IN  MEMORIAM

LIEUTENANT WILLIAM BEEKER BILLINGS was born in Indianapolis, Indiana, and was killed in action 1942 in the South Pacific.  A Purdue University graduate of 1938, he earned his in 1940 at Pensacola, Florida.  Thereafter he served on the U.S.S. Indianapolis as a naval aviator.
 
The following poem, written during his college life, relates to his forebears, settlers of Indiana in 1819.  M.B.

 

Lt. William Beeker Billings
Pretty Prairie Cemetery 
Tippecanoe Township

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A State Is Born

THE forest great grew hushed and still,         Intense of ear, and vigilant;         It sensed within its vast domain         Pervasion of intruders strange.         Feet, moccasined and soft of tread,         The chatter of facetious squirrels,         The jabber of blue-hooded jays,         The bell-like calls of cardinals red;         And voicings of the many folk         Of thick entangled underbrush,         Engaged in play--in tasks of like;         And here and there a splash of tints:         A brilliant plumed denizen         Has flashed its way through golden beams         Of filtered sunlight, agitated         And enthralled by silken webs         That cling tenaciously, to bring         Their makers life-sustaining food:         Such things as these this wood had known.         Here lurked grim tragedy--wild beasts         Who stalked their prey, that prey in turn         The stalker.  But! here, too, were peace         And beauty, melody--God's Will         Here reigned supreme throughout         The growth.        AND now a sound which ne'er before         Had pierced so far into the heart         Of this the virgin wilderness,         Relentlessly advances deep         Into its depths: a rhapsody         Metallic.  Paled to significance,         The forest sounds abruptly cease;         And high on limb, in act of flight,         A somber crow sees fit to pause--         A deer, uncertain and inert,         Is poised with foreleg high:         Out through the hushed wilderness         Rings out the axe so clear and sharp.         Relentlessly and hungrily         It cuts and bites its way into         The density impregnable;         A roadway, scarcely adequate,         And rough, is slowly forming for         The caravan that soon will come.        AT last the swinging pendulous         Does cease, its task for now complete;         For it has hewn its way up to         A clearing small, in sunlight bathed.         The towering axeman pauses on         The clearing's edge, surveying there         Terrain of finished artistry,         So peaceful, quiet, still, it seemed         Possessed of charm intangible         And furtive.  But the scene's no more         Compelling than the man himself.         Except for his great size, he is         The typical backwoodsman, dressed         In simple leather vest, a shirt         Rough-spun and open at the throat         And dyed with stain of walnut ooze,         And trousers made of buckskin, tucked         Into the knee-length moccasins         Comprise his whole attire.  No gear         Of any kind adorns his head;         His hair is thick and bushy--blonde,         And backward combed in flowing waves.         Deliberating, he wipes the sweat         From off his brow; removes the bits         Of twigs and bark entangled in         His hair.  Upon his face, his arms,         Are many marks inflicted by         The berry bushes wild, and thick         Entanglements that struck him as         He swung his axe.  And gratefully         He now seeks out the coolness of         The grass beneath a maple tree.         The untamed horse that tosses mane         On green savannas scarcely could         Have moved with freedom more than he;         The perfect derivation of         His limbs and muscle signifies         It came from conscious vigor and         Habitual action of the one         Accustomed not to gay salon         And walks prescribed to fashion, but         To rough-cast paths of danger and         The voiceless solitudes of waste.         A half-hour's trek back through the wood,         We find the caravan.  Here, too,         Is reason for its tardiness:         Upon a keg of nails is propped         The leading wagon's left rear shaft.         The wheel had broken as it lurched         Into a hole concealed by brush.         The heavy cargo (food supplies         And household assets) plus the weight         Of wagon, cumbersome but strong,         Had proved too much for its own good.         In readiness for just such thing         A wheel is carried as a spare,         Which now is being placed upon         The axle bare, to carry on.        FOUR wagons make the party up --         The first three wagons, 'cause of weight,         Are drawn by oxen--two to each:         The last, a buck-board (light but firm),         And pulled by two black horses strong,         (As riding horses also used         When e'er the family settled down         To bide a spell in quarters brief).         The long and weary journey's been         With hardships and with danger fraught.         The day draws near its resting place         And so the families hope to reach         Encampment e'er dark night arrives.         They do not wish to be hemmed in,         And being forced to spend the night         In wilderness just such as this         Is not to be looked forward to.         In dead of night the forest rules         With firmer hand, and cries are heard         That chill the blood: on every side         The shadows creep--then seem to leap         Upon us.  "What was that!" -- No more         Than swaying bush or rustling leaves:         In situations such as this         We human beings seek bright fires         And hope to lose foreboding thoughts         In warm companionship and cheer.       THE wheel in order, everyone         Now takes his place.  Excitedly         The children clamber to their seats,         The women make their last safe-guards         Against the jolting ride to come.         One wagon's been prepared to make         The riding just as pleasant as         It possibly can be: upon         The wagon-bed materials         And blankets have been spread, and propped         Against the sidings are some pads         To guard against the sudden bumps         And frequent swerving, tipping lists         That fairly throw their bodies hard         Against the wooden sides despite         Their every effort to retain         A sense of equilibrium.         The men prefer to walk--besides,         The progress oxen make is not         Enough to force them to exert         Themselves.  Then, too, there needs         Must be a watchful eye at play         Along the way to guard against         Such accidents as happened to         That left rear wheel.  When swinging not         Their ever present axes, guns         Are couched by bended arm or gripped         In hand.  There's meat at hand in great         Abundance: squirrels and fowl there are         Aplenty--bear and deer as well,         Providing steaks and venison.         Wild berries serve as fruit, the while         Diversion's offered in the form         Of acorns, walnuts, hickory nuts.         And bringing up the rear we find         Some livestock, tended by the boys         Of age.  Two shorthorn cows and Bess         The holstein furnish milk and cream         And golden butter plenty.  Stowed         Away in wagon number three         Are beans and corn and hard tack stale,         A slab of bacon, coffee beans,         Coarse flour, bread and cereals.         Two cocks, four hens, three geese remain,         And travel caged within a coop         That's strapped beneath the buck-board's         Seat.  We can't forget old Fritz (the dog),         As well as Queen the bird-dog mate.        THE caravan at last has reached         The clearing small where last we left         The giant axeman.  Twilight's creeped         Across the place--the group begins         To set up camp; they've stopped not far         From yonder big tree that stands out in         The center.  Young ones romp and play         About enjoying brief recess from         Quarters cramped, the while are grouped         The wagons and the tethered stock         In such a manner as to form         A rough protective circle 'bout         The crackling campfire bright and warm.         The women go about their work         Preparing supper for their men.         Two wagons will provide a place         In which the women folk will sleep;         (The men sleep rolled in blankets, feet         Toward the fire, and guns at hand         In readiness for instant use.)         Mechanically they eat their food:         Black coffee, beans, and venison--         Hard bread, and buttered ears of corn.         Almost too tired to eat, they seek         Exhausted sleep.  Though on the trail         Since day had dawned, ten miles is all         They've come.  It is indeed a scene         To stir the heart, these pioneers         Of ours to see all grouped about         The glowing embers, tired, content.         There's courage here in all its glow--         Determination, hope, and love of home         And family.  And dominant         Among them is the towering man         Whose axe had hushed the forest great;         He flashes cheer, encouragement,         With splendid smile and hearty laugh.         He seems so tireless--one would not         Believe that he had done the work         Of two.  He bids them all retire         For on the morrow all shall see         The land they'll call for e'er their own;         For that which he'd been looking for         Was but a day away from there.         Soon all was still within the camp         Except for movement now and then         Among the stock; a dying flame;         And in the moonlight fused with night,         A figure tall, erect, alert,         Stood guard with rifle crooked on arm.         The breathing of the wilderness         And Whisperings of the nearby stream         All came to him like music soft,         Familiar--this was home to him,         No better friend had he than here.        THE morning found our friends well on         The way.  The pace had quickened now--         Excitement reigned within their thoughts         For home was not far off.  'Twas 'bout         The middle of the afternoon         When first they broke the barrier         Of wilderness.  Into a long         And narrow valley, bordered by         Its sloping wooded hills of green         They drove--and paused.  Without a word         They gazed upon their future home.         A stream meandered amiably         Through thick, tall grass, and sparkled in         The sun.  Wild berry bushes, slumps         Of trees, and flowering plants ablaze         With hues and tints were spread upon         The verdant earth.  With hearts that sang         And hopes that dared discouragements         The families three here built their homes.         The axe once more was heard to swing:         Rough cabins staunch and sturdy came         To be, and cords of wood were cut.         The fields with oxen ploughed and dragged:         And corn was planted, grain was sowed,         The garden plots laid out with care:         And thus a state is born to us.  I KNOW a place where ends the trail, So long ago begun by him Who towered above and led the rest:  Go north and east of Battle Ground--  Turn left at John VaNatta's farm         And follow there the road that winds,         Until you come upon a church         All made of wood, and small and white.         Here snugly sleeping next the wood,         Is "Pretty Prairie" Cemetery.         If by chance you were to come         Upon this spot when setting sun         Casts golden, mellow beams of light         Against the weather-beaten stones,         You'd find a world of utter peace         And beauty--hidden memories.         I OVERLOOK the valley there         And see the years returned where         Once I lay by yonder brook         And hoped and prayed a fish I'd hook.        HOW carefree then was I         With only peace and beauty by--         No cares, no sighs save of rest,         As I with golden rays of sun was blest.

Note from Thomas Billings: "...this piece came from oral history, conversations between Bill and his grandparents and great-grandparents.  
Two leaders of this earliest of pioneer groups were Daniel Carr and Daniel Beeker.  The Carr's and the Beeker's and Billings are all represented
in the cemetery (Pretty Prairie).  The Carrs may be buried in a family plot between Chalmers and Brookston."