illustrate the ingenuity of O.S. Cox's ditch making, here is the story of the Pig Plow as told by an old settler of Fairview, Pappas Brady.

"When the ditch was first laid out that was afterwards called "City Ditch", every man and boy was called on to come and work on it every day til it would carry water. This was in the spring, and it had to be finished before the fields were ready to be plowed and planted. The men turned out well with teams and plows, picks and crow bars and shovels. There was a rocky point at the head of the ditch to be ut through, and it was hard pan, about like cement. Couldn't be touched by plow, no siree; now more than nothing. We was just prying the gravel loose with picks and crowbars, and looked like it would take us weeks to do six rods. Yes, six weeks. Cox looked at us working and sweating, and never offered to lift a finger. No sir, never done a tap; just looked and then without saying a word, he turned around and walked off. Yes, sir, walked off! Well of all the mad bunch of men you ever saw I guess he was about the maddest. Of course, we didn't swear; we was Mormons and the Bishop was there, but we watched him go and one of the men says, "Well, I didn't think Cox was that kind of a feller." His going discouraged the rest of us, just took the heart out of us. But of course we plugged away pretendin' to work the rest of the day, and dragged back the next morning."

"We weren't near all there when here came Cox. I don't just remember whether it was four yoke of oxen or six or eight, for I was just a boy, but it was a long string and they was every one of a good pulling ox. And they was hitched on to a plow a plumb new kind, yes sir, a new kind of plow. It was a great big pitch pine log, about fourteen feet long, and may have been eighteen, with a limb stickin' down like as if my arm and hand was the log and my thumb the limb; he had bored a hole through the log, and put a crow bar down in front of the knob; and cross ways along the log back of the limb he bored holes and put stout oak sticks through spikes. They were the plow handles; and he had eight man got ahold of them handles find hold the plow level and he loaded a bunch of men along on that log, and then he spoke to his oxen."

"Great Scott, ye oter seen the gravel fly, and ye oter heard us fellers laugh and holler! Well, sir, he plowed up and down that ditch line four or five times and that ditch was made, practically made. All that the rest of us had to do was to shovel out the loose stuff; he done more in half a day than all the rest of us could a done in six weeks."

"Why didn't he tell his plans the first thing, so we wouldn't be so discouraged, and hate him so? Why, cause he knew it wouldn't do a might of good to talk. He wasn't the Bishop; and even if he had been, plans like that would sure be hooted at by half the fellers. No, siree! His way was the best when a bunch of men and a thing a workin' they see believe; yes, sir, seein' is believin."

The Pioneer Mother

Upon a jolting wagon sent she rode
Across the trackless prairie to the west,
Or trudged behind the oxen with a goad,
A sleeping child clasped tightly to her breast,
Frail flesh rebelling, but spirit never—
What tales the dark could tell of woman's tears!!—
Her bravery incentive to endeavor;
Her laughter spurring strong men past their fears.

O to her valor and her comeliness
A commonwealth today owes its white domes
Of State, its fields, its highways, and its homes—
Its cities wrested from the wilderness.
Its bones in memory above the hand
That gentled, woman-wise, a savage land.

—Ethol Romig Fuller

Transcriber's Note

The original pamphlet contains many images that were omitted in this electronic version. Scans of the original work can be found at archive.org. The poem "The Pioneer Mother," originally presented in a sidebar, has been