PERSONAL INCIDENTS
In the spring of the year 1888 I sold my home, 707 Fourth street, and built a house for my residence on my farm. We left the old home with no little regret. It had been our place of residence since the fall of 1859, with the exception of two years in which we fitted up the property temporarily on the corner of Fifth and Center, while we built the new house on Fourth in the old location. We had planted the shade trees of hard and soft maple. Here our child had been born and had grown to manhood, here we had celebrated our silver wedding in 1878, and had enjoyed the society of many kind friends and persons of distinction and influence in the state. Bishop Andrews, the bishop of the Methodist Episcopal church, with his family, resided nearly opposite to our house, and Bishop Hearst and his family had lived on Third street nearby, and our excellent neighbors, A. Y. Rawson and his first wife, Thos. F. Withrow and his family, had been our kind friends through many years. Here we had entertained such men as Governor Grimes and Governor Kirkwood and his wife, Senator Harlan and his wife, Bishop Waldron, Bishop Simpson, and other distinguished men of the state and of the church.
The most difficult problem in my life that I had to solve was the care and education of my son. I felt that everything was at stake in his proper discipline and education. During his early childhood we sent him to school as already mentioned to Mrs. Winkley, afterwards for some years to the public school and still later to Callanan College, an institution taught by Dr. Pomeroy. When the time came for him to go from home and attend college my first thought was to send him to Iowa City to the State University, but I had grave fears in regard to the influence that prevailed in that city. The college campus was environed by saloons and public sentiment of that town was far from being what it ought to have been. Attorneys had been mobbed in the streets of the city for the offense of prosecuting the violators of the prohibitory law, and there had been no proper expression of public sentiment condemning the outrage. I consulted with a number of the best citizens of Iowa City in regard to the matter of sending my son there for his education, but I became satisfied that they knew but very little of what was transpiring in the city after bedtime. I thought it prudent to make an investigation on my own account. I accordingly took the train that left Des Moines at five o'clock in the afternoon, arriving at Iowa City about half past nine. I went to the St. James Hotel and quietly registered my name and engaged a room for the night, but did not go to bed. I waited until about half past ten or eleven o'clock, and took my hat and started out on a tour of inspection. I visited a number of the saloons on the public square and found them filled with young men, no doubt students of the college, and I met several crowds of these young gentlemen on the street headed by one of the trustees of the college in not a very sober condition. I returned to my hotel with my mind fully made up that my boy should go without an education before I would subject him to the risk of being educated in such a town. Subsequently I visited Ames in company with my wife and selected a proper room in the dormitory for my son's occupancy, and we sent him to Ames accordingly. He afterwards spent a year in California before settling down to business as an architect in Des Moines.
[Illustration: _Rebecca A. McMeekin Nourse_ From Photograph by Edinger]
He was anxious to design a country farm house that should be a credit to his own skill and ability. Our new house was completed in the latter part of July of that year. We found it somewhat inconvenient to be so far away from our church privileges and from business, but took great pleasure in improving our grounds and setting out fruit and ornamental trees for our new home. I had the old road changed so as to run east of the house. My wife soon became very much attached to the new home and here we had many pleasant reunions with our old friends and neighbors.
In 1886 I rented the farm, including the land in section 20 bought of Sneer, to Mr. Charles West for the term of three years, he carrying on a dairy farm on the place, reserving from his lease the right to occupy the orchard as well as my own residence, and also the right of pasture for a team of horses and a couple of cows. The next year, 1889, my son contracted marriage with Miss Elizabeth Baehring, and here were born my two grandchildren, Clinton Baehring Nourse on April 14, 1890, and Lawrence Baehring Nourse on October 5, 1893. My son and his wife and first child made a trip to Europe in the year 1892. In 1895 my son purchased a property on Fifth street and removed to the city and occupied the same until the fall of the year, when the children were both taken down with diphtheria. He put them both at once in a carriage and brought them out to our country home, where the oldest of the two children died September 10th. This was the first death we had in the family, and I purchased a lot in Woodland Cemetery where the little one was laid away.
The following year my health became somewhat impaired and I had a serious attack of what they called la grippe. I was somewhat overworked at that time, and under the advice of my physician I went with my wife to the state of Florida and spent the winter in St. Petersburg in that state, returning early in the spring and resuming my practice. For several successive years since then I have spent my winters in St.
Petersburg, Florida.
In the year 1902 my son's health became seriously impaired, and early that fall with his wife and child he visited California, and in December of that year my wife and myself joined them. My son suffered from severe nervous condition that made it impossible for him to sleep only a few hours out of each twenty-four. He was reduced in flesh to about 117 pounds weight and I became seriously concerned for his future. Finding outdoor travel to agree with him better than treatment of the doctors, we finally in the month of April, 1903, determined upon a camping expedition and a visit to the Yosemite valley. We fitted out two teams with camp wagons and tent, and started from Long Beach about the 26th of April, traveling about twenty miles a day, going first via the coast to Santa Barbara and thence via Merced over to the Yosemite valley. At Santa Barbara my wife concluded she would not go any further with us on the trip. Our roads over mountains were very narrow, the outer wheel of the wagon only three or four feet from the precipice, and she suffered nervous apprehension that deprived her of any real enjoyment of the trip. I secured the services of a young man to accompany us on the further trip and to aid in the work incident to camp life. My son's wife had suffered from a spell of nervous indigestion and was scarcely able to do the cooking for her husband and child. I became the cook for myself and my assistant and acquired considerable skill in making coffee and flapjacks and frying breakfast bacon. The scenery upon this trip and in the valley of the Yosemite has been described by many writers more skilled than myself in putting their impressions upon paper. I can only say that we all enjoyed the trip exceedingly and were strongly impressed with these wonderful mountains and valleys and great trees that have acquired a world-wide reputation. My wife and myself returned to Iowa and to our home early in July, 1903.
During the second year of the tenancy of Mr. Chas. West I had the misfortune of losing all of my barns and outbuildings by fire. The loss amounted to about $3,500 and I only had $500 insurance on one of the barns. I immediately rebuilt the barns and granary and corn cribs, taking the precaution also to build a separate barn for my own use. A few months after my return from California in that year I discovered that one of my eyes had failed, supposed to be caused by a callous condition of the optic nerve. Soon after the other eye became affected in the same way, and later in the fall I was unable to read. I first applied to and received treatment from Dr. Pearson; afterwards I visited Chicago and took treatment of an oculist of some reputation there. The following winter I took treatment from Dr. Amos of Des Moines, and spent two weeks in the Methodist Hospital without receiving any relief or seeming benefit. These physicians were all candid enough to confess their inability to do me any good, and since that time I have been partially deprived of the use of my sight, and have not been able to read or write. My physicians promised me several years ago that I should lose my sight entirely, but in this I am happy to say they were wrong. I can still see imperfectly to get about and avoid collision with objects, but I am not able to recognize the features of friends and acquaintances.
I have continued every year to visit St. Petersburg during the winter season, and have made many pleasant and interesting acquaintances among the tourists who visit annually that place.
On the first day of November, 1906, my beautiful home was totally destroyed by fire. We lost all our furniture and clothing, except my private library and furnishings on the first floor of the house, which we succeeded in rescuing from the flames. The previous winter my wife had accompanied me to Florida and remained with me there during the season. After our house was destroyed we removed to the city and occupied apartments with my son and his wife in a block of flats then belonging to my son on Fifth street. The following winter, 1906-07, I spent in St. Petersburg, returning home in April of that year. I had been home only a few days before we made the sad discovery that my wife's health was fast failing. At her earnest solicitation, however, we rebuilt our house on the farm and in August of that year reestablished ourselves in the location of our old home.
And now comes the saddest event of my life. On the 11th day of November, succeeding, my wife passed away. The previous 21st of March was her eightieth birthday. A short time before that date while at St.
Petersburg, Florida, I received from my daughter Elizabeth a letter stating that she intended to have some friends spend an evening with my wife to have a birthday celebration, and requesting me to write some verses and also to send a new silk dress pattern to be presented to my wife on the occasion. I had a premonition that the sad event that later transpired in the fall was not far off. I wrote as cheerfully as I could under the circumstances and sent my daughter a check with which to purchase the silk dress pattern, and the following verses I composed as well as I could with my defective sight. They were read on the occasion, and those present assure me that my wife was cheerful and enjoyed their visit very much:
My Dear Wife:-- Elizabeth, our daughter, writes to me That she intends to have some friends to tea; She says she can't invite them all, Because our house is much too small, But she selected just a few, The ones she thinks are dearest most to you.
She intends to celebrate, for mother dear, The birthday of her eightieth year, And she requests that I shall write to thee, What she is pleased to call some poetry, And that because I can't be there She'll read it from my vacant chair.
She also writes, that while your health is good, That very lately she has understood That you are suffering some distress, And I must buy for you a new silk dress, And send it there together with the poetry, That she could have them both in time for tea.
The journey has been very long my dear, And you have safely reached your eightieth year, But you will never seem so old to me, I still recall your face just as it used to be.
Your brow is smooth, your eyes are bright, You still retain your appetite.
This human life doth now as ever Depend so much upon the liver.
Some sixty years ago, I knew A fair young girl, she looked like you.
We fell in love, a youthful dream, But even now, this world would seem A barren waste, if I could doubt The love I could not live without.
'Tis more than fifty years since we were wed, How rapidly the time has fled.
The way has not been always smooth, I only cite the fact to prove Our love was true. That is to say We found some shadows o'er our way.
But they were shadows only, and did not bother, For reaching out our hands to touch each other We kept the path until the light Shone out again and all was right.
We've had our joy, our grief and sorrow, Differed today, agreed tomorrow, Forgave each other and repented, Firm one day, the next relented, But after all the truth to tell I think we've averaged very well.
'Tis almost four and fifty years Since you, with many sighs and tears, Bade farewell to home and friends, Not knowing what your life might be, With only faith in God and love for me.
I'm thinking of the time gone by, When from your home, both you and I Came west to seek and make a home That we might claim and call our own.
Without our kindred, friends or wealth, We started forth with youth and health.
Whate'er we have, whate'er we've gained We know we've honestly obtained, And we grew strong in faith and hope, And never thought of giving up.
To our store we added day by day, And faithful friends have joined us on our way.
No woman ever bore a son More true and faithful than our one, And when he grew to man's estate And sought and found a worthy mate, We got our daughter ready grown And took and loved her for our own.
But there's another blessing yet And one we never can forget: Our dearest Laurence-- The only grandchild we have left, Since of the other one bereft; But there is also present here A cherub from another sphere.
He comes to us from realms above, Drawn hither by the power of love.
We can but feel his presence here To honor Grandma's eightieth year.
I do not know how many more Of birthdays you may have in store.
It is not within our ken to know, Just how much further you may have to go Before you reach the end.
But whether near or far, We all will meet you at the "Gates Ajar."
In my younger days I had been accustomed somewhat occasionally to indulge myself in the attempt of writing what out of courtesy to my literary qualifications might be called poetry, though my life was too busy a life to indulge much in sentiment or even to indulge much in imagination. Some time the year before I wrote this for my wife's birthday, I composed and wrote the following for the benefit of the Early Settler's Association of Polk county, which was sung with considerable enthusiasm at several of their picnic celebrations. The song is sung to the tune of "John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave," and is as follows:
The early settlers' picnic has come around again, And here we are together the few that still remain, To exchange our hearty greetings and to join in this refrain, As we go marching on.
Chorus--Glory, glory, hallelujah, Glory, glory, hallelujah, Glory, glory, hallelujah, We still are marching on.
'Tis many years ago since we all came out west To grow up with the country that is now the very best.
God gave the soil and climate and the settlers did the rest When they came marching on.
Chorus--
We left our homes in yonder for the far off Iowa.
We came and saw her beauty and settled down to stay, And there's not a soul among us that has ever rued the day When we came marching on.
Chorus--
This is the land of promise where the milk and honey flow, With corn and pumpkin plenty, and where pies and puddings grow, With every other blessing that nature can bestow As we go marching on.
Chorus--
We may seem a little older for our heads are silvered o'er, But our hearts are still as young as they were in days of yore, And we still recount the blessings the future has in store As we go marching on.
Chorus--
This is a goodly land where we have lived and loved together; We have borne the heat of Summer and faced the coldest weather.
Glory, hallelujah! our Iowa forever!
We still are marching on.
Chorus--
Our nation is united as it never was before, All are happy and contented with old glory floating o'er.
We are coming Father Abraham with many millions more, We all are marching on.
Chorus--
Our column is unbroken though some have gone before, They have passed across the river and have reached the shining shore, And are waiting there to greet us as they did in days of yore When we were marching on.
Chorus--