Leaving Home To Work A Different Farm

       It was in the year 1858 that my father impressed upon my mind the necessity of starting out from home and becoming independent — of cutting loose from the parent tree that had nurtured me for fourteen years. It was a trying ordeal. Nevertheless I engaged to work for Winthrop and Stella on their farm, which was located near the then promising rival of Minneapolis — Industrianna.

       This prospective "metropolis" was in Brooklyn township, Hennepin county, a few miles up the river from Shingle Greek; and I may further add that this city of ours might have been located there, if the boiler in the saw mill had not burst and blown the cylinder head out of the glowing prospects that were then in embryo.

       The morning of Aug. 10 dawned brightly; not a cloud was visible in the sky; but a good sized one lowered on the outer rim of my mental horizon.

       After singing and family prayers, and a good substantial breakfast at home, I packed the old patent-leather valise — that Sam Knight brought from Maine — with an extra hickory shirt, a pair of blue overalls, a Testament, with my name printed thereon in gold letters, which had been presented me by my Sunday school teacher for reading the Bible through from Genesis to Revelation, including the first chapter of Matthew, and also for being the only one in a class of twelve boys who could correctly spell Nebuchadnezzar. In addition to this luggage, both material and spiritual, I was supplied with several copies of back numbers of the "Northwestern Christian Advocate," which was at that time to the Methodist religious world what the New York Tribune was to the political world. Divers copies of the "Sunday School Advocate" with the important  adjunct of a good wholesome luncheon, completed my outfit for a struggle with the world.

       The 'bus did not call for me at the door; nor was a train in waiting at the station to speed me on the way. Oh no! for there was not a railroad or station in this infant State.

       I grasped my shiny grip with my right hand; with my left I carried my comparatively new boots, that were tied by the straps with a leather string, and started barefoot for a seven-mile tramp over a dry and dusty road.

       Father had provided me with plenty of pocket money with which to defray my expenses on the way; this was five cents for the ferryman, Peter Poncin, to transfer me safely to the ''other shore" of the Mississippi. The ferry was near what is now Twentieth avenue north.

       Fortune did not smile upon me in enabling me to steal a ride, as all the teams were going the wrong way; but the good-natured farmers had a kind word for me, and cheerfully imparted information in regard to the right road, the distance to my destination, etc. Some of the inquisitive ones wished to know "where that carpet bag was going with that boy?" and I very courteously gave the desired information.

       I was entertained on the road by the antics of squirrels and the flight of many pigeons, and was given an occasional start by the sudden appearance of a black stump that had the semblance of something I had read about in the Bible, where the bad boys told the old bald-head to "go up."

       When I reached "Jock" Estes' farm I felt at liberty to crawl under the fence and get a fat turnip; after cleaning it with a cabbage leaf, I peeled it with my teeth, not having in my possession a pocket knife. This added to the luncheon I had brought along, greatly refreshed me, and I resumed my journey. At 11 o'clock I reached my destination, and was greeted with a welcome such as only farmers can give. I was introduced to the rain barrel, and with a tin wash-basin and plenty of home-made soft soap, made myself presentable, and was then invited to the dinner table. I must say it was as good a dinner as I ever sat down to. New potatoes with their jackets on, turnips, cabbage, fried salt pork, biscuits, milk and tea. I can truthfully say that at this moment I recall the taste of those new potatoes and that fresh churned butter.

       After dinner I took a survey of the surroundings. The house was a one-story structure, with two rooms, and a very small attic, access to which was gained by boards nailed for stairs to the studding, and leading up through a hole in the ceiling. This was my room ‚not only mine, but that of the mice also, and later in the season, of seed corn, dried rings of pumpkins strung on a pole, bunches of sage, boneset and tansy. My bed was on the floor, as the roof hugged the floor so closely that the room would not admit of the luxury of a bedstead.

       The parlor chairs were ingeniously made from barrels stuffed, and covered with "copper-plate." Other articles of furniture were decorated with the same showy material. The family bed occupied half the kitchen, and was separated by a wall of the gay-colored dry goods that served for upholstery. The family was not numerous, hence the difficulty of "stowing away" was not insurmountable. There were but three, father, mother and baby boy one year old.

       To my boyish eyes everything looked prosperous, but new, and strange. I saw large piles of sawed and split hardwood, that showed the effect of the bleaching summer sun; a long stable constructed of tamarack poles, and covered with the previous fall's crop of straw, a corncrib, a grindstone and an ash leech. I was about to describe the well, but will not, as that belonged to a neighboring farmer, a quarter of a mile distant, where we were obliged to go for drinking water; for other purposes water was brought from the river, a short distance off, but up a steep and tiresome bank. What I have mentioned was about all there was, except the fence and a fair display of stock and fowls.

       I was initiated into the mysteries of "life on the farm'' without much ceremony. The first of them was a repetition of the old maxim: ''Early to bed and early to rise'' if I followed it I should be ''healthy, wealthy and wise." My duties were diversified - from dish-washing to keeping away the tailings from a threshing machine.

       How plainly I can hear the tinkle, tinkle of the bell in the pasture, locating the long-looked-for cows; and I can well recall how rejoiced I was when I found them, after having skirmished through the bushes, and waded many a marshy meadow, till my mosquito-bitten legs and tired feet were unwilling to transport the weary little body any further; but the joy over having found them, infused renewed vigor into my wasted energies.

       "Won't the butter ever come?" I have many times exclaimed when I had been pounding away with an old dash-dashed churn for an hour, while for a full half hour symptoms of butter had been adhering to the churn-dasher, which had furnished numerous refreshing licks during the back-breaking siege. I was admonished "to have patience, add a little more warm water, and churn away a little longer." Sure enough, the long-looked-for made itself manifest; and thankful I was that churning came but once a week.

       Notwithstanding the lapse of forty years, I still hold a grudge against Winthrop for the way he bore down on the scythe and axe when I was turning the grindstone. I may see the time when I shall become charitable enough to forgive him; but I fear not in this incarnation. I can distinctly see the old axe and scythe spitting fire at me, and cruelly mocking, While I am making the crank go round. I used to think, "wait till I grow up, and see if I don't bear down upon the person who not only grinds the temper out of the axe, but the life out of the poor youngster."

       "Cold?" I should say so, standing knee deep in frigid October marsh water, raking hay for ten successive days! But was it not fine at noon-time on the sunny side of the haycock eating a good substantial dinner?

       There may be an abundance of poetry about a farm, if you only have time and inclination to rhyme it, especially in picking up potatoes as fast as a muscular farmer can dig them with the ground icy cold; also in pulling and stacking beans, with nasty little black flies getting up your nostrils or into your eyes - taking advantage of the soiled condition of your hands. There may likewise be poetry in husking corn on the stalk in the field in dead of winter in a foot of snow, when you wear the old gentleman's discarded boots stuffed with bric-a-brac made up of old odds and ends from the "remnant counter," and have stockings on your hands for mittens, with a husking pin stuck through to assist in removing the shucks. There may also be poetry in making, during stormy weather, rag carpets from strips of discarded garments; in sleeping a week with the boarding-around schoolmaster, who snores loud enough to shell from its cobs the seed corn that is hanging overhead!

       Here is material for an epic: Hurry up with your chores and go two miles to a 12x14 school house when the only thermometer in the school district has been frozen solid for a month, and remain there six hours trying to thaw out around a huge box stove filled with half-seasoned scrub oak wood. All these hardships are an offset for the square meals and profound slumber the professor has obtained at our several houses.

       "The good times on the farm" that we hear so much of, were about to dawn when I left. I was present at the closing year of the last cycle, hence know nothing what- ever of the "new birth."

       This one year on the farm for my board, clothes and schooling, will, by me, never be forgotten, but will ever remain a depressing "souvenir" in my life's experience. from O'Brien's Pioneer Memories in Minnesota

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