Schools and School-Teachers.

    The fountain-head from which may indirectly be traced all that is worthy of historic record is the little school-house. From its lowly and sequestered location hovers the star of civilization and enlightenment, which, like the star over the manger at Bethlehem, illuminates the world with a prophetic light no less hopeful or propitious.

    Popular education is the keystone supporting the triumphal arch of human greatness. It is neither the college, seminary, nor university which is lifting enlightenment and happiness to the skies. It is the little white school-house throughout the land poised upon a thousand hills.

    The first school-house erected in the county was built in Pleasant Township in 1844. It was known as the Pleasant School, and later, the surrounding township was named Pleasant Township in honor of the little school-house. It stood on the Gray farm, and Lorania Adams, of Blakesburg, was the first teacher. Dudley C. Barber was the next teacher, and taught the winter term of 1844.

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    In the early '50s Hon. T. B. Perry, our present State senator, taught a school in the village of Albia. At that time there was no school-building and the school was conducted in the little frame M. E. Church building. Some years later, Mrs. M. A. R. Cousins taught a select school in Albia. Mr. March was also a successful teacher in the early days of Albia, but these private schools of course afforded but meager facilities for educating the children, and Professor George instituted the Albia High School, which he conducted for a long time.

Mrs. Angie Reitzel, Superintendent of Schools of Monroe County.
(click on image for larger size)

    In 1863 the population of the Albia School district became so large that the Christian and Baptist church was rented for school purposes. The next year the School Board levied a 5-mill tax and bought the dwelling-house of W. C. Hatton, which faces the Commercial Hotel on the west, and which is now occupied by Mr. Wm. Peppers.

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Albia High School Building.
(click on image for larger size.)

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    In 1868 the independent district of Albia erected a three-story brick building on the site where the magnificent High School building of to-day stands. It cost $28,000, but in 1878 it was destroyed by fire. The present structure was built in 1879 at a cost of about $30,000, which price is remarkably low for the dimensions and character of the edifice. It is one of the best school edifices in southern Iowa, and the Albia High School ranks among the first of any in the State for educational success. Its graduates are eligible to entrance into the State University.

Some sweet girl graduates, Class of "96, Albia High School.
(click on image for larger size.)

    In 1894 the Grant School building was erected in the South Park addition to Albia. It is a handsome three-story brick, designed to accommodate the lower grades of the High School. It cost $10,000.

    The principal of the High School holds his term of office for three years. Professor Hollingsworth is the present incumbent. His staff of assistants for the school-term just closed consists of Miss Martha McQuade, 1st assistant; Mrs. L. B. Carlisle, 2d assistant; Mrs. H. G. Hickenlooper,

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8th grade; Mr. Albert Ewers, 7th grade; Miss Alice White, 6th grade, Miss Myrtle Harlow, 5th grade, consolidated; Miss Maggie Harlow, 4th grade; Miss Orphia Rigdon, 3d grade; Mrs. O'Bryan, 2d grade and primary grade. Miss Myrtle Harlow's department was transferred to the Grant School.

Grant School Building, Albia, Iowa.
(click on image for larger size)

    The teachers of the Grant School were: mr. L. Bay, 7th and 8th grades; Miss Myrtle Harlow, 5th and 6th grades; Miss Laura Dashiell, 4th and 5th grades; Miss Daisy Sales, primary grade.

    The old-time pedagogue is a creature of the past. He is a genus now well-nigh extinct, and the very agent which it was his mission to promote has tended to his own extinction. He was a creature of meager education and not unfrequently of a low order of intellect. In some cases, however, the old-

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fashioned school-master was fairly educated for the times, and he was usually the best informed man in the neighborhood. He could read, write and "cipher," and that was about the whole range of learning in those days. If the pupil passed beyond these, he was looked upon with suspicion. He was acquiring too much "book-larnin," which, in the estimation of the pioneer "fogy," was a certain precursor of moral ruin. The schoolmaster's local reputation of being a savant rested on his profound knowledge of mathematics, and whenever two farmers got into a dispute as to whether a hilly row of corn contained more corn-hills than a level one, reasoning from the analogous assumption that a serpentine line, if drawn taut, would thereby be increased in length, they referred the problem to the school-master, from whose unbiased and dispassionate decision there was no appeal.

    Algebra was not taught in the common branches at that day, but there was rule in arithmetic, known as "Position," which in some measure supplied the place of an algebraic equation, in certain problems. The rule consisted in assuming any number as a basis of calculation, and then, as one would be found to exceed the number to be ascertained, and the other less than that number, their relative relation to the given number would be noted and the required number found. The rule was, as the total errors are to the given sum, so is the supposed number to the true one required. There was "Single Position" and "Double Position." The rule for "Double Position" was to place each error against its respective position, multiply them cross-wise, and if the errors were alike—that is, both greater or less than the given number—divide the difference of the products by the difference of the errors, and the quotient was the answer; but if the errors were unlike, the sum of the products should be divided by the sum of the errors.

    But the "Rule of Three" was the repository of the school-master's mathematical genius. There was the "Rule of Three Direct" and the "Rule of Three Inverse," the "Single Rule of Three" and the "Double Rule of Three." This rule and that of "Position" were obsolete, however, within the history of Monroe County.

    Then came "Vulgar Fractions," and then "Exchange," which latter was very voluminous.

    In later years, when Joseph Ray introduced his mathematics in text form, his "Third Part" was the arithmetic in

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which the student found himself hopelessly engulfed in the intricacies of mathematics. The first snag he ran up against was a "sum" called "John Jones' Estate." Here he usually turned back to "review"; but if he succeeded in crossing this mathematical Rubicon, he forged on until he ran head-long into the "dirty page." The "dirty page" contained some miscellaneous problems which were intended to be solved by analysis. This page wore out long before the other pages, notwithstanding the constant use of the "thumb-paper." It was called the "dirty page" because it was soiled by long occupancy by the student.

    The student, when he reached about his nineteenth year, quit school; but he usually discontinued school in summer several years earlier.

    In the primitive school-houses the writing-desk was the most conspicuous fixture next to the "master" himself. this desk was arranged all around one side of the room, and was constructed of planks about a foot in width. This desk the boys industriously carved with their jack-knives until every inch of the surface bore the handiwork of some youngster who afterwards carved his name in the roster of citizenship, if not in the niche of fame.

    The "master" set the copies for the pupils, writing with a pen made from a goose-quill. There was no system of penmanship then in vogue, and the pupil merely imitated the handwriting of the "master," whether it was good or bad. If it was not quite "Spencerian" in elegance or legibility, it usually inculcated a moral precept, such as "A studious boy will learn his lessons well," or "Moments of time are like grains of gold," etc. The boy squared his elbows, grasped his pen with the firm grip of a mariner upon his oar when pulling his surf-boat through a heavy sea, then he lowered his head until his eye was on a level with his desk, and, glancing alternately at the copy and the point of his pen, proceeded to imitate the handwriting, using his tongue as a sort of lever to regulate the strokes of the pen. After constructing a few words of the copy, he would prod his neighbor with the point of his pen, or carve a few cuneiform characters on the desk with his knife, as an abstraction from the strain on his mental powers.

    Grammar was also taught, but with indifferent success.

    Spelling was the chief occupation of the school-room, and the pupil learned to spell by conning over long columns

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of words in Webster's blue-backed speller. This speller contained two illustrated narratives, which were intended to convey to the youthful mind an indelible example of honesty. The tragic fate of old dog Tray was set forth as a warning to those who go in bad company. There was also a picture of the bad boy up the farmer's apple-tree. The farmer first asked him in a gentlemanly way to come down; he declined, and then the farmer began to pelt him with turf; still he staid up the tree; then the farmer, seeing that kind words and turf were useless arguments, concluded to see what virtue there was in stones. Another episode, involving the principle of equity, was that of the farmer's bull that gored his neighbor's ox.

    After Webster's speller came McGuffey's spelling book. It contained a more thorough treatise on the science of orthography, and had "dictation exercises," showing the application of synonyms of the English language. Its main feature, however, was its long columns of words.

    The writer at one time enjoyed the distinction of being one of the "crack" spellers of the district. At this time the spelling-school was at the zenith of its popularity. The spelling-school would be announced about a week before the night set. Then a challenge would be sent to a neighboring district. The recipient of the challenge would marshal the best spellers of the school, and all would be on hand at the appointed place. Two persons—usually a young man and his best girl—would "choose up." Then, after the seats had all been arranged around the walls, the teacher or person whose duty it was to "give out" would have the two choosing parties "guess the page," and that one making the closest guess would have the first choice of spellers in the crowd; the other party then made the second choice, and the "choosing" went on alternately until all were selected on the two sides. The next thing to decide was whether to "stand up and spell down" or to "send runners." One plan was usually adopted before recess and the other after. Invariably the former plan was adopted after recess, and then came the tug of war, when all had "missed" words and taken their seats except the champion spellers. They held their ground for a long time, but one by one would go down, usually on some trifling word "missed" by mere inattention on the part of the student "missing" it. Then the teacher would turn back to "chamois"; "chamois" was at the head of a long column of words of

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mixed phonetic character, and the whole page was considered the hardest of any spell in the book. When "chamois" would be "given out," the partisans of the respective sides would cheer, and listen with bated breath when the teacher got down to "daguerreotype," because this word was one of the hardest to spell of all. Finally all would go down except two, representing the rival schools. They would hold the floor sometimes for an hour, and sometimes it would result in a drawn battle, neither party missing a word.

    Of late years a radical change in the method of teaching orthography has been adopted, and the dear old spelling-school of hallowed school-days memory has become an institution of the past. Even to this day, the recollection of the spelling-school somewhat softens the harsh outlines of our otherwise austere disposition, as the vision arises of the freckle-nosed school-girl with whom we used to "choose up." Her flaxen hair was split at the ends, and stood out behind her ears like a ram's horns, and yet we felt, when sitting by her side, a good deal like one is supposed to feel when sitting beside the throne of grace. She could not spell "putty," yet we always chose her first, so we could sit next to her and whisper to her how to spell her words. The spelling-school was one of the redeeming features of an otherwise imperfect system of instruction, and since it has grown obsolete, the general knowledge of correct spelling has suffered materially.

    The popular school-games were "black-man" and "town-ball." "Black-man was played by both girls and boys. Some one would be "black-man" bases would be planted a few rods apart, and the "black-man" would charge down on the school, who would make a run for the opposite base. If the "black-man" succeeded in catching anyone, the latter would become one of the "black-man's" imps, and would help catch the others, until all were caught but the big, rough, overgrown school-boy; to take him was a difficult task, as not more than one could succeed in getting hold of him at one time. It was a delicious experience to have one's school-mate sweetheart catch him; then the youth would struggle, seemingly to free himself, but really to necessitate the girl putting her arms around him to hold him, and expedient which she invariably found highly necessary. She, in turn, would seldom make much effort to escape her "black-man" beau. It was a great game for the promotion of

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school-day courtship, or "puppy-love"—a malady with which we have all been afflicted at some time or other.

    "Town-ball" was the antecedent of the modern popular ply of "base-ball." "Two-corned cat" was another game of ball, in which but four boys participated in a game.

    The teacher in those days usually "boarded round," and it was the custom on the arrival of Christmas to bar out the teacher. On the day before Christmas the teacher would arrive at the school-house in the morning to find the door and windows barricaded. The big boys would be inside, and "terms of surrender" would be written on a piece of paper and slipped out to the teacher. This document usually specified a treat of a bushel of apples, candy, or, in the ruder settlements, whisky. The teacher invariably demurred, and stormed and railed in sometimes real and sometimes affected rage, and if he did not supply the treat, or make a promise to do so, he was often seized by the crowd and carried bodily to some neighboring creek and threatened with a "ducking" through a hole cut in the ice. Sometimes the teacher climbed to the roof and placed a board over the chimney, forcing the smoke into the room filled with pupils. Then the boys would have to drown out the fire if they had water, and if not, their victory was lost.

    In the year 1847 or 1848 a tall, lank Yankee came into a district in Urbana Township. He was from away down east, and was well dressed, and "put on airs." His style of dress so astonished the peaceable denizens of Soap Creek that the new-comer not only became an object of curiosity, but of unenviable criticism as well. One day he went to the local "swimmin'-hole" on Soap Creek to wash. Some mischievous boys stole his clothes and the young man was in desperate straits. He crept through the forest, until he arrived near a dwelling, when he called for the men folks to bring him some clothing. The men were not at home, but four big hounds responded, and, seeing the fugitive naked, mistook him for some big game, and gave chase. The young man climbed a tree, and as the hounds bayed "treed," two young ladies heard the well-known notes of the hounds and hastened to ascertain what they had "treed." After discovering the game, they beat a hasty retreat and apprised the men folks of the situation, when the latter brought some clothing and released the young man, who soon left the country, overcome with mortification.

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Soap Creek Jurisprudence

    The region drained by the classical Soap Creek was always a fruitful locality for the lawyer. These barristers of bygone days were not as profound in legal lore as some of the expounders of Blackstone of to-day, but they were usually equal to any occasion on which their talent and oratory might be called into requisition.

    Every time the stream itself would overflow its banks, a half-dozen law-suits would be among the evil results of the flood. One settler's fence-rails would be swept away and be lodged on the land of his neighbor farther down the steam. The latter would seize them and claim them as his own. If the dispute could not be settled by the amicable arbitament of a big fight, a law-suit was the inevitable result. Innumerable important rulings have been made from time to time by "his Honor," the justice of the peace, involving the rights of property, and the views taken by the various justices in summing up the evidence in the matter concerning the ownership of the rails have bee rather kaleidoscopic.

    Our old friend, Samuel G. Finney, who resides near Blakesburg for some years past, has usually been retained in cases of a civil nature; and R. B. Arnold is usually on one side or the other, also.

    If it is a criminal case, Bill Kinser is much sought for by the defense, and usually brings his client out unscathed. His manner before the magistrate or jury is vehement, and if his case is a hopeless one in which ordinary construction of the law would be unavailing, he usually succeeds in impressing the court by means of superabundance of stupendous oratory. He would not hesitate to engage in a legal duel with the Chief Justice of the United States on a disputed legal point, and if before a court of his own vicinity, would carry off the prize.

    Bill Knapp and Levi Woods are another strong brace of local attorneys. Knapp's legal success is somewhat hampered by conscientious scruples, as he is of a religious turn, and preaches occasionally. Wood's efforts in the legal profession are unfettered by influences of a similar nature, and his opportunities have full swing.

    Adam Hopkins settled on Soap Creek in about the year 1845. He could read and write, and served as justice of the peace for a number of years. His son Perry was usually elected constable. Uncle Adam knew very little about the

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law, but he had one special merit; he carried out the interpretation of it to the letter. In one of his law-books—a sort of "Justice's Guide"—was a blank form for rendering judgments, and, as an example, the costs were inserted in the proper space as $3.50. So whenever it became his duty to issue judgment, he always made the cost $3.50, as if this amount were a fixed sum prescribed by the law, like a marriage license fee or a poll-tax. This was, of course, divided between himself and son Perry. When witnesses demanded their fees, Hopkins informed them that $3.50 was the maximum limit of costs allowed by law, and that if they expected fees, they would have to look to the party who had them subpœnaed.

    Hopkins always fined a man for fighting, but occasionally indulged in the same diversion himself. He and Eleven Dean got into a fight, and Dean was getting the better of him, when Hopkin's son Perry, by virtue of his official capacity as constable, rushed in and struck Dean a blow over the head with a billet of wood, at the same time exclaiming in a loud and official tone of voice: "I command the peace in the name of the State of Iowa." Hopkins regained his feet, and, seizing a club, dared Dean or any of his friends to "come on." Dr. Udell sewed up the opened scalps, and peace once more brooded over the temple of Justice.

    In 1850, during the horse-thief period, Squire Harris was justice of the peace. One day a stranger rode up and swore out a warrant for a man who, he alleged, had stolen a horse. Wile Harris was issuing the warrant, another stranger rode up to the cabin, and arrested the first man. The latter was riding a stolen horse, and was attempting to work a "blind," to shield himself.

Some Pioneer Episodes.

    In early times, the forests, as we have stated already, swarmed with wild bees, and whenever the hunter found a "bee-tree," he carved his initials on the tree, which evidence of ownership was universally recognized and respected.

    Old Ben Ashbury, who ran the blacksmith shop in Urbana Township, accused Newt Vancleve of cutting a marked bee-tree, and, as it was looked upon as a most heinous offense, Newt very naturally resented the charge. Bad blood sprang up between the two, and as old Ben had the reputation of being a "good man," and as young Vancleve had his

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honor to vindicate, it was looked upon as inevitable result that the two would be bound to meet, and that when this inevitable result occurred, it would be as the meeting of two fierce tides—Greek would meet Greek, when the conflict came. One day Vancleve was passing the blacksmith shop. Old Ben came to the door, evidently spoiling for a fight. He accosted Newt with mock suavity. With an affected softness of manner, indicated by a courtly bow and swing of the hand, he addressed him: "How do you do, Newton, and how are you prospering in the beautiful land of milk and honey?" The allusion to honey seemed to have a sting in it, and Newt told him it was none of his "d—d business." Then they went at it. Newt, like young David of old, carried a stone, and with it struck the Goliath-like Ben on the head, knocking him senseless. He thought he had killed him. He raised his head and wet his face with water from the slack-tub, and then, procuring some help, carried his victim into the house, where he attended him with the utmost care until he revived. When Ben returned to consciousness and found the young man attending him, it challenged his admiration and gratitude, and ever after they were warm friends.

    Ashbury is said to have been a man of many good traits and good intelligence, but he had a violent temper and loved to fight. On another occasion he and a man named Meeks struck up a fight in Blakesburg over politics. Meeks was a Southern sympathizer, or, at least, a Buchanan Democrat. Ashbury was an abolitionist, and struck Meeks with a handsaw, and came near cutting his throat. He then got Meeks down and pulled his hair.

    On still another occasion some wild boys, in passing his house, annoyed him by calling out: "Hello, old Bogus! come out here!" (Bogus was the name the boys gave him.) Some days later, on meeting the boys, old Ben reproved a young Grimes for his conduct. Grimes denied having been one of the disturbing party, and Ben struck him with a carpenter's square, which came near killing him. Ashbury was arrested and taken before Squire Hiram Hough. Hough had just been elected justice, and was not familiar with the wording of an action for assault and battery; so, after making several efforts, he gave up the attempt with the excuse that he wished to go to mill. The case was then taken before Thomas Hickenlooper. The aborted information drawn by

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Hough showed that the defendant had been brought before him on a charge of "psalt and battery." It was a great day in Squire Hickenlooper's court. The whole country gathered in, and took both dinner and supper with the unfortunate justice and family, whose pantry stores were depleted thereby. The jury retired to the corn-crib to weigh the evidence and bring in a verdict, and the crowd waited in the yard. Old Ben had a peculiar habit of thinking out loud, and while moving about in the throng, oblivious to all, he soliloquized on the shortcomings of some of the witnesses who had testified against him, to the great amusement of the listening crowd. "There's old 'Batterhead'; he always was a liar, and they say that back where he came from nobody believed him on oath. Ant the T—s ain't much better; old 'Crane-neck' says that she can recollect when —— used to go without soles to his shoes, back in Indiana, and his own mother says that he used to be accused of stealin' sheep."

    Old Ben is still alive, and is 91 years of age. He lives at Tingley, Iowa, but is nearing his end rapidly.

Pioneer Fogyism.

    While the world is full of superstition, even at the present day, much of the old-time rot and rubbish growing out of an intermingling of ignorance and superstition has been swept away by the advance of education and a higher plane of intelligence. While superstition itself may not find as ready lodgement in the mind at the present day, there are yet thousands who do not or cannot eradicate their vagarisms and absurd fancies by philosophical inquiry or rational analysis.

    Many farmers, even at the present day, will not plant potatoes or garden truck except during certain phases of the moon.

    If he administers veterinary treatment to his pigs, calves, or other live stock, it must be when the "sign is right," or the animals will surely die. The "sign" which he consults is nothing more or less than the signs of the zodiac. For instance, if the sign is in the heart, the pig will surely die; at this fatal period the earth is passing through the constellation Leo. When the sign is in the neck, it is not quite so bad; this is when the earth is in the constellation Taurus. When the sign is in the feet, it is still better, since the sign is "going down," and the inflammation can with greater facility take its departure at the ends of the toes.

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    Another popular fallacy was that if a board were placed on the grass at a certain period of the moon's age, the grass would grow underneath it; but if placed there at another phase of the moon, the grass would not grow.

    The housewife, when she saw a spider descending its web from the ceiling, knew that she would receive a visitor that day.

    The young man or young lady who had warts rubbed them with an onion and then buried it beneath the window, and the warts were supposed to disappear.

    The quack doctor and many of the old women of pioneer days incorporated these pernicious fancies in their medical practice. The midwife invariably recommended a rabbit-skin as a soothing application for the "weed." "Sheep-nannie tea" was good for measles.

    A friend of the writer, residing in Blakesburg, and who is himself a physician, relates an episode and vouches for its truthfulness. Dr. Prather was a quack doctor and a "Hardshell" Baptist preacher combined; he assisted people in coming into the world, and also prepared them for their advent into the next. Brother Prather was called to the bedside of a Mrs. Jones, who was suffering intense pain; and, after making a thorough examination of the patient, he announced: "Yes, I see what the trouble is; I have been troubled in the same way myself." One of the old women present, who knew more about the patient's condition than the doctor did, disputed with him, explaining that it was impossible for a person of his sex to be similarly afflicted. The doctor and the woman finally agreed in a diagnosis of the case, and the physician stated that he must have the skin of a black cat to lay upon the patient's stomach. "It must be a very black one, and better send the boys out to hunt one while we pray." A crowd joined in the chase, and several black cats were brought in, including one polecat. The poor woman died during the night. Brother Prather said that if he had arrived a little sooner, he could have saved her; but when he preached her funeral sermon, he stated that "her time had come—the Lord had seen fit to take her to his own." The "Hardshell" Baptist believed more in the skin of a black cat than he did in foreordination and predestination, in the case of his patient, for he still insisted that he could have saved her if the cat-skin had been applied soon enough.

    Our medical friend relates another story of Dr. Prather,

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and if the reader doubts his veracity, further substantiation of the tale may be added by the fact that there are to this day many living descendants of the yellow dog in the case. Bob Martin broke a leg, and Prather was sent for. Prather prescribed the skin of a yellow dog in which to bind the fractured limb. One was killed, and the skin promptly applied. The patient recovered, but the leg was crooked Prather explained that defect by saying that the dog had a few white spots on its belly, which had been overlooked.

    The fumes from burning chicken feathers were considered a powerful remedy in alleviating the pains of childbirth.

    The lack of intelligent and skilled medical practitioners in early days added most of the hardships of the early settler. However, they were mostly of robust constitutions and were seldom sick.

They Killed the Family Pig.

   In about the year 1850, Wareham G. Clark and James Tracy started to Burlington with a load of wheat to have it ground into flour. While en route, a heavy snow fell and buried up the grass upon which the farmers were dependent for feed for their oxen. They were compelled to feed their oxen wheat along the road, and as they were five weeks making the trip, it took most of the wheat to feed the team. In their absence, their wives ran short of breadstuffs. The ladies were near neighbors, so the concluded to butcher a hog. They called it up out of the woods. One seized it by the hind legs, and the other knocked it in the head with an ax. They then scalded and dressed it, and on hog and hominy they lived until the return of their lords.

Chapter XIV