T.B. Ferguson of Watonga Where the open plains meet the western sky, And red dirt roads go running by, A town was born from dust and flame And on its rise was Ferguson’s name.
He wasn’t drawn by gold or ore, But by ideals and something more.
A teacher first, with quiet might, He sought to spread the gift of light.
From Iowa roots to Kansas ground, He wandered west, where dreams are found.
By 1892, when the Cheyenne lands Were opened up to eager hands He came with Elva, strong and wise, A partner sharp with clearer eyes.
Together, not with gun or claim, But pen and press, they staked their name.
The Watonga Republican took its stand, A newspaper forged by thoughtful hand.
He filled the page with civic pride, With logic sharp and truth as guide.
He fought for schools and honest laws, For justice not just empty cause.
He stood with Native voices too, When others would their rights undo.
His home, still standing proud and wide, Housed editorials born of stride.
It later held the governor’s pen Though not his birthright, earned by men.
Appointed not by luck or chance, But through his merit and advance.
Before Roosevelt called him to lead, He’d sown the ground with every deed.
Watonga grew beneath his care, Each sidewalk set with local flair.
Courthouse domes and teacher’s halls, Built not by bricks alone, but calls Calls to reason, calls to serve, Calls that never lost their nerve.
Even Cimarron, in fiction’s flight, Echoed the tales of his kind of fight.
His wife, Elva, no less grand, Wrote editorials by her hand.
A suffragist before her time, She shaped the tone, the edge, the line.
Together they built more than a name, They lit the lamp, they fed the flame.
And when you walk Watonga’s streets, Their legacy still softly beats.
So let us not forget this man, With ink-stained hands and forward plan.
A founder not with fence or gun But with the press and setting sun Written by Patrick Solomon Watonga’s Airport Inspector with Parkhill ~ 2025