When the weeks or months of slow travel during the day and camping out by night were over, and the new home on the prairie was reached, the discomforts and privations of the emigrating family were not ended: they were only fairly begun. There was no house in which to lay their heads, no sawmill where lumber could be obtained, no tree to shelter them, unless they had the good fortune to locate near a stream—nothing but a smooth, level expanse of prairie-sod, bright green and gay with the flowers of early summer or faded and parched with the droughts of autumn. Sometimes they camped in the open air until lumber could be brought from a distance and a rude shanty erected, but often they built a turf house, in which they passed their first winter. These houses were constructed by cutting blocks of turf about eighteen inches square—the roots of prairie-grass being that long—and piling one upon another until the walls were raised to the desired height. Slender poles were then laid across from wall to wall, and on these other strips and squares of turf were piled until a roof thick enough to keep out the rain was formed. A turf fireplace and chimney were constructed at one end; the opening left for entrance was braced with poles and provided with a door; and sometimes a square opening was cut in the end opposite the chimney and a piece of muslin stretched across it to serve as a window. The original earth formed the floor, and piles of turf covered with bedding served as beds. It was only when the family intended to live some time in the turf house that all these pains were taken to make it comfortable. Many of these dwellings were dark huts, with floors a foot or two below the level of the ground and without window or chimney. These were intended for temporary occupation. A few of this kind, still inhabited, are to be seen in the sparsely-settled north-western part of the State. I do not mean this description to apply in a general sense to the early settlers of Iowa. Many parts of the State are heavily wooded, and cabins of hewed logs chinked with mud are still to be seen here and there—specimens of the early homes. In the regions where turf houses were necessary prairie-hay was burned as fuel.
When his family was housed from the weather the farmer turned his attention to his land. The virgin sod had to be broken and the rich black soil turned up in ridges to the air and sunlight. When the ground was prepared the stock of seed-corn was planted or wheat sown, and the farmer's old life began again under new and quite different circumstances. In the eastern and oldest-settled part of the State these beginnings date back a generation: in the western part they are still fresh and recent. In the old part well-cultivated fields, large barns, orchards, gardens and comfortable farm-houses greet the traveller's eye: in the new he may travel for half a day without seeing a single dwelling, and may consider himself fortunate if he does not have to pass the night under the lee side of a haystack.
After a foothold has been gained in a new country and a home established, a generation, perhaps two, must pass away before a fine type of humanity is produced. The fathers and mothers have toiled for the actual necessaries of life, and gained them. The children are supplied with physical comforts. Plenty of food and exercise in the pure air give them stalwart frames, good blood and perfect animal health, but there is a bovine stolidity of expression in their faces, a suggestion of kinship with the clod. They are honest-hearted and well-meaning—stupid, not naturally, but because their minds have never been quickened and stimulated. They grope in a blind way for better things, and wonder if life means no more than to plough and sow and reap, to wash and cook and sew. I see young people of this class by the score, and my heart goes out toward them in pity, though they are all unconscious of needing pity. Perhaps one out of every hundred will break from the slowly-stepping ranks and run ahead to taste of the springs of knowledge reserved for the next generation, but the vast majority will go down to their graves without ever attaining to the ripeness and symmetry of a fully-developed life. Their children perhaps—certainly their grand-children—will attain a fine physical and mental type; and by that time "the prairies" will cease to be a synonym for lack of society and remoteness from liberal and refining influences.
The land in this vicinity is largely devoted to wheat, corn and oats: much, however, is used for pasturage, and several fine stock-farms lie within a radius of five miles. Sheep-rearing is a profitable industry, the woollen manufactory at this place affording a convenient and ready market for the clip. But the statistics of Iowa show that the rearing of hogs is a more prominent industry than any of these. The agricultural fairs that are held at the county-seats in August or September every year serve to display the growth of these and other industries and the development of the resources of the country, as well as the advance in material comfort. The fair-ground is generally a smooth plat of ground several acres in extent just outside the city limits, and besides the race-track and wooden "amphitheatre" there are sheds for cattle, stalls for horses, pens for hogs and sheep and poultry, a large open shed for the exhibition of agricultural machinery and implements, a long wooden building—usually called "Farmers' Hall"—where fruits, grain and vegetables are displayed, and another, called "Floral Hall," where there is a motley display consisting of flowering plants and cut flowers, needlework, embroidery, pieced bed-quilts, silk chair-cushions and sofa-pillows, jellies, preserves, jams, butter, cake, bread—the handiwork of women. There is generally a crowd of women from the country around these exhibits, examining them and bestowing friendly comment or criticism.
The fair which is held here every year affords a good opportunity for a study of the bucolic character. Farm-wagons, full of men, women and children, come in from the country early in the morning, and by eleven o'clock the halls are crowded with red-faced and dusty sightseers, who elbow their way good-humoredly from one attractive exhibit to another, and gaze with open eyes and mouth and loud and frequent comment. At noon they retire to their wagons or the shade of the buildings to eat their dinner, which they have brought from home in a large basket, and there is a great flourish of fried chicken legs and wings and a generous display of pies, pickles and ginger-bread. The young men and half-grown boys have scorned the slow progress of the farm-wagons, and have come into town early on horseback. They have looked forward to this occasion for months, and perhaps have bought a suit of "store clothes" in honor of it. They have already seen the various exhibits, and now that the dinner-hour has arrived they seek refreshment—not from the family dinner-basket, but from some of the various eating-stands temporarily erected on the grounds—and buy pop-beer, roasted peanuts and candy of the vendors, who understand the art of extracting money from the rural pockets. Then in the afternoon come the races, and, having paid a quarter for a seat in the "amphitheatre," they give themselves up to the great excitement of the day. The incidents of fair-time will serve as food for thought and conversation for weeks afterward. It is the legitimate dissipation of the season.
What character shall I choose as a typical Iowan? Not the occupant of the large brick house with tall evergreens in front which meets my sight whenever I look toward the country. An old woman lives there alone, except for a servant or two, having buried her husband and ten children. She is worth a hundred thousand dollars, but can neither read nor write. Her strong common sense and deep fund of experience supply her lack of education, and one would not think while listening to her that she was ignorant of letters. Her life has been one of toil and sorrow, but her expression is one of brave cheerfulness. She and her husband came to this place forty years ago. They were the first white settlers, and for neighbors they had Indians and wolves. They entered most of the land on which the town now stands, and when other settlers came in and the town was laid out their land became valuable, and thus the foundation of their fortune was laid. But as riches increased, cares also increased: the husband was so weighed down by responsibility and anxiety that his mind gave way, and in a fit of despondency he committed suicide. The sons and daughters who died, with the exception of two or three, were taken away in childhood. So the large mansion, with its richly-furnished rooms, is shut up from the sunlight and rarely echoes to the patter of childish feet. The mistress lives in the back part, but exercises a care over the whole house, which is kept in a state of perfect order and neatness. Not a speck of dirt is to be seen on the painted wood-work or the window-glass, not a stain mars the floor—long as the deck of a ship—of the porch which extends the length of the ell. The plates in the corner cupboard in the sitting-room are freshly arranged every day, the tins in the kitchen shine till you can see your face in them, and in summer the clean flower-beds, bright with pansies, roses, carnations and geraniums, that border the long walk leading to the front gate and adorn the side yards, attest the care and neatness of the mistress. Though she has lived on the prairie for forty years, yet the expressions that savor of her early life in a densely-wooded State still cling to her, and if you find her in her working-dress among her flowers she will beg you to excuse her appearance, adding, "I look as if I was just out of the timber."
But this character, though interesting, is not a typical one. Neither is that of the pinched, hungry-looking little man whose five acres and small dwelling meet my sight when I look toward the country in another direction. His patch of ground is devoted to market-gardening, and from its slender profits he is trying to support himself and wife and four children and pay off a mortgage of several hundred dollars. He has lately invented an ingenious toy for children, and is trying to raise enough money to get it patented, hoping when that is done to reap large profits from the sale of it. He is like a poor trembling little mouse caught and held in the paws of a cruel cat. Sometimes Fate relaxes her grip on him, and he breathes freer and dares to hope for a larger liberty: then she puts her paw on him again, and tosses him and plays with him in very wantonness.
Neither are the three old-maid sisters whose house I often pass types of Iowa character, but I cannot forbear describing them. Their names are Semira, Amanda and Melvina. There is nothing distinctive in their personal appearance, but their character, as expressed in their home and surroundings, is quite interesting. Their little low house is on a corner lot, and as the other three corners are occupied by large two-story houses, it seems lower still by contrast. It is unpainted, and has a little wooden porch over the front door. The floors are covered with homemade carpet, and braided mats are laid before each door and in front of the old-fashioned bureau, which has brass rings for handles on the drawers. A snow tree made of frayed white cotton or linen cloth adorns the table in the best room; woolly dogs with bead eyes and cotton-flannel rabbits with pink ears stand on the mantel; a bead hanging-basket filled with artificial flowers decorates the window; an elaborate air-castle, made of straw and bright worsted, hangs from the middle of the low ceiling; and hung against the wall, between two glaring woodcuts representing "Lady Caroline" in red and "Highland Mary" in blue, is a deep frame filled with worsted flowers, to which a butterfly and a bumble-bee have been pinned. Paper lacework depends from their kitchen-shelves, and common eggshells, artificially colored, decorate the lilac-bushes in the side yard. They are always making new mats or piecing quilts in a new pattern.
As soon as the first bluebird warbles they begin to work in their flower and vegetable garden, and from then until it is time to cover the verbena-beds in the fall I rarely pass without seeing one or more of them, with sunbonnet on head and hoe in hand, busy at work. Besides keeping their little front yard a mass of gorgeous bloom and their vegetable garden free from weed or stone, they raise canary-birds to sell and take care of a dozen hives of bees. Last fall I frequently saw all three of them in the yard, with a neighbor or two called in for conference, and all twittering and chattering like blackbirds in March. Finally, the mystery was solved. Going past one day, I saw a carpenter deliberately cutting out the whole end of the house, and soon a large bay-window made its appearance. When this was completed three rows of shelves were put up inside close to the glass, and immediately filled with plants in pots and tin cans. What endless occupation and entertainment the watering and watching and tending of these must afford the sisters during winter!
Neither does another neighbor of mine supply the type I seek—the old Quaker farmer, who is discontented and changeable in his disposition, having lived in Indiana a while, then in Iowa, then in Indiana again, and who is now in Iowa for the second time. He rents some land which lies just across the railroad, and in summer, when he is ploughing the growing corn, I hear him talking to his horse. He calls her a "contrary old jade," and jerks the lines and saws her mouth, and says, "Get over in that other row, I tell thee!" Once I heard him mutter to her, when he was leading her home after the day's work was done, "I came as near killin' thee to-day as ever I did."