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Mapes’ poems illustrate life in city’s infancy

KENDALLVILLE — Arthur Franklin Mapes, whose official state poem “Indiana” helped earn him the title of Indiana poet laureate, captured the flavor of life in Kendallville, Noble County and the state in the late 1800s in many of his poems.
Mapes, who died Jan. 4, 1986, at the age of 72, authored the poem “Indiana” in 1963, when it was adopted as Indiana’s official state poem. Later, in 1977, the state decided to honor Mapes as Indiana’s poet laureate.
A lifetime Kendallville resident, Mapes worked 33 years as a machinist at Flint and Walling, but his hobby was poetry. His poems reflected his humble beginnings and the love he had for his hometown and state. Many of his poems were printed in national and international publications.
One of Mapes’ poems, entitled “Our Town,” was written for the 1963 Kendallville Centennial, and another favorite, “The Blacklegs,” received acclaim. Both illustrate life in Kendallville and Noble County in the late 1800s.

MUSIC STORE — George Kihm shown here stands in his music store in this 1940s photo. The music store was located at 109 E. William St. just off Main Street in Kendallville. (Photo contributed by Phil Kaiser)

Our Town

Could I but turn the hands of time
Back to my boyhood days sublime,
I’d thrill once more to stories told
By bearded men of days of old.
They were the ones who knew the truth
Of Kendallville back in its youth.

This must have been a lovely place
When wagons rolled along the trace,
White-topped wagons oxen drawn
Through forest gloom into the dawn
Of an era; when from toil and strife,
Emerged the Hoosier way of life.
Here, in this spot, so old, yet new,
Our town was born; it thrived, and grew.
The winding trace became a street
As wagon wheels and booted feet
Erased the time-worn Indian trail
That hadn’t known a plank or rail.

More settlers came and settled down,
Then Kendallville became a town.
Unbroken forests, lakes, and streams,
This was a place where hopes and dreams
Soon rooted deep in Hoosier soil
As hearts and hands were bent to toil.

One hundred years! Our town has changed.
One hundred years has rearranged
The forest aisles to busy streets.
Ours is a heritage that greets
The coming years with faith and pride,
To all ... her doors are open wide.As we look back to yesterday
.
Let’s ask ourselves, perhaps this way,
“Could there ever be a spot on Earth
More dearer than one’s place of birth?”
This town of ours will always be
Loved by you ... and loved by me

The Blacklegs

Ole Sassafras John lit up his pipe,
An’ gazed up at the sky.
I knew ’at he wus dreamin’ up
A tale of days gone by.

I scooted over by his side
As quiet as could be,
Fer I liked to hear the stories
’at ole John would spin fer me.

He told about the settlers
Of the Indiana hills,
Of wagon trains, an’ Indian trails,
An’ creakin’ water mills.
He remembered when the stagecoach
Rumbled down the ole plank road,
An’ how a yoke of oxen
Could pull a heavy load.

He talked about the cabin loft
Where he would lay an’ dream,
An’ seemed as tho’ he still could see
The tallow candles gleam.

’Twus the days when Greg McDougal
Led his darin’ Blackleg band
Until the Regulators
Rose in strength to take a hand.

In the village, known as Northport,
Greg McDougal’s cabin stood.
He wus crooked like an ole rail fence,
But folks thought he wus good.
He would go to church on Sunday,
An’ would join in prayer an’ song,
But jist when folks would turn their backs
He’d allus do ’em wrong.

His gang would kill an’ plunder,
Strikin’ almost every place,
Then would vanish in the forest
An’ never leave a trace.

Then the Regulators gathered
Down at Col. Cochran’s Inn,
An’ vowed the Blacklegs had to pay
Fer every crime an’ sin.

They circled ’round by Northport,
Down to Kendallville an’ back,
They searched the gloomy forests
An’ the bogs of tamarack.

They caught up with the Blacklegs,
An’ at last the truth came out,
An’ the pious Greg McDougal
His innocence did shout;

But the justice of the settlers
Wus strong, an’ swift, an’ sure,
Fer the plague ’at had beset ’em
There was jist one simple cure.

So a caravan of wagons
Took the road to Diamond Lake.
The men had jist one purpose,
McDougal’s life to take.

The sky looked dark an’ stormy,
Yet the wind seemed sad an’ still,
When they strung up Greg McDougal
Frum a tree on Diamond Hill.
They buried him at Northport
Where his gravestone can be seen,
An’ old an’ dated slab of gray
Above the grass of green.

There’s a moral to this story
’at ole Sassafras has told,
“Don’t ever git to cravin’
Fer another feller’s gold,

’Tis better to be down an’ out,
An’ have a mind ’ats free,
Than to end up like McDougal
Hangin’ frum a big oak tree.”