LeMars,
Iowa was a common destination for many of the young people of Forreston, Illinois in the
early 1880's. It was an up and coming new town with high paying jobs and filled with
plenty of adventure. Today LeMars is a spotless, well-cared for town, known as the
"Ice Cream Capital of the World", but in 1881 is was a totally different
place. Below is a newspaper article that appeared in the Forreston Herald
on November 26, 1881.
LEMARS, IOWA
A
number of people in this vicinity own land in western Iowa, or think of investing there,
who will be interested in the following extract from the Cherokee Times,
which we publish by request of Matthew Blair, Esq. of Forreston, whose son J. D. Blair, is
at Meriden, Iowa. It might be well to mention that Dr. E. Guenther, of Forreston, who has
just returned from LeMars, corroborates the statements contained in this article.
Our sister
city of LeMars is going through a trying ordeal. The angel of death is hovering over the
city and smiling her -------(unreadable) with its pitiless scimitar. At one time last week
no less than four homes were at the same time dressing their loved ones to inhabit the
city of the dead, while some dozen or twenty others homes were battling with death in
terrible earnest. The papers of that town are reticent on all this, for even in the
presence of death, their love of business causes silence, less an alarmed public might
hesitate to enter the stricken city. The epidemic is reported to be a species of
typho-malarial fever, of a very malignant type, the immediate cause of which may be traced
to the excessively filthy condition of the streets, a condition that has earned for LeMars
the name of the stinkiest town in the state. Its alleyways and streets reek with a
thousand noxious odors; its stagnant pools, hog-pens and yards fairly thicken the air and
pollute the water--but of the latter, except for culinary purposes, none is used, beer and
whiskey being the sole beverages. While many towns, not really cleanly, make an effort to
keep their public streets decent, LeMars has literally wallowed in filth and garbage in
her most public places; tanks and pools on Main Street, gangrened with death, confront one
on all sides; the middle of the streets are worked several feet deep with manure and
rotting, stenching, offal, that beggars the palmiest description Dickens ever penned of
the slums of London. LeMars has a queer idea of citizenship. It supports twenty-two
saloons, and one of those it styles a "House of Lords;" it has owl clubs and
swan clubs, where its young men and old men play faro and poker up to midnight; it has
chess clubs held in its churches, and its people rattle their heels the live long night
year in and year out yet, for all this it has not time to wash its face or empty its
offal, to cast off its garbage or comb its hair. Holy writ tells of those who, sowing the
wind shall reap the whirlwind. LeMars has sown disease and now it witnesses a harvest of
death. It is an open question whether it can be cleansed or not, at least it is tolerably
evident that it won’t be cheaper to abandon the present site and move the few houses,
worth taking, to a clean bit of prairie and make a fresh start.
The
"Pink Sociable." Took place in Forreston, Illinois in August of
1887. This article is from the Forreston Herald, dated August 13, 1887.
The
"Pink Sociable", given by the Ladies Aid Society of the M. E. Church, on
the lawn of Miss Nettie Blair, would no doubt have been the event
of the season, had not the storm come to put a damper upon the festivities. A large number
had gathered. The spacious grounds were elaborately set with tables, and brilliantly
lighted with Japanese lanterns, etc. Many were seated about tables enjoying themselves
greatly when up came a powerful wind which blew away the paper lanterns like balloons, and
outed most of the glass ones. Almost a panic ensued. Ladies and children screamed with
fear. men grabbed the tables and chairs, carrying them in the house, while ladies loaded
themselves down with dishes, tablecloths, etc. Soon the wind subsided, and the tables
were again carried to the lawn. In a short time it began to sprinkle a little, when
another stampede was made for parlors and sitting room, where all remained the balance of
the evening. A pleasant time was had indoors, notwithstanding the copious rain without.
The Following is a copy of a speech that was
presented at an Old-Timer's Reunion in August of 1892. The presenter was Major
Albert Woodcock. This speech gives a stirring account of the early days in Ogle
County, Illinois.
A task has been assigned to me. It is a
delightful one. I am directed to speak to you words of welcome. Many of you I know
intimately. Often have I broken bread with you at your homes in the different parts of the
county. Some of you I have known for nearly fifty years. Some of you young men and women,
when you were children at the homes of your parents, I held on my knee. Old neighbors and
friends, I love you dearly, and as I said the task of bidding you welcome to your county
seat, to me is very delightful...
While
contemplating this noblest of earth’s heroes, the pioneer, the past rises before me,
and I see this country as it was when I was a boy--the son of a pioneer. A boundless
prairie stretches away beyond the ken of vision an ocean of immensity. The billows of wild
grass, kissed by the winds of heaven, rise and fall and roll in all the beauty and
grandeur of a wind-tossed ocean. How charming is the play of light and shade on these
grassy waves as they dance and undulate in the bright sheen of the sun and in the shadows
of the clouds that float in heaven’s blue. How lovely are the myriads of wild flowers
with their rainbow tints that fleck everywhere the surface of this prairie sea. As your
enraptured gaze sweeps over the scene, hither, thither, yonder , you behold beautiful
groves, that like enchanted isles of the blessed, gem the blossom of this emerald
vastness. The island groves look like dreamland as they repose in colors of mauve and
blue. In the watery domain the dauphin sports. In this prairie sea sport herds of elk,
deer and antelope, and you behold bevies of duck, geese, prairie chickens, quails,
sand-hill cranes, etc. On this prairie sea you do not find the ships of ocean, but yonder
you perceive a strange craft in white, threading its way slowly across the limitless
space. It is the prairie schooner, and it is manned by the pioneer and his family. In the
edges of the groves you behold blue wreaths of smoke curling heavenward from the cabins of
the old settlers, save these dwellings, there is not a house on the emerald waste between
here and Lake Michigan.
On the
fourth of July, 1843, on of America’s greatest authors, Margaret Fuller, sat on
yonder rocky crest of Eagle-nest Bluff. Her heart swelled with delight as she gazed upon
this lovely valley in all its natural wildness, beauty, and grandeur, and she said "I
do believe Rome and Florence are suburbs compared to his capital of Nature’s
art." On yonder bluff is an aged red-cedar tree. It is centuries old. The relic
hunter has laid bare its heart, and it is now dying, if it be not already dead. Margaret
Fuller sat on the crag to which the tree now clings. In the bows above her head was an
eagle’s nest containing young eaglets.
As the
old eagle upon swift wing circles round and round high up in the sky, it suggested to her
mind a subject upon which to write. Inspired by the wonderful beauty of the scene, by the
purling song of the spring at the foot of the bluff, and by the screams of the royal bird
of America above her, she then and there wrote that exquisite little poem entitled
"Granymede to his Eagle." Thus yonder spot has been made classical. While she
was writing the poem, her uncle, William Fuller, one of Ogle county’s pioneers
lawyers, was delivering to the first settlers of Ogle, near this stand, a Fourth of July
oration. Possibly some old veteran here today heard that address. Ah! but few remain of
that early day. As you know, Margaret Fuller, her husband Count Ossoli, and their son
Angelo, perished by shipwreck in sight of New York on their return voyage from Italy.
In that
early day the scream of the locomotive was not heard. Railways were unknown. Chicago was
our market. Wheat you mostly raised, and this you hauled a hundred miles.
My
father was a pioneer farmer of Ogle county. I was fifteen years old when he migrated to
this country. Our first home was in a blacksmith shop. It had but one room. Its floor was
the ground. In the autumn of the year in which that father came to this country, he
started the fifteen year-old boy with a wagon load of wheat to Chicago. His team was a
yoke of old bucks. While crossing the broad prairie between the groves of Jefferson and
Huntley, the sun poured down its rays intensely hot. The old bucks fainted and fell by the
way-side. With great solicitude he bent over the invalid team until long after sun-set.
Then he started for home on foot to report his misfortune. The night was intensely dark.
There was no moon and stars with their silvery light to cheer the sinking heart of that
tired boy. On the prairie between the groves of Jefferson and Washington he wandered from
the wagon trail. Frightened he ran hither and thither in search of the road. He could not
find it. He realized that he was lost upon the prairie in the pitch darkness of night, and
in a country new and strange to him. Lost! Lost! and far from home! how his heart sank
within him. He knew that there were wolves in this country. He had heard them howl. The
wolves in the East sometimes attacked man. This he knew. Were not the wolves of the West
equally ferocious? He believed so. He heard a rustle in the tall grass about him. The
noise came nearer, until it stood directly in front of him. What could it mean? Was the
wolf or catamount about to spring upon him? His hair rose on end. The
perspiration poured
down his back. He drew out his jack-knife and resolved to die game. He kicked at the
unknown enemy with all his strength. The animal by the force of the blow was thrown in to
the air. The enemy accepted battle. They opened upon the boy with their battery of guns
made up of scent-bags. The odor was unmistakable. Instead of wolves he had encountered
skunks. Beaten by the enemy and deathly sick by the odor, he fled from the battle field
and continued his wanderings. He finally came across a small stack of oats. This he
climbed, made a hole in the center of it, and standing erect therein, with his face to the
breeze, he fell asleep. When he awoke the next morning the sun was high in the heavens. In
the distance was visible the lost road. As soon as the boy reached home his father again
started him for Chicago with another yoke of oxen. He reached Chicago, sold the wheat for
thirty-five cents per bushel, loaded up his wagon with a small jag of lumber, and a barrel
of salt, and started for home. On the way he was attacked with fever and ague. On reaching
home he found it a hospital. His father, mother, brothers and sisters were all down with
raging fever. He joined the number. there was not a well one to wait on the sick--to cool
the fevered brow, moisten the parched lips, or give the cup of cold water to slake the
thirst. Under these circumstances he heard his mother say to his father. "Freeman, are
you not sorry you left our beautiful home in the East to suffer in this sickly
country?" He heard his father reply, "No, Lizzy, I am not sorry--but I am glad
we are here. This is the country for our boys. I shall never return to the East to live.
My bones shall rest in Illinois soil." That father and mother now sweetly sleep on
the hillside by this beautiful river. This little experience related will call to your
memories like scenes in your own early life.
Ah! how
changed is this country. You can not get away from the shriek of the locomotive and the
rumble of the cars. Where are the prairies in all their wildness and beauty? Gone! Gone
forever? They have changed into rich farms. When we old gray-heads were boys it was
thought that these prairies never could be settled up. Now they are all golden with grain,
and go where you may you can hardly get out of the sight of the palatial residence of the
farmer and his big barns. Your market is at your door. Wealth and prosperity, and peace
and happiness prevail everywhere. Who wrought out the wonderful change? You old settlers
did. God bless you.
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