How It Happened

This was written June, 1955 by Della Leola Harlow, who died in 1959

 

  During the winter, I visited my brother, then Captain C. W. Harlow, in San Antonio, Texas, where he was stationed with his division of the U. S. Army.  One evening I told him and his family some of the interesting incidents which I had learned from my mother about her family and father’s.  During the conversation my brother remarked, “Dell, I wish you would write some of this family history.  It might be of interest to my boys as they grow older.”  He then gave me a small leathery bound notebook in which to write.  Later, I spent an evening or two in this rather pleasant work.

  The first world war was then raging and our men were looking forward to service in Europe, if the U.S. should enter the conflict.  This probability soon became a fact.  My brother spent about three years in France and Germany.  The manuscript was laid aside and almost forgotten.  About two years ago my brother reminded me of this history and asked me to put it into permanent form which I have tried to do.  In the meantime he has gone to the better country but I know he would want his children to have this little story.  I am conscious of many imperfections, some of which I could correct if my eyes served me better, however, I believe that the facts in the story are very nearly correct.  The parts of the story which I have lingered the longest are those which relate to the spiritual values.  There are many incidents which have been necessarily omitted.  I have often wished that my brother had put into permanent form some of the interesting stories he has told me of his experiences in the army; especially in the Philippines and France.  But who in this world has not interesting experiences?  Life is full of them and so I’m completing this little history and dedicating it to you who loved him and whom he so dearly loved.  June 1955

 

  To the best of my knowledge our father’s family had lived for several generations in the state of Vermont.  Our father said our ancestors could be traced back to the Mayflower.  They were of Scotch English descent, a family of farmers and this occupation was followed by our grandfather throughout his life.  Grandfather’s name was Hiram Harlow and he was born October 16, 1810.  His wife’s maiden name was Lucinda Eldridge.  They were married October 7, 1832, and became the parents of seven children, three sons and four daughters, Perlina, Nathaniel, Lydia, Delia, Alta (probably Alton), Hiram and Emily.

 

  Our father Hiram was born in Middleburg or Middlebury, Vermont July 24, 1840.  When father was three years of age the family moved from Vermont to New York and settled on a farm near Ogdensburg in St. Lawrence County.  The mother died when Hiram was twelve years of age.  From this time the children were more or less separated.  The older ones married and the youngest two, Hiram and Emily, were placed in the home of a prosperous farmer, a Mr. Colister.  Father was bound out to Mrs. Colister with whom he was to live as a son till father’s majority, at which time he was to receive one hundred dollars in cash.

 

  Mr. Colister was engaged in sheep raising in which occupation father assisted him.  Early one morning when the boy was seventeen years of age he was awakened and called to the sheep who were worried by dogs.  While examining an animal that he thought was wounded and was bending over it in the early dawn he was mistaken by Mr. Colister for a dog.  The man was armed with a gun loaded with broken bits of lead.  A swift shot and the youth was severely wounded in the arm.  He himself and the man both at first thought that he would survive but a short time.  This fear was probably due to the great loss of blood.  He was carried to the house and a physician called.  Father was converted about this time.  Whether it was just before the accident or after I am not sure.  But I do know that during his illness he asked to be baptized.  He finally recovered but the effects remained throughout life.  The physician said that he owed his life to his strong constitution and to the fact that he was a total abstainer from alcohol and tobacco.  I well remember in my early youth that father was sometimes obliged to leave the field during the busy harvest time on account of a disabled arm and how small bits of lead worked themselves out of the reopened wound.

 

  At twenty-one father enlisted for service on the union side in the Civil War.  He had desired to enlist at the opening of the war, but as Mr. Colister strongly objected, and since father probably had some respect to the promise of the one hundred dollars he wisely decided to wait until his birthday, so near at hand.  Mr. Colister declared the boy was not twenty-one until the evening of July 24th, but the boy insisted that he was present when the event in question occurred and that he knew that he was born in the early part of the day.  Early in the morning with the one hundred dollars tucked safely in his pocket and a feeling of devout patriotism in his heart he marched to the recruiting station and offered himself to the service of Uncle Sam.  Much to his disappointment the regiments called for by President Lincoln were at that time complete and he was destined to wait until a new call was made.  He was then admitted to Company A 60th New York infantry Volunteers.  Here he served loyally for four years minus fourteen days, or until his regiment was mustered out at the close of the war.

 

  Besides many minor engagements he was present in seventeen hard-fought battles, among them the battle of Gettysburg, in memory of which battle, he, with many others, received a medal about the year 1890.  This medal is now in the possession of the only living son, Charles W. Harlow, (later in the possession of his grandson Charles Victor Harlow).  These medals were said to have been made from the material in the canon used in the battle of Gettysburg, and melted for the purpose.  Father was also with Sherman in his campaign before Atlanta but his regiment was not permitted to go to the sea.  Father was wounded twice in the service.  A very slight wound in the ear caused him little inconvenience.  The other, a gunshot wound in the leg was received in the famous battle Above the Clouds.  To this battle of Lookout Mountain he often referred and smiled in the imperfect knowledge of those who declared that this battle was more poetry than war.  One of the pleasures of my childhood was to listen to my father tell war stories.  They were true stories and when one or two other veterans were present to exchange tales the conversation became intensely interesting to young ears and hearts.  Many times have I heard my father laugh at the bright experiences which came to youthful hearts even in the sad times of conflict.  And I remember still his tears as he related some of the darker events of those terrible days.  He served for some time under a Captain Fitch to whom he seemed much attached.  Captain Fitch was a man of ample proportions, and had very large hands.  These he continuously spread out and flourished in time of battle.  After skirmishes or battle sometimes “the boys” laughingly complained that they could not see the enemy on account of Captain Fitch’s hands.    By religious persuasion the Captain was a Universalist and father was a Methodist.  The Captain entertained no very kindly views of the officers in charge of southern prison camps and of their treatment of Federal prisoners.  One day when venting his wrath upon these helpless beings father ventured to ask, “Captain, what do you suppose the Lord will do with these cruel fellows whom you so much despise?”  Will they go straight to heaven?  “Well, well,” replied the Captain, “I think the Lord will have a little hell somewhere for military purposes.”  His idea of justice could not quite include this class in the heavenly kingdom.  Soon after the war closed father went to Wisconsin where his brother Nathaniel was living.  He had already met Miss Sarah Stone Phillips while on a furlough which he had spent in that state about two years earlier.  He was much pleased with the dark eyed maiden who had two brothers in the service and correspondence followed.  While the young people are enjoying their courting days and we are guessing that possibly the fair lady may become your grandmother you may be pleased to listen to a little family history (MISSING LINE)

(BOTTOM OF PAGE #2)

 

  The mother in the Stone family died when our grandmother Sarah Stone was a small child.  The girl was a great favorite with her father who indulged her vanity in everything which appealed to him as suitable.  In one particular he could hardly grant her request.  She had asked for some beautiful earrings.  To his hard-headed English sense this seemed like a barbarism and he refused to indulge her.  However, as the daughter persisted he finally consented to purchase for her as beautiful a pair of ear-drops as she could desire, if she on her part would consent to have her nose bored also to ornament that part of her face with a similar jewel.  We can only guess the result.

 

  When Sarah Stone was still a young woman possibly sixteen or eighteen years of age she had for a close friend a young woman I am sorry I do not remember.  This girl for some reason attended a service in a Methodist Chapel, and was soundly converted and soon joined that despised and persecuted people.  Happy in her new found experience and anxious that others should be made partakers of “like precious faith” this young woman invited her friend Sarah to accompany her to the meetings.  This Sarah consented to do, probably at first without the knowledge of her family.  Here she was brought under conviction for sin and was led to see what an aimless, selfish life she had been living.  She at once yielded to the pleading of the Holy Spirit and was happily converted.  She now told her father what she had done, how happy she was with her new found Savior, and of her desire to become a Methodist.  This was a terrible blow to his proud spirit.  He used every means available to dissuade her from her purpose, but in vain.  She clung to her father with all the fondness of an indulged and dependent child.  But she declared that she believed it to be her duty to God to become a Methodist and to take the narrow way to heaven.  When persuasion and promises failed the father resorted to threats, and finally told his daughter that she should have a fortnight in which to rid herself of her foolish and insane notions.  If she chose to yield to her father’s desire all would be well.  But if she preferred to join herself to the despised Dissenters, the crazy Methodists then she must leave his home forever.  Her decision was made.  Probably not without many prayers and tears.  But it was calmly and firmly made.  When her answer was  finally demanded, she assured her father that, though she loved him sincerely she still loved her savior more and she would join the Methodists.  For once her proud father did not keep his word and the daughter was allowed to remain at home. 

 

  Some time after this, Mr. Stone suddenly met with severe financial losses.  A terrible storm, such as often strikes the coast of England, destroyed in one night seven of his ships and his flouring mill.  He was left a poor man and in debt.  His daughters, Florence and Sarah, had a small amount of money in their own right and they desired to place this in their father’s hands in order to save him from the humiliation of imprisonment.  They were advised not to do this as the amount was not sufficient for the purpose.  It would be better to retain their fund in order to help re-establish him when he was released from prison.  The elder daughter, Florence was already engaged to be married to a young man of wealth and influence.  Hearing of the severe losses of his prospective father-in-law, he hurried to his betrothed and asked that their marriage might take place at the earliest possible moment.  He wished to marry her but if he did so it should be before her father’s failure in business had become known to social circles.  The financial failures of a relative, even of a near relative, would be no disgrace but to marry a daughter of a poor man, no matter what her former social standing had been, would carry him a long way down the social ladder.  Thank God we live in America, and let us pray that our country may remain true to our ideals of character and personal worth.  The marriage was arranged and the young man saved both his heart and his standing in society.  But Mr. Stone could not escape the punishment.  (....................) of his former influence and wealth he was not (                             ) with comparative comfort, was given some liberty and treated with respect.  He did not remain long at the King’s Bench.  Through the influence of friends he was finally released.  Being a man of intelligence and business ability he again acquired some means and died possessed of a considerable fortune.

 

  Sarah Stone since her father’s misfortune had been teaching in a private school and for some time had acted as housekeeper for her bachelor brother.  Later she was married to Samuel Phillips.  His father I believe was one of four or five brothers one of whom was named Robert.  All of these brothers were prosperous if not wealthy.  But Samuel’s father was poor.  He seems to have missed his calling in life.  In his youth he felt his call to the ministry but this call he did not heed and whether for this reason or another he did not prosper.  The one son, Samuel, who became our mother’s father was born December 8th about 1795.  He was a cab driver in his early days and seems to have known how to acquire money.  He also learned brick making and engaged in this trade after coming to America.  The bride’s family, I think, did not look upon the marriage with great favor though the young man was worthy and rather prosperous.  But it was difficult probably for them to overcome their aversion to tradesmen, even though their own reduced circumstances had removed the impassible barrier from between them. 

 

 

OFF TO AMERICA

 

  To Samuel Phillips and Sarah Stone his wife were born five children, three sons and two daughters.  The eldest son Samuel Stone was born while they were still in England about 1831.  When this son was a year old the family decided to move to America.  The father came first to arrange for a home.  Sometime later the mother and little Samuel came on one of those slow moving vessels of those times.  Steamships were little known in those times and possibly not one had crossed the big ocean.  But the six weeks voyage was at least completed, and the parents again joined each other in the new land.  Then they hurried west and the father purchased two and one half acre tract of land in what is now, I suppose the heart of the city of Buffalo, New York.  Here he established a brick kiln and later taught his sons the same trade. 

 

  A suggestion of the financial circumstances of the family is found in the following incident.  Grandmother had gone one day to the kiln to take her husband’s lunch.  She wore a silk dress.  After her departure one of the workmen remarked laughingly to grandfather, “Your wife will soon get over her fine notions if she continues to live in America.”  Grandfather assured him that his wife had nothing but silk dresses.  Probably she had bought no new dresses since coming to America.  It was about 1832 when the family came to the new world.  During the years which followed, our grandmother Sarah Phillips kept in close correspondence with her sister Florence in England.  After some time, however, her sister’s letters suddenly ceased.  Sarah herself continued to write to her sister for seven long years.  During all of this time no word reached Sarah from her people in England.  She now began to fear that they had intentionally severed connections.  She decided to write one more letter and remind her sister how long she had written without response.  In this letter she told Florence that if she did not receive a reply she would never write again.  In due time she received an answer.  Her sister declared that she had received all of Sarah’s letters and answered every one.  The reason that her letters had not reached America was as great a mystery to Florence as it was to Sarah.  In this letter Florence told her sister again of the death of their father which had occurred nearly seven years before.  She also told much other news about the family.  Envelopes and postage stamps were unknown in those days.  It was the custom to leave an unwritten page which was folded outside for the address.  The letter was then sealed with sealing wax and delivered to a postal boy with sufficient money to pay the postage.  This last letter however Florence carried with her own hands to the post office and happily it reached it’s destination.  Upon investigation it was learned that during the seven years silence the post boy had been destroying her letters and pocketing the coins. 

 

  Grandmother’s death occurred on March 3rd, 1853, when she was 56 years of age.  The cause of her death was dropsy from which she had suffered many months.  For a year she had been obliged to remain in a sitting position.  Mother told me that during all this time she never heard her mother speak a word of complaint or be impatient.  When at the last she was unconscious of circumstances around her, her mind was still clear concerning the things of the spirit.  When her husband asked her if she knew Jesus she replied brightly “Oh, yes, I know Jesus.”  Truly the things which are seen are temporal but the things which are not seen are eternal.  During all these years grandmother had been true to the vision of her girlhood.  Her last words were one of those beautiful messages of the beloved apostle, “Little children love one another.”  I have often wondered how much we owe to the life and spiritual influence of our grandmother Sarah Stone Phillips.

 

  I have heard my mother say that her mother was an accomplished dancer.  A dancing master was brought to her father’s home to teach the young ladies this art in their girlhood.  Grandmother never attended a dance after her conversion in England.  But grandfather sometimes coaxed her to dance in her home to let her children see how gracefully she could move.  But she always refused, feeling that even to dance for the amusement of her family would be to dishonor the Christ whom she adored.  She now rests in the old cemetery in Buffalo, New York.  About 30 years later our grandfather Samuel Phillips was laid beside her.  During the year following their mother’s death the son Joseph married Miss Mary Ellen Mack.  He was only eighteen.  The daughter Florence was also married to James Scott, a young farmer.  In 1857 Sarah, with her father and brother George came to western Wisconsin, where her brother Joseph and family were already living and settled in Green Bay.  The father returned to Buffalo soon after, leaving the son and daughter in the west.  Sarah engaged in teaching for several years.  Though her training for the work would be considered insufficient in these days of colleges and normal school,  yet she was regarded as one of the best teachers in her community.  Mother was an ardent admirer of President Lincoln.  While the Civil War was in progress she was teaching in the woods of Wisconsin.  She always kept in close touch with the movements of the armies.  When she heard of the death of President Lincoln she immediately closed the little school and started for home.  At home she took the photo of the president and burst into a flood of tears.  She had never seen him but she regarded him as a personal friend.  Her brothers Joseph and George were both veterans on the northern side.  Because mother was so deeply interested in the war, she had several correspondents at the front.  One of these was a young lieutenant Francis Marion Bishop from Marquette, Wisconsin.  She had met the young man while he was on a furlough following a bullet wound received in the battle of Fredericksburg.  He was only 19 at this time but for extraordinary service he had been commissioned at this early age.  A warm friendship developed between the two young people.  I have had the privilege of reading the young lieutenant’s letters.  The correspondence seemed to have been commendable to both parties.  Both were earnest Christians.  But for some reason the young New York soldier took precedence over the Wisconsin lieutenant.  So the family’s name is not Bishop but Harlow. 

 

A Home in The Golden West

 

Hiram Harlow, Jr. and Miss Sarah Stone Phillips  (there is a handwritten note above Phillips, that we are unable to read) were married at Wrightstown,

Wisconsin, October 18, 1866.  They were both 26 years of age.  Father, during his four years of army service had saved a few hundred dollars from his small salary, also the one hundred dollars which he had received from Mr. Colister.  Together with mother’s small savings they had between them probably a thousand dollars.  With this they purchased a small tract of land in the deep woods.  Father made a little clearing and built a one room house for their dwelling.  Lumbar was cheap and father shingled the little house all over from roof to base.  It must have looked like a big scaly fish left on dry ground.  But it was warm and comfortable and hopeful and happy hearts dwelt within.  The first child, a curly headed, blue eyed boy was born June 15, 1868.  They named him George Marion.  He must have been a pretty little fellow and I have yet in my possession his first beautiful dress.  It was made entirely by hand, contained many tucks and thousands of dainty little stitches made by the fond mother.  One day mother visited the city of Marquette taking her boy with her on a little shopping tour.  He was then about six months old.  She had him clothed in this long white dress with a big blue ribbon bow tied at the back.  She was holding him on the counter, when an old Indian woman entered.  This woman went into ecstasies about the beautiful “girl”.  “Oh, no,”  gently corrected mother, “It is not a girl, it is a boy.”  But the Indian woman insisted, “Oh, no, it is surely a girl, see the bow on her back.”  Wisconsin was full of Indians at the time.  Many of the best families claimed Indian blood and were proud of it.  One could hardly belong to the aristocracy without one Indian ancestor.

 

  But the young people did not remain long in Wisconsin.  The air was full of wonderful stories about the great open western territory.  Uncle Sam had made it possible for any enterprising young person to obtain a quarter section of this rich prairied land, simply by living on it for five year.  However, any young man who had served in the Civil War could subtract his time of service from the required five years.  Since father had served nearly four years he could secure a deed to this land by one year and fourteen days of actual residence.  It was a rosy dream, full of promise with the difficulties somewhat hidden.  During the summer of 1871, the little family started for this new paradise.  On the way they stopped to visit mother’s brother Joseph, who was then living in Algona, Iowa.  Since work was plenty and money somewhat scarce the family decided to remain in Algona during the winter.  They actually stayed until the summer of 1873.  During this time the second child, a daughter Della Leola, came to claim residence in the home.  She was born on December 11, 1871.  In June 1873, the family again proceeded westward.  Railroads were almost unknown in that part of the country in the early seventies.  The Chicago, St. Paul, Minneapolis and Omaha did not reach Sioux Falls until some years later.  Hence, the private “car” consisted of a covered wagon and the power was furnished by a span of mules, faithful old Tig and Jim.   The season had been very rainy and the journey of one-hundred and fifty miles required ten days.  In especially wet places it sometimes became necessary to unload, permit the mules to haul the empty wagon for some distance and then carry the children and goods across and reload.

 

  The long journey was done at last and the “car” stopped in front of the two by twice sod house ten miles east of Sioux Falls.  This was to be our home for a few days till father could erect the more pretentious ten by fourteen frame dwelling across the road.  This now was the “homestead”.  Here a second daughter opened her blue eyes for her first peep at the world on September 22^nd of the same year, just 20 minutes before the doctor came.  This was the pretty child of the family.  She was named Mary Ethel.  How I loved my little curly headed sister.  I do not remember ever being jealous of her but how I did wish sometimes that people would call me pretty too.  About a year later father made another trip to the little city on the Sioux River to “prove up”.  Immediately after this father again filed on the claim across the road a relinquishment which he had brought from Mr. Wade, the owner of the little sod house before mentioned.  This quarter section became father’s pre-emption.  The faithful old mules were fastened the small dwelling in which we had lived the previous year and it was slowly moved across the road and in this way we took up our new abode.  This is the first event in my memory.  The incredulous may declare that it cannot be true but no amount of persuasion can convoke me that I did not become intolerably hungry during that moving process.  I asked my mother for something to eat.  A bowl of bread and milk was given me and I sat in my little chair and was soon relieving the first and universal need of man.  I know that I remember this event although I was only two and one-half years old.   The pre-emption  was our home for a little more than four years.  Two tiny bedrooms and a summer kitchen were added to the original ten by fourteen making a fairly comfortable home for that time and place.

 

Here our paternal grandfather spent considerable time with us during the a long pleasant summers. This is an  interesting item , for altho I do not, remember my grandfather ever taking the slightest notice of me -- possibly he was educated to consider a girl a frail affair -- yet he was the only grandparent which we ever saw, and a child's life in hardly complete without some slight glimpse of it" forbears of the second generation.

 

A Dakota farm in the seventies was not all that the idealist some times pictures It. There were many pleasant things but the thing in real life was an uphill pull. Young as I was, I remember well watching the sky for grass-hoppers. They were some times killed in-great numbers by means of kerosene and piled in great heaps for burning. I remember well a day in midsummer about 1876. Father entered the house cheerily.  "Mother." he called, "Let us take a little ride around the wheat field."  From the big farm wagon what a lovely scene spread before us. The broad prairie waving with rich native grass, the wild flowers and singing birds. Meadow larks! Did you ever hear a meadow lark? Except for the laughter of a little child it is almost the sweetest music of earth. The wheat field was perfect with its full yellow heads of golden grain A picture for an artist.

 

How many dresses that field of wheat would buy:  How many pairs of little shoes and big ones, too!  Maybe new clothes for father and a pretty new oil­cloth for the table and wood and groceries for the cold winter ahead. That night we all slept with hopeful hearts. I slept on a small home made couch in the "big room" the ten by fourteen which was first built. In the midst of my dreams (I was about six years old) I was rudely a wakened by a tremendous roar. The lightning flashed, the thunder pealed , and some thing was falling , cold and damp and frightening on my bed.  I was quite sure it was thunder bolts, which I supposed were akin to cannon balls of which I had heard my father speak.  I pulled the covers closer and hid my face beneath them. But not for long.  Strong arms enveloped me and carried me to the safety of mother's protecting embrace I was soon fast asleep and left father to man­age about the storm. Oh, for the faith of a little child. The "thunder bolts” proved to be great balls of ice mingled with the rain and bits of broken glass from the window above my head.   In the morning, what a scene of desolation awaited us.  Only a few of the eighteen tiny panes of glass In the window were left. The little maple tree which father had planted to the front yard had probably protected them. Outside the little birds lay stiff and cold amid the debris. Mother's little flower garden was driven into the ground. Saddest of all, the beautiful wheat field lay rolled in the rich, dark mud.  Where now were the shoes, the clothing, the food and the Christmas joys? Only our Heavenly Father knew. One remark of our brave mother still sends tears to my eyes. "If we have no wheat to store in the granary perhaps we can use the building for a school house,"

 

The miracle well.  But it was not all dark Providence sometimes seemed to smile on those early pioneers To obtain a sufficient supply of good water was one of the problems of the time. Sometimes farmers spent much time and money to sink a well and failed. Father believed in prayer and he needed a well; so one day he took his spade, selected a promising location , knelt down and asked God's blessing on the project and then began to dig.   At the depth of Only a few feet he struck a spring of clear cold water.   A splendid surface well was secured after Only one half day's labor and a cost of seventy-five cents. This well continued to supply the family and farm with water, during all of our stay.   And it sometimes furnished water also for our less fortunate neighbors.

 

When I was about four years old I returned home from school with my brother George one afternoon we found a small tree lying flat on the ground in the front yard. Father, mother and the younger children were gathered around it.   To our eyes it was a thing of beauty, so far as I can remember there was  not a tree within several miles.   Father began t o make a place for the tree just to front of the window.   With all seriousness we watched the process of planting that little box elder.   It lived and thrived and its shade was the favorite playground for the children during the rest of our years there.   Around its roots, mother made her little flower garden of rose-moss, marigolds and bachelor buttons, and it was in its beckoning branches that we learned our first lessons in climbing.   Years later when I taught a little district school near by, I visited the old homestead and was delighted to find the old tree still strong and healthy, So far as I know it is still alive.   Father planted also a row of box elders along the road in front --of what we used to call our "building spot”.   It was a slight eminence over­looking the broad prairies.

 

In those days of sunshine, pure and abundant air and neighborly kindness the family was blest with comparative health.   A tiny school was opened on a neighboring farm, and a Sunday School was organized.   Who can picture the de­light of that first Sunday school and that first bright scripture card.  But religious privileges of a public nature were few.   There was no church with in many miles.   Meetings were sometimes held in private homes and ministers of many denominations came from small towns around to conduct them.  These ministers were always welcome in our home, Methodists, Baptists, United Brethren. Doubtless the presence of these men and the welcome they always received made a deep impression upon our child hearts.  One especially whom we always called Brother Scott was greatly beloved. He was a frail young man very devoted, who sometimes with his wife and small daughter, spent several days under our tiny roof.    Many years afterward he died an a missionary in India.   Two sons  and one daughter were added to the family during the pre-emption days, The first, Ada, born June 29, 1875, was a  dark-eyed, dark haired little maiden and destined possibly to have been the fairest of the flock; but in only thirty-two days the little life went out to waken in some fairer clime, and develop into greater loveliness.    Little Ernest Victor came on October 23, 1877.   Nearly five months this dark-haired little one remained, then March 14, 1878, went to join his little sister in heaven.   It was two days before Christmas 1878.   Deep snow covered the ground and it was intensely cold, Father, mother and the children were seat ed around the warm fire, father had just read a beautiful story from the Good Book, and committed us all to our heavenly father's care.  We were about ready to retire when mother called father aside and whispered a few words into his ear.  Suddenly father turned, "Children, how would you like to spend the night at Mrs. Countryman's A night out; what a treat!   Tig and Jim were soon brought from their warm stables and the children bundled into the farm wagon, and over the snow to the nearest neighbor, half a mile distant.   the three of us were soon tucked snugly into bed and father returned with Mrs. Countryman to our snow covered cottage.   pleasant dreams and then the morning came and with it our smiling father.    We were still in bed "Hi, Hi" father called, what do you suppose we have at our house?" I was only seven years old and 'had no suspicions but my brother was ten and he was very wise.   He already had three sisters and had recently lost a little brother whom he well remembered.   Oh, how he wanted another brother, but dare not risk being disappointed.   He quickly answered father's question with a "little sister, father!" No sir, you're wrong, answered father, its a little brother, In Just about two jiffies George was out of bed and dressed and we were off to see the new brother.   We searched the house, the cold icy bedrooms, turned over the mattress but no baby was to be found, Mother and father watched smilingly finally mother said, Better show the children the baby.”   Mrs. Countryman went to mother's bed which had been moved into the only heated room, threw back the covers and lifted a tiny little red ­faced thing and fed him saffron tea.   Saffron tea was supposed to make red babies white.    Maybe it did for he too became a little tow head. This child became Charles  William Harlow, whom some of you know as "Daddy."

 

When this last son was six weeks of age the covered wagon was again called Into service.    The household goods and the little flock were securely packed away in its ample depths.  The familiar "get-up " was pronounced and old Tig and Jim once more began the ten mile journey to Sioux Falls, which was to be our future home.   It was in the dead of a Dakota winter and it must have been with no little apprehension that our delicate mother undertook this cold journey with her little family to the unfamiliar town.   But two babies bad so recently found little frozen graves on the hillside and the mothers hart could not endure the thought that his little treasure last should be torn from her.   She doubtless had some fear that the cold, poorly built little house had something to do with the death o f her darlings. So this  one must be taken away where he would if possible have a better chance to live.   A very tiny rented hone sheltered the family for the next few months but when the spring flowers came and the robins began to sing, father built the little home on the corner of Fifth and Franklin streets on the east side of the river.

 

Sunday Afternoons with Mother.

"Richer than I you cannot be, I had a mother who read to me."   One o f the happiest memories of my childhood is our Sunday afternoons With mother.   Mother was an invalid or nearly so.   She seldom went to church or social gatherings; never to clubs or parties. This may have been some sacrifice for her, but is certainly spelled enrichment for her children.  There were four of us, two boys and two girls.   Beside the darling little brother and sister who went to heaven in infancy.   In the morning we went to Sunday School and church with father.   When dinner was over --we always had an especially good dinner on Sunday-- we gathered in mother's sunny room, no radio, few callers, just several golden hours with mother.   She rested while we arranged ourselves comfortably nearby.   Mother was an excellent story teller and she had in her mind a rich fund of material --stories of her childhood and youth of her parents' home in Old England , or the early settlements in New York and in the woods of Wisconsin; stories of Lincoln and the Civil War and I think even some stories of her and father's courtship; then there were bible stories, missionary stories, stories of great heroes and heroines.   Then her mind was full of beautiful poems which she often repeated.   Some of these I remember to this day.   Sometimes mother read to us, Sunday School papers, books or other literature.            Uncle Tom's Cabin was a favorite, Then she spoke to us those precious intimate words which are the safety of all young lives.  We did some things for mother, too. Often we combed her hair, bathed her feet, soothed her head if it ached or rendered other little services so precious to mothers.   Sometimes we read to her, told her about the morning service or related the childish experiences that had come to us during the past week in school.   Often we sang together the grand hymns of Watts and Wesley, Toplady and Addison and the more modern gospel songs.   Mother taught us "Ninety and Nine," the first song we ever committed to memory.   It must have been published only a short time before.    Then there was the beautiful Christmas poem "while Shepherds Watched Their Flocks.”   How I loved that.   And mother taught us to pray.   I well remember when she called my sister and me to bow at her knee while she taught to us that classic prayer of childhood,            'Now I Lay me down to sleep.  "I often repeat it now.   We were not encouraged to spend our Sunday afternoons away from home, we seldom wished to do so.   We looked forward with pleasure to another Sunday afternoon with mother.   So the years increased. At last Charlie was six years old and ready for school. Oh! that  wonderful "chart-class” and the first teacher, Miss Hall.  Of course, the older children had been in school for sometime. It was really only a little country school with one teacher.   But they were good teachers.   Can I ever forget Miss Louisa Kinney, to whom were indebted for nearly five years of training.   Miss Kinney, the staunch Episcopalian who read us the psalms, taught us the Lond's Prayer and My Country Tis of Thee.  "She also taught us the multiplication table so that we never forgot it.   And We mastered phonics.   She was a trim as a well tended garden.   Not quite so beautiful.   I'm not so sure we loved her but we did give he r deep respect.   In town, Father engaged for a time in the wood and coal business, but his health had been broken by his service in the Civil War. He was deeply in sympathy with other war veterans in similar circumstances.    For many years he employed most of his time in trying to secure adequate pensions for these men and he was quite successful.   During recent years he had received a pension of five dollars a month from the government and he never received more than fourteen dollars a month even in his lat­er years. But he sometimes secured valuable pensions and large amounts in back pay for veterans, their wives and their children. This service to those in need was a great joy to him.   The farms were sold.   Old Tig and Jim were exchanged for Kitty a gentle old horse, who was not afraid of trains, and which we children could drive to Sunday School.           we all loved her and delighted to feed her candy and cookies.

 

A dark cloud came to the home on July 3, 1885, in the sudden death by drowning of the oldest son, George.   He went with other boys to bathe in the river, was attacked by cramps, and was unable to recover himself.    So the first-born was laid to rest beside the two little ones in Mount Pleasant cemetery east of the city.   Who shall say that these three, George, Ada, Ernest are not better acquainted and more closely associated than they could have been if they had remained here.  George was a noble boy, just seventeen.   Deeply devoted to his mother and respected by the neighbors. On the evening before his death, he had picked up his little brother of six, "the little kid" as he called him, and carried him lovingly to bed . This was the little brother whom he had so lovingly received during the snow storm six years before.   From the shock of this tragedy, neither father nor mother entirely recovered.  But now they have joined their children on the other side.   Five years our mother lived on till November 9,1890.  And then God touched her eyes and she slept. Surely it was a gentle touch, for mother, dear, your tired face was transformed into something heavenly beautiful, and even our sad hearts could not fail to see the radiant loveliness.  And so we said goodbye till the morning comes.

 

Three years later on November 9, 1893, Mary Ethel was married in the old home at Sioux Falls, to Franklin Levant Osgood. Seven children were born to them.   Marian Rachel at Sioux Falls, Oct. 24, 1894 , Mildred Evangeline, Sioux Falls, Mar. 19, 1898; (Frances Ethel, July 4, 1899, Yankton,S.D. omitted in Aunt Della’s manuscript) Della Winifred, Sept. 17, 1902, Topeka Kansas; Clara Grace, Osage City, Kansas June 30,1905; Arthur Harlow Mitchell, South Dakota, Jan. 24, 1910; George Lawrence Ellsworth, April 14,1914. A few days after Ethel's marriage, father went to Hot Springs, South Dakota, where he died on October 23,1905.

 

Charles William Harlow was married October 4,1910 at Wichita, Kansas to Miss Lulu Hazel Lantz.  To them two sons have been born, George Lantz, at Vancouver, Washington, Nov. 4, 1912 and Charles Victor, Leavenworth, Kansas, Feb. 26, 1914.   (1934 d daughter Betty Jane was born December 10, 1920).

 

 

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  Our Maternal Forbear