LIFE ON THE KANSAS PLAINS
By now we have all heard of Ken Burns. I really would like to have made this in a Ken Burns style of video with moving images, and read this poem aloud to give it heart and cadence , but it just takes so much time, and I really just want to share this poem. So much work went into this by an aging somewhat blind 81 year old Henry and his daughter-in-law age 38 at the time, Mildred Alice Stewart nee Strickland who transcribed this amazing story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I.
Poem by Henry Alonzo Stewart
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| Brothers Henry Alonzo & Samuel Harvey Stewart |
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY POEM
(Composed by Henry Alonso Stewart on his 81st birthday, January 25, 1934)
I was born in north Ohio in 1852,
And grew up like other children- who have nothing else to do.
I had four sisters and one brother, a cunning little elf,
And a jolly, dear half-brother, much older than myself.
My father ran a shingle mill in connection with his farm,
And sawed wood ‘round winter time, his neighbor’s hearths to warm.
We kids, as soon as old enough, were sent to public school
Where we played with other children, and obeyed the teacher’s rule.
When not in school, we played around the shingle mill
Piling up cells of shingles just to suit our own sweet will,
But father wearied of stumps and rocks and fields of sodden clay,
And traded his possessions for land in Iowa (Ioway).
We shipped for our new home in the spring of ’61,
The year of the great trouble, when the cruel war begun.
We saw long trains of soldiers going out the cause to win,
Many of them boys with down on lip and chin.
Our train pulled into Washington (Iowa) and there we all got down,
For it was for many years our nearest railroad town.
Our land was all grown up to grass, that we all knew before,
There was a pine board shanty, twelve by twelve, and nothing more.
Then we went to work in earnest to make ourselves a farm,
Though to break the prairie sod, I assure you, was no charm.
My play days now were over, though my age was but nine years,
And I paced across the prairie beside five yoke of steers.
Ruphus left us for the army in the fall of ’61 (the half-brother),
To help defend the Union, you know the job was done.
He came back somewhat battered, but yet he was alive,
A loyal, crippled veteran, in 1865.
We had short terms of school in winter, taught in a neighbor’s shack,
And when the weather would permit, we drove to school and back.
But mother had been a teacher in her far off eastern dome,
So when snowbound in winter, she taught us there at home.
Sister Mary Ellen was bedridden at the early age of nine,
And for many years was helpless, from a trouble with her spine.
We carried her to school and back when the weather cleared up fair,
And she took first place among them, sitting tied up in her chair.
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| Mary Ellen Stewart born January 02, 1848 Royalton, Cuyahoga County, Ohio. |
She gained but very slowly, ‘mid our prayers and hopes and fears,
But she threw away her crutches and taught school for many years.
In the course of time, she married, to meet her future joys,
And raised a lively family, four girls and nine boys.
But her work on earth is finished, many years she’s been at rest,
And her family now is scattered to North, South, East, and West.
Sister Huldah, strong and healthy, was the family’s pride and joy.
She could swing and crack an ox whip as well as any boy.
She, too was a teacher, and success was on its way.
She was struggling hard to win it in her school, her work and play.
‘Twas a fearful blow to lose her, when, with many bitter tears,
We laid her in the graveyard, at the age of eighteen years.
Sister Laura, weak and feeble, could not take her sister’s place,
But she studied for a teacher, and bore up with Christian grace,
But consumption claimed its victim, though we strove to ward it off,
And used every well-known remedy to relieve a hacking cough.
Year by year her lungs grew weaker and her strength and vigor failed.
She was resigned to what was coming, though her friends, in secret, wailed.
We cared for her the best we could, but she at length confirmed our fears,
For we laid her by her sister, at the age of eighteen years.
My youngest sister, Elsie, was an invalid from birth.
We realized, though dimly, she was not long for this earth.
Her little ears were silent, and she could not learn to talk,
She was older than most children e’er she gained the strength to walk.
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| 1880 Federal Census of Deaf Mutes Columbia, Ellsworth, Kansas From scarlet fever |
We petted and caressed her and helped her day by day,
But at the age of eighteen, she too, was called away.
My brother Sam was healthy and grew up a stalwart man,
Though when it came to hardships, I could beat all he could stand.
But then the fever got me, with all our work in sight,
It laid me down upon my pillow, came near snuffing out my light.
I took to bed in January; in March I staggered out,
And tried to work as usual, but I was no longer stout.
My strength came back but slowly, I hoped ‘twould come once more,
But I couldn’t stand the pressure that I used to years before.
‘Twas but a few years later that I had another call,
This time it was the measles, came near winding up my ball.
I got up weak and feeble, and with a fearful cough,
Which the neighbors all predicted would surely take me off.
And they said within a year, like my sisters, I would go,
But I staggered on a year or two, which proved they didn’t know.
Well, I told my friends and neighbors that I had my health to gain,
And if I lived ‘til springtime, I would try the western plain.
I put a cover on my wagon, prepared to leave the state,
And in March I headed westward, ‘twas the spring of ’78.
My nephew went with me, my half-brother’s eldest son.
He was born in that country in the year of ’61.
I didn’t crowd my horses, for the mud was up in piles,
It was one continuous mud-hole for the first 300 miles.
We camped where e’er we chose to, and shot wild geese to eat,
And my appetite came to me, I enjoyed the savory meat.
I didn’t know where I would land. I really didn’t care,
For I was growing stronger in the cool and bracing air.
There was naught to make me hurry, no work ahead or strife.
‘Twas the only real vacation I had in all my life.
Antelope circled ‘round us as we drove across the plain,
But they kept at a safe distance, and out of rifle range.
We fetched up in central Kansas, I decided to remain,
And took up a claim of school land in Uncle Sam’s domain.
I worked ‘round for my neighbors to get my grub and feed,
And put in what time I could breaking sod and planting seed.
‘Twas a busy time that summer, there was work for one and all,
And I didn’t build my shanty till cold weather in the fall.
I had raised a little millet, and had it stacked for hay,
But a prairie fire got it when I was gone one day.
But wheat straw ‘round was plenty, and though I had lost my feed,
It took nothing but the hauling to procure all I would need.
It was growing cool and frosty so I went to work right then,
Laying sod upon a structure that would be a bachelor’s den.
The sod I cut was frozen, hard to cut them with an axe.
Couldn’t lay them clear together, I left many open cracks.
But I chopped and hammered at them, piled them up the best I could,
And finished up the structure, though ‘twas far from being good.
Fourteen by twelve the inside measured, one window and one door,
Duds stacked up in the corner, dirt roof, and dirt floor.
It needed lots of chinking, but I thought ‘twould have to wait,
I must look out for my horses, before it got too late.
I purchased brush and timber, “I must hurry then,” I said,
And went to work in earnest to build for them a shed.
I worked both late and early, though I had no boards to saw,
I erected a pole structure, banked and cornered it with straw.
I had a little feed, though it was scattered ‘round,
And a little jag of corn, piled upon the ground.
I put my team in shelter, looked for a storm all right.
Got a belated supper and curled up for the night.
When I woke up in the morning, my shanty was a fright,
The snow was sifting o’er me and everything was white.
My boots were frozen stiff and chuck full of snow,
No use to me that morning, couldn’t get them on, you know.
I waded out barefooted and brought in a sack of corn,
And built a rousing fire to get my shanty war.
Thawed out my boots and dried them, put them on and then,
Enjoyed a good hot breakfast in my snowed-in bachelor’s den.
Next day I went to Wilson, for I feared another storm,
Procured a little fuel to keep my shanty warm.
I then hauled lime and sand through the deep and trackless snow,
And plastered up my shanty, it went better than you know.
I waded through my sod corn, got the ears that showed up then,
And when the snow thawed some, went over it again.
Bought a splendid cow that winter. Folks said I’d go in the hole,
But the butter that she gave me bought my grub stuff and my coal.
Fed the skim milk to my horses, they seemed to like it fine,
And licked it up quite greedily. It caused their coats to shine.
On Saturdays I shut them off. Their hair looked much like silk.
The bachelor boys would come in Sundays for a treat of mush and milk.
I raised good wheat that summer, my little patch was hard to beat.
In the fall built a stone shanty, fourteen by twenty feet.
My parents and my brother were lonesome though and sore,
They came out and bought land near me and settled down once more.
I gained a little every year along the farming line,
And blacksmithed for my neighbors, for they thought my work just fine.
I didn’t want to do their work; it kept me from my own.
I had plenty of it waiting and I was there alone.
But I couldn’t well refuse them, though they came in by the score.
They said when I fixed up a plow, it needed nothing more.
I put in six years batching, though it was a lonely life,
Then a dear girl took pity on me and I got her for a wife.
There was nothing to make us wait, loneliness would soon be o’er.
She agreed and we were married, September 15, 1884.
Life went smooth and lovely for us, she never was a shirk,
Always had a good meal waiting when I came in from my work.
We didn’t have a wedding trip, didn’t really have the time.
I must finish up my seeding while the weather still was fine.
There was lots of work that winter and it piled up in the spring,
A good deal of the time I make the anvil ring.
Had to overhaul my header to make a heavy drive.
Our oldest daughter there was born in June of ’85.
It was just then time for our harvest to begin,
And I cut 500 acres, though some of it was thin.
Lottie never liked the country, though she never made a kick.
She was used to seeing timber; she was raised upon a creek.
We talked it over and decided if a buyer was in sight,
We would sell and move on westward and I’d use my homestead right.
We found one and sold out, and prepared to pull up stakes.
It’s the tide of emigration that the western country makes.
We wintered with my brother, my parents were there too,
There was lots of snow that winter, and we had much to do.
I left Lottie and the baby and in March set out again,
To seek out a location in Uncle Sam’s domain.
I said before I started, of drought I was afraid,
I’d find water on the surface, no matter how it laid.
I found it and located. The water was the charm,
Though the claim was rough and rocky, I would purchase land to farm.
And we migrated thither with our little bunch of stock,
And settled down upon it among the hills and rocks.
We built a fair-sized dug out, though with a dirt floor.
It was comfortable and cozy, though we wished for something more.
I worked ’round for my neighbors, we sold butter, too and milk.
And I worked some on the railroad that was just then being built.
Then I purchased a relinquishment to a splendid timber claim.
Got my papers on it and prepared to move again.
We disposed of the homestead; we really thought we should,
And moved to our new quarters where we settled down for good.
Our parents came to us once more. They thought the land a feast.
I got them a location joining our claim on the east.
‘Twas in ’89 our little Sam was born, but he didn’t come to stay.
He was with us only four months and then he passed away.
‘Twas in 1892 our second boy came.
He grew up strong and healthy and helped me on the claim.
In 1896 our Phoebe came, to be caressed and kissed,
In 1898 our Lottie was added to the list.
We had quite a bunch of children, helped the Beeler School to swell.
They all were bright and studious and learned their lessons well.
Our parents passed in peace, their last year’s life did accord,
But at length they were called away and went to their reward.
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| Front row center Henry Alonzo Stewart and Charlotte Olivia Front row Left - Charlotte Burdella Front row right - Phoebe Leona Back row L-R Mary Irene, Henry Lafayette, Laura Viola. |
We divided up their holding as we thought just and fair.
The others got the stock; the land fell to my share.
In 1918 our Henry left for the field of blood and strife,
To help civilize the Germans and he left a dear young wife.
We feared much for his safety, but could only hope and pray,
And our prayers were truly answered, for he came home to stay.
He threw off his soldier’s outfit and once more worked away,
To catch up with our business and is now our hope and stay.
We gave him Father’s land which I had bought some years before,
We had a good half-section left and needed nothing more.
Father’s family now is gone, to meet their future fate.
I’m the only one left living of a family of eight.
Our children all are married and have families of their own.
My wife and I are living in our big house all alone.
My eyes have failed me greatly, had to quit work in the shop.
And my ears are out of order; work soon with me will stop.
But I still putter ‘round, though I do not find it fun.
My dim eyes oft remind me that I am 81.
But though I now am useless and run down at the hip,
I expect to gain my vigor when I take my final trip.
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Together forever Henry Alonzo Stewart and Charlotte Olivia "Lotta" nee White Beeler Cemetery Kansas |
Note: Henry Stewart’s daughter-in-law wrote this poem down as he composed and recited it to her. He died shortly before his 83rd birthday on December 07th, 1934.
Wasn't that an amazing story? Yes, I know you enjoyed it immensely. So now you are probably asking, who is this family and how are we related to them and the hard life on the Kansas plains told so eloquently in this poem? They are distant cousins that I only just recently discovered on account of a few DNA matches on Ancestry. Henry Alonzo Stewart is my 3rd cousin 2X removed. His parents were Henry Clancy Stewart and Caroline Laura Harvey. Caroline descends from our common ancestors Nathaniel Harvey (1725 -1794) and his wife Sarah Smith (1738 - 1827). They were 4th great paternal grand-parents. Here is the connection:
