Pioneering in the wilderness, the Moores and the Bransons, with cousins playing among the lilies of the field, the girls in long dresses, surrounded by the earthy aroma of warm Iowa soil, where their lives would take root. After the youngsters had their fill of chasing fireflies at sundown, hearing eerie owl calls, one of the wagons served as a summer bedroom. Soon, a snug cabin of their own near Beaver Creek with a spring nearby. The hauled water to the cabin for cooking and washing, smaller children led horses to the creek for a long drink. Even before sunup, the timber came alive each morning with songs of chickadees and warblers. Often newcomers spotted the red fur of foxes and squirrels, sometimes those settlers were observed by “dusky savages.” Winters challenged, cold and snow, eerie howling of wolves at night. They kept a fire in their hearth, bundled in jackets and shawls and long stockings, melting snow for water. Lucy made good use of her spinning wheel, knitted socks for the family by the hearth all her years in Iowa, where six more babies were born at home, twelve in all. Older youngsters sent to play at a relative’s cabin while an aunt or grandmother stayed for comfort and coaching during the birthing. Meadowlark Songs