously  attracted  to  its  ministry. 

At  fifteen,  Hanson  entered  the  University  School  of  Music  in 
Lincoln,  where  the  Scandinavian  influences  began  to  lose  their  pre 
dominance  in  the  larger  life  of  an  American  city.  Then  on  to  New 
York  to  study  piano  at  the  Institute  of  Musical  Art.  A  teaching 
fellowship  at  Northwestern  University  in  Evanston,  Illinois,  led  him 
westward  again,  and  here,  in  1916,  he  received  his  Bachelor  of 
Music  degree.  In  the  autumn  of  that  year,  when  still  but  nineteen, 
he  was  appointed  Professor  of  Theory  and  Composition  at  the  Music 
Conservatory  of  the  College  of  the  Pacific,  and  in  1919  became  its 
dean.  During  his  west  coast  stay,  he  composed  the  scores  which 
led  to  his  being  awarded  the  Prix  de  Rome,  giving  him  the  first 
three-year  fellowship  at  the  American  Academy  in  Rome. 

Previously  Hanson  had  conducted  the  Los  Angeles  and  San  Fran 
cisco  symphony  orchestras  in  performances  of  his  own  works.  On  his 
return  to  America  in  1924  he  was  invited  by  Walter  Damrosch  to 
direct  the  New  York  Symphony  in  a  first  performance  of  North  and 
West—a  symphonic  poem  in  which  Scandinavian  and  American 


A  Nebraska  Reader  361 

tendencies  are  juxtaposed.  Later  he  visited  Rochester  to  conduct  the 
Rochester  Philharmonic  Orchestra  in  his  Nordic  Symphony. 

On  the  podium  he  is  vital  yet  poetic.  He  knows  his  scores,  be  they 
his  own  or  those  of  others,  and  he  brings  to  their  interpretation  a 
sympathetic  understanding  of  the  composer's  ideas.  His  friendly  and 
simple  personality  calls  forth  at  once  the  full  cooperation  of  the 
musicians.  He  has  an  uncanny  sense  of  contrast  and  climax.  Careful 
as  a  rehearser,  he  nevertheless  gets  his  results  quickly  by  drawing 
out  the  performers  themselves  rather  than  by  seeming  to  impose 
his  will  upon  them. 

As  a  composer,  he  has  shown  himself  a  romanticist  who  lives  in 
twentieth-century  America,  but  who  maintains  a  spiritual  contact 
with  his  forbears  in  their  rugged  Scandinavia,  and  shares  their  firm 
belief  in  God.  The  music  has  a  definite  popular  appeal  from  its  own 
nature  and  not  from  any  concession  or  calculated  effort  to  make  it 
so.  The  whole  gives  an  impression  of  thorough  sincerity,  with  no 
striving  after  effect  for  its  own  sake,  no  attempt  to  speak  unnaturally 
merely  in  order  to  appear  different  Here  is  the  outpouring  from  the 
heart  of  a  man  among  men,  whose  energy  and  obligations  give  him 
little  time  for  seclusion.  The  music,  like  the  man,  is  easily  approach 
able.  Behind  both  is  an  interesting  and  winning  personality. 

Howard  Hanson  stands  as  one  of  the  first  American  composers, 
conductors,  and  leaders  in  music  education.  But  above  all  he  is  an 
engaging  person,  friendly  and  generous  of  himself  to  a  fault. 

Condensed  from  The  Musical  Quarterly,  Vol.  XXII,  1936 


2.  Music  Incubator  (1940) 

THE  LATE  George  Eastman,  onetime  office  boy,  who  founded,  de 
veloped  and  headed  the  $177,000,000  Eastman  Kodak  Co.,  couldn't 
recognize  a  tune  or  tell  one  note  from  the  next.  But  George  East 
man  wanted  desperately  to  like  music  In  1918  he  founded  a 
$17,000,000  school  of  music  in  Rochester.  The  Eastman  School  of 
Music  flourished,  and  is  today  counted  one  of  the  most  important 
music  conservatories  in  the  U.S, 

As  director  for  their  music  school,  Eastman's  executives  in  1924 
picked  a  boyish,  bearded  28-year-old  Nebraskan  named  Howard 
Hanson.  Director  Hanson's  main  interest  was  composition,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  he  had  turned  Eastman's  music  school  into  a 


362  ROUNDUP: 

gigantic  incubator  for  young  U.S.  composers.  For  them  Director 
Hanson  provided  classes  in  counterpoint,  a  symphony  orchestra,  and 
even  a  ballet  company  to  play  their  works.  He  installed  a  recording 
system,  made  phonograph  records  o£  students'  lopsided  sonatas  and 
sway-backed  symphonies,  so  that  they  could  study  their  faults  over 
&  over  again.  Nine  years  ago  Director  Hanson  held  a  Festival  of 
American  Music  at  which  he  conducted  a  bushel  or  so  of  new  U.S. 
music.  The  festival  was  so  successful  that  it  has  been  repeated  every 
year. 

Director  Hanson,  who  raised  a  goatee  when  he  was  studying  in 
Rome  because  he  thought  young  musicians  attracted  too  little  at 
tention,  still  defends  the  young  U.S.  composer  with  crotchety  vigor. 
No  modernist  himself,  he  personally  dislikes  the  dissonant  groan- 
ings  and  thumpings  of  the  musical  Kulturbolschewiki.  But  he  will 
defend  to  the  death  their  right  to  groan  and  thump. 

"There  is  an  enormous  difference,"  explains  Director  Hanson, 
"between  music  that  is  well-knit  and  sounds  like  Hell,  and  music 
that  doesn't  sound  the  way  the  composer  intended  it  to  sound.  The 
first  is  competent  musicianship;  the  second  is  not.  ...  A  competent 
composer  deserves  at  least  one  hearing  before  an  audience." 

Extracted  from  Time,  May  8,  1940.  ©  Time,  Inc.,  1940 


3.  "America's  Gift  of  Music"  (1946) 

JOHN  TASKER  HOWARD 

THROUGH  THE  American  Composers'  Concerts,  which  are  now  in 
their  twenty-first  season,  and  the  annual  Festival  of  American  Music 
at  Rochester,  Howard  Hanson  has  done  more  to  encourage  his  fel 
low  composers  and  to  give  new  talent  a  hearing  than  any  other  in 
dividual  or  group  in  this  country. 

The  most  widely  performed  of  his  orchestral  works  have  been  the 
Nordic  and  Romantic  symphonies,  the  latter  commissioned  by  Serge 
Koussevitzky  for  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  Boston  Symphony 
Orchestra,  and  two  of  his  symphonic  poems,  Lux  Aeterna  and  Pan 
and  the  Priest.  Hanson's  Fourth  Symphony,  which  won  for  its  com 
poser  the  Pulitzer  prize  for  musical  composition,  was  first  performed 
by  the  Boston  Symphony,  with  the  composer  conducting,  Decem 
ber  3,  1943.  The  work  is  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  the  composer's 


A  Nebraska  Reader  363 

father,  and  consists  of  four  separate  movements  which  follow  the 
plan  of  the  Requiem  Mass.  As  a  whole,  the  symphony  shows  a  sig 
nificant  departure  from  the  romanticism  of  Hanson's  early  works. 

His  opera  Merry  Mount  was  produced  by  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
Company,  February  10,  1934,  with  Tullio  Serafin  conducting,  and  a 
cast  which  included  Lawrence  Tibbett,  Edward  Johnson,  Gladys 
Swarthout,  and  Goeta  Ljungberg.  The  Metropolitan  premiere  was 
a  tremendously  successful  affair,  and,  according  to  reporters,  there 
were  fifty  curtain  calls  for  composer,  librettist,  and  performers.  How 
ever,  in  spite  of  public  acclaim,  the  critics  were  somewhat  reserved 
in  their  praise. 

But  Hanson's  importance  to  American  music  does  not  rest  on  any 
single  work,  nor,  indeed,  on  any  one  phase  of  his  activity.  In  spite 
of  his  devoted  interest  in  the  development  of  American  music, 
Hanson  is  no  chauvinist;  he  is  not  an  advocate  of  a  "nationalist" 
school.  To  him  American  music  means  music  written  by  Americans. 
It  makes  no  difference  what  their  backgrounds  may  be,  whether  they 
are  descendants  of  the  settlers  of  Plymouth  or  the  sons  of  immigrants 
newly  arrived.  His  sole  interest  is  that  America  contribute  its  gift 
of  music  to  the  world,  that  a  rich  creative  musical  life  may  flourish 
in  this  country,  that  some  of  the  great  ideals  that  are  American  may 
be  transmuted  into  living  tone. 


Condensed  from  Our  American  Music,  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  Co.,  1946 


Some  boys  dream  of  being  President  of  the  United  States 
and  some  of  playing  in  the  World  Series.  About  the  time 
a  young  Lincoln  lawyer  was,,  figuratively,  packing  his  bags 
for  the  White  House,  a  shaver  out-state  in  St.  Paul  was 
pitching  pickup  games  in  the  school  yard,  and  his  ambi 
tions,  too,  were  big  league.  The  record  books  show  that 
the  young  lawyer  was  a  great  competitor,  but  it  was  the 
St.  Paul  boy  who  made  it. 


Alexander  the  Great 


TOM  MEANY 


1. 


GROVER  CLEVELAND  ALEXANDER,  the  man  who  became  a  legend  in  his 
own  lifetime,  was  his  own  worst  enemy.  He  won  more  games  than 
any  other  pitcher  in  National  League  history— indeed,  only  Cy 
Young  and  Walter  Johnson  ever  won  more  major  league  games  than 
Alex— but  he  never  could  win  over  himself.  It  is  easy  to  moralize 
about  Alexander,  who  died  in  semi-poverty  in  his  native  St.  Paul, 
Nebraska,  November  4,  1950;  but  Old  Pete  *  himself  was  never  one 
for  moralizing.  He  never  blamed  his  fondness  for  the  bottle  on  any 
body  but  himself. 

It  is  doubtful  if  there  ever  was  a  smoother  pitcher  than  Alex 
ander.  He  worked  without  exertion  while  warming  up,  and  when 
he  went  to  the  mound  he  pitched  with  the  same  easy  motion.  Alex 
threw  three-quarters,  scarcely  seeming  to  stride  and  with  no  waste 
motion.  There  were  no  three-hour  ball  games  when  Alexander  was 
pitching. 

Tom  Sheehan,  now  a  Giant  scout,  recalls  the  first  time  he  saw  Alex 
ander  pitch  in  the  tiny  National  League  Park  in  Philadelphia,  which 

*  "One  day  in  Texas,  shortly  after  he  went  up  to  the  big  leagues,  he  was 
tagged  with  the  nickname  Tete.'  It  was  the  off-season,  and  he  set  out  with  a 
couple  of  baseball  cronies  to  do  a  little  hunting  and  drinking.  Riding  on  the 
back  of  a  buckboard,  filled  with  liquid  cheer,  he  suddenly  toppled  off  and  landed 
flat  on  his  face  in  a  large  pool  of  alkali  and  mud.  When  they  finally  got  him  back 
on  the  wagon,  one  of  the  ballplayers  began  to  laugh,  saying:  'Well,  if  you  ain't 
old  Alkali  Pete  himself.'  "-"The  Ups  and  Downs  of  'Old  Pete* "  by  Jack  Sher 

364 


A  Nebraska  Reader  365 

later  came  to  be  known  as  Baker  Bowl.  Sheehan  was  a  rookie  with 
the  Athletics,  and  Joe  Bush,  another  A's  pitcher,  took  Tom  to  see 
the  Phils  perform  on  an  off-day. 

"I  knew  who  Alec  was  and  all  about  him,"  explained  Sheehan,  - 
"because  he  had  been  a  winning  pitcher  for  the  Phils  for  a  couple 
of  seasons,  but  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  him.  He  cer 
tainly  didn't  look  like  much.  He  warmed  up  like  a  guy  playing  catch 
and  then  he  went  out  and  pitched  the  same  way.  He  was  six  feet, 
but  he  kinda  scrunched  down  so  he  didn't  look  tall.  And  he  had  a 
funny  cap  that  didn't  look  like  it  fit  him. 

"I  took  one  look  at  Baker  Bowl,  and  I  was  glad  I  didn't  have  to 
pitch  there.  It  looked  like  the  right  fielder  was  breathing  down 
the  second  baseman's  neck,  and  the  stands  were  so  close  to  the  infield 
that  there  was  no  chance  of  catching  a  pop  foul.  Well,  Alec  goes 
to  work  on  these  guys  and  he  murders  'em.  He  breaks  curve  balls 
off  on  their  fists  and  he  sneaks  fast  balls  that  don't  look  like  fast 
balls  right  by  'em.  I  never  saw  such  pitching  in  my  life— and  I  haven't 
seen  anything  to  beat  it  since.  When  it's  all  over,  I  turns  to  Bush 
and  I  says,  'J°e>  how  the  hell  do  they  ever  beat  this  guy?' 

"And  Joe  says,  'They  don't-very  often!'" 

It  is  no  wonder  that  his  first  look  at  Alexander  left  Sheehan  bug- 
eyed  in  admiration  at  the  artistry  of  his  effort,  for  Alex  was  that 
type  of  pitcher.  His  pitching  was  founded  on  sheer  skill,  not  brawn. 

Another  admirer  of  Alexander  was  Casey  Stengel,  who  broke  into 
the  National  League  shortly  after  Alex  and  always  considered  Alex 
ander  the  smoothest  pitching  machine  he  ever  had  seen. 

"I  remember  in  1914  or  thereabouts  when  I  thought  I  had  a  way 
figured  out  to  fool  Alex,"  recalls  Stengel.  "He  used  to  break  his 
curve  in  on  me—as  he  did  on  all  the  other  hitters— and  I  figured 
that  if  I  moved  up  four  or  five  inches  just  as  he  was  about  to  pitch, 
I'd  be  able  to  meet  the  curve  ball  before  it  broke.  You  had  to  move 
quick  with  Alex  because  he  took  hardly  any  windup,  but  I  did  it 
and  I  managed  to  pull  the  ball  against  the  right  field  fence  for 
two  bases.  As  I  rounded  first,  I  saw  the  guys  in  our  bull  pen  stand 
ing  up  amazed-like.  Pulling  Alexanderl  Why,  it  just  wasn't  being 
done. 

"When  I  came  back  to  our  bench  Uncle  Robbie  and  all  the  boys 
are  asking,  *What  happened,  Case?'  and,  'How'd  you  do  it,  Case?' 
but  ole  Case  ain't  saying  a  thing  but  just  giving  *em  the  big  wink. 
Tell  my  secrets?  Not  me!  Why,  I'm  the  guy  who's  got  Alexander  the 
Great  solved.  At  least  that's  what  I  thought  until  the  next  time  I 


366  ROUNDUP: 

go  to  bat.  Again  I  inch  forward  as  Alex  winds  up.  In  comes  the 
curve  and  smack!— right  against  my  knuckles  where  I'm  gripping 
the  bat.  Boy,  it  stung!  I  dropped  the  bat  and  commenced  shaking 
my  hands,  just  like  a  kid  who's  been  rapped  across  the  knuckles  by 
teacher's  ruler.  And  out  on  the  mound,  old  Alex  is  grinning  and 
shaking  his  finger  at  me  as  if  to  say,  'Naughty  boy!  Teacher  spank/ 
Believe  me,  I  never  tried  to  get  smart  with  that  guy  again." 

Although  in  one  three-year  span,  the  seasons  of  1915,  1916,  and 
1917,  Alexander  won  a  grand  total  of  94  games  for  the  Phillies  and 
gave  up  the  amazingly  low  total  of  170  bases  on  balls  in  1,153  in~ 
nings—an  average  of  lower  than  three  every  two  full  ball  games- 
he  is  best  remembered  for  his  strikeout  of  Lazzeri  in  the  1926  World 
Series,  which  occurred  after  McCarthy  had  exiled  him  from  the 
Cubs.  McCarthy  asked  waivers  on  the  veteran,  and  the  Cards  claimed 
him  on  June  22  for  |6,ooo.  Alex,  who  had  a  mediocre  3-3  record 
with  the  Cubs,  won  nine  and  lost  seven  for  St.  Louis  as  the  Cards 
won  their  first  pennant  in  history.  It  was  a  close  fit  with  the  Reds 
and  Pirates  for  Rogers  Hornsby's  club,  and  the  nine  victories  the 
39-year-old  Alexander  had  picked  up  were  important. 

After  Herb  Pennock  had  beaten  Willie  Sherdel  2  to  i  in  the 
opener  in  New  York,  Hornsby  called  on  Alex.  The  Yanks  got  two 
runs  off  him  in  the  second,  but  after  Earle  Combs  had  opened  the 
third  with  a  single,  Alexander  shut  up  shop,  retiring  the  last  21 
Yankees  in  a  row  to  win  by  6  to  2. 

When  the  Series  moved  to  St.  Louis,  the  Yanks  won  two  out  of 
three  and  came  back  to  the  Stadium  faced  with  the  pleasant  pros 
pect  of  merely  splitting  even  to  win  the  title.  They  might  have  made 
it,  too,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Alexander:  he  beat  them  10  to  2  in  the 
sixth  game  to  even  the  Series  at  three-all. 

It  was  here  that  legend  began  taking  over  the  story  of  Alexander. 
Jesse  Haines  started  the  seventh  game  for  the  Cardinals  on  a  chilly, 
misty,  murky  Sunday  against  Waite  Hoyt.  Babe  Ruth  got  the  Yanks 
off  in  front  with  his  fourth  home  run  of  the  Series  in  the  third,  but 
the  American  Leaguers  fell  apart  behind  Hoyt  in  the  fourth,  and 
the  Cardinals  got  three  runs.  The  Yanks  nudged  Haines  for  one  in 
the  sixth  and  really  began  to  go  to  work  on  him  in  the  seventh. 
Haines  had  a  blister  on  the  index  finger  of  his  pitching  hand  from 
the  rigor  with  which  he  had  been  bearing  down  on  every  pitch. 
Combs  walked  to  open  the  inning,  and  Mark  Koenig  sacrificed. 
Ruth  was  intentionally  passed  and  forced  by  Bob  Meusel,  Combs 
reaching  third.  Hornsby  took  no  chances  with  Lou  Gehrig  and 


A  Nebraska  Reader  367 

ordered  another  intentional  pass,  filling  the  bases,  bringing  up  Laz- 
zeri  and  setting  the  stage  for  Alexander  and  myth. 

One  story  is  that  Alexander  had  celebrated  his  second  Series  vic 
tory  so  thoroughly  the  night  before  that  he  practically  needed  a 
seeing-eye  dog  to  guide  him  in  from  the  bull  pen;  that  Hornsby 
looked  into  his  eyes  to  see  if  they  were  clear,  handed  him  the  ball 
and  pointing  to  Lazzeri  said,  "There's  no  place  to  put  him." 

Here  is  Alex's  version  of  what  happened,  told  at  the  1950  World 
Series  in  his  visit  to  New  York,  less  than  a  month  before  he  died: 

"I  was  cold  sober  the  night  before  I  relieved  Haines  in  the  seventh 
game,"  flatly  declared  Alexander.  "After  Saturday's  game,  Hornsby 
came  over  to  me  in  the  clubhouse  and  asked  me  not  to  celebrate, 
telling  me  he  might  need  me  in  the  seventh  game.  So  I  stayed  in  my 
hotel  room  all  night. 

"There  were  a  couple  of  other  fellows  in  the  bull  pen  with  me— 
Art  Reinhart  and  Herman  Bell— when  the  phone  from  our  bench 
rang.  Hornsby  said  he  wanted  me,  even  though  the  others  had  been 
loosening  up  and  I  hadn't."  As  far  as  Hornsby  giving  out  any 
epigrams  or  instructions,  Alex  says  there  was  none  of  that.  "He  was 
standing  out  by  second  base,  and  when  I  reached  the  mound,  he 
just  threw  me  the  ball,"  said  Pete.  "That's  all  there  was  to  it." 

Actually,  there  was  a  little  more  to  it  than  that— the  matter  of 
Alexander  striking  out  Lazzeri  to  silence  the  last  Yankee  threat  and 
then  to  hold  them  back  in  the  eighth  and  ninth  to  preserve  the 
g-to-2  margin  which  gave  St.  Louis  its  first  world's  championship. 

Alexander  struck  out  Poosh-'Em-Up  Tony  on  four  pitches,  and 
the  second  strike  against  Lazzeri  was  a  ringing  drive  down  the  third- 
base  line,  foul  by  a  few  feet,  which  would  have  cleared  the  bases. 
Tony  went  down  swinging. 

Everything  that  Alex  had  done  before  that  in  baseball,  all  of  his 
escapades  since,  have  been  forgotten.  The  strikeout  of  Lazzeri  is  the 
high-water  mark  of  the  old  master's  career,  few  caring  to  note  that 
Alex  fanned  2,227  major  league  hitters  in  his  lifetime. 

As  glamorous  as  Alexander's  record  on  the  field  was,  his  record  off 
it  was  as  sorry.  After  serving  overseas  in  World  War  I,  the  great 
pitcher  suddenly  became  subject  to  epileptic  seizures.  These  were 
closely  guarded  secrets,  and  it  was  only  in  his  later  years,  when  he 
was  found  unconscious  in  the  street,  that  his  disability  became 
generally  known.  Alex's  drinking  was  always  a  private  affair.  As 
long  ago  as  the  winter  of  1925-26,  he  entered  himself  into  a  sani 
tarium  to  cure  himself  of  alcoholism,  but  it  didn't  last. 


368  ROUNDUP: 

Aimee  Amanto,  whom  Alexander  married  before  he  sailed  for 
France  in  1918,  was  the  one  person  who  could  influence  the  pitcher, 
but  even  her  influence  didn't  work  always.  They  were  divorced 
remarried,  and  divorced  again,  and  when  Alex  was  found  dead  in 
his  rented  room,  there  was  an  unfinished  letter  to  Aimee  in  his  type 
writer. 

2.* 

Grover  Cleveland  Alexander  was  born  February  26,  1887,  on  a 
farm  near  St.  Paul,  Nebraska.  There  were  13  children  in  the  family 
—twelve  boys  and  one  girl.  His  father  was  a  farmer  and  the  finest 
hunter  in  the  community.  Dode,  as  Alex  then  was  called,  did  his 
first  hunting  with  stones  and  rocks. 

"He  was  always  throwing  at  something,"  his  mother  once  said. 
"When  I  wanted  a  chicken  or  a  turkey  killed,  Dode  would  go  out 
and  bring  it  down  with  a  rock,  hitting  it  on  the  run." 

Whenever  he  could,  young  Alexander  would  slip  into  town  and 
get  into  a  ball  game.  He  pitched  in  pickup  games  on  the  schoolyard 
lot,  using  that  awkward,  funny,  side-arm  delivery  that  knocked  down 
chickens  on  the  run.  None  of  the  kids  in  the  small  Nebraska  town 
could  seem  to  get  a  piece  of  that  ball  that  Dode  whipped  at  them. 

When  he  was  19,  Alex  took  a  job  as  a  lineman  for  a  telephone  com 
pany.  The  linemen  had  a  ball  team  and  Alex  pitched  for  them.  His 
first  time  out,  the  big  farm  boy  beat  a  team  of  "paid  players"  in 
Central  City,  Nebraska.  He  whipped  them  four  games  in  a  row. 
The  telephone  team  didn't  play  often  enough  to  suit  Alexander,  so 
he  picked  up  with  scrub  teams  whenever  he  could.  One  day  when  a 
game  went  into  extra  innings,  Alex  showed  up  late  for  work  with 
the  line  gang.  The  foreman  fired  him. 

The  manager  of  the  Central  City  team  hired  Alex  at  $50  a  month. 
When  the  season  ended  in  Central  City,  Alexander  drifted  to  a 
county  fair  at  Burwell,  Nebraska,  to  pitch  two  games  against  a 
crack  semi-pro  team  from  Illinois.  He  won  both  games,  and  a  short 
stop  named  Miller,  playing  for  the  rival  team,  carried  the  news 
about  "a  young  Nebraska  kid  who  can  pitch  like  a  fool"  back  to 
the  manager  of  a  professional  team  in  Galesburg,  Illinois. 

On  January  12,  1909,  Grover  Cleveland  Alexander  signed  his  first 
contract  as  a  professional  ballplayer  with  Galesburg  in  the  Class  D 

*  Tbe  story  of  Alexander's  early  years  has  been  condensed  from  "The  Ups  and 
Downs  of  'Old  Pete*  "  by  Jack  Sher  in  A  Treasury  of  Sports  Stories  (Bartholomew 
House,  1955). 


A  Nebraska  Reader  369 

Three-Eye  League.  His  salary  was  $100  a  month.  He  won  15  games 
for  Galesburg  before  he  got  slapped  into  the  dirt,  hit  so  hard  it 
almost  closed  his  career  forever.  During  a  hard-fought  game,  Alex, 
who  wasn't  much  of  a  hitter,  loped  down  to  first  on  a  scratch  single. 
On  the  hit  and  run,  he  started  for  second,  lumbering  down  the  base- 
path  in  that  comical,  awkward  way  he  always  ran.  The  Galesburg 
batter  hit  a  ground  ball  to  the  shortstop,  who  flipped  it  to  the 
second-baseman  for  a  force-out.  The  second-baseman  wheeled  and 
fired  the  ball  toward  first  in  an  attempted  double  play.  Alex  came 
charging  on,  the  ball  struck  him  full  on  the  side  of  the  head,  and 
he  went  down  like  a  poled  steer. 

The  big  kid  pitcher  was  unconscious  for  56  hours.  When  Alex  was 
able  to  sit  up  in  the  hospital  bed,  he  saw  two  of  everything:  his 
eyesight  had  been  affected  by  the  blow  on  the  head.  He  was  told 
by  the  doctors  that  he  might  suffer  from  double  vision  for  the  rest 
of  his  life. 

When  they  let  him  out  of  the  hospital,  Alex  stubbornly  insisted 
on  getting  back  into  uniform.  Day  after  day,  he  tried  to  pitch.  But 
he  kept  seeing  two  batters,  two  catchers.  Finally,  without  revealing 
his  ailment,  Galesburg  sold  Alexander  to  the  Indianapolis  ball  club, 
managed  by  Charlie  Carr.  Scared,  heartsick,  still  seeing  double, 
young  Alexander  reported  to  Indianapolis.  He  distinguished  him 
self  at  the  first  practice  by  breaking  three  of  Charlie  Carr's  ribs  with 
the  first  ball  he  pitched.  Carr  sent  him  back  home  to  Nebraska. 

Pete  should  have  been  through.  But  he  wouldn't  quit.  Day  after 
day  he  would  go  into  town,  hunt  up  someone  to  catch  for  him,  and 
keep  on  throwing  at  the  two  figures.  He  kept  it  up  all  through  the 
long  winter. 

"I  knew  I  was  through,  but  I  couldn't  stop  throwin*,"  he  once 
said.  "If  I  stopped,  I  knew  I'd  go  all  to  pieces." 

Alex  couldn't  believe  it  when  the  Indianapolis  management  no 
tified  him  the  following  spring  that  he  had  been  traded  to  Syracuse 
in  the  New  York  State  League.  Carr,  who  wanted  a  favor  from  the 
Sy^cuse  manager,  gave  Alexander  to  that  ball  dub  for  exactly 
nothing!  "This  Alexander  is  wild  as  hell/'  Carr  told  the  Syracuse 
pilot,  "but  he's  got  plenty  of  speed." 

And  so  Syracuse  got,  for  free,  the  greatest  control  pitcher  of  all 
time. 

Two  or  three  days  before  Alex  left  to  report  to  the  eastern  ball 
club,  his  vision  returned  to  normal.  It  happened  suddenly,  mirac 
ulously.  He  was  pitching  to  a  friend  in  a  schoolyard  in  St.  Paul, 


370  ROUNDUP; 

Nebraska.  As  he  wound  up,  two  catcher's  mitts  danced  before  his 
eyes  and  then,  as  the  ball  cracked  into  the  receiver's  glove,  every 
thing  suddenly  became  one,  clear  and  whole. 

Into  Syracuse  like  a  windstorm  came  the  tall  Nebraskan  with 
the  freckled  face,  the  shock  of  sandy  hair,  and  the  peculiar  side-arm 
delivery.  Straight  from  the  farm,  from  hopelessness  and  despair, 
came  the  young  pitcher  who  was  to  be  called  Alex  the  Great,  who 
was  to  set  mound  records  that  would  never  be  matched.  Maybe  he 
was  greater  in  later  years,  but  the  Syracuse  Stars  thought  that  Grover 
Cleveland  Alexander,  pitching  for  them  in  1910,  was  something  of 
a  miracle.  Almost  half  of  the  29  games  he  won  were  shutouts.  He 
pitched  13  goose-egg  ball  games,  this  kid  who  couldn't  see  straight 
just  a  few  months  before! 

The  claw  of  a  major-league  club  reached  out,  and  the  22-year-old 
pitcher  was  purchased  by  the  Philadelphia  Phillies  for  the  incredible 
sum  of  $500.  He  was  promised  $250  on  the  line  every  month,  pro 
vided  he  made  good.  "It  seemed  like  a  stack  of  money/'  Alex  told 
a  reporter  in  later  years,  "so  I  tried  extra  hard."  * 

The  rookie  pitcher,  with  only  one  full  season  in  the  minors  be 
hind  him,  went  on  to  win  28  games  that  year.  Up  went  his  first 
record,  never  to  be  touched.  And  late  in  the  season,  with  the  victories 
piled  up  behind  him,  Alexander  faced  the  immortal  Cy  Young  in 
what  was  undoubtedly  the  greatest  pitchers'  duel  of  the  century. 

It  was  Denton  True  Young's  last  game.  Cy  had  won  511  ball 
games,  which  still  sticks  up  there  in  the  record  book  as  the  all-time 
high.  He  had  won  all  those  games  and  he  still  had  it— the  skill,  the 
heart,  all  the  ingredients  that  comprise  greatness  in  a  pitcher.  Hurl 
ing  for  the  Boston  Nationals  that  day,  the  gallant  Cy  used  every 
pitch  he  had  learned  in  22  years  of  baseball— sweeping  curves,  drops, 
the  deceptive  spitball.  Inning  after  inning,  the  game  wore  on, 
neither  side  able  to  dent  the  matchless  hurling  of  the  fat,  ancient 
veteran  or  the  young  rookie.  Cy  gave  out  in  the  i2th,  the  Phils 
pushed  across  one  run,  Alex  held  fast,  and  the  game  was  his. 

3- 

Until  his  very  last  year  in  baseball,  Alexander  never  had  a  losing 
season  as  a  pitcher.  Control  as  well  as  economy  of  pitching  was  the 

*  Compared  to  today's  major  league  players,  Old  Pete  worked  for  peanuts.  The 
Phillies  paid  him  $250  a  month  the  year  he  won  28  games  for  them.  The  Cubs 
paid  him  $8,000  with  a  $1,000  bonus  if  he  won  more  than  30  games.  His  all-time 
top  salary  was  $17,000  from  the  Cardinals. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  371 

secret  of  Alexander's  success.  He  pitched  90  shutouts  in  his  career, 
a  National  League  record,  and  holds  the  major  league  record  for 
shutouts  in  a  season,  16  in  1916.  Twice  Alexander  pitched  and  won 
both  ends  of  a  double-header.  He  once  pitched  a  game  in  58  minutes 
and,  although  he  never  pitched  a  no-hitter,  he  did  pitch  four  one- 
hitters  In  one  season,  1915,  something  no  other  pitcher  has  done. 

Although  the  dead  ball  employed  before  World  War  I  undoubt 
edly  was  of  great  assistance  to  Alexander  in  the  years  when  he  was 
winning  30  and  upward,  it  is  revealing  that  he  won  27  games  for  the 
Cubs  in  1920  and  21  games  for  the  Cardinals  when  he  was  over  40 
years  old.  He  never  sought  strikeout  records  but  relied  on  getting 
the  ball  over  the  plate  in  such  a  manner  that  it  couldn't  be  met 
squarely.  In  these  days  of  the  lively  ball  a  batter  can  send  a  ball  he 
doesn't  meet  properly  flying  Into  the  seats.  While  Alexander  won 
the  great  majority  of  his  games  In  the  dead-ball  era,  it  is  worth  while 
noting  that  he  continued  to  be  a  winning  pitcher  for  a  decade  after 
the  introduction  of  the  jack-rabbit  ball  and  a  decade  In  which  Alex 
didn't  take  the  best  care  of  himself,  to  put  it  mildly. 

Alexander  had  such  natural  talent  that  he  would  have  been  a 
stickout  under  any  conditions,  yet  oddly  enough  he  wasn't  figured 
as  a  regular  when  he  first  went  south  with  the  Phillies  in  1911.  The 
ease  with  which  Alex  pitched,  the  nonchalance  which  was  to  be 
his  trademark,  struck  Dooin  as  being  nothing  but  indolence.  It  was 
Pat  Moran,  Doom's  coach,  who  pleaded  Alex's  case  at  the  Wilming 
ton,  North  Carolina,  training  camp.  "Let  the  kid  come  north  with 
me  on  the  second  squad,  Red,"  importuned  Moran,  "and  I'll  have 
a  pitcher  for  you  when  we  get  back  home." 

When  the  two  Philly  squads  reassembled  In  Philadelphia  for  the 
city  series  with  the  Athletics  which  preceded  the  regular  season, 
Moran  told  Doom  he'd  make  no  mistake  counting  on  Alexander  as 
a  regular.  "He's  a  pitcher  if  I  ever  saw  one/'  declared  Pat.  Dooin, 
still  wanting  to  be  shown,  pitched  Alexander  in  one  of  the  exhibi 
tion  games  against  the  A's.  The  kid  from  Nebraska  turned  in  seven 
scoreless  innings,  and  Dooin  was  convinced. 

For  the  next  twenty  years  nobody  at  all  had  to  be  convinced  that 
Old  Pete  was  truly  Alexander  the  Great. 


CojKknsed  from  Baseball's  Greatest  Pitchers,  A.  S.  Barnes  fc  Co.,  1951 


There  is  some  dispute— says  Lilian  Fitzpatrick  in  Ne 
braska  Place-Names— as  to  the  origin  of  the  name  Wahoo. 
One  explanation  is  that  it  derives  from  "euonymous"  or 
"wahoo"  commonly  known  as  the  "burning  bush."  An 
other  source  says  that  it  comes  from  "pahoo"  which  means 
"not  very  bluffy."  A  third  states  that  "wahoo"  is  an 
Indian  word  for  a  species  of  elm. 

There  is  no  dispute,  however,  as  to  the  origin  of  Darryl 
F.  Zanuck:  he  was  born  in  Wahoo  on  September  5,  1902. 
Nor  is  there  any  dispute  as  to  what  his  name  means  in  the 
motion  picture  industry. 


One-Man  Studio 

AT  THE  far  end  of  a  lobby-sized  green-and-gold  Hollywood  office,  a 
wiry,  high-domed  man  gnawed  a  massive  cigar,  paced  briskly  back 
8c  forth,  and  spewed  memoranda  in  a  loud  Midwestern  twang.  Oc 
casionally,  hypnotized  by  his  own  train  of  thought,  he  ducked  briefly 
into  an  open  anteroom  behind  his  desk,  to  stalk  an  idea  among  the 
stuffed  heads  of  a  water  hog  and  an  antelope,  the  skins  of  a  lion  and 
a  jaguar,  the  sawed-off  feet  of  an  elephant  and  a  rhino.  Working  in 
relay,  three  stenographers  dashed  into  the  huge  office  to  scribble 
notes,  dashed  out  again  to  rush  the  words  down  through  the  hier 
archy  of  the  soth  Century-Fox  Film  Corp. 

His  pale  blue  eyes  hovering  over  everything  from  finances  to 
falsies,  Darryl  F.  Zanuck  was  warming  up  to  another  1 8-hour  day 
as  production  boss  of  soth  Century-Fox  and  pace-setter  for  the 
U.  S.  cinema.  In  142  Ibs.  and  a  carefully  measured  5  ft.  63^  ins.,  he 
embodies  what  may  be  nature's  ultimate  attempt  to  equip  the  species 
for  outstanding  success  in  Hollywood.  Producer  Zanuck  is  richly 
endowed  with  tough-mindedness,  talent,  an  out-sized  ego,  and  a 
glutton's  craving  for  hard  work.  These  qualities,  indulged  with  end 
less  enthusiasm,  have  not  only  sped  him  to  the  top  but  have  some 
how  left  him  free  of  ulcers  and  in  the  pink  of  health. 

As  a  trailblazer,  Zanuck  has  no  Hollywood  equal.  At  Warners'  he 
played  a  key  role  in  the  industry's  transition  from  silent  pictures  to 
talkies  (The  Jazz  Singer,  The  Singing  Fool) .  He  sired  the  cine- 

37* 


A  Nebraska  Reader 

musical  (Forty-Second  Street,  Gold-Diggers  of  Broadway).  He  pio 
neered  and  developed  the  technique  of  snatching  good  movie  plots 
out  of  the  headlines  (I  Am  a  Fugitive  from  a  Chain  Gang),  and 
injected  memorable  realism  into  the  gangster  cycle  of  the  '30'$  (Pub 
lic  Enemy).  He  enabled  Producer  Louis  de  Rochemont  to  launch 
the  semi-documentary  (The  House  on  gsmd  Street).  He  set  the  post 
war  style  of  using  authentic  locations  in  foreign  countries  (Prince  of 
Foxes),  and,  incidentally,  melting  Hollywood's  frozen  funds  abroad.* 

Most  important,  Danyl  Francis  Zanuck  has  gone  further  than 
anyone  in  Hollywood  in  breaking  down  resistance  to  serious,  grown 
up  films  with  controversial  themes.  A  man  of  courage,  physical  as 
well  as  moral,  he  insisted  on  producing  such  pictures  in  the  teeth  of 
angry  pressure  groups,  and  sometimes  to  the  consternation  of  his 
own  bosses  in  the  New  York  office.  He  lost  $2,000,000  on  his  biggest 
flop,  Wilson  (1944),  which  preached  against  postwar  isolationism, 
and  he  fell  short  of  a  profit  on  1943*5  The  Ox-Bow  Incident,  a  vivid 
anti-lynching  movie  which  got  critics'  cheers.  But  with  such  films  as 
The  Grapes  of  Wrath  (1940),  Gentleman's  Agreement  (1947),  The 
Snake  Pit  (1948)  and  Pinky  (1949),  he  proved  that  stories  based 
on  such  themes  as  unemployment,  anti-Semitism,  mental  illness 
and  the  Negro  problem  could  pay  off  on  the  screen. 

For  a  tycoon  of  such  solid  accomplishments  and  recognition  (two 
Oscars  and  two  prized  Irving  Thalberg  Awards),  Zanuck  for  years 
cut  a  rather  outlandish  figure— even  by  Hollywood  standards.  He 
took  sophomoric  delight  in  playing  such  pranks  as  putting  a  trained 
ape  into  his  executive  chair,  turning  the  lights  down  and  summon 
ing  a  new  writer.  He  surrounded  himself  with  court  jesters,  brow 
beat  his  oversubmissive  underlings  ("For  God's  sake,  don't  say  yes 
until  I  finish  talking").  His  sycophants  vied  so  earnestly  in  their 
assurances  of  devotion  that  one  whimsical  executive,  putting  an  end 
to  the  contest,  once  volunteered:  "When  I  die,  I  want  to  be  cremated 
and  have  my  ashes  sprinkled  on  Mr.  Zanuck's  driveway  so  his  car 
won't  skid." 

Zanuck's  lack  of  formal  schooling  made  for  some  conversational 
bloopers  ("Betterment  and  correctment"),  and  gave  him  an  oblique 
approach  to  culture.  A  restless  traveler  who  keeps  his  retinue  step 
ping,  he  once  dogtrotted  into  the  Louvre  with  the  observation:  "We 

*  Since  tliis  article  was  written  Mr.  Zanuck  has  done  some  more  trail-blazing. 
In  *953»  at  a  critical  time  in  the  industry,  he  was  instrumental  in  introducing  a 
third  dimension  to  the  screen— a  development  recognized  as  the  most  important 
innovation  since  the  introduction  of  talkies. 


374  ROUNDUP: 

gotta  be  outa  this  joint  in  20  minutes."  His  enthusiasm  for  big-game 
hunting,  duck  shooting,  riding  and  polo  also  provided  sport  for 
sniggering  Hollywood  humorists.  But  these  furious  pursuits  were 
no  joke  to  the  animals  whose  remains  now  adorn  his  office,  nor  to 
his  helpless  subordinates  who  had  to  tag  along.  Though  the  polo 
team  was  at  first  sneered  at  as  the  only  one  "where  the  horses  are 
better  bred  than  the  men,"  its  intense,  fearless  little  captain  drove 
it  to  win  the  respect  of  its  opponents  and  the  hospitality  of  Pasa 
dena's  uppity  Midwick  Country  Club.  Meanwhile,  headlong  Darryl 
Zanuck  became  a  two-goal  player  at  the  price  of  such  injuries  as  a 
smashed  nose  and  a  broken  hand. 

More  staid  in  his  outside  activities  than  he  used  to  be,  Zanuck,  the 
one-man  studio,  still  gives  a  g-ring  performance.  In  a  story  con 
ference,  where  he  plays  all  the  roles  of  scenes  in  the  making,  the 
bristly  mustache  suddenly  twitches  and  the  face  looks  heavenward  in 
horror.  The  jaw  sags  until  the  huge  cigar  droops  from  his  lower  lip; 
he  leans  back  across  the  grand  piano  in  his  office;  his  voice  becomes 
shrill  and  frightened.  This  is  Zanuck  impersonating  a  virgin  in 
distress. 

Zanuck's  leather-lunged  chatter  during  a  conference  rambles  al 
most  as  much  as  his  footsteps.  He  thinks  in  pictorial  terms,  does  not 
fancy  himself  as  a  dialogue  writer,  intends  his  ad-libbing  only  as  a 
guide.  As  an  idea  man,  however,  he  is  probably  unsurpassed  in 
Hollywood.  His  mind  is  a  storehouse  of  plots,  story  angles  and 
gimmicks,  and  with  free-wheeling  inventiveness,  he  works  them  end 
lessly  into  different  patterns.  He  is  also  a  merciless  story  critic.  Re 
specting  talent,  he  has  a  knack  for  channeling  it,  and  knows  when  to 
leave  it  alone.  For  all  his  autocratic  belligerence,  he  can  quickly 
drop  an  idea  of  his  own  when  someone  else  comes  up  with  a  better 
one. 

Darryl  Zanuck  made  his  movie  debut  playing  an  Indian  maiden 
on  an  early  lot  at  $i  a  day.  That  was  just  eleven  years  after  his  birth 
on  Sept.  5,  1902  at  Wahoo,  Neb.  (pop.  3,300).  Worried  about  his 
health,  his  Methodist  parents— Frank  Zanuck,  an  Iowa-born  hotel 
clerk  of  Swiss  parentage,  and  Louise  Torpin  Zanuck,  a  Nebraskan  of 
English  stock—moved  to  Los  Angeles  when  Darryl  was  six.  His 
mother  cut  his  early  movie  career  short  as  soon  as  she  caught  sight 
of  him  in  an  Indian  costume.  Not  long  after  their  arrival  in  Cali 
fornia,  his  parents  were  divorced.  When  his  mother  remarried  un 
happily,  Darryl  began  spending  his  summers  back  in  Nebraska  with 
her  father,  Henry  Torpin,  a  well-to-do  grain  processor  and  land- 


A  Nebraska  Reader  375 

owner  who  could  spin  eye-witness  tall  tales  about  an  Indian  massa 
cre.  In  letters  to  his  grandfather,  the  scrawny  boy  soon  outdid  the 
old  man's  stories  with  lurid  imaginings  of  what  might  be  seen  from 
his  train  window. 

Not  quite  fifteen,  Darryl  enlisted  in  the  Nebraska  National  Guard 
after  taking  the  braces  off  his  teeth  so  that  he  could  lie  more  con 
vincingly  about  his  age.  He  spent  almost  two  years  in  service,  on  the 
Mexican  border  and  in  France,  dispatching  more  letters  *  to  his 
grandfather.  A  veteran  at  17,  he  lost  patience  with  school  and  deter 
mined  to  be  a  writer,  like  O.  Henry.  Meanwhile,  he  sold  shirts  and 
newspaper  subscriptions,  worked  as  a  rivet  catcher  in  the  shipyards 
and  a  poster  tinter  in  a  theatre  lobby.  Writing  furiously,  he  sold  a 
story  called  Mad  Desire  to  Physical  Culture. 

At  20  (and  looking  younger),  unrestrainedly  ambitious  and  in 
sufferably  cocksure,  Zanuck  set  out  to  conquer  Hollywood.  He 
quickly  became  the  nuisance  of  the  Los  Angeles  Athletic  Club,  which 
was  then  home  to  such  important  personages  as  Charlie  Chaplin, 
Mack  Sennett  and  Fatty  Arbuckle.  Two  of  the  club  members, 
William  Russell  and  Raymond  Griffith,  who  were  big  stars  of  the 
day,  treated  Zanuck  tolerantly.  Thanks  to  a  tip  from  Russell  he 
made  his  first  movie  sale— to  Universal  for  $525.  He  flourished 
briefly  at  selling  his  stories  to  the  films  until  in  1923  the  studios 
suddenly  decided  to  buy  only  from  writers  with  literary  reputations. 
Getting  nowhere,  he  turned  for  advice  to  Griffith,  who  casually 
counseled:  "Do  a  book." 

Zanuck  did.  In  his  first  real  stroke  of  Hollywood  genius,  he  per 
suaded  the  manufacturer  of  a  hair  tonic  called  Yuccatone  to  pay  for 
the  job-printing  of  a  volume  called  Habit,  which  is  now  a  collector's 
item.  Zanuck  sent  engraved  cards  to  the  studios  announcing  the 
publication  of  his  "novel."  Actually,  Habit  consisted  of  three  of  his 
rejected  scenarios  in  narrative  form,  plus  an  elaborately  disguised 
loo-page  testimonial  to  Yuccatone. 

*  "The  war  started  him  off  as  a  writer,  although  Zanuck  didn't  realize  it  at  the 
time  AH  he  thought  he  was  doing  was  giving  the  home  folks  bade  in  Wahoo, 
Nebraska,  a  thrill  by  writing  them  letters  which  were  full  of  the  pity  and  terror 
and  glory  of  war,  even  though  Zanuck  had  to  invent  most  of  it.  These  letters 

were  printed  in  the  local  paper On  his  return  he  was  met  by  his  admiring 

public  and  also  by  one  of  his  schoolteachers,  who  dampened  the  reception  by 
inquiring  icily  when  he  was  coming  back  to  finish  his  schoolwork.  There  and 
then  he  announced  that  he  was  through  with  school  and  sick  of  people  kicking 
him  around  because  he  looked  too  young.  He'd  show  'em,  he  wouldl  So  he 
headed  for  Hollywood.  .  .  ."  J.  P.  McEvoy,  "He's  Got  Something,"  Saturday 
Evening  Port,  July  i,  1939. 


376  ROUNDUP: 

Ever  since  Habit,  there's  been  no  stopping  Zanuck.  Though  the 
long  Yuccatone  blurb  somehow  defied  efforts  to  put  it  on  the  screen, 
the  other  three  pieces  were  eventually  filmed.  He  also  used  the  book 
to  impress  petite  Virginia  Fox,  an  actress  he  met  at  about  that  time 
on  a  blind  date.  He  sent  her  a  copy  the  next  day,  followed  it  up  daily 
for  six  months  with  flowers  until  she  consented  to  marry  him. 
Hollywood,  pro-  and  anti-Zanuck,  knows  Virginia  Zanuck  today  as 
an  unusually  gracious  woman  without  airs,  who  has  a  strong  influ 
ence  for  the  best  on  her  husband. 

In  1924,  Zanuck  settled  at  Warners'  as  a  writer  assigned  to  Rin- 
Tin-Tin,  the  dog  star.  "He  was  the  most  brilliant  bloody  animal 
that  ever  lived,"  says  Zanuck,  who  managed  nevertheless  to  keep  a 
jump  ahead  of  the  beast.  Zanuck  graduated  finally  to  pictures  with 
human  stars,  piled  up  19  screen  credits  in  one  year  until  exhibitors 
protested  that  the  Warners  were  charging  too  much  for  their  movies 
when  they  had  only  one  writer— "this  Zanuck"—  on  their  payroll. 

One  night  in  1927  the  Warners  summoned  him.  Starting  the  next 
day,  they  told  him,  he  would  be  the  studio's  executive  producer,  with 
a  salary  jump  from  $125  to  $5,000  a  week.  Zanuck  pampered  his 
mustache,  put  more  bite  into  his  voice,  began  turning  out  flamboy 
ant,  exciting  pictures  at  low  cost.  He  had  stuttered  for  years,  but  by 
1930,  as  he  grew  into  confident  authority,  the  stutter  disappeared. 

Zanuck  broke  with  the  Warners  three  years  later.  He  had  com 
mitted  the  studio  to  restoring,  by  a  certain  date,  a  50%  industrywide 
pay  cut.  When  the  time  came,  Harry  Warner  insisted  that  he  would 
not  resume  the  full  pay  scale  until  a  week  later.  Though  his  con 
tract  still  had  five  years  to  run,  Zanuck  quit  rather  than  to  go  back  on 
his  word.  For  advice  on  his  next  move,  he  went  to  canny  Joseph  M. 
Schenck,  an  industry  pioneer  and  boss  of  United  Artists.  Before  he 
left  Schenck's  apartment,  they  had  written  out  a  longhand  contract 
to  form  soth  Century.  In  18  months  Zanuck  made  18  pictures— 17 
of  them  successes.  The  bustling  little  company  developed  an  earning 
power  roughly  equal  to  that  of  the  huge  Fox  Film  Corp.,  whose 
assets  were  nine  times  as  large.  While  Zanuck  hunted  bear  in  Alaska, 
Joe  Schenck  bagged  a  prize  at  home:  a  merger  creating  20 th  Century- 
Fox. 

World  War  II  matured  Zanuck,  both  as  a  man  and  moviemaker, 
sent  him  back  to  the  studio  bursting  to  produce  films  of  "real  sig 
nificance."  As  a  lieutenant  colonel  in  die  Signal  Corps,  making 
training  and  combat  documentary  movies,  he  chafed  under  dis 
cipline  and  hostility,  has  since  decided  that  "It  was  a  great  thing 


A  Nebraska  Reader 

to  get  a  kick  in  the  pants  at  that  stage  of  your  career."  The  kick 
was  sometimes  well  deserved,  notably  when  he  let  himself  be  photo 
graphed  in  attitudes  of  bravery  under  fire  in  his  Technicolor  docu 
mentary  of  U.S.  landings  in  North  Africa.  After  service  for  which 
he  won  the  Legion  of  Merit,  he  tore  into  his  studio  job  again. 

Zanuck  begins  a  chain-smoking  day  with  one  of  his  eight-inch 
cigars—the  first  of  20— and  a  phone  call  on  his  private  wire  to  the 
studio  to  find  out  how  movies— his  own  and  competitors'— are  gross 
ing  around  the  country.  After  a  shave  by  Sam  ("The  Barber*7) 
Silver,  who  comes  out  from  the  studio,  Zanuck  drives  his  green 
Cadillac  ten  miles  to  the  lot,  attacks  production  schedules,  mail, 
memos  and  telegrams  until  i  P.M.  By  3:30  or  4  P.M.,  he  darts  to  his 
projection  room  to  look  at  rushes,  wardrobe  and  make-up  tests. 
By  4:30  he  calls  up  his  children— Richard  Darryl,  15,  Susan  Marie, 
16,  and  Mrs.  Marrilyn  Zanuck  Jacks-for  a  fatherly  chat.  At  6  P.M., 
after  a  rubdown  from  the  studio  masseur,  he  takes  a  nap  in  a  sound 
proof  chamber  off  his  office.  Awakened  at  8,  he  dines  at  the  studio, 
sometimes  with  Mrs.  Zanuck  or  his  French  tutor  (he  has  been 
studying  French  on  the  run  ever  since  he  was  awarded  the  French 
Legion  of  Honor  in  1936),  sometimes  alone,  staring  grimly  at  a 
television  set.  At  9,  he  is  looking  at  more  rushes  or  rough-cut  com 
plete  films.  Then  he  gives  instructions  to  cutters,  producers  and 
directors  who  join  him  in  relays  into  the  night.  He  sees  everything 
that  is  put  on  film  at  the  studio,  and  the  whole  output  of  every 
major  competitor.  His  working  day  ends  sometime  between  2  and 

4A.M. 

Zanuck  breaks  up  this  grueling  routine  with  three-day  weekends, 
occasional  flights  in  season  to  Sun  Valley,  where  he  skis  expertly,  and 
four-week  vacations  on  the  Riviera.  Except  during  the  summer,  he 
weekends  at  his  Palm  Springs  estate,  where  the  Zanucks  usually 
entertain  12  to  16  guests.  Zanuck  runs  the  weekend  party  with  the 
same  steely  control  he  uses  at  the  studio.  He  refuses  to  play  any 
game  at  which  he  does  not  excel.  Since  being  introduced  to  croquet, 
he  has  made  it  a  cult,  has  turned  his  lawn  into  one  of  the  world's 
best-kept  croquet  courts,  complete  with  floodlights. 

Insured  by  soth  Century-Fox  for  $900,000  (all  it  could  get), 
Zanuck  in  1949  signed  Hollywood's  longest-term  contract:  *  ten  years 
at  his  old  salary  of  $260,000  a  year.  As  the  largest  individual  stock- 

*  Early  in  1955,  Mr.  Zanuck  resigned  as  vice-president  in  charge  of  production 
in  order  to  produce  his  pictures  independently,  for  release  through  goth  Century- 
Fosu 


378  ROUNDUP 

holder,  he  has  100,000  shares  in  the  company,  plus  30,000  in  trust 
for  his  children  (total  current  value:  $2,616,250).  In  1949  his  income 
from  salary  and  dividends,  before  taxes,  came  to  $465,000.  After 
taxes,  it  did  not  meet  his  expenses.  Says  Zanuck:  "I  manage  only  by 
going  a  few  thousand  dollars  into  my  savings  each  year.  I  won't 
change  my  way  of  living  to  save  a  few  lousy  bucks.  I  have  a  philosophy 
about  it:  the  only  thing  you  get  out  of  life  is  living.  I'm  not  working 
as  hard  as  I  do  to  turn  around  and  deprive  myself."  But  for  zealous 
Moviemaker  Zanuck,  the  best  part  of  living  is  His  work:  "Actually, 
nothing  has  ever  given  me  the  genuine  satisfaction  of  taking  pic 
tures,  seeing  them  through  and  then  getting  wonderful  reviews.  I 
love  what  I'm  doing." 


Extracted  from  Time,  June  12,  1950.  ©  Time,  Inc.,  1950 


When  you  know  that  this  U.S.  Envoy  Extraordinary  and 
Minister  Plenipotentiary  was  Edgar  Howard's  son,  it  will 
not  surprise  you  that  he  was  a  diplomat  with  a  difference. 


"ElMinistro  Cowboy" 

JOHN  NEILL 

April,  1941,  Asuncion,  Paraguay 

FIndley  Howard  has  gone  home.  He  packed  his  trunks,  bade  fare 
well  to  a  host  of  friends,  and  departed  for  his  native  Columbus, 
Nebraska.  Paraguay  grieved  to  see  him  go. 

Findley  Howard  has  been,  for  the  last  five  years,  U.S.  Minister  to 
the  Republic  of  Paraguay.  A  widower,  he  made  the  Legation  a  single 
man's  paradise.  In  accord  with  tropical  custom,  the  Minister  frowned 
on  serious  drinking  before  noon,  and  during  the  morning  confined 
himself  to  a  pink  liquid  identified  by  some  visitors  as  pink  gin,  by 
others  as  Lavoris.  Whatever  it  was,  he  found  it  very  tonic  and 
restorative. 

In  food,  the  Minister  had  a  one-track  mind.  His  dish,  day  after 
day,  was  canned  tongue  imported  from  the  U.S.  Howard  employed 
a  good  cook  and  set  a  varied  table  for  guests.  As  for  himself,  he 
didn't  care  much  about  eating,  and  when  he  was  alone  it  seemed 
simplest  to  settle  on  tongue. 

It  gets  stemming  hot  in  Asuncion,  and  when  the  weather  became 
too  much  for  him,  Howard  was  wont  to  discard  clothing  as  a  needless 
bother.  Another  odd  habit  which  impressed  guests  was  his  morning 
game  of  solitaire.  After  breakfast  the  Minister  would  proceed  in  state 
to  the  Legation  bathroom  where  there  was  set  up  a  card  table  with 
a  deck  of  cards  and  a  glass  of  the  invariable  pink  liquid.  Here  the 
Minister  would  while  away  an  hour  before  undertaking  the  arduous 
duties  of  the  day. 

When  Howard,  the  son  of  a  Nebraska  newspaper  publisher,  first 
blew  into  town,  his  midwestern  breeziness  soon  had  the  Paraguayans 
holding  their  hats.  Some  dignified  citizens  were  jarred  by  his  habit  of 
strolling  into  the  pompous  Union  Club  and  dapping  them  on  the 
shoulder  with  a  genial  "Hi  ya,  Toots."  But  as  they  came  to  recognize 
his  keen  business  sense,  his  straight-shooting,  and  his  political  under- 

379 


380  ROUNDUP: 

standing,  they  decided  that  if  this  was  Yankee  style,  they  liked  it. 

What  really  won  the  Paraguayans  was  the  Minister's  fantastic 
personal  courage  during  a  Paraguayan  revolution.  As  the  story  is 
reported,  Howard  donned  his  white  linen  suit  and  sun  helmet  and 
insisted  on  going  himself  through  the  bullet-whistling  streets  to  the 
cable  office  to  report  to  Washington.  He  refused  to  let  any  married 
member  of  the  Embassy  staff  accompany  him,  saying  of  himself, 
"Hell,  as  far  as  my  kids  are  concerned,  with  insurance  I'm  worth 
more  dead  than  alive  anyway/'  He  added,  grinning:  "Mind  you, 
nobody  is  a  greater  coward  than  Findley  Howard;  but  nobody  is 
a  braver  man  than  the  U.S.  Minister."  He  strolled  down  the  main 
street  toward  a  spitting  machine  gun,  which  miraculously  missed 
him,  turned  it  to  one  side  with  his  walking  stick,  and  said:  "Sonny, 
you'll  hurt  somebody  with  that  thing,  and  wouldn't  it  be  embarrass 
ing  if  it  were  the  U.S.  Minister?" 

At  the  cable  office,  they  told  him  that  no  outgoing  cables  were 
permitted.  "I'm  the  U.S.  Minister,"  began  Howard,  sitting  down 
very  firmly,  "and  I'm  going  to  send  my  cable  to  Washington."  With 
repetition,  suasion,  threats,  and  general  carryings-on,  he  finally  tired 
them  out.  His  was  the  only  diplomatic  cable  accepted. 

One  great  success  was  his  annual  Fourth  of  July  party.  The  en 
tertainment  fund  of  such  a  ministerial  post  as  Asuncion  is  less  than 
1 1, ooo  a  year,  and  Howard  quickly  decided  that  was  just  enough 
for  one  good  party.  His  choice  of  July  Fourth  was  particularly  happy 
because  that  happens  to  be  a  great  holiday  in  Paraguay  too,  and 
many  of  his  guests  took  it  as  a  special  compliment  to  their  country. 

Howard  never  allowed  his  conviviality  to  interfere  with  his  work 
and  could  stick  to  iced  tea  when  he  had  to.  Many  officials,  further 
more,  found  that  a  few  Scotch-and-sodas  with  Howard  at  the  Union 
Club  had  more  effect  on  their  tongues  than  on  Howard's  ears.  "I 
often  thought,"  mused  one  of  them,  "that  he  sometimes  pretended 
a  mellowness  which  had  no  basis  in  fact." 

Howard  was  a  close  friend  of  Colonel  Jose  Felix  Estigarribia,  the 
hero  of  the  Chaco  War  who  became  Paraguay's  great  president. 
Those  in  the  know  feel  that  the  Chaco  Peace  Conference,  which  the 
U.S.  and  five  other  nations  sponsored  at  Buenos  Aires,  would  never 
have  been  such  a  success  had  it  not  been  for  the  work  Howard  did 
behind  the  scenes.  The  Paraguayans,  cocky  at  military  successes, 
reputedly  would  not  accept  the  very  generous  offer  of  the  arbitra 
tion  commission  until  Howard  got  Estigarribia's  ear.  Estigarribia, 
rushing  to  Buenos  Aires  and  replacing  a  negotiator  by  himself, 


A  Nebraska  Header  381 

forced  the  settlement.  Later  Howard  played  the  major  role  in  getting 
from  the  U.S.  unlimited  credit  for  Paraguay  that  helped  cushion  the 
shock  of  post-Chaco  War  demobilization. 

His  influence  was  reputedly  resented  by  the  German  Embassy,  so 
strongly  indeed  that  Estigarribia  got  the  notion  (probably  quite 
unfounded)  that  the  Germans  were  "out  to  get"  Howard,  Estigar 
ribia  passed  the  word  that  if  Howard  had  an  "accident,"  200  Ger 
mans  would  have  similar  ones. 

Paraguay  had  a  change  of  government  seven  months  ago,  and  the 
new  crowd,  which  does  not  have  the  same  dislike  for  the  Germans 
that  Estigarribia  had,  showed  antagonism  toward  Howard.  Probably 
this  had  something  to  do  with  his  leaving  Paraguay.  If  he  was  sorry 
to  go,  he  was  nevertheless  glad  of  the  prospect  of  getting  back  with 
his  two  children,  a  boy  17  years  old  and  a  girl  13,  who  have  been 
staying  with  an  aunt  in  Columbus.  Howard  lives  for  these  kids, 
whose  mother  died  when  they  were  small  children,  and  does  every 
thing  for  them  so  that,  as  he  gruffly  states,  they  will  be  better  per 
sons  than  he  is. 

There  are  many  hundreds  of  Paraguayans  of  every  class,  from 
cabinet  ministers  down,  who  sincerely  miss  "El  Ministro  Cowboy." 
Said  one:  "He  was  an  odd  man,  but  we  accepted  him  as  he  was  and 
grew  to  love  him.  And  Paraguay  owes  more  to  him  than  Paraguay 
could  ever  with  dignity  admit" 


Extracted  from  "A  Nebraska  Diplomat  in  Paraguay/'  Life,  April  14,  194*  • 
©  Time,  Inc.,  1941 


"First  things  come  first/'  Mart  Sandoz  told  the  New  York 
firemen  who  recently  found  her  guarding  a  large  wooden 
box  on  the  fire  escape  of  her  walk-up  flat  in  Greenwich 
Village.  She  had  managed  to  get  her  hoard  of  more  than 
2,00,000  index  cards  to  the  escape,  determined  to  save 
them  at  all  cost.  The  firemen  soon  extinguished  the  blaze 
and  carried  the  box  back  for  the  intrepid  author  to  re 
sume  her  writing  on  the  fifth  of  her  series  on  the  high 
plains—the  story  of  the  cattle  industry. 

—The  Brand  Book,  Fall,  1956 


Mari  Sandoz 


MAMIE  J.  MEREDITH 

ONE  DAY  in  1933  Mari  Sandoz  received  a  letter  from  Little,  Brown 
and  Company,  the  publishers  to  whom  she  had  submitted  a  book 
called  Old  Jules,  the  story  of  her  father's  life.  For  five  years  she  had 
devoted  every  available  moment  to  the  book— three  years  of  research 
in  old  newspaper  files  and  courthouse  records  and  in  the  four  thou 
sand  letters  and  papers  in  her  father's  boxes;  then  two  years  for  the 
writing.  She  had  entered  the  book  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  $5,000 
prize  non-fiction  contest,  and  now,  after  eight  months  of  waiting, 
the  news  came  that  her  manuscript  had  been  rejected. 

Mari  wrote  back  a  letter  predicting  that  her  book  would  be  re 
membered  after  the  judges  of  the  contest  were  dead  and  forgotten. 
Then  she  began  carrying  out  the  stories  that  she  had  been  writing, 
rewriting,  and  sending  to  editors  during  the  dozen  years  she  had 
lived  in  Lincoln.  There  were  eighty-five  of  them,  and  she  watched 
them  burn  in  an  old  galvanized  iron  washtub  behind  the  apartment 
house.  A  few  friends,  watching  with  her,  protested.  But  Mari  said, 
"They  were  not  good  enough."  Her  face  pinched  and  greenish-yellow 
from  one  of  her  frequent  migraines,  she  got  together  her  few  be 
longings  for  the  trip  back  home  to  the  sandhills— to  the  ranch  which 
she  had  left  twelve  years  before  for  Lincoln,  the  state  university, 
and  a  career  in  writing. 

The  eldest  of  six  children,  Mari  had  been  born  and  reared  on  a 
homestead  in  Sheridan  County,  in  northwestern  Nebraska  near  the 
Niobrara.  Her  parents  were  Swiss  immigrants,  and  when  she  started 

382 


A  Nebraska  Reader  383 

to  school  at  the  age  of  nine,  she  spoke  only  a  few  words  of  English— 
"with  an  equal  smattering  of  Polish  and  French  mixed  into  my 
mother  tongue,  Swiss  German."  In  all,  she  went  to  school  less  than 
five  years:  "I  went .  . .  when  I  could,  but  with  father  being  crippled, 
a  community  builder,  and  a  conversationalist,  mother  had  to  do 
much  of  the  outside  work  and  I  looked  after  the  younger  children. 
I  also  learned  to  run  father's  trap  line  when  necessary  and  to  skin 
anything  from  a  weasel  to  a  cow." 

At  sixteen  she  passed  the  examinations  for  rural  teachers,  and 
taught  for  five  years  in  the  sod-house  school  in  which  she  had  been  a 
pupil.  Then,  in  1921,  when  she  was  twenty-one,  she  had  entered  the 
University  of  Nebraska  as  an  "adult  special,"  despite  considerable 
opposition  from  the  administrators  because  she  had  not  attended 
high  school.  For  the  next  eight  years  she  went  to  classes  part  time, 
meanwhile  supporting  herself  as  she  could—working  in  the  labora 
tory  of  a  wholesale  drug  house,  reading  proof  nights  on  a  newspaper, 
and  acting,  for  a  year  and  a  half,  as  assistant  to  an  English  instructor. 
Her  literary  ambitions  had  been  stimulated  and  encouraged  during 
these  years  by  her  friends  and  teachers  on  the  campus— in  particular 
by  Louise  Pound,  who  urged  her  to  write  of  the  sandhills  and  in 
her  personal  style,  by  John  Hicks,  with  his  luminous  understanding 
of  pioneer  life  in  America,  and  by  Melvin  Van  den  Bark,  who  could 
help  her  with  problems  of  technique. 

Some  recognition  had  come:  In  1924  Mari  had  won  an  honorable 
mention  in  an  intercollegiate  writing  contest  conducted  by  Harper's, 
and  her  work  had  appeared  in  a  few  national  and  regional  publica 
tions  including  the  Prairie  Schooner,  whose  first  issue— January, 
1927— had  opened  with  her  story  "The  Vine/'  *  Now,  however,  with 
the  rejection  of  her  book  by  the  Atlantic  judges,  she  expected  to 
give  up  writing  and  go  home.  Nebraska  was  hard  hit  by  the  depres 
sion;  Mari  did  not  see  how  she  could  hang  on  in  Lincoln  any  longer. 
At  least  at  the  ranch  there  would  be  food  and  shelter. 

On  her  return  to  the  sandhills,  she  was  pressed  into  the  fall  work 
of  the  ranch,  dehorning  and  vaccinating  steers,  holding  the  animal 
down  with  her  knee  on  his  back  while  she  pushed  the  needle  behind 
the  shoulder  blades.  No  one  there  had  any  thought  of  her  physical 
unfitness  after  those  years  of  sedentary  work  in  offices  and  libraries, 
much  of  the  time  with  not  enough  to  eat.  But  proper  food  and  out 
door  life  revived  her  desire  to  write.  Her  mother  gave  her  permission 

*  It  was  signed  with  the  pen  name  "Marie  Macumber." 


384  ROUNDUP: 

to  use  a  small  shack  near  the  house;  and  within  a  month  of  her  re 
turn,  with  a  Topsy  stove  for  heat,  she  set  about  writing  what  she 
described  as  "the  story  of  a  will-to-power  individual  turning  every 
honest,  good,  and  beautiful  thing  about  her  to  her  end." 

In  this  winter  of  1934,  she  also  wrote  "Pioneer  Women/'  a  paper 
commissioned  for  a  paltry  sum  by  a  woman's  club  in  eastern  Ne 
braska.  Two  years  later  a  reworking  of  this  article  appeared  in 
Country  Gentleman.*  Those  who  condemn  Mari  for  the  jaundiced 
view  of  pioneer  women  in  Slogum  House— the  novel  she  wrote  in  the 
winter  of  her  defeat— might  well  modify  their  judgment  after  reading 
this  piece.  The  "Marlizzie"  whom  it  sketches  was  drawn  from  life- 
was  in  fact  Mary  Elizabeth  Fehr  Sandoz,  Man's  mother.  Her  father, 
of  course,  lives  unforgettably  in  the  pages  of  Old  Jules— which  at 
last,  in  1935,  was  named  winner  of  the  Atlantic  prize. 

It  was  only  after  her  father's  death  that  Mari,  who  had  started  to 
write  when  she  was  nine,  finally  was  released  from  the  constraint 
placed  upon  her  by  his  pronouncements  when  she  was  a  child.  Fic 
tion,  he  said,  was  "fit  only  for  maids  and  stable  boys";  and  "writers 
and  artists  are  the  maggots  of  society."  Just  before  his  death  he  had 
asked  her  if  she  was  still  writing.  And  when  Mari  admitted  that  she 
was,  Old  Jules  said,  "Why  don't  you  write  the  story  of  my  life?"  So 
it  became  her  duty  as  well  as  her  desire  to  write  of  her  father  as  he 
had  been,  a  bundle  of  paradoxes  but  also  a  builder  of  communities 
and  "The  Burbank  of  the  Sandhills." 

The  winning  of  the  Atlantic  award  marked  a  turning  point:  it 
gave  Mari  leisure  to  write;  it  permitted  her  to  live  in  the  east  near 
research  libraries  and  in  closer  touch  with  her  publishers.  In  the 
twenty-odd  years  since,  honors  have  been  many:  in  1950,  her  alma 
mater  conferred  the  honorary  degree  of  Doctor  of  Literature,  and 
in  1954  she  received  the  first  Distinguished  Achievement  Award  of 
the  Native  Sons  and  Daughters  "for  her  sincere  and  realistic  presen 
tation  of  Nebraska  as  it  was." 

Not  unmindful  of  the  encouragement  given  her  in  difficult  times, 
for  several  years  Mari  has  awarded  three  cash  prizes  for  unpublished 
short  stories  to  University  of  Nebraska  students.  She  has  taught  at 
summer  writers'  conferences,  and  the  past  eight  years  has  conducted 
regular  courses  at  the  eight-week  session  of  the  University  of  Wis 
consin,  making  it  possible  when  she  can  for  her  students  to  continue 
their  work  by  means  of  fellowships. 

*  See  page  145 


A  Nebraska  Reader  385 

Man's  best-known  books,  in  addition  to  Old  Jules,  are  those  in  her 
series  dealing  with  the  trans-Missouri  region,  among  them  Crazy 
Horse,  Cheyenne  Autumn,  and  The  Buffalo  Hunters.  Crazy  Horse: 
The  Strange  Man  of  the  Oglalas,  second  in  the  trans-Missouri  series, 
appeared  in  1942.  This  Sioux  chief  was  perhaps  the  most  magnificent 
fighting  man  that  the  Indian  race  has  produced,  He  was  a  leader  dur 
ing  the  critical  period  (1855-75)  when  the  Plains  Indians  were  being 
deprived  of  their  homes,  subsistence,  and  freedom  and  forced  into 
living  on  reservations.  Man  had  known  and  liked  the  Sioux  since 
childhood,  and  in  this  book  she  modeled  her  style  upon  their  speech. 
Cheyenne  Autumn  (1950),  third  in  the  six-book  study,  is  the  epic 
account  of  how  a  band  of  278  half-starved  Northern  Cheyennes  fled 
from  the  Oklahoma  reservation  to  their  homeland  some  1,500  miles 
away.  Pursued  by  10,000  men  under  General  Custer  in  the  winter  of 
1878,  only  a  remnant  reached  their  home  on  the  Yellowstone,  The 
Buffalo  Hunters:  The  Story  of  the  Hide  Men  (1954)  shows  in  sweep 
ing  panorama  the  slaughter  of  four  great  herds  of  buffalo,  numbered 
in  the  millions,  in  about  fifteen  years  (1867-1883).  The  Indian  wars 
treated  in  the  two  preceding  books  are  seen  here  as  a  result  of  the 
extinction  of  the  buffalo— the  Indians7  source  of  food,  clothing,  and 
shelter.  Famous  frontier  characters  like  Buffalo  Bill  and  General 
Custer  appear  in  this  book,  and  Indian  leaders  like  Sitting  Bull  and 
Spotted  Tail. 

During  the  past  twenty  years  four  novels  have  alternated  with  the 
volumes  of  history,  and  they  too  deal  with  the  region  with  which  Mari 
is  emotionally  identified.  Slogum  House  already  has  been  mentioned. 
Capital  City,  "a  microcosmic  study  of  a  unit  of  modern  democratic 
society  selling  itself  into  fascism,"  evoked  angry  protests  from  dwellers 
in  capital  cities  of  Nebraska  and  surrounding  states,  but  Mari  an 
swered  that  in  studying  public  records  she  had  found  the  same  graft 
and  corruption  in  all.  The  Tom-Walker  was  written  from  a  four-year 
study  of  postwar  society  in  America  after  the  Civil  War  and  two 
World  Wars;  and  Miss  Morissa,  Doctor  of  the  Gold  Trail  is  a  novel 
of  the  changing  Nebraska  frontier  of  the  1870*5,  following  the  dis 
covery  of  gold  in  the  Black  Hills  and  the  breaking  of  the  Sioux. 

At  present  Mari  is  working  on  a  fifth  volume  in  the  trans-Missouri 
series,  the  story  of  the  cattle  industry.  An  "oil  book"  will  follow,  un 
dertaken  after  1960— "if  I'm  still  in  the  running."  After  that,  a  last 
book  is  planned— though  chronologically  it  is  the  first— to  complete 
the  account  of  how  man  "is  shaped  by  and  shapes  his  world":  the 
coming  to  this  region  of  the  Stone  Age  Indian. 


386  ROUNDUP 

Mari  does  not  know  just  when  she  thought  of  writing  this  series. 
Before  she  left  the  sandhills,  she  had  considered  the  question:  what 
happens  to  modern  man  in  a  stone  age  region?  In  a  personal  letter, 
written  in  1936,  she  said: 

I've  always  been  interested  in  man  and  his  way  of  life  upon  this  earth 
and  felt  a  strong  urge  to  clarify  my  conclusions  in  writing.  Early  I  saw 
that  Old  Jules  and  his  community  were  by  far  the  most  promising  material 
of  my  experience. 

And  looking  at  Mari's  work  as  a  whole,  one  can  see  that  she  has  re 
mained  true  to  her  purpose  of  revealing  universalities  in  the  lan 
guage  of  the  common  man. 


VIII.  Just  Passing  Through 


This  region,  which  resembles  one  of  th£ 
immeasorable  steppes  of  Aria,  has  not  in 
aptly  been  termed  tfae  great  American 
desert ...  It  is  a  toad  where  no  man  per 
manently  abides. 

— Washington  Irring,  Astoria 


No  early  visitor  surveyed  the  Nebraska  landscape  with 
a  keener  or  more  cosmopolitan  eye  than  Sir  Richard 
Burton.  An  orientalist  and  explorer,  he  is  best  remem 
bered  now  as  the  translator  of  the  "Arabian  Nights"  but 
in  the  2850'$  he  won  renown  for  his  African  explorations 
and  his  discovery,  with  Speke,  of  Lakes  Tanganyika  and 
Victoria  Nyanza.  As  a  sort  of  sequel  to  his  pilgrimage  to 
the  Holy  City  of  Mecca,  he  came  to  America  during  the 
summer  of  1860  to  visit  the  "City  of  the  Saints/'  and  en 
route  to  Great  Salt  Lake  passed  through  Nebraska. 


Nebraska  Panorama  (1860} 

SIR  RICHARD  BURTON 

The  Valley  of  the  Little  Blue,  gfh  August 

Issuing  from  the  Big  Sandy  Station  at  6:30  A.M.,  and  resuming 
our  route  over  the  divide  that  still  separated  the  valleys  of  the  Big 
Blue  and  the  Little  Blue,  we  presently  fell  into  the  lines  of  the  latter, 
and  were  called  upon  by  the  conductor  to  admire  it.  Averaging 
two  miles  in  width,  which  shrinks  to  one-quarter  as  you  ascend,  the 
valley  is  hedged  on  both  sides  by  low  rolling  bluffs.  As  the  hills 
break  off  near  the  river,  they  show  a  diluvial  formation;  in  places 
they  are  washed  into  a  variety  of  forms,  and  being  white,  they  stand 
out  in  bold  relief.  In  other  parts  they  are  sand  mixed  with  soil 
enough  to  support  a  last-year's  growth  of  wheat-like  grass,  weed 
stubble,  and  dead  trees  that  look  like  old  cornfields  in  new  clearings. 
One  could  not  have  recognised,  at  this  season,  Col.  Fremont's  de 
scription  written  in  the  month  of  June— the  "hills  with  graceful 
slopes  looking  uncommonly  green  and  beautiful."  Along  the  bluffs 
the  road  winds,  crossing  at  times  a  rough  projecting  spur,  or  dipping 
into  some  gully  washed  out  by  the  rains  of  ages.  All  is  barren  beyond 
the  garden-reach  which  runs  along  the  stream;  there  is  not  a  tree  to 
a  square  mile— in  these  regions  the  tree,  like  the  bird  in  Arabia  and 
the  monkey  in  Africa,  signifies  water— and  animal  life  seems  well- 
nigh  extinct.  As  the  land  sinks  towards  the  river  bottom,  it  becomes 
less  barren.  The  wild  sun-flower—it  seldom,  however,  turns  toward 
the  sun—now  becomes  abundant. 

389 


39°  ROUNDUP: 

Changing  mules  at  Kiowa,  about  10  A.M.,  we  pushed  forward 
through  the  sun  to  Liberty  Farm,  where  a  station  supplied  us  with 
the  eternal  eggs  and  bacon,  a  dish  constant  in  the  great  West.  The 
Little  Blue  ran  hard  by,  about  fifty  feet  wide  by  three  or  four  deep, 
fringed  with  emerald-green  oak  groves,  cottonwood,  and  long-leaved 
willow:  its  waters  supply  catfish,  suckers,  and  a  soft-shelled  turtle, 
but  the  fish  are  full  of  bones,  and  taste,  as  might  be  imagined,  like 
mud.  The  prairie  bore  signs  of  hare  and  antelope:  in  the  valley 
coyotes,  wolves,  and  foxes,  attracted  by  the  carcasses  of  cattle,  stared 
us  in  the  face,  and  near  the  stream,  plovers,  jays,  the  blue  bird,  and 
a  kind  of  starling  called  the  swamp  or  redwinged  blackbird  twittered 
a  song  of  satisfaction.  We  then  resumed  our  journey  over  a  desert, 
waterless  save  after  rain,  for  twenty-three  miles;  it  is  the  divide 
between  the  Little  Blue  and  the  Platte  rivers,  a  broken  tableland 
rising  gradually  towards  the  west,  with,  at  this  season,  a  barren  soil 
of  sand  and  clay.  As  the  evening  approached,  a  smile  from  above  lit 
up  into  absolute  beauty  the  homely  features  of  the  world  below. 
Strata  upon  strata  of  cloud-banks,  burnished  to  golden  red  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  setting  sun,  and  polished  to  dazzling  silvery  white 
above,  lay  piled  half  way  from  the  horizon  to  the  zenith,  with  a 
distinct  strike  towards  a  vanishing  point  in  the  west,  and  dipping 
into  a  gateway  through  which  the  orb  of  day  slowly  retired.  Over 
head  floated  in  a  sea  of  amber  and  yellow,  pink  and  green,  heavy 
purple  nimbi,  apparently  turned  upside  down— their  convex  bulges 
below,  and  their  horizontal  lines  high  in  the  air— whilst,  in  the  east, 
black  and  blue  were  so  curiously  blended  that  the  eye  could  not 
distinguish  whether  it  rested  upon  darkening  air  or  upon  a  lowering 
thundercloud.  We  enjoyed  these  beauties  in  silence,  not  a  soul  said 
"look  there!"  or  "how  pretty!" 

The  Platte  River  and  Fort  Kearny,  August  10. 

After  a  long  and  chilly  night— extensive  evaporation  making 
40  °F.  feel  excessively  cold— lengthened  by  the  atrocity  of  the  mos 
quitoes,  we  awoke  upon  the  hill  sands  divided  by  two  miles  of  level 
green  savannah,  and  at  4  A.M.  reached  Kearny  station,  in  the  valley 
of  La  Grande  Platte,  seven  miles  from  the  fort  of  that  name.  The 
first  aspect  of  the  stream  was  one  of  calm  and  quiet  beauty,  which, 
however,  it  owed  much  to  its  accessories:  some  travellers  have  not 
hesitated  to  characterise  it  as  "the  dreariest  of  rivers."  On  the  south 
is  a  rolling  range  of  red  sandy  and  clayey  hillocks,  sharp  towards 


A  Nebraska  Reader  391 

the  river— the  "coasts  of  the  Nebraska."  The  valley,  here  two  miles 
broad,  resembles  the  ocean  deltas  o£  great  streams;  it  is  level  as  a 
carpet,  all  short  green  grass  without  sage  or  bush.  It  can  hardly  be 
called  a  bottom,  the  rise  from  the  water's  edge  being,  it  is  calculated, 
about  4  feet  per  1,000.  Under  a  bank,  from  half  a  yard  to  a  yard 
high,  through  its  two  lawns  of  verdure,  flowed  the  stream  straight 
towards  the  slanting  rays  of  the  rising  sun,  which  glittered  upon  its 
broad  bosom  and  shed  rosy  light  over  half  the  heavens.  In  places  it 
shows  a  sea  horizon,  but  here  it  was  narrowed  by  Grand  Island, 
which  is  fifty-two  miles  long,  with  an  average  breadth  of  one  mile 
and  three-quarters,  and  sufficiently  elevated  above  the  annual  flood 
to  be  well  timbered. 

Without  excepting  even  the  Missouri,  the  Platte  is  doubtless  the 
most  important  western  influent  of  the  Mississippi.  The  Canadian 
voyageurs  first  named  it  La  Platte,  the  Flat  River,  discarding,  or 
rather  translating  after  their  fashion,  the  musical  and  picturesque 
aboriginal  term,  "Nebraska,"  the  "shallow  stream":  the  word  has 
happily  been  retained  for  the  territory.  Springing  from  the  eastern 
slope  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  it  has,  like  all  the  valley  streams  west 
ward  of  the  Mississippi,  the  Niobrara,  or  Eau  qui  court,  the  Arkan 
sas,  and  the  Canadian  River,  a  declination  to  the  southeast.  From  its 
mouth  to  the  junction  of  its  northern  and  southern  forks,  the  river 
valley  is  mostly  level,  and  the  scenery  is  of  remarkable  sameness:  its 
singularity  in  this  point  affects  the  memory.  The  Platte  is  treacherous 
in  the  extreme,  full  of  quicksands  and  gravel  shoals,  channels  and 
cuts,  which  shift  with  each  year's  flood.  It  is  a  river  wilfully  wasted 
by  nature:  its  great  breadth  causes  a  want  of  depth  which  renders  it 
unfit  for  the  navigation  of  a  craft  more  civilised  than  the  Indian's 
birch  or  the  Canadian  fur-boat. 

Hugging  the  right  bank  of  our  strange  river,  at  8  A.M.  we  found 
ourselves  at  Fort  Kearny.  We  left  Kearny  at  9:30  A.M.,  following 
the  road  which  runs  forty  miles  up  the  valley  of  the  Platte.  It  is  a 
broad  prairie,  plentifully  supplied  with  water  in  wells  two  to  four 
feet  deep;  the  fluid  is  cool  and  dear,  but  it  is  said  not  to  be  whole 
some.  Along  the  southern  bank  near  Kearny  are  few  elevations; 
on  the  opposite  or  northern  side  appear  high  and  wooded  bluffs.  The 
road  was  rough  with  pitchholes,  and  for  the  first  time  I  remarked 
a  peculiar  gap  in  the  ground  like  an  East  Indian  sun-crack,  the 
effect  of  rain  streams  and  snow  water  acting  upon  the  clay.  Each 
succeeding  winter  lengthens  the  head  and  deepens  the  sole  of  this 
deeply  gashed  water-cut,  till  it  destroys  the  road.  A  curious  mirage 


392  ROUNDUP: 

appeared,  doubling  to  four  the  strata  of  river  and  vegetation  on 
the  banks.  The  sight  and  song  of  birds  once  more  charmed  us  after 
a  desert  where  animal  life  is  as  rare  as  upon  the  plains  of  Brazil. 
After  fifteen  miles  of  tossing  and  tumbling,  we  made  "Seventeen 
Mile  Station"  and  halted  there  to  change  mules.  About  twenty  miles 
above  the  fort  the  southern  bank  began  to  rise  into  mounds  of 
tenacious  clay,  which,  worn  away  into  perpendicular  and  precipi 
tous  sections,  composes  the  columnar  formation  called  OTallon's 
Bluffs,  At  1:15  P.M.  we  reached  Plum  Creek,  after  being  obliged  to 
leave  behind  one  of  the  conductors,  who  had  become  delirious  with 
the  "shakes." 

About  Plum  Ranch  the  soil  is  rich,  clayey,  and  dotted  with 
swamps  and  "slews"  by  which  the  English  traveller  will  under 
stand  sloughs.  The  drier  portions  were  a  Gulistan  of  bright  red, 
blue,  and  white  flowers,  the  purple  aster,  and  the  mallow,  with  its 
parsnip-like  root,  eaten  by  the  Indians,  the  gaudy  yellow  helian- 
thus— we  remarked  at  least  three  varieties—the  snowy  mimulus,  the 
graceful  flax,  sometimes  four  feet  high,  and  a  delicate  little  euphor 
bia,  whilst  in  the  damper  ground  appeared  the  polar  plant,  that 
prairie  compass,  the  plane  of  whose  leaf  ever  turns  towards  the  mag 
netic  meridian.  This  is  the  "weed-prairie/'  one  of  the  many  divisions 
of  the  great  natural  meadows;  grass  prairie,  rolling  prairie,  motte 
prairie,  salt  prairie,  and  soda  prairie.  It  deserves  a  more  poetical 
name,  for 

These  are  the  gardens  of  the  desert,  these 
The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name. 

Buffalo  herds  were  behind  the  hills,  but  we  were  too  full  of  sleep 
to  follow  them.  The  plain  was  dotted  with  blanched  skulls  and 
bones  which  would  have  made  a  splendid  bonfire.  Apparently  the 
expert  voyageur  has  not  learned  that  they  form  good  fuel;  at  any 
rate,  he  has  preferred  to  them  the  "chips"  of  which  it  is  said  that  a 
steak  cooked  with  them  requires  no  pepper. 

1 2th  August.— -We  cross  the  Platte. 

Boreal  aurora  glared  brighter  than  a  sunset  in  Syria.  The  long 
streamers  were  intercepted  and  mysteriously  confused  by  a  massive 
stratum  of  dark  cloud,  through  whose  narrow  rifts  and  jagged  chinks 
the  splendours  poured  in  floods  of  magic  fire.  Near  the  horizon  the 


A  Nebraska  Reader  393 

tint  was  an  opalline  white— a  broad  band  of  calm  steady  light— sup 
porting  a  tender  rose  colour,  which  flushed  to  crimson  as  it  scaled 
the  upper  firmament.  The  mobility  of  the  spectacle  was  its  chiefest 
charm.  The  streamers  either  shot  out  or  shrank  from  full  to  half- 
length;  now  they  stood  like  a  red  arch  with  steadfast  legs  and  oscil 
lating  summit,  then,  broadening  at  the  apex,  they  apparently  re 
volved  with  immense  rapidity;  at  times  the  stars  shone  undimmed 
through  the  veil  of  light,  then  they  were  immersed  in  its  exceeding 
brilliancy.  After  a  full  hour  of  changeful  beauty,  the  northern  lights 
slowly  faded  away  with  a  blush  which  made  the  sunrise  look  colder 
than  its  wont.  It  is  no  wonder  that  the  imaginative  Indian,  looking 
with  love  upon  these  beauties,  connects  them  with  the  ghosts  of  his 
ancestors. 

At  the  Upper  Crossing  of  the  South  Fork  there  are  usually  tender 
adieux;  the  wenders  towards  Monnonland  bidding  farewell  to  those 
bound  for  the  perilous  gold  regions  of  Denver  City  and  Pike's  Peak. 
We  crossed  the  "Padouca"  at  6:30  A.M.,  having  placed  our  luggage 
and  the  mails  for  security  in  an  ox  cart.  The  South  Fork  is  here  600 
to  700  yards  broad;  the  current  is  swift,  but  the  deepest  water  not 
exceeding  2.50  feet,  the  teams  are  not  compelled  to  cross  diagonally. 

We  had  now  entered  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  American  wilder 
ness,  which  has  not  one  feature  in  common  with  the  deserts  of  the 
Old  World.  In  Arabia  and  Africa  there  is  majesty  in  its  monotony. 
Here  it  is  a  brown  smooth  space,  insensibly  curving  out  of  sight, 
wholly  wanting  "second  distance,"  and  scarcely  suggesting  the  idea 
of  immensity;  we  seem  in  fact  to  be  travelling  for  twenty  miles  over 
a  convex,  treeless  hill- top.  At  12:45  P.M.,  travelling  over  the  uneven 
barren,  and  in  a  burning  Scirocco,  we  reached  Lodge-Pole  Station, 
where  we  made  our  "noonin." 

As  we  advanced,  the  horizon,  everywhere  within  musket-shot— a 
wearying  sight!— widened  out,  and  the  face  of  the  country  notably 
changed.  A  scrap  of  blue  distance  and  high  hills— the  "Court-house" 
and  others— appeared  to  the  northwest.  The  long,  curved  lines,  the 
gentle  slopes  and  the  broad  hollows  of  the  divide  facing  the  South 
Fork  changed  into  an  abrupt  and  precipitous  descent,  "gullied"  like 
the  broken  ground  of  subranges  attached  to  a  mountain  chain.  Deep 
ravines  were  parted  by  long  narrow  ridges,  sharp-crested  and  water- 
washed,  and,  after  passing  Lodge-pole  Creek,  which  bears  away  to 
the  west,  the  rocky  steps  required  the  perpetual  application  of  the 
break.  Presently  we  saw  a  dwarf  cliff  enclosing  in  an  elliptical  sweep 
a  green  amphitheatre,  the  valley  of  our  old  friend  the  Platte. 


394  ROUNDUP: 

Past  the  Court  House  and  Scott's  Bluffs,  August  ijth 

At  8  A.M.,  after  breaking  our  fast  upon  a  tough  antelope-steak, 
and  dawdling  whilst  the  herdsman  was  riding  wildly  about  in  search 
of  his  runaway  mules— an  operation  now  to  become  of  daily  occur 
rence—we  dashed  over  the  Sandy  Creek  with  an  elan  calculated  to 
make  timid  passengers  look  "skeery,"  and  began  to  finish  the  rolling 
divide  between  the  two  Forks.  We  crossed  several  arroyos  and  "criks" 
heading  in  the  line  of  clay  highlands  to  our  left,  a  dwarf  sierra 
which  stretches  from  the  northern  to  the  southern  branch  of  the 
Platte.  The  principal  are  Omaha  Creek,  more  generally  known  as 
"Little  Punkin,"  and  Lawrence  Fork.  The  latter  is  a  pretty  bubbling 
stream,  running  over  sand  and  stones  washed  down  from  the  Court 
house  Ridge;  it  derives  its  name  from  a  Frenchman  slaughtered  by 
the  Indians,  murder  here,  as  in  Central  Africa,  ever  the  principal 
source  of  nomenclature. 

After  twelve  miles'  drive  we  fronted  the  Court-house,  the  remark 
able  portal  of  a  new  region,  and  this  new  region  teeming  with  won 
ders  will  now  extend  about  100  miles.  It  is  the  mauvaises  terres,  or 
Bad  lands,  a  tract  about  60  miles  wide  and  150  long,  stretching  in 
a  direction  from  the  northeast  to  the  southwest,  or  from  the  Man- 
kizitah  (White  Earth)  River,  over  the  Niobrara  (Eau  qui  court) 
and  Loup  Fork  to  the  south  banks  of  the  Platte:  its  eastern  limit  is 
the  mouth  of  the  Keya  Paha.  The  term  is  generally  applied  by  the 
trader  to  any  section  of  the  prairie  country  where  the  roads  are  dif 
ficult,  and  by  dint  of  an  ill  name  the  Bad  lands  have  come  to  be 
spoken  of  as  a  Golgotha,  white  with  the  bones  of  man  and  beast. 
American  travellers,  on  the  contrary,  declare  that  near  parts  of  the 
White  River  "some  as  beautiful  valleys  are  to  be  found  as  anywhere 
in  the  far  West,"  and  that  many  places  "abound  in  the  most  lovely 
and  varied  forms  in  endless  variety,  giving  the  most  striking  and 
pleasing  effects  of  light  and  shade." 

The  Court-house,  which  had  lately  suffered  from  heavy  rain,  re 
sembled  anything  more  than  a  court-house;  that  it  did  so  in  former 
days  we  may  gather  from  the  tales  of  many  travellers,  old  Canadian 
voyageurs,  who  unanimously  accounted  it  a  fit  place  for  Indian 
spooks,  ghosts,  and  hobgoblins  to  meet  in  pow-wow.  The  Court 
house  lies  about  eight  miles  from  the  river,  and  three  from  the  road; 
in  circumference  it  may  be  a  half  a  mile,  and  in  height  300  feet;  it 
is,  however,  gradually  degrading,  and  the  rains  and  snows  of  not 
many  years  will  lay  it  level  with  the  ground.  In  books  it  is  described 


A  Nebraska  Reader  395 

as  resembling  a  gigantic  ruin,  with  a  huge  rotunda  in  front,  win 
dows  in  the  sides,  and  remains  of  roofs  and  stages  in  its  flanks:  verily 
potent  is  the  eye  of  imagination!  I  saw  it  when  set  off  by  weather 
to  advantage.  A  blazing  sun  rained  fire  upon  its  cream-coloured 
surface— at  n  A.M.  the  glass  showed  95°  in  die  wagon— and  it  stood 
boldly  out  against  a  purple-black  nimbus  which  overspread  the 
southern  skies,  growling  distant  thunders,  and  flashing  red  threads 
of  "chained  lightning." 

Shortly  after  "liquoring  up"  and  shaking  hands,  we  found  our 
selves  once  more  in  the  valley  of  the  Platte.  The  road,  as  usual, 
along  the  river-side  was  rough  and  broken,  and  puffs  of  Simoon 
raised  the  sand  and  dust  in  ponderous  clouds.  At  12:30  P.M.  we 
nooned  for  an  hour,  and  I  took  occasion  to  sketch  the  far-famed 
Chimney  Rock.  The  name  is  not,  as  is  that  of  the  Court-house,  a 
misnomer:  one  might  almost  expect  to  see  smoke  or  steam  jetting 
from  the  summit.  Like  most  of  these  queer  malformations,  it  was 
once  the  knuckle-end  of  the  main  chain  which  bounded  the  Platte 
Valley;  the  softer  adjacent  strata  of  marl  and  earthy  limestone  were 
disintegrated  by  wind  and  weather,  and  the  harder  material,  better 
resisting  the  action  of  air  and  water,  has  gradually  assumed  its  pres 
ent  form.  Chimney  Rock  lies  two  and  a  half  miles  from  the  south 
bank  of  the  Platte.  Viewed  from  the  southeast,  it  is  not  unlike  a 
giant  jackboot  based  upon  a  high  pyramidal  mound,  which,  dis 
posed  in  the  natural  slope,  rests  upon  the  plain.  The  neck  of  sand 
stone  connecting  it  with  the  adjacent  hills  has  been  distributed  by 
the  floods  around  the  base,  leaving  an  ever-widening  gap  between. 
This  "Pharos  of  the  prairie-sea"  towered  in  former  days  150  to  200 
feet  above  the  apex  of  its  foundation  and  was  a  landmark  visible 
for  40  to  50  miles:  it  is  now  barely  35  feet  in  height.  Around  the 
waist  of  the  base  runs  a  white  band  which  sets  off  its  height  and 
relieves  the  uniform  tint.  Again  the  weather  served  us:  nothing 
could  be  more  picturesque  than  this  lone  pillar  of  pale  rock  lying 
against  a  huge  black  cloud,  with  the  forked  lightning  playing  over 
its  devoted  head. 

After  a  frugal  dinner  of  biscuit  and  cheese,  we  remounted  and 
pursued  our  way  through  airy  fire,  which  presently  changed  from 
our  usual  pest— a  light  dust-laden  breeze— into  a  Punjaubian  dust- 
storm,  up  the  valley  of  the  Platte.  As  we  advanced,  the  storm  in 
creased  to  a  tornado  of  north  wind,  blinding  our  cattle  till  it  drove 
them  off  the  road.  The  gale  howled  through  the  pass  with  all  the 
violence  of  a  Khamsin,  and  it  was  followed  by  lightning  and  a  few 


396  ROUNDUP: 

heavy  drops  of  rain.  The  threatening  weather  caused  a  large  party 
of  emigrants  to  "fort  themselves"  in  a  corral  near  the  base  of  Scott's 
Bluffs. 

"Scott's  Bluffs,"  situated  285  miles  from  Fort  Kearny  and  51  from 
Fort  Laramie,  was  the  last  of  the  great  mark  formations  which  we 
saw  on  this  line,  and  was  of  all  by  far  the  most  curious.  In  the  dull 
uniformity  of  the  prairies  it  is  a  striking  and  attractive  object,  far 
excelling  the  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels  or  any  of  the  beauties  of 
romantic  Rhine.  From  a  distance  of  a  day's  march,  it  appears  in 
the  shape  of  a  large  blue  mound,  distinguished  only  by  its  dimen 
sions  from  the  detached  fragments  of  hill  around.  As  you  approach 
within  four  or  five  miles,  a  massive  medieval  city  gradually  defines 
itself,  clustering,  with  a  wonderful  fulness  of  detail,  around  a  colos 
sal  fortress,  and  crowned  with  a  royal  castle.  Buttress  and  barbican, 
bastion,  demilune  and  guardhouse,  tower,  turret,  and  donjon-keep, 
all  are  there,  and,  that  nothing  may  be  wanting  to  the  resemblance, 
the  dashing  rains  and  angry  winds  have  cut  the  old  line  of  road  at 
its  base  into  a  regular  moat  with  a  semicircular  sweep,  which  the 
mirage  fills  with  a  mimic  river.  At  a  nearer  aspect  again,  the  quaint 
illusion  vanishes:  the  lines  of  masonry  become  yellow  layers  of 
boulder  and  pebble  imbedded  in  a  mass  of  stiff,  tamped,  bald  marly 
clay;  the  curtains  and  angles  change  to  the  gashings  of  the  rains  of 
ages,  and  the  warriors  are  metamorphosed  into  dwarf  cedars  and 
dense  shrubs,  scattered  singly  over  the  surface.  Travellers  have  com 
pared  this  glory  of  the  mauvaises  terres  to  Gibraltar,  to  the  Capitol 
at  Washington,  to  Stirling  Castle.  I  could  think  of  nothing  in  its 
presence  but  the  Arabs'  "City  of  Brass,"  that  mysterious  abode  of 
bewitched  infidels,  which  often  appears  at  a  distance  to  the  way 
farer  toiling  under  the  burning  sun,  but  ever  eludes  his  nearer 
search. 

Scott's  Bluffs  derive  their  name  from  an  unfortunate  fur-trader 
there  put  on  shore  in  the  olden  time  by  his  boat's  crew,  who  had  a 
grudge  against  him:  the  wretch  in  mortal  sickness  crawled  up  the 
mound  to  die.  The  politer  guide-books  call  them  "Capitol  Hills": 
methinks  the  first  name,  with  its  dark  associations,  must  be  better 
pleasing  to  the  genius  loci.  They  are  divided  into  three  distinct 
masses.  The  largest,  which  may  be  800  feet  high,  is  on  the  right,  or 
nearest  the  river.  To  its  left  lies  an  outwork,  a  huge  detached 
cylinder  whose  capping  changes  aspect  from  every  direction;  and 
still  further  to  the  left  is  a  second  castle,  now  divided  from,  but  once 
connected  with,  the  others.  The  whole  affair  is  a  spur  springing  from 


A  Nebraska  Reader  397 

the  main  range,  and  closing  upon  the  Platte  so  as  to  leave  no  room 
for  a  road.  The  sharp,  sudden  torrents  which  pour  from  the  heights 
on  both  sides  and  the  draughty  winds— Scott's  Bluffs  are  the  per 
manent  headquarters  of  hurricanes— have  cut  up  the  ground  into 
a  labyrinth  of  jagged  gulches  steeply  walled  in. 

Presently  we  dashed  over  the  Little  Kiowa  Creek,  forded  the  Horse 
Creek,  and,  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  villainous  mosquitoes,  entered 
at  8:30  P.M.  the  station  in  which  we  were  to  pass  the  night  It  was 
tenanted  by  one  Reynal,  a  French  Creole,  a  companionable  man, 
but  an  extortionate:  he  charged  us  a  florin  for  every  "drink"  of  his 
well-watered  whiskey. 

Our  host,  M.  Reynal,  was  a  study.  The  western  man  has  been 
worked  by  climate  and  its  consequences,  by  the  huge  magnificence 
of  nature  and  the  violent  contrasts  of  scenery,  into  a  remarkable 
resemblance  to  the  wild  Indian.  He  hates  labour  as  the  dire  effect 
of  a  primaeval  curse;  "loaf"  he  must  and  will.  His  imagination  is 
inflamed  by  scenery  and  climate,  difficulty  and  danger;  he  is  as 
superstitious  as  an  old  man-o'-war's  man  of  the  olden  school;  and 
he  is  a  transcendental  liar,  like  his  prototype  the  aborigin,  who  in 
this  point  yields  nothing  to  the  African  negro.  I  have  been  gravely 
told  of  a  herd  of  bison  which  arrested  the  course  of  the  Platte  River, 
causing  its  wraters,  like  those  of  the  Red  Sea,  to  stand  up,  wall 
fashion,  whilst  the  animals  were  crossing.  In  this  age,  however,  the 
western  man  has  become  sensitive  to  the  operation  of  "smoking." 
A  popular  Joe  Miller  anent  him  is  this:— A  traveller,  informed  of 
what  he  might  educe  by  "querying,"  asked  an  old  mountaineer, 
who  shall  be  nameless,  what  difference  he  observed  in  the  country 
since  he  had  first  settled  in  it 

"Wai,  stranger,  not  much!"  was  the  reply;  "only  when  I  fust  come 
here,  that  'ere  mountain,"  pointing  to  the  tall  Uintah  range,  "was 
a  hole!" 


Condensed  from  The  City  of  the  Saints,  Longman,  Green, 
Longman,  and  Roberts,  1862 


Phileas  Fogg,  hero  of  Around  the  World  in  Eighty  Days, 
traveled  with  a  valet  to  help  ease  the  hardships  of  the 
journey,  but  even  so  his  train  trip  across  Nebraska  was 
not  without  its  inconveniences.  There  was,  -for  example, 
an  attack  by  a  hundred  Sioux  who  "jumped  upon  the 
steps  without  stopping  the  train"  and  had  to  be  fought 
off  until  the  train  reached  Fort  Kearney  station  and  sol 
diers  of  the  fort  were  "attracted  by  the  shots."  The  In 
dians  "had  not  expected  them''  and  fled,  "disappearing 
along  the  banks  of  the  Republican  River."  Unless  the  Re 
publican  was  running  some  seventy-five  miles  out  of  its 
course,  those  travelers  were  a  sharp-eyed  lot. 

Unfortunately,  the  redskins  had  managed  to  make  off 
with  some  of  the  passengers,  including  the  valet  Passe 
partout;  and  although  Mr.  Fogg  rescued  them  with  com 
mendable  alacrity,  on  his  return  to  Fort  Kearney  he  found 
the  train  had  gone  on.  Here  a  Mr.  Mudge— presumably 
a  local  man— takes  the  spotlight.  Nebraska  winters  often 
being  severe  and  snow-plows  scarce,  Mr.  Mudge  had  de 
vised  a  contrivance  which  enabled  him  to  get  around  re 
gardless  of  road  conditions.  In  no  time  at  all  a  deal  was 
arranged,  and  the  Fogg  party  caught  a  snow-boat  to 
Omaha. 


Crossing  Nebraska  by  Rail  and  Sail 

(1872} 

JULES  VERNE 

MR.  FOGG  EXAMINED  a  curious  vehicle,  a  kind  of  frame  on  two  long 
beams,  a  little  raised  in  front  like  the  runners  of  a  sledge,  and  upon 
which  there  was  room  for  five  or  six  persons.  A  high  mast  was  fixed 
on  the  frame,  held  firmly  by  metallic  lashings,  to  which  was  attached 
a  large  brigantine  sail.  This  mast  held  an  iron  stay  upon  which  to 
hoist  a  jib-sail.  Behind,  a  sort  of  rudder  served  to  guide  the  vehicle. 
It  was,  in  short,  a  sledge  rigged  like  a  sloop.  During  the  winter, 

398 


A  Nebraska  Reader  399 

when  the  trains  are  blocked  up  by  the  snow,  these  sledges  make  ex 
tremely  rapid  journeys  across  the  frozen  plains  from  one  station  to 
another.  Provided  with  more  sail  than  a  cutter,  and  with  the  wind 
behind  them,  they  slip  over  the  surface  of  the  prairies  with  a  speed 
equal  if  not  superior  to  that  of  the  express  trains. 

Mr.  Fogg  readily  made  a  bargain  writh  the  owner  of  this  land- 
craft.  The  wind  was  favourable,  being  fresh  and  blowing  from  the 
west.  The  snow  had  hardened,  and  Mudge  was  very  confident  of 
being  able  to  transport  Mr.  Fogg  in  a  few  hours  to  Omaha.  Thence 
the  trains  eastward  run  frequently  to  Chicago  and  New  York. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  sledge  wras  ready  to  start.  The  passengers  took 
their  places  on  it  and  wrapped  themselves  up  closely  in  their 
travelling-cloaks.  The  two  great  sails  were  hoisted,  and  under  the 
pressure  of  the  wind,  the  sledge  slid  over  the  hardened  snow  with 
a  velocity  of  forty  miles  an  hour. 

The  distance  between  Fort  Kearney  and  Omaha,  as  the  birds  fly, 
is  at  most  two  hundred  miles.  If  the  wind  blew  good,  the  distance 
might  be  traversed  in  five  hours;  if  no  accident  happened  the  sledge 
might  reach  Omaha  by  one  o'clock. 

What  a  journey!  The  travellers,  huddled  close  together,  could  not 
speak  for  the  cold,  intensified  by  the  rapidity  at  which  they  were 
going.  The  sledge  seemed  to  be  lifted  off  the  ground  by  its  sails. 
Mudge,  who  was  at  the  rudder,  kept  in  a  straight  line,  and  by  a 
turn  of  his  hand  checked  the  lurches  which  the  vehicle  had  a  ten 
dency  to  make.  All  the  sails  were  up,  and  the  jib  was  so  arranged 
as  not  to  screen  the  brigantine.  A  topmast  was  hoisted,  and  another 
jib,  held  out  to  the  wind,  added  its  force  to  the  other  sails.  Although 
the  speed  could  not  be  exactly  estimated,  the  sledge  could  not  be 
going  at  less  than  forty  miles  an  hour. 

"If  nothing  breaks,"  said  Mudge,  "we  shall  get  there!" 

The  prairie,  across  which  the  sledge  was  moving  in  a  straight 
line,  was  as  flat  as  a  sea.  It  seemed  like  a  vast  frozen  lake.  The  rail 
road  which  ran  through  this  section  ascended  from  the  southwest 
to  the  northwest  by  Great  Island,  Columbus,  an  important  Nebraska 
town,  Schuyler,  and  Fremont,  to  Omaha.  It  followed  throughout 
the  right  bank  of  the  Platte  River.  The  sledge,  shortening  this  route, 
took  the  chord  of  the  arc  described  by  the  railway.  Mudge  was  not 
afraid  of  being  stopped  by  the  Platte  River,  because  it  was  frozen. 
The  road,  then,  was  quite  clear  of  obstacles,  and  Phileas  Fogg  had 
but  two  things  to  fear— an  accident  to  the  sledge,  and  a  change  or 
calm  in  the  wind. 


400  ROUNDUP 

But  the  breeze,  far  from  lessening  its  force,  blew  as  if  to  bend 
the  mast,  which,  however,  the  metallic  lashings  held  firmly.  These 
lashings,  like  the  chords  of  a  stringed  instrument,  resounded  as  if 
vibrated  by  a  violin  bow.  The  sledge  slid  along  in  the  midst  of  a 
plaintively  intense  melody. 

The  sledge  flew  fast  over  the  vast  carpet  of  snow.  The  creeks  it 
passed  over  were  not  perceived.  Fields  and  streams  disappeared 
under  the  uniform  whiteness.  The  plain  was  absolutely  deserted. 
Between  the  Union  Pacific  road  and  the  branch  which  unites 
Kearney  with  Saint  Joseph,  it  formed  a  great  uninhabited  island. 
Neither  village,  station,  nor  fort  appeared.  From  time  to  time  they 
sped  by  some  phantom-like  tree,  whose  white  skeleton  twisted  and 
rattled  in  the  wind.  Sometimes  flocks  of  wild  birds  rose,  or  bands 
of  gaunt,  famished,  ferocious  prairie  wolves  ran  howling  after  the 
sledge.  Passepartout,  revolver  in  hand,  held  himself  ready  to  fire 
on  those  which  came  too  near.  Had  an  accident  then  happened  to 
the  sledge,  the  travellers,  attacked  by  these  beasts,  would  have  been 
in  the  most  terrible  danger;  but  it  held  on  its  even  course,  soon 
gained  on  the  wolves,  and  ere  long  left  the  howling  band  at  a  safe 
distance  behind. 

About  noon  Mudge  perceived  by  certain  landmarks  that  he  was 
crossing  the  Platte  River.  He  said  nothing,  but  he  felt  certain  that 
he  was  now  within  twenty  miles  of  Omaha.  In  less  than  an  hour 
he  left  the  rudder  and  furled  his  sails,  whilst  the  sledge,  carried  for 
ward  by  the  great  impetus  the  wind  had  given  it,  went  on  half  a 
mile  further  with  its  sails  unspread. 

It  stopped  at  last,  and  Mudge,  pointing  to  a  mass  of  roofs  white 
with  snow,  said,  "We  have  got  there!" 

Arrivedl  Arrived  at  the  station  which  is  in  daily  communication, 
by  numerous  trains,  with  the  Atlantic  seaboard!  Phileas  Fogg  gen 
erously  rewarded  Mudge,  whose  hand  Passepartout  warmly  grasped, 
and  the  party  directed  their  steps  to  the  Omaha  railway  station. 


Extracted  from  Around  the  World  in  Eighty  Days,  Street  and  Smith,  1891 


". . .  from  the  high  wagon-seat,9'  wrote  Willa  Gather,  "one 
could  look  a  long  way  off.  The  road  ran  about  like  a 
wild  thing,  avoiding  the  deep  draws,  crossing  them 
where  they  were  wide  and  shallow.  And  all  along  it, 
wherever  it  looped  or  ran,  the  sunflowers  grew;  some  of 
them  were  as  big  as  little  trees,  with  great  rough  leaves 
and  many  branches  which  bore  dozens  of  blossoms.  They 
made  a  gold  ribbon  across  the  prairie." 

From  his  ffobservatory  on  the  top  of  a  fruit-waggon" 
in  an  immigrant  train,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  too,  saw 
the  sunflowers.  But  their  brightness  did  not  warm  him; 
and  his  magical  fancy,  which  created  a  whole  galaxy  of 
marvelous,  many-colored  worlds,  found  no  enkindling 
spark  in  "so  bare  a  playroom"  as  the  Nebraska  plains. 


The  Plains  of  Nebraska  (1879} 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

IT  HAD  thundered  on  the  Friday  night,  but  the  sun  rose  on  Saturday 
without  a  cloud.  We  were  at  sea— there  is  no  other  adequate  ex 
pression—on  the  plains  of  Nebraska.  I  made  my  observatory  on  the 
top  of  a  fruit-waggon,  and  sat  by  the  hour  upon  that  perch  to  spy 
about  me,  and  to  spy  in  vain  for  something  new.  It  was  a  world 
almost  without  a  feature;  an  empty  sky,  an  empty  earth;  front  and 
back,  the  line  of  railway  stretched  from  horizon  to  horizon,  like  a 
cue  across  a  billiard-board;  on  either  hand,  the  green  plain  ran  till 
it  touched  the  skirts  of  heaven.  Along  the  track  innumerable  wild 
sunflowers,  no  bigger  than  a  crown-piece,  bloomed  in  a  continuous 
flower-bed;  grazing  beasts  were  seen  upon  the  prairie  at  all  degrees 
of  distance  and  diminution;  and  now  and  again  we  might  perceive 
a  few  dots  beside  the  railroad  which  grew  more  and  more  distinct 
as  we  drew  nearer  till  they  turned  into  wooden  cabins,  and  then 
dwindled  in  our  wake  until  they  melted  into  their  surroundings, 
and  we  were  once  more  alone  upon  the  billiard-board.  The  train 
toiled  over  this  infinity  like  a  snail;  and  being  the  one  thing  moving, 
it  was  wonderful  what  huge  proportions  it  began  to  assume  in  our 
regard.  It  seemed  miles  in  length,  and  either  end  of  it  within  but 

401 


402  ROUNDUP: 

a  step  of  the  horizon.  Even  my  own  body  or  my  own  head  seemed 
a  great  thing  in  that  emptiness.  I  note  the  feeling  the  more  readily 
as  it  is  the  contrary  of  what  I  have  read  of  in  the  experience  of 
others.  Day  and  night,  above  the  roar  of  the  train,  our  ears  were 
kept  busy  with  the  incessant  chirp  of  grasshoppers— a  noise  like  the 
winding  up  of  countless  clocks  and  watches,  which  began  after  a 
while  to  seem  proper  to  that  land. 

To  one  hurrying  through  by  steam  there  was  a  certain  exhilara 
tion  in  this  spacious  vacancy,  this  greatness  of  the  air,  this  discovery 
of  the  whole  arch  of  heaven,  this  straight,  unbroken,  prison-line  of 
the  horizon.  Yet  one  could  not  but  reflect  upon  the  weariness  of 
those  who  passed  by  there  in  old  days,  at  the  foot' s  pace  of  oxen, 
painfully  urging  their  teams,  and  with  no  landmark  but  that  un 
attainable  evening  sun  for  which  they  steered,  and  which  daily  fled 
them  by  an  equal  stride.  They  had  nothing,  it  would  seem,  to  over 
take;  nothing  by  which  to  reckon  their  advance;  no  sight  for  repose 
or  for  encouragement;  but  stage  after  stage,  only  the  dead  green 
waste  under  foot,  and  the  mocking,  fugitive  horizon.  But  the  eye, 
as  I  have  been  told,  found  differences  even  here;  and  at  the  worst 
the  emigrant  came,  by  perseverance,  to  the  end  of  his  toil.  It  is  the 
settlers,  after  all,  at  whom  we  have  a  right  to  marvel.  Our  conscious 
ness,  by  which  we  live,  is  itself  but  the  creature  of  variety.  Upon 
what  food  does  it  subsist  in  such  a  land?  What  livelihood  can  repay 
a  human  creature  for  a  life  spent  in  this  huge  sameness?  He  is  cut 
off  from  books,  from  news,  from  company,  from  all  that  can  relieve 
existence  but  the  prosecution  of  his  affairs.  A  sky  full  of  stars  is  the 
most  varied  spectacle  that  he  can  hope.  He  may  walk  five  miles  and 
see  nothing;  ten,  and  it  is  as  though  he  had  not  moved;  twenty, 
and  still  he  is  in  the  midst  of  the  same  great  level,  and  has  ap 
proached  no  nearer  to  the  one  object  within  view,  the  flat  horizon 
which  keeps  pace  with  his  advance.  We  are  full  at  home  of  the  ques 
tion  of  agreeable  wall-papers,  and  wise  people  are  of  the  opinion  that 
the  temper  may  be  quieted  by  sedative  surroundings.  But  what  is 
to  be  said  of  the  Nebraskan  settler?  His  is  a  wall-paper  with  a  venge 
ance—one  quarter  of  the  universe  laid  bare  in  all  its  gauntness. 
His  eye  must  embrace  at  every  glance  the  whole  seeming  concave 
of  the  visible  world;  it  quails  before  so  vast  an  outlook,  it  is  tor 
tured  by  distance;  yet  there  is  no  rest  or  shelter,  till  the  man  runs 
into  his  cabin,  and  can  repose  his  sight  upon  things  near  at  hand. 
Hence,  I  am  told,  a  sickness  of  the  vision  peculiar  to  these  empty 
plains. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  403 

Yet  perhaps  with  sunflowers  and  cicadae,  summer  and  winter, 
cattle,  wife  and  family,  the  settler  may  create  a  full  and  various 
existence.  One  person  at  least  I  saw  upon  the  plains  who  seemed 
in  every  way  superior  to  her  lot.  This  was  a  woman  who  boarded 
us  at  a  way  station,  selling  milk.  She  was  largely  formed;  her  fea 
tures  were  more  than  comely;  she  had  that  great  rarity-a  fine 
complexion  which  became  her;  and  her  eyes  were  kind,  dark,  and 
steady.  She  sold  milk  with  patriarchal  grace.  There  was  not  a 
line  in  her  countenance,  not  a  note  in  her  soft  and  sleepy  voice, 
but  spoke  of  an  entire  contentment  with  her  life.  It  would  have  been 
fatuous  arrogance  to  pity  such  a  woman.  Yet  the  place  where  she 
lived  was  to  me  almost  ghastly.  Less  than  a  dozen  wooden  houses, 
all  of  a  shape  and  all  nearly  of  a  size,  stood  planted  along  the  rail 
way  lines.  Each  stood  apart  in  its  own  lot.  Each  opened  direct  off 
the  billiard-board,  as  if  it  were  a  billiard-board  indeed,  and  these 
only  models  that  had  been  set  down  upon  it  ready  made.  Her  own, 
into  which  I  looked,  was  clean  but  very  empty,  and  showed  nothing 
homelike  but  the  burning  fire.  This  extreme  newness,  above  all 
in  so  naked  and  flat  a  country,  gives  a  strong  impression  of  artifi 
ciality.  With  none  of  the  litter  and  discoloration  of  human  life, 
with  the  paths  unworn,  and  the  houses  still  sweating  from  the  axe, 
such  a  settlement  as  this  seems  purely  scenic.  The  mind  is  loth  to 
accept  it  for  a  piece  of  reality;  and  it  seems  incredible  that  life  can 
go  on  with  so  few  properties,  or  the  great  child,  man,  find  enter 
tainment  in  so  bare  a  playroom. 


Reprinted  from  Across  the  Plains,  Chatto  and  Windus,  1892 


Oscar  Wilde  loves  Nebraska  canned  corn. 

—Omaha  Daily  Republican,  March  25,  1882 


Oscar  Wilde  in  Omaha  (1882} 

CARL  UHLARIK 

MILKING  the  placid  and  bulging-uddered  American  cow  always  has 
been  a  favorite  means  of  revenue  for  various  literary  and  artistic 
folk  from  across  the  seas,  so  it  was  not  strange  that  Oscar  Wilde 
should  try  his  hand  at  such  milking,  too.  "I  have  nothing  to  declare 
but  my  genius,"  he  told  the  customs  men  on  landing  in  January, 
1882.  He  left  for  home  in  July  richer  by  about  one  thousand  dollars 
—a  pretty  fair  take,  considering  that  he  was  a  youth  fresh  from  Ox 
ford  with  little  more  than  a  volume  of  poetry  and  a  certain  notoriety 
in  mannerisms  and  dress  to  commend  him. 

The  people  of  Omaha  knew  of  Oscar  Wilde  and  his  preachments 
on  aestheticism  long  before  they  had  any  intimation  that  he  would 
appear  in  their  city.  American  journalists  were  prodigal  in  their 
use  of  aesthetic,  sunflower,  and  lily— Wilde's  trademarks— and  in  the 
Omaha  papers  one  saw  dead-pan  references  to  Paddy  McGuire's 
aesthetic  cow,  the  aesthetic  guano  combine,  and  the  aestheticism 
of  a  local  paperhanger's  trial  for  murder  in  a  sporting  house.  In 
dividuals  were  called  sunflowers  and  lilies  derisively. 

It  was  on  the  first  day  of  spring,  appropriately  enough,  that  the 
exponent  of  the  sunflower  and  lily  gave  the  West  its  first  glimpse 
of  an  English  aesthete.  Bundled  in  an  overcoat  and  accompanied  by 
his  valet  and  business  manager,  Wilde  hurried  through  the  raw 
March  day  directly  to  the  Withnell  House  on  i5th  and  Harney 
Streets.  There,  lolling  at  ease  and  puffing  a  cigarette,  he  received 
his  callers  dressed  in  dark  trousers,  a  black  velvet  jacket,  and  leather 
gaiters  faced  with  yellow  cloth.  A  handkerchief  dainty  enough  to 
be  drawn  through  a  lady's  ring  fluttered  over  the  breast  pocket  of 
his  jacket,  and  a  maroon  silk  scarf  was  tied  at  his  throat.  The  Daily 
Republican  for  March  22  spoke  of  ".  .  .  his  physiognomy,  a  long 
face  looking  out  from  a  pretty  long  head'— the  hair,  darkly  brown, 
voluminous  and  long,  divided  near  the  middle  and  thrown  back 

404 


A  Nebraska  Reader  405 

in  wavy  masses  on  either  side."  His  hair-dress  alone  elicited  no  wide- 
eyed  comment,  for  Omahans  were  familiar  enough  with  Buffalo  Bill 
and  other  characters  whose  hair  covered  their  ears  and  hung  to 
their  shoulders. 

Since  time  immemorial,  visiting  celebrities  had  been  asked  The 
Question,  and  Oscar  Wilde,  too,  bowed  gracefully  under  the  sweet 
burden  of  fame.  When  asked  by  a  writer  for  the  Weekly  Herald 
how  he  liked  Omaha,  WTilde  replied:  "You  have  not  the  lower  orders 
of  the  eastern  cities.  I  find  less  prejudice  and  more  simple  and  sane 
people.  The  western  part  of  America  is  really  the  part  of  the  country 
that  interests  us  in  England  because  it  seems  to  us  that  it  has  a 
civilization  that  you  are  making  for  yourselves— not  the  complimen 
tary  echo  of  British  thought."  (Since  his  dash  from  the  station  to 
the  hotel  comprised  his  whole  experience  of  Omaha,  Oscar  obviously 
got  the  feel  of  a  place  fast.) 

About  one  thousand  people  were  at  Boyd's  Opera  House  that 
evening.  Members  of  the  Social  Art  Club,  sponsors  of  the  lecture, 
were  there  in  full  body.  These  westerners,  hardly  over  the  pioneer 
stage,  these  merchants  and  soldiers,  sod-breakers  and  track-layers, 
were  to  hear  a  young  man  from  the  Old  World  lecture  to  them  on 
art  and  its  relation  to  the  decoration  of  the  home. 

Introduced  by  Judge  Savage— lawyer,  orator,  and  erstwhile  grooms 
man  at  the  wedding  of  Chester  A.  Arthur— Wilde  was  a  bizarre 
enough  sight  to  evoke  Philistine  jeers  from  the  gallery.  He  wore 
black  velvet  knee-breeches,  black  silk  hose,  and  low  pumps  with 
shiny  metal  buckles.  A  white  tie  of  delicate  fabric  concealed  his 
shirt  front;  a  flowing  handkerchief  was  tucked  in  one  of  his  lace 
cuffs;  and  there  was  a  large  gold  seal  ring  on  the  hand  that  placed 
a  sheaf  of  manuscript  on  the  reading  desk.  But  the  aesthete's  pale 
features  were  composed,  and  when  at  last  he  began  to  speak  the 
impatient  rustling  and  storing  died  away. 

After  some  general  remaps  on  the  nature  of  art  and  the  honor 
due  the  handicraftsman,  Wilde  pitched  into  American  domestic 
architecture  and  interior  decoration.  Most  American  houses,  he  said, 
were  "horrors"— badly  designed,  decorated  shabbily  and  in  bad  taste, 
filled  with  furniture  that  was  not  honestly  made  and  was  out  of 
character.  Then  after  declaiming  against  the  glaring  billboards  and 
muddy  streets,  he  pointed  out  that  America  was  filled  with  such 
"horrors,"  but  that  in  England  the  artist  and  the  handicraftsman 
were  brought  together  to  their  mutual  benefit.  That  if  decoration 
was  a  fine  art,  all  the  arts  were  fine  arts.  That  the  real  test  of  the 


4o6  ROUNDUP 

workman  was  not  his  industry  or  his  earnestness  but  his  power  of 
designing.  That  the  surroundings  of  the  handicraftsmen  in  America 
were  meaningless  architecture,  and  sombre  dress  of  men  and  women, 
and  the  lack  of  a  beautiful  national  life.  At  the  conclusion  of  his  lec 
ture  he  gave  many  practical  suggestions  on  household  decorations 
and  art  studies  and  urged  that  the  lives  of  boys  be  made  joyous  and 
that  they  be  taught  to  love  the  beauties  of  nature.  "Physical  beauty," 
he  said,  "is  really,  absolutely  the  basis  of  all  great  and  strong  art.  All 
true  art  must  be  wrought  by  healthy  and  happy  men  and  women." 

The  Social  Art  Club  paid  Wilde  $250.00  for  the  lecture  and  netted 
$150.00  for  itself,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  desire  of  certain  social 
lights  to  touch  the  robe  of  the  disciple  of  aestheticism,  the  further 
taint  of  commercialism  would  not  have  marred  this  advent  of  art 
and  culture  in  an  artless  western  city.  After  the  lecture,  Judge  Wool- 
worth  and  his  wife  sent  Wilde  an  invitation  to  dinner  at  their  home. 
Wilde  sent  a  polite  note  of  acceptance  with,  however,  the  stipula 
tion  that  Judge  Woolworth  make  out  a  $50.00  sight  draft  to  Wilde's 
order. 

When  the  news  leaked  out,  people  who  until  then  were  favorably 
impressed  by  Wilde  saw  him  not  as  a  whole-souled  disciple  of 
beauty  but  as  a  rude,  grasping  snob  whose  only  concern  seemed  to 
be  the  harvesting  of  good  American  dollars.  Those  who  jeered  at 
him  from  the  beginning  became  more  vitriolic.  After  deriding  them 
for  their  "horrors,"  muddy  streets,  and  glaring  billboards,  they  said, 
he  added  insult  to  injury  by  demanding  a  price  to  grace  the  table  of 
a  generous  couple. 

Whether  Wilde  was  culpable  it  is  hard  to  say  now.  Apparently  no 
one  took  into  account  the  business  manager  in  the  background.  In 
any  case,  Wilde  escaped  the  hot  comments.  He  entrained  for  San 
Francisco  at  noon  of  the  day  following  the  lecture. 


Condensed  from  Prairie  Schooner,  Spring,  1940 


Narcissa  Whitman  and  Eliza  Spalding,  two  preachers' 
wives,  in  1836  became  the  first  white  women  to  make  the 
trip  over  the  Oregon  Trail  No  less  intrepid,  in  its  way, 
was  the  journey  made  seventy-nine  years  later  by  a  lady 
who  has  devoted  much  of  her  life  to  fighting  the  good 
fight  for  gracious  living  and  whose  word  is  gospel  wher 
ever  white  ties  are  worn. 


Next  Stop,  North  Platte!  (1915} 

EMILY  POST 

NORTH  PLATTE  might  really  be  called  "City  of  Ishmael."  For  no  rea 
son  that  is  discoverable  except  its  mere  existence,  every  man's  tongue 
seems  to  be  against  it.  Time  and  time  again— in  fact  the  repetition 
is  becoming  monotonous— people  say  to  us,  "It  is  all  very  well,  of 
course,  you  have  had  fine  hotels  and  good  roads  so  far,  but  wait 
until  you  come  to  North  Platte!" 

Why,  I  wonder,  does  everyone  pick  out  North  Platte  as  a  sort  of 
third-degree  place  of  punishment?  Why  not  one  of  the  other  names 
through  which  our  road  runs?  Why  always  set  up  that  same  unfor 
tunate  town  as  a  target?  It  began  with  Mrs.  O.  in  New  York,  who 
declared  it  so  dreadful  a  place  that  we  would  never  live  through  it. 
Her  point  of  view  being  extremely  fastidious,  her  opinion  does  not 
alarm  us  as  much  as  it  otherwise  might,  but  in  Chicago,  too,  the 
mention  of  our  going  to  North  Platte  seemed  to  be  the  signal  for 
people  to  look  sorry  for  us.  Now  a  drummer  downstairs  has  just 
added  his  mite  to  our  growing  apprehension. 

"Coin'  t'  th'  coast?"  he  queried.  "Hm— I  guess  you  won't  like  th' 
hotels  at  North  Platte  over  much." 

"Do  you  go  there  often?"  I  returned. 

"Me?"  he  said  indignantly.  "Not  on  your  lifel  No  one  ever  gets 
off  at  North  Platte  except  the  railroad  men— they  have  to!"  That  is 
the  one  unexplained  phase  of  the  subject,  no  one  of  all  those  who 
have  vilified  it  has  personally  been  there. 

Just  as  I  asked  if  he  could  perhaps  tell  me  which  of  the  hotels 
was  least  bad,  a  fellow  drummer  joined  him.  The  usual  expression 
of  commiseration  followed.  "Well,"  said  the  second  drummer,  "it's 

407 


4o8  ROUNDUP: 

this  way.  Whichever  hotel  you  put  up  at,  you'll  wish  you  had  put 
up  at  the  other." 

Of  all  the  bogey  stories,  the  one  about  North  Platte  is  the  most 
unfoundedl  Instead  of  a  rip-roaring  town,  rioting  in  red  and  yellow 
ribaldry,  it  is  a  serious  railroad  thoroughfare,  self-respecting  and 
above  reproach  and  the  home  of  no  less  a  celebrity  than  Mr.  Cody- 
Buffalo  Bill.  Of  course,  if  you  imagine  you  are  going  to  find  a 
Blackstone  or  a  Fontenelle,  you  will  be  disappointed,  but  in  com 
parison  to  some  of  the  other  hotels  along  the  Lincoln  Highway,  the 
Union  Pacific  in  North  Platte  is  a  model  of  delectabilityl 

It  is  an  ocher-colored  wooden  railroad  station,  a  rather  bare 
dining-room  and  lunch  counter,  and  perfectly  good,  clean  bedrooms 
upstairs.  You  cannot  get  a  suite  with  a  private  bath,  and  if  you  are 
more  or  less  spoiled  by  the  supercomforts  of  luxurious  living,  you 
may  not  care  to  stay  very  long.  But  if  in  all  of  your  journeying 
around  the  world,  you  never  have  to  put  up  with  any  greater  hard 
ship  than  spending  a  night  at  the  Union  Pacific  in  North  Platte, 
you  will  certainly  not  have  to  stay  at  home  on  that  account.  There 
are  no  drunkards  or  toughs  or  even  loafers  hanging  about;  the  food 
is  cleanly  served  and  good;  the  rooms,  although  close  to  the  railroad 
tracks,  are  as  spotless  as  brooms  and  scrubbing-brushes  can  make 

them. 

Across  Nebraska  from  the  last  good  hotel  in  Omaha  to  the  first 
comfortable  one  in  Denver  or  Cheyenne  is  over  five  hundred  miles. 
At  the  prescribed  "speed"  of  about  seventeen  miles  an  hour  average, 
it  means  literally  a  pleasant  little  run  of  between  thirty  and  forty 
hours  along  a  road  dead  level,  wide,  straight,  and  where  often  as  far 
as  the  eye  can  see,  there  is  not  even  a  shack  in  the  dimmest  distance, 
and  the  only  settlers  to  be  seen  are  prairie  dogs.  If  between  Omaha 
and  Cheyenne  there  were  three  or  four  attractive  clean  little  places 
to  stop,  or  if  the  Nebraska  speed  laws  were  abolished  or  disregarded 
and  it  didn't  rain,  you  could  motor  to  the  heart  of  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains  with  the  utmost  ease  and  comfort. 

In  May,  1915,  the  road  by  way  of  Sterling  to  Denver  was  impass 
able;  all  automobiles  were  bogged  between  Big  Springs  and  Jules- 
burg,  so  on  the  advice  of  car  owners  that  we  met,  we  went  by  way  of 
Chappell  to  Cheyenne.  It  is  quite  possible,  of  course,  that  we  blindly 
passed  comfortable  stopping-places,  but  to  us  that  whole  vast  dis 
tance  from  Omaha  to  Cheyenne  was  one  to  be  crossed  with  as  little 
stop-over  as  possible.  Aside  from  questions  of  accommodations  and 
speed  laws,  the  interminable  distance  was  in  itself  an  unforgettably 


A  Nebraska  Reader  409 

wonderful  experience.  It  gave  us  an  impression  of  the  lavish  im 
mensity  of  our  own  country  as  nothing  else  could.  Think  of  driving 
on  and  on  and  on  and  yet  the  scene  scarcely  changing,  the  flat  road 
stretching  as  endlessly  in  front  of  you  as  behind.  The  low  yellow 
sand  banks  and  flat  sand  islands  scarcely  vary  on  the  Platte,  which 
might  as  well  be  called  the  Flat,  River.  The  road  does  gradually  rise 
several  thousand  feet,  but  the  distance  is  so  immense  your  engine 
does  not  perceive  a  grade.  Once  in  a  while  you  pass  great  herds  of 
cattle  fenced  in  vast  enclosures,  and  every  now  and  then  you  come 
to  a  group  of  nesters'  shanties,  scattered  over  the  gray-green  plain 
as  though  some  giant  child  had  dropped  its  blocks.  At  greater  inter 
vals  you  come  to  towns,  and  you  drive  between  two  closely  fitted 
rows  of  oddly  assorted  domino-shaped  stores  and  houses,  and  then 
on  out  upon  the  great  flat  table  again.  For  scores  and  scores  of  miles 
the  scene  is  unvarying.  On  and  on  you  go  over  that  endless  road 
until  at  last  far,  far  on  the  gray  horizon  you  catch  the  first  faint 
glint  of  the  white-peaked  Rocky  Mountains. 

Perhaps  you  may  merely  find  dullness  in  the  endlessly  flat,  unvary 
ing  monotonous  land.  But  steep  your  sight  for  days  in  flatness,  until 
you  think  the  whole  width  of  the  world  has  melted  into  a  never- 
ending  sea  of  land,  and  then  see  what  the  drawing  close  to  those 
most  sublime  of  mountains  does  to  you!  And  afterwards,  when  you 
have  actually  climbed  to  then:  knees  or  shoulders  and  look  back  upon 
the  endless  plains,  you  forget  the  wearying  journey  and  feel  keenly 
the  beauty  of  their  very  endlessness.  The  ever-changing  effect  of 
light  and  shadow  over  that  boundless  expanse  weaves  an  enchanted 
spell  upon  your  imagination  that  you  can  never  quite  recover  from. 
Sometimes  the  prairies  are  a  great  sea  of  mist;  sometimes  they  are  a 
parched  desert;  sometimes  they  are  blue  like  the  waves  of  an  en 
chanted  sapphire  sea;  sometimes  they  melt  into  a  plain  of  vaporous 
purple  mystery,  and  then  the  clouds  shift  away  from  the  sun  and 
you  see  they  are  the  width  of  the  world,  of  land. 

But  however  or  whenever  you  look  out  upon  them,  you  feel  as 
though  mean  little  thoughts,  petty  worries,  or  skulking  gossip 
whispers  could  never  come  into  your  wind-swept  mind  again.  That 
if  you  could  only  live  with  such  vastness  of  outlook  before  you,  per 
haps  your  own  puny  heart  and  mind  and  soul  might  grow  into 
something  bigger,  simpler,  worthier  than  is  ever  likely  otherwise. 


Extracted  from  By  Motor  to  the  Golden  Gate,  D.  Appleton,  1916 


There  was  no  buffalo  hunt  in  honor  of  these  Russian 
visitors,  but  then,  unlike  Grand  Duke  Alexis,  they  weren't 
here  for  fun.  Nevertheless  they  seem  to  have  had  some 
anyway. 


The  Moscow  Express  (1955} 

JACK  HART 

THERE  WAS  no  indication  in  the  summer  of  1955  that  the  Kremlin 
bosses  considered  a  visit  to  Nebraska  in  the  same  category  as  a  Soviet- 
styled  trip  to  Siberia.  So  it  can  be  assumed  that  a  dozen  Russian 
farm  experts  spent  three  bustling  days  in  the  Cornhusker  State,  not 
because  they  had  violated  Communist  precepts,  but  in  a  genuine 
effort  to  improve  themselves  and  their  nation. 

The  Soviet  agriculturists  obviously  liked  what  they  saw.  Ap 
parently  they  have  since  put  their  Nebraska  knowledge  to  good  use 
in  their  homeland.  For  soon  after  his  return,  the  leader  of  the  dele 
gation,  Vladmir  Matskevich,  was  named  Soviet  Minister  of  Agri 
culture.  The  Russians'  enthusiasm  for  Nebraska  agriculture  showed 
even  through  the  language  barrier.  It  was  apparent  in  an  incessant 
flow  of  questions.  It  was  acted  out  as  they  scribbled  furiously  in 
thick  notebooks.  They  investigated  much  of  what  makes  the  state's 
agricultural  machine  tick— the  latest  in  irrigation  equipment  at  Co 
lumbus,  the  world-famed  tractor-testing  laboratory  in  Lincoln,  a 
watershed  conservation  project  south  of  Wahoo,  hybrid  seed  corn 
in  the  making  near  Fremont,  a  turkey  farm  at  Venice,  and  a  steak 
dinner  in  Omaha. 

But  it  wasn't  Nebraska's  bountiful  crops  that  impressed  the  Rus 
sians  most.  Nor  was  it  the  friendliness  and  good  humor  with  which 
Nebraskans  greeted  them,  though  admittedly  they  were  overwhelmed 
by  their  reception.  It  wasn't  even  the  sight  of  scores  of  B-47  jet 
bombers  which  unfolded  in  their  full  view  as  they  passed  the  Lincoln 
Air  Force  Base. 

No,  it  was  the  weather— Nebraska's  irresponsible,  delightful,  mis 
erable,  unmatchable  weather.  Like  a  small  boy  trying  too  hard  to  be 
noticed,  Weather  was  an  unforgettable  show-off  from  the  time  the 

410 


A  Nebraska  Reader  411 

Russians  stepped  out  of  their  air-conditioned  bus  into  its  los-degree 
greeting. 

Not  until  the  guests  had  suffered  sufficiently  from  its  deviltry 
did  Weather  show  its  angelic  side.  That  came  when  Delegation  Chief 
Matskevich,  with  Yuri  Golubach  and  Andrei  Shevchenko,  sought 
refuge  from  the  heat  in  a  flying  trip  to  the  sandhills,  their  first  visit 
to  an  American  ranch. 

Standing  knee-deep  in  grass  at  the  By-the-Way  Ranch  south  of 
Valentine,  with  a  gentle  breeze  drifting  across  a  placid  lake,  Matske- 
vich  could  not  contain  his  emotions. 

"They  ought  to  sell  the  air  from  out  here  by  the  pound  in  New 
York,"  he  exclaimed. 

''Our  prize  for  two  wreeks  of  hard  work,"  he  called  it. 

For  Shevchenko— whose  appearance,  mannerisms,  and  ready  hu 
mor  had  earned  him  the  title  of  "Russia's  Will  Rogers"— it  was  too 
much.  Throwing  his  inhibitions  and  outer  clothing  to  the  breeze, 
he  deserted  an  inspection  of  a  purebred  cattle  herd  and  leaped  as 
far  as  he  could  into  Big  Alkali  Lake.  Nebraska  Weather  had  won  a 
friend. 

As  they  prepared  to  rejoin  their  comrades  in  eastern  Nebraska, 
Matskevich  made  one  last  irresistible  observation:  "What  wonderful 
air!  What  a  wonderful  smell!  What  sun!" 


Nebraska  is  not  pretty  and  easy  to  like.  Its  colors  seem 
to  change  abruptly  all  at  once.  Actually  they  don't.  In 
spring  the  prairie  is  all  bright  fresh  green.  But  while  the 
corn  is  still  young  and  green,  the  wheat  and  oats  are  al 
ready  yellow.  If  the  summer  is  too  dry,  the  land  gets  baked 
and  gray.  But  in  a  good  summer,  the  countryside  looks 
soft.  The  corn  rustles  and  shows  the  silvery  underside  of 
its  leaves.  The  heavy-headed  wheat  waves  peacefully. 

In  late  summer,  earth  and  sky  seem  yellow.  When  the 
locusts  get  tired  at  summer's  end  and  stop  their  dry  din, 
the  chattering  blackbirds  take  up  where  the  locusts  left 
off.  The  few  trees  and  the  brambles  turn  bright.  The  air 
fills  with  the  strong  smell  of  weeds.  The  tumbleweeds 
bounce  across  the  harvested  fields  and  pile  up  at  the 
fences.  Winter,  like  summer,  is  violent.  Sometimes  it 
blusters  and  the  fierce  winds  bring  only  small  flurries  of 
snow.  Sometimes,  very  quietly,  the  sky  opens  and  three 
feet  of  snow  lies  smooth  on  the  white  prairie. 

—Life,  March  3,  1941 


Nebraska  Not  in  the  Guidebook 

RUDOLPH  UMLAND 

March  18.  Hotel  Sullivan,  Spalding,  Nebraska.  To  most  travelers, 
Nebraska  means  merely  a  one-night's  stop  on  the  way  to  some  place 
else.  After  the  tourist  has  expended  a  roll  of  film  on  the  capitol  at 
Lincoln,  the  state  has  no  architectural  marvels,  no  overpowering 
scenic  wonders,  no  famous  historic  shrines  to  detain  him.  Yet  in  my 
own  journeys  within  Nebraska's  borders  I  find  many  places  of  in 
terest  and  even  some  of  beauty.  My  work  has  carried  me  back  and 
forth  over  its  roads  many  times,  and  several  days  of  each  week  for 
the  past  six  years  have  been  spent  living  out  of  a  suitcase  and  put 
ting  up  at  small  hotels. 

Some  of  the  hotels  where  I've  stayed  have  given  me  the  impression 
of  antedating  statehood— perhaps  because  at  the  time  I  was  a  guest 
they  still  were  furnished  with  iron  bedsteads  and  the  unmoored 
kind  of  plumbing.  I  believe  it's  quite  possible  I've  even  slept  at 

412 


A  Nebraska  Reader  413 

"The  Blue  Hotel"  of  Stephen  Crane's  story:  at  a  junction-town, 
on  his  visit  to  Nebraska  in  1895,  Crane  glimpsed  from  his  railroad 
car  a  frame  hostel  painted  blue,  and  the  color  so  impressed  him  that 
he  wrote  a  tale  of  the  dire  happenings  he  imagined  must  have  taken 
place  within  its  walls.  Many  nights,  listening  to  the  wind  rattling 
the  windows,  I  have  been  led  to  similar  conjectures. 

Many  times,  too,  in  small  town  hotel  lobbies  I've  had  rewarding 
encounters  with  old-timers.  At  Lexington's  Cornland  Hotel  I  was 
once  entertained  by  a  senior  citizen  whose  father  had  taken  him 
by  buggy  to  Broken  Bow,  and  on  the  way  had  pointed  out  the 
cottonwood  on  which  "them  squatters  Mitchell  and  Ketchum"  had 
been  hanged  by  cattlemen  in  1878. 

June  25.  Hotel  Ord,  Ord,  Nebraska.  Last  month  when  I  was  at 
Ord  I  noticed  an  old  man  sitting  on  a  stool  in  front  of  the  bank 
reading  aloud  from  the  Bible.  This  afternoon  when  I  arrived  at 
Ord  and  got  out  of  my  car,  I  heard  the  drone  of  his  voice  still  con 
tinuing  and  found  him  sitting  at  the  same  spot  as  if  he  hadn't 
moved  during  the  thirty  days  intervening. 

I  am  occupying  Room  Five  in  the  hotel  tonight  and  am  curious 
about  the  frame  of  a  picture  hanging  on  the  wall.  While  the  picture 
is  a  banal  tinted  photograph  of  a  lake  scene  with  a  man  paddling  a 
canoe,  the  wooden  frame  has  a  bone  five  inches  in  length  embedded 
in  it.  The  more  I  study  this  odd  ornament,  the  more  curious  I  be 
come.  Is  it  the  bone  of  a  fowl  or  the  small  upper  arm  bone  of  a 
murdered  child? 

August  7.  Koster  Hotel,  Niobrara,  Nebraska.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
this  is  the  oldest  hotel  building  still  in  use  in  Nebraska.  It  is  a  two- 
story  frame  structure  with  sagging  ceilings,  bulging  walls,  and  slop 
ing  floors.  The  original  portion  of  it  was  built  in  1873  and  operated 
as  a  hotel  by  Herko  Koster.  After  the  flood  of  1881  the  building  was 
moved  to  the  new  location  of  Niobrara,  and  moved  again  in  1911 
to  its  present  site  on  Main  Street  The  building  has  been  enlarged 
by  several  additions  and  has  been  owned  and  operated  continuously 
as  a  hotel  by  members  of  the  Koster  family.  The  present  owner  and 
manager,  Florence  Bell  Koster,  is  seventy-one  and  the  widow  of 
George  Koster,  son  of  the  original  owner.  The  story  is  told  that  Kid 
Wade,  the  outlaw,  was  staying  in  the  hotel  one  night  during  the 
early  i88o's  when  the  vigilantes  came  for  him.  Herko  Koster  refused 
entrance  to  them  and  protected  his  guest  all  night,  sitting  in  the  door 
with  a  loaded  shotgun  across  his  knees.  Sometime  before  morning, 
the  Kid  departed  by  a  back  window. 


4H  ROUNDUP: 

October  u.  Burwell  Hotel.,  Burwell,  Nebraska.  When  I  drove  Into 
Burwell  this  evening,  I  met  a  pretty  cowgirl  on  a  horse  loping  out 
of  town.  Burwell's  center  is  a  square  full  of  business  houses.  Sur 
rounding  the  square,  and  fronting  it  on  all  four  sides,  are  other 
business  houses.  The  unique  thing  about  the  plan  is  that  all  four 
streets  entering  the  square  enter  at  the  center  rather  than  at  the 
corners.  Most  of  Nebraska's  county-seat  towns  are  laid  out  around 
a  square  with  the  courthouse  and  a  memorial  to  the  civil  war  dead 
in  the  middle.  Some,  like  Broken  Bow,  are  laid  out  around  a  square 
with  a  bandstand  in  the  middle  and  the  courthouse  stuck  elsewhere. 
They  are  built  with  straight  streets  bordering  the  square  and  enter 
ing  at  the  corners.  The  majority  of  little  towns  in  Nebraska  weren't 
laid  out  at  all  but  just  grew,  with  their  business  houses  strung  along 
the  main  wagon  route;  and  today  they  remain  one-street  towns. 
Even  the  smallest  of  them  used  to  have  at  least  one  hotel.  Now  many 
towns  have  none,  the  number  of  hotels  dwindling  each  year,  their 
business  lost  because  of  speedier  transportation  and,  since  World 
War  II,  the  rapid  growth  of  motels. 

October  26.  Hotel  Hartington,  Hartington,  Nebraska.  It  was  a 
beautiful  Indian  summer  day  with  the  thermometer  reaching  82 
degrees  in  the  afternoon.  I  met  an  old  German  resident  of  Bow 
Valley  who  told  me  about  the  "Shootzenfest"  which  used  to  be  held 
in  that  locality.  "Hundreds  und  thousands  of  people  used  to  come," 
he  said,  "mostly  Germans,  to  shoot  at  der  vooden  bird  und  see  who 
would  be  king  of  das  Schuetzenfest.  Ach,  from  as  far  avay  as  Chicago 
und  St.  Louie  die  shooters  come!"  I  have  heard  from  others  about 
the  great  Bow  Valley  Schuetzenfest.  A  commercial  traveler  told  me 
that  once,  years  ago,  when  he  was  staying  overnight  at  Hartington, 
some  friends  took  him  to  Bow  Valley.  They  found  several  thousand 
people  milling  around  a  pole  that  rose  about  fifty  feet  in  the  air 
to  which  was  nailed  a  wooden  bird.  He  said  that,  once  in  the  crowd, 
every  time  you  moved  or  turned,  a  frau  or  fraulein  would  thrust  a 
platter  of  food  at  you  or  hand  you  a  foaming  stein  of  beer.  Each 
shooter  got  to  fire  a  certain  number  of  shots  from  a  twenty-two- 
caliber  rifle,  the  object  being  to  shoot  the  bird  from  the  pole.  The 
one  who  succeeded  in  accomplishing  this  feat  became  king  of  the 
Schuetzenfest  and  was  privileged  to  select  the  queen.  The  commer 
cial  traveler  said  the  gaiety  and  hospitality  of  the  affair  made  it 
seem  as  if  you  had  stepped  suddenly  out  of  the  Nebraska  landscape 
into  another  country  and  another  century. 
November  3.  Arrow  Hotel,  Broken  Bow,  Nebraska.  A  pretty  night 


A  Nebraska  Reader  415 

with  a  half-moon  and  stars  hanging  in  a  black  sky  over  the  city 
square.  A  lot  of  cowpokes,  ranchers,  and  cattle-buyers  in  town  for 
a  big  cattle  show  and  sale.  It  was  only  by  luck  that  I  got  a  room  at 
the  hotel. 

At  the  town  of  Pleasanton  today  I  was  given  a  demonstration  of 
water  witching  by  a  well-driller  who  uses  one-eighth-inch  steel  weld 
ing  rods  cut  thirty-six  inches  long  with  five  inches  bent  to  form  a 
handle.  Grasping  a  pair  of  these  rods  in  his  hands  and  holding  them 
level  before  him,  he  advanced  into  the  yard  near  his  shop.  As  he 
advanced,  the  rods  crossed,  an  indication  that  there  was  no  under 
ground  water  flow.  He  continued  to  advance  across  the  yard  until 
suddenly  the  rods  swung  apart  and  away  from  each  other  in  an  arc 
as  far  as  they  could.  This  indicated  an  underground  water  flow.  I 
then  took  the  rods  in  my  hands  and  walked  over  the  same  area. 
The  rods  performed  in  the  same  fashion  for  me.  They  swung  apart 
as  if  by  magnetic  force.  It's  a  puzzling  thing.  The  well-driller  says, 
"I  don't  believe  in  them  but  I  use  them.  I  don't  believe  in  them  be 
cause  there  is  no  sensible  explanation  for  their  behavior.  I  use  them 
because  they  are  nearly  always  right." 

November  ij.  Stockman  Hotel,  Atkinson,  Nebraska.  I  drove 
eighteen  miles  up  the  Calumus  River  northwest  of  Burwell  to  visit 
a  rancher  this  morning,  and  accompanied  him  in  his  jeep  out  over 
his  range  to  feed  pellets  to  his  cattle.  He  has  a  nice  herd  of  one 
hundred  and  ten  head  of  white-faced  Herefords  with  about  the  same 
number  of  calves.  On  his  range  is  some  of  the  grass  known  as  Poor 
Joe.  Cattle  don't  like  Poor  Joe;  it  isn't  nutritious.  It  invaded  the 
sandhills  range  after  the  Kinkaiders  had  moved  in  and  broken  up 
the  native  grassland.  The  Kinkaiders  gave  up  the  struggle  and 
moved  away,  but  Poor  Joe  now  grows  on  land  which  once  was  ex 
cellent  range. 

Driving  through  the  sandhills  from  Burwell  to  Bartlett  this  after 
noon,  and  noticing  the  contour  of  the  hills,  made  me  think  of  the 
missionary  in  Somerset  Maugham's  story  Rain  who  had  neurotic 
dreams  about  these  "mountains  of  Nebraska"  because  they  resemble 
female  breasts.  Early  cowboys  were  aware  of  this  resemblance  too  and 
named  one  of  the  mounds  near  Chadron  "Squaw's  Tit." 

December  22.  Hotel  Golden,  O'Neill,  Nebraska.  Winter  officially 
started  about  three  o'clock  this  morning;  the  sun  rose  in  a  clear  sky 
about  eight  o'clock.  I  hear  roosters  crowing,  hundreds  of  sparrows 
chirping  in  the  canvas  awnings,  and  some  cows  bawling  when  I 
walked  from  the  hotel  to  the  cafe  for  breakfast  in  Atkinson  this 


416  ROUNDUP 

morning.  The  weather  was  mild,  and  during  the  afternoon  the 
thermometer  reached  sixty  degrees.  It  was  more  like  corn-planting 
weather  than  the  first  day  of  winter.  I  drove  thirty  miles  to  visit  a 
farmer  near  Mariaville  and  found  him  engaged  in  hauling  fourteen 
scattered  alfalfa  stacks,  each  containing  about  seven  tons  of  hay,  a 
distance  of  a  quarter-mile  or  more  to  his  farmlot  with  a  tractor  and 
an  underslung  rack.  To  load  a  stack,  one  side  of  the  rack  was  propped 
up  by  means  of  two  blocks  so  that  the  other  side  rested  on  the  ground 
next  the  stack;  the  stack  was  next  encircled  at  its  base  by  a  long 
chain  which  was  hooked  onto  a  cable  attached  to  a  winch  on  the 
tractor;  the  tractor  was  then  driven  forward,  the  chain  tightening 
and  pulling  the  entire  stack  upon  the  rack.  It  is  a  startling  sight  to 
see  a  large  haystick  moving  across  a  field  or  coming  down  a  road. 
This  system  of  transporting  an  entire  stack  of  hay  came  into  use  in 
the  late  1930'$  and  is  a  great  time-saver  for  farmers  and  ranchers. 

January  14,  Lincoln,  Nebraska.  Returning  home  from  Chambers 
this  afternoon,  I  stopped  at  the  Public  Power  building  in  Columbus 
just  to  see  if  my  old  friend  Aquabella  was  still  there.  She  wasn't, 
and  I  didn't  succeed  in  finding  anybody  who  could  tell  me  what 
happened  to  her. 

Aquabella  was  the  bust  of  a  maiden,  sculptured  in  terrazzo  by 
Floyd  Nichols  (brother  of  Dale  Nichols,  the  artist)  of  David  City. 
The  bust  was  set  in  a  drinking  fountain  in  the  lobby  of  the  Public 
Power  building,  and  from  the  lips  of  the  upturned  face  bubbled  a 
continuous  flow  of  cool  water.  The  fountain  was  actually  designed 
to  be  controlled  by  an  electric  eye,  so  that  when  one  bent  over  to 
take  a  drink,  the  water  would  gush  on.  However,  Aquabella  created 
such  a  furore  in  the  community  that  this  intended  feature  probably 
never  was  added.  Bashful  farmers  were  loath  and  embarrassed  to 
stoop  over  Aquabella's  upturned  face  to  sip  a  drink  from  her  lips. 
Even  those  who  weren't  bashful  admitted  they  had  an  uneasy  feeling. 
"She's  so  real/'  they  said,  "that  you  get  the  feeling  she's  offering 
more  than  just  a  drink." 

The  most  serious  objections  to  the  fountain  came  from  women: 
"She  may  be  a  work  of  art,  but  she  doesn't  belong  in  a  drinking 
fountain!"  .  .  .  "A  corruption  of  the  young!"  ...  "I  don't  want  to 
catch  my  husband  drinking  from  her  lips!"  The  controversy  evidently 
grew  too  much  for  officials  of  the  power  district,  and  Aquabella  had 
to  be  removed. 


1947 


JOHN  GUNTHER'S 
NEBRASKA 


Inside  Nebraska 


JOHN  GUNTHER 

FORMER  GOVERNOR  Dwight  Griswold  let  me  ride  by  highway  patrol 
from  Omaha  to  Lincoln  and  we  spent  most  of  a  day  together.  I 
admired  "O"  Street  which  is  pan  of  US  $4  and  which  runs  sixty- 
nine  miles  without  a  turn,  and  so  is  called  the  longest  and  straightest 
street  in  the  world.  I  admired  the  state  capitol  also.  Like  that  in 
Bismarck  (also  Baton  Rouge)  it  is  a  skyscraper,  and,  rising  out  of  the 
wide  green-tawny  flatness  of  the  plains,  it  is  strikingly  dramatic. 
A  story  goes  with  it  too.  It  cost  eleven  million  dollars  and  took  eleven 
years  to  build,  since  it  was  paid  for,  year  by  year,  by  a  special  prop 
erty  tax  calculated  to  yield  exactly  a  million  dollars  annually.  The 
doughty  Nebraskans  don't  believe  in  debt,  and  they  built,  penny  by 
penny,  as  they  got  the  money.  The  portals  of  the  building  bear  the 
legend,  THE  SALVATION  OF  THE  STATE  is  WATCHFULNESS  IN  THE  CITIZEN, 
and  atop  the  dome  is  a  large  statue  of  the  "Sower."  This  too  dbows 
what  Nebraska  thinks  about. 

Griswold,  who  was  one  of  the  best  governors  in  the  nation,  left 
office  in  January,  1947.  He  had  previously  been  beaten  in  a  run  for 
the  Senate  by  Hugh  Butler,  an  extreme  diehard.**  What  defeated 
Griswold  was  the  British  loan— mostly.  Butler,  a  fierce  isolationist  who 
not  only  voted  against  the  loan  but  against  selective  service,  Lend 
Lease,  and  Bretton  Woods,  made  isolation  the  chief  issue.  Griswold, 
a  liberal  Republican  of  the  Stassea  school,  took  a  strong  internation 
alist  line,  aikl  lost  three  to  one, 

Let  me  write  about  Dwight  Griswold  briefly  as  an  example  of  a 
modern  Great  Plalnsrcorn-belt  chief  executive.  He  was  a  "sand  hill" 
boy;  his  parents  were  homesteaders  who  settled  in  western  Nebraska 
before  the  railroads  came.  That,  in  high  school,  he  won  a  $100  prize 
for  an  essay,  "How  to  Lay  the  Foundations  of  Good  Government," 
shows  how  character  patterns  may  be  forecast  in  childhood.  Except 
while  governor,  he  has  lived  in  a  small  town  called  Gordon  since 
1901,  and  is  rhafrmap.  of  the  board  of  the  local  bank  and  publisher  of 

*  Of  the  920  pages  of  text  in  John  Gunther's  Inside  USA.,  a  total  of  51^  are 
demoted  to  Nebraska.  They  may  be  found  under  the  subhead  "Addendum  on  a 
Great  State,  Nebraska,**  at  the  end  of  the  chapter  on  the  Dakotas. 

**  Both  Governor  Griswold,  idw>  was  elected  to  the  Senate  in  1952,  and  Senator 
Butler  died  in  office  in  1954. 

4*9 


420  ROUNDUP: 

the  Gordon  Journal,  with  a  tiny  but  important  circulation.  Gris- 
wold's  tough  independence  reminded  me  to  a  certain  extent  of 
Simmer  Sewell,  who  was  then  governor  of  Maine,  though  he  isn't 
so  rambunctious  or  iconoclastic.  He  is  a  stubborn  man;  he  had  to 
run  for  the  governorship  three  times  before  he  made  it.  Then  he  was 
re-elected  twice.  Once  he  recorded  74.8  per  cent  of  the  total  vote  cast, 
and  once  76  per  cent,  an  all-time  record  for  Nebraska.  He  was  one 
of  the  few  Republican  governors  to  "go  along"  with  FDR  on  foreign 
policy,  and  his  secretary  was  a  registered  Democrat.  The  interna 
tional  question  was  not  the  exclusive  cause  of  his  defeat.  He  had 
had  three  terms  as  governor  and  people  thought  that  this  was  enough 
public  office  for  the  time  being.  Nebraska  is  a  fickle  state. 

What  runs  Nebraska  is— the  weather!  I  do  not  mean  this  as  a 
wisecrack.  The  state  differs  markedly  from  its  neighbors  South 
Dakota  and  Kansas  in  that  it  has  no  mineral  wealth,  and  there  are 
few  foaming,  power-producing  rivers  in  the  interior.  All  Nebraska 
has  to  live  on  is  its  eight-  to  twelve-foot-thick  rug  of  soil. 

On  this  it  lives  quite  well— provided  the  weather  smiles.  It  is  the 
thirty-second  state  in  population,  and  yet  the  sixth  in  production 
of  food  stuffs;  what  supports  it  is,  in  other  words,  export  of  corn, 
wild  hay,  wheat,  alfalfa,  feeder  cattle,  feeder  hogs,  butter,  eggs.  It 
is,  after  Wisconsin  and  New  York,  the  third  dairying  state.  More 
than  a  billion  dollars  are  invested  in  the  181,000  Nebraska  farms, 
which  are  tended  as  carefully  as  lawns  in  Connecticut.  These  farms 
average  191  acres  in  size  incidentally— more  than  twice  that  of  farms 
in  the  country  as  a  whole— and  they  are  mechanized  61  per  cent  more 
than  the  national  average. 

Driving  back  to  Omaha  I  looked  at  some  farms  and  decided  that 
my  synonym  for  the  word  "rich"  hereafter  would  be  corn  growing 
in  southeastern  Nebraska.  But  not  all  of  it  is  so  lush  and  fertile.  The 
state  is  half  West,  half  Middle  West  The  western  half  is  dry  ranch 
and  sand  hills  country,  with  thousands  upon  thousands  of  acres  that 
have  never  seen  a  plow. 

No  wonder  weather  is  such  a  preoccupation.  It  can  almost  literally 
be  a  matter  of  life  or  death.  I  saw  the  clouds  burst  open  one  day; 
out  of  sunshine  came  water  that  was  three  inches  deep  in  half  an 
hour.  The  first  copy  of  the  Omaha  World-Herald  I  picked  up  had 
three  weather  stories  on  its  front  page,  and  the  local  radio  broad 
casts  weather  news  all  the  time.  Incidentally  an  Omaha  hotel  is  the 
only  one  I  have  ever  known  with  radios  in  the  elevators.  Out  in  the 
country,  the  fact  that  there  are  comparatively  few  trees,  no  big 


A  Nebraska  Reader  421 

stands  of  timber,  and  no  mountains  for  a  windbreak,  makes  the 
impact  of  the  weather  more  dramatic;  nothing  screens  you  from 
what  may  be  elemental  violence.  The  summers  are  as  brutally  hot 
as  the  winters  are  brutally  cold.  The  drought  of  the  middle  go's 
hit  here  just  as  it  did  in  the  Dakotas;  nobody  has  forgotten  the 
"black  blizzard"  dust  storms.  Of  course,  as  in  all  agrarian  states, 
weather  equals  politics  and  bad  weather  equals  radicalism.  James  E. 
Lawrence  of  the  Lincoln  Star  went  east  in  1936  to  do  a  series  of 
articles  on  Alf  Landon's  chances.  When  he  left,  the  corn  was  green. 
When  he  returned  it  was  black.  He  knew  then  that  Landon's  chances 
were  gone  with  the  corn,  "fried  out," 

The  name  Nebraska  means  Flat  Water;  the  Otoe  Indians  called  it 
this,  for  the  Platte  *  and  its  famous  characteristic  of  flowing  "bottom 
side  up."  Originally  the  state  was  a  Louisiana  "orphan,"  being  in 
that  part  of  the  Louisiana  Purchase  which  Congress  first  set  aside  as 
Indian  country.  The  first  homestead  in  the  United  States  (1863)  was 
in  Nebraska,  at  a  town  named  Beatrice,  pronounced  Be-fl£-rice.  There 
were  two  main  streams  of  settlement.  First,  Civil  War  veterans  who 
sought  homesteads.  Nebraska,  unlike  Kansas,  had  no  slave  problem. 
There  is  scarcely  a  county  seat  today  without  the  imprint  of  the 
Grand  Army  of  the  Republic.  Second,  German,  Scandinavian,  and 
to  a  somewhat  smaller  degree  Czechoslovak  settlers.  These  had  an 
enormous  yearning  for  land,  their  own  land;  they  cared  little  for 
cities,  and  pushed  straight  out  into  the  flat  wilderness.  Some  early 
villages  were  so  small  that,  for  a  time,  each  had  only  one  church; 
Catholics  and  Protestants  worshiped  in  the  same  room,  with  half 
the  pews  facing  an  altar  at  one  end,  half  a  pulpit  at  the  other. 

This  was  all  sturdy  stock.  It  believed  in  health,  hard  work,  and 
education.  Anybody  who  has  read  the  early  novels  of  Willa  Gather 
knows  what  the  circumstances  of  life  were.  Today,  Nebraska  has  more 
folk  of  German  extraction  than  any  state  except  Wisconsin,  and 
about  1 1  per  cent  of  the  total  population  is  of  Czechoslovak  origin, 
Most  of  the  Scandinavians  are  Swedes,  though  both  Norwegian  and 
Danish  communities  exist.  Some  counties  are  almost  solidly  Czech, 

*  "Colorado,  Wyoming,  and  Nebraska  have  been  at  each  other's  throats  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  arguing  in  courts  about  disposition  of  water  from  the  North 
Platte;  each  of  the  three  states,  by  long-established  'filings*  gets  its  'take*  of  North 
Platte  water.  Colorado  says:  *WeVe  been  here  for  seventy  years.  We  make  the 
prairie  bloom.  We  turned  sagebrush  into  sugar  beets.  We  did  all  this  when 
Nebraska  and  Kansas  were  nothing  but  territory  fit  for  jackrabbits/  Wyoming, 
too,  bitterly  resents  what  it  calls  Nebraska's  'grab.*  But  by  a  recent  Supreme 
Court  judgment  Nebraska  is  to  get  75  per  cent  of  North  Platte  water,  with 
Colorado  and  Wyoming  dividing  the  remainder."--J?w&Ze  UJS^d*,  page  215. 


4s>2  ROUNDUP: 

and  Czechoslovak  is  spoken  almost  as  commonly  as  English;  one 
county  is  half  Czech,  half  Swede.  The  Germans  are  largely  Lutheran, 
and  their  political  affiliation  varies.  Woodrow  Wilson,  I  heard  it 
said,  made  Republicans  out  of  them;  then  prohibition  made  them 
Democrats;  during  World  War  II  they  were  divided.  There  was  no 
discernible  disloyalty  among  the  Nebraska  Germans,*  though  plenty 
were  strongly  isolationist,  in  1941-45;  the  Bund  was  not  a  problem. 
In  World  War  I  many  Germans  had  thought  well  of  the  Kaiser,  but 
Hitler  alienated  Lutherans,  Catholics,  Jews  and  all.  During  World 
War  I  when  the  German  newspapers  were  a  real  power  in  the  state, 
a  law  had  to  be  passed  proscribing  foreign  language  schools  and 
papers.  This  wasn't  necessary  in  World  War  II.  In  a  sense,  the  old 
German  Tumverein  and  similar  societies,  which  had  played  a  sub 
stantial  role  in  Nebraska  for  well  over  a  generation,  never  regained 
their  former  influence  after  1919.  A  striking  point— the  American 
melting  pot  does  melt— is  that  even  after  Lidice,  Germans  and 
Czechs  in  the  same  Nebraska  town  got  on  perfectly  well  together. 

Nebraska  is,  like  most  western  states,  exceptionally  hospitable 
and  friendly.  The  atmosphere  is  quite  different  from  that  in  some 
parts  of  Iowa  where,  if  a  stranger  passes,  the  suspicious  citizenry 
assemble  to  discuss  him.  A  hotel  in  one  western  Nebraska  town  has 
a  big  sign  on  the  door,  HUNT  AND  FISH  AS  YOU  DAMN  PLEASE.  WHEN 

THE  BELL  RINGS  COME  IN  TO  DINNER. 

Any  innocent  traveler  from  the  East  who  thinks  that  Nebraska  is 
a  stick-in-the-mud  politically  will  get  some  surprises.**  Somehow  the 
illusion  exists  that  it  is  overwhelmingly  Republican  and  conservative, 
which  is  absurd.  Simply  recollect  that  this  is  the  state  not  only  of 
George  W.  Norris  but  of  William  Jennings  Bryan.  It  had  a  series 
of  Populist  governors,  Roosevelt  carried  it  twice,  its  leading  news 
paper  is  Democratic  (though  strongly  anti-New  Deal)  and  Demo 
cratic  and  Republican  governors  have  tended  to  alternate.  Except 
for  Butler  and  the  loud-mouthed  Wherry  (the  other 'senator)  it 
has  scarcely  ever  elected  an  outright  reactionary  to  public  office.  It 

***...  formidable  numbers  of  Middle  Westerners  are  of  German  background, 
and  many  of  these  had  German  sympathies.  Again,  the  region  is  full  of  Scan- 
.  who  were  traditionally  isolationist,  even  in  Europe  itself.  One  should 
^er,  draw  too  sweeping  conclusions  about  this.  Nebraska  is  a  strongly 
ma&^sfale,  and  Kansas  has  scarcely  any  Germans  at  all,  yet  Kansas  was  mucn 
r^  isolationist  than  Nebraska."— Inside  USA.,  page  288. 

**&' peg*  *gft  Inside  USA.,  Mr.  Gunther  says  that  North  Dakota,  Minnesota, 
eferasta,  aiacl  Wisconsin  are  "traditionally  the  chief  repository  of  progressivism 
in  the  United  States,"  On  page  248,  he  adds:  "The  Great  Plains  states  do  still 
produce  radicals,  of  course,  but  mostly  they  move  out.  .  .  .  Nebraska  has  a  big 
export  of  radicals/' 


A  Nebraska  Reader  433 

dislikes  Republicans  with  a  Wall  Street  flavor,  and  it  is  the  only 
state  ever  to  have  elected  a  federal  senator  (Nonis)  as  a  nonpartisan. 
On  the  other  hand  it  has  recently  shown  a  strong  antilabor  tinge,  and 
in  1946  it  was  one  of  three  states  to  adopt  a  constitutional  amend 
ment  outlawing  the  closed  shop.* 

In  the  old  days  what  ran  Nebraska  was  the  railways.  This  was 
inevitable,  in  the  pattern  the  reader  knows  well:  the  railways  got 
the  land,  then  populated  it,  then  exploited  it.  For  many  years,  the 
Union  Pacific  and  the  Chicago,  Burlington  8c  Quincy  divided  the 
state  between  them;  the  UP  was  always  supposed  to  elect  one  senator, 
the  Burlington  the  other.  One  thing  that  broke  down  railway  domi 
nance  was  the  direct  primary.  Another  lively  factor  was  the  growth 
of  the  automobile,  which  made  free  railway  passes  less  valuable  and 
desirable.  A  chief  minor  weapon  of  the  railways  everywhere  in  the 
nation  was,  for  many  years,  the  free  travel  with  which  they  bribed 
legislators  and  practically  anybody  else. 

The  chief  uniqueness  of  Nebraska  today  is  that  it  is  the  only  state 
with  a  unicameral  legislature.  Largely  George  Nonis  was  responsible 
for  this.  Senate  and  assembly  were  abolished  in  1934,  and  a  one- 
house  system  with  forty-three  members  came  into  operation.  Nonis 
developed  the  idea  when,  in  Washington,  he  saw  bills  dear  to  him 
killed  in  committee  or  hopelessly  weakened  by  compromises;  he 
thought  that  the  "special  interests"  would  have  less  room  in  which 
to  operate  in  a  single  chamber.  I  found  people  in  Nebraska  some 
what  divided  on  this  subject.  Most  agree  that  the  unicameral  idea, 
as  it  has  worked  out,  makes  for  a  higher  class  of  legislator  (since 
fewer  are  to  be  elected)  and  greater  efficiency  and  economy  gen 
erally;  some  thought  however  that  the  system,  by  giving  the  lobbyist 
a  single  target  to  aim  at,  and  by  eliminating  the  possibility  that 
special  interest  legislation  which  manages  to  pass  one  chamber  will 
get  stopped  by  the  other,  has  not  been  so  effective  as  Nonis  would 
have  hoped. 

The  Cornhusker  State  has  plenty  of  other  political  distinctions. 
The  legislature  (like  that  of  Minnesota)  is  elected  on  a  nonpar 
tisan  basis;  a  man  does  not  stand  as  a  Republican  or  a  Democrat, 
and  there  is  no  division  in  the  chamber  itself  on  party  lines.  An 
other  important  reformist  item  is  that  debate  on  all  bills  must  be 
public;  this  I  believe  something  unique  in  the  nation;  Nebraska 
has  no  "executive  sessions"  (where  so  much  bad  legislation  is  worked 

*  The  others:  Scmth  Dakota  and  Arizona, 


4*4  ROUNDUP 

out  in  other  states)  or  private  committee  meetings.  Once  again,  we 
see  western  ideals  of  democracy  demanding  expression  in  concrete 
form.  The  people  insist  on  running  things.  All  judges  and  educa 
tional  officers  in  Nebraska  (as  in  California)  are  also  elected,  like 
the  legislators,  on  a  strict  nonparty  basis.  Another  singular  factor 
is  that  the  constitution  limits  the  bonded  debt  to  $100,000;  Nebraska 
cannot  undertake  expensive  public  works  without  specific  authoriza 
tion  from  the  people.  Sometimes  the  passion  for  pure  democracy 
and  complete  control  of  the  procedures  of  government  leads  to  pic 
turesque  exaggerations:  for  instance,  the  Omaha  ballot  in  Novem 
ber,  1946,  was  thirteen  feet  long  and  contained  26,000  words.  One 
proposal  on  this  ballot  was  that  the  state  should  contribute  $40  per 
year  to  the  support  of  every  child  in  the  public  schools. 

Recent  big  issues  have  been  (a)  prohibition  and  (b)  public  power. 
A  referendum  to  make  the  state  dry  was  beaten  three  to  one  in  1944; 
Nebraska  has  many  do-gooders,  but  it  is  not  dominated  by  them 
as,  for  instance,  Kansas  is.  As  to  public  power,  a  subject  of  cardinal 
importance,  the  simplest  thing  to  say  is  that  Nebraska  has  it.  Be 
hind  this  "simple"  sentence  are  years  of  struggle,  violent  affrays 
with  the  utility  companies,  convoluted  maneuvers  by  Electric  Bond 
and  Share,  an  irresistibly  expanding  sentiment  for  rural  electrifica 
tion,  pressure  by  the  Securities  Exchange  Commission,  establish 
ment  of  people's  power  districts  like  the  PUD's  in  the  Northwest, 
and  finally  the  transfer  to  public  ownership  of  the  Nebraska  Power 
Company,  one  of  the  great  old-time  behemoths.  The  result  is  that 
Nebraska  (not  Washington  or  Oregon  which  might  claim  the  dis 
tinction,  or  Tennessee  which  does  claim  it)  is  the  first  public  power 
state  in  the  nation. 


Extracted  from  Inside  U3^  Harper  fc  Brothers,  1949 


IX.  The  First  Hundred  Years 
Are  the  Hardest 


Troubles  we  had  none,  as  I  look  back  now. 
I  suppose  I  must  mention  the  county-seat 
fight,  the  meanness  of  the  railroad  com 
pany  in  refusing  us  a  station  house,  bliz 
zards,   droughts,   prairie   fires    (one   fire 
destroyed  our  young  nursery),  and  the 
grasshoppers,  but  what  were  they  in  the 
course  of  sixty  years  of  good  things? 
-Ada  Gray  Bemis,  "My  Own 
Biography,"  Nebraska  History  f  XIV 
(Oct-Dec,  1933) 


.  .  .  /  have  discovered  that,  in  the  minds  of  many  people, 
Nebraska  has  really  changed  very  little  from  1854.  There 
was  a  time  when  Nebraska  was  the  state  of  Senator  George 
Norris,  and,  depending  upon  the  observer's  politics,  was 
a  region  of  great  acumen  and  progressiveness,  or  of  dan 
gerous  radicalism.  But  since  the  death  of  the  great  Sena 
tor,  Nebraska  is  usually  characterized  as  "that  long  flat 
state  that  sets  between  me  and  any  place  I  want  to  go*" 

— Mari  Sandoz,  "The  Look  of  the  West— 1854," 
Nebraska  History,  XXXV  (Dec.  1954) 


A  Norris  Portfolio 

i.  "Very  Perfect,  Gentle  Knight55 

CLAUDIUS  O.  JOHNSON 

TRAITOR,  Pro-German,  Copperhead,  Pacifist,  Socialist,  Bolshevik, 
predatory  politician,  demagogue,  agitator,  meddler,  reformer,  ide 
alist,  major  prophet,  monopoly-hater,  Wall  Street-baiter,  friend  of 
the  common  man,  statesman  unafraid,  a  living,  perambulating 
Declaration  of  Independence— these  are  only  a  few  of  the  terms 
which  have  been  used  in  characterizing  Senator  George  William 
Norris.  Independent  of  party,  he  has  held  office  for  fifty  years  in  a 
country  which  perfected  the  party  system.  Scorning  almost  every 
device  which  practical  politicians  have  considered  indispensable,  he 
has  remained  in  public  life  as  others  have  fallen,  often  the  stupid 
victims  of  their  own  orthodox  practices.  In  a  country  and  a  period 
which  definitely  prefer  young  men,  he  won  his  most  signal  victory 
at  the  polls  when  seventy-five;  and  in  a  country  which  expects  quick 
performance,  he  had  passed  three  score  and  ten  before  he  started 
winning  major  victories  for  his  principles.  Here  is  a  man  who  placed 
his  principles  above  himself  and  whom  the  people  placed  above  his 
principles,  even  above  their  own  principles. 

Morris's  earliest  years  fit  into  any  American  success  story.  He  was 
born  in  Sandusky  County,  Ohio,  July  n,  1861.  His  parents,  who 
had  come  to  Ohio  from  the  eastern  seaboard,  were  poor  in  every 
thing  but  offspring,  for  George  (called  William  at  home)  was  the 

427 


428  ROUNDUP: 

youngest  of  twelve  children.  After  the  death  of  his  father  and  elder 
brother,  to  help  support  his  mother  and  sisters,  George  worked  for 
farmers  in  the  summer  and  attended  school  in  the  winter.  With  a 
meager  public  school  training  he  taught  for  a  few  years  to  earn 
money  to  continue  his  education.  He  wanted  to  become  a  lawyer 
and  eventually  completed  his  legal  studies  at  Valparaiso  University, 
passing  the  bar  examination  in  1883. 

Once  more  he  taught  school,  this  time  in  Washington  Territory, 
near  Walla  Walla,  for  the  purpose  of  securing  means  to  purchase 
a  law  library.  After  seven  months,  he  left  the  Territory  and  went 
back  to  the  Middle  West,  to  Beaver  City,  Nebraska,  a  little  town 
in  the  south-central  part  of  the  state.  There,  in  1885,  he  hung  out 
his  shingle.  Some  years  later  he  moved  to  McCook,  a  few  miles 
farther  west.  His  law  practice  grew  slowly,  and  he  was  glad  to  make 
the  race  for  county  prosecuting  attorney  in  1899.  He  won  the  elec 
tion,  and  he  has  been  holding  elective  office  ever  since. 

As  a  young  attorney,  George  Norris  married  Pluma  Lashley  in 
1890.  This  marriage  was  an  entirely  congenial  and  happy  one.  Mrs. 
Norris  died  in  1901,  leaving  the  future  senator  with  three  daughters. 
Two  years  later,  he  married  Ella  Leonard,  who  had  been  principal 
of  one  of  the  public  schools  at  McCook.  Since  1903,  they  have  lived 
quietly  in  Washington  during  the  sessions  of  Congress.  They  shun 
Washington  society;  the  Senator  occasionally  ridicules  it.  During 
recesses  they  enjoy  their  home  and  friends  at  McCook.  In  the  sum 
mer  they  often  motor  to  Wisconsin,  where  they  live  in  a  little  forest 
cabin  of  which  the  Senator  is  the  architect  and  builder.  The  Norrises 
enjoy  motoring  in  their  inexpensive  car,  and  on  the  road  they  give 
every  appearance  of  being  just  one  of  many  hundred  thousands  of 
plain  couples  on  limited  incomes  who  are  out  for  a  little  recreation 
and  pleasure.  The  Senator  enjoys  doing  the  odd  jobs  about  his  yard 
such  as  trimming  trees  and  mowing  grass.  This  work  and  simple 
living  doubtless  go  a  long  way  to  explain  why  he  has  enjoyed  such 
good  health. 

The  Norris  library  is  well  stocked.  Leisure  time  means  to  the 
Senator  time  to  read  and  study.  He  loves  stirring  poetry,  which  he 
often  reads  aloud,  and,  as  would  be  expected  of  a  man  so  modest, 
he  associates  the  triumphal  lines  with  the  deeds  of  his  friends  rather 
than  with  his  own  accomplishments.  The  greater  part  of  his  reading 
is  on  economic  and  social  problems.  It  includes  not  only  books  and 
magazine  articles  but  dry-as-dust  reports.  All  of  these  he  carefully 
analyzes,  and  on  occasion  he  comes  into  the  Senate  with  neat  dia- 


A  Nebraska  Reader  429 

grams  and  charts,  which  he  inserts  in  the  record  for  the  benefit  of 
the  few  who  will  trouble  themselves  to  look  at  them. 

He  has  never  been  affiliated  with  any  church,  nor  has  he  ever 
professed  any  kind  of  religion.  He  does  not  play  to  the  religious 
groups  by  occasional  church  attendance  and  scriptural  references 
in  his  speeches.  On  occasion  he  has  been  known  to  jest  on  the  floor 
of  the  Senate  that  overly  optimistic  senators  are  using  too  much 
Christian  Science.  He  says  he  is  "one  of  the  followers  of  the  religion 
proclaimed  by  Abou  ben  Adhem  .  .  .  who  loved  his  fellow  men." 
A  prominent  minister  in  Nebraska  wrote  Norris  that  the  "good" 
people  of  the  state  were  ashamed  of  him,  particularly  for  his  sup 
port  of  Smith  in  1928.  Norris  wired  for  advice  on  how  he  should 
vote  on  a  naval  armaments  bill  then  before  the  Senate.  The  minister 
was  for  it.  Norris  replied:  "It  may  be  that  the  way  to  save  the 
heathen  people  is  to  do  it  by  backing  up  our  prayers  with  a  big 
navy  and  with  armed  marines  and  flying  machines  dropping  bombs 
upon  the  homes  of  innocent  people.  You,  being  an  educated  teacher 
of  religion,  perhaps  know  more  about  this  than  I  do,  but  I  hope 
you  will  pardon  me  if,  in  my  sinful  way,  I  cannot  see  your  view 
point." 

Not  a  backslapper,  not  a  hail-fellow-well-met,  the  Senator  never 
theless  has  always  had  his  friends.  In  the  days  when  he  was  con 
sidered  regular  in  politics  and  sound  in  economics,  he  may  have  had 
a  greater  number  of  the  garden  variety  of  friends,  but  if  his  heter 
odox  ideas  have  limited  the  number  of  his  friends,  they  have 
strengthened  the  remaining  friendships.  Perhaps  the  strongest 
friendships  he  has  ever  had  were  those  he  enjoyed  with  Senators 
Robert  M.  La  Follette,  Sr.,  of  Wisconsin  and  Harry  Lane  of  Oregon. 
In  La  Follette  he  found  a  man  whose  views  on  railroads,  banks,  and 
other  business  concerns  he  frequently  shared  and  a  man  whose 
broader  and  longer  experience  in  public  life  made  him  something 
of  a  teacher.  There  is  no  doubt  that  La  Follette  greatly  influenced 
the  Senator  from  Nebraska. 

Generally  a  warm  supporter  of  President  Franklin  D.  Roosevelt, 
often  his  adviser,  he  does  not  hesitate  to  say  that  the  President  is 
guilty  of  the  sin  of  ingratitude  when  he  thinks  he  is,  and  the  Presi 
dent  "takes  it"  from  his  "Uncle  George."  So  do  the  Senator's  as 
sociates.  An  unspotted  record  for  integrity  over  two  generations  has 
given  him  the  right,  tacitly  conceded  by  all,  to  pronounce  harsh 
judgments. 

Ordinarily  he  is  mild,  soft-spoken,  unobtrusive.  In  his  office,  he 


430  ROUNDUP: 

receives  all  who  have  any  good  reason  to  demand  his  time.  Smoking 
a  cigar  or  pipe  (seemingly  his  only  "bad"  habit  or  extravagance), 
he  just  converses,  exploring  a  question  or  problem.  Often  he  lets 
the  visitor  do  the  greater  part  of  the  talking.  He  never  pounds  his 
desk,  makes  a  grand  declaration,  or  gives  an  oracular  utterance. 

If  the  Senator's  relations  with  newspaper  publishers  have  not  been 
altogether  cordial,  there  has  been  compensation  in  his  association 
with  the  newspaper  correspondents.  Sick  of  senatorial  bombast, 
pomposity,  and  insincerity,  these  men  love  to  talk  to  Norris,  for 
whom  they  have  profound  respect  and  admiration.  Norris  tells  them 
what  he  thinks,  and  he  gives  them  the  status  of  any  question  before 
the  Senate  unless  a  rule  of  that  body  binds  him  to  secrecy.  He  may 
object  to  such  rules,  but  he  feels  honor-bound  to  abide  by  them. 

The  occasional  unreasonable  suspicions  and  unjust  judgments 
of  the  Nebraska  senator  arise  not  from  a  suspicious  and  severe  char 
acter  but  rather  from  his  great  dominant  interest  in  the  plain  peo 
ple,  the  relatively  inarticulate  masses.  By  nature  he  is  not  suspicious 
or  harsh  or  bitter,  but  trusting,  charitable,  and  kindly.  Having  de 
voted  his  life  to  farmers  and  wage-earners  and  having  so  often 
found  their  representatives  break  faith  with  them,  as  he  sees  it,  he 
is  eternally  vigilant  to  protect  the  masses  from  the  laws  which  may 
hamper  them  and  from  men  who  may  discriminate  against  them. 
Yet,  aside  from  remarks  in  the  heat  of  a  debate,  there  is  nothing 
personal  in  the  Senator's  criticisms  of  men  who  represent  corpora 
tions  rather  than  the  people.  Indeed,  even  in  debate  he  often  makes 
this  clear.  But  once,  while  speaking  he  is  reported  to  have  said  of 
Coolidge,  "He  thinks  he  is  a  little  Jesus  Christ,"  a  remark  which 
a  tactful  clerk  entered  in  the  Congressional  Record  as  "He  thinks 
he  is  the  embodiment  of  perfection." 

Political  independence  is  one  of  the  outstanding  qualities  in  the 
mature  statesmanship  of  Senator  George  W.  Norris.  As  the  orthodox 
view  it,  the  Senator  has  tried  many  times  to  commit  political  suicide, 
but  he  misses  or  the  bullet  penetrates  a  non-vulnerable  spot  or 
strikes  such  a  tough  spot  that  it  bounces  off.  Or  to  put  it  in  other 
terms,  the  other  politician's  poison  is  his  political  medicine.  This 
is  Norris  since  about  1910.  As  we  look  back,  we  can  now  discover 
a  few  indications  of  a  growing  independence  in  Congressman  Norris 
during  Theodore  Roosevelt's  administration,  but  on  the  whole  he 
was  a  good  enough  party  man  to  praise  the  protective  tariff  and 
use  such  expressions  as  the  "magic  wand  of  Republican  encourage 
ment  and  enthusiasm,"  and  mean  them.  Within  three  months  after 


A  Nebraska  Reader  431 

he  took  his  seat  in  the  House,  he  committed  a  little  offense  against 
party  rule.  On  Washington's  birthday,  a  Democratic  member  had 
moved  that  the  House  adjourn  in  tribute  to  the  Father  of  the 
Country.  Freshman  Congressman  Norris  thought  that  this  was  a 
perfectly  proper  proposal,  and  he  voted  for  it,  the  only  Republican 
who  did  so.  Leaders  indulgently  but  gravely  explained  to  him  the 
impropriety  of  a  Republican's  supporting  even  such  a  patriotic 
resolution  when  introduced  by  a  Democrat.  Norris  still  could  not 
understand  why  he  should  not  vote  for  measures  which  he  approved. 
A  few  months  later  he  made  a  speech  against  his  party's  bill  in 
creasing  the  pay  of  an  officer  of  the  House,  thus  beginning  a  long 
and  unbroken  record  against  the  spoils  system. 

Despite  such  lapses  in  party  regularity,  Norris  meant  to  be  a  good 
Republican,  and  he  naively  thought  that  voting  and  speaking  his 
convictions  was  perfectly  sound  Republicanism.  He  did  not  change 
his  course  upon  learning  that  the  masters  of  the  party  disagreed 
with  him  most  positively.  They  gave  him  no  patronage,  which  ac 
cording  to  their  political  axioms  would  end  his  career.  The  innocent 
member  from  Nebraska  had  never  thought  of  patronage  as  essential 
to  a  public  career.  In  any  event,  he  did  not  ask  for  or  receive  the 
privilege  of  naming  even  one  man  for  an  appointive  position  during 
the  ten  years  he  served  in  the  House.  The  Senator  thinks  this  is  a 
record,  and  in  all  probability  he  is  right. 

Not  only  does  the  Senator  scorn  the  restraints  of  party,  he  scorns 
every  other  type  of  restraint  which  men  may  attempt  to  impose  upon 
his  judgment  and  conscience.  In  March,  1917,  as  the  country  was 
entering  the  World  War,  one  of  Nebraska's  senators,  Mr.  Hitch 
cock,  led  in  the  movement,  while  Norris,  politically  speaking,  tied 
himself  to  the  mouth  of  a  cannon  in  opposing  American  participa 
tion  in  that  war.  As  Congress  approached  adjournment,  he  and  his 
close  friends,  La  Follette  and  Lane,  and  eight  other  senators,  pre 
vented  from  coming  to  a  vote  the  bill  which  was  to  have  authorized 
the  arming  of  American  ships  against  German  submarines.  This 
was  the  "little  group  of  wilful  men,  representing  no  opinion  but 
their  own,"  who  rendered  "the  great  Government  of  the  United 
States  helpless  and  contemptible."  Articulate  elements  in  Nebraska 
denounced  Norris  as  few  men  have  ever  been  denounced,  and  a  few 
weeks  after  the  memorable  contest  in  the  Senate,  he  went  to  Lincoln 
to  explain  his  action.  His  speech  was  scheduled  for  Monday  night, 
and  he  arrived  in  Lincoln  Sunday  morning.  That  Sunday  was  the 
darkest,  most  lonely  day  of  the  Senator's  life.  Few  people  came  to 


432  ROUNDUP: 

see  him,  and  nearly  all  of  them  advised  him  to  leave  town  in  order 
to  escape  violence.  The  only  person  who  encouraged  him  was  a 
young  reporter  who  slipped  in  after  dark. 

Grim  and  determined,  Norris  stepped  out  on  the  platform  that 
Monday  night,  a  lonely  figure,  and  faced  a  large  and  ominously 
silent  audience.  Serving  as  both  chairman  and  speaker,  he  began, 
"I  have  come  home  to  tell  you  the  truth."  Almost  at  once  the  reali 
zation  that  George  Norris  never  told  anything  but  what  he  firmly 
believed  to  be  the  truth  seemed  to  spread  over  the  audience.  They 
listened  attentively  as  he  outlined  the  developments  which  were 
leading  us  to  war.  Presently  they  applauded  and  shouted,  and  they 
stood  up  and  yelled  when  he  denounced  the  newspapers  for  not 
giving  the  full  story.  His  triumph  was  complete. 

Norris  has  never  been  a  radical,  unless  that  term  should  be  ap 
plied  to  anyone  who  opposed  the  status  quo.  He  was  not  even  a 
good  progressive  until  he  was  near  the  half-century  mark.  After 
thirty  years  of  warfare  he  is  still  a  progressive.  Many  of  the  pro 
gressives  of  1910  were  quite  through  "progressing"  in  1918  or  1920, 
but  Norris  has  never  wearied.  In  Franklin  D.  Roosevelt's  words,  he 
has  "preserved  the  aspirations  of  youth"  as  he  has  "accumulated 
the  wisdom  of  years,"  and  he  "stands  forth  as  the  very  perfect,  gentle 
knight  of  American  progressive  ideas." 

Extracted  from  "George  W.  Norris,"  The  American  Politician,  edited 
by  J.  T.  Salter,  University  of  North  Carolina  Press,  1938 


Not  until  he  read  the  following  article,  written  ten  years 
after  the  event,  did  Senator  Norris  realize  that  the  "young 
reporter"  who  had  encouraged  him  on  his  "darkest,  most 
lonely  day"  had  become  one  of  America's  most  distin 
guished  newspapermen. 


2.  "A  Homespun  Man" 

FREDERIC  BABCOCK 

I  AM  on  the  downhill  slide— sometimes,  I  think,  traveling  rapidly. 
The  end  cannot  be  very  many  years  in  advance.  I  think  I  have,  to  a 
great  extent,  run  my  race.  If  I  can  do  some  good  while  I  am  trav- 


A  Nebraska  Reader  433 

eling  over  the  balance  of  the  road,  I  want  to  do  it,  because  I  realize 
I  am  going  over  it  for  the  last  time. 

"I  am  not  conscious  of  having  a  single  selfish  ambition.  Neither 
money  nor  office  holds  any  enchanting  allurements.  There  have 
been  times  in  my  life— and  I  presume  it  is  true  of  most  public  men 
—when  ambition,  and  I  think  an  honorable  ambition,  caused  in  my 
heart  great  concern  about  such  things.  But  I  have  lost  all  that.  I 
have  received  all  the  honor  I  can  ever  expect.  I  should  like  to  repay 
the  people  by  an  unprejudiced  and  unbiased  service  in  their  behalf. 
I  have  no  other  ambition." 

Those  two  paragraphs,  contained  in  an  intimate  and  informal 
letter  to  a  personal  friend,  reveal,  much  better  than  could  any  out 
sider,  the  character  of  George  William  Norris,  senior  Senator  from 
Nebraska.  They  tell  why  the  liberals  of  America  have  been  drawn 
to  him  as  they  have  been  drawn  to  few  men  in  modern  times. 

It  is  difficult  for  me,  a  self-expatriated  Nebraskan,  to  give  an 
accurate  view  of  George  Norris.  I  admit  I  am  prejudiced.  He  was 
my  boyhood  idol.  I  have  worshiped  him  ever  since  the  day,  at  the 
height  of  the  war  fever,  when  it  seemed  that  the  whole  country  had 
joined  Woodrow  Wilson  in  denouncing  him  and  his  associates  as 
"that  little  group  of  wilful  men/'  and  when  he  came  home,  told 
the  truth,  confounded  his  critics,  and  emerged  unscathed. 

A  homespun  man  is  Norris,  a  man  entirely  lacking  in  political, 
personal,  or  intellectual  vanity.  He  is  quiet  in  his  manner.  His  face 
is  open,  frank,  almost  sad,  but  friendly.  Structurally,  he  is  strong, 
deep-chested,  with  wide  shoulders. 

"I  have  battled,  battled,  for  everything  I  ever  got,"  Norris  once 
told  an  interviewer.  The  slow  tragedy  of  dull  poverty  and  toil  was 
his  in  his  younger  years.  He  knew  what  it  was  to  fight  for  a  living. 
His  whole  life  has  been  a  record  of  modest  triumphs.  He  has  fought 
his  way  inch  by  inch.  But  it  is  axiomatic  that  if  things  had  come 
easier  for  him  he  probably  would  not  be  where  he  is  now.  In  his 
manner,  in  his  processes  of  mind  and  his  mode  of  living  he  is  still 
as  simple,  as  plain,  as  direct,  and  as  unassuming  as  when  he  was  on 
the  upward  climb.  He  knows  more,  of  course,  than  he  did  then. 
His  mind  is  more  mature  and  has  broadened.  His  convictions,  how 
ever,  for  the  most  part  are  based  on  what  he  has  personally  known 
and  seen,  rather  than  on  deductions  from  wide  reading.  He  is  not 
afraid  to  think  and  do  for  himself. 

He  first  appeared  on  the  national  scene  in  1903  as  a  member  of 
the  House.  And  he  first  had  the  spotlight  thrown  on  him  when,  in 


434  ROUNDUP: 

the  Sixty-first  Congress,  he  led  the  fight  for  the  overthrow  of  Cannon 
and  Cannonism.  He  has  been  an  insurgent  since  there  has  been  any 
notable  insurgency  in  the  House.  From  the  start,  he  declined  to 
become  one  of  those  glorified  political  peons  that  are  lightly  worked, 
carefully  clothed,  highly  paid,  and  accorded  every  privilege  save 
that  of  independent  thought  and  action.  He  did  not  rebel  against 
the  authority  of  the  Cannon  group  because  of  sentiment  in  his  home 
district.  It  was  the  other  way  around.  At  that  time,  as  in  a  number 
of  more  recent  instances,  he  has  had  to  educate  his  constituency 
to  accept  his  views. 

"I  saw  men  on  either  side  of  the  political  fence  follow  blindly  the 
dictates  of  their  machines,"  he  says.  "Even  when  there  was  no  ques 
tion  of  party  fealty  concerned,  they  would  vote  as  their  bosses 
ordered,  dumbly,  stupidly,  like  a  lot  of  sheep  or  geese.  I  believed 
in  the  absolute  freedom  of  thought  and  action,  and,  cherishing  feel 
ings  of  this  sort,  it  did  not  take  me  long  to  become  an  objector— 
an  insurgent." 

The  war  came  along,  and  with  it  hysteria.  In  the  Senate,  Norris 
voted  against  the  armed-neutrality  legislation  demanded  by  Presi 
dent  Wilson,  and  later  braved  the  condemnation  of  most  of  the 
country  by  voting  with  others  of  the  "wilful"  group,  against  the 
resolution  of  war.  The  storm  of  denunciation  centered  on  the  West; 
the  full  force  of  it  swooped  down  upon  La  Follette  and  Norris.  The 
pseudo-patriots  and  the  "stand-by-the-President"  boys  licked  their 
chops  and  prepared  for  the  killing. 

Norris  outmaneuvered  them.  Before  they  could  get  to  him,  he 
offered  to  resign.  He  called  upon  the  Nebraska  Governor  to  ask  the 
legislature  to  provide  for  a  special  election  to  choose  his  successor. 
"If  the  verdict  is  against  me,"  he  told  the  Governor,  "I  shall  at  once 
place  my  resignation  in  your  hands/' 

While  the  matter  was  still  being  debated,  he  left  Washington  and 
came  to  Lincoln.  There  was  no  welcoming  committee  at  the  station. 
As  I  recall  it,  he  was  left  almost  alone.  A  raw  reporter,  I  called  on 
him  at  his  room  in  the  old  Lindell  Hotel.  He  gave  me  all  the 
time  I  wanted,  answered  fully  every  question  I  put  to  him  concern 
ing  his  extraordinary  actions  at  Washington—and  he  told  me  plenty. 
The  following  day  he  addressed  a  joint  session  of  the  legislature, 
and  that  night  he  hired  the  city  auditorium,  introduced  himself  to 
the  throng— and  once  more  told  plenty. 

But  a  peculiar  thing  took  place  at  that  night  meeting.  The  thou 
sands  present  did  not  ask  him  for  any  explanation  of  what  he  had 


A  Nebraska  Reader  435 

been  up  to  or  why  he  had  defied  the  President.  They  did  not  wish 
any  explanation.  They  showed  him  when  he  first  appeared  on  the 
platform,  and  all  the  time  he  was  speaking,  and  at  the  close  of  his 
address,  that  they  would  stand  by  him.  Again  and  again  they  rose 
to  their  feet  and  cheered. 

Norris  went  back  to  his  duties  in  the  Senate,  and  the  talk  of 
forcing  him  out  of  office  became  less  than  a  whisper.  The  common 
people,  the  people  among  whom  Norris  was  raised  and  still  moved, 
had  convinced  the  politicians  that  it  was  no  use,  that  they  would 
never  stand  for  his  being  betrayed.  They  have  been  repeating  the 
performance  at  intervals  ever  since. 

His  record  since  the  war  is  fresh  in  the  minds  of  American  liberals. 
They  remember  gratefully,  among  other  things,  his  fights  for  the 
preservation  of  Muscle  Shoals;  against  the  water-power  combine; 
for  a  constitutional  amendment  doing  away  with  "lame-duck"  con 
gresses;  to  abolish  the  electoral  college  and  for  the  direct  election 
of  the  President  and  the  Vice-President;  for  the  exploited  farmers 
of  the  West  and  the  rights  of  the  oppressed  throughout  the  country; 
for  a  recognition  of  the  aspirations  of  the  underdogs  of  other  na 
tions;  his  refusal  to  bow  to  the  rule  of  patronage;  his  amazing  at 
tempt  to  defeat  the  Vareism  of  his  own  political  party— all  these 
are  at  last  known  to  the  public. 

It  has  been  his  wish  for  years  to  assume  some  day  the  leadership 
in  a  movement  for  the  reform  of  state  government.  He  favors  a  one- 
house  legislature  of  about  twenty-five  members,  the  consolidation 
and  cutting  down  of  state  elective  office,  the  appointment  of  all 
employees  on  a  strictly  civil-service  merit  basis,  and  the  nomination 
and  election  of  the  legislature  and  the  officials  on  a  nonpartisan 
ticket.  What  a  Utopia!  But  what  a  man  to  bring  it  about! 

Extracted  from  "Norris  of  Nebraska,"  The  Nation,  Dec.  21,  1927 

In  May,  1931,  the  members  of  the  Pulitzer  award  commit 
tee  did  an  unprecedented  thing.  They  gave  the  prize  for 
the  previous  year's  outstanding  editorial  to  a  denuncia 
tory  discussion  of  a  living  American.  The  title  of  the  win 
ning  editorial,  which  appeared  in  the  November  j,  1930, 
issue  of  the  Fremont ',  Nebraska,  Daily  Tribune,  was  "The 
Gentleman  from  Nebraska."  Its  basic  thesis  was  that  Ne 
braska  continually  re-elects  Norris,  not  because  of  any 
appreciation  of  his  ability  or  character,  but  to  assert 


436  ROUNDUP: 

through  him  its  contempt  for  the  cultural,  social,  and 
political  institutions  of  the  East.  The  Fremont  paper  said 
the  aged  Senator  was  held  in  lower  esteem  in  his  own  state 
than  in  any  other  part  of  the  Union.  Three  years  later 
this  prize-winning  theory  was  given  a  blow  in  the  solar 
plexus  when  the  Senator  stumped  Nebraska  alone  against 
the  opposition  of  press  and  politicians  and  persuaded  the 
voters  to  change  the  form  of  their  state  government  by  the 
adoption  of  the  unicameral  legislature.  .  .  . 

Charles  S.  Ryckman  still  believes  the  portrait  is  a  true 
one,  but  his  opinion  is  not  shared  by  the  country  at  large. 

—Richard  L.  Neuberger  and  Stephen  Kahn, 
Integrity:  The  Life  of  George  W.  N orris 

3.  The  Gentleman  from  Nebraska 

CHARLES  S.  RYCKMAN 

SENATOR  GEORGE  W.  NORRIS,  never  lacking  a  mandate  from  the  peo 
ple  of  Nebraska  in  the  course  he  has  pursued  as  a  member  of  the 
United  States  Senate,  now  returns  to  Washington  doubly  assured 
of  the  unquestioned  approval  of  his  state  and  its  people. 

The  senatorial  record  of  Mr.  Norris,  with  all  its  ramifications, 
has  been  endorsed  in  as  convincing  a  manner  as  anyone  could  wish. 
Many  reasons  have  been  advanced  as  to  why  such  an  endorsement 
should  not  be  extended  to  him.  The  opposition  to  Mr.  Norris  has 
been  conducted  as  ably  and  as  thoroughly  as  any  group  of  capable 
politicians  could  do  the  job.  The  candidacy  of  as  fine  a  statesman 
as  Nebraska  ever  produced  has  been  presented  to  the  state  as  an 
alternative  to  that  of  Mr.  Norris,  and  has  been  rejected. 

Acceptance  of  the  situation  is  therefore  a  matter  without  choice. 
To  continue  the  argument  is  to  waste  words.  The  opposition  to 
Senator  Norris  has  been  so  completely  subdued  and  so  thoroughly 
discredited  that  further  jousting  with  the  windmill  is  more  quixotic 
than  Quixote  himself. 

There  is  not  even  good  reason  for  being  disgruntled  over  the  re 
sult.  For  the  purpose  of  the  Nebraska  political  situation,  70,000 
people  can't  be  wrong.  The  will  of  the  state  is  seldom  expressed  in 
so  tremendous  a  majority,  and  it  must  be  taken  not  only  as  an  en 
dorsement  of  Mr.  Norris  but  also  as  at  least  a  temporary  quietus 
upon  his  critics  and  opponents. 


4  Nebraska  Reader  437 

The  state  of  Nebraska  has  elected  Norris  to  the  United  States 
Senate  this  year,  as  it  has  many  times  in  the  past,  mainly  because 
hie  is  not  wanted  there.  If  his  return  to  Washington  causes  discom 
fiture  in  official  circles,  the  people  of  Nebraska  will  regard  their 
votes  as  not  having  been  cast  in  vain.  They  do  not  want  farm  relief 
or  any  other  legislative  benefits  a  senator  might  bring  them;  all 
they  want  is  a  chance  to  sit  back  and  gloat. 

Nebraska  nurses  an  ingrowing  grouch  against  America  in  general 
and  eastern  America  in  particular.  The  state  expects  nothing  from 
the  national  government,  which  it  regards  as  largely  under  eastern 
control,  and  asks  nothing.  It  has  lost  interest  in  constructive  par 
ticipation  in  federal  affairs,  and  its  people  are  in  a  vindictive  frame 
of  mind. 

This  grouch  is  cultural  as  much  as  political.  Nebraska  and  its 
people  have  been  the  butt  of  eastern  jokesters  so  long  they  are  em 
bittered.  Every  major  federal  project  of  the  last  half-century  has 
been  disadvantageous  to  them.  The  building  of  the  Panama  Canal 
imposed  a  discriminatory  rate  burden  upon  them.  Various  reclama 
tion  projects  have  increased  agricultural  competition.  Federal  tariff 
policies  increase  the  cost  of  living  in  Nebraska,  without  material 
benefit  to  Nebraska  producers. 

Nebraska  voters  have  long  since  ceased  to  look  to  Washington  for 
relief,  and  they  no  longer  select  their  Congressional  representatives 
with  relief  in  view.  Neither  George  Norris  nor  any  of  his  Nebraska 
colleagues  in  Congress  have  been  able  to  combat  this  hopeless  situa 
tion.  If  Norris  were  forced  to  rely  upon  what  he  has  done  in  Con 
gress  for  Nebraska,  he  would  approach  an  election  day  with  fear  in 
his  heart. 

But  Senator  Norris  has  found  another  way  to  serve  Nebraska.  By 
making  himself  objectionable  to  federal  administrations  without 
regard  to  political  complexion  and  to  eastern  interests  of  every 
kind,  he  has  afforded  Nebraskans  a  chance  to  vent  their  wrath.  He 
is,  perhaps  unwittingly,  an  instrument  of  revenge. 

The  people  of  Nebraska  would  not  listen  to  George  Norris  long 
enough  to  let  him  tell  them  how  to  elect  a  dog-catcher  in  the  smallest 
village  in  the  state,  but  they  have  been  sending  him  to  the  Senate 
so  long  it  is  a  habit.  If  he  lives  long  enough  and  does  not  get  tired 
of  the  job,  he  will  spend  more  years  in  the  upper  house  of  Congress 
than  any  man  before  him.  Death,  ill  health,  or  personal  disinclina 
tion—one  of  these  may  some  day  drive  him  out  of  the  Senate,  but 
the  people  of  Nebraska  never  will! 


438  ROUNDUP: 

The  state  asks  little  of  him  in  return.  It  gives  him  perfect  free 
dom  of  movement  and  of  opinion.  It  holds  him  to  no  party  or  plat 
form.  It  requires  no  promises  of  him,  no  pledges.  He  need  have  no 
concern  for  his  constituency,  is  under  no  obligation  to  people  or  to 
politicians.  He  can  devote  as  much  of  his  time  as  he  likes  to  the 
Muscle  Shoals  power  site,  and  none  at  all  to  western  Nebraska  ir 
rigation  projects.  He  can  vote  for  the  low  tariff  demanded  by  cane 
sugar  producers  of  Cuba,  while  the  beet-sugar-growers  of  Nebraska 
are  starving  to  death.  He  can  interest  himself  in  political  scandals 
in  Pennsylvania,  and  be  wholly  unconcerned  over  the  economic 
plight  of  the  Nebraska  farmer. 

He  can  do  all  these  things  and  be  as  assured  of  election  as  the 
seashore  is  of  the  tide.  He  could  spend  a  campaign  year  in  Europe, 
and  beat  a  George  Washington  in  a  Republican  primary  and  an 
Abraham  Lincoln  in  a  general  election. 

And  yet  George  Norris  is  not  a  political  power  in  Nebraska.  The 
people  of  other  states  believe  he  is  revered  as  an  idol  in  his  own 
state.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  is  probably  held  in  lower  esteem  in 
Nebraska  than  in  any  other  state  in  the  Union. 

His  endorsement  of  another  candidate  is  of  no  real  value.  He 
could  not  throw  a  hatful  of  votes  over  any  political  fence  in  the  state. 
He  gave  his  tacit  support  to  La  Follette  as  a  third-party  presidential 
candidate  in  1924,  and  the  Wisconsin  senator  could  have  carried  all 
his  Nebraska  votes  in  his  hip  pocket  without  a  bulge.  He  came  into 
Nebraska  in  1928  with  a  fanfare  of  Democratic  trumpets  and  of 
radio  hook-ups,  stumped  the  state  for  Governor  Smith—and  Ne 
braska  gave  Herbert  Hoover  the  largest  majority,  on  a  basis  of 
percentage,  of  all  the  states  in  the  Union.* 

As  far  as  the  people  of  Nebraska  are  concerned,  George  Norris  is 
as  deep  as  the  Atlantic  Ocean  in  Washington,  and  as  shallow  as 
the  Platte  River  in  his  own  state. 

The  explanation  of  this  fascinating  political  paradox  is  to  be 
found,  not  in  an  analysis  of  Norris,  but  of  Nebraska.  As  a  senator, 
Norris  has  given  Nebraska  something  the  state  never  had  before. 
He  has  put  the  "Gentleman  from  Nebraska"  on  every  front  page  in 

*  Neuberger  and  Kahn  point  out  that  this  is  an  error.  Hoover's  vote  in  Nebraska 
was  63.2%  of  the  total  ballot,  whereas  he  received  a  larger  percentage  in  the 
following  states:  Kansas  72.2%,  Michigan  70.5%,  Maine  68.6%,  Washington  67%, 
Vermont  66.5%,  Pennsylvania  65.2%,  Delaware  65%,  Ohio  64.870,  Colorado 
64.7%,  Idaho  64.7%,  California  64.1%,  Oregon  64.1%,  Wyoming  63.6%.  "That 
so  glaring  an  error  of  fact  should  have  been  overlooked  .  .  .  tends  to  substantiate 
the  New  Republic's  insinuation  that  some  of  the  Pulitzer  judges  were  desperately 
anxious  to  berate  Senator  Norris."— In tegrity,  (Vanguard  Press,  1937)  page  364. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  439 

America  and  has  kept  him  there.  A  resident  of  Nebraska  can  pick 
up  the  latest  edition  of  a  New  York  daily  or  of  an  Arizona  weekly 
and  find  "Norris  of  Nebraska"  in  at  least  three  type  faces. 

But  the  publicity  Norris  gets  for  Nebraska  is  not  the  whole  story. 
His  real  strength  in  Nebraska  is  measured  by  the  antagonisms  he 
stirs  up  beyond  the  borders  of  the  state.  His  people  take  delight  in 
setting  him  on  the  heels  of  the  ruling  powers,  whether  of  govern 
ment,  of  finance,  or  of  industry.  The  more  he  makes  himself  ob 
noxious  to  a  political  party,  to  a  national  administration,  or  to  Wall 
Street,  the  better  they  like  him. 

Nebraska  is  not  interested  in  the  smallest  degree  in  what  progress 
he  makes  or  what  he  accomplishes.  It  has  been  said  of  Norris  that 
he  has  cast  more  negative  votes  against  the  winning  causes  and  more 
affirmative  votes  for  lost  causes  than  any  other  man  in  the  Senate. 
But  every  time  he  succeeds  in  pestering  his  prey  until  it  turns 
around  and  snarls  back  at  him,  the  chuckles  can  be  heard  all  the 
way  from  Council  Bluffs  to  ScottsblufL 

The  summary  of  it  all  is  that  Nebraska  derives  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure  out  of  shoving  George  Norris  down  the  great  American 
throat.  He  has  been  an  effective  emetic  in  Republican  and  Demo 
cratic  administrations  alike,  has  worried  every  president  from  Taft 
to  Hoover.  His  retirement  from  the  Senate,  whether  voluntary  or 
forced,  would  be  welcomed  in  more  quarters  than  that  of  any  of 
his  colleagues. 

The  people  of  Nebraska  know  this  and  enjoy  it.  Every  time  Norris 
baits  the  power  trust  or  lambasts  the  social  lobby,  Nebraska  gets 
the  same  amusement  out  of  his  antics  that  a  small  boy  gets  out  of 
sicking  a  dog  on  an  alley  cat.  When  he  shies  a  brickbat  at  a  presi 
dent,  Nebraska  has  as  much  fun  as  a  kid  pushing  over  an  outhouse. 

You  have  to  know  the  isolation  of  the  hinterland  to  understand 
why  this  is  so.  Nebraska  has  sent  many  men  to  the  Senate  who  were 
more  capable  than  Norris,  as  his  predecessors  and  as  his  contem 
poraries.  It  has  had  other  senators  who  have  done  more  for  the  state 
and  for  the  nation  than  he  has. 

But  it  has  never  had  another  senator  who  let  the  whole  world 
know  there  was  a  "Gentleman  from  Nebraska"  in  the  manner  he 
has  succeeded  in  doing.  Nebraska  could  send  a  succession  of  great 
men  and  good  men  to  the  Senate,  and  the  East  and  West  and  South 
would  never  know  there  was  a  state  of  Nebraska  or  that  such  a  state 
was  represented  in  the  Senate.  But  Norris  lets  them  know  there  is 
a  Nebraska,  and  Nebraska  does  not  care  how  he  does  it. 


440  ROUNDUP: 

There  is  an  instinctive  resentment  in  the  hearts  of  these  people  of 
the  states  between  the  Mississippi  and  the  mountains  against  the 
failure  of  the  far  East  to  understand  and  appreciate  the  Middle 
West.  It  crops  out  in  politics,  in  religion,  even  in  sports. 

Nebraska  is  one  of  the  richest  of  all  the  agricultural  states,  and 
yet  the  wealth  of  its  industries  exceeds  that  of  its  farms.  It  has  given 
such  names  as  Gutzon  Borglum,  Willa  Gather,  John  J.  Pershing, 
Charles  G.  Dawes,  William  Jennings  Bryan,  and  a  hundred  others 
of  prominence  to  the  nation.  It  has  unsurpassed  schools,  progressive 
cities  and  towns,  people  of  intelligence  and  culture. 

And  yet  the  rest  of  the  nation  persists  in  regarding  Nebraska  as 
provincial,  its  people  as  backward.  If  the  East  thinks  of  Nebraska  at 
all,  it  is  as  a  state  still  in  a  frontier  period.  The  national  concep 
tion  of  a  Nebraskan  is  that  of  a  big  hayshaker,  with  a  pitchfork  in 
his  hands,  a  straw  in  his  mouth,  a  musical  comedy  goatee  on  his 
chin,  a  patch  on  the  seat  of  his  overalls,  and  the  muck  of  the  barn 
yard  on  his  boots. 

Nebraska  has  resented  these  indignities,  but  has  given  up  hope  of 
avoiding  them.  Its  only  hope  is  to  pay  back  in  kind.  In  the  days  of 
the  real  frontier,  it  vented  its  wrath  on  the  occasional  luckless 
tenderfoot  from  the  East.  Now  it  sends  George  Norris  to  the  Senate. 

Norris  does  not  represent  Nebraska  politics.  He  is  the  personifica 
tion  of  a  Nebraska  protest  against  the  intellectual  aloofness  of  the 
East.  A  vote  for  Norris  is  cast  into  the  ballot  box  with  all  the  venom 
of  a  snowball  thrown  at  a  silk  hat.  The  spirit  that  puts  him  over 
is  vindictive,  retaliatory.  Another  senator  might  get  federal  projects, 
administrative  favor,  post  offices,  and  pork  barrel  plunder  for  Ne 
braska,  but  the  state  is  contemptuous  of  these.  For  nearly  two  dec 
ades  Norris  has  kept  Nebraska  beyond  the  pale  of  federal  favor, 
but  his  people  consider  him  worth  the  price. 

George  Norris  is  the  burr  Nebraska  delights  in  putting  under  the 
eastern  saddle.  He  is  the  reprisal  for  all  the  jokes-  of  vaudevillists, 
the  caricatures  of  cartoonists,  and  the  jibes  of  humorists  that  have 
come  out  of  the  East  in  the  last  quarter  of  a  century. 


Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  Fremont  Daily  Tribune,  Nov.  7,  1930 


I  Nebraska  Reader  441 

At  seventy-six,  George  W.  Norris  had  just  been  returned 
to  office  for  what  proved  to  be  the  last  time  when  another 
famed  midwesterner,  the  Sage  of  Emporia,  reflected  on 
the  Senator's  long  years  of  public  service,  his  character 
and  achievements,  and  posed  what  still  remains— 


4.  The  Norris  Riddle 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE 

PROBABLY  no  other  man  in  the  United  States  Senate  since  it  was 
founded  has  more  actual,  constructive  work  to  his  credit  than  has 
George  Norris.  Yet  his  name,  compared  with  that  of  Blaine,  Clay, 
or  Calhoun,  among  other  famed  senatorial  statesmen,  is  much  less 
glorious  in  his  own  generation.  Whether  his  name  will  live  as  theirs 
have  lived,  revived  and  nurtured  by  the  story  of  his  real  ability  and 
worth,  no  one  can  know.  His  is  the  story  of  a  brave,  wise,  honest 
man  in  public  life  who  never  compromised  with  himself  and  so  had 
no  temptation  to  dally  with  ambition  or  treat  with  his  enemies. 
His  instinctive  modesty,  which  makes  it  impossible  for  him  to  dram 
atize  himself,  makes  it  hard  for  his  biographers  to  picture  him 
exactly  either  as  a  hero  or  as  a  victim.  His  career,  by  its  very  mo 
notony  of  selflessness,  lacks  climax,  and  except  as  a  study  in  a 
monotone  of  decency,  it  has  no  drama.  Yet  no  other  senator  of  his 
time  has  such  a  line  of  real  achievement  in  American  politics. 

George  Norris  was  one  of  the  ablest,  most  efficient  advocates  of 
four  Constitutional  amendments,  the  one  providing  for  the  income 
tax,  the  one  providing  for  the  direct  election  of  United  States  sena 
tors,  the  one  providing  for  votes  for  women,  and  the  last— which 
was  adopted  almost  solely  because  he  wrote  it  and  engineered  its 
passage— for  the  inauguration  of  a  president  and  the  assembling  of 
Congress  immediately  after  election  instead  of  three  months  later. 
All  of  these  amendments  were  democratic  amendments.  The  three 
political  amendments  gave  the  electorate  a  more  direct  control  over 
government,  and  the  income-tax  amendment  was  and  is  an  obvious 
instrument  in  democratizing  the  national  income.  Under  the 
income-tax  amendment  it  is  possible  to  use  taxation  as  an  agency 
of  human  welfare. 


442  ROUNDUP: 

But  these  amendments  are  not  the  major  achievement  of  George 
Norris.  When  he  came  to  Congress  he  was  an  ordinary  congressman 
from  the  high  plains,  a  Republican  by  tradition,  with  no  record 
back  of  him  that  was  not  duplicated  by  a  hundred  of  his  fellow  con 
gressmen.  In  the  middle  of  the  first  decade,  he  joined  the  insurgent 
group  in  rebellion  against  Speaker  Cannon  and  the  oligarchical 
control  of  the  House  of  Representatives.  They  won  their  fight  at 
the  end  of  trjie  decade,  Cannon  was  shorn  of  much  of  his  power,  and 
control  of  the  lower  house  passed  in  Taft's  administration  more  or 
less  out  of  the  regular  Republican  organization. 

George  Norris's  work  in  the  House  was  not  conspicuous.  He  was 
one  of  a  dozen  young  progressives  there  who  made  their  mark  and 
did  their  work,  and  most  of  the  others  passed  into  a  decent  oblivion. 
When  Norris  went  to  the  Senate,  he  took  with  him  a  profound 
conviction  that  government  is  something  more  than  a  policeman. 
His  senatorial  career  has  been  based  upon  the  theory  that  govern- 
ment  is  a  policeman  and  a  social  worker  with  a  talent  for  super- 
engineering  and  a  lust  for  justice. 

In  the  Senate  he  became  one  of  the  leaders  there  who  took  con 
trol  of  the  Senate  out  of  the  hands  of  his  party  and  placed  it  in 
an  independent  senatorial  bloc,  nominally  Republican  but  actually 
far  removed  from  the  Republican  way  of  thought,  with  aims  en 
tirely  foreign  to  those  of  the  Republican  tradition  and  leaders  of 
his  day.  This  bloc,  of  which  George  Norris  was  the  most  intelligent, 
the  most  capable,  and  the  most  intransigent  member,  was  in  effect 
a  new  party.  Its  roots  sank  back  into  the  Roosevelt  policies,  through 
Bryanism  into  Populism  and  thence  went  deeper,  even  into  the 
Granger  movement  and  the  Greenback  Party  of  the  seventies.  The 
senatorial  group  which  Norris  joined  had  been  forming  while  Norris 
and  Murdock  were  fighting  the  Cannon  machine  in  the  Taft  ad 
ministration.  In  the  Wilson  administration  the  Progressive  Sena 
torial  group  devoted  themselves  to  introducing  and  pushing  through 
Congress  the  pledges,  not  of  the  Democratic  platform,  but  of  the 
Bull  Moose  platform.  They  stood  for  the  law  establishing  the  Fed 
eral  Trade  Commission,  the  Tariff  Commission,  the  Federal  Reserve 
Bank,  the  direct  election  of  United  States  senators,  the  income  tax 
law,  legislation  directed  against  the  monopolies,  and  the  Adamson 
law  regulating  the  hours  of  service  on  the  railways. 

Curiously,  though  Norris  had  every  other  quality  that  makes  for 
a  successful  senator,  he  has  never  taken  dramatic  leadership.  He  is 
too  modest,  or  perhaps  he  is  instinctively  a  lone  worker.  He  has  not 


A  Nebraska  Reader  443 

been  checked  by  his  political  vices,  for  he  has  no  political  vices.  He 
does  lack  charm.  He  is  not  socially  inclined.  He  makes  few  friends 
but  is  loyal  to  those  he  has.  He  is  passionately  earnest  but  never 
politically  self-righteous.  He  gives  no  impression  of  being  holier 
than  his  colleagues,  certainly  does  not  think  he  is:  an  essential  gentle 
humility  is  the  inner  Norrisness  of  George  Xorris.  Perhaps  he  lacks 
imagination  to  cast  himself  as  a  hero,  and  he  may  be  too  modest  to 
see  what  he  has  achieved  and  how  glorious  is  his  achievement. 

No  biographer  will  be  able  to  paint  George  Norris  in  raw  colors. 
His  portrait  will  have  to  be  done  in  mauves  and  beiges,  in  helio 
tropes  and  lavenders.  It  will  be  such  a  book  as  Henry  James  or 
George  Meredith  might  have  written,  sophisticated,  deeply  discern 
ing,  and  in  the  end  full  of  affection  and  pride. 

For  George  Norris  is  one  of  the  really  great  and  profoundly 
enigmatical  figures  of  his  day  and  time.  The  riddle  which  he  pre 
sents  to  his  generations  may  be  stated  thus:  Why  has  a  man  of  so 
many  solid  qualities,  a  man  of  such  diligences  in  his  business,  such 
an  intelligent  conscience,  so  modest  a  courage,  and  such  sweet  and 
self-effacing  honesty,  never  become  a  hero  to  the  American  people? 
Why  has  he  never  even  aspired  to  the  highest  offices  in  the  Republic? 
Why  has  George  Norris  left  the  mark  of  no  distinctive  glowing  per 
sonality  hi  the  government  he  served  so  selflessly  for  a  generation? 
Perhaps  the  sphinx  of  time  will  answer  its  own  riddle. 


Condensed  from  The  Saturday  Review  of  Literature,  July  10,  1937 


The  establishment  of  the  Rural  Electrification  Adminis 
tration,  the  object  of  which  was  to  carry  electricity  to  the 
farms  of  America,  was  an  undertaking  that  had  my  deep 
est  sympathy  and  interest.  .  .  .  From  boyhood,  I  had  seen 
the  grim  drudgery  and  grind  which  had  been  the  common 
lot  of  eight  generations  of  American  farm  women.  I  had 
seen  the  drudgery  of  washing  and  ironing  and  sewing 
without  any  of  the  labor-saving  electrical  devices.  I  could 
close  my  eyes  and  recall  the  innumerable  scenes  of  the 
harvest  and  the  unending  punishing  tasks.  Why  shouldn't 
I  have  been  interested  in  the  emancipation  of  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  farm  women? 

—George  W.  Norris,  Fighting  Liberal 


The  Kitchen  Frontier 


MARGARET  CANNELL 

WHEN  the  first  pioneer  women  crossed  the  Missouri  into  Nebraska, 
they  might  well  have  lost  heart  had  they  seen  beyond  the  cotton- 
woods  and  oaks  along  the  river  bank  to  the  miles  of  dusty  prairie 
awaiting  them.  But  if  they  could  have  looked  into  the  future,  into  the 
lives  and  homes  of  their  granddaughters  and  great-granddaughters, 
surely  they  would  have  felt  a  surge  of  pride  at  their  roles  in  a  drama 
which  for  thousands  of  Nebraska  families  has  turned  out  so  well. 

On  one  of  the  oldest  farms  in  southeast  Nebraska  lives  Eloise, 
whose  husband's  grandparents  came  to  the  county  in  the  early  sixties. 
Their  deed  required  that  they  "defend  the  land  from  the  Indians," 
and  some  of  the  guns  of  those  days  are  still  treasured  on  the  farm. 
From  her  kitchen  window  Eloise  can  see  the  clump  of  ash  trees  and 
tangle  of  wild  gooseberries  that  mark  the  corner  of  the  family 
cemetery  where  her  children's  great-grandparents  lie  buried.  Beyond 
the  bend  of  the  creek  are  the  remains  of  the  limestone  foundation 
of  the  first  house  on  the  place.  Her  own  two-story  frame  house,  built 
by  her  husband's  father,  dates  from  a  time  when  several  good  corn 
crops  warranted  a  bathroom  and  central  heat  in  the  new  house- 
innovations  which  even  people  from  town  used  to  come  out  to  ad- 

444 


A  Nebraska  Reader  445 

mire.  Its  wide  front  porch  and  double  living  room,  big  kitchen  and 
roomy  upstairs  have  made  it  a  comfortable  home  for  her  growing 
family.  The  golden  oak  and  mission  furniture  has  almost  all  been 
replaced  through  the  years,  and  electricity  supplies  servants  to  take 
the  place  of  the  "hired  girl"  who  came  in  to  help  at  canning  or 
harvest  time  when  the  house  was  new.  One  by  one  the  vacuum 
cleaner,  the  washing  machine,  the  ironer,  the  dishwasher  have  come 
to  make  life  easier. 

As  Eloise  works  at  her  sink,  glancing  out  now  and  then  at  the 
woods  beyond  the  farmyard,  she  thinks  of  the  women  who  preceded 
her  on  this  family  farm.  She  remembers  stories  about  the  earliest 
pioneer  mother  who  took  her  baby  and  drove  with  a  load  of  grain 
to  the  grist  mill  at  the  river  town  to  have  her  wheat  ground  into 
flour;  of  her  long  wait  for  her  turn  in  the  line  of  wagons  while  the 
baby  alternately  cried  and  slept;  of  her  fright  on  the  return  trip 
when  she  met  a  party  of  friendly  Pawnees,  her  relief  when  she 
reached  home  with  her  baby  safe  and  flour  enough  for  the  winter, 
and  a  quantity  of  bran  and  shorts  as  well.  Now  Eloise  goes  to  the 
same  river  town  and  sometimes  she  has  to  wait  in  line,  not  for  flour 
and  bran,  but  for  an  order  of  frozen  cherries  which  she  will  bring 
home  to  her  own  deep  freeze.  Looking  over  the  supplies  of  frozen 
fruits  from  her  own  and  nearby  orchards,  peas  and  beans  from  her 
garden,  steaks  and  chops  and  chickens,  she  thinks  of  the  food  which 
once  stocked  the  larder  on  this  same  farm— the  wild  plums  and 
grapes  and  gooseberries  gathered  from  thickets  and  roadsides  and 
preserved  for  winter  use,  sometimes  with  molasses  and  honey  for 
sweetening;  the  salt  pork  and  smoked  meats;  the  endless  corn  dishes 
—hominy,  cornbread,  corn  cakes,  corn  pudding,  cornmeal  mush, 
corn  dodgers. 

Family  tradition  tells  that  the  first  organ  in  the  neighborhood 
belonged  to  the  great-grandmother  who  liked  to  play  and  sing  "The 
Red  River  Valley"  for  visitors.  Was  it  from  this  willing  performer 
that  her  children  inherited  their  proclivity  for  public  appearances, 
Eloise  wonders,  as  she  helps  them  load  the  French  horn,  the  clarinet, 
and  the  saxophone  into  the  station  wagon  and  chauffeurs  them  to 
band  practice;  and  as  she  goes  about  her  kitchen  dodging  the  twirl 
ing  baton  of  the  thirteen-year-old,  who  hopes  to  become  drum 
majorette.  She  imagines  that  some  of  her  older  daughter's  talents 
come  from  the  grandmother  who  had  the  first  really  good  sewing 
machine  in  the  county,  a  marvel  with  foot  treadle  and  drop  head, 
on  which  she  could  make  everything  from  men's  work  shirts  to 


ROUNDUP: 

tucked  and  ruffled  christening  robes.  Now  her  granddaughter  fash 
ions  school  clothes  and  dressy  suits  on  an  electric  sewing  machine 
and  carries  off  prizes  at  the  state  and  county  fair.  Helping  to  plan 
her  daughter's  play  outfits  with  shorts  and  blouses,  slacks  and  for- 
mals,  Eloise  sees  the  ghost  of  an  earlier  young  girl  struggling  to  carry 
out  her  duties  as  wife  and  mother,  carrying  water,  building  fires, 
lifting  heavy  iron  kettles  for  washing  and  soap  making,  and  dressed 
always  in  calico  and  heavy  work  shoes. 

Thankful  as  she  is  for  her  modern  conveniences,  Eloise  wonders 
if  she  has  any  more  leisure  than  the  women  who  went  before  her. 
The  heavier  jobs  are  gone,  but  the  number  of  duties  has  increased. 
She  hurries  through  her  housework  so  that  she  can  meet  with  her 
extension  club  and  pass  on  the  directions  for  upholstering,  which 
the  home  agent  from  the  university  has  given  her.  There  are  new 
tricks  with  draperies,  too,  which  her  neighbors  are  waiting  to  learn. 
Then  she  must  meet  with  the  group  to  discuss  plans  for  study  ses 
sions  on  child  psychology,  and  it  will  be  her  job  to  write  to  the 
State  Library  Commission  for  needed  books.  With  three  of  her 
children  in  the  high  school  band,  she  has  become  an  active  Band 
Mother  and  must  work  on  menus  for  fund-raising  dinners:  new  gold 
and  green  uniforms  for  state  Band  Day  are  as  important  as  the 
music.  Because  she  has  a  college  degree,  the  local  school  board  has 
turned  to  her  in  emergencies,  and  for  a  month  during  a  teacher's 
illness  she  has  substituted  in  the  elementary  grades. 

There  is  too  much  bustling  about,  she  often  thinks,  and  she  is 
constantly  trying  to  find  for  herself  and  her  children  a  little  quiet 
time—something  of  the  peace  their  forebears  knew  as  they  sat  under 
the  old  maples  and  watched  thunderheads  pile  up  in  the  evening 
sky  or  gathered  around  the  dining-room  table  to  crack  walnuts  and 
read  aloud  on  frosty  nights. 

Almost  four  hundred  miles  across  the  state  from  the  corn  and  fruit 
of  this  half-section  farm,  a  six-thousand-acre  ranch  extends  along 
the  Lodgepole,  its  alfalfa  and  hay  fields  lying  beside  the  creek,  its 
range  going  back  for  miles  into  the  rolling  hills.  There  is  a  local 
story  that  the  ranch  buildings  are  on  the  site  of  an  Indian  camp 
ground;  now  the  ranch  is  something  of  a  show  place,  with  its  arched 
gate  displaying  the  sBar  V  brand  between  electric  lanterns  and  its 
tree-bordered  tar  road  leading  to  the  cluster  of  buildings  on  either 
side  of  the  creek.  Across  the  little  bridge  lie  the  old  bunk  house 
and  barn,  whose  stone  walls  are  still  solid  after  sixty  years,  and  the 


A  Nebraska  Reader  447 

three  trim  bungalows  which  are  the  homes  of  the  permanent  helpers, 
married  couples  who  have  been  on  the  ranch  for  years.  On  a  little 
rise  beyond  them,  safe  from  the  Lodgepole— which  can  rampage  as 
wildly  as  the  Missouri— stands  the  modern  ranch  house,  its  picture 
windows  framing  views  of  the  fenced  lawn  bordered  with  flowers, 
of  alfalfa  fields,  of  grazing  cattle  and  billowing  hills. 

As  Carolyn,  the  mistress  of  the  house  and  garden,  works  among 
her  flowers  or  manipulates  the  dials  and  switches  controlling  the 
equipment  in  her  kitchen,  she  remembers  when  she  came  to  the 
ranch  as  a  bride  almost  thirty  years  ago.  Living  then  in  the  little 
house  which  is  now  a  guest  cabin,  she  seemed  nearer  to  the  founders 
of  the  ranch.  She  knows  that  she  herself  was  not  really  a  pioneer, 
but  there  were  not  many  conveniences  in  that  first  little  house.  In 
those  earlier  days  she  could  not  even  have  imagined  her  present 
domain:  the  kitchen  with  its  automatic  stove,  wall  ovens,  dish 
washer,  mixer,  refrigerator,  and  deep  freeze;  the  utility  room  which 
has  a  sewing  corner  as  well  as  washing,  drying,  and  ironing  equip 
ment;  the  central  heating  and  cooling  plant  so  sleek  and  stream 
lined  that  it  is  almost  decorative.  The  2 Bar  V  has  seen  great  changes 
in  the  years  she  has  dwelt  there,  and  nothing  has  changed  more  than 
the  daily  life  of  the  woman  who  is  its  mistress. 

Now  there  is  no  sense  of  isolation  on  the  ranch.  In  the  past  there 
had  sometimes  been  empty  days  when  Carolyn  brooded  over  the 
story  of  a  woman  from  the  tree  claim  beyond  the  hills  who  used  to 
wander  away  looking  for  a  baby  dead  years  before,  and  who  had  to 
be  taken  at  last  to  the  State  Hospital,  a  victim  of  loneliness  and 
sorrow  in  a  harsh  new  land.  But  there  was  always  the  Ford  if  she 
needed  to  go  to  town,  and  now  there  are  the  telephone,  the  radio, 
and  television,  besides  the  ranch  intercommunication  system,  which 
lets  her  talk  to  her  husband  in  the  barn  or  the  women  who  are  her 
friends  and  helpers  in  the  bungalows.  Now  she  can  entertain  easily 
and  often,  sometimes  at  luncheon  in  her  pine-paneled  dining  room, 
oftener,  on  summer  evenings,  at  outdoor  dinners  when  the  yard  is 
floodlighted  and  ranch  steaks  are  cooked  over  charcoal  grills  and 
french  fries  come  sizzling  from  her  electric  frier. 

With  her  children  grown  she  is  finding  new  interests.  For  months 
she  has  been  helping  with  plans  for  a  community  hospital,  working 
for  funds,  going  over  architects'  drawings,  taking  responsibility  for 
furnishings.  She  has  recently  been  elected  to  the  county  high  school 
board,  and  getting  acquainted  with  enthusiastic  young  teachers  has 
given  her  year  a  new  zest.  She  loves  the  life  on  the  ranch,  knowing 


448  ROUNDUP: 

the  young  people  who  come  and  go  as  guests  of  her  college  son  and 
daughter,  the  friendships  with  people  in  both  town  and  country. 
She  is  keenly  aware  that  it  is  a  life  of  violent  contrasts— the  opulence 
of  her  home  and  the  wildness  of  the  hills  that  lie  behind  it;  the 
ease  within  the  house  and  the  hardships  that  are  still  faced  by  the 
men  and  cattle  in  times  of  blizzard  or  drought;  even  the  appearance 
of  her  children— the  son  riding  the  range  in  felt  hat  and  levis  and 
greeting  his  guests  in  white  dinner  jacket  and  cummerbund;  her 
daughter  in  blue  jeans  and  plaid  shirt  driving  a  tractor  in  the  hay- 
field,  later  glowing  like  a  young  princess  in  a  satin  evening  gown. 
Carolyn  has  noticed  lately  how  many  things  are  described  as  "fab 
ulous,"  and  thinking  of  all  that  has  happened  within  her  own 
memory  she  decides  that  nothing  was  ever  more  fabulous  than  her 
home  under  the  cottonwoods  on  Lodgepole  Creek. 

For  many  Nebraska  farmers'  wives,  Carolyn's  life  on  the  sBar  V 
would  seem  a  fairy  tale,  and  even  Eloise's  more  modest  home  a 
thing  beyond  dreams.  Most  of  them  have  electricity,  but  the  bath 
room,  the  automatic  stove,  the  deep  freeze  will  not  come  until  there 
are  several  really  good  crop  years  or  the  price  of  cattle  and  hogs 
is  right.  Some  of  them  live  in  square  or  T-  or  L-shaped  farm  houses 
which  defy  efforts  to  incorporate  modern  decorators*  ideas.  The 
houses  were  planned,  it  seems,  according  to  whim  by  an  absent- 
minded  carpenter.  They  waste  space  where  staircases  open  on  large 
useless  hallways.  They  lack  closet  room,  since  wardrobes  were  in 
fashion  when  they  were  built.  Their  windows  are  small  and  arranged 
at  random.  But  their  owners  do  not  give  up;  they  have  ideas  for 
remodeling  and  rebuilding.  They  collect  plans  and  suggestions  from 
magazines  and  advice  from  home  agents.  They  have  visions  of  knock 
ing  out  partitions  and  cutting  new  windows,  of  building  family 
rooms  and  installing  showers.  They  know  about  storage  walls  and 
baking  areas  and  sewing  centers,  and  they  are  as  full  of  hope  and 
energy  as  the  women  who  first  came  west  to  make  homes  in  Ne 
braska.  They  may  need  five  years  or  even  ten,  but  when  the  time 
comes  they  will  be  ready  to  transform  old  homes  into  new. 

Those  who  must  pump  water  and  carry  wood  are  becoming  fewer 
and  fewer  on  Nebraska  farms.  Electric  lines  are  bringing  power  to 
remote  homes;  and  whether  they  live  in  the  Panhandle,  along  the 
Platte,  the  Republican,  or  the  Niobrara,  farm  people  are  finding 
work  lighter  than  it  was  a  generation  ago.  But  the  pushbutton  which 
simplifies  life  in  some  ways  has  made  it  more  complex  in  others. 
Modern  communication  has  brought  the  farm  family  into  a  larger 


A  Nebraska  Reader  449 

group,  and  social  and  community  life  have  become  more  demand 
ing.  The  present-day  farm  woman  must  not  only  learn  to  operate 
her  new  equipment  but  she  must  undertake  a  variety  of  new  duties. 
As  she  serves  on  neighborhood  projects,  plays  a  responsible  citizen's 
part  in  local  government,  plans  for  schools  and  libraries,  she  is  not 
without  a  sense  of  enterprise  and  high  adventure  akin  to  that  of 
her  forebears.  Like  those  pioneer  women  of  a  century  ago,  she  gladly 
devotes  all  her  strength  and  ingenuity  to  the  quest  for  a  more  boun 
tiful  life  for  her  family  and  her  children's  families  to  come. 


It  is  noteworthy  that  Governor  David  Butler  (1867-1871) 
advocated  women's  suffrage  in  a  special  message  to  the 
legislature,  but  this  was  defeated.  The  legislature,  how 
ever,  passed  what  was  known  as  the  "Married  Women's 
Property  Act,"  which  .  .  .  gave  a  woman  the  right  to  sell 
and  dispose  of  her  real  and  personal  property,  to  engage 
in  any  separate  trade,  business  or  employment  on  her  own 
account,  -free  from  the  control  of  her  husband,  and  al 
lowed  her  to  sue  and  be  sued  in  her  own  name.  This  was 
pioneer  legislation. 

— Othman  A.  Abbott,  Recollections  of  a  Pioneer  Lawyer 


The  Lady  from  Bar  99 


i. 

IN  THE  U.S.  Senate's  1 65-year  history,  it  has  had  just  seven  women 
members.  Last  week  an  eighth  name  was  added  to  the  list.  To  fill 
the  vacancy  created  by  the  death  of  Republican  Dwight  Palmer 
Griswold,  Nebraska's  Governor  Robert  B.  Crosby  appointed  Mrs. 
Eva  Bowring  (rhymes  with  now  ring) ,  owner  and  operator  of  an 
8,ooo-acre  ranch  at  Merriman,  315  miles  northwest  of  Omaha. 

The  new  Senator  is  a  remarkable  woman.  Married  at  19  to  a 
blacksmith,  she  was  widowed  at  32  with  three  small  sons.  To  sup 
port  them,  she  became  a  traveling  saleswoman,  for  more  than  four 
years  fought  her  way  over  muddy  and  rutted  Nebraska  country 
roads  selling  bakery  supplies.  In  1928,  she  remarried,  and  moved 
on  to  her  husband's  Bar  99  ranch  in  the  Nebraska  sandhills.  She 
was  told  then  that  grass  and  trees  would  not  grow  in  the  sand,  but  her 
sprawling  white  ranch  house  now  stands  in  a  grove  of  hackberry 
and  willow  trees  and  on  a  velvet  green  lawn.  Inside  are  her  collec 
tions  of  Early  American  glass,  beer  steins,  colonial  furniture  and 
needlework. 

Since  her  second  husband,  Arthur  Bowring,  died  in  1944,  Mrs. 
Bowring  has  bossed  the  ranch.  Equally  at  home  in  a  western  saddle 
or  as  the  hostess  at  a  formal  dinner,  she  is  up  at  5  A.M.  with  the 
hands,  often  helps  with  branding,  haying  and  riding  the  range. 
Last  month,  she  missed  the  Nebraska  Republican  Founders'  Day 

45° 


A  Nebraska  Reader  451 

ceremonies  because  a  sudden  snowstorm  came  up  and  she  was  help 
ing  to  drive  some  of  her  700  Herefords  10  miles  to  a  feed  lot.  Her 
philosophy:  "I've  not  been  one  who  thought  the  Lord  should  make 
life  easy;  I've  just  asked  him  to  make  me  strong." 

Mrs.  Bowring's  interest  in  politics  came  from  her  second  husband, 
for  many  years  a  county  commissioner  and  a  state  legislator.  (He 
once  was  appointed  to  the  state  legislature  to  succeed  Dwight  Gris- 
wold.)  She  was  a  Republican  precinct  worker  for  20  years,  then 
county  chairman;  since  1946  she  has  been  vice  chairman  of  the 
Nebraska  Republican  State  Central  Committee.  To  get  to  political 
meetings  on  the  western  Nebraska  plains,  she  has  traveled  by  plane, 
car,  snow  sled  and  on  horseback.  Says  she:  "I've  gone  to  those  meet 
ings  in  everything  but  a  manure-spreader." 

When  Governor  Crosby  announced  her  appointment,  he  said  that 
he  had  spent  two  days  trying  to  persuade  Mrs.  Bowring  to  take  it. 
At  a  press  conference  in  the  governor's  office,  she  confirmed  his  state 
ment:  "He  kept  talking  about  the  honor.  But  I  told  him  it  would 
be  just  a  burden.  I  think  that  what  really  convinced  me  was  myself. 
I've  been  saying  for  years  that  women  should  get  into  politics,  and 
so  when  I  got  the  chance,  I  just  didn't  feel  I  could  turn  it  down." 
The  way  she  plans  to  use  that  chance:  "The  Eisenhowers,  Ike  and 
Mamie,  deserve  all  the  support  we  can  give.  Nevertheless,  I  reserve 
the  right  to  make  some  decisions  myself." 

A  handsome,  erect  woman  ("My  grandmother  always  told  me: 
'Stand  tall  and  spurn  the  earth'  ")  with  a  weather-tanned  face,  pop 
ular  and  respected  Eve  ("Everyone  calls  me  'Eve'  ")  Bowring  flew 
back  to  the  ranch  after  the  announcement  "to  kiss  the  cattle  good 
bye."  Said  she,  with  a  characteristic  twinkle:  "They're  about  the  only 
ones  interested  in  kissing  me  any  more."  For  her  introduction  to 
Washington,  she  adopted  a  rancher's  formula:  "I'm  going  to  ...  ride 
the  fence  awhile  .  .  .  until  I  know  where  the  gates  are." 

Reprinted  from  Time,  April  26,  1954.  ©  Time,  Inc.,  1954 


Mrs.  Eve  Bowring  of  Merriman,  Nebraska,  the  nation's  newest 
senator,  was  quickly  caught  up  in  the  official  and  social  whirl  of 
Washington.  No  sooner  had  the  swearing-in  ceremonies  been  com 
pleted  last  week  than  she  had  to  answer  her  first  quorum  call.  "In 
almost  the  twinkle  of  an  eye  a  citizen  was  made  into  a  senator,"  she 
marveled. 


452  ROUNDUP 

Two  days  later,  after  being  assured  there  would  be  no  vote  on  the 
floor,  she  ducked  out  early  to  attend  a  reception  of  Republican 
women.  Shortly  after  her  arrival,  an  urgent  phone  call  summoned 
her  back  for  a  vote.  "That  taught  me  not  to  figure  on  being  able  .  .  . 
to  accept  any  invitations  until  about  6  o'clock,"  she  said. 

After  spending  an  hour  standing  on  marble  floors  at  one  official 
reception,  Senator  Bowring,  who  runs  a  io,ooo-acre  cattle  ranch 
back  home,  complained  good-naturedly:  "I'm  doing  fine.  But  I  sure 
could  use  a  horse." 

Extracted  from  Newsweek,  May  10,  1954 


When  she  was  appointed  to  the  U.S.  Senate  two  months  ago, 
Nebraska  Rancher  Eve  Bowring  adopted  a  rancher's  formula.  Last 
week  Senator  Bowring  found  a  gate  and  rode  through  at  full  gallop. 

A  few  hours  after  the  Senate  Agriculture  Committee  voted  8-7  to 
continue  high,  rigid  support  of  basic  farm-crop  prices  (the  House 
Agriculture  Committee  had  already  voted  21-8  for  the  same  policy), 
Republican  Bowring  rose  then  on  the  Senate  floor  to  make  her 
maiden  speech.  She  knew  that  freshman  senators  are  supposed  to  be 
quiet,  she  said,  but  "I  feel  that  the  hour  is  crucial,  and  that  the  cir 
cumstances  demand  that  I  make  my  position  known."  Her  position: 
the  congressional  committee  majorities  were  dead  wrong;  the  flexible 
price-support  plan  backed  by  Secretary  of  Agriculture  Benson  and 
President  Eisenhower  "will  best  serve  the  future  of  the  nation  and 
its  agriculture." 

Said  Rancher  Bowring:  "In  the  long  run,  rigid  price  supports 
take  from  the  farmer  more  than  he  receives.  They  encourage  him  to 
deplete  his  soil.  They  saddle  the  markets  with  surpluses  which  give 
him  no  opportunity  to  realize  full  parity.  They  destroy  the  normal 
relationship  of  feed  and  livestock  prices.  They  encourage  the  de 
velopment  of  competitive  synthetics.  . .  .  They  place  farmers  in  such 
a  position  that  they  lose  much  of  their  freedom  to  make  manage 
ment  decisions." 

When  the  new  senator  had  finished,  eight  of  her  colleagues  rose 
to  compliment  her.  Among  them  was  one  of  the  oldest  hands  in  the 
Senate,  North  Dakota's  cantankerous  Bill  Langer,  who  thought  she 
had  done  a  fine  job  of  presenting  her  case  but  hoped  "that  before 
adjournment  she  will  have  changed  her  mind."  Mrs.  Bowring  stood 
her  ground. 

Reprinted  from  Time,  July  5,  1954.  ©  Time,  Inc.,  1954 


Nebraska  has  tended  to  benefit  from  the  national  trend 
toward  the  decentralization  of  industry.  The  state  has 
been  active,  through  a  division  of  resources,  in  the  pro 
motion  of  industrial  development  adaptable  to  its  agri 
cultural  economy. 

—Nebraska  Blue  Book,  1952 


Columbus 


WILLIAM  S.  BUTTON 

THOSE  old  plaints  about  little  business  not  having  a  chance  and 
of  machines  robbing  men  of  jobs  are  louder  than  ever.  Before  the 
gloom  gets  too  thick,  however,  let's  visit  Columbus,  Nebraska. 

As  World  War  II  drew  to  a  close,  the  outlook  of  this  town's  8000 
people  was  as  bleak  as  its  prairie  winter.  Platte  County,  of  which 
Columbus  is  the  seat  and  center,  was  losing  population.  Farms 
established  by  homesteaders  were  being  merged,  machines  were  doing 
most  of  the  farm  work,  and  the  young  folks  were  leaving.  Columbus 
saw  itself  becoming  a  mere  signal  stop  in  a  vast  mechanized  corn 
patch.  Signal  tower  describes  Columbus  better  today. 

Young  men,  faced  with  carving  futures  elsewhere,  have  devised 
more  than  100  improvements  for  use  on  the  robots  that  elbowed 
them  off  the  farms.  Out  of  these  have  grown  eleven  new  factories 
employing  upward  of  1000  persons.  Nearly  half  a  dozen  small  plants 
have  moved  in.  Total  payrolls  from  the  burgeoning  industries  exceed 
three  million  dollars  yearly.  This  added  wealth  has  created  another 
1200  jobs  in  stores,  service  stations,  repair  shops.  Retail  sales  in 
Columbus  are  five  times  what  they  were  before  the  war.  The  pop 
ulation  is  pressing  toward  11,000.  Seventy-six  blocks  of  new  streets, 
four  schools  and  869  homes  have  been  built.  Pawnee  Park  on  the 
edge  of  town  now  has  night-lighted  football  and  baseball  fields,  a 
swimming  pool,  bathhouses,  picnic  areas.  Yet,  while  the  town's 
budget  has  more  than  doubled,  the  tax  rate  has  been  halved. 

Columbus  was  much  like  many  rural  county  seats  until  1945: 
pleasant  but  somewhat  of  a  dead-end  headquarters  for  lawyers, 
county  officers,  and  those  who  served  or  supplied  the  farmers.  But 
when  the  war  ended,  sons  in  uniform  came  home  to  find  that  there 
were  few  farm  jobs;  employers  in  town  were  laying  off  help,  not 
taking  on.  At  this  point,  a  group  of  town  leaders  met  to  take  a  hard 

453 


454  ROUNDUP: 

look  at  what  was  ailing.  The  diagnosis  was  that  machines  had 
changed  the  face  of  the  Midwest,  yet  Columbus  was  hitched  to  the 
horse  age.  "We  came  to  an  inescapable  conclusion,"  Phil  Hocken- 
berger,  one  of  the  leaders,  told  me.  "Towns  are  what  their  people 
make  them;  the  responsibility  for  our  future  was  our  own." 

The  men  formed  a  corporation,  Industries,  Inc.  An  abandoned 
tract  of  land  was  bought  and  laid  out  in  small  factory  sites  served 
by  electric  power,  natural  gas  and  a  railroad  siding.  "We  set  out  to 
do  what  towns  in  our  fix  usually  do:  to  try  to  bring  in  outside 
industries,"  said  Mr.  Hockenberger.  "Yet  our  first  applicant  for  a 
site  was  young  Walter  Behlen,  who  had  grown  up  right  here  on  a 
Platte  County  farm." 

Walter,  Gilbert  and  Mike  Behlen,  and  their  father  Fred,  no  doubt 
would  be  tilling  their  own  small  farms  today  if  machines  and  merg 
ers  had  not  shoved  them  off  the  land.  Walt  had  found  work  in 
town  driving  an  express  truck  for  $25  a  week.  Gib  worked  in  the 
express  office.  Mike  was  still  in  school.  "None  of  us  ever  got  to  col 
lege,"  Walt  relates.  "Our  only  assets  were  that,  like  most  farm-bred 
boys,  we  had  good  strong  backs  and  were  handy  with  tools." 

When  a  chance  popped  up  to  buy  a  little  manufacturing  business 
for  $600,  Walt,  his  brothers  and  father  each  put  $25  into  a  down 
payment  and  signed  notes  for  the  rest.  Their  new  shop  was  fitted  with 
tools  and  dies  for  making  corn  hooks.  Farmers  had  used  such  hooks 
for  centuries  in  hand-husking  corn  from  the  shock— surely  this  would 
be  a  safe  product  to  invest  in.  Not  until  they  began  trying  to  sell  the 
hooks  did  Walt  find  they  had  been  hooked.  Mechanical  harvesters 
that  picked  the  corn  and  husked  it  in  a  single  operation  had  invaded 
the  Corn  Belt.  In  two  years  the  hand-husker  was  out  of  date. 

Walt  took  over  the  notes  and  was  five  years  paying  them  off.  But 
he  still  had  the  shop,  and  in  his  mind  he  formed  a  resolve;  whatever 
he  undertook  to  make  next  was  going  to  be  ahead  of  what  others 
made.  He  began  looking  at  things  with  a  new  eye,  the  eye  of  an  in 
ventor.  As  an  expressman  Walt  handled  many  cases  of  eggs  in  ship 
ment.  The  lid  clamps  could  be  better,  he  believed.  Nights  in  his  shop 
or  summer  evenings  under  an  apple  tree  where  he  had  a  forge,  he 
experimented  with  a  better  clamp.  It  wasn't  long  before  he  had  one. 
In  1941  he  sold  all  the  clamps  he  could  make  and  had  enough  ad 
vance  orders  to  quit  his  job  on  the  express  truck.  He  took  in  his 
father  as  a  partner;  they  called  themselves  the  Behlen  Manufacturing 
Co. 

Walt  next  studied  a  major  problem  of  the  Midwest  corn  grower. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  455 

Fall  rains  often  prevented  feed  corn  from  drying  sufficiently  in  the 
field,  which  caused  it  to  mold  later  in  the  old  wooden  corn  cribs.  For 
years  farmers  have  required  a  cheap,  dependable  method  of  crib- 
drying.  Walt  hit  on  a  simple  scheme:  he  rolled  strips  of  stiff  mesh 
wire  into  tubes,  built  a  motor-driven  blower  to  force  dry  air  through 
them,  then  placed  them  among  ears  of  corn  in  a  crib.  This  crib- 
drying  scheme  proved  so  effective  that  corn  could  be  harvested  before 
the  rains  or  as  quickly  as  it  matured.  Overnight  the  tiny  Behlen 
company  was  leading  a  small  revolution  in  harvesting  practices. 
Soon  the  Behlens  and  others  adapted  the  idea  to  the  bin-drying  of 
wheat,  rye,  oats,  barley,  shelled  corn.  An  all-metal  storage  bin,  which 
may  be  air-sealed  after  the  grain  is  dried,  was  their  next  step,  and 
such  bins  are  standard  in  the  Midwest  today. 

Walt's  one-man  shop  had  grown  into  a  booming  venture  in  sev 
eral  rented  downtown  buildings  when,  in  1945,  his  two  brothers 
joined  the  partnership.  By  1946  they  applied  to  Industries,  Inc.  for 
a  factory  site.  They  were  employing  some  100  men.  When  they  got 
the  site,  they  borrowed  §140,000  from  the  Reconstruction  Finance 
Corp.,  built  a  factory  of  glass  and  steel,  and  paid  off  the  loan  in  jig- 
time. 

This  set  the  whole  town  to  talking. 

Walter  Schmid,  a  nearby  farmer,  was  bothered  with  a  sore  back. 
"It's  time  somebody  built  a  tractor  seat  that  doesn't  ride  like  a 
bucking  steer,"  he  told  his  cousin,  Ivan  Schmid,  and  his  brother-in- 
law,  Leonard  Fleischer.  They  went  to  work.  Result:  a  tractor  seat 
fitted  with  a  hydraulic  shock  absorber  and  adaptable  to  any  farm 
tractor.  Later  a  universal  joint  was  built  into  the  seat  to  iron  out 
the  lurches  on  rough  ground.  In  1947  the  Fleischer-Schmid  Corp. 
sold  25,000  tractor  seats,  and  their  new  factory  rose  near  the  new 
Behlen  works. 

A  sore  neck  started  the  Kosch  Manufacturing  Co.  Howard,  one  of 
Farmer  Kosch's  seven  grown  sons,  complained  one  evening  that  his 
neck  hurt  from  looking  backward  all  day.  at  the  cutter  bar  on  the 
field-grass  mower.  "There's  no  sense  in  having  that  bar  behind  the 
tractor  wheel,"  he  said.  "It  ought  to  be  in  front,  like  it  was  on  our 
old  horse-drawn  mower." 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  nodded  Farmer  Kosch.  "Why  not  do  some 
thing  about  it,  like  Walt  Behlen?"  Howard,  Max  and  Joe  Kosch, 
late  of  the  Army  and  Navy  and  now  surplus  hands  on  a  mechanized 
farm,  soon  had  a  shop  where  they  were  turning  out  ten  front- 
suspended  cutter  bars  daily. 


456  ROUNDUP: 

Allen  Manner,  a  20-year-old  ex-Marine,  took  a  homemade  soil- 
mover  that  had  been  used  in  scooping  out  irrigation  ditches,  added 
some  ideas  of  his  own,  and  in  partnership  with  his  mother  and  sister 
organized  the  Soil  Mover  Co.  Before  long  he  was  making  50  of  his 
ditchers  per  month. 

Carl  Siefken,  former  Richland  farmer,  opened  a  shop  for  making 
his  idea  of  a  better  corn-blower,  an  attachment  that  cleans  the  ears 
of  bits  of  husk  and  silk  as  they  are  mechanically  picked  and  husked— 
and  now  shelled,  too— right  in  the  field. 

All  of  these  ventures  have  adopted  the  basic  Behlen  policy:  never 
get  caught  behind  the  times.  As  one  of  the  men  puts  it:  "By  keeping 
a  jump  ahead  of  the  big  fellows,  we  make  sure  that  nobody  is  going 
to  trample  us  underfoot."  At  the  Behlen  plant— now  grown  to  225 
employees— they  will  show  you  a  mesh-welding  machine,  used  in 
making  metal  corn  cribs,  that  cost  less  than  a  tenth  of  the  best  price 
quoted  by  a  big  machine-builder.  The  mesh-welder  was  built  from 
scratch  by  local  boys. 

Since  the  lesson  of  the  corn  hooks,  the  Behlens  have  introduced 
19  other  improvements  in  farm  equipment,  most  of  which  have  been 
successful.  One  of  the  ideas  hatched  in  casual  talks  around  Walt's 
desk,  the  biggest,  brought  out  in  1949,  is  still  a  cause  of  wonder  where- 
ever  it  is  seen.  Explaining  its  inception  to  me,  Walt  took  a  sheet  of 
letter  paper  and  stood  it  on  edge  on  the  desk-top.  The  sheet 
promptly  fell  down.  Then  he  pleated  it  into  an  accordion  effect.  It 
stayed  upright.  On  that  principle  he  built  the  first  commercially 
feasible  frameless  building  made  wholly  of  aluminum  sheets. 

Townspeople  invited  to  view  the  building  were  flabbergasted.  The 
interior  was  50  by  200  feet,  and  not  a  supporting  pillar  or  girder  or 
partition  was  in  sight— just  empty  space.  Walt  swung  14  farm  tractors 
from  the  ridgepole  to  prove  that  he  had  calculated  every  stress  and 
strain.  Not  until  a  full-scale  storm  hit  the  area,  however,  were  folks 
convinced  that  the  structure  was  safe.  A  nearly  finished  frameless 
building,  its  most  exposed  end  open  to  the  elements,  stood  the  full 
force  of  the  8o-mile  wind  without  damagel  Since  then,  125  of  these 
buildings  have  been  erected  in  more  than  a  dozen  states.  They  are 
being  used  as  factories,  warehouses,  barns,  churches  and,  at  Wood 
River,  Nebr.,  as  a  public  school.  The  largest,  100  by  552  feet,  is  a 
warehouse  at  the  Union  Stock  Yards  at  Omaha. 

So  confident  has  Columbus  become  that  its  inventors  will  have 
new  wonders  every  year,  that  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  has  leased 
a  lot  at  the  Nebraska  State  Fair  for  an  annual  Columbus  show.  The 


A  Nebraska  Reader  457 

sensation  for  1954  was  an  improved  hay  loader  developed  by  Marvin 
Preifert  and  a  research  group  headed  by  Dr.  Frank  G.  Johnson.  On 
a  modern  farm,  machines  bale  hay  in  the  field.  The  bales,  left  in 
rows  on  the  ground,  are  heavy  and  awkward  to  handle,  so  loaders 
of  the  escalator  belt  type  are  widely  used.  Some  of  these  loaders  have 
a  serious  fault,  however:  they  won't  pick  up  bales  without  human 
assistance.  Preifert,  whose  prairie  farm  is  30  miles  from  Columbus, 
observed  that  clods  of  earth  caught  on  the  tread  of  his  tractor  wheel 
went  around  with  it,  usually  dropped  oS  near  the  top.  Suddenly  he 
saw  those  clods  as  bales  of  hay.  Building  a  wheel  loader  to  fit  his 
vision,  he  called  in  Dr.  Johnson's  research  staff  for  technical  help. 

At  the  1954  fair,  Nebraska  farmers  saw  a  loader  that  resembled  a 
small  Ferris  wheel.  It  was  mounted  on  a  wheeled  frame  that  could 
be  pulled  easily  by  a  farm  truck.  Instead  of  seats  for  riders,  this 
Ferris  wheel  had  sets  of  steel  prongs  spaced  regularly  along  its  rim. 
As  the  wheel  is  drawn  forward  the  prongs  slip  under  and  pick  up 
the  bales  in  the  wheel's  path.  When  hitched  beside  a  farm  truck, 
the  wheel,  canted  at  a  45-degree  angle,  overhangs  the  truck's  loading 
space.  Bales  slip  off  naturally  at  the  top  of  the  turn  and  drop  into 
the  truck's  body.  Tests  have  indicated  that  this  bale-loader  works 
in  any  sort  of  farm  field,  and  enables  two  men  to  do  the  work  done 
by  six  men  using  older  methods.  So  another  new  factory  will  soon 
be  scheduled  for  Columbus' s  abandoned  tract,  now  known  as  the 
Industrial  Site. 

That  area,  a  corn  field  ten  years  ago,  is  now  almost  filled  with 
busy  industries.  A  second  vacant  tract  has  already  been  marked  on 
the  municipal  plan  as  Industrial  Site  No.  2.  At  the  Chamber  of 
Commerce,  Manager  Doane  L.  Fessenden  will  tell  you  with  no  little 
pride  that  America  has  discovered  Columbus.  Actually,  Columbus 
discovered  itself  first. 


Reprinted  from  "The  Town  That  Discovered  Itself,"  Reader's  Digest,  March,  1955 


It  is  plain  that  the  U.S.  in  the  years  ahead  could  very  well 
use  more  soldiers  like  Gruenther,  and  it  is  in  the  national 
interest  to  inquire  into  his  origins,  in  the  hope  that  there 
may  be  more  where  he  came  from. 

-Life,  June  i,  1953 

Seventeen-Gun  Salute 

i.  NATO's  General  Gruenther 

As  NATO's  first  Supreme  Commander  in  Europe,  Eisenhower  and 
his  towering  prestige  rallied  and  heartened  Europe's  terrified  nations 
and  gave  them  confidence  that  the  thing  could  be  done.  His  suc 
cessor,  General  Matthew  Ridgway,  was  a  blunt  soldier  who  de 
manded  more  troops  than  the  Europeans  were  willing  to  supply, 
stepped  on  many  toes,  left  no  happy  memories.  In  a  time  of  peace- 
mongering,  Gruenther  has  inherited  the  demanding  and  delicate 
job. 

Few  men  have  been  so  superbly  fitted  to  fill  their  time  and  place 
in  history  as  General  Alfred  Maximilian  Gruenther.  Admits  one 
French  newspaper:  "A  commander  less  flexible  and  informed  on 
European  politics  would  have  brought  great  peril  not  only  to  the 
military  organization  but  to  the  Atlantic  alliance  itself."  Said  able 
NATO  Secretary-General  Lord  Ismay,  who  as  personal  chief  of  staff 
to  Churchill  in  World  War  II  has  seen  many:  "General  Gruenther 
is  the  greatest  soldier-statesman  I  have  ever  known." 

In  the  present  crisis  of  indifference,  Gruenther  understands  that 
no  alliance  is  stronger  than  the  will  to  support  it.  With  a  cascade  of 
facts  drawn  from  an  incredible  memory,  an  inextinguishable  smile 
and  a  dry  Nebraska  lucidity  that  is  the  admiration  of  every  statesman 
in  Europe,  Al  Gruenther  expounds  to  everyone  who  will  listen— to 
groups  of  manufacturers,  parliamentarians,  schoolgirl  choirs— the 
necessity,  importance,  and  stature  of  NATO. 

Last  week  Gruenther  rushed  off  to  Belgium  to  talk  to  the  Premier, 
have  an  audience  with  young  King  Baudoin,  lunch  with  the  Defense 
Minister,  and  deliver  a  lecture  to  the  royal  military  school.  He 
never  made  the  mistake  of  publicly  reproaching  the  Belgians  for 
failure  to  contribute  more  than  they  do.  But  in  his  conversations 
with  King,  Premier  and  top  officers,  he  demanded  not  the  politically 

458 


A  Nebraska  Reader  459 

impossible  but  tried  to  demonstrate  with  typical  well-informed 
cogency,  with  figures  on  coal  production  and  production  indexes, 
what  more  was  possible.  Back  in  Paris,  he  took  off  again  for  London, 
in  the  face  of  a  heavy  fog,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  giving  his  pep  talk 
to  a  gathering  of  Britain's  public-relations  men.  "We  can  stand 
criticism,  but  we  cannot  stand  indifference,"  he  warns,  and  for  a 
moment  the  smile  fades. 

NATO's  indispensable  man  has  been  described  as  a  human  IBM 
machine,  the  perfect  staff  officer,  the  smartest  man  in  the  U.S.  Army, 
the  most  factual  man  of  his  times.  His  extraordinary  talents  were  so 
much  in  demand  as  a  staff  officer  that  until  he  became  NATO's  su 
preme  commander,  he  had  never  commanded  anything  bigger  than 
an  artillery  battalion.  Eldest  of  six  children  of  a  small-town  news 
paper  editor,  Alfred  Maximilian  Gruenther  was  born  57  years  ago 
in  Platte  Center,  Neb.  "A  skinny  kid  with  an  extra  good  head  on 
him,"  young  Al  took  a  memory  course  by  correspondence  when  he 
was  13,  later  added  a  course  in  public  speaking.  When  he  discovered 
that  every  rising  young  officer  should  play  bridge,  he  sent  for  an 
instruction  book,  soon  became  the  Army's  best  bridge  player  and 
eked  out  his  Army  pay  by  refereeing  public  matches,  including  the 
famed  Culbertson-Lenz  match  of  1931.  He  graduated  fourth  in  his 
class,  but  he  was  stuck  for  17  years  in  the  grade  of  snd  lieutenant, 
teaching  at  West  Point. 

During  World  War  II,  Gruenther  proved  himself  a  planner  with 
out  peer.  He  planned  the  North  African  invasion,  the  Fifth  Army 
landings  in  Italy,  the  arduous  campaign  in  Italy's  mountains.  Says 
Mark  Clark:  "On  every  efficiency  report  I  ever  turned  in  on 
Gruenther  I  wrote:  'Highly  qualified  to  be  Chief  of  Staff  of  the 
Army  at  the  appropriate  time/"  Dwight  Eisenhower,  with  an  ad 
miration  matching  Clark's,  has  been  heard  to  remark:  "Al  Gruenther 
would  make  a  good  President  of  the  U.S." 

When  Ike  was  called  from  the  presidency  of  Columbia  University 
to  become  NATO's  first  Supreme  Commander  in  Europe,  his  first 
and  only  choice  as  his  chief  of  staff  was  his  old  friend  and  favorite 
bridge  partner,  Al  Gruenther.  Gruenther  stayed  on  under  Ridgway. 
In  mid-1953,  Ridgway  left  to  become  the  Army's  Chief  of  Staff,  and 
Eisenhower  made  Gruenther  Supreme  Commander. 

The  nerve  center  from  which  Al  Gruenther  commands  NATO's 
4,ooo-mile  front  is  a  low,  many-winged  building,  40  minutes  from 
the  Ritz  bar,  in  the  President  of  France's  official  hunting  preserves. 
Through  its  halls  hustle  800  professional  military  men  of  15  nations, 


46o  ROUNDUP: 

comprising  the  unique  multilingual  command  staff  called  SHAPE 
(Supreme  Headquarters  Allied  Powers  in  Europe). 

On  a  typical  day,  the  commanding  general  is  driven  up  in  his 
black  Buick  at  exactly  9  A.M.;  he  glances  at  the  flags  fluttering  from 
15  tall  flagpoles  at  the  entrance,  and  trots  briskly  up  the  steps.  His 
working  day  had  begun  almost  an  hour  earlier,  when  his  French 
aide  reported  to  his  breakfast  table  to  brief  him  on  the  day's  news 
in  the  French  press  (Gruenther  had  already  whipped  through  the 
Paris  edition  of  the  Herald  Tribune).  At  his  desk,  Gruenther  hands 
a  secretary  six  or  seven  Dictaphone  records  filled  with  instructions 
and  answers  to  letters  that  he  had  dictated  at  home.  Gruenther 
moves  through  the  prepared  pile  of  papers  with  the  efficiency  of  a 
high-powered  threshing  machine.  Each  paper  gets  a  flash  of  con 
centration  that  is  complete  and  immediate.  He  raps  out  his  decision 
and  flips  the  paper  to  a  waiting  aide  without  looking  up. 

These  chores  over,  Gruenther  browses  through  six  British  news 
papers  (flown  over  every  morning),  and  several  U.S.  and  other 
weeklies. 

Soon  a  steady  stream  of  Gruenthergrams— paper  slips  bearing  or 
ders,  queries  or  demands— is  rocketing  from  his  desk.  The  Gruenther 
grams  range  as  far  and  wide  as  the  general's  far-ranging  mind. 
Samples:  "Please  investigate  the  scratching  and  meows  on  the  roof." 
"It  seems  to  me  that  about  a  year  ago  I  sent  to  G-z  a  study  dealing 
with  Soviet  concepts  of  strategy.  I'd  like  to  use  it  over  the  weekend." 
"I  hear  your  sergeant-major  had  a  baby  yesterday.  Boy  or  girl?" 
(The  general  will  write  a  letter  of  congratulation.)  Gruenther's 
insatiable  demands  for  information  keep  his  staff  in  a  state  of  palm- 
sweating  nerves  all  day  long.  But  they  accord  him  a  rare  loyalty  and 
devotion,  tending  him  like  some  dangerous  but  tremendously  pre 
cious  machine  which  must  be  kept  running  at  all  costs. 

A  demanding  perfectionist,  Gruenther  seldom  is  more  than  gruff 
to  erring  allied  officers.  He  saves  the  rough  side  of  his  tongue  for  his 
U.S.  aides,  a  painful  process  known  as  being  "Gruentherized."  It 
consists  of  a  detailed  itemization  of  all  the  unfortunate  officer's 
weaknesses,  punctuated  by  explosive  cuss  words.  Few  escape. 

Mindful  of  his  mission,  Gruenther  lets  no  group  that  might  in 
fluence  opinion  pass  through  Paris  unnoticed.  In  1955,  he  personally 
briefed  175  visiting  groups  totaling  7,000  people.  Outside  his  office 
is  a  card  file  of  visitors,  noting  the  time  of  their  last  visit,  a  brief 
biography,  whether  it  is  "Mr.  Fairfield"  or  "Jack"  Once,  flying  to 
Britain  for  a  meeting  with  Members  of  Parliament,  he  had  aides 


A  Nebraska  Reader  461 

get  out  photographs  of  the  120  M.P/s  who  had  visited  SHAPE  and 
thumb-nail  biographies  of  each.  Said  an  awed  Englishman:  "When 
he  walked  into  Parliament,  he  knew  every  damn  one  of  them, 
greeted  them  by  name,  adding  remarks  like  'How's  your  new 
daughter?' " 

Such  talent  for  detail,  priceless  in  a  staff  officer,  can  be  disastrous 
in  a  commander,  and  some  senior  NATO  officers  were  worried  that 
Gruenther  would  let  details  distract  him  from  broader  thinking. 
"But  we  found  that  he  is  able  to  clear  his  mind  and  his  desk  with 
lightning  speed/7  says  one  SHAPE  officer.  "He  never  abandoned 
the  detail;  he  simply  operates  brilliantly  on  two  levels  instead  of 
one." 

How  would  the  free  world  stand  if  there  were  no  NATO?  Gruen- 
ther's  answer  is  short.  NATO's  failure  would  be  a  staggering  blow 
to  the  West.  How  long  could  small  nations  like  Denmark  or  Greece 
stand  against  Russian  threats?  Or  unstable  nations  like  France 
against  Communist  subversion?  NATO's  other  justification  for  being, 
and  by  no  means  a  secondary  one,  is  as  peacetime  weapon  of  the  cold 
war.  It  reduces  fear  and  restores  hope  to  Europe,  by  providing  a 
shield— a  shield  that  is  visible,  and  visibly  American.  In  its  seven 
short  years,  NATO  has  created  a  community  powerful  enough  to 
deter  its  enemy,  healthy  enough  to  survive  the  family  squabbles  so 
far,  binding  enough  so  that  no  member  has  wished  to  withdraw. 

And  for  NATO's  present  solidity  and  good  repute,  the  free  world 
has  reason  to  be  grateful  to  General  Al  Gruenther.* 

Extracted  from  Time,  Febr.  6,  1956.  ©  Time,  Inc.,  1956 


2.  Nebraska's  Al  Gruenther 

ROBERT  COUGHLAN 

THE  east  central  part  of  Nebraska,  in  which  Gruenther's  home  town 
of  Platte  Center  is  situated,  was  settled  largely  by  Irish  immigrants. 
Gruenther's  mother  was  Mary  Shea,  a  country  schoolmarm,  the 
daughter  of  local  farmers.  After  the  Irish,  the  Germans— mostly  from 
the  southern,  Catholic  sections— arrived  in  great  numbers  and  among 
them  were  Gruenther's  paternal  grandparents.  Thus  Alfred  was  a 

*  On  his  retirement  in  December,  1956,  General  Gruenther  became  President 
of  the  American  Red  Cross. 


46s>  ROUNDUP: 

typical  product  of  this  particular  corner  of  the  Middle  West:  Ger 
man  and  Irish,  a  descendant  of  farmers,  a  Catholic. 

Today  Platte  Center  has  a  population  of  about  500,  with  several 
dozen  pleasant-looking  clapboard  houses  set  in  big,  leafy  yards  along 
dirty  streets.  Except  that  it  has  lost  about  10%  of  its  population,  it 
is  very  much  the  same  as  when  Alfred  Gruenther  was  born  there  on 
March  3,  1899,  in  a  small  white  clapboard  house  with  gingerbread 
trim,  set  far  back  on  a  big  lawn. 

In  this  village,  entertainment  was  not  something  that  happened 
but  that  had  to  be  planned,  and  young  Alfred's  bent  toward  or 
ganization  had  a  chance  to  develop  early.  The  neighborhood  base 
ball  games  took  place  in  his  yard,  with  Alfred  playing  all  positions 
indiscriminately.  In  the  classroom  at  St.  Joseph's  school  his  favorite 
sport  was  to  put  a  pin  in  the  toe  of  his  shoe  and  prick  the  bottom  of 
the  pupil  in  the  desk  ahead  of  him,  looking  up  with  bland  surprise 
when  the  victim  yelped.  He  was  alert,  mischievous  and  dissembling, 
and  on  top  of  it  got  reasonably  good  grades  in  school  without  seem 
ing  to  do  much  work.  He  acquired  the  nickname  "Simp,"  from 
Simpleton,  because,  his  schooldays'  friend,  Harold  ("Stump")  Glea- 
son,  recalls,  "He  was  so  outlandishly  clever." 

But  there  were  few  pranks  at  home.  Mary  Shea  Gruenther,  who 
is  in  her  late  yo's  now,  still  full  of  energy  and  country  sense,  says  of 
her  household,  "We  belonged  to  the  old  school.  By  the  time  you  got 
your  chores  done  and  ate  your  supper,  it  was  time  to  march  off  to 
bed.  In  our  house  there  was  a  boss,  and  that  was  Mr.  Gruenther.  I 
like  to  think  I  added  something,  but  I  don't  want  to  take  anything 
away  from  Mr.  Gruenther.  Alfred  got  everything  from  his  father." 

By  every  account  Christopher  Gruenther  was  an  extraordinarily 
able  and  virtuous  man.  He  had  learned  hard  work  and  self-reliance 
when  his  mother  died  and  his  father  went  to  Oregon,  leaving  him 
with  relatives.  He  made  his  living  as  a  farmhand  and  put  himself 
through  a  year  of  college.  Afterward,  with  more  hard  work  and 
frugality,  he  saved  enough  to  start  a  weekly  newspaper,  the  Platte 
Center  Signal  (circulation  300).  He  was  a  tall,  good-looking  man, 
full  of  energy  and  good  humor,  and  in  that  time  and  in  that  part 
of  the  country  it  was  inevitable  that  he  go  into  politics.  He  became 
clerk  of  the  district  court,  managed  two  successful  campaigns  for 
U.S.  Senator  Gilbert  Hitchcock  and  was  state  manager  during  two 
of  William  Jennings  Bryan's  presidential  campaigns.*  However, 

*  "The  Bryan  Volunteers  had  for  officers  only  a  president,  a  vice-president  and 
a  secretary.  The  president,  myself,  did  all  the  field  work.  The  secretary,  Christian 


A  Nebraska  Reader  463 

politics  was  neither  a  vocation,  except  incidentally,  nor  an  avocation 
with  him.  He  was  an  old-fashioned  patriot,  who  approached  his 
political  tasks  with  strong  convictions  and  a  sense  of  moral  obliga 
tion;  and  he  took  his  parental  responsibilities  with  equal  serious 
ness.  He  was  an  affectionate  father  and  entered  into  the  front  yard 
ball  games  with  enthusiasm.  But  he  was  also  a  strong  disciplinarian 
who  expected  exact  obedience  and  refused  to  allow  his  children  to 
give  anything  less  than  their  best,  and  who  punished  laziness  and 
bad  behavior  with  righteous  wrath. 

Alfred  was  the  oldest.  Homer,  Lester  (who  died  at  u),  Leona, 
Louis  and  Veronica  arrived  in  descending  order.  Chris  seemed  to 
concentrate  his  particular  attention  on  Alfred.  He  supervised  his 
schoolwork,  paid  him  a  bonus  for  good  marks,  talked  to  him  about 
the  value  of  knowledge,  drilled  him  in  "knowing  the  problem," 
taught  him  checkers,  not  as  a  game  but  because  it  was  "good  mental 
exercise."  Mary  Gruenther  says,  "His  ideas  conformed  to  his  father's." 
By  the  time  Alfred  was  13  and  ready  for  high  school,  Chris  had 
become  clerk  of  the  district  court  at  Columbus  and  was  also  a  lead 
ing  land  auctioneer.  Mary  Gruenther  was  in  charge  at  the  Signal. 
With  their  combined  income  Alfred's  parents  were  able  to  send  him 
to  boarding  school,  and  as  Chris  already  had  formed  the  idea  that 
he  should  eventually  go  to  West  Point  the  school  he  chose  was  St. 
Thomas  Military  Academy,  a  Catholic  prep  school  at  St.  Paul. 

Alfred  was  not  then  particularly  ambitious.  But  "to  fail  would 
have  been  to  grieve  my  father,"  he  has  said.  "He  was  so  pleased 
when  I  did  well,  and  he  took  it  so  hard  when  I  didn't."  So  he  took 
a  memory  course— the  beginnings  of  that  minute  memory  that  is 
so  impressive  to  his  colleagues  now.  But  his  grades  still  were  not 
brilliant,  and  Chris,  taking  no  chances,  sent  him  to  the  Army  and 
Navy  Preparatory  School  in  Washington  to  prepare  him  for  the 
West  Point  examinations.  When  the  time  came,  and  Senator  Hitch 
cock  made  him  an  appointee,  he  passed  the  examinations  handily. 
Classmates  at  West  Point  remember  him  as  a  grind,  and  one  of  them 

M.  Gruenther,  did  all  the  headquarters  work.  Untiring  in  labor,  stanch  in 
democracy,  zealous  in  devotion  to  Bryan's  leadership,  Gruenther  instituted  and 
carried  on  the  mechanics  of  party  organization. 

"It  seemed  incredible  to  me  then  and  still  does  that  Bryan,  when  he  was  Sec 
retary  of  State,  should  have  refused  the  one  request  that  Gruenther  made  of  him. 
Gruenther  asked  Bryan  to  endorse  his  application  to  become  Collector  of  Internal 
Revenue.  Bryan  refused  insultingly,  basing  his  refusal  on  the  grounds  that 
Gruenther  had  supported  Harmon  for  the  Populist  nomination  in  1912.  He  said 
that  even  Gruenther's  children  would  live  to  regret  their  father's  course.  .  .  ." 
—Arthur  F.  Mullen,  Western  Democrat 


464  ROUNDUP: 

has  said,  "He  was  a  little  mousy.  You  wouldn't  have  said  he  had 
capacity  for  leadership  or  that  he  could  impose  his  personality  on 
others."  He  graduated  fourth  in  his  class  on  Nov.  i,  1918,  10  days 
before  the  Armistice.  In  1920  he  found  himself  at  Fort  Knox. 

Here  he  met  and  fell  in  love  with  Grace  Crum,  a  Jeffersonville, 
Ind.,  girl  who  was  working  at  Knox  as  a  secretary  and  sometime 
hostess  at  the  officers'  club.  His  mother  remembers,  "His  father 
worried  a  good  deal  about  it,  but  then  he  thought,  'If  he's  in  love 
•  and  wants  to  marry,  it  will  be  on  his  mind  and  harm  him  in  his 
work,  so  maybe  it  will  be  better  if  he  goes  ahead  and  marries.'  So 
Mr.  Gruenther  wrote  and  gave  him  his  permission." 

Less  than  a  year  later  Chris  Gruenther  was  fatally  injured  in  an 
automobile  accident.  His  oldest  daughter,  Leona,  remembers,  "Al 
got  there  before  Daddy  died.  He  took  charge  of  everything,  made 
all  the  arrangements  with  that  complete  efficiency.  And  then,  when 
it  was  all  over,  he  broke  down  and  cried  like  his  heart  would  break. 
In  a  way  it  was  worse  for  him  than  for  any  of  us." 

Soon  afterward  Alfred  and  Grace  and  their  baby  son  Donald  left 
for  the  Philippines  (a  second  son,  Richard,  was  born  there).  In 
1927  he  returned  to  West  Point  as  an  instructor  in  chemistry  and 
electricity  and  stayed  for  five  years,  until  1932.  They  were  important 
years  for  him.  The  same  classmate  who  had  thought  him  "a  little 
mousy"  as  a  cadet  was  there  also  and  was  interested  in  watching  him 
change.  "I  think  it  began  with  the  realization  that  he  was  a  damn 
good  teacher.  There  was  a  gradual  development  of  confidence.  With 
that  he  began  to  show  qualities  of  leadership.  I  think  he  found  him 
self  at  the  academy." 

It  was  not  until  1935  that  Gruenther  made  captain,  and  four 
more  years  elapsed  before  he  got  his  first  field  command.  In  that 
period  he  became  one  of  the  youngest  of  his  class  at  the  Command 
and  General  Staff  School  and  the  Army  War  College,  a  fact  that 
persuaded  Gruenther  he  eventually  would  gain  at  least  fairly  high 
rank.  Since  ranking  officers  often  were  called  upon  to  speak  in  public 
Gruenther  enrolled  for  an  evening  course  in  public  speaking;  he  also 
began  to  collect— and  index— the  anecdotes  and  jokes  which  enliven 
his  talks.  This  ceaseless  self-improvement  extended  to  his  relation 
ships  with  others.  He  had  been  a  "pretty  serious  young  man  who 
missed  a  lot  of  the  fun  of  life"  when  he  started  out,  his  wife  remem 
bers.  But  the  surface  aspects  of  that  changed  too,  and  Gruenther 
came  increasingly  to  resemble  Chris  in  warmth  and  humor  of  per 
sonality. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  465 

In  1939  Captain  Gruenther  was  given  command  of  the  15th  Field 
Artillery  Battalion  at  Fort  Sam  Houston.  When  he  called  on  Major 
General  (later  Lieut.  General)  Walter  Kreuger  to  pay  his  respects, 
Kreuger,  a  bluff  soldier,  declared  that  Gruenther  had  spent  far  too 
much  time  at  West  Point  and  far  too  little  in  the  field  and  would 
be  worthless  as  commander  of  an  artillery  unit  or,  for  that  matter, 
anything  else.  Gruenther's  first  intimation  that  the  general  had 
mellowed  came  more  than  a  year  later  when  Kreuger  suddenly  asked 
him  to  become  one  of  his  aides. 

In  1941  Gruenther  was  sent  to  Washington  to  serve  at  General 
Headquarters  under  Lieut.  General  McNair.  Also  on  McNair's  staff 
was  a  young  brigadier  general  named  Mark  Clark  who,  as  it  hap 
pened,  was  a  good  friend  of  a  colonel  named  Dwight  Eisenhower, 
chief  of  staff  to  General  Kreuger,  now  commander  of  the  Third 
Army.  On  Clark's  recommendation,  and  with  Kreuger's  strong  en 
dorsement,  Eisenhower  made  Gruenther  his  deputy.  "It  was  love  at 
first  sight,"  Eisenhower  has  recalled.  "I  was  intrigued  by  the  little 
devil.  He  always  had  a  joke  or  wisecrack,  he  had  all  the  answers  at 
his  fingertips,  and  he  never  got  tired." 

When  Eisenhower  was  sent  to  London,  he  at  once  asked  for 
Gruenther.  Things  were  happening  very  fast  just  then.  Gruenther 
had  to  leave  for  London  unbriefed  on  Operation  Torch,  the  in 
vasion  of  North  Africa.  His  first  day  there  Eisenhower  told  him  a 
little  about  the  invasion  and  added  that  Gruenther  would  be  chief 
planning  officer  for  it.  That  night  he  was  notified  to  appear  at  a 
meeting  the  next  morning.  When  he  arrived,  he  found  himself 
among  30  ranking  British  officers. 

To  Gruenther's  horror,  everyone  turned  expectantly  to  him.  The 
British  had  come  to  hear  the  American  plan  for  Torch.  With  acute 
embarrassment  Gruenther  explained  that  he  was  just  in  and  didn't 
feel  qualified  to  speak.  The  British  politely  asked  when  he  might 
do  so— that  being  Monday,  would  Friday  be  convenient?  Gruenther 
wanly  agreed.  He  had  had  very  little  practical  experience  in  plan 
ning,  but  he  pulled  together  a  small  staff  and  on  Friday  had  a 
preliminary  plan  ready.  Within  six  weeks  the  whole  operation  was 
planned  in  detail.  "It  was  sink  or  swim,"  Gruenther  says.  "I  man 
aged  to  swim,  and  in  the  process  I  learned  the  art  of  planning  and 
I've  spent  most  of  my  time  at  it  ever  since." 

As  the  youngest  four-star  general  in  the  Army,  Gruenther  probably 
could  be  pardoned  some  self-congratulations.  But  conceit  is  not  in 


466  ROUNDUP 

his  temperament,  and  nature  in  this  case  is  ably  assisted  by  Grace 
Gruenther,  founder  and  president  of  the  Anti-Gruenther  Society. 
The  idea  for  this  organization  came  to  her  as  a  bride,  when  she 
found  herself  a  newcomer  among  what  seemed  to  her  to  be  in 
numerable  Gruenthers.  She  was  the  only  member  until  Homer 
married,  whereupon  his  wife  was  admitted,  and  all  subsequent 
spouses  of  Gruenther  children  and  grandchildren  have  automatically 
become  members.  (The  two  Gruenther  sons,  Don  and  Dick,  both  are 
West  Point  graduates,  now  respectively  a  major  and  a  captain.)  A 
principal  objective  of  the  society  is  to  keep  General  Gruenther  from 
assuming  that  his  four  stars  carry  any  weight  outside  the  Army  or, 
indeed,  that  he  is  touched  with  divinity  in  any  way. 

After  §o  years  Grace  has  become  reconciled  to  Gruenther 's  ad 
diction  to  work,  but  she  does  not  approve  of  it.  As  he  never  has 
digestive  troubles,  sleeps  well,  is  cheerful  and  considerate  around 
the  house  and  shows  every  sign  of  splendid  health,  she  has  no  very 
effective  arguments  to  make  him  slow  down.  So  she  makes  the  best 
of  it  by  seeing  that  he  is  supplied  with  plenty  of  steaks  and  chops, 
by  insisting  that  he  eat  an  egg  for  breakfast  and  by  keeping  the 
household  running  smoothly.  Both  the  Gruenthers  and  the  anti- 
Gruenthers  are  agreed  that  she  is  "a  wonderful  homemaker,"  and 
as  such  she  exercises  her  rights  with  good  humor  but  with  firmness. 
It  is  perhaps  the  ultimate  test  of  Gruenther's  ability  to  analyze  the 
problem  and  to  learn  from  experience  that  he  never  tries  to  infringe 
on  them.  "Oh,  I  consult  him  about  things/'  she  says,  "even  the 
shade  of  green  when  we're  doing  a  room  over,  and  he's  always  in 
terested,  or  at  least  acts  like  he  is.  But  unless  I  ask  him,  he  doesn't 
interfere.  He  knows  it  wouldn't  do  much  good  if  he  tried.  I'm  the 
commanding  officer  around  here." 


Extracted  from  "The  Thinking  Machine  Who  Bosses  NATO," 
Life,  June  i,  1953.  ©  Time,  Inc.,  1953 


On  the  site  of  the  Council  Bluff— sixteen  miles  north  of 
Omaha-where  Lewis  and  Clark  held  council  with  the 
Indians,  once  stood  Fort  Atkinson,  the  first  United  States 
fort  in  Nebraska.  Built  in  1819,  it  was  a  large,  strong  fort 
with  fifteen  cannon,  garrisoned  by  several  hundred  men 
of  the  Rifle  Regiment  and  the  Sixth  Infantry  under  the 
command  of  Colonel  Henry  A£.  Atkinson.  Besides  the 
soldiers,  there  were  teamsters,  laborers,  hunters,  trappers, 
and  Indians,  making  a  town  of  nearly  a  thousand  people. 
Here  was  established  Nebraska's  first  school  and  the  first 
library  in  the  Missouri  region;  here  the  first  journal  was 
published.  Roads  ran  in  all  directions  from  Fort  Atkinson, 
for  it  was  the  most  western  army  post  in  the  United  States. 
—Condensed  from  A.  E.  Sheldon's  Nebraska  Old  and  New 


First  Line  of  Defense 


A  SCORE  or  so  of  miles  below  the  spot  where  Fort  Atkinson  stood 
lonely  guard  on  the  Missouri's  west  bank  now  stands  the  headquar 
ters  of  the  nation's  most  powerful  military  force,  the  Strategic  Air 
Command.  For  just  as  it  did  in  the  iSso's,  the  United  States  again 
faces  a  problem  of  security  for  its  people. 

Nebraska  began  its  association  with  the  Strategic  Air  Command  in 
November,  1948,  when  General  Curtis  E.  LeMay,  SAC  Commander- 
in-Chief,  moved  his  headquarters  from  Andrews  Field,  Washington, 
B.C.,  to  Offutt  Air  Force  Base  (old  Fort  Crook) ,  eight  miles  south  of 
Omaha.  SAC  had  been  organized  two  years  previously  as  a  strategic 
air  force  with  a  global  responsibility  as  a  counter  to  the  growing 
threat  of  long-range  aircraft  and  nuclear  weapons  in  the  hands  of 
hostile  nations.  Omaha,  near  the  geographical  center  of  the  United 
States,  is  an  ideal  location  for  the  headquarters,  for  Nebraska  also 
lies  at  the  center  of  the  command's  far-flung  operations  in  the  Pacific, 
the  Caribbean,  the  United  Kingdom,  and  North  Africa,  and  at  Air 
Force  bases  in  Alaska  and  Greenland. 

The  locating  of  the  headquarters  at  Offutt  and  the  activation  of 
Lincoln  Air  Force  Base  in  1954  have  given  Nebraska  an  essential 
role  in  SAC's  world-wide  operations  and  have  added  to  the  state  a 

467 


468  ROUNDUP: 

revenue  of  nearly  $50  million  annually.  SAC's  investment  at  Offutt 
exceeds  f  71.2  million,  of  which  $38.3  million  has  been  spent  on  prop 
erty,  construction,  and  improvements.  Base  inventories,  administra 
tive  aircraft,  and  equipment  account  for  the  remainder.  No  combat 
aircraft  are  stationed  at  Offutt,  which  functions  only  as  support  for 
SAC  headquarters.  The  presence  of  two  combat  wings  at  Lincoln, 
whose  B-47  jet  bombers,  KC-gy  tankers,  and  other  equipment  are 
valued  at  more  than  $265.3  million,  brings  SAC's  total  investment 
in  the  base  to  over  $350  million. 

The  United  States'  total  investment  in  the  Strategic  Air  Command 
is  valued  above  $15.5  billion.  About  $8.5  billion  is  invested  in  in 
ventories,  aircraft  and  equipment,  and  real  property.  The  remaining 
$7  billion  is  the  value  the  command  places  on  its  most  important 
asset— the  professionalism  of  its  men,  the  end-product  of  years  of 
training  and  actual  combat  experiences  in  Korea  and  World  War  II. 

Should  war  ever  come,  SAC  is  capable  of  completing  its  war  mis 
sion  within  hours.  Its  bombers  can  fly  against  an  enemy  anywhere  in 
the  world  and  return  nonstop,  leaving  devastated  targets  in  their 
wake.  Every  crew  knows  what  target,  under  any  given  condition,  it 
would  strike,  and  it  knows  by  what  routes  it  would  reach  the  target 
and  return.  Support  forces  are  equally  trained  in  their  war  mission. 
Everything  that  will  help  put  a  SAC  bomber  over  an  enemy  target 
has  been  planned  in  detail,  and  practiced  until  accomplishment 
would  be  little  more  than  routine. 

SAC  was  still  a  fledgling  command  when  it  moved  its  headquarters 
to  Nebraska.  It  had  only  22  active  bases  manned  by  52,000  men. 
About  1,000  aircraft  of  assorted  types,  almost  all  veterans  of  World 
War  II,  made  up  its  combat  inventory.  In  the  eight  years  since,  the 
Strategic  Air  Command  has  been  built  into  the  most  powerful  air 
force  ever  developed.  It  now  operates  a  vast  network  of  more  than 
40  air  bases,  its  aircraft  inventory  has  nearly  tripled,  and  almost 
200,000  men  and  women  are  assigned  to  the  command.  From  the 
beginning,  SAC's  men  and  planes  have  worked  on  a  wartime  schedule 
which  today  keeps  10-15  Per  cent  of  its  aircraft  airborne  around  the 
dock.  During  the  last  ten  years  command  aircraft  have  accomplished 
more  than  20,000  ocean  crossings  in  more  than  6i/£  million  flying 
hours.  In  the  past  eight  years  there  has  not  been  a  day  when  some 
SAC  units  were  not  on  duty  at  forward  bases  overseas. 

From  his  Offutt  Field  headquarters  General  LeMay  directs  the 
global  air  operations  of  SAC  through  three  numbered  air  forces  in 
the  States  and  three  air  divisions  overseas.  In  December,  1956,  a 


A  Nebraska  Reader  469 

new  §8.5  million  building  was  completed  to  house  SAC  operations 
headquarters.  Constructed  of  heavily  reinforced  concrete  set  on  a  slab- 
type  foundation,  the  control  center  has  three  stories  above  ground 
and  three  below.  Communications  are  handled  by  more  than  2,500 
telephones,  and  a  closed-in  circuit  television  set-up  enables  staff  mem 
bers  to  "attend"  conferences  without  leaving  their  offices. 

Heart  of  the  underground  headquarters  Is  a  huge  U-shaped  chart 
room.  It  is  refrigerated  the  year  around  because  of  the  heat  from  130 
spot  and  floodlights  needed  when  chart  room  proceedings  are  tele 
vised.  Eight  electronic  clocks,  accurate  to  within  i/ioooth  of  a 
second,  show  the  time  in  the  various  zones  around  the  globe.  Charts 
containing  tactical  information— including  weather  reports  and  the 
location  of  SAC  aircraft—are  affixed  to  sheet  metal  and  structural 
steel  panels,  mounted  on  tracks  and  manually  operated. 

Administration  of  the  command  equals  the  efficiency  of  SAC  com 
bat  crews  who  regularly  fly  ten-hour  missions  over  thousands  of 
miles  to  seek  out  and  destroy  specified  targets  as  part  of  a  realistic 
training  program  which  occupies  43  hours  of  a  crew's  time  each 
week.  Only  three  per  cent  of  SAC's  nearly  200,000  men  and  women 
are  assigned  administrative  jobs;  the  remainder  work  in  direct  sup 
port  of  the  command's  mission  of  convincing  hostile  nations  of  the 
futility  of  starting  a  global  war. 

Condensed  from  Nebraska  on  the  March,  Sept.,  1956 


Offutt  Field  is  located  on  the  outskirts  of  Bellevue,  Nebraska's  first 
permanent  continuous  settlement  and  for  many  years  its  largest 
community.  The  drama  of  Bellevue  was  played  out  in  the  pre- 
territorial  years,  culminating  in  her  brief  reign  as  the  first  territorial 
capital. 

"Bellevue  aspired  to  greatness,"  wrote  William  J.  Shallcross,  "and 
she  was  blessed  with  much  in  her  favor.  Her  pioneers  recognized  the 
richness  of  her  soil,  the  beauty  of  her  prospect,  the  possibilities  of 
her  location  near  the  confluence  of  the  Platte.  But  all  these  failed  to 
gain  for  her  the  coveted  prize  of  pre-eminence  among  the  cities  of 
her  state.  When  Trader's  Point,  landing  place  of  the  first  ferry  across 
the  Missouri,  washed  down  the  river,  Bellevue  little  realized  that 
with  it  floated  away  her  hopes.  Omaha  snatched  the  Capital  .  .  . 
outbid  Bellevue  in  her  bid  for  the  terminus  of  the  Union  Pacific, 


470  ROUNDUP 

and  in  a  manner  browbeat  her  way  to  gain  the  location  of  the  first 
Nebraska  bridge  to  span  the  Missouri.  From  that  day  on,  Bellevue 
was  the  forgotten  village,  the  quaint,  sleepy  little  old  Rip  Van 
Winkle  place  which  no  one  dreamed  would  ever  awaken." 

The  construction  in  1942  of  the  Martin  Bomber  Plant  at  nearby 
Fort  Crook  saw  the  beginning  of  her  revival,  and  the  designation  of 
Offutt  Field  as  SAC  headquarters  continued  and  augmented  Belle- 
vue's  wartime  boom.  Quickened  into  new  life,  at  the  end  of  Ne 
braska's  first  century  the  state's  oldest  community  could  also  boast 
that  it  was  its  fastest-growing  one. 


For  the  gambler  and  the  speculator  who  counted  upon  a 
few  turns  of  the  cards  or  plow  to  bring  them  wealth  for 
a  lifetime,  nature  indeed  must  appear  capricious:  too 
much  one  year;  not  enough  the  next.  Yet  it  was  this  very 
uncertainty  that  prompted  them  to  gamble  and  speculate. 
If  they  wished  to  try  their  luck,  nature  was  willing  to  spin 
the  wheel.  All  she  asked  was  that  the  house  rules  be  ob 
served,  rules  by  which  only  a  few  won  while  many  lost. 
If  they  wished  to  tear  her  grasslands  with  their  plows,  let 
them  try.  They  would  learn  the  price  by  trying. 

But  nature's  plan  was  not  contrived  for  gamblers.  It 
was  made  for  the  steady^  humble,  and  courageous  ones, 
those  willing  to  sow  and  reap  with  the  seasons.  The  rules 
of  nature  operated  in  favor  of  those  who,  like  nature  her 
self,  were  more  interested  in  the  fulfillment  of  needs  than 
in  clever  manipulations  for  profit. 

-Bruce  H.  Nicoll  and  Ken.  R.  Keller, 
Sam  McKelvie—Son  of  the  Soil 


Wheat  Farmer 


ROBERT  HOUSTON 

IN  THE  Nebraska  Panhandle,  they  call  Morris  Jessen  the  wheat  king. 
It's  a  title  he  deserves.  Morris  was  broke  when  he  came  to  Sidney  in 
1916.  A  year  later  he  planted  eight  acres  of  spring  wheat  on  prairie 
ground  he  had  broken.  Today  the  Jessen  wheat  domain  covers 
about  28,000  acres  in  four  states,  and  the  expansion  is  still  going  full 
speed  ahead.  But  no  longer  is  it  a  one-man  realm:  it  has  become  a 
family  empire. 

Morris  Jessen  is  of  Danish  parentage  but  considers  himself  a 
German  immigrant.  And  if  he  had  been  the  eldest  son,  he  might 
never  have  left  the  family  farm  near  Flensburg  in  German-held 
Schleswig-Holstein.  "The  eldest  son  inherits  the  farm,  and  the 
younger  sons  must  either  work  for  hitn  or  seek  their  fortune  else 
where,"  says  Mr.  Jessen. 

So  in  1907  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  Morris  Jessen  left  home.  He  fol 
lowed  to  America  an  uncle  and  an  older  brother  who  had  settled  on 

471 


472  ROUNDUP: 

land  near  Bloomfield,  Nebr.  When  he  had  turned  twenty,  Morris 
started  farming  there.  "I  went  into  hogs  pretty  heavy/'  he  recalls.  "I 
lost  them  all  to  cholera.  The  next  year  I  had  cattle,  and  the  corn 
stalk  disease  took  them.  I  was  wiped  out." 

In  1916  he  went  to  Sidney  where  he  worked  on  a  farm  for  $30  a 
month  and  on  a  bridge  gang  for  $2.50  a  day.  By  wheat-harvest  time 
he  had  acquired  four  head  of  horses,  and  he  harvested  crops  on 
absentee  owners'  holdings.  By  1917  he  was  able  to  buy  a  quarter 
section  of  prairie  land;  it  was  the  start  of  the  family  empire.  He 
broke  eight  acres  and  planted  them  to  wheat.  "That  fall  I  broke 
out  one  hundred  acres  more  and  put  in  winter  wheat.  I  built  a  is-by- 
16  foot  granary.,  and  that  was  our  first  home.  During  a  snowstorm 
we'd  put  our  clothes  under  the  bed  to  keep  them  dry,  then  sweep  the 
snow  out  of  the  shack.  I  hauled  water  three  miles." 

That  breaking  of  the  tough  prairie  in  the  fall  of  1917  was  a 
measure  of  Mr.  Jessen's  vitality  and  dogged  determination.  "I've 
always  been  able  to  get  by  with  little  sleep/7  he  says.  "I  bought  a 
second-hand  Mogul  tractor,  and  I'd  run  it  twenty-four  hours  one 
day  and  twenty-one  hours  the  next.  Every  other  day  I'd  catch  three 
hours  sleep.  I  had  to  hurry,  for  the  breaking  season  for  prairie  turf 
was  short— in  dry  weather,  plowing  it  was  impossible.  I  had  a  lantern 
out  in  front  of  the  tractor  at  night,  and  when  I  was  close  to  neighbors' 
land,  they  cussed  about  the  noise.  I  used  to  put  out  more  work  than 
three  average  men." 

Mr.  Jessen's  land-buying  soon  brought  him  to  grief.  "After  the 
1920  depression,  I  owed  $30,000.  I  had  560  acres  and  rented  ad 
ditional  land  on  which  I  had  broken  the  ground/'  But  he  hadn't 
yet  learned  caution.  "In  1926  I  lost  a  splendid  section  after  paying 
$10,600  on  it.  I  learned  then  not  to  go  in  over  my  head  on  mort 
gages." 

But  the  land  he  had  bought  at  'so's  prices  kept  him  in  financial 
hot  water  during  the  '30*3.  For  more  than  a  decade  he  barely  beat 
one  foreclosure  after  another.  "In  my  spare  time  I  did  just  about 
everything  under  the  sun,  like  hauling  corn  to  Wyoming  and  haul 
ing  back  coal  and  selling  the  coal  to  my  neighbors.  I  bought  old  iron 
and  shipped  it  out  by  the  carload,  shipped  in  coal  by  the  carload. 
I  was  in  the  oil  business  until  1952,  when  two  of  my  sons  went  into 
the  armed  forces." 

Finally  he  caught  up  and  went  ahead;  and  since  then,  Mr.  Jessen 
has  been  smiling.  "I've  had  nineteen  good  crops  in  a  row,"  he  says. 
"That's  not  a  bad  record." 


A  Nebraska  Reader  473 

How  does  he  do  it  in  an  area  where  occasional  drought  years  are 
expected  to  cut  into  or  wipe  out  the  crops?  Mr.  Jessen  gives  the 
credit  to  summer  tilling.  There  is  not  enough  moisture  to  insure 
a  wheat  crop  every  year.  The  ground  lies  fallow  every  other  year,  and 
this  idle  ground  is  tilled  to  hoard  the  moisture.  "I've  got  two  months 
in  the  spring  to  plow  wheat  stubble  into  the  ground.  I  keep  it 
clean  during  the  summer.  After  a  rain,  I  break  the  ground  crust  and 
mulch  the  top  by  pulling  straw  from  underneath  the  ground  up 
on  top." 

This  helps  account  for  some  of  the  good  crops.  In  1946  his  land 
averaged  forty-six  bushels.  But  how  does  the  Jessen  family  manage 
to  farm  close  to  30,000  acres?  In  all  their  realm,  they  keep  only 
nine  hired  men  the  year  around. 

The  wheat  king  and  his  four  sons  and  two  sons-in-law  are  great 
time-study  men.  They  have  always  bought  the  largest  and  fastest 
machinery  obtainable.  They  can  tell  you  what  their  cultivators  can 
do  in  terms  of  acres  per  hour,  or  what  harvesting  machines  can  do 
in  terms  of  bushels  per  minute.  They  "improve"  farm  machines  to 
suit  their  own  purposes. 

"We  can  build  anything  in  our  shop,"  says  Morris,  "and  it  looks 
just  like  it  came  from  a  factory."  He  pointed  to  the  Jessen  rout 
weeder,  which  cultivates  fallow  ground.  The  weeder  has  a  twelve- 
foot  rod  which  is  dragged  below  the  ground  surface,  upending  the 
roots  of  weeds.  "We  hook  seven  of  them  in  a  line,  and  one  tractor 
pulls  them.  They  weed  an  eighty-four-foot  strip,  and  we  can  cover 
forty  acres  in  an  hour.  We  take  the  best  parts  from  rout  weeders 
made  by  a  couple  of  companies,  put  them  together,  and  reinforce 
the  parts  which  take  the  most  stress." 

The  Jessen  family  owns  fourteen  combines  for  harvesting  and 
keeps  four  of  them  on  the  home  place.  Some  years  ago,  Jessen  com 
bine  crews  used  to  start  in  Texas  and  work  north  during  the  wheat- 
harvesting  season. 

Mr.  Jessen  regards  wheat-farming  as  an  easy  way  to  make  a  living. 
"You  only  work  a  few  days  in  the  summer,"  he  says,  "but  you  do 
work  hard  then," 

Mr.  Jessen  and  his  Berlin-born  wife  like  to  travel,  and  in  recent 
years  they  have  found  the  time  for  it.  Mr.  Jessen  was  widowed  dur 
ing  the  'so's.  He  met  Ike  Frey  on  a  visit  to  Berlin,  and  they  were 
married  there  in  1927.  In  the  last  dozen  years  they  have  been  steadily 
transferring  title  to  their  land  to  twenty-two  others  in  the  Jessen  clan. 
Morris  and  Use  now  share  the  ownership  with  four  sons,  three 


474  ROUNDUP 

daughters,  two  sons-in-law,  twelve  grandchildren,  and  Mrs.  Jessen's 
mother. 

Hale  and  hearty  at  sixty-four,  Morris  ostensibly  has  been  retired 
since  the  close  of  World  War  II.  He  now  owns  only  about  5,000 
acres,  but  he  might  be  said  to  hold  a  position  as  "chairman  of  the 
board/'  Says  he:  "I'm  retired,  but  I  work  anyway.  I'm  pretty  cheap 
labor.  I  work  for  nothing  and  board  myself.  And  I'm  still  tough. 
I  like  to  dance,  and  I  can  dance  all  evening  and  not  get  tired." 

The  Jessen  home  eighteen  miles  south  of  Lodgepole  hasn't  a  horse, 
cow,  pig,  or  chicken  on  the  place.  But  it  does  look  like  the  site  of  a 
grain  elevator.  There  are  a  4O-by-i2O  foot  quonset  and  a  score  of 
round  bins  crammed  with  125,000  bushels  of  wheat.  From  the  two- 
hundred-bushel  crop  harvested  by  Mr.  Jessen  in  1917,  the  family's 
wheat  production  has  spiralled  ever  upward.  This  year  on  slightly 
less  than  11,000  acres  they  harvested  350,000  bushels.  With  wheat 
selling  now  for  two  dollars  a  bushel,  that's  a  gross  of  more  than 
$700,000. 

Over  the  years,  as  Mr.  Jessen  picked  up  more  and  more  wheat 
land,  he  could  find  no  more  large  holdings  in  southwestern  Ne 
braska,  so  he  turned  to  Wyoming,  Colorado,  and  South  Dakota. 
This  fall  he  and  his  son  Ray  took  over  3,680  acres  near  Martin,  S.D., 
which  was  obtained  in  late  summer  for  $224,000.  Two  weeks  ago  the 
family  acquired  another  2,240  acres  near  Pine  Ridge,  Wyo. 

Why  has  Mr.  Jessen  bought  so  much  wheat  land? 

"If  you  had  money,  where  would  you  go  with  it?"  he  asked.  "If 
you  do  your  own  farming,  you  get  all  of  the  income  from  it.  And 
besides,  the  money  came  out  of  the  land  and  I  wanted  to  put  it 
back  in." 


Condensed  from  Omaha  World-Herald  Sunday  Magazine,  Oct.  28,  1956 


1957 


THE  NEBRAS KAN'S 
NEBRASKA 


Nebraska  Is  Here  to  Stay 

BRUCE  H.  NICOLL 

TEN  YEARS  ago  John  Gunther  passed  through  our  state  gathering 
material  for  his  book  Inside  US. A.  He  concluded,  seriously,  that  the 
weather  runs  Nebraska.  His  observation  is  understandable.  We  don't 
talk  about  the  weather.  We  discuss  it— with  an  uncommonly  dedi 
cated  interest.  Anytime.  Anywhere.  With  friends  or  strangers. 

You  pause  at  a  street  corner,  waiting  for  a  car  to  pass.  You  turn 
to  the  fellow  standing  beside  you.  "Pretty  day!"  you  say.  The  fellow 
glances  at  you.  Then  he  squints  upward  to  the  brilliant  blue  sky. 
He  says,  "Yes,  sure  is."  You  know  he  is  a  Nebraskan  if  he  reflects  a 
moment  and  then  adds  soberly,  "But  we  could  stand  some  more 
rain." 

This  is  a  critical  point  in  the  conversation.  You  can  be  un- 
Nebraskan  and  nod  in  agreement,  stifling  the  conversation.  Or  you 
can  accept  the  challenge  and  remark,  "Well,  maybe  so.  But  the 
wheat  needs  more  weather  like  this.  The  harvest  will  be  getting 
started  in  a  week  or  two." 

"The  wheat's  made!"  the  fellow  exclaims.  "No  use  worrying  about 
that.  It's  the  corn.  The  subsoil's  too  dry.  If  we  have  a  summer  like 
the  last  one,  the  corn  will  need  plenty  of  subsoil  moisture." 

You  are  now  ready  to  discuss  the  weather.  In  depth.  And  we 
usually  do. 

But  when  visitors  are  puzzled  or  amused  by  our  obsession  with 
the  weather  as  conversational  fodder,  many  of  us  become  inar 
ticulate.  We  just  smile  self-consciously  and  shrug  our  shoulders. 
We  know  it's  been  this  way  for  a  long  time,  and  we  feel  we  came 
by  the  habit  honestly.  We  can't  quite  believe  the  weather  runs 
Nebraska,  but  well  admit  that  its  caprices  have  profoundly  influ 
enced  us. 

Weather  and  our  concern  about  it  are  rooted  deeply  in  Nebraska 
history.  Out  here,  history  is  not  yet  the  exclusive  pursuit  of  the 
archivist.  Our  past  is  still  near  us  in  the  living  memory  of  many. 

Slightly  over  one  hundred  years  ago,  the  first  big  wave  of  pioneers 
crossed  the  Mississippi,  forded  the  Missouri,  and  plunged  into  the 
expanse  of  land  which  separated  them  from  the  riches  of  Oregon 

477 


478  ROUNDUP: 

and  California.  Part  of  this  land-obstacle  was  Nebraska,  hence  a 
place  to  be  traversed  in  the  shortest  possible  time.  In  this  respect 
our  state,  or  what  was  to  become  a  state,  commended  itself  to  the 
immigrants:  it  was  an  excellent  highway.  Some  of  the  Forty-Niners 
settled  in  Nebraska,  but  the  major  settlement  came  later,  in  the  years 
immediately  following  the  Civil  War  and  in  the  i88o's. 

The  pioneers  had  no  Baedekers.  What  did  they  know  of  Nebraska? 
There  were  the  forbidding  tales  of  the  explorers  and  travelers,  of 
Lewis  and  Clark,  and  Zebulon  Pike,  and  Major  Long;  and  there 
were  the  railroad  advertisements  promising  them  a  lush  and  fertile 
land.  Neither  picture  was  wholly  true  nor  wholly  false;  and  neither 
could  prepare  them  for  what  they  found— a  storehouse  of  agricul 
tural  wealth  in  a  realm  of  natural  violence.  The  new  frontier  was 
without  a  counterpart  in  their  experience. 

There  was  the  grass,  a  vast  ocean  of  it  washing  endlessly  over 
the  prairie,  the  horizon  unobscured  by  the  comforting  outline  of 
trees,  nowhere  an  object  the  eye  could  fix  on.  The  familiar  sound  of 
settlement— the  ring  of  the  woodman's  axe— was  stilled  in  the  si 
lence  of  the  grass.  The  pioneers  did  not  understand  the  significance 
of  the  prairie  grass.  They  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  tall  grass  of 
eastern  Nebraska  bespoke  a  sub-humid  climate  where  precipitation 
is  always  something  less  than  in  the  hurnid  forestlands  of  the  East; 
that  the  mid-grass  of  central  Nebraska  told  of  an  even  drier  region; 
that  the  short  grass  farther  west  indicated  an  almost  arid  climate. 
And  everywhere  the  grass  had  another,  broader  message:  it  can 
exist  (where  other  vegetation  fails)  in  long  periods  of  normal  or 
abnormal  wet  weather  followed  by  extended  periods  of  drought. 

There  was  the  weather— that,  too,  had  to  be  learned  about.  And 
to  be  learned  about  it  had  first  to  be  lived  through.  Hailstorms, 
unique  to  the  Great  Plains,  would  slash  out  of  purple  thunderheads, 
in  an  instant  battering  to  bits  a  promising  crop.  And  the  perpetual 
wind:  nowhere  in  the  interior  of  any  continent  were  the  winds  so 
persistent,  one  moment  caressing  the  land,  the  next  doing  it  violence. 
The  blizzard,  as  the  pioneers  described  snow  driven  straight  before 
a  strong  north  wind,  meant  incredible  suffering  for  many,  death 
for  some.  Almost  as  dreaded  were  the  hot  south  winds  of  drought 
periods,  blasts  from  a  fiery  furnace,  searing  the  face  of  the  prairie, 
leaving  destroyed  fields  in  their  wake. 

Finally,  there  was  the  soil— the  hidden  treasure  resting  beneath 
the  grass,  a  triumph  of  Nature's  patient  husbandry  during  countless 
millennia.  The  tall  grass,  the  mid-grass,  and  the  short  grass  had  each 


A  Nebraska  Reader  479 

developed  a  rich  soil  from  the  gravel,  sand,  silt,  clay,  volcanic  ash, 
and  potash  brine  washed  down  upon  the  Nebraska  flood  plains  from 
the  melting  glaciers  or  blown  in  by  the  ceaseless  winds.  Here  be 
neath  the  grass  the  pioneer  found  his  reward.  And  in  eastern  Ne 
braska  he  possessed  a  fertile  soil  unequaled  on  the  earth. 

Yet  his  was  indeed  a  frustrating  predicament:  a  soil  that  would 
produce  bountifully  when  nature  smiled— as  it  often  did— and  a 
soil  that  lay  barren  when  nature  frowned— as  it  often  did.  Three 
tides  of  migration  washed  over  Nebraska's  prairie  before  the  fanner 
established  a  firm  foothold,  each  wave  contributing  something  to 
man's  attempt  to  subdue  the  wild  land.  It  was  a  unique  phenom 
enon,  this  struggle  to  adapt  to  and  master  the  Great  Plains  environ 
ment.  In  many  respects  it  was  heroic. 

Consider  the  white  man's  innovations:  the  sod  house  carved  from 
the  treeless  prairie;  buffalo  chips  for  fuel  where  there  was  no  wood; 
the  steel  plowshare  which  was  the  only  tool  rugged  enough  to  turn 
the  tough  sod;  the  windmill,  even  in  the  names  of  its  models— 
Go-Devil,  Jumbo,  Battle  Axe— flinging  defiance  at  that  region  of 
much  wind  and  little  water;  new  kinds  of  crops  to  replace  the 
failures  from  seeds  brought  from  the  humid  east;  new  cultivation 
practices,  known  as  dry  farming  or  dryland  farming,  to  save  every 
drop  of  moisture. 

It's  nearly  a  century  since  we  became  a  state— since  plows  broke  the 
prairie  sod  and  longhorns  moved  into  our  ranges.  But  what  a  time- 
on  Lord,  what  a  really  rough  time— we've  had  getting  our  agriculture 
squared  up  with  its  environment. 

We've  licked  the  grasshoppers,  which  once  descended  on  our  fields 
in  clouds  and  devoured  everything  that  grew.  The  tractor  and  the 
multitude  of  machines  which  followed  it  have  reduced  enormously 
the  labor  required  to  farm  and  have  transformed  agriculture  into 
a  somewhat  complex  technological  endeavor.  The  machines  are  re 
ducing  the  number  of  farms  and  increasing  their  size  and  at  the 
same  time  driving  more  workers  from  the  rural  areas  into  our  vil 
lages  and  towns.  We  have  adapted  our  crops  so  that  they  are  capable 
of  yielding  in  quality  and  abundance.  (Our  winter  wheat,  for  ex 
ample,  draws  premium  prices  because  it  makes  into  one  of  the  finest 
baking  flours  in  America.)  We  have  worked  hard  at  tillage  practices 
(like  summer  fallowing,  stubble  mulching,  and  crop  rotation)  to 
make  the  best  use  of  our  soil  and  water.  We  are  improving  our 
marketing  standards  and  practices  to  reward  those  who  strive  for 
high-quality  products.  We  have  made  great  progress  in  our  peren- 


480  ROUNDUP: 

nial  battle  with  the  insects.  We  have  discovered  ways  to  add  more 
meat,  of  better  quality,  to  the  carcasses  of  our  meat  animals— at 
greater  profit  to  the  rancher  and  livestock  feeder. 

Now,  all  this  is  very  heartening;  yet  the  fact  remains  that  we  are 
still  frustrated,  perplexed,  dismayed,  and  deceived  in  our  farming 
enterprise,  and  most  of  these  grievances  can  be  traced  to  the  basic 
trinity  of  our  agriculture:  weather,  water,  and  soil. 

Since  our  beginnings  in  Nebraska,  we  have  enjoyed  four  long 
periods  of  normal  or  above-normal  precipitation— and,  brother, 
when  the  elements  cooperate,  our  soil  will  grow  practically  any 
thing—in  quantity.  Each  of  these  halcyon  times  has  been  interrupted 
by  droughts  of  varying  intensity:  one  of  the  worst  blighted  our  state 
from  1932  to  1940,  and  we  are  now  in  the  midst  of  another  which 
began  in  1952  and  is  still  with  us  in  1957. 

Drought  is  a  grim  spectacle,  and  some  measure  of  our  anxiety 
about  it  is  found  in  rain-making  experiments.  During  the  drought 
of  the  iSgo's,  the  rain-makers  did  a  thriving  but  unsuccessful  busi 
ness;  now  in  the  1950*5,  they  are  with  us  again— this  time  backed  up 
by  substantial  scientific  fact.  The  new  rain-making  devices— dry  ice 
and  silver  iodide— do  work,  but  only  under  conditions  within  the 
cloud  mass  normally  required  for  rain.  Let  us  not  kid  ourselves— 
the  Nebraska  skies  will  remain  a  wild  and  unpredictable  realm,  and 
drought  will  remain  a  characteristic  of  our  weather. 

We  have  been  more  successful  in  making  better  use  of  the  water 
after  it  falls. 

Our  main  source  of  water  lies  beneath  the  surface.  We  have  a 
marvelous  underground  storage  system.  Precipitation  in  the  sand 
hills  soaks  downward,  then  percolates  slowly  (some  of  it  is  50  years 
old  before  we  use  it)  southeastward  across  the  state.  This  "reservoir" 
of  groundwater  supplies  all  of  our  municipal  water  systems  except 
Omaha's,  and  we  have  little  fear  of  exhausting  it,  since  at  any  given 
time  it  holds  roughly  a  billion  acre-feet  of  water. 

In  the  past  twenty-five  years  we  have  found  another  use  for 
groundwater.  Pump  irrigation  is  growing  by  leaps  and  bounds. 
Powerful  pumps  are  now  watering  about  a  million  acres  of  crop 
land.  And  the  growth  continues.  There  is  some  justifiable  concern 
that  we  will  overdevelop  our  groundwater  resource  in  some  areas, 
and  here  again  we  are  faced  with  the  problem  of  innovating.  Our 
surface  water  law,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  does  not  precisely  fit 
the  groundwater  use  problem.  Debate  will  soon  be  joined.  In  our 
own  way  and  in  our  own  time  public  policy  for  groundwater  will 


A  Nebraska  Reader  481 

be  evolved.  The  current  fear  is  that  our  groundwater  resource  may  be 
abused  before  we  arrive  at  a  decision. 

Our  interest  in  gravity  irrigation— this  is  the  kind  that  flows  over 
the  land  in  ditches  supplied  by  reservoirs  on  rivers— has  blown  hot 
and  cold,  depending  upon  the  weather.  The  drought  of  the  1890*3 
spurred  interest  in  the  arid  western  part  of  the  state  and  resulted 
in  a  Bureau  of  Reclamation  project  on  the  upper  North  Platte.  It 
transformed  the  valley  there  into  an  ever-abundant  agriculture.  In 
the  1930%  the  drought  provoked  a  renewed  interest  in  irrigation 
in  central  Nebraska.  New  dams  were  built  on  some  of  our  rivers, 
and  additional  uncertain  cropland  was  assured  of  a  constant  water 
supply.  In  1944  the  Congress  enacted  a  flood  control  act  which  has 
come  to  be  known  as  the  Missouri  Basin  Development  Program, 
under  which  our  reservoirs  have  been  built.  Thirty-three  more  are 
planned.  The  program  contemplates  adding  1,600,000  acres  of  ir 
rigated  land  in  Nebraska. 

Nebraskans  are  responsible  for  another  innovation,  less  than  a 
decade  old,  which  will  help  us  control  and  conserve  our  water.  This 
is  the  small  watershed  program  designed  to  hold  water  on  the  land 
or  in  small  reservoirs  upstream  before  runoff  swells  creeks  and 
streams  to  destructive  size  downstream.  The  program  operates  in 
the  small  watersheds  which  comprise  the  much  larger  river  basins. 
The  Salt-Wahoo  Creek  program  in  eastern  Nebraska  was  a  national 
pilot  project.  Twenty  small  watershed  organizations  have  been  or 
ganized  in  Nebraska.  The  program  is  spreading  to  all  parts  of  the 
nation. 

These  programs  ultimately  may  bring  a  fourth  of  our  cultivated 
land  under  irrigation,  help  us  conserve  water  upstream  before  it 
becomes  a  flood,  and  partially  free  us  from  the  ups  and  downs  of 
production  caused  by  our  wet-dry  cycles.  Our  farming  will  become 
more  diversified  and  more  productive. 

We  have  used  and  abused  our  soil.  Fifty  per  cent  of  our  land  has 
suffered  only  slight  erosion.  The  remainder  has  had  moderate  to 
severe  erosion.  Our  profligacy  is  worst  in  eastern  Nebraska  where 
our  richest  soils  lie.  Here  over  seven  million  acres  have  been  stripped 
of  75  per  cent  of  the  topsoil-and  that's  the  part  we  live  on. 

Except  in  the  sandhills  and  adjacent  grazing  areas,  we  have 
plowed  up  the  prairie  grass  and  with  it  the  best  soil  conservation 
system  ever  devised.  Listen  to  the  plea  of  Prof.  C.  E.  Bessey,  a 
world-famous  botanist  at  the  University  of  Nebraska,  writing  in 
1902: 


482  ROUNDUP: 

The  planted  crops  may  be  ever  so  good  and  successful,  yet  they  may 
not  warrant  the  destruction  of  that  wonderful  grassy  covering  which  now 
adorns  our  hills  and  valleys.  The  wild  grasses  are  disappearing  not  only 
because  of  cultivation  of  the  soil  but  also  on  account  of  too  heavy  and  in 
judicious  grazing.  We  have  been  as  wasteful  of  our  natural  grasses  as  our 
fathers  were  of  the  forests  of  the  eastern  states. 

Well,  we  went  right  ahead  with  the  plow,  and  in  the  1930*5  the 
folly  of  our  ways  became  painfully  apparent.  We  became  a  part  of 
the  "Dust  Bowl."  The  fact  is  we  had  the  living  daylights  scared  out 
of  us:  some  believed  the  land  would  never  recover  from  its  desert 
condition. 

When  the  federal  soil  conservation  program  began  in  1936,  we 
were  johnny-on-the-spot.  Soil  conservation  districts  were  organized 
under  a  state  law  enacted  in  1937.  Our  first  district  was  one  of  the 
nation's  first,  and  we  were  the  first  state  west  of  the  Mississippi  to 
include  all  its  land  under  soil  conservation  districts.  Contouring, 
terracing,  strip  cropping,  crop  rotation,  gully  control,  grassed  water 
ways,  stubble  mulching,  shelterbelts,  and  windbreaks  are  now  fa 
miliar  words.  We  have  come  a  long  way  in  our  struggle  to  save  the 
topsoil,  but  there  is  a  ting-size  task  still  ahead.  Nebraska  now  has 
3,500,000  acres  of  land  unsuited  for  cultivation  and  another 
1,500,000  which  shouldn't  be  farmed.  Year  after  year,  wind  and 
water  continue  to  erode  the  topsoil  of  the  naked  land.  The  destruc 
tion  is  man-made.  Perhaps  the  Plainsmen  will  devise  a  remedy- 
in  time. 

Those  who  came  to  the  Great  Plains  and  settled  in  Nebraska  were 
the  restless,  the  ambitious,  the  discontented,  and  the  poor.  They  saw 
in  the  West  a  new  chance  to  make  a  place  for  themselves,  to  build, 
to  acquire  wealth,  to  win  power.  For  the  Europeans  there  was,  as 
well,  the  bright  promise  of  political  liberty. 

All  that  the  pioneers  sought  was  attainable.  But  this  was  rugged, 
unfamiliar  country,  and  the  conditions  it  imposed  for  success  were 
tremendous.  Some  failed  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  new  land; 
they  were  the  ones  who  gave  up  and  got  out.  Not  all  those  who 
stayed  understood  the  total  significance  of  the  new  frontier,  but 
they  were  resourceful  enough  to  absorb  the  shocks  and  husband  the 
gains.  The  land  and  the  climate  influenced  them  profoundly,  but 
not  exclusively.  There  were  other  shaping  forces— economic,  polit 
ical,  social,  of  national  and  international  origin— from  which  they 
could  not  and  did  not  escape. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  483 

Certainly  the  circumstances  of  life  in  Nebraska,  which  obliged  the 
settlers  to  devise  new  ways  to  earn  a  livelihood,  played  an  important 
part  in  molding  their  social  and  political  character.  With  the  past 
still  so  close  to  the  present  in  our  state,  we  who  live  here  believe 
we  can  see  how  the  Plains  environment  came  to  breed  a  distinctive 
type  of  political  innovator.  In  the  iSgo's,  for  example,  there  were 
grasshoppers  and  there  was  a  drought.  Both  were  regional,  and 
disastrous.  There  were  ruinously  low  prices  for  whatever  we  were 
lucky  enough  to  grow  or  raise.  That  this  was  a  consequence  of  a 
glutted  world  agricultural  market  was  something  we  didn't  know. 
Our  misfortunes,  we  earnestly  believed,  had  resulted  from  the  mach 
inations  of  the  trusts  and  vested  interests  of  the  East.  So  we  revolted. 
The  Grange  movement,  bitterly  demanding  a  fair  shake  for  agricul 
ture,  blossomed  into  a  political  party  which  was  appropriated  by 
W.  J.  Bryan  and  came  near  to  putting  its  candidate  into  the  White 
House.  And  although  the  Populist  Party's  life  was  short,  its  progeny 
were  numerous— Progressivism,  the  Non-Partisan  League,  the  Farmers 
Alliance,  the  Farm  Holiday  Association.  Moreover,  the  issues  raised 
in  1892  were  to  be  issues  again  in  1932,  with  social  and  political  con 
sequences  not  yet  measurable. 

The  fanners'  anguished  outcries  often  have  been  the  prelude  to 
both  local  and  national  innovations.  Nebraskans  played  leading 
roles  in  amending  national  homestead  laws  which  made  the  basic 
land  unit  adequate  to  support  the  family  on  the  Great  Plains.  Ne 
braskans  did  the  political  agitating  necessary  to  organize  the  western 
states  in  support  of  a  federal  program  of  reclamation  and  irrigation. 
Nebraskans  substantially  reinforced  the  demands  which  led  to  Theo 
dore  Roosevelt's  federal  forestation  program  and  which  would  mean 
so  much  to  the  treeless  prairie.  Nebraskans  figured  prominently  in 
the  revolt  which  led  to  the  federal  soil  and  water  conservation  pro 
grams,  and  emergency  farm  relief  inaugurated  in  the  distressing 
1930*5. 

Agricultural  crises  and  the  resulting  social  unrest  have  inspired 
innovations  within  our  own  borders.  Among  them  are  movements 
which  culminated  in  abolishing  price  abuses  perpetrated  by  the 
"big-line"  elevators,  in  ending  arbitrary  intra-state  rate-making  by 
the  railroads,  in  delegating  more  legislative  power  to  the  people 
through  the  process  of  initiative  and  referendum,  in  providing  the 
direct  election  of  nominees  for  political  office,  in  establishing  the 
one-house  legislature,  in  converting  all  power-generating  facilities 
within  our  borders  into  a  single  publidy  owned  system. 


484  ROUNDUP: 

Much  that  has  happened  in  Nebraska  can  be  explained  in  terms 
of  a  frontier  society,  for  our  state  was  a  frontier  for  nearly  half  its 
politically  organized  existence.  Much  that  has  happened  can  be  ex 
plained  in  terms  of  traits  we  inherited  from  the  pioneers.  Much  also 
is  explained  in  terms  of  new  influences,  developments  of  the  past 
quarter-century. 

The  growth  of  small  industries  in  our  state  has  been  great,  and 
their  wealth  is  rapidly  approaching  our  agriculture's.  Our  popula 
tion  gains  are  occurring  in  the  towns  and  cities.  Broad  ribbons  of 
concrete  and  asphalt,  supporting  streams  of  trucks  and  automobiles, 
tie  us  closer  together.  Food,  clothes,  furnishings,  gadgets,  all  the 
paraphernalia  of  living  appear  in  our  stores  at  virtually  the  same 
instant  they  reach  the  consumer  in  Brockton,  Mass.  Main  Street  in 
Nebraska  has  the  same  neon-lit,  plastic-and-glass-front  look  as  Main 
Street  everywhere  in  the  U.S. 

Books,  magazines,  motion  pictures,  radio,  and  TV  bombard  the 
Nebraskan— as  they  do  the  eastern  suburbanite— with  the  good  and 
the  bad  of  our  mass  culture,  be  it  the  NBC  Symphony  or  Elvis 
Presley,  Arnold  Toynbee  or  Mickey  Spillane,  Olivier Js  Richard  III 
or  Proctor  and  Gamble's  "Life  Can  Be  Beautiful."  Communication 
has  bridged  the  distances— physical  and  psychological— which  once 
separated  us  from  the  main  stream  of  America.  It  has  made  us  more 
conscious  of  America  and  its  place  in  the  world  community.  It  has 
made  us  aware  that  while  agriculture  is  an  important  factor  in  our 
national  life,  it  is  not  the  single  most  important  factor.  It  has  dra 
matically  changed  our  conditions  of  life. 

The  unifying  forces  have  not  yet  become  leveling  forces.  This  is 
important  to  us  because  we  believe  that  a  most  significant  aspect 
of  Nebraska  life  remains,  as  it  was  in  our  earlier  years,  a  robust 
individualism.  We  show  it  most  in  state  and  local  politics  which 
are  tough  on  politicians  and  a  morass  of  frustration  for  those  who 
seek  a  common  unity  in  attacking  our  problems. 

We  are  a  people  of  diverse  interests  and  attitudes.  Agriculture  is 
our  largest  single  economic  interest,  yet  within  it  the  corn-grower 
and  the  wheat-raiser  and  the  dryland  farmer  and  the  irrigator  and 
the  cattle  rancher  and  the  livestock-feeder  go  their  separate  ways. 
The  worries  of  our  growing  industrial  enterprise  are  not  always 
those  of  the  agriculturist.  Historical  and  not-so-historical  rivalries 
flourish  between  regions,  counties,  towns,  and  neighborhoods.  These 
offer  formidable  obstacles  to  innovations  which,  viewed  in  broad 
perspective,  would  benefit  the  whole. 


A  Nebraska  Reader  485 

Local  conflicts  of  Interest  are  not  unique  to  Nebraska.  They  can 
be  found  everywhere  In  America.  Yet,  in  Nebraska  they  are  more 
meaningful,  more  virile,  more  intense,  more  personal.  We  take  stub 
born  delight  in  expressing  our  individualism;  and  our  society  is  so 
constructed  that  we  can  be  heard. 

Despite  automobiles  and  planes,  distances  are  still  imposing— from 
Omaha  to  our  western  border  is  roughly  the  same  distance  as  from 
Chicago  to  Pittsburgh,  or  from  Washington,  B.C.  to  Boston— and 
those  who  "stump"  our  state  find  it  an  arduous  task.  Further  com 
plicating  matters  for  them  is  the  fact  that  Lincoln  and  Omaha  are 
our  only  cities  with  metropolitan  areas.  Thirty-nine  other  cities 
have  populations  between  2,500  and  25,000.  The  remaining  495  are 
under  2,500,  and  most  of  these  are  less  than  1,000.  About  a  third 
of  us  live  on  farms  and  ranches,  another  third  in  small  towns  and 
villages,  and  the  rest  of  us  in  the  larger  towns  and  cities. 

No  prevailing  force— local  political  machines,  political  leader, 
newspaper  chain— binds  us  together.  At  times  we  surfer  for  our 
parochialism,  our  refusal  to  look  at  the  statewide  picture,  our  lack 
of  a  voice  that  speaks  for  us  all.  At  other  times  the  idealists  and 
innovators  rise  among  us  to  be  heard.  We  listen  and  follow.  From 
our  achievements  and  disappointments  we  have  acquired  a  social 
conscience  which  is  cautious  but  not  perverse,  conservative  but  not 
bigoted,  responsive  but  not  gregarious.  Our  need  to  be  "thoroughly 
sold"  on  a  new  idea  and  on  those  expounding  it  derives  in  large 
part  from  our  predominately  small-town  life. 

We  lead  a  "showcase"  existence  in  our  towns.  We  do  not  build 
high  fences  and  hedges  to  separate  us  from  our  neighbors.  We  find 
it  hard  to  understand  those  who  wish  to  withdraw  from  our  midst 
into  a  private  world  of  their  own.  We  share  not  only  the  housewife's 
cup  of  sugar  but  our  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  ambitions,  suc 
cesses  and  defeats. 

We  are  unabashed  boosters.  We  want  to  build,  to  improve,  to 
grow.  We  are  not  embarrassed  if  our  starry-eyed  idealism  must  some 
times  yield  to  hard-headed  practicality,  because  ours  is  a  man-made 
world  unsupported  by  mineral  bonanzas.  When  a  man  runs  a  good 
farm  or  a  good  ranch  or  a  good  business,  we  tell  him.  But  when  we 
do  his  inward  satisfaction  is  balanced  by  an  outward  embarrassment. 
We  covet  the  esteem  of  our  neighbors,  but  we  like  to  be  known  as  com 
mon  folks.  We  take  an  inordinate  interest  in  our  children  because 
all  the  children  of  our  communities  are  an  integral  part  of  our  lives. 
We  hope  they  will  succeed  us  on  our  farm,  in  our  business. 


486  ROUNDUP 

Here  we  are  Somebody;  we  are  an  Event  when  we  are  born  and 
when  we  die.  Here  is  an  intensely  personal  world,  a  world  where 
"they"  are  people  with  faces  and  first  names.  In  our  home  towns  we 
find  a  comfort  and  a  security  in  the  familiar  which  we  wouldn't 
trade  for  all  the  variety  and  novelty  and  urban  glitter  of  the  eastern 
metropolises. 

Thousands  of  Americans  hurtle  across  our  state  each  year,  paus 
ing  only  long  enough  to  gas  up  and  gulp  a  hamburger.  They  have 
heard  that  there  is  nothing  spectacular  or  super-colossal  here:  for 
them,  as  it  was  for  the  Forty-Niners,  Nebraska  is  a  land-obstacle 
to  be  traversed  in  the  shortest  possible  time.  But  we  are  not  dis 
turbed  at  this  brush-off.  We  do  not  pluck  at  their  sleeves  to  detain 
them.  We  have  a  proud  record  behind  us  and  a  spacious  future 
ahead.  We  know  what  has  been  done  and  what  can  be  done  to 
make  our  agriculture  more  productive,  while  still  conserving  and 
protecting  our  water  and  soil.  We  think  it  remarkable  that  our 
community  of  small  industries  should  be  rapidly  growing,  even 
though  many  of  them  must  import  raw  materials  and  export  their 
finished  products. 

We  believe  we  have  done  a  pretty  fan:  job  of  ordering  our  society 
without  forfeiting  our  sometimes  too-individualistic  approach  to 
solving  our  problems.  We  believe  we  are  headed  for  bigger  things 
and  better  ones,  and  we  fondly  cherish  the  hope  that  our  children 
will  do  a  better  job  than  we. 

We  find  a  satisfying  beauty  in  our  state— in  the  precise  rows  of 
towering  corn  stalks,  the  freshly  turned  earth,  the  grandeur  of  a 
thunderstorm,  the  awesome  loneliness  of  the  sandhills  grass,  the 
well-kept  yard. 

We  Nebraskans  understand  the  conditions  of  life  here.  With  good 
humor  and  serious  purposefulness,  we  accept  them— and  like  it. 


On  the  edge  of  the  prairie,  where  the  sun  had  gone 
down,  the  sky  wras  turquoise  blue,  like  a  lake,  with 
gold  light  throbbing  in  it.  Higher  up,  in  the  utter 
clarity  of  the  western  slope,  the  evening  star  hung 
like  a  lamp  suspended  by  silver  chains— like  the 
lamp  engraved  upon  the  title-page  of  old  Latin 
texts,  which  is  always  appearing  in  new  heavens, 
and  waking  new  desires  in  men. 

— Willa  Gather,  My  Antonia 


A  Note 

ABOUT  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  NEBRASKA  PRESS 

EMILY  SCHOSSBERGER 


IN  THE  FALL  OF  1941,  soon  after  my  appointment  as  University  editor, 
I  convinced  the  Board  of  University  Publications  that  the  University 
should  establish  its  own  book  publishing  arm.  The  same  year  saw  the 
chartering  of  the  University  of  Nebraska  Press  as  a  non-incorporated 
agency  of  the  Board  of  Regents.  According  to  the  terms  of  the  charter 

the  University  of  Nebraska  Press  may  publish  manuscripts  which  are  a 
genuine  contribution  to  scholarship.  Preference  should  be  given  to  manu 
scripts  which  are  of  interest  to  the  people  of  Nebraska  or  which  are  written 
by  faculty  or  alumni  of  the  University  or  by  citizens  or  former  citizens  of 
the  State  of  Nebraska.  . .  . 

The  story  of  the  Press  has  in  it  many  of  the  elements  of  struggle  and 
set-back  which  have  characterized  the  story  of  the  state  itself.  Al 
though  a  university  press,  by  its  nature,  is  a  non-profit  enterprise,  it 
still  requires  capital  to  operate;  and  it  has  been  a  long,  difficult  road 
from  our  first  author-subsidized  book  in  1942  to  the  eight  to  ten  regu 
lar  publications  of  the  present. 

However,  while  our  books  have  won  national  recognition  for  "high 
standard  of  design,  printing,  binding,  publishing  intention  and 
reader  appeal,"  and  while  the  book  trade  considers  us  an  "old,  estab 
lished  firm,"  people  in  our  state  are,  for  the  most  part,  hardly  aware 
of  our  existence.  Our  fifteenth  anniversary  seemed  to  us  an  appro 
priate  time  to  introduce  Nebraska  to  its  University's  press.  And  what 
better  way  to  accomplish  this  than  with  a  book  for  and  about  Ne- 
braskans?  We  decided  to  celebrate  our  anniversary  by  getting  out  a 
selection  of  the  best  and  most  illuminating  writing  about  the  state 
and  its  people— a  book  designed  primarily  for  reading  pleasure,  in 
tended  to  be  entertaining  rather  than  exhaustive. 

During  an  eight  months'  exploration  of  the  printed  record,  we  have 
been  amazed  and  impressed  by  the  abundance  and  diversity  of  ma 
terial.  In  fact,  our  greatest  difficulty  has  arisen  from  the  necessity  to 
choose  from  an  embarrassment  of  riches. 

We  count  ourselves  fortunate  to  be  able  to  include  specially  written 

489 


4go  A  Note  About  The  University  of  Nebraska  Press 

pieces  by  the  following  authors:  Lucius  Beebe,  Mildred  R.  Bennett, 
B.  A.  Botkin,  Margaret  Cannell,  Jack  Hart,  Mamie  J.  Meredith, 
Bruce  H.  Nicoll,  Col.  Barney  Oldfield,  and  Rudolph  Umland. 

We  are  indebted  to  Mari  Sandoz  and  Mignon  Good  Eberhart  for 
counsel  and  encouragement.  Special  thanks  are  due  the  staffs  of  the 
University  of  Nebraska  Libraries  and  the  Nebraska  State  Historical 
Society  and  Lincoln  City  Library,  who  bore  up  nobly  under  our  con 
stant  and  involved  demands.  We  are  deeply  grateful  to  Professors 
Lowry  C.  Wimberly,  James  C.  Olson,  and  Karl  Shapiro,  and  Mr. 
John  H.  Ames,  who  read  ROUNDUP  in  manuscript;  and  to  Mrs.  Rosa 
lie  L.  Fuller,  who  typed  it. 

Among  the  persons  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  information,  the 
loan  of  material,  and  other  assistance,  are:  Stu  Bohacek,  the  Wilber 
Republican;  Ronald  R.  Furse,  the  Plattsmouth  Journal;  Nelle  Greer, 
the  Lincoln  Star;  C.  Don  Harpst,  the  Cambridge  Clarion;  Dick  Her 
man,  the  Sidney  Telegraph;  Robert  Houston,  the  Omaha  World- 
Herald;  Bill  Lee,  the  Ord  Quiz;  Raymond  A.  McConnell,  Jr.,  the 
Lincoln  Evening  Journal;  George  P.  Miller,  the  Papillion  Times; 
Arthur  J.  Riedesel,  the  Ashland  Times;  and  Abel  Green,  Variety. 
Also  to  Larry  Owen  and  Mrs.  Shirley  Wilkin  of  the  Columbus  Cham 
ber  of  Commerce;  Cletus  Nelson,  Secretary  of  the  Holdrege  Chamber 
of  Commerce;  Bob  Thomas,  Manager,  WJAG,  Norfolk;  Captain 
James  J.  Brady,  Deputy  Chief,  Public  Information  Division,  Office  of 
Information,  Headquarters,  Strategic  Air  Command;  Professor  J.  H. 
Johnson,  State  Teachers  College,  Wayne;  B.  F.  Sylvester,  Omaha;  and 
Victor  E.  Blackledge  and  Alan  H.  Williams,  Scottsbluff.  Also  the  fol 
lowing  Lincoln  people:  Professor-emerita  Louise  Pound,  Professor 
James  Sellers,  Professor  Mamie  J.  Meredith,  Mildred  M.  Faulkner, 
Richard  W.  Faulkner,  Merle  C.  Rathburn,  and  Burnham  Yates. 

Finally,  we  wish  to  express  our  special  thanks  to  Mr.  Morton 
Steinhart  of  Nebraska  City,  whose  generous  gift  at  a  crucial  moment 
enabled  us  to  complete  the  research  and  preparation  of  the  manu 
script;  and  to  the  Cooper  Foundation  whose  loan  helped  with  the 
financing  of  the  book. 


Sources  Not  Acknowledged  Elsewhere 


FOR  FEAR  of  cluttering  the  text  too  much,  many  sources  of  interpo 
lated  material  were  not  identified  by  footnotes.  Following  is  a  listing 
of  all  material  not  acknowledged  elsewhere,  tabulated  under  the 
heading  of  the  selection  in  which  it  appeared. 

It  should  be  noted  also  that  footnotes  citing  sources  were,  in  nearly 
every  case,  omitted  from  condensed  and  excerpted  articles. 

L  THE  SHIFTING  FRONTIER 

The  quotation  on  the  divider  was  taken  from  My  Antonia  by  Willa  Gather 
(Hough ton  Mifflin  Company,  1918),  7. 

The  second  paragraph  of  the  introduction  to  "The  Myth  of  Wild  Bill 
Hickok"  by  Carl  Uhlarik  was  extracted  from  the  original  article. 

The  Burlington  &  Missouri  poster  in  "See  Nebraska  on  Safari"  is  in  the 
Nebraska  State  Historical  Society  collection. 

In  the  introduction  to  "The  Road  to  Arcadia,"  the  Addison  E.  Sheldon 
quotation  may  be  found  in  his  Nebraska:  The  Land  and  the  People  (Lewis 
Publishing  Company,  1931)  I,  579. 

The  quotation  introducing  "The  Lynching  of  Kid  Wade"  was  taken  from 
Nebraska:  A  Guide  to  the  Cornhusker  State  (Hastings  House,  1939),  311. 

H.  FAMILY  ALBUM  I 

The  quotation  on  the  divider  may  be  found  in  O  Pioneers!  by  Willa  Gather 
(Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  1947),  65. 

The  quotation  which  ends  "Willa  Gather  of  Red  Cloud"  may  be  found  in 
My  Antonia  (Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  1918),  353. 

In  the  introduction  to  "Road  Trader,"  the  lines  quoted  from  Willa  Gather 
occur  in  the  story  "Two  Friends,"  Obscure  Destinies  (Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Inc., 
1950),  212. 

Outlook's  comments  on  Edgar  Howard  appeared  in  the  issue  of  April  23, 
1930.  The  Time  biography  was  published  in  response  to  readers'  requests 
in  the  "Letters"  section,  July  28,  1930. 

III.  THE  GATEWAY 

In  "Omaha  Newsreel,"  the  material  on  which  Ruth  Reynolds  based  her 
account  of  the  Cudahy  kidnapping  was  supplied  by  B.  F.  Sylvester.  The 
account  of  the  1913  tornado  was  derived  in  part  from  Arthur  C.  Wakeley's 

491 


Sources  Not  Acknowledged  Elsewhere 

Omaha:  The  Gate  City  (S.  J.  Clarke,  1917),  448-451,  and  Alfred  R.  Soren- 
son's  The  Story  of  Omaha  (National  Printing  Company,  1923),  644-645. 

In  the  introduction  to  "Railroad  Man,"  John  Gunther's  Inside  U.S. A. 
(Harper  &  Brothers,  1947),  255,  was  the  source  for  the  statement  about  Mr. 
Jeffer's  reputed  ability  to  break  half  dollars  with  his  teeth. 

IV.  THE  SOWER 

In  the  introduction  to  "Education  of  a  Nebraskan,"  the  quoted  descrip 
tion  of  Alvin  S.  Johnson  was  taken  from  Current  Biography  1942  (H.  W. 
Wilson  Company,  1942),  421. 

Willa  Gather's  profile  of  the  Bryans  appeared  originally  in  The  Library, 
July  14,  1900,  under  the  pen  name  "Henry  Nicklemann." 

In  the  introduction  to  "Mixed  Notices,"  E.  P.  Brown's  description  of  early 
theatrical  activities  in  Lincoln  is  quoted  from  Seventy-Five  Years  in  the 
Prairie  Capital  (Miller  &  Paine,  1955),  39. 

V.  THE  WEATHER  REPORT 

"The  Seasons  in  Nebraska"  was  selected  from  the  following  writings  of 
Willa  Gather:  I,  (Winter)— O  Pioneers!  (Houghton  MifHin  Company,  1947), 
187-188.  II.  (Spring)  and  IV.  (Fall)— My  Antonia  (Houghton  Mifflin  Com 
pany,  1918),  119-120  and  40.  ILL  (Summer)— One  of  Ours  (Alfred  A.  Knopf, 
Inc,  1953),  158. 

In  "The  Blizzard  of  1888,"  the  paragraph  beginning  "In  Nebraska  the 
morning . . ."  was  taken  from  Addison  E.  Sheldon's  account  in  Nebraska  Old 
and  New  (University  Publishing  Company,  1937),  352~B53- 

The  introduction  to  "Men  Against  the  River"  was  derived  in  part  from 
the  article  by  B.  F.  Sylvester  in  its  uncondensed  form. 

VI.  LOOK  EAST,  LOOK  WEST 

The  quotation  on  the  divider  may  be  found  in  Willa  Gather's  Youth  and 
the  Bright  Medusa  (Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Inc.,  1951),  222.  That  introducing 
"The  Mysterious  Middle  West"  was  taken  from  O  Pioneers!  (Houghton 
Mifflin  Company,  1947),  75-76. 

"Scottsbluff"  was  based  on  the  following  sources:  (i)  The  Golden  Jubilee 
Edition  of  the  Scottsbluff  Star-Herald,  August  2,  1950,  compiled  and  mostly 
written  by  Robert  Young,  and  containing  contributions  by  Nadine  Ander 
son,  Lola  Banghart,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Thies,  Walt  Panko,  Bob  Franson,  and 
Dean  Razee.  (2)  A  brochure,  "Scottsbluff  and  the  North  Platte  Valley," 
compiled  by  Thomas  L.  Green  and  published  under  the  auspices  of  the 
Scottsbluff  Golden  Jubilee  Celebration  Committee  (Star-Herald  Printing 
Company,  1950).  Articles  were  contributed  by  Robert  Young,  Harold  J. 
Cook,  H.  J.  Wisner,  T.  L.  Green,  Winfield  J.  Evans,  Charles  S.  Simmons, 
Phil  Sheldon,  Robert  G.  Simmons,  J.  C.  McCreary,  Maynard  S.  Clement, 
L.  L.  Hilliard,  Elizabeth  Hughes  Thies,  Lester  A.  Danielson,  and  A.  T. 
Howard.  (3)  Information  supplied  by  Victor  E.  Blackledge  and  Alan  H. 
Williams.  (4)  History  of  Western  Nebraska  and  Its  People,  edited  by 


Sources  Not  Acknowledged  Elsewhere  493 

Grant  L.  Shumway  (Western  Publishing  &  Engraving  Company,  1921),  II, 
444-511. 

In  the  introduction  to  "Hyannis,"  material  pertaining  to  "Operation  Snow 
bound"  was  obtained  from  an  article  by  B.  F.  Sylvester  in  the  New  York 
Sunday  News,  January  17,  1949. 

The  quotation  introducing  "Sandhill  Sundays"  is  extracted  from  "Ne 
braska"  by  Man  Sandoz,  Holiday ,  May,  1956, 

VII.  FAMILY  ALBUM  II 

The  anecdote  introducing  "Man  Sandoz"  was  related  in  The  Brand  Book 
of  the  New  York  Posse  of  The  Westerners,  a  national  organization  of  people 
who  write  about,  draw,  paint,  or  photograph  the  Old  West. 

VIII.  JUST  PASSING  THROUGH 

In  the  introduction  to  "The  Plains  of  Nebraska,"  the  lines  quoted  from 
Willa  Gather  may  be  found  in  My  Antonia  (Houghton  Mifflin  Company, 
1918),  19. 

The  introduction  to  "Nebraska  Not  in  the  Guidebook"  was  extracted  from 
"Four  Seasons  on  the  Farm,"  Life,  March  17,  1941,  copyright  Time,  Inc., 
1941. 

IX.  THE  FIRST  HUNDRED  YEARS  ARE  THE  HARDEST 

The  description  of  the  new  Strategic  Air  Command  Headquarters  in  "First 
Line  of  Defense"  was  based  on  a  news  story  by  Del  Harding  appearing  in 
the  Lincoln  Star,  November  10,  1956. 

In  the  same  article,  the  passage  quoting  William  J.  Shallcross  appears  in  his 
Romance  of  a  Village:  The  Story  of  Bellevue  (Roncka  Brothers,  1954),  229. 

CLOSING  QUOTATION 

These  lines  are  from  Willa  Gather's  My  Antonia  (Houghton  Mifflin,  1918), 
263. 


$> 


101  147