One evening this spring my husband asked me to help with a controlled burn of a small field. (I use the term "help" very loosely here). As I watched the flames quickly consume the dry grass, it proved to me the danger our pioneer ancestors faced from prairie fires. It also reminded me of a chapter from "Early Algona" written by Florence Call Cowles, the oldest child of Ambrose and Nancy (Henderson) Call. It is a tale of a happy family day which ended in a narrow escape from a raging prairie fire. I am including a slightly shortened version of that chapter here.
A True Pioneer
Story for the Children
At last everything was ready for our
start. Pa and Ma and roly-poly Bertie
were enthroned on the big spring seat where pa was to drive old Bill and
Colonel. Timid, curly headed Eda and
gentle little Etta and I—three happy youngsters—sat with our feet curled under
us in the bottom of the wagon behind. A
few pitch forks of straw covered with an ancient quilt made the most luxurious
of upholstering, softening the jolts of our primitive roads. The lunch basket and a little grain for Bill
and Colonel were already stowed away and we were off!
Oh, what joy to be a frontier
youngster! It was a glorious Sunday
morning, soft and balmy with just a little cool touch on our cheeks when a
playful breeze kissed us. Birds sang,
katydids screeched at us, flowers waved at us and all nature noticed that we
were starting and rejoiced with us.
Soon we were across the little ravine,
up the slope and beyond the little scattered cluster of houses. Then past the fringe of oak trees which
nature plants along the winding rivers in Iowa.
Now we were out on the prairie—the glorious prairie! We tossed off our hot shakers and drew a
deep, deep breath. One had to be bare headed and free from
everything binding in this great, broad expanse of waving green that spread out
as far as one could see. Our
grandparents loved the little pinched-up, stingy, stony towns,—villages—they
called them,—strung along the New England rivers—how could they—with hills
cramping and squeezing them in until people and villages must have panted for
breath! Aunts talked of going “back
east” until we youngsters thought “back east” must be another name for
heaven—the heaven Father Taylor talked about at Sunday school. If that was heaven, what was this—this great,
generous, glorious outdoors? The rich
black soil with no rocks but an occasional boulder—teeming with millions and
millions of flowers! Just see the acres
of violet and mauve and purple fall asters—the scattered red lilies, the
heavenly blue gentians, the black-eyed Susans, the feathery goldenrod and the
tall, billowy waving grass reaching on and on until it met the sky with the
fleecy clouds. And then the freshness of
the air, the exhilarating air that filled our lungs until we felt we could
fly. No one crowded us—no one stepped on
our toes or joggled our elbows. And
we—spindling little youngsters—the first crop of the pioneer life spreading out
into this great west, happy as kings—sitting on our cramped feet in the back of
the crude wagon on the straw—wondered why we were so happy! Or we would have wondered, had we thought
about it.
As it was, we sang. Not the songs Father Taylor taught us at
singing school but a song we had composed for just such rides, ourselves. It was a chant of joy perhaps, a paean of
praise, a long drawn out “ah-a-a-ah” sung in concert. This would be sharply accented by a sudden
jolt when the wagon ran onto a rock or over a gopher hill, causing an
involuntary and unexpected change of tune as we bounced in the wagon
bottom. Then what joyous shrieks of
laughter! Why was it so funny? Who can tell?
Was it simply the joy of life and youth bubbling over? Perhaps.
On we went along our little
double-tracked path of a road, grass and wild flowers covering the ridge in the
middle. Bill and Colonel were not fine
carriage horses. All the week they
plodded up and down the furrows or pulled heavy loads of wood for winter or
hauled great loads of hay. They resented
just a little being deprived of their Sunday rest. But who could resist the holiday spirit of
this gay little group? Even plow horses
can feel the mood of their masters and a settled, contented jog succeeded old
Bill’s and Colonel’s first rather forced start.
Then we began to beg to get out and
gather flowers. The blue gentians were
so alluring! Soon father discovered a
flaming red lily holding its cup up to the sun in the green prairie, and as he
climbed back in the wagon, proudly handing it to mother, she exclaimed, perhaps
tactfully, for she loved these rides, “I didn’t see that lily. No one has such sharp eyes as pa! He always sees the first red lilies on the
prairie, and he finds the first yellow lady slippers on Chubb’s hill!” What a wonderful father we had! Mother said so and it must be true. And we hugged ourselves with pride.
Finally we turned out of our narrow
two-pathed road with the flower-bedecked ridge onto the trackless prairie, our
horses making their own path thru the tall grass. Father had talked to mother while we were
singing about the value of this land in Portland township for it was to spy out
the land that we were on this ride. He
talked about the soil and the slope and the drainage—whatever it was—and
wondered if there might not be a spring somewhere. All the settlers had wells of course, wells
with good water; wells, too, where we hung pails down on long ropes which held
the butter we churned from old Plomy’s milk, keeping it fresh and hard and
cool, but finding a spring, a bubbling spring of cold water seemed to a pioneer
for some reason to be almost like finding a gold mine.
Father talked, too, about “breaking” the
land, as they called the first plowing and turning over of the virgin sod. He said he would get oxen, five or six yokes
of oxen to do this heavy work, then the first year he would sow it to flax and
later what a valuable farm it would make!
Then, oh, happy thought—he decided we
would all get out and eat our lunch.
Great applause from four hungry youngsters and an appreciative whinny
from old Bill as we slowed up.
The horses were quickly unhitched, tied
to the wagon box and given their grain, whence a contented crunching ensued.
Mother spread a red tablecloth on the
grass, opened the lunch basket and all gathered around. Biscuits and chicken and doughnuts began to
disappear. Excited ants and grasshoppers
went scurrying around, running here and there and hopping over the tablecloth,
but they were all familiar friends of ours and caused no serious
interruption. A chipmunk sat on his
haunches—surveyed the scene, and then ran scampering away. A flock of prairie chickens went whirring up
from the grass nearby, their fat, heavy bodies proclaiming the good eating they
would make if pa only had his shotgun.
All was calm and peaceful and serene.
Where on this great, broad earth could be found a more peaceful picture
or a more contented or happier group.
A little breeze started bringing with it
a stronger sensation of Indian summer.
What was it? We all lifted our
heads wonderingly, and drew in our breath.
Father look startled a second, then leaped to his feet! He stood like a statue for an instant, then
shouted, “A prairie fire, by
thunder! Hurry up, get in the wagon.
Quick, I tell you, it’s coming this way!”
Mother seized the four corners of the
tablecloth and dishes, chicken bones, scraps, all were dumped together in the
wagon box. Bertie began to cry, Etta to
blink tears and Eda and I stood with open eyes and mouths, sniffing the smoky air. Father had the horses hitched to the wagon
before one could say “Jack Robinson” and before they were ready mother had
hurried Etta and Bertie in and Eda and I had scrambled over the wheel to our
places.
In three minutes the happy picnic ground
was behind us and Bill and Colonel were headed for Plum Creek, going at a
greater pace than their old joints ever experienced before.
Father urged them on faster and faster
while behind us on the horizon, began to roll up great volumes of smoke. The wind was rising and blowing the smoke
directly towards us. Soon we could see
sparks in the air and we knew in a short time we could hear the crackle of the
flames, devouring the tall autumn grass of the prairie.
On and on we urged the horses, the wagon
swaying and bouncing and the three young pioneers in the wagon box jolting and
tumbling from side to side. No more
singing, no more exclamations of delight at the landscape—no gathering of
flowers. Only fear, grim terror at the
power and swiftness of the crackling, roaring fiend in the distance who could
sweep us out of existence in one moment.
One look at father’s strained face and mother’s pallor as she held
little Bertie tight to her and clung to the swaying seat were enough for
us. Our hearts beat like drums! We knew a great and terrible danger
threatened us and we scarcely dared breath!
On went Bill and Colonel—joints
creaking, eyes bloodshot and lungs panting.
On came the smoke and flames in this terrible race—a race of life and
death. When and how would it end?
We children had sometimes overheard
lowered conversation when we were supposed to be sleeping or playing of the
terrible suddenness of death and devastation caused by sweeping prairie
fires. We knew the danger was ranked
with that of the savage Indians—with serious illness in the pioneer families,
when isolated from help, and with starvation when cut off from supplies by the
blizzards in mid-winter. We had heard
how men plowed circles around cabins and haystacks, turning the inflammable
grass underneath and we had a vague idea of backfiring. Young as we were we understood if we crossed
Plum Creek, the fire could probably not leap across and reach us.
At last, after what seemed an eternity,
father heaved a sigh of relief and his muscles grew less tense. Mother sat a little less rigid, the horses
slowed up a trifle, and peering with frightened faces over the side of the
wagon box we saw the tall prairie grass was disappearing from our path. Instead, were the little shrubs and plum
trees, wild grapevines and friendly bushes that flanked the borders of good
little Plum Creek. Soon we were
splashing thru the creek itself and were across on the other side in safety.
“Thank God,” said father as he drew a
deep breath, “that was a close call!”
Mother gave one big sob, then hugged baby Bertie to her more tightly and
hid her face an instant. And we
children? We cried and laughed—and
rolled over in the wagon box and laughed again to hide our tears.
Father stopped old Bill and Colonel, got
out and stroked their noses and patted their hot steaming necks, while they
slowly regained their breath. Then he
said, “A pioneer has no better friend than a good horse! Good
old Bill! Good old Colonel! You saved six lives today!”
If you enjoyed this story, I am sure you would love to read the entirety of "Early Algona." Copies are for sale at the Kossuth County Historical Museum.
Until next time,
Jean, a/k/a the Kossuth County History Buff
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