CHAPTER XXVII
A MEMORABLE WINTER
The year 1880 brought a greater inflow of new settlers than had come in any previous year. They were chiefly homesteaders, who built temporary homes—shacks, they were called—for the summer, and devoted their efforts chiefly to breaking up the soil, making hay, and producing such crops as could be grown upon the sod, leaving the construction of more substantial and permanent buildings until the autumn months; for the experience of older settlers had taught that glorious autumn weather, extending on until nearly the holidays, might reasonably be expected. But in this year, a year when of all years it was most unseasonable, a great blizzard came at the middle of October. In a hundred years of western history such a thing had occurred but once or twice before, and in those instances the October storms were less severe than that which came upon the unprotected settlers in 1880. The snow fell to a very great depth and was blown by a violent wind until the open shacks and stables were filled, ravines were drifted full to the level of the general country, stock was driven away or smothered in the drifts, and the settlers suffered very severely. A few lives were lost; very few indeed, considering the severity of the weather and the exposed condition of the people.
Every one believed that the snow would melt away and that we should yet have our glorious late autumn, but such was not to be; the October blizzard was the beginning
How the Railroads fight the Snow at the Present Day
of a winter the like of which has not before or since been known. The snow did not go off, and early in November an additional fall came, to which additions were made from week to week. The railroads, as yet unprotected by snow fences, were covered with drifts, and it was with great difficulty that trains were moved at all. By New Year's Day operation of the trains was given up entirely. The stocks of goods in the country were naturally small, and the difficulty of operating the trains in the fall had in many instances made it impossible to get in the usual winter supplies.
The supply of fuel in the country was exhausted almost as soon as the trains stopped running. There was, however, an abundance of wheat and of hay, and soon the settlers were reduced to the necessity of grinding wheat in coffee mills, and baking their bread upon fires made of twisted hay.
One of the great inconveniences was the lack of any material out of which to make lights. Kerosene oil was not to be secured at any price, and the stock of tallow was very small. Many families were compelled to sit for months through the long winter without a light of any kind in their houses except the glow of a hay fire.
To save the limited supplies on hand and particularly to secure the advantage of warmth without consuming too much fuel, families would club together and several of them live in the most comfortable home in the community. Most of the people were young, vigorous, and hopeful, and they made the best of the bad circumstances. Every one exerted himself to be cheerful, and to keep those about him in a cheerful temper. Many an old settler will to-day refer to the bad winter of 1880 as one of the most enjoyable he ever passed. Dancing was a favorite pastime, and the number of persons who could be accommodated, for a dancing party, in a little homestead shack, is a matter of astonishment to those who enjoy that recreation in the spacious halls of to-day. Mortimer Crane Brown, who spent that winter as a pioneer in Lincoln County, has told us in verse of the joys of a country dance during the snow blockade:—
When the Snow is on the Prairie
When the snow is on the prairie
An' the drift is in the cut,
An' life gets a trifle dreary
Joggin' in the same old rut,
Nothing like a good old fiddle
Takes the wrinkles out o' things.
There's the chirp o' larks an' robins
In the twitter ov 'er strings.
When the whizzin', roarin' blizzard
Is a shuttin' out the day,
An' the balmy breath of summer
Seems a thousand years away,
You can start the eaves a drippin'
With the tinglin' ov 'er strings,
You kin hear the water bubblin'
From a dozen dancin' springs.
Rub the bow across the rosin,
Twist the peg an' sound your A,
There'll be bobolinks a clinkin'
When you once begin ter play;
Bees'll waller in the clover,
Blossoms whisper in the sun,
All the world a runnin' over
With the sunshine an' the fun.
Git the gals and boys together.
"Pardners all for a quadrille,"
Cheeks aglow with frosty weather,
Hearts that never felt a chill;
Youth an' music never weary,
Tho' they meet in hall or hut—
When the sun is on the prairie
An' the drift is in the cut.
"Sashy by an' s'lute yer pardners.
Sashy back an' how d'ye do!"
Everybody's feelin' funny
An' the fiddle feels it too.
Out o' doors the storm may sputter,
But within the skies are bright,
Pansies peekin' out, an' butter-
Cups a bobbin' in the light.
O, the joy of healthful pleasure!
O, the trip of tireless feet!
While the fiddle fills each measure
With its music wild an' sweet;
Glints of sun the shadows vary,
Though from out the world we're shut,
When the snow is on the prairie
An' the drift is in the cut.
During that winter Dakota had an actual snowfall, on the average, of more than twelve feet; much snow remained upon the ground until late in April, and then, under the influence of a warm south wind, was converted into water in a single day. The broad prairies were simply a great sea, while the valleys were filled with roaring torrents. Great damage was done to property, particularly at Sioux Falls and along the Missouri. The troubles on the Missouri were greatly increased by a gorge of ice which formed at the mouth of James River, and backed the water up that stream until the city of Yankton was flooded; and then when the gorge finally broke, it carried away the town of Vermilion, which then was located below the hill. Fortunately the loss of life was very small, but the loss of property was terrific, and fell very heavily upon settlers who had not yet accumulated a reserve fund in cash to assist them over such an emergency.
Yankton was then a railroad terminus, and at that point began the commerce by steamboat up the Missouri River. Fifteen steamboats were on the ways at Yankton when the flood came. Great cakes of ice went hurtling against them, crushing holes in their sides, snapping immense hawsers, and tossing them into a common jumble. Green Island, a beautiful little village under the timber, across the channel from Yankton, was utterly destroyed, and since then the main channel of the Missouri has passed over the spot where the village formerly prospered.