[Illustration: LUCY LEAVENWORTH WILDER MORRIS

Originator of "Old Rail Fence Corners. "]

OLD RAILFENCE CORNERS

THE A. B. C's. OF

Minnesota History

SECOND EDITION

AUTHENTIC INCIDENTS GLEANED FROMThe Old SettlersBy The Book Committee1914

COPYRIGHTED 1914BYTHE BOOK COMMITTEE

LUCY LEAVENWORTH WILDER MORRIS, EDITOR

PUBLISHED BYTHE F. H. MCCULLOCH PRINTING @AUSTIN, MINN. 

 In Memoriam

 Mr. Eli Pettijohn Mrs. Missouri Rose Pratt Mr. James McMullen Mrs. Samuel B. Dresser Mr. William W. Ellison Mr. Henry Favel Major Benjamin Randall Mrs. Duncan Kennedy Major S. A. Buell Mrs. Helen Horton Mrs. Mary Massolt Mrs. J. M. Paine Mr. Chas. Watson Mrs. C. W. Gress

[Illustration: Map of OLD TRAILS AND ROADS

COMPILED BY MR. GEORGE RALPH AND MRS. JAMES T. MORRIS]

Explanatory

How little we know about what we don't know!

During my search for a map of the Old Trails and Roads of Minnesota, public libraries were thoroughly investigated, but no book or map couldbe found showing these old highways. A few old maps in the HistoricalLibrary bore snatches of them, but in their entirety they haddisappeared from books and maps, as well as from our state. 

They might be the foundations for modern roads, but only the names ofthose modern roads survived, so they were lost. 

Months of this research work failed to resurrect them, although a mapwas made from the fragmentary pieces on old maps, filled out by what thepioneers who had traveled those roads could furnish. All old maps seemedto have disappeared from the state. 

"We had one of the new territory of Minnesota when it was admitted in'49, but just threw it out when we cleaned house lately. I think it camefrom Washington, " said one dear old pioneer woman. 

"What do you want of those old roads anyway, " said another. "If you hadbeen over them as I have, you would know how much better these roadsare, and be glad they are gone. "

It was hard to locate them from hearsay for when we asked "Did it gothrough Alexandria, " the answer was, "There was no town on it afterleaving St. Cloud, so I can't say just where it went, but we went toFort Garry and crossed the river at Georgetown. "

Finally, after nearly a year's hard work, as we were on our way to theCapitol to look over the first government surveys, Mr. George Ralph wasmet, became interested, and drew part of these trails from the old platsfor this map. 

When a surveyor goes into a new country to make a government survey, heis required to place on that plat every trail, road or plowedfield--John Ryan, who worked in the forties was the only one we foundwho always followed these directions. He would survey several townships, and there would be the much-wanted road. Some other surveyor would dothe one below and there would be a break, but John would take hold againa little further on and the trail could be joined from the directionshown. 

Later this map made was compared with old maps since destroyed at theArmy Building in St. Paul and found correct. 

The three great routes for the Red River carts to St. Paul, the greatfur market, which used to come down by the hundreds from the Pembina andFort Garry country are shown. One through the Minnesota Valley; onethrough the Sauk Valley, and the most used of all through the Crow WingValley by way of Leaf Lake. They used to come to the head waters of theMississippi in 1808. [1] The Wabasha Prairie Road, called Winona Trail onthis map, was a very old one, as also were those leading to the sacredPipestone Quarries and the sacred Spirit Lake. There is a tradition thatthere was a truce between all tribes when these trails were followed. Mrs. J. T. M. 

[Footnote 1: From Captain Alexander Henry's diary about the Red Rivercountry in 1801, presented to Ottawa. He also says there were 1500 ofthese carts there in 1808. ]

The Book Committee

A sub-committee of the Old Trails and Historic Spots Committee, Daughters of the American Revolution, Appointed by the Chairman. 

 Mrs. James T. Morris Mrs. William J. Morehart Mrs. E. C. Chatfield Mrs. S. R. Van Sant Miss Beatrice Longfellow Miss Rita Kelly Mrs. F. W. Little Mrs. O. H. Shepley Mrs. Alonzo Phillips Mrs. Guy Maxwell Miss Marion Moir Mrs. E. A. Welch Miss Ida Wing Mrs. Mary E. Partridge Mrs. Ell Torrance Miss Stella Cole Mrs. C. A. Bierman Mrs. Chas. Keith Miss Emily Brown Mrs. G. C. Lyman Mrs. A. B. Kaercher Mrs. W. S. Woodbridge Miss K. Maude Clum

The Reason

When I was a child my grandmother, Lucy Leavenworth Sherwood, used toshow us a little map drawn on the back of a cotillion invitation, by hercousin Henry Leavenworth, the first officer at Fort Snelling. He wasthere in 1819. 

It was yellow with age, but showed Fort Snelling, Lake Harriette, namedfor his wife, other lakes and two rivers. That yellow bundle of lettersread to us and the stories she told of this, her favorite cousin, as hehad told them to her never failed in breathless interest. Few of themremain with me. The painted Indian in his canoe on the river, the Indianrunner, stand out vividly, but the valuable stories contained in thoseold letters are gone. Nothing was ever a greater surprise than the lossof those stories when I tried to recall them years later. The Bible withthe map and all those letters were burned when the home was destroyed byfire. 

These valuable data have disappeared. The knowledge that this was so, made me listen with the greatest attention to stories told by the oldsettlers and record them. All at once the realization came that they, too, were fast disappearing, taking their stories with them. It wasimpossible for me to get all these precious reminiscences before it wastoo late. It must be done at once by a large number of interested women. These were found in our committee who have gathered these data mostlovingly and financed this book. The proceeds are for patriotic work inMinnesota as deemed best by the committee. 

It is hoped that our first work will be the raising of a monument to thePioneer Women of our State. Those unsung heroines should not theirheroism be heralded while some still live?

We thank these dear friends who have made this little volume possible bytheir warm interest. Every item in this book has been taken personallyfrom a pioneer. 

Each one is a mesh in a priceless lace fabric, that fabric MinnesotaHistory. 

If each mesh is not flawless, if age has weakened them, does not thepattern remain?

LUCY LEAVENWORTH WILDER MORRIS. 

OLD TRAILS CHAPTER

Minneapolis

LUCY LEAVENWORTH WILDER MORRIS

(Mrs. J. T. Morris)

Mr. Eli Pettijohn--1841. 

Mr. Pettijohn, now ninety-five years old, [2] clear in memory, patriarchial in looks, says:

[Footnote 2: All pioneers over ninety are so introduced as we feel thatno state can show so large a number who have the same mentality]

I came to what is now Minnesota, but was then a part of WisconsinTerritory April sixteenth, 1841. I was on my way to work for theWilliamsons, missionaries, at Lac qui Parle. I landed from the largesteamer, the Alhambra, at the Fort Snelling landing. I climbed the steeppath that led up to the fort, circled the wall and came to the big gate. A sentinel guarded it. He asked me if I wanted to enlist. I said, "No, Iwant to see the fort, and find a boarding place. " He invited me in. Ilooked around this stone fort with much interest and could see SibleyHouse and Faribault house across the Minnesota river at Mendota. Therewere no large trees between the two points so these houses showed veryclearly. The ruins of part of the first fort which was of wood, werestill on the bluff about one block south of the new fort. 

I asked where I could find a boarding place, and was directed to the St. Louis house, near where the water tower now stands. Before proceedingthere, I stood and watched the Indians coming to the fort. I was toldthey were from Black Dog's, Good Road's and Shakopee's villages. Thetrail they followed was deeply worn. This seemed strange as they allwore moccasins. Their painted faces looked very sinister to one who hadnever before seen them, but later I learned to appreciate the worth ofthese Indians, who as yet were unspoiled by the white man's fire water. 

I was told that the St. Louis House had been built after the fort was, by Mr. Baker, a trader, to accommodate people from the south, who wantedto summer here. It was now deserted by its owners and any one of thesparse settlers or traders would occupy it. He said a trader by the nameof Martin McLeod was living there and that Kittson, another trader, lived at his trading post about fifty yards away from the house. Therewas a good wagon road about where the road is now. My friend, for suchhe later became, told me it led to the government mill at the Falls ofSt. Anthony, but that it took longer to walk it than it did the Indiantrail that led along the bank of the Mississippi. So I took this asadvised. There were many Indians on the trail going and coming. All atonce I heard a great commotion ahead of me. Indians were running fromevery direction. When I came to the place where they all were, I heardlamentations and fierce imprecations. I saw the reason there. Two oftheir warriors were lying dead and scalped, while clambering up theopposite bank of the river, three of the Sioux's sworn enemies, threeChippewas, could be seen. The slain were head men in the tribe. The gunsand arrows of the Sioux could not carry across the river, so theyescaped for the time being. I was afraid the Sioux vengeance would fallon me, but it did not. 

I soon came to the St. Louis house. While there, I saw Walter McLeod, then a baby. 

McLeod, the father, had fled from Canada at the time of one of therebellions, in company with others, but was the only one to survive aterrible blizzard and reach Mendota. Mr. Sibley at once employed him ashe was well educated. When he was married later, he gave him some finemahogany furniture, from his own home, to set up housekeeping with. 

While at the St. Louis House, I walked with a soldier along the Indiantrail that followed the river bank to the government mill at the Fallsof St. Anthony. On our way, we went down a deep ravine and crossed thecreek on a log. We could hear the roaring of falls and walked over tosee them. They were the most beautiful I had ever seen and were calledBrown's Falls, but General LeDuc in 1852 gave them the name Minnehaha. Ithought I had never seen anything quite so pretty looking as the riverand woods. The deer were everywhere and game of all kinds bountiful. Thesoldier told me that no white man could settle here anywhere for tenmiles as it was all in the Fort Snelling reservation. That is why thetown of St. Anthony was built on the east side of the river instead ofon the west side and why there was no town on this side of the river formany years after. We saw some Sioux tepees and met the Indiansconstantly. They were a fine sturdy race, with fine features and smilingfaces. The soldier said they could be depended on and never broke apromise. The old mill was on the river bank about where we used to takethe cars in the old Union Station. It was not then in use, as the rockshad broken off, leaving it perhaps forty or fifty feet from the Falls. Aflume had to be constructed before it could again be used. 

The Falls were a grand sight. We heard their roaring long before wecould see them and saw the spray sparkling in the sunlight. There was awatchman living in a little hut and he gave us a nice meal. A few Siouxwigwams were near. 

On the other side, we could see smoke 'way up above where the suspensionbridge now is. He said some Frenchmen and half breeds lived there. Theplace was called St. Anthony. We did not go over. He also said therewere many white people, French, Scotch and English living in the countryupon the Red River. Some were called Selkirk settlers. He did not knowwhy. He said Martin McLeod had been one of these. 

We passed some squaws in a big dugout. It was thirty feet long. Therewere fourteen of them in the boat. 

There was no boat leaving the fort for some time so I went to Mendota, crossing the Minnesota River in a canoe ferry. My business at Mendotawas to present a letter of introduction to Mr. Sibley, Manager of theAmerican Fur Trading Co. , from the missionary board of Ohio and see howI could reach Lac qui Parle. I arrived at Mr. Sibley's home just aboutnoon. He told me he had a boat leaving in two weeks and that I could goon her. He said he had several of these boats plying to Traverse desSioux. He was a gentlemanly looking man and very pleasant spoken. Withthe courtliness that always distinguished him, he asked me if I haddined and being informed that I had not, invited me to do so; I replied, "I am obliged to you sir. " I was told that the furniture of massivemahogany had been brought up the river by boat. 

The table was waited upon by an Indian woman. The meal was bountiful. Ihad a helping of meat, very juicy and fine flavored, much liketenderloin of today, a strip of fat and a strip of lean. My host said, "I suppose you know what this is?" I replied, "Yes, it is the finestroast beef I have ever tasted. " "No, " said Mr. Sibley, "this is what wecall 'boss' of buffalo and is the hump on the back of a young malebuffalo. " "Whatever it is, it is the best meat I have ever tasted, " Ideclared. 

Some dried beef on a plate on the end of the table was also delicious. Mr. Sibley again challenged me to tell what this was;--My reply being"dried beef. " "No, " said Mr. Sibley, "This too, is something you havenever tasted before--it is boned dried beaver's tail. Over five thousandof them, as well as the skins have been brought in here during theyear. " There was also O'Donnell crackers and tea, but no bread. The tea, I was told, had been brought hundreds of miles up the river. 

I bade my host farewell, thanking him for his entertainment and thinkingI had never met a more courteous gentleman. Mr. Sibley, too, had told methat the St. Louis house was the best place I could stay, so I returnedthere. 

For my journey down the river, I had brought with me a tarpaulin and afew of my worldly goods. I hired a man with an ox-cart to take these tothe boat before dawn the day it was to leave, preparatory to my earlystart at sunup. The boat was about sixty feet long and propelled only byhand power, furnished by French half breeds who pushed it with longpoles from the front, running rapidly and then taking a fresh start topush it again. These boats could make about twenty miles a day. Theyalmost reached Shakopee the first day. At ten o'clock the boat tied upand breakfast was served. This was a very hot, thick soup made of peasand pork which had been cooked all night over hot coals in a hole in theground, covered snugly over with earth. It had been wrapped in a heavytarpaulin and buffalo robe and when served was piping hot, as it camefrom this first fireless cooker. Hardtack was served with this soup andmade a most satisfactory meal. The other meal consisted of bacon andhardtack and at the end of the eighth day, had become quite monotonous. Whenever these meals were prepared, the boat was tied to the bank. 

The mosquitoes, even in the daytime were so terrible that it was almostimpossible to live. I looked forward to the time when we would tie upfor the night, with great apprehension on this account. However, theclerk of the boat came to me and asked me if I had a mosquito net withme and when I said, "No" invited me to sleep under his as he said itwould be unbearable without one. Just before they tied up for the nightthe clerk came to me saying that he was sorry, but he had forgotten thathe had a wife in this village. I spent the night in misery under mytarpaulin, almost eaten alive by the mosquitoes. The half breeds didnot seem to mind them at all. I again looked forward to a night underthe mosquito bar and was again told the same as the night before. Duringthe eight days which this journey consumed, I was only able once tosleep a night under the friendly protection of this mosquito bar, as itwas always required for a wife. 

When the boat tied up at Traverse des Sioux, Mr. Williamson met me. Thetrader sent a man to invite the three white men to dine with him. Theinvitation was accepted with great anticipation. The trader's house wasa log cabin. The furniture consisted of roughly hewn benches and atable. An Indian woman brought in first a wooden bowl full of maplesugar which she placed on one end of the table with bowls and woodenspoons at the three places. We were all eyes when we saw thesepreparations. Last, she brought in a large bowl of something which Icould see was snow-white and put that in the center of the table. Allwere then told to draw up to the table and help themselves. The brightanticipations vanished when the meal was seen to consist solely ofclabbered milk with black looking maple sugar. 

Mr. Williamson left me at Traverse to go East. Before going he helped meload all our supplies into the two Red River carts which he had brought. There were six hundred pounds on each. The trail was very easy to followand I walked along by the side of the slow going oxen. By keeping upuntil late, and getting up at daybreak, I made the trip in seven days. For the first four days I was followed by a great gaunt shape that mademe uneasy. I knew if it was a dog it would have come nearer. I sleptunder the cart the first night, but was conscious of its presence as thecattle were restless. On the fourth day of its enforced company, I met alittle caravan of carts owned by a Frenchman who was with the halfbreeds. I told him of my stealthy companion, and he sent some of thehalf breeds after it with their bows and arrows. They followed it fourmiles into a swamp and then lost it. They seemed suspicious about thisparticular animal, and went after it half heartedly. The trader gave mea piece of dough and told me if it came again to put this in meat anddrop it. He said "Kill him quick as one gun. "

My sister, Mrs. Huggins, wife of the farmer at Lac qui Parle, wasoverjoyed to see me. Think what it must have meant to a woman way off inthe wilderness in that early day to see anyone from civilization, letalone her brother. I had not seen her in several years. They had a nicelittle garden and quite a patch of wheat, which I was told was fine forthe climate. The seed came from the craw of a wild swan that they hadshot. It was supposed to have come from the Pembina country for thosepeople had wheat long before the missionaries came. It was always called"Red River Wheat. "

Pemmican, which I first tasted on this journey was made by boiling theflesh of any edible animal, usually that of buffalo or deer, pounding itfine and packing it tight into a sack made of the skin of a buffalocalf, then melting the fat and filling all interstices. When sewed up, it was absolutely air tight and would keep indefinitely. It was the mostnourishing food that has ever been prepared. For many years it was thechief diet of all hunters, trappers, explorers and frontiersmen. 

Pemmican was also made by drying the meat and pulverizing it. The boneswere then cracked and the marrow melted and poured into this. No whiteman could ever make pemmican right. It took a half breed to do it. 

The Red River people had cattle very early. The stock at the mission atLac qui Parle came from there. 

I returned to Illinois in the summer of '43 and threshed. In the Fall Ireturned and built a house for Gideon Pond. It was a wooden house wheretheir brick house now stands. 

In 1844, I was building a mission building at Traverse. An Indian camein one day and told me there was a very sick man about twenty milesaway at his camp. I went back with him and we brought the white man tothe mission. After he was better, he told me that he was one of sixdrovers who had been bringing a herd of three hundred cattle fromMissouri to Fort Snelling. They had lost their compass and then thetrail and wandered along until they found a road near what is now SaukCenter. There they met a band of Sioux. The Indians killed a cow andwhen the drovers remonstrated, they killed one of them and stampeded thecattle. The drovers all ran for their lives. Two of them managed toelude the Indians, and took the road leading east. Our man was one, theother was drowned while crossing the river on a log raft, the rest werenever found. Many of the cattle ran wild on the prairies. The Indiansused often to kill them and sell the meat to the whites. One of theclaims at Traverse de Sioux was for these cattle from the owners of theherd. 

Mrs. Missouri Rose Pratt--1843. 

In 1842 my father was going to the Wisconsin pineries to work, so motherand we children went along to keep house for him. We came from Dubuqueto Lake Pepin. Mr. Furnell, from the camp, had heard there were whitepeople coming so he came with an ox team down the tote road to meet usand our baggage, and take us to camp. We found a large log house whichwe thought most complete. We lived there that winter and Mr. Furnell andsome others boarded with us. A romance was started there. 

The next Spring we took our household goods in a cabin built on a raft, floated down to Nauvoo and sold the lumber to the Mormons. Joseph Smithwas a smart speaker, mother said, when she responded to the invitationto hear the "Prophet of the Most High God" preach. The children of thesepeople were the raggedest I have ever seen. Mr. Furnell had his raftlashed to ours and sold his lumber to them too. 

We went to St. Paul on the Otter. Mr. Furnell went with us. When mothersaw "Pig's Eye" as St. Paul was then called, she did not like it atall. She thought it was so much more lonesome than the pineries. Shebegged to go back, but father loved a new country. On landing, weclimbed up a steep path. We found only six houses there. One wasJackson's. He kept a store in part of it. In the kitchen he had threebarrels of liquor with spigots in them. The Jackson's were very kind andallowed us to live in their warehouse which was about half way down thebluff. We only slept there nights for we were afraid to cook in a placewith powder stored in it, the way that had, so we cooked outside. 

My sister Caroline had light hair, very, very blue eyes and a lovelycomplexion. The Indians were crazy about her. It was her fairness theyloved. She was engaged to Mr. Furnell and wore his ring. The Indianbraves used to ask her for this and for a lock of her hair to braid inwith theirs but of course, she would never let them have it. She wasafraid of them. The interpreter told her to be careful and never letthem get a lock of her hair for if they did and braided it in withtheirs, they would think she belonged to them. One day when she wasalone in the warehouse, an Indian came in his canoe and sat aroundwatching her. When he saw she was alone, he grabbed her and tried to cutoff some of her hair with his big knife. She eluded him by motioning tocut it off herself, but instead, ran shrieking to father at Jackson's. He came with a big cudgel but the Indian had gone in his canoe. 

In the election of '43 in St. Paul, every man there got drunk even ifthey had never drunk before and many of them had not. Early in theevening, Mr. August Larpenteur came into Mrs. Jackson's kitchen to get adrink of liquor. He was a very young man. She said, "August, where's theother men?" just as he was turning the spigot in the barrel. He tried tolook up and tell her, but lost his balance and fell over backward whilethe liquor ran over the floor. Then he laughed and laughed and told herwhere they were. 

We built a cabin a few miles out of town. Our nearest neighbors were theDeNoyers who kept a halfway house in a three roomed log cabin. Their barwas in the kitchen. Besides this, there was a scantily furnished sittingroom and bed room. Mrs. DeNoyer was a warm hearted Irish woman when shehad not been drinking, but her warm heart never had much chance to show. They bought their liquors at Jackson's. 

Our house was made from logs hewed flat with a broadax. My father was awonder at hewing. The ax was eight inches wide and had a crooked hickoryhandle. Some men marked where they were to hew but father had such agood eye that he could hew straight without a mark. The cracks werefilled with blue clay. For windows, we had "chinkins" of wood. Our barkroof was made by laying one piece of bark over another, kind of likeshingles. Our floor was of puncheons. This was much better than the barkfloors, many people had. 

I used to take much pleasure in watching and hearing the Red River cartscome squawking along. They were piled high with furs. The French halfbreed drivers would slouch along by them. It seemed as if the smallrough coated oxen just wandered along the trail. Sometimes a cow wouldbe used. I once saw one of these cows with a buffalo calf. It seemed tobe hers. Was this the first Cataloo?

When I was nine years old my father sent me to the spring for a pail ofwater. I was returning with it, hurrying along as father had just calledto me to come quick, when I was surrounded by a band of Sioux warriorson their way to Shakopee to a scalp dance. They demanded the water but Iwould not let them have it and kept snatching it away. It tickled themvery much to see that I was not afraid. They called to the chief, LittleCrow, and he too ordered me to give it to them, but I said, "No, myfather wants this, you can't have it. " At this the chief laughed andsaid, "Tonka Squaw" meaning brave woman and they left. They had oneverything fancy that an Indian could--paint and warbonnets andfeathers. They always wore every fancy thing they had to a dance, but inactual war, they were unpainted and almost naked. 

The first soldiers I saw in 1843 were from Fort Snelling. They had blueuniforms with lots of brass buttons and a large blue cap with a leatherbridle that they used to wear over the top. Their caps were wide on topand high. The soldiers used to come to DeNoyer's to dinner so as to havea change. Mrs. DeNoyer was a good cook if she would stay sober longenough. 

We had splint bottom chairs made out of hickory and brooms made bysplitting it very fine too. These were all the brooms we had in '43. Ourhickory brooms were round but Mr. Furnell made a flat one for my sister. 

Once when father was roofing our house, a storm was coming and he wasvery anxious to get the shakes on before it came. We had had a bark roofthat was awful leaky. Some Indians came along on the other side of theriver and made motions that he should come and get them with his boat, "The Red Rover. " He sometimes ferried the soldiers over. As he did notanswer or get off the house, they fired several shots at him. Thebullets spattered all around him. He got down from the house and shot atthem several times. After that, my mother was always afraid that theywould come and shoot us when father was not home. 

I have seen Indians run from Jackson's at sight of a soldier. They wereafraid of them always. 

My father brought some beautiful pieces of red morocco to Minnesota andthe last piece of shoemaking he did, was to make that into little shoesfor me. They had low heels such as the children have today. 

My sister was married the first day of January in '44. We lived on theMain Road between St. Paul and St. Anthony. It just poured all day, sothat none of the guests could come to the wedding. Mr. Jackson did getthere on horseback to marry them, but Mrs. Jackson had to stay at home. The bride, who was a beautiful girl, wore a delaine dress of light anddark blue with a large white lace fichu. Her shoes were of blue cloth tomatch and had six buttons. She wore white kid gloves and whitestockings. Her bonnet was flat with roses at the sides and a cape ofblue lute-string. The strings were the same. Wasn't she stylish for agirl who was married New Years day in 1844?

The wedding dinner was fish, cranberry sauce and bread and butter. 

One day a lot of Sioux Indians who were on their way to fight theChippewas borrowed my sister's washtub to mix the paint in for paintingthem up. They got their colored clay from the Bad Lands. They were goingto have a dance. 

Hole-in-the-Day used to stay all night with us. He always seemed to be afriend of the whites. When the Indians first came to the house, theyused to smoke the peace pipe with us, but later, they never did. 

Bears and wolves were very plentiful. We had an outdoor summer kitchenwhere we kept a barrel of pork. One night a bear got in there and madesuch an awful noise that we thought the Indians were on a rampage. Weoften saw timber wolves about the house. They would come right up to thedoor and often followed my father home. 

A French woman by the name of Mrs. Traverse lived near us. She came fromLittle Canada. Her husband bought some dried apples as a treat and sheserved them just as they were. Poor thing! She was very young when herbaby came and she used to get wildly homesick. One day, she started towalk to Little Canada carrying her baby. A cold rain came on and she wasdrenched when she was only half way there. She took cold and died in afew weeks from quick consumption. Strange how so many who had it east, came here and were cured, while she got it here. 

In the Spring when the wheat was sprouting, the wild ducks and geesewould light in the field and pull it all up. They would seize the littlesprouts and jerk the seeds up. They came by battalions. I have seen thefields covered with them. They made a terrible noise when rising in theair. I have seen the sun darkened by the countless myriads of pigeonscoming in the spring. They would be talking to each other, making readyto build their nests. In the woods, nothing else could be heard. 

We had one wild pair of almost unbroken steers and a yoke of old staidoxen. The only way father could drive the steers was to tie ropes totheir horns and then jump in the wagon and let them go. They would runfor miles. I was always afraid of them. They were apt to stampede andmake trouble in finding them if there was a bad storm. One eveningfather was away and a bad storm approached. I took the ropes and toldmother I was going to tie the oxen. She begged me not to, as she fearedthey would hurt me. I had a scheme--I opened the front gate and as theycame through the partly opened gate, threw the ropes over them andquickly tied them in the barn. The old oxen, I got in without anytrouble. I tied them and went to reach in behind one, to close the barndoor and bolt it. He was scared and kicked out, knocking me with hisshod hoof. I did not get my breath for a long time. The calk of the ironshoe was left sticking in the barn door. 

Some drovers stayed near us with a large drove of cattle in '45 or '46. They were on their way to the Red River of the north country. We keptthe cattle in our yard and used to milk them. I picked out a cow for Mr. Larpenteur to buy as I had milked them and knew which gave the richestmilk. He put her in a poorly fenced barnyard. She was homesick andbellowed terribly. The herd started on and was gone two days when shebroke out and followed them and the Larpenteurs never saw her again. They had paid thirty dollars for her. 

I was very anxious to see the Falls of St. Anthony so in the summer of1844, my brother borrowed an old Red River cart and an old horse fromMr. Francis who lived in St. Anthony. He drove it over to our house inthe evening. The next day, Sunday, we put a board in for a seat and allthree climbed onto it. We drove over and saw the Falls which roared sowe could hear them a long way off and were high and grand. We did notsee a person either going or coming the six miles although we were onwhat was called the Main Road. 

The French people always kissed all the ladies on the cheek on NewYear's day, when they made calls. 

In the early day, Irvine built a new house of red brick. A little boy, Alfred Furnell, took a hatchet and went out to play. He got to hewingthings and finally hewed a piece about a foot long out of the corner ofthat red brick house making it look very queer. His father asked him whodid it. Unlike George Washington, he could tell a lie and said, "Alittle nigger boy did it. " His father 'tended to the only little boythat was near, regardless of color. 

Once there was a Sunday school convention in St. Paul. When lunch wascalled, Mr. Cressey, the minister, said, "Now, we will go out and haverefreshments provided by the young girls who will wait on us. May Godbless them, the young men catch them and the devil miss them. "

They used to call my sister-in-law, "Sweet Adeline Pratt. "

Mrs. Gideon Pond--1843, Ninety years old. 

In 1843 in Lac qui Parle, we had a cow. We paid thirty dollars to theRed River men for her. She had short legs and a shaggy black and whitecoat. She was very gentle. She was supposed to have come from cattlebrought to Hudson Bay by the Hudson Bay traders. 

In 1843 we visited the Falls of St. Anthony. There was only a littlemill there, with a hut for the soldier who guarded it. The Falls werewonderful. I thought I had never seen anything more beautiful. The spraycaught the sun and the prismatic colors added to the scene. The roaringcould be heard a long way off. 

We raised a short eared corn, that was very good and grew abundantly. Ihave never seen any like it since. Our flour was sent to us from waydown the Mississippi. When we got it, it had been wet and was so mouldythat we had to chop it out with an ax. It took so much saleratus to makeanything of it. We learned to like wild rice. It grew in the shallowlakes. An Indian would take a canoe and pass along through the rice whenit was ripe shaking it into the boat until he had a boat full--then, take it to the shore to dry. 

I was out to dinner with Mr. Scofield and his wife who came in '49. Itwas dark and stormy. Mrs. Scofield was first taken home and then Mr. Scofield started for our home. We soon found we were lost and droveaimlessly around for some time. We came to a rail fence. I said "PerhapsI can find the way". I examined this fence carefully and saw that one ofthe posts was broken, then said to Mr. Scofield, "I know just where weare now. I noticed this broken post when I was going to meeting Sunday. "I soon piloted the expedition home. 

In '43 when I was Mrs. Hopkins I was standing with Mrs. Riggs and Mrs. Huggins on the steps of the St. Louis house. The Gideon Ponds were thenliving in vacant rooms that anyone could occupy in this old hotel. Little three year old Edward Pond was standing with us. He and thelittle Riggs boy had new straw hats that we had bought of the sutler atthe Fort. The wind blew his hat off suddenly. We did not see where itwent but we did hear him cry. We could not find it in the tall grass. Mrs. Riggs took her little boy and stood him in the same place and weall watched. When the wind blew his hat off we went where it had blownand sure enough, there lay the other little hat too. The Indiansstanding around laughed long and loud at this strategy. 

Captain Stephen Hanks--1844, Ninety-four years old. 

Captain Hanks, now in his ninety-fifth year, hale, hearty, a great jokerand droll storyteller, as an own cousin of Abraham Lincoln should be, says: In the spring of 1840, when a youth, I came north from Albany, Illinois, with some cattle buyers and a drove of eighty cattle, for thelumberjacks in the woods north of St. Croix Falls. We came up the eastbank of the river following roads already made. In the thick woods nearthe Chippewa Falls, I found an elk's antlers that were the finest I eversaw. I was six feet, and holding them up, they were just my height. Thespread was about the same. Of course, we camped out nights and I neverenjoyed meals more than those on that trip. The game was so delicious. 

In our drove of cattle was a cow with a young calf. When we came to awide river, we swam all the cattle across, but that little calf wouldnot go. We tried every way that we knew of to make it, then thought wewould let it come over when it was ready. We rested there two days. Themother acted wild and we tied her up. The morning we were going tostart, just as it was getting light, she broke away and swam the river. The calf ran to meet her but the mother just stood in the water andmooed. All at once, the calf took to the water and swam with the motherto the other side where it made a hearty breakfast after its two daysfast. I thought I had never seen any animal quite so human as that cowmother. 

When we got to St. Croix Falls, I thought it was a metropolis, for itwas quite a little town. I was back and forth across the river on theMinnesota side too. In 1843, I helped cut the logs, saw them, and laterraft them down the river to St. Louis. This was the first raft of logsto go down the St. Croix river. Lumber rafts had gone before. Our millhad five saws--four frame and one muley. A muley saw was a saw without aframe. It took a good raftsman to get a raft over the Falls. It tookfour St. Croix rafts to make one Mississippi raft. I got sixteendollars a month and found, working on a raft. I was raised to twentyafter a while and to two dollars a day when I could take charge. 

In 1844 we had been up in the woods logging all winter on the SnakeRiver. The logs were all in Cross Lake in the boom waiting for a rain tocarry them down to the boom at St. Croix. There was a tremendous amountof them, for the season before, the water had been so low that it wasimpossible to get many out and we had an unusual supply just cut. Oneday in May, there was a regular cloudburst. We had been late in gettingout the logs as the season was late. The Snake River over-ran its banksand the lake filled so full that the boom burst and away went all thoselogs with a mighty grinding, headed straight for the Gulf of Mexico. 

They swept everything clean at the Falls. Took the millrace even. Themill was pretty well broken up too. We found some of them on the banksalong and some floated in the lake. We recovered over half of them. Webuilt a boom just where Stillwater is today, in still water. Joe Brownhad a little house about a mile from there. There were the logs, and themill at St. Croix was useless. McCusick made a canal from a lake in backand built a mill. The lumbermen came and soon there was a stragglinglittle village. I moved there myself one of the first. 

I used to take rafts of lumber down the river and bring back a boat forsomeone loaded with supplies. The first one I brought up was the Amuletin 1846. She had no deck, was open just like a row boat. She had a sternwheel. 

In 1848, Wisconsin Territory was to be made a State. The people therewanted to take all the land into the new state that was east of the RumRiver. We fellows in Stillwater and St. Paul wanted a territory of ourown. As we were the only two towns, we wanted the capitol of the newterritory for one and the penitentiary for the other. In the Spring--inMay, I think, I know it was so cold that we slept in heavy blankets, the men from St. Paul sent for us and about forty of us fellows wentover. We slept that night in a little hotel on one of the lower bluffs. It was a long building with a door in the middle. We slept on the floor, rolled up in blankets. The next day, we talked over the questions beforementioned and it was decided that we should vote against the boundary asproposed and have a new territory and that St. Paul should have thecapital and we the penitentiary. This decision was ratified at theconvention in Stillwater, the last of August 1848. 

The hottest time I ever had in a steamboat race was in May, 1857, running the Galena from Galena to St. Paul. A prize had been offered, free wharfage for the season, amounting to a thousand dollars, for theboat that would get to St. Paul first that year. I was up at Lake Pepina week before the ice went out, waiting for that three foot ice to go. It was dreadful aggravating. There was an open channel kind of along oneedge and the ice seemed to be all right back of it. There were twentyboats all waiting there in Bogus Bay. I made a kind of harbor in the iceby chopping out a place big enough for my boat and she set in there cozyas could be. I anchored her to the ice too. The Nelson, a big boat fromPittsburg was there with a big cargo, mostly of hardware--nails prettymuch. There were several steamers that had come from down the Ohio. Whenthe ice shut in, it cut the "Arcola" in two just as if it was a pair ofshears and she a paper boat. She sank at once. It shoved the "Falls ofSt. Anthony" a good sized steamer way out of the water on theniggerheads. The "Pioneer" sank. It broke the wheels of the "Nelson" andanother boat and put them out of commission. I stayed in my harbor untilmorning, then steamed away up the little new channel. The "War Eagle"locked us at the head of the lake and held on. I was at the wheel. Whenwe came to Sturgeon Bay, I took a cut in through the bar. I had found itwhen I was rafting so I knew they did not know about it. That littleadvantage gained the day for us. As it was, we burned several barrels ofresin and took every chance of meeting our Maker. We got to St. Paul attwo o'clock in the morning. Such a hullabaloo as there was--such a bigtar barrel fire. We could plainly see "Kaposia" six miles away. 

Christmas the company sent me one hundred dollars which came in handy, as I was just married. 

Mr. Caleb Dorr--1847, Ninety years old. 

I came to St. Anthony in 1847 and boarded at the messhouse at first. Later I was boarding with the Godfrey's and trouble with the Indians wasalways feared by the new arrivals. One night we heard a terriblehullabaloo and Mrs. Godfrey called, "For the Lord's sake come down, theIndians are here. " All the boarders dashed out in scant costume, crying, "The Indians are upon us, " but it turned out to be only the firstcharivari in St. Anthony given to Mr. And Mrs. Lucien Parker. Mrs. Lucien Parker was a Miss Huse. 

Mrs. Dorr was never afraid of the Indians, although they seemed veryferocious to her with their painted faces, stolid looks andspeechlessness. One day she was frying a pan of doughnuts and hadfinished about half of them when she glanced up to see seven big braves, hideously painted, standing and watching her with what she thought was amost malevolent look. She was all alone, with nobody even within callingdistance. One of the number looked especially ferocious and her terrorwas increased by seeing him take up a knife and test it, feeling theedge to see if it was sharp, always watching her with the samemalevolent look. Quaking with fear, she passed the doughnuts, first tohim. He put out his hand to take the whole pan, but she gave him a jabin the stomach with her elbow and passed on to the next. This occasionedgreat mirth among the rest of the Indians who all exclaimed, "TonkaSquaw" and looked at her admiringly. When they had finished, they leftwithout trouble. 

Once I was spending the evening at Burchineau's place when a number ofthe Red River cart men were there. As they were part Indian and partwhite, I looked down on them. One of them challenged me to see who coulddance the longest. I would not let him win on account of his color, sodanced until my teeth rattled and I saw stars. It seemed as if I wasdancing in my sleep, but I would not give up and jigged him down. 

I remember a dance in the messhouse in '48 when there were ten whitegirls who lived in St. Anthony there. They were wonderfully gracefuldancers--very agile and tireless. The principal round dance was a threestep waltz without the reverse. It was danced very rapidly. The Frenchfour, danced in fours, facing, passing through, all around the room, wasmost popular. The square dances were exceedingly vigorous, all jiggingon the corners and always taking fancy steps. We never went home untilmorning, dancing all the time with the greatest vim. This mess housestood between the river and the front door of the old ExpositionBuilding. 

The Red River carts used to come down from Fort Garry loaded with furs. There had been a white population in that part of the country and aroundPembina long before there was any settlement in what is now Minnesota. The drivers were half breeds, sons of the traders and hunters. Theyalways looked more Indian than white. In the early days, in remoteplaces, where a white man lived with the Indians, his safety was assuredif he took an Indian woman for his wife. These cart drivers generallywore buckskin clothes, tricked out so as to make them gay. They hadregular camping places from twelve to fifteen miles apart, as that was aday's journey for these carts. 

As there was not much to amuse us, we were always interested to see thecarts and their squawking was endured, as it could not be cured. Itcould be heard three miles away. They came down the Main Road, afterwards called the Anoka road. 

The lumber to face the first dam in '47 came from Marine. There had beena mill there since 1834, I believe. 

We used to tap the maple trees in the forest on Nicollet Island. We hadto keep guard to see that the Chippewas did not steal the sap. 

The messhouse where I boarded, was of timber. It was forty feet square. It had eight or ten beds in one room. 

Mrs. Mahlon Black--1848. 

When I came to Stillwater in 1848, I thought I had got to the end of theline. I came up on the Sentinel with Captain Steve Hanks. He was captainof a raft boat then. It took ten days to come from Albany, Illinois. There was nothing to parade over in those days. We took it as it comeand had happy lives. Stillwater was a tiny, struggling village under thebluffs--just one street. A little later a few people built in the bluffsand we would climb up the paths holding onto the hazelbrush to help usup. Stillwater was headquarters for Minnesota lumbering then. We wouldall gather together and in about two minutes would be having a goodtime--playing cards or dancing. The mill boarding house had the largestfloor to dance on and we used to go there often. We used to waltz anddance contra dances. None of these new jigs and not wear any clothes tospeak of. We covered our hides in those days; no tight skirts like now. You could take three or four steps inside our skirts and then not reachthe edge. One of the boys would fiddle awhile and then someone wouldspell him and he could get a dance. Sometimes they would dance andfiddle too. 

We would often see bears in the woods. They were very thick. 

When we staged it to St. Paul down the old Government Road, we would godown a deep ravine and up again before we really got started. We paid adollar each way. Once they charged me a dollar for my little girlsitting in my lap. We used to pass Jack Morgan's. 

Once we moved out on the Government Road, three miles from Morgan's. Itwas a lonesome place. The Chippewas and Sioux were on the warpath asusual. A large party of Sioux camped right by us. They were dressed forwhat they were going after, a war dance, and were all painted andfeathered. They were looking in the windows always. It used to make mesick to see their tracks where they had gone round and round the house. My husband was on the survey most of the time so I was there alone withmy baby a great deal. One Sunday I was all alone when a lot of buckscome in--I was so frightened I took my baby's little cradle and set iton the table. She had curly hair and they would finger it and talk intheir lingo. When they left I took the baby and hailed the first teamgoing by and made them come and stay with me. It was the Cormacks fromSt. Anthony. I made my husband move back to Stillwater the next day. 

The Sioux killed a Chippewa father and mother and took the son, twelveyears old, captive. They had the scalp dance in Stillwater and had thepoor child in the center of the circle with his father's and mother'sgory scalps dangling from the pole above him. I never was so sorry for ayoung one. 

Old Doctor Carli was our doctor. Our bill was only one dollar for awhole year. If he had not had money laid back, he could never havelived. 

Once in the winter, Mrs. Durant and I were going along, I was behindher. The boys were coasting and went 'way out onto Lake St. Croix. Theystruck me full tilt and set me right down in one of their laps and awaywe went. I have always gone pell-mell all my life. If it comes goodluck, I take it--if bad luck, I take it. Mrs. Durant went right ontalking to me. Finally she looked around and I had disappeared. She wasastonished. Finally she saw me coming back on that sled drawn by theboys and could not understand it. She only said, "Lucky it did not breakyour legs, " when I explained. 

Mr. James McMullen--1849. 

Mr. McMullen, in his ninetieth year says--I started from Maine by thesteam cars, taking them at Augusta. As I look back now, I see what acomical train that was, but when I first saw those cars, I wasoverpowered. To think any man had been smart enough to make a great bigthing like that, that could push itself along on the land. It seemedimpossible, but there we were, going jerkily along, much faster than anyhorse could run. The rails were wood with an iron top and after we hadbumped more than usual, up came some of that iron through the floor. Onelady was so scared that she dropped her traveling basket and all themost sacred things of the toilet rolled out. She just covered themquickly with the edge of her big skirt and picked them up from underthat. The piece of iron was in the coach, but we threw it out. 

We went by boat to Boston, then by rail to the Erie canal. We were tendays on a good clean canal boat and paid five dollars for board and ourticket. I don't remember how long we were on the lakes or what we paid. I should say two weeks. We landed at Chicago. It was an awful mudhole. The town did not look as big as Anoka. A man was sending two wagons andteams to Galena, so I hired them, put boards across for seats and tooktwo loads of passengers over. We got pretty stiff before we got there. Iwas glad to get that money as I was about strapped. It just about boughtmy ticket up the river. 

We bought tickets to St. Paul. Three of us took passage on the Yankee. She was really more of a freight than a passenger boat. She only madethree trips to St. Paul that year. We bought wood along the way, anywheres we could see a few sticks that some settler had cut. TheIndians always came down to see us wherever we stopped. I did not takemuch of a fancy to them devils, even then. It was so cold the fifteenthday of October that the Captain was afraid that his boat would freezein, so would go no further and dumped us in Stillwater. Cold! Well, Ishould say it was pretty durned cold!

I had been a sailor, so knew little about other work. On the way up, Ikept wondering, am I painter, blacksmith, shoemaker, carpenter orfarmer? On voyages, the sailors always got together and discussed thefarm they were to have when they saw fit to retire. Said farm was to bea lot with a vine-wreathed bungalow on some village street. Havingtalked this question over so much with the boys, I felt quitefarmerfied, though I had never used shovel, hoe or any farm tool. I saidto myself, I must find out what I am at once for I only have fourshillings. My brother-in-law borrowed this, for it was agreed that heshould go on to St. Paul. As I walked along the one street in Stillwaterwith its few houses, I saw a blacksmith shop with the smith settin' andsmokin' and stopped to look things over. There were three yoke of oxenstanding ready to be shod. They were used to haul square timbers. Thesmith asked me if I could shoe an ox and then slung one up in the sling'way off the ground. I did not see my way clear to shoe this ox, so sawI was not a blacksmith. I could see that there were not houses enougharound to make the paintin' trade last long so gave that up too. In alittle leanto I saw a man fixing a pair of shoes. I watched him, but sawnothing that looked possible to me so said to myself, "Surely I am noshoemaker. " Further I met a young man sauntering along the road andasked him about farming. Said he, "You can't raise nothing in this herecountry. It would all freeze up; besides the soil is too light. " Well, thinks I, it takes money to buy a hoe anyway, so I guess I'm no farmer. 

I went up to the hotel and stayed all night. My brother-in-law had lefta tool chest with me. I was much afraid they would ask for board inadvance, but they did not. In the morning, the proprietor said, "I havea job of work I want done--is that your chest?" I said, "Here is thekey. " "Then", said he, "you are a carpenter. " I had worked a little atboat building so I let him say it. I worked sixteen days for himbuilding an addition out of green timber. At the end of that time heasked what I wanted for the work. I did not know so he gave me $25. 00 inshin plasters. It was Grocers Bank, Bangor, Maine money. All of themoney here was then. 

As soon as I got it, I hiked out for St. Anthony, where I took tobuilding in earnest. I helped build the Tuttle mill on the west side in'50 and '51. Tuttle moved from the east side over to the government logcabin while it was building and I boarded with them there. I also builtthe mill at Elk River. 

The first Fourth of July I was driving logs up above what is now EastMinneapolis. We had a mill with two sash saws, that is, saws set in asash. Settlers were waiting to grab the boards as they came from thesaw. How long it took those saws to get through a log! A mill of todaycould do the same work in one-tenth the time. We could only saw fivethousand feet a day working both saws all the time. 

I helped build the Governor Ramsey which plied above the Falls and upthe river. She was loaded with passengers each trip going to look oversites for homes. I also helped build the H. M. Rice. After the railroadwas built, these boats were moved on land over the Falls and taken byriver to the south where they were used in the war. 

I first boarded at the messhouse of the St. Anthony Water Power Company. This messhouse was on a straight line with the front door of theExposition Building on the river bank. All butter and supplies of thatnature were brought a long distance and were not in the best ofcondition when received, so this messhouse was called by the boarders, "The Soap Grease Exchange, " and this was the only appellation it wasknown by in old St. Anthony. 

The first sawmills put up in St. Anthony could saw from thirty to fortylogs apiece, a day. 

As there were absolutely no places of amusement, the men became greatwags. One of the first things that was established by them was a policecourt of regulations with Dr. Murphy as judge. As there were nosidewalks, a stranger would be run in and have to pay a fine, such ascigars for the crowd, if he was found spitting on the sidewalks. LawyerWhittle was fined two pecks of apples and cigars for wearing a stovepipehat and so the fun went on, day after day. 

Mr. Welles ran for Mayor and, as there was no opposition, the beforementioned wags decided to have some. A colored man, called Banks, had abarbershop that stood up on blocks. The boys told him he must run forMayor in opposition. They told him he must have a speech, so taught himone which said, "Down, Down, Down!" and he was to stand in the door anddeliver this. Just as he got to the last "Down" these wags put sometimbers under the little building and gently turned it over in the sand. It took them half a day to get it up and get everything settled again, but in a town where nothing exciting was going on, this was deemed worthwhile. 

If you had half a pint of whiskey in those days, and were willing totrade with the Indians, you could get almost anything they had, butmoney meant nothing to them. 

I remember seeing tame buffalo hitched to the Red River carts. Theyseemed to have much the same disposition as oxen, when they were tame. The oxen on the Red River carts were much smaller than those of todayand dark colored. The most carts I remember having seen passing along atone time, was about one hundred. These carts were not infrequently drawnby cows. The drivers were very swarthy, generally dressed in buckskinwith a bright colored knit sash about the waist and a coonskin cap witha tail hanging down behind or a broad brimmed hat. 

In '51 I built a mill at Elk River. Lane was the only white man livingthere. It was right among the Winnebagoes. They were harmless, but thegreatest thieves living. They came over to our camp daily and wouldsteal everything not nailed down. We used to feed them. We had a barrelfull of rounds of salt pork. By rounds of pork, I mean pork that hadbeen cut clear around the hog. It just fitted in a big barrel. EliSalter was cooking for us. One night he had just put supper on thetable. It was bread, tea and about twenty pounds of pork--about tworounds. There were seven of us and just as we were sitting down, foursquaws came in. Nowadays they sing, "All Coons look Alike to me, " but atthis time all squaws looked alike to us. We could never tell one fromthe other. They ate and ate and ate. Eli said, "They seemed like rubberwomen. " The table was lighted with tallow dips, four of them. Just asSalter was going to pick up that pork, each squaw like lightning wet herfingers and put out the candles. When we got them lighted again, themsquaws and the pork was together, but not where we were. We just chargedit to profit and loss. 

Among them Indians was Ed, the greatest thief of all. He had been foryears at a school in Chicago and had been their finest scholar. TheIndians were all making dugout canoes and found it hard with theirtools. I had a fine adz and Ed stole it. I could not make him bring itback. I used to feed the chief well and one day I told him Ed had stolenmy adz. He said, "I make him bring it back. " Sure enough, the next dayat dusk Ed sneaked up and thinking no one was looking, threw it in apile of snow about two feet deep. We saw him do it, so got it at once. We never knew how the chief made him do it. 

Once when I was building a mill up at Rum River we had to go toPrinceton to get some things, so I started. I had to pass a camp ofthose dirty Winnebagoes. They had trees across for frames and probablytwo hundred deer frozen and hanging there. I was sneaking by, but theold chief saw me and insisted on my coming in to eat. I declined hard, saying I had had my dinner, but I knew all the time they knew better. Ihad on a buffalo overcoat and a leather shortcoat inside. In the tepee, they had a great kettle of dog soup, as it was a feast. Each one had ahorn spoon and all ate out of the kettle. They gave me a spoon and Istarted in to eat. I did not touch it but poured it inside my insidecoat for a couple of times. When I left the chief went and picked outone of the thinnest, poorest pieces of venison there was and insisted onmy taking it. I was disgusted but did not dare refuse. A short distanceaway, I threw it in the snow which was about two feet deep off thetrail. Shortly afterward I met the chief's son and was frightened, for Ithought he would notice the hole and find what I had done. I watchedhim, but he was too drunk to notice and as it soon began to snow, I wassafe. I guess the dogs got it. 

Mrs. James McMullen--1849. 

Mrs. McMullen says: When I first came to St. Anthony in 1849, there wereno sandburrs. They did not come until after a flock of sheep had beendriven through the town. We always thought they brought them. The sandwas deep and yielding. You would step into it and it would give andgive. It would seem as if you never could reach bottom. It would tireyou all out to walk a short distance. We soon had boards laid down forwalks. Lumber was hard to get, for the mills sawed little and much wasneeded. The sidewalk would disappear in the night. No one who wasbuilding a board house was safe from suspicion. They always thought hehad the sidewalk in his house. 

When we first built our house I wanted a garden. My brother said, "Youmight as well plant seeds on the seashore, " but we did plant them and Inever had seen such green stuff. I measured one pumpkin vine and it wasthirty feet long. 

Whenever the Red River carts came by, I used to tie the dog to thedoorlatch. I did not want any calls from such rough looking men as theywere. Those carts would go squawking by all day. Later they used to campwhere the Winslow house was built. There would be large numbers there, aregular village. Once when I was driving with Mr. McMullen, one of themstopped by us and I said, "Oh, see that ox is a cow!"

In '49 or '50 the old black schoolhouse was the site of an election. Ilived near enough to hear them yell, "To Hell mit Henry Siblee--Hurrahfor Louis Robert. " If those inside did not like the way the vote was tobe cast, they would seize the voter and out the back window he wouldcome feet first, striking on the soft sand. This would continue untilthe voter ceased to return or those inside got too drunk or tired tothrow him out. The town was always full of rough lumberjacks at theseearly elections and for the day they run the town. 

I used always to make twenty-one pies a week. One for every meal. I hadtwo boarders who were friends of ours. Not that I wanted boarders, butthese men had to stay somewhere and there was no somewhere for them tostay. Each took her friends to help them out. I was not very strong andcooking was hard on me. There was no one to hire to work. After a veryhot day's work, I was sick and did not come down to breakfast. One ofthe boarders was not working. I came down late and got my breakfast. Iset half of a berry pie on the table and went to get the rest of thethings. When I came back, it was in the cupboard. The boarder satreading. I thought I had forgotten and had not put it on, so set it onagain and went for the tea. When I came back again, the pie was again inthe cupboard and the boarder still studying the almanac. I said, "Whatare you doing to that pie?" He said, "Keeping it from being et! Afterthis you make seven pies instead of twenty-one and other things the sameand you won't be all wore out, we'll only have them for dinner, " and soit was. I suppose there were more pies on the breakfast tables of thatlittle village of St. Anthony than there would be now at that meal inthe great city of Minneapolis, for it was then a New England village. 

Dr. Lysander P. Foster--1849. 

I came to Minneapolis on the Ben Franklin. She was a wood burner andevery time that her captain would see a pile of wood that some newsettler had cut, he would run ashore, tie up and buy it. A passenger wasconsidered very haughty if he did not take hold and help. 

My father built his house partly of lumber hauled from Stillwater, butfinished with lumber from here, as the first mill at the foot of FirstAvenue Southeast was then completed. It had one saw only and so anxiouswere the settlers for the lumber, that each board was grabbed and walkedoff with as soon as it came from the saw. 

The first school I went to as a boy of fourteen, was on Marshall StreetNortheast, between Fourth and Sixth Avenues. It was taught by MissBackus. There were two white boys and seven half breed Bottineaus. Itwas taught much like kindergarten of today--object lessons, as the sevenhalf breeds spoke only French and Miss Backus only English. McGuffy'sReader was the only text book. 

The Indians were much like white people. The Sioux boys at their camp atthe mouth of Bassett's Creek were always my playfellows. I spent manyhappy days hunting, fishing and playing games with them. They werealways fair in their play. The games they enjoyed most were "Shinny" anda game played on the ice in the winter. A stick with a long handle andheavy smooth curved end was thrown with all the strength possible. Somecould throw it over a block. The one throwing it farthest beat. Isuppose what I call "shinny" was really La Crosse. 

What is now Elwell's Addition was a swamp. I have run a twelve foot poledown in many parts of it without touching bottom. 

Mr. Secomb, the father of Methodism in Minneapolis, was going to St. Paul to preach. He took a dugout canoe from the old board landing. Hisfriend, Mr. Draper, was with him. It was below the Falls where the riverhad rapids and rocks. They tipped over and were so soaked that St. Paulhad to get along that day without them. It was considered a great joketo ask the dominie if he was converted to immersion, now that hepracticed it. 

The peculiarity of the swamp land in St. Paul was that it was all on aledge and was only about two feet deep. You could touch rock bottomanywhere there, but here a swamp was a swamp and could be any depth. 

In 1848 half breeds had gardens and raised famous vegetables up in whatis now Northeast Minneapolis. 

I once took my sister over on the logs to pick strawberries on the endof what is now Eastman Island. They were large, very plentiful andsweet. Almost every tree that grew anywhere in the new territory grewthere. Black walnut grew there and on Nicollet Island. 

Mrs. Silas Farnham--1849. 

Mrs. Silas Farnham says: I came to St. Anthony in 1849. My husband had alittle storehouse for supplies for the woods, across from our home onthe corner of Third Avenue and Second Street, Southeast. A school housewas much needed so they cleared this out and Miss Backus taught thefirst school there. It was also used for Methodist preachin'. Our firstaid society was held there in '49. 

I well remember the first Fourth of July celebration in 1849. The womenfound there was no flag so knew one must be made. They procured thematerials from Fort Snelling and the flag was made in Mrs. Godfrey'shouse. Those working on it were Mrs. Caleb Dorr, Mrs. Lucien Parker, Misses Julia and Margaret Farnham, Mrs. Godfrey and myself. I cut allthe stars. Mr. William Marshall who had a small general store was oratorand no one could do better. That reminds me of that little store. I justthought I'd laugh out loud the first time I went in there. There werepacks of furs, all kinds of Indian work, hats and caps, tallow dips andmore elegant candles, a beautiful piece of delaine for white women andshoddy bright stuff for the squaws, a barrel of rounds of pork most usedup, but no flour, that was all gone. There was a man's shawl, too, kindof draped up. You know men wore shawls in them days; some hulled cornthe Indians done, too, I saw. But to return to that first Fourth--itseemed a good deal like a Farnham Fourth, for the music which was justsoul stirrin' was sung by them and the Gould boys. When the Farnhams allgot out, it made a pretty big crowd for them days. Perhaps their voiceswan't what you call trained, but they had melody. Seems to me nowadayssome of the trained high-falutin' voices has just got that left out. Seems so to me--seems so. All the Farnhams just sung natural, just likebirds. Old Doctor Kingsley played the bass viol so it was soul stirrin'too. Margaret Farnham, the president of our first aid society married aHildreth--Julia a Dickerson. 

In '49 my husband paid a ten cent shin plaster for three little applesno bigger than crabs. I tried to make these last a long time by justtaking a bite now and then, but of course, they couldn't hold outforever. 

The Indians was always around, but we never minded them--always lookin'in the windows. 

General William G. Le Duc--1850, Ninety-two years old. 

I arrived at St. Paul on the steamboat Dr. Franklin. Among the travelerson board the boat were Mr. And Mrs. Lyman Dayton and a brother ofGoodhue, the Editor of the Pioneer Weekly Newspaper. The principal, ifnot the only hotel at that time, was the Central, a frame building abouttwenty-four by sixty feet, two stories kept by Robert Kenedy. It wasused as a meeting place for the legislature, court, and public offices, until something better could be built. Here I found quarters, as did Mr. And Mrs. Dayton. 

A few days after my arrival, I was walking along the high bank of theriver in front of the Central House in conversation with a large robustlumberman who had come out of the woods where he had been all winterlogging and was feeling very happy over his prospects. Suddenly hestopped and looking down on the flowing waters of the Mississippi, heexclaimed, "See those logs. " A number of logs were coming down with thecurrent. "What mark is on them? My God, that is my mark!--the logs aremine! My boom has broken! I am a ruined man. " He went direct to thehotel and died before sun down of cholera, the Doctor said. He washurriedly buried and there was a cholera panic in St. Paul. The next daywhile walking in front of the hotel, Mrs. Dayton called from an openwindow excitedly to me, "Come and help me quick. Mr. Baker has thecholera!" (Mr. Baker was a boarder at the Central and a school teacherat that time. ) Mrs. Dayton was frightened and said she had given him allthe brandy she had and must have some more. I got more brandy and sheinsisted on his taking it, altho' he was then drunk. He recovered nextday and I have never heard of a case of cholera in Minnesota since thattime. 

I hired a little board shack about twelve by sixteen feet at theNortheast corner of Third and Roberts Streets, St. Paul, and put out mysign as Attorney and Counselor at Law, but soon discovered there waslittle law business in St. Paul, not enough to sustain the lawyersalready there and more coming with every boat. My business did not paythe monthly rent, $9. 00, so I rented a large house on the southwestcorner and started a shop selling books and stationery, and in thissucceeded in making a living. 

On the 22nd day of July '50, a number of citizens of St. Paul and sometravelers chartered a little stern wheel steamboat, the Yankee, andintended to explore the St. Peter River, now the Minnesota, if possibleto its source, Big Stone Lake. We invited the ladies who wished to go, promising them music and dancing. A merry time was anticipated and wewere eager to see the fertile valley, knowing it was to be purchased ofthe Indians and opened for settlement to the frontier settlers. Thepassengers were men mostly, but enough women went to form three or fourcotillion sets. The clergy was represented by Rev. Edward DuffieldNeill; the medical fraternity by Dr. Potts; statesmen by one who hadbeen an Aide to General Harrison and later Ambassador to Russia; anotherwas a graduate of Yale Law School and of West Point Military Academy;another, one of the Renvilles, had been interpreter for Nicollet;another was an Indian Trader, Joe La Framboise, who was returning to hispost at the mouth of Little Cottonwood. He was noted for his linguisticability and attainments and could acquire a talking acquaintance with anIndian language if given a day or two opportunity; another was a notedWinnebago half breed, Baptiste, whose Indian dress and habits attractedmuch attention. 

As we entered the sluggish current of the St. Peters at Mendota, thestream was nearly bank full and it seemed like navigating a crookedcanal. The first stop was at an Indian village, fifteen or twenty milesfrom the Mississippi, called Shakopee, or Little Six village. Our boatattracted a crowd of all kinds and conditions of Indian villagepopulation, not omitting Little Six who claimed toll for permission tonavigate his river. His noisy demand was settled by the trader by sometrifling presents, including some whiskey and we proceeded on our voyageup the river. The next stop was at Traverse des Sioux. Here there was aMissionary station in charge of Mr. Hopkins, from whom we bought therails of an old fence for fuel. Next we landed at a beautiful levelgrassy meadow called Belle Prairie, where we tried to have a dance. Thenext landing was at the mouth of the Blue Earth River, called Mankato, where a tempting grove of young ash trees were cut for fuel. Here thepassengers wandered about the grove while the boat hands were cuttingand carrying the wood. Leaving the Blue Earth we slowly ascended thestream, hoping to arrive at the Cottonwood where La Framboise promisedsome fuel for the boat, but night overtook us and Captain Harris tied upto the bank and announced the voyage ended for want of fuel and thatearly in the morning he would return. Millions of mosquitoes invaded theboat. Sleep was impossible. A smudge was kept up in the cabin which gavelittle relief and in the morning all were anxious to return. I stationedmyself on the upper deck of the boat with watch and compass open beforeme and tried to map the very irregular course of the river. It wasapproximately correct and was turned over to a map publisher in New Yorkor Philadelphia and published in my Year Book. 

Some time during this summer, I had occasion to visit the Falls of St. Anthony, a village of a few houses on the east side of the MississippiRiver, ten miles Northwest of St. Paul. I crossed the river to the westside in a birch bark canoe, navigated by Tapper, the ferryman for manyyears after, until the suspension bridge was built. Examining the Falls, I went down to an old saw mill built by and for the soldiers at FortSnelling and measured the retrocession of the fall by the fresh break ofthe rock from the water race way and found it had gone back one hundredand three feet which seemed very extraordinary until examinationdisclosed the soft sandstone underlying the limestone top of the falls. 

Events and persons personally known to me or told me by my friend, Gen. Henry Hastings Sibley, who was a resident of Minnesota, years before itwas a territory. He was the "Great Trader" of the Indians, a partner ofthe American Fur Co. , and adopted into the Sioux Tribe or nation, thelanguage of which spoke as well or better than the Indians. He told methat Little Crow, the chief of the Kaposia Band of Sioux, located on thewest side of the Mississippi river, six miles below St. Paul, was a manof unusual ability and discernment, who had chivalric ideas of his dutyand that of others. As an instance he told me the following story. Amedium of the tribe had a dream or vision and announced that he wouldguide and direct two young members of the tribe, who were desirous ofwinning the right to wear an eagle's feather, as the sign to all thatthey had killed and scalped an enemy, to the place where this would beconsummated. He conditioned that if they would agree to obey himimplicitly, they would succeed and return safely home to their villagewith their trophies. Little Crow's eldest son, a friend of the whites, much beloved by all, and another young man were interested in theventure. He took them into the Chippewa country. They concealedthemselves in some dense bushes along a trail used by the Chippewastraveling from camp to camp. Instructions were given that they shouldfire from cover and on no account show themselves or pursue theChippewa. They awaited silently in their ambush until two Chippewas cameunsuspectedly along the path. When opposite, the Sioux boys fired andthe Chippewa in the lead fell dead. The one in the rear fled with hisgun over his shoulder and was pursued instantly by young Little Crowwith tomahawk in hand. The Chippewa discharged his gun backward as heran and killed the young man as he was about to bury his tomahawk in theChippewa's brain. Little Crow's comrade took the scalp of the deadChippewa, returned to Kaposia, reported to Little Crow the death of hisson and that his body had been left where he fell. Little Crow at oncesummoned a number of his tribe and went to the place where the body lay, dressed it in Indian costume, placed the corpse with his face to theChippewa country in sitting position against a large tree; laid acrosshis knees the best double barreled gun in the tribe and left the body inthe enemies' country. When he came to Mendota and reported the facts tothe "Great Trader, " Sibley said, "Little Crow, why did you give yourbest gun and fine blankets and all that your tribe prize so highly tothe Chippewas. Your son was dead; why leave his body to his enemies. "Little Crow replied, "He was killed in the enemies' country andaccording to the custom of Indian warfare his enemies were entitled tohis scalp; therefore I left his body. I left the gun and blankets thatthey might know they had killed a man of distinction. "

Some years subsequently, Little Crow came to his death by carelessnesson returning from a duck hunting expedition. Having stepped ashore fromhis canoe, he drew his gun out from the canoe, taking it by the muzzle. The gun was discharged into the bowels of the unfortunate chieftain. Hewas carried to his tent and sent a message to Sibley to come to him andbring with him the surgeon then stationed at Fort Snelling. When theyarrived he said, "First I will see the surgeon, " to whom he said, "I amnot afraid of death. Examine my wound and tell me truly if there is achance for life. " The surgeon told him he had no possible chance forrecovery; that he could do nothing but give him some medicine to relievethe pain. "For that I care not. I will now talk with the 'GreatTrader, '" to whom he said, "My friend, I wish you to be present while Italk with my son to whom I must leave the care of my tribe. " The son, the "Little Crow" who is known as the leading devil in the massacre ofthe whites in 1862, was then a grown boy. The old chieftain said to him, "My boy, I must now die and you will succeed to the chieftaincy of thetribe. I thought it would have been the duty of your older brother, whowas a good boy in whom I trusted and who I hoped would prove a goodleader to the people, but he is dead, and I also must die, and leave youto succeed me. You have always been a bad boy, and I have asked the'Great Trader' my friend to attend and listen to my last instructions toyou and to advise you in all matters of interest to the tribe, and Iwish you to take heed to his advice; he is my friend and the friend ofmy people and in all matters of importance I desire you to listen to hisadvice and follow his directions. Especially, I charge you never toquarrel with the whites. You may go now my son, and remember what I havesaid to you. "

Then to Sibley, he said, "My friend, you have heard me talk to mywayward son. For my sake, look after his conduct and the welfare of mypeople, for I feel impressed to tell you that that boy will be the ruinof his people. " The boy was the leader in the massacre of twelve hundredwhite men, women and children on the Minnesota frontier in 1862 and wasshot and killed near the town of Hutchinson in 1863. 

Another story of early time I had from Genl. Sibley concerned theclaimant of the land and property which afterwards became and is now apart of the city of St. Paul, but was then known as Pigs Eye, so calledbecause the eyes of the old voyageur for whom it was named were inclinedsomewhat in the manner of a pig. 

Joseph R. Brown had a trading post on Gray Cloud Island, sixteen milesbelow St. Paul and was a Justice of the Peace with unlimitedjurisdiction. Pigs Eye, an old toughened voyageur and a young fellow, both claimed the same quarter section of land and agreed to refer theirquarrel to Brown. Accordingly both appeared at his place on Gray Cloudand stated their cases to Brown. Brown knowing that he had nojurisdiction over land titles and seeing an opportunity for a joke, informed them that the one who first put up a notice that he would writeand give them, would be entitled to possess the land. They must stripfor the race and he would give them a fair start, which accordingly hedid, by marking a line and causing them to toe the line, and thensolemnly giving the word "Go" started the sixteen mile race and retiredto his cabin to enjoy the joke. The young man started off at his bestspeed, thinking he had an easy victory before him, but the experiencedold Pigs Eye, knowing it was a sixteen mile race took a stride he couldkeep up to the end and placed his notice first on the property; hencethe first name of St. Paul was Pigs Eye. The second and real name wasgiven by the Missionary Priest, Father Gaultier, who told me that havingoccasion to publish the marriage notice of Vitale Guerin, he had to givethe little log confessional on the hill some name, and as St. Croix andSt. Anthony and St. Peter had been honored in this neighborhood, hethought St. Paul should receive the distinction. 

Mr. Reuben Robinson--1850. 

Mr. Reuben Robinson, ninety-five years old, says: I came to St. Anthonyand worked at the mill near St. Anthony Falls. A fine bathing place hadbeen discovered near the mill and was much used by the few women and menof St. Anthony who came over in boats for the purpose. One day when Iwas at work I heard hollering and thought someone must have gone beyondhis depth. I went out and looked around, saw nobody, but still heard thecalling. I finally looked at a pile of logs near the Falls and there sawa man who was calling for help. I threw a rope to him several timeswhich he finally was able to grasp and I hauled him in hand over hand. His clothing was all wet and bedraggled, but a straw hat was still onhis head although it was so wet that the green band had run into thestraw. No trace of his boat was ever found. As soon as he landed, hetook a whiskey flask from his pocket and took a long pull, whichdisgusted me very much. I discovered that these long pulls were what wasaccountable for his trouble, as he had taken a boat when he was drunkand had gone too near the Falls. 

When we came through Chicago, the mud was up to the hubs everywhere. Much of the time the bottom of the stage was scraping it. In one deephole where the old road had been, a big scantling stuck up with thesewords painted on it, "They leave all hope who enter here. "

I remember killing a snake over seven feet long down near MinnehahaFalls. Snakes were very abundant at that time. 

When I was in the Indian war, one of the Indian scouts showed me how tofind the Indians' underground store houses. Only an Indian could findthese. The soldiers had hunted for days without success, but the Indiansucceeded in a short time and found a community store house holdingseveral hundred bushels of corn. This was six feet under the ground andlooked exactly like the rest of the ground except that in the center asmall tuft of grass was left, which to the initiated showed the place. 

I had a serious lung trouble and was supposed to have consumption as Iwas always coughing. After I was married my wife induced me to take thewater cure. She kept me wrapped in wet sheets for several days. At theend of that time an abscess of the lungs was relieved and my cough wascured. This climate has cured many of lung trouble. 

I have to laugh when I think how green I was about these western places. Before I left my old home at Troy, New York, I bought twelve dollarsworth of fishing tackle and a gun, also quantities of cartridges. Inever used any of them for the things here were much more up to date. When I went to church I was astonished. I never saw more feathers andfancy dressing anywhere. 

In 1860 hogs were $2. 00 a hundred and potatoes 14c a bushel. 

Mrs. Samuel B. Dresser--1850. 

We took a steamer from Galena to Stillwater, as everyone did in thosedays. 

They were paying the Sioux Indians at Red Wing. A noble looking chief ina white blanket colored band with eagles' feathers colored andbeautifully worked buckskin shirt, leggings and moccasins was amongthem. He stands out in my mind as the most striking figure I ever saw. There was so much majesty in his look. 

We took a bateau from Stillwater to Clouse's Creek. My uncle came theyear before and had a block house where Troutmere now is, four milesfrom Osceola and we visited him. 

A little later when I was seven years old, we went to Taylor's Falls, Minnesota, to live. There were only three houses there. We rented oneend of a double block house and school was held in the other end. Ourfirst teacher in '51 and '52 was Susie Thompson. There were thirty-fivescholars from St. Croix Falls and our own town. Boats came up the riverto Taylor's Falls on regular trips. 

In our house there was a large fireplace with crane hooks, to cook on. These hooks were set in the brick. We hung anything we wanted to cook onthem. The fire was directly under them. My mother brought a crane thatwas a part of andirons, with her, but we never used that. 

I was married when I was sixteen. My husband built a house the nextyear. The shingles were made by hand and lasted forty years. The enamelpaint came from St. Louis and was as good as new fifty years afterward. The paper, too, which was a white background with long columns withflowers depending from the top, was good for forty years. 

In Osceola there was a grist mill that cracked the grain. 

The Delles House looks the same now as it did in '52 when I firstremember it. 

In '52 I saw a party of Chippewa Indians hiding in the rough ground nearTaylor's Falls. They said they were going to fight the Sioux. Some whitemen came and drove them away. They killed a Chippewa. A Sioux warrior, looking for Chippewa scalps found the dead Indian, skinned his wholehead and rode away with the white men, with the scalp in his hand, whooping and hollering. 

There was a road from Point Douglas through Taylor's Falls to Fond duLac. It went through Stillwater and Sunrise Prairie, too. I used towatch it as the Indians passed back and forth on it and wish I could goto the end of it. It seemed to me that Adventure waited there. 

We used to go to dances and dance the threestep waltz and French fourwith a circle of fours all around the room, and many other old styledances, too. We put in all the pretty fancy steps in the cotillion. Noprettier sight could be than a young girl, with arms circled above herhead, jigging on the corners. 

My wedding dress was a white muslin, made very full around the bottomand plaited in at the waist. My traveling dress was made the same. Itwas a brown and white shepherd check and had eight breadths oftwenty-seven inch silk. That silk was in constant wear for fifty yearsand if it was not all cut up, would be just as good today. My shoes werebrown cloth to match and had five or six buttons. I had another pairthat laced on the outside. Nothing has ever fitted the foot like thoseside-lace shoes. My traveling cape was of black net with bands ofsilk--very ample looking. I wore a white straw bonnet trimmed withlavender. The strings were white lute-string and the flowers in front ofthe flaring rim were small and dainty looking. There was a wreath ofthem on the crown too. When I tied this bonnet on, I felt very grown upfor a sixteen year old bride. 

Mr. Luther Webb, Indian agent, used to visit us often. 

The Indians were always very curious, and spent much of the time beforeour windows watching everything we did. In time we were as calm withthose glittering black eyes on us as we would have been if a gentle oldcow had been looking in. 

Mrs. Rufus Farnham--1850. 

I moved to the farm on what is now Lyndale Avenue North, sixty-fouryears ago. The Red River carts used to pass along between my home andthe river, but I was always holding a baby under one arm and drawingwater from the well, so could not tell which way they went. I only sawthem when they were straight in front of me. Women in those days neverhad time to look at anything but work. 

Sugar came in a large cone. It was cracked off when needed. Whenpurchased, a blue paper was wrapped around it. This when boiled, made adye of a lovely lavender shade. It was used to dye all delicate fabrics, like fringe or silk crepe. I have a silk shawl which I dyed in this wayin '56 that still retains its color. Later I paid 50c for three teacupsof sugar. This just filled a sugar bowl. 

My mother used to live on First Street North. Once when I was spendingthe day with her a dog sled from Fort Garry, now Winnipeg, passed thehouse. There were never many of these after we came for it seemed thatthe Red River carts had taken their places. There were six dogs to thisteam. They laid down and hollered just in front of the house. I supposethey were all tired out. The half breed driver took his long rawhidewhip and give them a few cracks and they got up and went whimpering onto St. Paul. When they were rested, they would come back from St. Paul, like the wind. It only took a few days for them to come and go, to andfrom the fort, while it took the carts many weeks. The drivers wouldhave suits of skin with the hair inside. They never forgot a brightcolored sash. A bridal couple came with a dog team once, after I movedhere, but the sled I saw only had a load of fine furs. 

I made sour emptyings bread. Very few could make it. I stirred flour, sugar and water together until it was a little thicker than milk, thenset it aside to sour. When it was thoroughly sour, I put in mysaleratus, shortening and flour enough to make it stiff. It tookjudgment to make this bread, but everyone thought there was nothing likeit. 

Captain John Van der Horck--1850. 

I always relied on an Indian just as I did on a white man and neverfound my confidence misplaced. I often went hunting with them on thesloughs out of St. Paul. Game was very plentiful. My Indian companionand I would both have a gun. He would paddle the frail canoe. We wouldsee the game. "Bang!" would go my gun. "Bang!" would go his. I would beloading while he was shooting. All game was plenty, plenty. 

Well I remember the woodcock, long bill, big, big eyes--look at you sotrustingly I never could shoot them. 

There were such mighty flocks of ducks and geese in season that theirflight would sound like a train of cars does now. Once I went deerhunting and saw six does. They turned their beautiful faces towards meand showed no fear. I could not shoot them. 

I have seen strings of those Red River carts and many, many in a string, loaded with furs coming from Fort Garry or Pembina. 

Mrs. James Pratt--1850. 

My father moved to Minnesota Territory in '50. We lived with my uncle, Mr. Tuttle, who had a mill for some time on this side. He was living ina small house belonging to the government, but my father and he addedtwo more rooms so we could stay with them. In the spring my father tookup land and built a house down by the river not far from the MinnehahaFalls. He began to work on the Godfrey mill at Minnehaha. My mother wasvery timid. The sight of an Indian would nearly throw her into a fit. You can imagine that she was having fits most of the time for they werealways around. Timber wolves, too, were always skulking around andfollowing the men, but I never knew them to hurt anyone. Father said itused to make even him nervous to have them keep so near him. They wouldbe right close up to him, as close as a dog would be. He always took alively gait and kept it all the time. One night father was a little lateand mother had seen more terrifying things than usual during the day, soshe was just about ready to fly. She always hated whip-poor-wills forshe said they were such lonesome feeling things. This night she stoodpeering out, listening intently. Then she, who had tried so hard to bebrave, broke into wild lamentations, saying, she knew the wolves orIndians had killed father and she would never see him again. Mygrandmother tried to calm her, but she would not be comforted untilfather came, then he had a great time getting her settled down. She saidthe whip-poor-wills seemed to say as she looked out in the blackness ofthe night, "Oh, he's killed--Oh, he's killed. " What these timid townbred women, used to all the comforts of civilization, suffered aspioneers, can never be fully understood. After that, whenever father waslate, little as I was, and I was only four, I knew what mother was goingthrough and would always sit close to her and pat her. 

Our home only had a shake roof and during a rain it leaked in showers. My little sister was born just at this time during an awful storm. Wethought it would kill mother, but it did not seem to hurt her. 

The Indians used to come and demand meat. All we had was bacon. We gavethem all we had but when they ate it all up they demanded more. We weremuch frightened, but they did not hurt us. Father used to tap the mapletrees, but we could not get any sap for the Indians drank it all. Thatwinter we lived a week on nothing but potatoes. 

Our nearest neighbor was Mrs. Wass. She had two little girls about ourages. They had come from Ohio. We used to love to go there to play andoften did so. Once when I was four, her little girls had green and whitegingham dresses. I thought them the prettiest things I had ever seen andprobably they were, for we had little. When mother undressed me thatnight, two little green and white scraps of cloth fell out of the frontof my little low necked dress. Mother asked at once if Mrs. Wass gavethem to me and I had to answer, "No. " "Then, " she said, "in the morningyou will have to take them back and tell Mrs. Wass you took them. " Ijust hated to and cried and cried. In the morning, the first thing, shetook me by the hand and led me to the edge of their plowed field andmade me go on alone. When I got there, Mrs. Wass came out to meet me. Isaid, "I've come to bring these. " She took me up in her arms and said, "You dear child, you are welcome to them. " But my mother would not letme have them. I never took anything again. 

We had a Newfoundland dog by the name of Sancho, a most affectionate, faithful beast. A neighbor who had a lonely cabin borrowed him to staywith his wife while he was away. Someone shot him for a black bear. Noperson was ever lamented more. 

In '54 my father built the first furniture factory at Minnetonka Mills. Our house was near it. The trail leading from Anoka to Shakopee wentright by the house and it seemed that the Indians were always on it. There were no locks on the doors and if there were, it would only havemade the Indians ugly to use them. Late one afternoon, we saw a big warparty of Sioux coming. They had been in a scrimmage with the Chippewasand had their wounded with them and many gory scalps, too. We ranshrieking for the house but only our timid mother and grandmother werethere. The Sioux camped just above the house, and at night had their wardance. I was only seven years old at the time, but I shall never forgetthe awful sight of those dripping scalps and those hollering, whoopingfiends, as they danced. I think they must have been surprised in camp bythe Chippewas for they had wounded squaws, too, with them. One old onewas shot through the mouth. The men were hideously painted. One side ofone's face would be yellow and the other green. It seemed no two wereexactly alike. 

One Sunday morning I was barefoot, playing in the yard. There werebushes around and I heard a queer noise like peas rattling in a box. Icould not see what made it, so finally ran in and told father. He cameout and lifted up a wide board over two stones. He jumped back andcalled to me to run in the house, then grabbed an ax and cut the headoff a huge rattlesnake. It had ten rattles. We never saw its mate. 

The first school taught in Minneapolis proper was taught by ClaraTuttle, a niece of Calvin Tuttle, in one of the rooms of the governmentlog cabin where we were living in '51. The pupils were her cousins. MissTuttle returned to the east the next summer and died of consumption. Mycousin Luella Tuttle, the next year used to go over to St. Anthony toschool, on the logs, jumping from one to the other, rather than wait forthe ferry. 

In '58 we returned to Minneapolis to live. Old Dr. Ames was our doctor. He was one of the finest men that ever lived. I had terrible nosebleeds. His treatment was to whittle pine plugs and insert them in thenostrils. It always cured. No matter how poor a patient was, Dr. Amesalways did his best. No child was ever afraid of him. He was very slowin his movements. 

Mrs. Mary Harrison--1850. 

I came to Minnesota from Maine. I had never been on the railroad or seena train, so when I saw what I thought then was the most awe inspiringand stupendous mechanism there was ever going to be in the world, I tookmy seat with elation and bumped along on that crazy track with thegreatest joy. I took no thought of danger. Now I should want aninsurance of $100, 000 to ride a block under those circumstances. Therails were of wood, with an iron top. I have heard my friends say thatthese iron pieces sometimes came up through the floor. We went by waterto Boston, again by rail and then by the Erie Canal and Great Lakes. 

We landed at Milwaukee. It was a little town. They were just buildingtheir first sidewalks then. I can shut my eyes and see those littlenarrow walks now. We drove in wagons with boards across for seats fromMilwaukee to Galena. Weren't those seats easy!

Somewhere in Wisconsin we stopped at a little log hotel over night. Weknew that rattlesnakes abounded in this region as we had seen them onour way. There were holes all around the base of the room. We took offour petticoats, of which every little girl had several, and stuffed themin the holes, shaking them carefully the next morning to see that therewere no enquiring friends of the snake tribe rolled up in them. 

We took the Nominee at Galena. After the high bluffs began, the scenerywas magnificent. At a trading station called La Crosse, fifty Indianscame on board. One chief in a white blanket I have always remembered. Hewas certainly majestic looking. A little two year old tot had his earspierced from top to bottom and common wire with three cornered pieces ofshiny tin run through all the places. His eyes were very black, shinyand bright, but we could not raise a smile from him. That chief was allporcupine quill and bead embroidery. He was painted, too, as were allthe rest. St. Paul, after we had climbed that awful flight of stairs upthe bluff, looked like a little town that had been left. Our carriage toSt. Anthony was a light express wagon with more boards across for seats. When we came to University Hill in St. Paul, there were no houses insight, but oh! what a beautiful place it was! We did enjoy that drive. We stopped at DeNoyers to water the horses. This was a little tavernbetween the two little towns. 

When we came to the ravine in St. Anthony, with its little cascades, father said, "I have not a doubt that the time will come when it will besettled through here. " We all thought it was very grand of father totake such a long shot as that. 

When we reached St. Anthony, the people were lovely to us. We did beginto feel at home at once. We had to find a place to live. One of themwent with us to the "Stranger's House, " a slab house standing near thefalls. Anyone who came and had no place to live was welcome to live inthis house until they had a home of their own. This was why it wascalled the "Stranger's House. " The Mousseau's, a French Red Riverfamily were living in one half of it. We scrubbed it out and moved in. Mother sewed some loops on some quilts and made two bedrooms. We toldher she was a fine carpenter. We did have lots of fun in our family. Thefloor was rough boards, but we planed them off by scrubbing with whitesand. When the floor was dry, we always sprinkled it with white sand. The slabs were put on lengthwise, and there were always rows of brightIndians' eyes like beads on a string watching us through these cracks. My brother had smallpox in this house. We never knew how it came, butcome it did. Dr. Murphy when he first saw him said it was measles orsmallpox, but he vaccinated us all. It took just lovely. In those daysthey used a scab from the arm of someone who had been vaccinated. Mybrother took quantities of penny-royal tea and no other medicine. Hecame through fine. 

On the Fourth of July we went to a dancing party or ball at the hotel. We did have a beautiful time--Mrs. Northrup was a lovely cook. Iremember the butter was in the shape of a pineapple with leaves and all. We danced contra dances, such as "The Tempest" and Spanish dances. Thewaltz, too, with three little steps danced very fast, was popular. Wetook hold of our partner's elbows. 

I taught the first school at Shingle Creek when I was a girl ofseventeen. My school house was a claim shanty reached by a plank fromthe other side of the creek. My boarding place was a quarter of a milefrom the creek. The window of the school house was three little panes ofglass which shoved sideways to let in the air. 

One afternoon just before time to dismiss the school, the windows weredarkened by the faces of savages looking in. Each carried a gun and theterror inspired by them was very great as they were not the friendlyfaces of the Indians we were used to. The children all flocked aroundme. I went on hearing their lessons and then told them to sing. TheIndians appeared delighted with this and laughed and talked with eachother. After school, with the children clustered around me, I took anatlas and went out and showed the Indians the pictures. I knew they werevery fond of looking at pictures. They all stayed until the last picturehad been shown and the leaves turned again and again and then with afriendly glance at me and my little flock, strode off and I never sawthem again. 

The only time I ever fished was when I was teaching this school. I wentwith friends to the mouth of Shingle Creek. I did not know how to go atit when the pole and line were given to me. I asked what I should do andthey told me if I felt my line pulling, to throw it over my head asquickly as I could. I was standing before some thick hazel brush andwhen I felt a tug, I did as I was told, landing on my back in the hazelbrush at the same time. However, the largest black bass that thefishermen had ever seen was on my hook in the hazel brush. They thoughtit weighed over four pounds. 

My little sister was taken to a revival meeting in the old church in St. Anthony. She was about as big as a minute and understood nothing of whatwas going on but was very wise looking. The minister did not slight eventhis atom, but asked her if she had found Jesus. She said hastily, "Ididn't know he was lost. "

Mr. William W. Ellison--1850. 

Mr. Ellison now in his ninety-third year, with a perfect memory says:

I came to Minnesota with a determination to lead an outdoor life as mylungs were giving me much trouble. One of the first things I did was totake a yoke of oxen to Traverse to meet Mr. Williamson who was amissionary at Lac qui Parle. It was in November. I was new at this kindof work. The oxen were delivered to me at Fort Snelling. I crossed theriver in a canoe and swam the oxen across to Mendota. Then I went ontowards Shakopee. There was a wellworn Indian trail leading along theMinnesota River and I followed that. I went through Black Dog's village. I started late in the afternoon. 

A young couple had been married at Mendota a few days before and hadgone on ahead. I expected to catch up with them. My oxen were mosttractable and the country through which I passed very beautiful. Thetrail led along a ridge. 

My Uncle, Mr. Williamson, had always told me to make my camp early whilethere was plenty of light, so not seeing or hearing anything of theother wagon, I made my camp where an old Indian camp had been andprepared to spend a comfortable night in the woods. I cooked my supperand then turned in. The wind had come up and I soon became very chilly, so I looked around for a warmer place. I found a windfall and mademyself a nice little fire by crossing the trunks and building a fireunder them. I spent the next four hours in comfort, though it was verycold. My uncle had told me to start with the first rays of the sun. Ihad no timepiece, so when I saw a glow in the east, I got up, ate mybreakfast and started. It was not long before I saw that my dawn was aprairie fire. I had not gone far when I heard a horse neighing and soonfound my Mendota friends. They had not understood how to camp so werenearly frozen to death. Their wagon had broken down when they were in aswamp. They had taken what little bedding they had and camped on a knollin this swamp. I surely was sorry for that bride. Her husband had had achill early in the evening before they camped. She had been up with himall night and now thought he was dying. I thought he was too. I tried tomake a fire out of the wet willow wood there, but could not and he gotbluer and bluer. We used all the blankets we had. Finally I said, "Youlie down on one side of him and I on the other. " After some time histeeth stopped chattering and his color returned. I think it would havebeen the last of him if I had not found them as I did. 

I tried to fix the cart but could not. A half breed who was driving forthem had gone on to Shakopee for help, taking one horse the nightbefore. I started on with my oxen to bring help. When I got nearly toShakopee, I met a half breed, John Moores, going to their help. I waitedfor them in Shakopee. McLeod's boat came along and they took that asthey could not get their cart mended well. I could make about twentymiles a day walking with my oxen. I stayed one night in the big woods atBelle Plaine. The wolves were very thick, "so I hung my food on asapling and leaned it against a tree. When I got to the crossing atTraverse, it was dark. I hollered. I could hear someone say, 'That mustbe Ellison. ' Then they came over for me. The Hopkins' and Huggins' hadthe mission station there then. It did seem good to get where I had asquare meal. I had been living principally on a sweet biscuit my Aunt, Mrs. Williamson, the missionary's wife at Kaposia made. Don't ever takeanything sweet to eat for any length of time. "

Martin McLeod met the boat with a string of Red River carts. They wereloaded with furs and were to take supplies back. It was very interestingto me to watch the loading and unloading of this boat. I was not yetfamiliar with those half breed drivers. They seemed sociable fellows, among themselves, laughing, joking and talking in their lingo. 

The boat had brought a barrel of flour, one of pork and other suppliesfor the Mission at Lac qui Parle, so after spending a week at Traversewaiting for the train to start, I took these in a cart drawn by one oxand started with the rest on Monday morning. The Dressers had their cartwhich I had managed to fix and their team of horses. I started with themand the string of carts. I could see the trail two miles ahead. It hadto go around the sloughs. The cart train of course followed it. I soonsaw the sloughs were frozen and would bear my ox and wide wheeled cartwhere it was not deep, so I cut across. When Mrs. Dresser was gettingdinner, I appeared and ate with them. They could not understand how Icould keep up with horses. The train was several miles back. We allcamped together at night. The first night was spent on the border ofSwan Lake. The trail followed a straight line from Traverse to Lac quiParle, except for these sloughs. 

Saturday night we camped at Black Oak Lake, twelve miles from Lac quiParle. In the morning, McLeod and his train went on, but we stayed andkept the Sabbath, arriving the next day. 

The first Indian I ever shook hands with was Little Crow at Kaposia, hisvillage. He was common looking even for an Indian. My uncle, Dr. Williamson said, "He is the smoothest Indian I know. Usually when I amtold a lie once, I look out for that liar and never trust him again, butLittle Crow has fooled me with his lies a dozen times and I suppose hewill a dozen times more. "

When I first knew John Otherday he was a savage with all a savage'sinstincts. My uncle, Mr. Williamson said to me one night, "We'll lockthe cattle up tonight; Oupeto Topeca, later Otherday, is back fromWashington and feels very much abused. He might kill them. " When hebecame a Christian all this was changed. He never forgot his religionfor a moment. At the time of the outbreak he led a party of refugees atthe greatest risk to himself through the back country to Shakopee. Ithink there were over forty in the party. 

I used to walk fifty miles a day with ease, and could keep it up forseveral days. I never walked in moccasins, for they gave no support tothe feet; but a soldier's shoe, bought at the fort for $2. 00 was idealto wear. It had a long, heavy sole leather sole, a very low heel andheavy leather all hand sewed, for the uppers. 

The Northwestern Fur Company's trail started from New Cave, now St. Paul, and followed the Mississippi River through St. Anthony to Anoka. It forded the Rum River at Anoka, near the Mississippi, following asnearly as possible that river to St. Cloud, where it crossed at a ford. It then followed the Sauk River about eleven miles; then turned to theright and crossed Big Bend forty-five miles, striking the river againfour miles north from Sauk Center. Then it passed through the timber toAlexandria. It crossed Red River near Fort Abercrombie; then wentdirectly north to Pembina, passing from point to point of the Red Riverof the North. The Red River carts had wheel rims eight inches wide. Ihave seen them with solid wheels cut from a single round of a tree. Ihave heard that the carts around Pembina were formerly all like this, but in my day they generally had spokes. I suppose they were lighter. Itwas the width of wheel and sagacity of the animal that made it possibleto go with security over the most impossible roads. They usually carriedeight hundred pounds. When they reached St. Paul they camped whereLarpenteur's home now is. 

I never knew an Indian who had been converted to go back on the whites. Some people would sell them a pair of pants, for a Christian Indiancould vote and then say as they saw them so dressed, "There is aChristian Indian. " It took more than a pair of pants to Christianize anIndian, but when they were once converted, they stayed so, as the manypeople who were saved by them in the massacre could testify. 

Mr. D. E. Dow--1850. 

In 1850 when I first came to Minnesota, I took a claim at Lake Harrietnear where the pavilion now stands. The ruins of the old Steven'sMission were on my claim. It had been built in 1834. I did not keep thisclaim long, though I built a log cabin there and kept bachelor's hall, but soon took a claim where my present house stands in Hopkins. I builta cabin here but boarded with a widow and her children. All the food wehad was game, pork and buckwheat cakes. The buckwheat they had broughtfrom their home and it was all ground in the coffee mill then siftedthrough a horsehair sieve before it could be used. There were seven inthe family to grind for, so it kept one person grinding all the time. 

I was supposed to live alone in my cabin but hardly ever spent a nightwithout the companionship of some Sioux Indians who were hunting aroundthere. I gladly received them as they were friendly, and their companywas much better than none. One winter they came in such numbers that atnight the floor was entirely covered by their sleeping forms. Early inthe morning, they would go out and all day hunt the deer, with which thewoods abounded. It was very cold and the slain deer froze immediately. They stacked them up, making a huge pile. Suddenly all the Indians left. One morning shortly after, I was working in the clearing around mycabin, when I saw a line of squaws which I think was a block long, coming over the trail which led from Shakopee to Hopkins. The squawswent to the pile of deer. Each took one on her back and silently trudgedaway over the trail toward Shakopee. Some of the squaws were so smallthat the frozen carcass had to be adjusted by another squaw or it woulddrag on the ground. They were two weeks removing this pile of deer andhad to walk twenty-eight miles with each one before they got home withit. 

When I first made my way to Minnetonka, I came out at Gray's Bay. Therewere vast numbers of Indian mounds there and bark sheds for drying fish. This was in '53. 

An Indian trail led along the shore of Lake Calhoun just above where thestreet car track is now. It continued on the high ground to the Missionat Lake Harriet. I killed a deer at what had been the Mission ground thefirst time I ever saw the lake. The trail continued on the high groundaround Lake Harriet. There were fishing trails, too, around the lakesnear the water, but the trails ordinarily used were on high ground wherethere was no fear of ambush. Another trail was north of Lake Calhoun andled to Hopkins, then to Shakopee, Little Six Village. The oppositeshore was a big swamp. Another much used trail followed along thehighlands of the Mississippi River to the fort sawmill which stood nearwhere the old Union Station was in Minneapolis. The reservation on whichthe fort stood was ten miles square and included all the present site ofMinneapolis. This is why that city was so long without settlers, although the water power was the finest to be found anywhere. 

Mrs. Elizabeth Clifford--1850. 

My father had asthma terribly and was advised to come to Minnesota forhis health. He arrived in Stillwater with his family and a stock ofgoods in 1850. He exchanged these for land six miles out of that townand two and one half miles off the main traveled road leading to Marine. We had a very fine barn and comfortable home made of lumber from theStillwater Mills. Our nearest neighbor was two and one-half miles away, Mr. Morgan who kept the halfway house, but I cannot remember that I wasever lonesome. 

We spent much time in the woods, where we found the most wonderful wildflowers. There was not a tame flower known to us whose counterpart wecould not find in our woods. Of vegetables I remember best a small pinkeyed potato, the most delicious I have ever tasted. As they baked, theycould be heard popping in the oven. They are not raised now. The wildplum found in the woods my father cultivated and they were as large assmall eggs and looked like small peaches. 

One day as I glanced from the window, I saw a body of Indian warriorscoming on the trail that led around the lake near us. As they came up, Isaw they were in full war paint and feathers. They entered, examinedeverything, but took nothing. They asked for and ate bread and molasses, as they had seen the children doing when they came in. They all had gunsand, big bowie knives sticking in their belts. One particularlyvillainous looking one took out his knife and felt the edge, lookingwickedly at us. One was exceptionally pleasant looking and I thought hewould protect us if the rest got ugly. They finally went away. Theywere followed in the afternoon by a band of Chippewa braves who asked ifthe Sioux warriors had been that way that day. When told they had, theyrode hurriedly after them. They said the Sioux had taken some Chippewascalps. 

[Illustration: SURVIVORS WHO WERE AT TRAVERSE DES SIOUX AT THE TIME OFTHE TREATY IN 1851. Mrs. Richard Chute, General William G. Le Duc andMrs. Gideon Pond. Mrs. Morris is standing by General Le Duc. Taken at aCelebration given in their honor July 17, 1914, by the Old TrailsChapter, at the home of Mrs. M. W. Savage. ]

Mrs. Richard Chute--1851. 

I came to Minnesota a bride in 1851 and with my husband shortlyafterwards took the steamer for Traverse de Sioux, where a great treatywith the Indians was to be signed. With us we took a tent, provisionsand a French man to cook. I was the only woman in all the company. 

It was all so wonderful to me--the beautiful country through which wepassed and the preparations made for all the company on landing. 

The Indians, a great concourse of them were down to see the boat comein. To see them scamper when the boat whistled was a sight to beremembered. Some fell in the water, but fled as soon as they could getthemselves out. I think this was the first steamboat they had ever seen. They were frightened and curious at the same time. 

Ten years before, at my home in Ohio, I had seen the Indians often asthey would stop at our house for food on the way to Fort Wayne. Mymother always cooked corn dodgers for them and gave them milk to drink. They loved her and knew she was their friend. They always gave mestrings of vari-colored glass beads. I think I had one of every color. 

These Indians at Traverse made me feel at home at once and I gave them afriendly smile. The glances they returned were shy, but friendly. Theirpainted faces and breasts and gaudy clothes were different from ourIndians. Their tepees stretched as far as the eye could see. It seemedthat the squaws must have had instruction in embroidery from somecivilized teacher. Their patterns were so intricate. Their colors sowell placed. Their moccasins were always beautifully done with beads andcolored porcupine quills; their best petticoats, too. As for theirliege lords, their best suits, if suits they might be called, werebeautifully done. A young squaw, instead of pouring out her love insong, would pour it out in embroidery and her husband would be very gay, indeed. 

Mrs. Hopkins, wife of the missionary, met us and took us home with herwhere we were very well cared for. She was a charming little woman, fullof missionary zeal and greatly loved. I never heard her complain. Herhusband, too, was greatly beloved by the Indians. 

We took our stores and cooked there and with fresh vegetables from thelittle farm worked by Mr. Huggins, fish and game, we had choice meals. 

I used to ride horseback, or rather "pony back, " every day, always withmy husband and frequently with Mr. Sibley. My pony was borrowed from theIndians. Mr. Chute and Mr. Sibley rode large horses. Every Indian brave, who came, came on a pony. His tepee, household goods and children weredrawn by one. There were so many that they seemed more than the bladesof grass. Literally thousands of these ponies were grazing some distanceback of the encampment. We three rode out to see them. As we nearedthem, and they smelled my pony, that vast herd, with one accord, startedtowards us and almost at once literally engulfed me. The men called, "For God's sake, don't get off. Hold on for your life. " I took the ponyaround the neck with both arms and did hold on. The men came after me asfast as they could and rode their big horses on either side of me. TheIndians rushed in on their ponies and after some time succeeded inturning that vast multitude and letting the prisoner escape. I was cooland collected while the danger menaced, but when it was over, trembledand shook. My taste for horseback riding at Traverse was gone. 

Mr. Sibley, Mr. Chute and I, with a guide, went to see a miniatureMinnehaha. We walked all day going there and back--crossing the littlestream many times. My husband took off his boots to ford the stream. Healways carried me over. He cut his foot badly and could hardly get tothe commission tent. Mr. Sibley urged us not to go to the Hopkins', butto stay there, but Mr. Chute wanted to go. It was bright moonlight, andI walked three quarters of a mile to Mr. Hopkins' to get a pony to takemy husband back. I passed a little lake on the prairie. Mr. Chute and Ialways walked arm in arm as was then the custom for married people. Mirrored in the lake I could see reflected many, many Indian loverswalking as they had seen the pale faces do. I laughed to myself as Ithought what mimics these children were. It was their following thecustoms of the white man, drinking as they saw him drink, that degradedthem so. 

On the Fourth of July there was to be a great celebration. The Indianswere to have all their dances. Early in the morning, Mr. Hopkins wentout to bathe in the river. He did not return. A little Indian girl saidshe had seen him go under the water and only two hands come above it. His body was not found for two days. A great crowd of squaws surroundedthe house, showing by their sad looks what the loss was to them. At theburial, the Indians, a vast number of them, sang the hymns in Sioux. This funeral, way off in the wilderness, with these crowds of savagemourners, could never be forgotten. 

Mr. Charles Bohanon--1851. 

I moved to the farm where I am now living in '53. My father first tookup a claim in 1851 where the Central Market now stands, but while he wasin the woods, Old Man Stimson squat on that, so he took a claim at whatis now Camden Place. He built a small house there. The farm was coveredwith brush and "oak openins". Everyone of these trees had to be grubbedout. One of my earliest recollections is the Red River carts that usedto go squawking by on this side of the river as well as on the St. Anthony side. They were called the Red River Band. They were one of theloudest bands ever brought together, as their music, that of woodrubbing against wood, could be heard three miles. While my father was inthe woods, the Indians used to come and sleep in the dooryard. Sometimesit would be full of painted Sioux. They never stole anything or begged, but would gratefully take anything offered them. They were very friendlyand kind and full of curiosity, as their looking in the windows at alltimes showed. 

My father had brought a fine pair of horses from Galena. One day when hewas mowing wild hay on a meadow, he left them unhitched and wasexcitedly told by a neighbor that they had got in the river. He ran andsaw one swimming near the other shore but as the other had turned overwith his feet in the air, the combined weight of the horse and wagon wastoo much for him and before help came, he sank. We recovered the runninggear of the wagon later when all came upon a sandbar, but the harnesshad been stolen. What the loss of this team was to a pioneer farmer, wecan hardly conceive. 

The countless number of pigeons which migrated here every spring couldnever be estimated. At all hours of the night their cry of "Pigie, Pigie, Pigie, " could be heard. They could be seen in countless numberson the "slab trees, " that is, old, dead trees. Anyone could killhundreds in a day and thousands killed, seemingly made no impression. They flew very low and in dense masses. Ducks and geese were exceedinglyplentiful. I have never seen wild swan here, but many in Minnesota inthe Red River country. 

On our farm was a thicket of plums which probably came up from thestones from one tree. Some were blue, some red, others yellow and red. Some were sour, some bitter, others tasteless, while others still, weresweet and of an exquisite flavor. These trees soon ran out and I thinkall of this best variety are gone. I remember picking raspberries, blackberries and wild strawberries in quantities. Every summer we wouldgo up to Anoka and spend a week camping and picking blueberries. 

We sold our corn which was our first crop, to Alexander Moore in St. Anthony. At that time, he was the only one buying corn. Two bushelbaskets made a bushel. This sold for 15c. Mr. Moore had much largerbaskets than those ordinarily in use and measured the corn in these. When the farmers demurred, he said, "If you don't like my measure, takeyour corn home. " He knew there was no one else for us to take it to, sowas very brave. There were very few scales so farm produce was generallysold by measure. 

I never saw a pair of shoes until after the war. Everyone wore boots. 

In the northern part of the State I have seen men start out in themorning with an ox team and return at night, blind themselves and theoxen, too, from the sting of the buffalo gnat. The mosquitoes came ingreat clouds and were everywhere. 

Every little clear space of a hundred acres or more was called aprairie. 

When I first saw Duluth it was only a cotton-town. That is, log houseswith canvas roofs or tents. Most mail carriers used dog teams. Threedogs hitched tandem was the common sight. I have seen three dogs haul adead horse. 

In our expedition against the Indians only thirty-seven of the eighthundred horses we took, came back with us. The rest starved to death. Unlike the Red River stock which would paw through the deep snow to thelong grass, fill themselves and then lie down in the hole and sleep, they knew nothing of this way and so could not forage for themselves. This campaign was with Hatch's Independent Battalion. 

Lieut. Grosvenor who was new to the Red River country was married and onhis wedding trip was to stop at McCauleyville. He sent word ahead thathe wanted a private room. When he got there, he was shown into the onlyroom there was--full of half breed sleepers. He hastened to theproprietor and said, "I ordered a private room. " His answer was, "Thereare only six beds in there, what more could you want?"

Mr. Austin W. Farnsworth--1851. 

We came to Fillmore County in the Fall of 1851 from Vermont. We werestrapped. Not one cent was left after the expenses of the trip werepaid. A neighbor took my father with him and met us at McGregor Landingwith an ox team hitched to a prairie schooner. We were four days gettingto Fillmore County, camping on the way. The nearest town, only a postoffice, was Waukopee. Father had come the previous spring and plantedtwo acres of wheat, two acres of corn and one-half acre of potatoes. Thepotatoes all rotted in the ground. 

I was only nine years old and my brother thirteen, but we made all thefurniture for that cabin out of a few popple poles and a hollow basswoodlog. For beds, beams were fitted in between the logs and stuck out abouta foot above the floor and were six feet long. To these we fastenedcross pieces of "popple" and on this put a tick filled with wild hay andcorn stalk leaves. It made a wonderful bed when you were tired aseveryone was in those days, for all worked. After we had cut off asection of our big log by hand, we split it in two and in one half boredholes and fitted legs of the unpeeled popple for the seat. The otherhalf made the back and our chair was done. As we had no nails, we fittedon the backs with wood pegs. Our table was made of puncheons split witha wedge and hewed with a broadax. The cabin would have been veryhomelike with its new furniture if it had not been for the smoke. Mymother had to do all the cooking on a flat stone on the floor withanother standing up behind it. She nearly lost her sight the firstwinter from the smoke. Our attic was filled with cornstalks to make thecabin warmer. 

Our fare was good, as game was very plentiful and we had corn meal and acoarse ground wheat more like cracked wheat. There was a little gristmill at Carimona, a tiny town near. My mother made coffee from cornmeal crusts. It would skin Postum three ways for Sunday. 

When I was nine years old I killed a buffalo at Buffalo Grove near us. That grove was full of their runs. Elk were very plentiful, too, anddeer were so plenty they were a drug in our home market. I have countedseventy-five at one time and seven elk. Pigeons were so thick that theydarkened the sky when they flew. Geese and ducks, too, were in enormousflocks. In season, they seemed to cover everything. We used the eggs ofthe prairie chickens for cooking. They answered well. 

Once my brother shot a coon and my mother made him a cap with the tailhanging behind and made me one too, but she put a gray squirrel's tailat the back of mine. She knit our shoes and sewed them to buckskinsoles. I was twelve, when I had my first pair of leather shoes. Theywere cowhide and how they did hurt, but I was proud of them. None of thecountry boys wore underclothing. I was nineteen before I ever had any. Our pants were heavily lined and if it was cold, we wore more shirts. Inever had an overcoat until I went in the army. Before we left Vermont, my mother carded and spun all the yarn and wove all the cloth that wewore for a long time after coming to Minnesota. 

We found the most delicious wild, red plums, half the size of an egg andmany berries and wild crab-apples. 

The timber wolves were plenty and fierce. My sister was treed by a packfrom nine o'clock until one. By that time we had got neighbors enoughtogether to scatter them. I was chased, too, when near home, but as Ihad two bulldogs with me, they kept them from closing in on me until Icould get in the house. 

There was a rattlesnake den near us and once we killed seventy-eight inone day. They were the timber rattlesnakes--great big fellows. I caughtone by holding a forked stick over its head and then dropped it in abox. I kept it for a pet. It was seven feet, one and a half inches long, I used to feed it frogs, mice and rabbits. I thought it was fond of me, but it struck at me and caught its fangs in my shirt when I wascareless, so I killed my pet. 

The only time I ever went to school was for two months in '55, to JohnCunningham. Wilbur made our desks out of black walnut lumber, cut inBuffalo Grove. It was very plentiful there. 

Later we used to go to dances. I was great for cutting pigeon wings andbalancing on the corner with a jig step. We used to dance the whirlwaltz, too. Some called it the German waltz. We spun round and round asfast as we could, taking three little steps. 

Mr. Elijah Nutting--1852. 

We came to Faribault in 1852 and kept the first hotel there. It was justa crude shanty with an upstairs that was not partitioned off. Very coldtoo. I rather think there never was anything much colder. But it wasvery well patronized, as it was much better than staying outside. 

There were many Indians whose home was in our village. We used to havegood times with them and enjoyed their games and seeing them dance. Families were moving in all the time. Finally winter was over and springwith us. 

We began to think how near the Fourth was and how totally unprepared wewere for its coming. We decided to have a minstrel show. We had seen oneonce. My brother was to be end man and black up for the occasion. But hewas a little tow head and we did not see our way clear to make nicekinky black wool of his hair. 

Unfortunately for her, a black sheep moved into town in an otherwisewhite flock. We boys would take turns in chasing that sheep and everytime we could get near her, we would snatch some of the wool. When sewedon to cloth, this made a wonderful wig. The proceeds from thisentertainment, we saved for firecrackers. Then we bought some maplesugar of the Indians--very dark and dirty looking. It looked veryinadequate for a young merchant's whole stock of goods, but when it wasadded to by scrapings from the brown sugar barrel, when mother's backwas turned, it sold like wild fire. 

We felt like Rockefeller when we entrusted the stage driver with ourcapital to buy the coveted firecrackers in Cannon City, which then wasmuch larger than Faribault. They cost forty cents a bunch, so we onlygot three bunches. The size of the crackers depressed us considerablyfor they were the smallest we had ever seen. We feared they would notmake any noise. We put them away in a safe place. Brother was a naturalinvestigator. Every time I was gone, he would fear those crackers werenot keeping well and try one. He wanted no grand disappointment on theFourth. 

Joe Bemis, son of Dr. Bemis, always trained with us fellows and neverbacked down. We were going to have a circus in the barn. Joe said, "I'llride a hog. " The hogs were running around loose outside. They were aswild as deer. We laid a train of corn into the barn and so coaxed oneold fellow with great tusks into it, and then closed the door. Joe ranand jumped on his back. Like lightning the hog threw him and then rippedhim with his tusk. Joe yelled, "For God's sake let him out. " We did. Welaid Joe out on a board and Dr. Bemis came and sewed him up. He said, "Joe won't ride a hog very soon again, boys. Neither will you, I guess. "

Mr. Charles Rye--1853. 

Mr. Rye, eighty-six years old, hale and hearty, who still chops downlarge trees and makes them into firewood for his own use, says:

I left England in a sailing vessel in 1851 and was five weeks on thevoyage. My sister did not leave her bunk all the way over and I wassqueamish myself, but I see the sailors drinking seawater every morning, so I joined them and was never sick a minute after. We brought our ownfood with us and it was cooked for us very well and brought to us hot. We did not pay for this but we did pay for any food furnished extra. Some ships would strike good weather all the way and then could make arapid voyage in three weeks, but usually it took much longer. I stayedin the east two years and came to St. Anthony in 1853. 

The best sower in our part of England taught me to sow grain. Afterthree days he came to me and said, "Rye, I don't see how it is, but Ican see you beat me sowing. " I hired out to sow grain at $1. 00 a day assoon as I came here and had all the work I could do. I would put thegrain, about a bushel of it, in a canvas lined basket, shaped like aclothes basket and fastened with straps over my shoulders, then with awide sweep of the arm, I would sow first with one hand and then with theother. It was a pretty sight to see a man sowing grain. Seemed like hestepped to music. 

Once I saw twenty-five deer running one after another like Indiansacross my sister's farm where St. Louis Park now is. I was watchman forthe old mill in St. Anthony the winter of '53. It was forty degrees forweeks. I kept fire in Wales bookstore, too, to keep the ink fromfreezing. 

I made $34. 00 an acre on the first flax I sowed. A man had to be apretty good worker if he got $15. 00 a month and found in '53. Most farmhands only got $12. 00. 

I used to run the ferry with Captain Tapper. It was a large rowboat. Once I had eight men aboard. When I got out in the river, I saw the loadwas too heavy and thought we would sink. "Boys", I said, "don't move. Ifyou do, we'll all go to the bottom. " The water was within one inch ofthe top of the boat but we got across. 

I graded some down town, on Hennepin Avenue when it was only a countryroad. There was a big pond on Bridge Square. The ducks used to flyaround there like anything early in the morning. 

I cut out the hazelbrush on the first Fair Ground. It was on HarmonPlace about two blocks below Loring Park. We cut a big circle so that wecould have a contest between horses and oxen to see which could draw thebiggest load. The oxen beat. I don't remember anything else they did atthat Fair. 

Mr. James M. Gillespie--1853. 

I remember that our first crop on our own farm at Camden Place in 1853was corn and pumpkins. The Indians would go to the field, take apumpkin, split it and eat it as we do an apple with grunts ofsatisfaction. 

There was an eight acre patch of wild strawberries where Indians hadcultivated the land on our new claim about where our house stands today. They were as large as the small cultivated berries with a most deliciousflavor. Everyone that we knew picked and picked but wagon loads rottedon the ground. 

A good strong, quick stepping ox could plow two acres a day but muchoftener they plowed one and one half acres only. The pigeons flew so lowin '54 that we could kill them with any farm implement we happened to beusing. They seemed to be all tired out. We killed and dried the breastsfor winter. 

Miss Nancy Gillespie--1853. 

I remember a pear shaped wild plum which grew along the river bank. Itwas as large as the blue California plum and of a most wonderful colorand taste. I have never seen anything like it and have not seen thisvariety of late years. 

Mr. Isaac Layman--1853. 

My father came to Minnesota in '52 and bought the land where Layman'sCemetery now is for $1, 000. 00 of Mr. Dumar. He returned for us Januaryfirst '53. Snow was two feet on a level and the cold was terrible. 

We went with our horses and wagon to Chicago from Peoria. There webought a bobsled and put the wagon box on it, adding a strong canvastop. We put in a stove and made the twenty-one day journey verycomfortably. We came up through Wisconsin. The only spot I remember wasBlack River Falls. The woods abounded with game. There were thousands ofdeer and partridges. We killed what we could eat only. We saw many beartracks. We crossed the Mississippi at St. Anthony and arrived at ourcabin. 

Our house was only boarded up but father got out and banked it with snowto the eaves, pounding it down hard so it would hold. It made it verycomfortable. 

In the early days ammunition was very expensive for the farmer boys wholoved to shoot. They found that dried peas were just as good as shot forprairie chicken, quail and pigeons, so always hunted them with these. The passenger pigeons were so plentiful that the branches of trees werebroken by their numbers. They flew in such enormous flocks that theywould often fly in at open doors and windows. They obscured the sun intheir flight. Looked at from a distance, they would seem to extend asfar up as the eye could reach. I have brought down thirty at a shot. They could be knocked off the branches with a stick while roosting andthousands of them were killed in this way. In these early days, theybrought only 10c or 20c a dozen. The ducks used to congregate in suchlarge numbers on Rice Lake that their flight sounded louder than a trainof cars. 

Mrs. Mary Weeks--1853, Ninety years old. 

We came to Minnesota in 1853. My husband went up to our claim and brokefrom twenty-five to forty acres and sowed rutabagas. It was on newbreaking and virgin soil and they grew tremendous. We moved there andbought stock. They seemed never to tire of those turnips and grew veryslick and fat on them. We, too, ate them in every form and I thought Ihad never tasted anything so good. They were so sweet and tasty. Thechildren used to cut them in two and scrape them with a spoon. We saidwe had "Minnesota apples" when we took them out to eat. It did seem sogood to have real brooms to use. In Maine, we had always made our broomsof cedar boughs securely tied to a short pole. They were good andanswered the purpose but a new fangled broom made of broom straw seemedso dressy. I can well remember the first one of this kind I ever had. Itwas only used on great occasions. Usually we used a splint broom whichwe made ourselves. 

I used to do all the housework for a family of seven besides makingbutter and taking care of the chickens. If help was short, I helped withthe milking, too. I made all the clothes the men wore. A tailor wouldcut out their suits and then I would make them by hand. I made all theirshirts too. You should have seen the fancy bosomed shirts I made. Then Iknit the stocking and mittens for the whole family and warm woolenscarfs for their necks. My husband used to go to bed tired to death andleave me sitting up working. He always hated to leave me. Then he wouldfind me up no matter how early it was. He said I never slept. I didn'thave much time to waste that way. We lived on beautiful Silver Lake. Inseason the pink lady-slippers grew in great patches and other flowers tomake the prairie gay. 

For amusement we used to go visiting and always spent the day. We wouldput the whole family into a sleigh or wagon and away we would go for anouting. We had such kind neighbors--no one any better than theother--all equal. 

Mrs. E. A. Merrill--1853, Minneapolis. 

My home was where the old Union station stood. In 1853 my father, Mr. Keith, learned that the land near where the Franklin Avenue bridge nowis was to be thrown open to settlement. He loaded his wagon with lumberand drove onto the piece of land he wanted and stayed there all night. In the morning he built his home. In the afternoon the family moved inand lived there for three years. 

Mrs. Martha Thorne--1854. 

We started from Davenport, Iowa, for Minnesota Territory in 1854. We hadexpected to be only two weeks on the trip to the junction of the BlueEarth and Minnesota rivers, but were six weeks on that terrible tripwith our ox teams. There had been so much rain that all dry land was aswamp, all swamps lakes, and the lakes and rivers all over everywhere. Sometimes we worked a whole day to get one hundred feet through one ofthe sloughs. We would cut the tallest and coarsest rushes and grass andpile in to make a road bed. We would seem to be in a sea, but finallythis trip ended as all trips, no matter how bad, must, and we came toLake Crystal where we were to stay. 

Such a beautiful spot as it was, this home spot! We camped for threeweeks, living in our prairie schooner, while the men put up the wildhay. 

We built a log cabin with "chinkins" to let in the air. We filled in thecracks except where these chinkins were, with mud. The roof was made bylaying popple poles so they met in the middle and fastening themtogether. Over this we laid a heavy thickness of wild hay, and over thatthe popple poles again well tied with hand twisted ropes of wild hay, tothose below. It was a good roof, only it leaked like a sieve. The floorwas just the ground. Over it we put a layer of the wild hay and thenstaked a rag carpet over it. A puncheon shelf to put my trunk under, andthe furniture placed, made a home that I was more than satisfied with. It took my husband over two weeks with a pair of trotting oxen to go forthe furniture to St. Paul. 

My baby was born three weeks after we moved in. There was no doctorwithin a hundred miles. I got through, helped only by my sister-in-law. What do you women nowadays, with your hospitals and doctors know of atime like this? When it rained, and rain it did, plenty, that October, the only dry place was on that trunk under the shelf and many an hourbaby and I spent there. Whenever there was sunshine that carpet wasdrying. 

We were much troubled with what the settlers called "prairie dig. " Itwas a kind of itch that seemed to come from the new land. It made thehands very sore and troublesome. We did everything but could find nocure. The Dakota Sioux were our neighbors and were very friendly. Theyhad not yet learned to drink the white man's firewater. A squaw came inone day and when she saw how I was suffering, went out and dug a root. She scraped off the outer bark, then cooked the inner bark and rubbed iton my hands. I was cured as if by magic. She buried all parts of theroot, so I think it was poison. 

The next year we raised the first wheat on the Des Moines River. We putthe sacks in the bottom of the wagon, then our feather beds on top ofthem. The children were put on these and we started for the mill atGarden City, one hundred and thirty miles away. We had two yoke of oxen;the leaders were white with black heads and hoofs and great, widespreading horns. They were Texas cattle and were noble beasts, veryintelligent and affectionate. I could drive them by just calling "Geeand Haw". They went steadily along. My husband and I spelled each otherand went right along by night as well as day. We were about forty hoursgoing. The moonlight, with the shadows of the clouds on the prairie wasmagnificent. We never saw a human being. We had our wheat ground andstarted back. As I was walking beside the oxen while my husband slept, Istarted up a flock of very young geese. I caught them all and theybecame very tame. They once flew away and were gone three weeks, but allreturned. When we got home, we had a regular jubilation over that flour. Twenty of the neighbors came in to help eat it. They were crazy for thebread. I made three loaves of salt rising bread and they were enormous, but we never got a taste of them. 

The Indians were always kind neighbors. They learned evil from thewhites. The father of Inkpadutah used to hold my little girl and measureher foot for moccasins. Then he would bring her the finest they couldmake and would be so pleased when they fitted. The Indians always hadwonderful teeth. They did not scrub the enamel off. They used to ask forcoffee and one who had been to school said, "Could I have a greenpumpkin?" and ate it raw with a relish. 

We had a carpet sack for stockings. An Indian orator used to look at itwith covetous eyes. One day he came in, laid two mink skins on thetable, took the stockings out of the bag and stepping right along withvictory in his eye, bore that sack away. 

We lived on salt and potatoes for five weeks that first winter. We paid$1. 00 for three pounds of sugar and $18. 00 for a barrel of musty flourthat we had to chop out with an ax and grate. That was in the winter of'55. During the Inkpadutah outbreak, the soldiers ate everything we had. 

During the outbreak of '62 we moved to Mankato. I belonged to the ladiesaid and we took care of the wounded and refugees sent from New Ulm. Wemade field beds on the floor for them. One poor German woman went tosleep while carrying a glass of water across the room to her husband, who was wounded. She just sank down in such a deep sleep that nothingcould arouse her. I never could imagine such exhaustion. Old man Irelandhad sixteen bullet holes, but had never stopped walking until he got tous. Mrs. Eastlake, that wonderful woman, was in this hospital. She wasthe woman who crawled all those miles on her hands and knees. 

Mrs. Nancy Lowell--1854. 

I came to Faribault in 1854 and boarded at the hotel kept by theNuttings the first winter. 

One evening I stepped to the door to throw out a washbasin of water andsaw a large dog standing there. I put the dish down and was going out tocall him. When my husband saw me going toward the door he said, "Whatare you going to do?" I said, "Call in a dog. " It was bright moonlight. He said, "Let me see him. " He looked and hastily closed the door saying, "The biggest kind of a timber wolf. Be careful what kind of pets youtake in here. "

The upper part of the hotel where we lived the first winter, was all inone room. I was the only woman, so we had a room made with sheeting. Sometimes there were twenty people sleeping in that loft. We did nothave to open the windows. Most windows in those days were not expectedto be opened anyway. The air just poured in between the cracks, and thesnow blew in with gusto. It was not at all unusual to get up from undera snow bank in the morning. 

I brought many pretty dresses and wore them too. Those who first came, if they had money and were brides, were dressed as if they lived in NewYork City. 

We had a dance one night in our little log hotel. It was forty degreesbelow zero, and very cold anywhere away from the big stove. The womenwanted to dance all the time and so set the table and put on the breadand cake before the company came. Five hours afterward when we went toeat, they were frozen solid. The dish towels would freeze too, as theyhung on the line in the kitchen over the stove, while the stove wasgoing, too. 

One morning, after we were keeping house, my husband said, "I guess wehave some spring company. You better go in and see them. " I did and inthe parlor was the biggest kind of an ox standing there chewing hisquid. He had just come in through the open door to make a morning call. All kinds of animals ran at large then. 

Mrs. William Dow--1854, Little Falls. 

We came to Little Falls and built this house we are now living in in1854. It was built right on an Indian trail that paralleled the RedRiver cart trail. You see that road out there? That is just where theold Red River cart road went. That is Swan River and it went between usand that. Our back door was right on their foot trail. You could stepout of our door onto it. There is a big flat rock on the river up aboutfour miles where the Chippewa and Sioux signed treaties to behavethemselves. After this they were killing each other before they got outof town. You know our Indians were the Chippewas. They were woodsIndians. The prairies belonged to the Sioux. They had always beenenemies. Hole-in-the-Day was head chief here and a pretty good chief, too. His tribe got suspicious of him; they thought he was two-faced, soshot him, as they did his father before him. He had married a whitewoman, so the real chief now is a white man. I think he was on thesquare though. He used often to drop in for a piece of pie or anythingto eat. He is buried upon the bluff here. 

Swan River Ferry was three miles from Little Falls. It was on the directroad through Long Prairie to Fort Abercrombie. The Red River Cart Trailcrossed the Mississippi River at Belle Prairie. There was a mill at thatlittle place. 

When the lumber jacks were driving logs they used to have their wamiganstie up in the river just outside that front door. 

The Indians were camped all around here. They used to fill theirmoccasins with rabbit hair to take the place of stockings. Once I wasstanding by the river and I saw a squaw come out with a new born baby. She wasn't making any fuss over it. First she took it by the heels andplunged it in the river; then by the head and soused it in that way. 

Mrs. Salome was a squaw who had married a white man. Her husband went tothe war. I used to write her letters to him and she would sign them withher cross. She became very fond of me. At the time of the outbreak shesaid to me, "Kinnesagas?" meaning, "are you afraid?" I did not reply. Then she said "If you are, I'll hide you. " She made a wigwam by the sideof hers and wanted me to go into it with my children, but I would not. I liked her, but I remembered how when the Indians had had a scalpdance, I had seen her shake one of the scalps in her teeth. This wasafter she had married a white man. I asked her if she did not like theIndians better than the whites and she said in Chippewa, "If I do, whydo I not stay with them?"

At the beginning of the outbreak the Sioux were sending runners all thetime to get the Chippewas to join them. One of our men, William Nichols, spoke the Indian language as well as English. He had lived with themwhen he was a fur trader. He used to disguise himself as an Indian andgo to the councils, so we all knew just what was going on. Old Buffalo, a chief, said, "If you go to war, I'll be a white man; I won't be anIndian any more. I'll go away and stay by myself always. " We knew atonce when they fully decided not to join the Sioux. 

Finally I yielded to the entreaties of my friends and went down to St. Cloud to stay with friends until the danger should be over. My husbandwas in the war. One day someone coming from Little Falls said, "There'ssomeone living in your house. " "Well, " said I, "if anyone can, I can, "so back I went. I found an old friend from further up the country there. We joined forces and lived there until the war was over. 

One day in war time I looked out of my window and could see Mr. Hallmilking his cow in the pasture. It had a rail fence around it. I couldsee what he could not--some Indians sitting in one of the corners of thefence stretching Sioux scalps over withes. When they finished, they gotup all at the same time, giving a blood curdling war-whoop. The cowkicked over the milk and fled bellowing. I think that Mr. Hall made evenbetter time and he never even looked around. 

The squaws would often have ear rings made of wire with three corneredpieces of tin dangling all around their ears. It was not how good, buthow much, with them. How these Indians ever lived through a winter theway they dressed, I don't see. They wore only leggings, shirts, breechclouts and a blanket. Their legs were no barer than a Scotchman'sthough. Our Indians used to tuck things in the bosom of their shirt, aswell as in their belts. They used to tuck butcher knives in theirleggings. If they were ever going to go on a tear and get drunk, when wefirst came, they would always get my husband to take charge of all theirguns and knives. 

When the squaws wore mourning, they were all painted black and alwaysslashed themselves with knives. 

During the last of the fifties, we never had any money. It would not doyou any good if you had for if you took money to the store they wouldjust give you an order for more goods instead of the change. The RedRiver carts used to camp in that little grove of trees over there. Weused to sell them supplies and they would give us English silver money. Once we took some to the store and they were terribly surprised to seemoney. They could not understand how we came by it. Thought we must havehoarded it, but we told them that it came from the Red River drivers. 

Mrs. William J. White--1854. 

My husband, Mr. White, started for Lake Addie, Minnesota Territory, inMay, to join some friends and take up a claim. Mr. Hoag had named thislake in honor of his daughter. The settlement, if you could call itthat, was called Grimshaw Settlement. It is now Brownton. He got up hiscabin and began clearing the land. He and his friends did their cookingand only had two meals a day--breakfast at eight and dinner at three. One hot day they had just cooked a big pan of apple sauce and set it outto cool. Some Indians on their way to a war dance at Shakopee camestreaking along all painted up. First one and then another plunged hisfist in that apple sauce and stuck it down his throat. It must haveskinned them all the way down, but not one made a sound, only lookedhard when they saw the next one start in. 

My husband wrote for me to come to him. I had no pilot, so could notstart at once. My boy fell and broke his arm and I thought he was badlyhurt inside so I wrote for father to come home. It generally took solong for a letter to go through that when two weeks later I got a chanceto go with company, I started, thinking I could get there before theletter would, as they were generally much longer in going than one couldtravel. When I got on the Northern Belle, a fine boat, one of mychildren was taken with croup. Dr. N----, a Universalist minister, gotoff at Dubuque and bought medicine for me. This saved the child, but hewas sick all the way. We were stuck in Beef Slough for several days. Inever left the cabin as my child needed me, but some time during thefirst day a boat from St. Paul was stuck there too, so near us thatpassengers passed from one boat to the other all day. It was only when Igot to Hastings, where I had thought to meet my husband that I found hehad been on that other stranded boat. Later, I learned that he had spentsome time on my boat, but of course, did not know I was there. Theletter I had written him had gone straight, as a man who was going totheir settlement had taken charge of it from the first. I had to waitsix weeks in Hastings until he went clear to Pennsylvania and back. Evangeline wasn't in it with me. 

Finally he came and we went on to our new home. I thought I had neverseen such wonderful wild flowers. Mr. Grimshaw came after us with hishorses. We had supper at his house the night before we got to our home, and I never tasted anything so good--pheasants browned so beautifullyand everything else to match. The most wonderful welcome, too, went withthat meal. 

We passed fields just red with wild strawberries and in places where theland had been cultivated and the grass was sort of low, they grew awayup and were large with big clusters, too. We did just revel in them. They were much more spicy than any we had ever eaten. The wild grassgrew high as a man's head. When we came in sight of our home, I loved itat once and so did the children. It was in the bend of a little streamwith stepping stones across. I knew at once that I had always wantedstepping stones on my place. About two feet from the floor a beam hadbeen set in the whole length of the room. It was roped across and arough board separated it into two sections. These were our beds and withfeather beds and boughs, made a fine sleeping place. Wolves used to howlall around at night but with the stock secure and the home closed uptightly, we were happy. Our walls were plastered with mud and thenpapered by me with paper that was six cents a roll back east. We made abarrel chair and all kinds of home-made furniture out of packing boxes. Our rooms looked so cozy. Father was a natural furniture maker, thoughwe never knew it before we came here. 

Game was very plentiful and as we never had enough back home, we did notsoon tire of it. My husband once killed a goose and eleven young oneswith one shot. 

The first year our garden was looking fine when the grasshoppers came insuch swarms that they obscured the sun. They swooped on everything inthe garden. There was no grain as the squirrels, black birds and gophershad never tasted this delicacy before and followed the sower, taking itas fast as it fell. We planted it three times and we had absolutely nocrop of any kind that first year. 

We bought four horses later and had them for the summer's work. Theycame from Illinois and were not used to the excessive cold of Minnesota. That winter it was forty degrees below zero for many successive days. Itseems to me we have not had as much cold all this winter as we had in aweek then. Christmas time it was very cold. We wanted our mail so one ofthe men rode one of the horses twelve miles to get it. When he arrivedthere the horse was very sick. He was dosed up and was seemingly allright. When the man wanted to start for home, he was warned that itwould be fatal to take a horse which had been dosed with all kinds ofhot stuff out in the terrible cold. He took the risk but the horse felldead just as he entered the yard. We lost two others in much the sameway that winter. 

We then bought a yoke of young steers. They were very little broken andthe strongest animals I ever saw. Their names were Bright and Bill. Oncethe whole family was going to a party at New Auburn, a kind of a city. My husband had made an Indian wagon. He held them in the road while weall got in. They started up with such a flourish that everything thatcould not hold itself on, fell off. The road was full of things wewanted with us. They ran on a keen jump for nine miles until we came tothe house where we were going. It was the first house we came to. Whenthey saw the barn, they must have thought it looked like home for theyran in there and brought up against the barn with a bang. As soon as Mr. White could, he jumped out and held them, but their fun was all gone andthey stood like lambs. 

I never saw anything funnier than those steers and a huge snappingturtle. They found him near the creek when they were feeding. They wouldcome right up to him (they always did everything in concert) then lookat him at close range. The turtle would thrust out his head and snap atthem; then they would snort wildly and plunge all over the prairie, returning again and again to repeat the performance, which only endedwhen the turtle disappeared in the brook. 

Wolves were very fearless and fierce that winter. They ran in packs. They would look in at our windows. Once we sent a hired boy six milesfor twenty-five pounds of pork for working men. When he was near home apack of wolves followed him, but he escaped by throwing the pork. Mr. Pollock and Mr. White were followed in the same way. 

Once one of our friends killed a steer. We were all anxious foramusement so any pretext would bring on a party. All the neighbors had apiece of the meat but we thought the friends who had killed the steershould have a party and have roast beef for us all, so we sent word wewere all coming. Mrs. Noble, my neighbor worked all day to make a hoopskirt. She shirred and sewed together a piece of cloth about three yardsaround. In these shirrings she run rattan--a good heavy piece so itwould stand out well. I made a black silk basque and skirt. My finerywas all ready to put on. One of the neighbor's girls was to stay withthe children. The baby had been quite restless, so according to thecustom, I gave her a little laudanum to make her sleep. I did notrealize that it was old and so much stronger. Just before going, when Iwas all dressed, I went to look at the baby. I did not like her looks, so took her up to find her in a stupor. Needless to say there was noparty for us that night. It took us all to awaken her and keep herawake. I never gave laudanum after that, though I always had before. 

Mrs. Paulina Starkloff--1854. 

My name was Paulina Lenschke. I was twelve years old when I came toMinneapolis in 1854. We intended to stay in St. Paul but were told thatthis was a better place, so came here and bought an acre and a half justwhere the house now stands, Main Street N. E. The town then was mostlynortheast. The St. Charles hotel on Marshall Street, northeast, was justbelow us and so were most of the stores. Morgan's foundry and Orth'sbrewery were just on the other side of us. We paid $600. 00 in gold forthe land and half of it was in my name, as my mother paid $350. 00 that Ihad made myself. I think I was probably the only twelve year old childthat came into the state with so much money earned by herself. It wasthis way. 

We went to Australia to dig gold in 1847. We drove an ox team into theinterior with other prospectors doing the same until we came todiggings. The men would dig and then "cradle" the soil for the gold. This cradle was just like a baby's cradle only it had a sieve in thebottom. One man would have a very long handled dipper with which hewould dip water from a dug well. He only dipped and the other manstirred with a stick and rocked. Most of the soil would wash out butthere would always be some "dumplings" caused by the clay hardening andnothing but hard work would break them. The miners would take out thegold which was always round, and dump these hard pieces. After a day'swork there would be quite a pile that was never touched by them. I wouldtake a can and knife and go from dump to dump gathering the gold inthese dumplings. One day my father went prospecting with a party of menand was never seen again. After months of fruitless search my mothertook me and my little tin can of nuggets back to Germany. She sold themfor me for $350. 00 in gold. Then we came to Minnesota and bought thisplace. 

The Red River carts used to be all day passing our house. They wouldcome squeaking along one after another. Sometimes the driver would takehis wife and children with him. These carts had no metal about them. Oneman would have charge of several. 

Mrs. Anna E. Balser--1855, Ninety-four years old. 

I was the only girl in our family that ever worked, but when I was tenyears old I laid my plan to get myself out of my mother's tracks. Shehad so much to do with her big family. I could cry when I think of itnow. So, when I was fourteen, my father, scared for me and holding backevery minute, took me to the city to learn the trade I had chosen. I wasthrough in six months and could do the heaviest work as well as thefinest. I wish you could see the fancy bosomed shirts I used to makewhen I was fourteen! No one could beat me. I always had a pocketful ofmoney for I got two and six a day. That would be 38c now. I went fromhouse to house to work and always had the best room and lived on the fatof the land. It was a great event when the tailoress came. 

I came to Lakeland in 1855. The prairies around there looked like appleorchards back home. The scrub oak grew just that way. I would betanything I could go and pick apples if I had not known. I had thought ofbuying in Minneapolis, but my friends who owned Lakeland thought it wasgoing to be the city of Minnesota, so I bought here. I was a tailoressand made a good living until the hard times came on. Money was plentyone day. The next you could not get a "bit" even, anywhere. Then, afterthat, I had to trade my work for anything I could get. 

I brought a blue black silk dress with mutton leg sleeves among mythings when I come. It was the best wearing thing I ever see. Cheaper towear than calico because it would never wear out. I paid $1. 00 a yardfor it. It was twenty-seven inches wide. It took twelve yards to makethe dress. For a wrap we wore a long shawl. I had one of white lace. Wegot three yards of lace webbing and trimmed it with lace on the edge. Orwe would take one width of silk and finish that fancy on the edge. Theruffles on everything was fluted. When you shirred them you would holdthem over the first and third finger passing under the second finger. That would make large flutings. If you had an Italian iron you could doit fast, but there wa'n't many so fortunate. An Italian iron was a tubeabout as big as your finger on a standard. Two rods to fit this tubecome with it. You could put these heated, inside then run your silkruffle or whatever you were making over it and there was your flutequick as a wink. 

Mrs. Mary E. Dowling--1855. 

As Miss Watson I came from Pennsylvania in 1855 and took a school toteach back of Marine. I got $36. 00 in gold a month and so was well paid. Had from five to twenty-five children who came to learn and so behavedwell. 

When I would walk through the woods I would sometimes see a bearleisurely sagging around. When I did, my movements were not like his. All kinds of wild animals were very plenty. The foxes were the cutestlittle animals and so tame. They would seem to be laughing at you. 

A band of Indians was encamped at a lake near. One brave all dressed inhis Sunday best used to come and sit in the kitchen day after day. Heused to talk to the men but never said a word to us. He could speak goodEnglish. One day the chief came in and went for him. Said he had beenaway from his tepee for days and his squaws wanted him. Like lightninghe crossed the room to where I was and said, "Me got Sioux squaw. Me gotWinnebago squaw. Me want white squaw. You go?" I was very earnest indeclining. 

Mrs. Robert Anderson--1854. 

I was the first white woman in Eden Prairie. I came in 1854 with myhusband and small children and settled there in one of the first loghouses built. We paid for our farm the first year, from the cranberrieswhich grew in a bog on our land and which we sold for $1. 00 a bushel. 

I had never seen Indians near to, and so was very much afraid of them. One day a big hideously painted brave marched in, seated himself andlooked stolidly around without making a sound. His long knife wassticking in his belt. I was overpowered with fright and for a fewmoments could do nothing. My children, one two years old and the other ababy, were asleep behind the curtain. Realizing that I could do nothingfor them and that his anger might be aroused if he saw me run away withthem, I fled precipitately in the direction where my husband wasworking. I had run about a quarter of a mile when my mother heart toldme I might not be in time if I waited for my husband, so I turned andfled back towards the cabin. Entering, I saw my little two year old boystanding by the Indian's side playing with the things in his belt whilethe Indian carefully held the baby in his arms. In his belt were atobacco pouch and pipe, two rabbits with their heads drawn through, twoprairie chickens hanging from it by their necks, a knife and a tomahawk. His expression remained unchanged. I gave him bread and milk to eat andever after he was our friend, oftentimes coming and bringing thechildren playthings and moccasins. When he left, he gave me the rabbitsand prairie chickens and afterwards often brought me game. 

One day Mr. Anderson was at work in the field, a long distance from thehouse. He was cutting grain with a scythe and told me he would justabout get that piece done if I would bring him his supper. I had neverbeen over on this knoll which was on the other side of a small hill fromthe house. I got his supper ready, taking all the dishes and food in abasket and carrying a teapot full of tea in my hand. I had to pass asmall cranberry bog and could see squaws at work picking berries. As Icame to a clump of trees, ten or twelve Indians with their faces asusual hideously painted, the whole upper part of their bodies bare andpainted, rose from this clump of trees and looked at me. I waited fornothing, but threw my basket and teapot and made for the house. As I gotto the top of the hill I looked back and could see the Indians feastingon my husband's supper. Upon his return home to supper that evening, hebrought the dishes and the teapot with him. 

We had been in Eden Prairie about six years and had never been to churchas there was no church near enough for us to attend. We heard there wasto be preaching at Bloomington, and determined to go. We had always beenchurch-going people and had felt the loss of services very keenly. Wehad nothing but an ox team and thought this would not be appropriate togo to church with, so, carrying my baby, I walked the six miles tochurch and six miles back again. The next Sunday, however, we rodenearly to church with the ox team, then hitched them in the woods andwent on foot the rest of the way. 

Mr. Anderson was always a devoted friend of Mr. Pond, the missionary andattended his church for many years. One of Mr. Anderson's sons took up aclaim in the northern part of the State. When Mr. Pond died, he camedown to the funeral. Upon his return, he saw a tepee pitched on the edgeof his farm and went over to see what it was there for and who was init. As he neared it, he heard talking in a monotone and stood listening, wondering what it could mean. He pushed up the flap and saw Indiansengaged in prayer. He asked them who taught them to pray and theyreplied "Grizzly Bear taught us. " He told them Grizzly Bear, which wasthe Indian name for Mr. Pond, was dead and would be seen no more. Hetook from his pocketbook a little white flower which he had taken fromthe casket, told them what it was and each one of them held itreverently with much lamentation. This was twenty years after thesepeople had been taught by Grizzly Bear. 

Mrs. Wilder--1854. 

We settled on a farm near Morristown. There was an Indian village near. We always used to play with those Sioux children and always found themvery fair in their play. We used to like to go in their tepees. Therewas a depression in the middle for the fire. The smoke was supposed togo out of the hole in the top of the tent. An Indian always had a smokysmell. When they cooked game, they just drew it a little--never took offthe feathers much or cut the head or feet off. 

Some of our Indians got into a fuss with a band from Faribault and oneof our Indians killed one of them. He brought a great knife that he haddone the killing with and gave it to my father all uncleaned as it was. He said it was "seechy" knife, meaning bad. As they were still fighting, my father took it just as it was and stuck it up in a crack above ourfront door in our one room. Then he sent to Morristown for Mr. Morristo straighten out the fight. He had lived among the Indians for a longtime and knew their language. He brought them to time. Later they cameand wanted the knife but my father would not give it to them. 

Geese and ducks covered the lakes. Later we had the most wonderfulfeather beds made from their feathers. We only used the small fluffyones, so they were as if they were made from down. Wild rice, one of theIndians' principal articles of diet, when gathered was knocked intotheir canoe. It was often unhulled. I have seen the Indians hull it. They would dig a hole in the ground, line it with a buffalo skin, hairside down, then turn the rice in this, jumping up and down on it withtheir moccasined feet until it was hulled. I could never fancy it muchafter I saw this. 

We had great quantities of wild plums on our own place. Two trees grewclose together and were so much alike we always called them the twins. Those trees had the most wonderful plums--as large as a small peach. Weused to peel them and serve them with cream. Nothing could have a finerflavor. 

Just before the outbreak, an Indian runner, whom none of us had everseen, went around to all the Sioux around there. Then with their poniesloaded, the tepee poles dragging behind, for three days our Indians wentby our place on the old trail going west. Only a few of Bishop Whipple'sChristian Indians remained. 

Mr. Warren Wakefield--1854. 

My father came to Wayzata with his family, settling where the Sam Bowmanplace now is. We had lived over a year in southern Minnesota. As thehail took all our crops, we had lived on thin prairie chickens andbiscuits made of sprouted wheat. It would not make bread. The biscuitswere so elastic and soft that they could be stretched way out. Thesewere the first playthings that I can remember. 

A trader came with cows, into the country where we were living, justbefore the hail storm and as there was nothing to feed them on, myfather traded for some of them. He traded one of his pair of oxen forforty acres of land in Wayzata and the other for corn to winter thestock. 

The first meal we had in our new home was of venison from a buck whichmy father shot. It was very fat and juicy and as we had not had any meatbut ducks and prairie chickens in two years, it tasted very delicious. Ihave counted thirty-four deer in the swamps at one time near our house;they were so abundant. We lived the first winter in Wayzata on fish, venison and corn meal and I have never lived so well. 

I was sixteen years old before I ever had a coat. We wore thick shirtsin the winter and the colder it was, the more of them we wore. In theeast, my mother had always spun her own yarn and woven great piles ofblankets and woolen sheets. These were loaded in the wagon and broughtto our new home. When there was nothing else, these sheets made ourshirts. We never wore underclothing, but our pants were thickly lined. 

My mother was a tailoress and that first year in Minnesota we could nothave lived if it had not been for this. She cut out and made by hand allkinds of clothing for the settlers. My father used to buy leather andthe shoemaker came to the house and made our shoes. 

One spring we had a cellar full of vegetables that we could not use, sofather invited all the squaws who lived near us to come and get some. They came and took them away. In the cellar also was a keg and a twogallon jug of maple vinegar. Cut Nose, one of the finest specimens ofmanhood I have ever seen, tall, straight and with agreeable features inspite of the small piece gone from the edge of one nostril, was theirchief, and came the next day with a large bottle, asking to have itfilled with whiskey. Father said he had none, but Cut Nose said he knewthere was a jug and keg of it in the cellar. Father told him to go andtake it if he found any. He sampled first the jug and then the keg witha most disgusted expression and upon coming upstairs threw the bottle onthe bed and stalked out. This maple vinegar was made from maple sugarand none could be better. 

Cut Nose was often a visitor at our home. He was a great brag and notnoted for truth telling. He was very fond of telling how he shot therenegade Inkpadutah. This was all imagination. He had an old flint lockmusket with the flint gone and would illustrate his story by crawlingand skulking, generally, to the great delight of the boys. One rainy daymy mother was sick and was lying in her bed which was curtained off fromthe rest of the living room. As Cut Nose, who did not know this, toldhis oft repeated story, illustrating it as usual, he thrust his gununder the curtains and his face and shoulders after it to show how heshot the renegade chief from ambush. My mother dashed out with a shriek, but was no more frightened than Cut Nose, at the apparition of the whitesquaw. 

One day my brother and I took a peck of potatoes each and went to anIndian camp to trade for two pairs of moccasins, the usual trade. Weleft the potatoes with the squaws for a moment and ran outside to seewhat some noise was. When we returned there were no potatoes to be seenand no moccasins to be traded. We began looking about but could seenothing. The fire was burned down well and was a glowing bed of coals inits depression in the center of the tepee. After a while, one of the oldsquaws went to the ashes and digging them with a stick, commenced to digout the potatoes. As the fire was about four feet in diameter, the usualwidth, there was plenty of room for our half bushel of potatoes. Theygave us some of them which had a wonderful flavor, but we never got anymoccasins. 

Among the Indians living at the lake one winter was a white child aboutthree years old. My father tried to buy her, but they would not let hergo or tell who she was. They left that part of the country later, stillhaving her in their possession. 

If it had not been for ginseng in Minnesota, many of the pioneers wouldhave gone hungry. Mr. Chilton of Virginia came early and built a smallfurnace and drying house in Wayzata. Everyone went to the woods and dugginseng. For the crude product, they received five cents a pound and theamount that could be found was unlimited. It was dug with a long narrowbladed hoe and an expert could take out a young root with one stroke. Ifwhile digging, he had his eye on another plant and dug that at once, hecould make a great deal of money in one day. An old root sometimesweighed a half pound. I was a poor ginseng digger for I never noticedquickly, but my father would dig all around my feet while I was huntinganother chance. The tinge of green of this plant was different from anyother so could be easily distinguished. When we sold it, we were alwayspaid in gold. After ginseng is steamed and dried, it is the color ofamber. 

Mrs. Leroy Sampson--1854. 

Six families of us came together from Rhode Island and settled onMinnewashta Lake in '54. There was only a carpenter shop in Excelsior. We spent the first few months of our stay all living together in one logshack which was already there. The first night the man who had driven usfrom St. Paul sat up all night with his horses and we none of us slept awink inside that little windowless cabin on account of a noise we heard. In the morning we found it was the mournful noise of the loons on thelake that had kept us awake, instead of the wolves we had feared. 

Mrs. Anna Simmons Apgar--1854. 

When our six families got to the springs near Excelsior it was near darkand we struck the worst road we had found in the swampy land by it. Themosquitoes were dreadful, too. How dreadful, no one today can everbelieve. One of the tiredout men said, "This is Hell!" "No, " saidanother, "Not Hell, but Purgatory. " The spring took its name from that. 

When my father had put up his cabin he made our furniture with his ownhands out of basswood. He made one of those beds with holes in the sidepiece for the ropes to go from side to side instead of our springs oftoday. They used to be very comfortable. When father got ready for therope he had none, so he made it by twisting basswood bark. Then mothersewed two of our home spun sheets together for a tick and my uncle cuthay from the marsh and dried it, to fill it and we had a bed fit for aking. Our floor was of maple split with wedges and hewed out with abroadax. Father was a wonder at using this. A broadax was, you know, twelve or fourteen inches wide and the handle was curved a little. A manhad to be a man to use one of these. It took strength and a good trainedeye to hew timber flat with one of these axes. 

When I was playing I tore my clothes off continually in the woods. Finally my mother said, "This has gone far enough!" and made me a bluedenim with a low neck and short sleeves. Has anyone ever told you howterrible the mosquitoes were in the early days? Think of the worstexperience you ever had with them and then add a million for each oneand you will have some idea. My little face, neck, arms, legs and feetwere so bitten, scratched and sunburned that when I was undressed I wasthe most checkered looking young one you ever saw. Those parts of memight have been taken from a black child and glued on my little whitebody. 

Such huge fish as overrun the lakes you have never seen. We thought theIndians numerous and they had fished for ages in those lakes, but theyonly caught what they wanted for food. It took the white men with theircatching for sport to see how many they could catch in one day, andwrite back east about it, to clean out the lakes. 

Father hewed a big basswood canoe out of a log. Eight people could sitcomfortably in it as long as they did not breathe, but if they did, overshe went! We used to have lots of fun in that old canoe just the sameand the fish got fewer after it came into commission. 

When we six families first came we were all living in one little cabinwaiting for our homes to be built and our furniture to come. One of thewomen was very sick. Dr. Ames came out to see her and cured her allright. It took a day to get him and another day for him to get home. Hewanted to wash his hands and my aunt, who was used to everything, saidshe thought she would drop dead when she had to take him the water in alittle wooden trough that father had hewed out. He made such cute littlehooded cradles for babies, too, out of the forest wood. 

Mrs. Newman Woods--1854, Excelsior. 

When we made our tallow dips or rough candles, we took the candlewickingand wound it around from our hand to our elbow, then cut it through. Weheld a short stick between our knees and threw one of these wicks aroundit, twisting it deftly, letting it hang down. When we had filled thestick, we would lay it down and fill another until we had wicks forabout ten dozen dips. My mother would then fill the wash-boilertwo-thirds full of water and pour melted deer or other tallow on top ofthis. Two chairs had been placed with two long slats between them. Shewould dip one stick full of wicks up and down in the boiler a number oftimes, then place it across the slats to cool. This was continued untilall the wicks were dipped. By this time, the first would have hardenedand could be dipped again. We would work hard all day and make eight orten dozen dips. Later we had candle molds made of tin. We would put awick in the center where it was held erect and then pour these moldsfull of tallow and let them harden. Later the molds were dipped in hotwater and then a spring at the side, pushed the candle out. This wasvery simple. 

We had our first kerosene lamp in '61. We were terrible frightened ofit. It did smell terrible but this did not keep us from being very proudof it. 

Once mother was frying pancakes for supper. A number of Indians going bycame in and saw her. They were all painted or daubed. They kept reachingover and trying to get the pancakes. Finally one of them stuck out hisleg acting as if it was broken. I ran madly to the back clearing wherefather and uncle Silas were working and told them there were Indianstrying to get our pancakes and that one of them had a broken leg. Theywere not frightened for they knew the Indians and their customs. I justwaited to see father give them a pancake apiece and that leg settle downnaturally, then ran and got under the bed. 

The Indians were very fond of father who had a very heavy beard. It usedto be stylish to shave the upper lip. The Indians used to watch himshave with great interest. The neighborhood was full of them, generallyall painted for the war dance. They used to bother father to deathwanting to be shaved. One morning he did shave one of them and you neversaw such a proud Indian, or more disgusted ones than those who were leftout. Nearly all of the Indians who came were Sioux and fine looking. 

One of the greatest pests to the pioneers around here was the thousandlegged worms. They were very thick around where we were and verypoisonous. My little sister nearly died from getting one in her mouthwhen she was lying on a quilt on the floor. 

Mother used to make mince pies by soaking pumpkin in vinegar. We driedthe wild grapes for raisins. My, but those pies were good. Everybodybragged on "Aunt Hannah's mince pies. "

My father and brother frequently went hunting for deer. They used to runtheir bullets, which were round, by melting lead in a ladle in thestove. Such a looking kitchen as they would leave! Ashes from the ladleall over everything. It wasn't much of a trick to shoot deer, they wereso thick and so tame. They used to come right near the house. I did notlike venison for it seemed to me like eating a friend. 

All six of us families used to wash at the lake in summer. We used softsoap that we made ourselves and boiled the clothes in a big kettle. Theywere beautifully white. 

Mr. Chester L. Hopkins--1854, Hopkins. 

When I was a little boy we had a grindstone in our yard which was usedby us and our few scattered neighbors. One night we were awakened byhearing the grindstone going, and father went to the door to see who wasusing it. A party of forty Sioux braves on their ponies were standingaround, while some of the braves ground their knives which each in histurn put in his belt. It was a bright moonlight night and we could seethem as plainly as if it was day. The Indians were in full war paint andfeathers and after their task was accomplished, rode one after the otherover the hill where they stood out like black silhouettes, and finallydisappeared. They were probably going to a war dance. 

Miss Florinda Hopkins--Hopkins. 

When I was a little girl a number of Indians came in on a rainy day, andtired from a long tramp, lay asleep on the floor of the kitchen. Theparty consisted of a chief and seven braves. My mother was making driedapple pies. When she had finished, she cut two of them into six pieceseach and gave each Indian a piece which he ate with the greatest relish. All of them kept a watchful eye on the remaining pieces which theyregarded wistfully. The chief with a noble gesture motioned them all toleave the house and remained himself. As soon as they were outside hemotioned for the rest of the pie and ate it all with the greatest relishwhile the rest of the band looked enviously through the window. Werethese not, indeed, children?

I remember a Sioux war party of ten or more going by our house, returning from a war dance at Shakopee. They were doing their war songbusiness as they trotted along and swinging one pitiful scalp on a pole. Their battles were generally like this. Ten was a small number to killone Chippewa. When the Chippewa retaliated they would go in the sameproportion. 

One morning a party stopped here. They were very tired. Had probablytrotted a long, long way for their endurance was wonderful. They justsaid "Chippewa?" and as soon as they knew we had seen none were flyingon again. 

We often traded food with the Indians as well as giving it to them, allowing them to make their own terms. They would bring a pair of fancybeaded moccasins and trade them for six doughnuts. 

Mrs. J. W. Ladd--1854. 

I remember seeing and hearing the Red River carts as they passed throughSt. Anthony. The cart was almost square with posts standing up along thesides to hold the furs which were piled high above the cart and ropeddown in place. There was one swarthy man to five or six ox drawn carts. He was dressed in a coonskin cap or broad brimmed hat with buckskintrousers and jumper. He had a knit bright colored sash about his waistand his hat had a bright colored band. 

One day my mother was sitting sewing while I was playing about the room, when the light seemed obscured. We looked up to see a number of Indianfaces in the window. They made motions to mother to trade her earringsfor moccasins and failing in this, they asked for the bright coloredtassels which hung from the curtain. They also very much admired mymother's delaine dress which was of triangles in blue, red, black andwhite. When refused they went away peaceably but afterwards oftenreturned trying to make a trade. 

Mrs. C. H. Pettit--1854, Minneapolis. 

In 1854 I attended church in the Tooth-pick church. This was a smallchurch so called from its high, narrow tower. I had never seen Indiansas we had just moved to town. I was walking along through the woods onwhat is now Fourth street when I was surrounded by yelling, paintedIndians on ponies. Seeing that I was frightened nearly to death theycontinued these antics, circling round, and round me, whooping andyelling, until I reached my home. Then they rode rapidly awayundoubtedly taking great pleasure in the fright they had given thePaleface. 

Mrs. Anna Hennes Huston--1854. 

I moved to St. Anthony in 1854. I was only a tiny tot but used to gowith my brother along a path by the river to find our cow. We usuallyfound her in the basement of the university. 

The roaring of the Falls used to scare me and if the wind was in theright direction we would be all wet with the spray. 

I remember that at one time in the early days, potatoes were veryscarce. My mother traded a wash dish full of eggs for the same amount ofpotatoes. 

Mr. Henry Favel--1854. 

With my family I lived thirty miles from Carver. My father died and as Ihad no money to buy a coffin, I made it myself. I had to walk thirtymiles for the nails. The boards were hand hewed and when the coffin wasmade, it looked so different from those we had seen, in its staringwhiteness, that we took the only thing we had, a box of stove blacking, which we had brought from the east with us and stained the coffin withthis. 

I walked twenty miles for potatoes for seed and Paid $3. 00 a bushel forthem. I brought them home on my back. I was three days making thejourney on foot. 

The wages for a carpenter at this time were $30. 00 a month and found. 

Mrs. Rebecca Plummer--1854. 

We came to Brooklyn Center in 1854. Mr. Plummer's father had come in '52and had taken a claim. 

We did enjoy the game, for we had never had much. Pigeons were verythick. We used to stake nets for them almost touching the ground. Underthese we scattered corn. They would stoop and go in under and pick upthe grain. When they held their heads erect to swallow the corn, theirnecks would come through the meshes of the net and they could notescape. 

I saw the Winnebagoes taken to their river reservation. They camped anight on the island in the river and went through all the dances theyknew and made every noise they knew how to make. The most wonderfulsight though was to see that vast flotilla of canoes going on the nextmorning. There were hundreds of them with their Indian occupants, besides the long procession on foot. 

Mrs. C. A. Burdick--1855. 

We came to what is now St. Cloud settling near the junction of theLittle Sauk and Mississippi. The Sauk was a beautiful little river. Thestrawberries were very sweet, a much nicer flavor than tame ones. Theprairie was covered with them. 

The Winnebagoes who had lived on Long Prairie were transferred to theirnew home and we went to take care of the agency buildings they had left. There were from seventy-five to a hundred of these buildings. FranklinSteele and Anton Northrup owned them. We were awfully lonesome but webraved it out. The Indians were always coming and demanding something toeat. They were always painted and had bows and arrows with them. Theywould everlastingly stand and look in the windows and watch us work. Wewere so used to them that we never noticed them, only it was troublesometo have the light obscured. 

Have I ever seen the Red River carts? My! I should say I have! Seen themby the hundred. My husband had charge of a fur store for Kittson atFort Garry, now Winnipeg and we lived there. I used to go back and forthto St. Cloud where my parents lived with this cart train for protection. The drivers were a swarthy lot of French half breeds. Likely as nottheir hair would be hanging way down. They wore buckskin and a fancysash. Sometimes a skin cap and sometimes just their hair or a wide hat. A tame enough lot of men, fond of jigging at night. They could hold outdancing. Seemed to never tire. 

Their carts had two wheels, all wood and a cross piece to rest theplatform on. This platform had stakes standing way up at the sides. Theywere piled high with goods, furs and skins going down and suppliescoming back. I can shut my eyes and see that quaint cavalcade now. Whereare all those drivers?

The tracks were wide and deep and could be plainly seen ahead of usgoing straight through the prairie. It took twenty-one days to go fromSt. Cloud to Pembina. We used to go through Sauk Center, just a hotel orroad house, then through what is now Alexandria. A family by the name ofWright used to keep a stopping place for travelers. I don't know justwhere it would be now, but I have stayed there often. We went by way ofGeorgetown. Swan river, too, I remember. There used to be one tree onthe prairie that we could see for two days. We called it Lone Tree. 

Mr. Peter Cooper--1855. 

I moved to Vernon Center in the early fifties. I had never worn anovercoat in New York state, but when I came to Minnesota particularlyfelt the need of one. The second year I was here, I traded with anIndian, two small pigs for a brass kettle and an Indian blanket. Withoutany pattern whatever, my wife cut an overcoat from this blanket andsewed it by hand. This was the only overcoat I had for four years, butit was very comfortable. 

When I was in the Indian war in 1862 I had no mittens and sufferedgreatly for this reason. In one of the abandoned Norwegian homes, Ifound some hand made yarn, but had no way to get it made into mittens. Icarved a crochet hook out of hickory and with this crocheted myselfgloves with a place for every finger, although I had never had anyexperience and had only watched the women knit and crochet. 

Mr. Stephen Rochette--1855, St. Paul. 

Indians used often to stop to get something to eat. They never stoleanything and seemed satisfied with what we gave them. We were on thedirect road from Fort Snelling to St. Paul. It was made on the old trailbetween those two places. This went right up Seventh Street. The Indiansoften brought ducks and game to sell. 

I used to shoot pigeons and prairie chickens on what is now Summitavenue. 

I used to make cushions for Father Revoux's back. He had rheumatism verybadly. He used to go by our house horseback. I wanted to give him thecushions but he would never take anything he did not pay for. 

I bought a number of knockdown chairs in Chicago all made by hand for$125 and sold them for much more. Those chairs would last a lifetime. The parts were separate and packed well. They could be put togethereasily. 

Mrs. Stephen Rochette--1855. 

When we first came into St. Paul in 1855 we landed on the upper levee. It was used then more than the lower one. We thought we could never getused to the narrow, crooked streets. We lived with my father, JacobDoney, where the Milwaukee tracks now cross Seventh Street. 

We soon had three cows. We never had any fence for them, just turnedthem out and let them run in the streets with the other cows and pigs. Sometimes we could find them easily. Again we would have a long hunt. 

Mrs. James A. Winter--1855. 

We came to Faribault in 1855. My father had the first frame hotel there. The Indians had a permanent camp on the outskirts of the village. I wasa small girl of sixteen with very fair skin, blue eyes and red cheeks. The squaws used to come to the house asking for food, which motheralways gave them. "Old Betts" was often there. A young Indian, tall andfine looking used to come and sit watching me intently while I workedabout the house, much to my discomfort. Finally one day he came close tome and motioned to me to fly with him. I showed no fear but led the wayto the kitchen where there were others working and fed him, shaking myhead violently all the time. He was the son of a chief and was hung atMankato. 

Mrs. George E. Fisher--1855. 

Mother's name was Jane de Bow. Her father and mother were French. Shecame to Minnesota with the Stevens' in 1834 when she was seven yearsold. They were missionaries and when their own daughter died inducedJane's family to let them have her. The Indians were always sorry forher because her mother was away. They called her "Small-Crow-that-wasCaught". Mrs. Stevens never could punish her for it made the squaws soangry. 

The first Indian child my mother ever saw was a small boy who stood onthe edge of Lake Harriet beckoning to her. She was afraid at first butfinally joined him and always played with the Indian children from thattime. 

The Stevens' the next year had a little school near their cabin not farfrom where the pavilion is now. The Indian children always had to haveprizes for coming. These prizes were generally turnips. Often they gavea bushel in one day. 

In 1839 some Chippewa Indians ambushed a Sioux father who was huntingwith his little son. The child escaped and told the story. The Siouxwent on the warpath immediately and brought home forty or fiftyChippewa scalps. They had been "lucky" as they found a camp where thewarriors were all away. They massacred the old men, women and childrenand came home to a big scalp dance. My mother had played with the Indianchildren so much that she was as jubilant as they when she saw thesegory trophies. She learned and enjoyed the dance. She taught me theSioux words to this scalp dance and often sang them to us. Translatedthey are:

 You Ojibway, you are mean, We will use you like a mouse. We have got you and We will strike you down. My dog is very hungry, I will give him the Ojibway scalps. 

The Indian children would take a kettleful of water, make a fire underit, and throw fish or turtles from their bone hooks directly into this. When they were cooked slightly, they would take them out and eat themwithout salt, cracking the turtle shells on the rocks. The boys used tohunt with their bows and arrows just as they did in later years. Theywere always fair in their games. 

My mother married Mr. Gibbs and moved to this farm on what was theterritorial road near the present Agricultural college. It was on thedirect Indian trail to the hunting grounds around Rice Lake. 

The Indian warriors were always passing on it and always stopped to seetheir old playmate. By this time they had guns and they would alwaysgive them to mother to keep while they were in the house. The kitchenfloor would be covered with sleeping warriors. Mother knew all theirsuperstitions. One was that if a woman jumped over their feet they couldnever run again. I can well remember my gay, light hearted motherrunning and jumping over all their feet in succession as they lay asleepin her kitchen and the way her eyes danced with mischief as she stoodjollying them in Sioux. We noticed that none of them lost any time infinding out if they were bewitched. 

Our Indians when they came to see mother wanted to do as she did. Theywould sit up to the table and she would give them a plate and knife andfork. This pleased them much. They would start with the food on theirplates but soon would have it all in their laps. 

They were very dissatisfied with the way the whites were taking theirlands. The big treaty at Traverse de Sioux was especially distasteful tothem. They said their lands had been stolen from them. They were veryangry at my father because he put a rail fence across their trail andwould have killed him if it had not been for mother. 

The last time these good friends came was in May, 1862. A large body ofthem on horseback camped on the little knoll across from our house wherethe dead tree now is. They were sullen and despondent. Well do Iremember the dramatic gestures of their chief as he eloquently relatedtheir grievances. My mother followed every word he said for she knew howdifferently they were situated from their former condition. When shefirst knew them they owned all the country--the whites nothing. In thesefew years the tables had been turned. Her heart bled for them, herchildhood's companions. He said his warriors could hardly be kept fromthe warpath against the whites. That, so far, his counsel had prevailed, but every time they had a council it was harder to control them. Thattheir hunting and fishing grounds were gone, the buffalo disappearingand there was no food for the squaws and papooses. The Great WhiteFather had forgotten them, he knew, for their rations were long overdueand there was hunger in the camp. 

They slept that night in our kitchen, "Little beckoning boy" and theother playmates. I can still see the sad look on my mother's face as shewent from one to the other giving each a big, hot breakfast and tryingto cheer them. She could see how they had been wronged. She stood andwatched them sadly as they mounted their ponies and vanished down theold trail. 

Lieut. Governor Gilman--1855. 

The winter of '55 and '56 was thirty five degrees below zero two weeksat a time and forty degrees below was usual. 

I have often seen the Red River carts ford the river here. They crossedat the foot of Sixth Street between where the two warehouses are now. 

Mrs. Austin W. Farnsworth--1855. 

We came to Dodge County in 1855. The first year we were hailed out andwe had to live on rutabagas and wild tea. We got some game too, but wewere some tired of our diet before things began to grow again. When thathailstorm came we were all at a quilting bee. There was an old lady, Mrs. Maxfield there, rubbing her hundred mark pretty close. She set in acorner and was not scared though the oxen broke away and run home and wehad to hold the door to keep it from blowing in. We said, "Ain't youafraid?" She answered, "No, I'm not, if I do go out, I don't want to diehowling. "

The first time I worked out, when I was fourteen years old, I got 50c aweek. There was lots to do for there were twin babies. I used to getawful homesick. I went home Saturdays and when I came over the hillwhere I could see our cabin, I could have put my arms around it andkissed it, I was that glad to see home. 

Mr. Theodore Curtis--1855, Minneapolis. 

When I was a little boy my father was building some scows down where theWashington Avenue bridge now is at the boat landing. There were five orsix small sluiceways built up above the river leading from the platformwhere the lumber from the mills was piled, down to where these scowswere. These sluices were used to float the lumber down to the scows. Aplatform was built out over the river in a very early day and was, Ishould say, three hundred feet wide and one thousand feet long. As thelumber came from the mills it was piled in huge piles along thisplatform. Each mill had its sluiceway but they were all side by side. 

It was very popular to drive down on this platform and look at thefalls, whose roaring was a magnet to draw all to see them. 

We boys used to play under this platform jumping from one support toanother and then finish up by running down the steps and cavortingjoyously under the falls. I used to get the drinking water for theworkmen from the springs that seeped out everywhere along near where myfather worked. Once he sent me to get water quickly. I had a little dogwith me and we unthinkingly stepped in the spring making the waterroily. Childlike, I never thought of going to another but played aroundwaiting for it to settle, then as usual took it on top of thesluiceways. It seemed father thought I had been gone an hour and actedaccordingly. I shall always remember that whipping. 

Mrs. Charles M. Godley--1856. 

My father, Mr. Scrimgeour, came to Minneapolis in 1855 and built a smallhome between First and Second Avenues North on Fourth Street. When mymother arrived she cried when she saw where her home was to be and saidto her husband, as he was cutting the hazel brush from around the house, "You told me I would not have to live in a wilderness if I came here. "

Mr. Morgan lived across the street. He and my father decided to dig awell together and put it in the street so that both families could useit. My father said to Mr. Morgan, "Of course, there is a street surveyedhere, but the town will never grow to it, so the well will be alrighthere. "

Mr. Morgan was a great bookworm and not at all practical. If his horsegot out and was put in with other strays, he could never tell it, buthad to wait until everyone took theirs and then he would take what wasleft. 

There was a big sand hole at the corner of Second Avenue South andFourth Street where they had dug out sand. It was the great playgroundfor all the children, for it was thought the town would never grow thereand so it was a good place for a sand hole. 

When I went to school I always followed an Indian trail that led fromHoag's Lake to the government mill. It was bordered by hazel brush andonce in a while a scrub oak. I was much disturbed one night on my wayhome, to find men digging a hole through my beloved trail. I hoped theywould be gone in the morning, but to my great disappointment they werenot, for they were digging the excavation for the Nicollet House. Myschool was in an old store building at the falls and was taught byOliver Gray. 

Dr. Barnard lived on the corner by our house. He was Indian agent andvery kind to the Indians. One night a number of them came in the rain. Mr. Barnard tried to get them to sleep in the house. All refused. Onehad a very bad cough so the doctor insisted on his coming in and gavehim a room with a bed. Shortly after, they heard a terrible noise withan awful yell like a war-whoop. The Indian dashed down the stairs, outof the house and away. The slats in the bed were found broken and thebed was on the floor. Later, they found that he had started for bed fromthe furthest side of the room, run with full force and plunged in andthrough. 

In 1857, when the panic came, all stores in Minneapolis failed and therewas not a penny in circulation. Everything was paid by order. 

There was a small farmhouse where the Andrews Hotel now stands. FourthStreet North, that led to it from our house, was full of stumps. We gota quart of milk every night at this place. They never milked until verylate so it was dark. I used to go for it. My mother always gave me a sixquart pail so that after I had stumbled along over those stumps, thebottom of the pail at least would be covered. 

No one who was used to an eastern climate had any idea how to dress outhere when they first came. I wore hoops and a low necked waist just asother little girls did. I can remember the discussion that took placebefore a little merino sack was made for me. I don't remember whether Iwas supposed to be showing the white feather if I surrendered to theclimate and covered my poor little bare neck or whether I would be tooout of style. I must have looked like a little picked chicken with gooseflesh all over me. Once before this costume was added to, by the littlesack, my mother sent me for a jug of vinegar down to Helen Street andWashington Avenue South. I had on the same little hoops and only onethickness of cotton underclothing under them. It must have been twentydegrees below zero. I thought I would perish before I got there, butchildlike, never peeped. When I finally reached home, they had an awfultime thawing me out. The vinegar was frozen solid in the jug. 

A boardwalk six blocks long was built from Bridge Square to Bassett'sHall on First Street North. It was a regular sidewalk, not just twoboards laid lengthwise and held by crosspieces as the other sidewalkswere. Our dress parade always took place there. We would walk back andforth untiringly, passing everybody we knew and we knew everybody intown. Instead of taking a girl out driving or to the theatre, a youngman would ask, "Won't you go walking on the boardwalk?"

Lucy Morgan used to go to school with us when we first came. She hadlong ringlets and always wore lownecked dresses, just as the rest of usdid, but her white neck never had any gooseflesh on it and she was theonly one who had curls. 

We went to high school where the court house now stands. It was on alittle hill, so we always said we were climbing the "Hill ofKnowledge. "

I can well remember the dazed look that came on my father's face whenfor the first time, he realized that there were horses in town that hedid not know. The town had grown so that he could not keep pace with it. 

Mr. Frank Slocum--1856. 

When we drove from St. Paul to Cannon Falls in '56 we only saw one smallpiece of fence on the way. A man by the name of Baker at Rich Valley inDakota County had this around his door yard. He had dug a trench andthrown up a ridge of dirt. On top of this he had two cross pieces and arail on top. You call it a rail fence. We called it oftener "stake andrider. " We followed the regular road from St. Paul to Dubuque. 

The original Indian trail which was afterward the stage road, started atRed Wing and went through Cannon Falls, Staunton, Northfield, Dundas, Cannon City to Faribault. 

My father had a store in Cannon Falls. I was only thirteen and small formy age but I used to serve. One day a big Indian came in when I wasalone and asked for buckshot. They were large and it did not take manyto weigh a pound. He picked a couple out and pretended to be examiningthem. I weighed the pound and when I saw he did not put them back, Itook out two. You never saw an Indian laugh so hard in your life. Youalways had to be careful when weighing things for Indians, for if yougot over the quantity and took some out they were always grouchy as theythought you were cheating them. 

The farmers used to come through our town on their way to Hastings withtheir grain on their ox drawn wagons. They had a journey of two hundredmiles from Owatonna to Hastings and back. They would go in companies andcamp out on the way. 

During the years of '56 and '57 many people could not write home as theyhad no money to pay postage. Our business was all in trade. 

In 1854 a man whom we all knew who lived up above Mankato took an Indiancanoe and paddled down the river to St. Paul. There he sold it forenough money to pay his fare back on the boat. He was a man ofconsiderable conscience in his dealings with white men but when a manwas only "an injun" it had not caught up with him yet. Now for thesequel: The man who bought it had it under the eaves of his house tocatch rain water. During a storm his window was darkened. He looked upto see an Indian with his blanket held high to darken the window so hecould see in. The white man went out. The savage said, "My canoe. Wanthim. " The man would not give it up, but the Indian and his friends wentto the authorities and he had to. They had traced it all that long way. 

We bought an elevated oven cook stove in St. Paul and it was in useevery day for fifty years. We brought Baker knock down chairs with usand they have been in constant use for fifty-eight years--have neverbeen repaired and look as if they were good for one hundred years more. 

We made coffee from potato chips, sliced very thin and browned in theoven. Not such bad coffee, either. 

Mrs. T. B. Walker--Minneapolis. 

I remember going to market in the morning and seeing a wagon with allthe requisites for a home, drive up to a vacant lot. On the wagon werelumber, furniture and a wife and baby. What more could be needed! When Ipassed in the afternoon the rough house was up, the stove pipe throughthe window sent out a cheery smoke and the woman sang about herhousehold tasks. 

One morning I was at church in St. Anthony. The minister had just givenout the text when the squeaking of the Red River carts was faintlyheard. He hastily said, "To be discoursed on next Sunday, " for nothingbut this noise could be heard when they were passing. 

Mrs. Virginia Jones--1856. 

I lived in St. Peter in 1856. The Sioux Indians were having a scalpdance at Traverse. Their yelling could be plainly heard in St. Peter. All of that town went over to see them dance. They had a pole decoratedwith several scalps. These were stretched on hoops and painted redinside. The Indians danced round and round this pole, jumping stifflegged, screeching and gesticulating, while the tom-toms were pounded bythe squaws. I was frightened and wanted to leave, but could not as I hadbeen pushed near the front and the crowd was dense. Seeing my fear theIndians seized me by the hands and drew me into their circle, making medance round and round the pole. 

Some days later I started east to spend the summer with my mother. Distances were long in those days as the trip was made by steamboat andstage coach. I took one of the steamers which then ran regularly on theMinnesota river, sorrowfully parting from my husband as I did not expectto see him again until fall. That anguish was all wasted for we stuck ona sand bank just below town and my husband came over in a boat and livedon the steamer for nearly a week before we could get off the sandbar. 

Mrs. Georgiana M. Way--1856. 

We moved to Minnesota from Iowa. Came with a prairie schooner. Thecountry was very wild. We settled on a farm five miles south of BlueEarth. We brought along a cow and a coop of chickens. The roads wereawfully rough. We would milk the cow, put the milk in a can and thejarring that milk got as those oxen drew that wagon over the rough roadsgave us good butter the next day. Our first shack was not a dugout, butthe next thing to it. It was a log shed with sloping roof one way. Wehad two windows of glass so did not feel so much like pioneers. 

The rattlesnakes were very thick. We used to watch them drink from thetrough. They would lap the water with their tongues just as a dog does. Many a one I have cut in two with the ax. They always ran but I wasslim in those days and could catch them. 

We used prairie tea and it was good too. It grew on a little bush. Forcoffee we browned beets and corn meal. Corn meal coffee was fine. I'dlike a cup this minute. 

Once a family near us by the name of Bonetrigger lived for four days oncottonwood buds or wood browse as it was called. 

We drove forty-five miles to Mankato to get our first baby clothes. Whenwe got in our first crop of wheat, I used to stand in the door and watchit wave as the wind blew over it and think I had never seen anything sobeautiful. Even the howling of the wolves around our cabin did not keepus awake at at night. We were too tired and too used to them. The yearsflew by. I had three children under five when my husband enlisted. I waswilling, but oh, so sad! He had only three days to help us beforejoining his company. Our wood lot was near, so near I could hear thesound of his ax as he cut down all the wood he could and cut it intolengths for our winter fuel. You can imagine how the sound of that axmade me feel, although I was willing he should go. When he was gone, Iused to put the children on the ox sled and bring a load of wood home. Pretty heavy work for a woman who had never seen an ox until she wasmarried. I was brought up in New York City, but I did this work anddidn't make any fuss about it, either. I did all kinds of farm work inthose days for men's help wasn't to be had, they were all in the war. 

When I needed flour, there was no man to take the wheat to mill. Theonly one who could, wanted to charge $1. 00 a day and I did not have it, so I left my darlings with a neighbor, got him to hist the sacks aboardfor me, for says I, "I'm not Dutchy enough to lift a sack of grain, " andlong before daylight I was beside those oxen on my way to the nearestgrist mill, fifteen miles away, knitting all the way. It was tough work, but I got there. I engaged my lodging at the hotel and then went to themill. There were a number there, but they were all men. The miller, Mr. Goodnow, said "It's take turns here, but I won't have it said that a'soldier's widow' (as they called us) has to wait for men, so I'll grindyours first and you can start for home at sunup, so you can get home bydark; I want you to stay at our house tonight. " After some demurring, for I wan't no hand to stay where I couldn't pay, I accepted his mostkind invitation. In the morning, when he saw me start, after he hadloaded my sacks of flour on for me, he said, "Get the man living thisside of that big hill to put you down it. " I said, "I came up alone, alright. " He said, "Woman, you had grain then, you could have saved itif it fell off and your sacks broke, but now you have flour. "

When my boy was three weeks old, I drove fourteen miles to a dance andtook in every dance all night and wasn't sick afterward either. Ofcourse, I took him along. 

When I came to sell my oxen after my husband died in the army, no onewanted to give me a fair price for them, because I was a woman, but Mr. S. T. McKnight, who had a small general store in Blue Earth gave me whatwas right and paid me $2. 50 for the yoke besides. 

We had company one Sunday when we first came and all we had to eat was abatch of biscuits. They all said they was mighty good too and they neverhad a better meal. 

We all raised our own tobacco. I remember once our Probate Judge camealong and asked, "Have you any stalks I can chew?" It was hard to keepchickens for the country was so full of foxes. Seed potatoes brought$4. 00 a bushel. We used to grate corn when it was in the dough grade andmake bread from that. It was fine. 

In 1856 and 1857 money was scarcer than teeth in a fly. We never saw apenny sometimes for a year at a time. Everything was trade. 

Mrs. Duncan Kennedy--1856. 

My father moved from Canada to Minnesota. He was urged to come byfriends who had gone before and wrote back that there was a wonderfulpiece of land on a lake, but when we got there with an ox team after atwo days trip from St. Paul, our goods on a lumber wagon--we thought itwas a mudhole. We were used to the clear lakes of Canada and this onewas full of wild rice. It was near Nicollet Village. The road we tookfrom St. Paul went through Shakopee, Henderson and Le Seuer. They saidit was made on an old Indian trail. 

The turnips grew so enormous on our virgin soil that we could hardlybelieve they were turnips. They looked more like small pumpkins invertedin the ground. 

The wild flowers were wonderful too. In the fall, the prairies were gaywith the yellow and sad with the lavender bloom. 

The first party we went to was a housewarming. We went about seven mileswith the ox team. I thought I would die laughing when I saw the girls goto their dressing room. They went up a ladder on the outside. There weretwo fiddlers and we danced all the old dances. Supper was served on awork bench from victuals out of a wash tub. We didn't have hundreddollar dresses, but we did have red cheeks from the fine clear air. 

One day when I was alone at my father's, an Indian with feathers in hisheadband and a painted face and breast came quickly into the house, making no noise in his moccasined feet. He drew his hand across histhroat rapidly saying over and over, "Tetonka-te-tonka, " at the sametime trying to drag me out. I was terrified as I thought he was going tocut my throat. Fortunately my father happened to come in, and notfearing the Indian whom he knew to be friendly, went with him and foundhis best ox up to his neck in a slough. It seemed "Tetonka" meant biganimal and he was trying to show us that a big animal was up to hisneck in trouble. 

Afterward, I married Mr. Duncan Kennedy and moved to Traverse. I paperedand painted the first house we owned there until it was perfect. I didso love this, our first home, but my husband was a natural wanderer. Oneday he came home announcing that he had sold our pretty home. We movedinto a two room log house on a section of land out near where my fatherlived. The house was built so that a corner stood in each quartersection and complied with the law that each owner of a quarter sectionshould have a home on it. It was built by the four Hemmenway brothersand was always called "Connecticut" as they came from there. 

My husband worked for Mr. Sibley and was gone much of the time buyingfurs. Then he carried mail from Traverse to Fort Lincoln. Once in ablizzard he came in all frozen up, but he had outdistanced his Indianguide--you couldn't freeze him to stay--he was too much alive. He oncetraveled the seventy-five miles from Traverse to St. Paul in one day. Hejust took the Indian trot and kept it up until he got there. He alwaystook it on his travels. He could talk Sioux French and English withequal facility. Mr. Cowen once said when my husband passed, "There goesthe most accomplished man in the State. "

They used to tell this story about Mr. Cowen. He had cleared a manaccused of theft. Afterward he said to him, "I have cleared you thistime, but don't you ever do it again. "

When the outbreak came, my husband was storekeeper at Yellow Medicine. Ahalf breed came running and told him to fly for his life, as the Indianswere killing all the whites. Mr. Kennedy could not believe this hadcome, though they knew how ugly the Indians were. After seeing the smokefrom the burning houses, he got his young clerk, who had consumption, out; locked the door, threw the key in the river; then carried the clerkto the edge of the river and dropped him down the bank where the bushesconcealed him, and then followed him. The Indians came almost instantlyand pounded on the door he had just locked. He heard them say in Sioux"He has gone to the barn to harness the mules. " While they hunted there, he fled for his life, keeping in the bushes and tall grass. All doubledup, as he was obliged to be, he carried the clerk until they came to theplundered warehouse, where a number of refugees were hiding. That night, he started for the fort, arriving there while it was still dark. 

A call was made for a volunteer to go to St. Peter to acquaint them withthe danger. My husband had a badly swollen ankle which he got whilecrawling to the fort. Nevertheless, he was the first volunteer. MajorRandall said, "Take my horse; you can never get there without one, " butMr. Kennedy said, "If the Indians hear the horse they will know thedifference between a shod horse and an Indian pony. I will go alone. "Dr. Miller tried to make him take half the brandy there was in the fort, by saying grimly, "If you get through you will need it. If you don't wewon't need it. " He started just before dawn taking the Indian crawl. Hehad only gone a short distance when the mutilated body of a white maninterposed. This was so nauseating that he threw away the lunch he hadbeen given as he left the fort for he never expected to live to eat it. He passed so near an Indian camp that he was challenged, but he answeredin Sioux in their gruff way and so satisfied them. When he came nearNicollet village he crawled up a little hill and peered over. He saw twoIndians on one side and three on the other. He dropped back in thegrass. He looked for his ammunition and it was gone. He had only tworounds in his gun. He said, "I thought if they have seen me there willbe two dead Indians and one white man. " When he came to what had beenNicollet Village, the camp fires that the Indians had left were stillburning. He reached St. Peter and gave the alarm. 

Major S. A. Buell--1856. 

Major Buell eighty-seven years old, whose memory is remarkable says:--Icame to Minnesota in 1856, settling in St. Peter and practicing law. Early in 1856, Mr. Cowen, one of the brightest lawyers and finest menMinnesota has ever known, came to Traverse de Sioux with his family, toopen a store. He soon became a warm friend of Judge Flandrau who urgedhim to study law with him. He was made County Auditor and in his sparetime studied law and was admitted to the bar. He was much beloved byall, a sparkling talker--his word as good as his bond. He had never beenwell and as time went on, gradually grew weaker. His house was a littlemore than a block from his office, but it soon became more than he coulddo to walk that distance. On the common, half way between the two, wasthe liberty pole. He had a seat made at this point and rested there. When he was no more, the eyes of his old friends would grow misty whenthey passed this hallowed spot. 

Soon after I made the acquaintance of Judge Flandrau at Traverse deSioux there was a young man visiting him from Washington. The judge tookus both on our first prairie chicken hunt. We had no dog. On the upperprairie back of the town going along a road, we disturbed an old prairiehen that attempted to draw us away from her young. The Judge hadadmonished us that we must never kill on the ground, always on the wing, to be sportsmen. This hen scudded and skipped along a rod or two at atime. Finally, he said, "Fellows, I can't stand this, I must shoot thatchicken, you won't tell if I do?" We pledged our word. He fired andmissed. After we got home, we told everybody for we said we had onlypromised not to tell if he shot it. We never enjoyed this joke half asmuch as he did. We always joked him about making tatting. 

Flandrau, dearest of men, true as steel, decided in character, butforgiving in heart, a warm friend--was one of the greatest men our statehas ever known. He was a tall, dark man, and very active. He had oftentold me how he and Garvie, clerk for the Indian Trader at Traverse deSioux used to walk the seventy-five miles to St. Paul in two days. Heonce walked 150 miles in three days to the land office at Winona. 

In 1858 I built my own home in St. Peter and made my garden. The yearbefore I had gone into a clump of plums when they were fruiting and tiedwhite rags to the best. I had moved them into my garden and they weredoing fine. One day I took off my vest as I was working and hung it onone of these trees. Suddenly my attention was attracted to the sky and Inever saw a more beautiful sight. A horde of grasshoppers were gentlyalighting. Nothing more beautiful than the shimmering of the sun ontheir thousands of gold-bronze wings could be imagined. They tookeverything and then passed on leaving gardens looking as if they hadbeen burned. When I went for that vest, they had eaten it all but theseams. It was the funniest sight--just a skeleton. Not a smitch of whiterags left on the trees, either. 

We people who lived in Minnesota thought there was only one kind of wildgrape. A man by the name of Seeger who had been in Russia and wasconnected with a wine house in Moscow came to St. Peter. In theMinnesota valley were immense wild grape vines covering the tallesttrees. Here he found five distinct varieties of grapes and said one kindwould make a fine red wine--Burgundy. He told me how to make this winefrom grapes growing wild on my own farm. I made about ten gallons. Whenit was a year old it was very heady. 

Edward Eggleston belonged to a debating society in St. Peter and was onthe successful side in a debate, "Has Love a Language not Articulate. "He was a Methodist preacher here, but later had charge of aCongregational church in Brooklyn, N. Y. He said when the Methodistsabolished itinerancy and mission work, he thought the most useful partof the church was gone. 

In my boyhood days at home, a little boy in the neighborhood had themisfortune to drink some lye. Fortunately the doctor was near and usinga stomach pump saved his life for the time being. However, the child'sstomach could retain nothing. In a short time he was a skeleton indeed. One day his father who carried him around constantly, happened to be bythe cow when she was being milked. The child asked for some milk and wasgiven it directly from the cow. Great was the father's astonishment whenthe little lad retained it. Milk given him two minutes after milking wasat once ejected. The father had a pen made just outside his son'sbedroom window and the cow kept there, and here many times a day the cowwas milked and the milk instantly given. After several months the childwas restored to health. 

One night in Minnesota just as I was going to sit down to supper my wifetold me that a man who had just passed told her that a child that livedten miles back in the country had drank lye some days before and wasexpected to die, as he could retain nothing. Without waiting to eat mysupper I jumped on a horse and made the trip there in record speed. Thischild followed the same formula and was saved. 

It was easy for youngsters to get at lye for every house had a leach forthe making of soap. This lye was made by letting water drip over hardwood ashes in a barrel. A cupful would be taken out and its strengthtried. If it would hold up an egg it was prime for soap. It was clear astea, if it was left in a cup it was easily mistaken for it. 

During the days when New Ulm was expecting a second Indian attack andthe town was full of refugees, I was ordered to destroy some buildingson the outskirts. I started with a hotel and opened all the straw ticksthat had been used for refugees beds and threw the contents all around. I believed all the people had left but thought I would go in every roomand make sure of this. In one room I heard a queer noise and going tothe bed found a small baby that had been tomahawked. Its little head wasdented in two places. I took it with me and went out. Its grandmotherwho owned the place came running frantically and took it from me. Itsfather and mother had been killed and it had been brought in by therefugees. In the hasty departure it had been overlooked, each onesupposing the other had taken it. 

On the 25th day of August after the massacre of the 22nd, around New Ulmand in that vicinity, a little boy who had saved himself from theIndians by secreting himself in the grass of the swamps, came into NewUlm and said there were twelve people alive and a number of bodies to beburied sixteen miles from New Ulm. He said he had seen a man who wasdriving a horse and wagon, shot and scalped, but could not tell what hadbecome of the woman and baby that were riding with him. The troopsmarched to the place, having the boy as a guide, buried a number ofbodies and brought the twelve survivors to New Ulm. They could find notrace of the woman and baby, although the father's body was found andburied. 

Later the troops marched to Mankato, stopping at an empty farm housesixteen miles from New Ulm for the night. This farm house was on a smallprairie surrounded by higher land. The sentries were ordered to watchthe horizon with the greatest care for fear the skulking Indians mightambush the troops. It was a night when the rain fell spasmodicallyalternating with moonlight. Suddenly one of the sentries saw a figure onthe horizon and watched it disappear in the grass, then appear and crawlalong a fence in his direction. He called, "Who goes there?" at the sametime cocking his gun ready to shoot. At the answer, "Winnebago" hefired. At that moment there had been a little shower and his gun refusedto fire. Later he found that the cap had become attached to the hammerand the powder must have been dampened by the shower. He dashed for thefigure to find a white woman and baby and was horrified to think that ifthe gun had fired she would have been blown to pieces. This was womanfor whom they had looked in the swamp thirty miles away. He aroused thetroops, who took her in. She held out her baby whose hand was partlyshot away, but said nothing about herself. Later they found that she hadbeen shot through the back and the wound had had no dressing except whenshe laid down in the streams. Her greatest fear had been that the babywould cry, but during all those eight awful days and nights while shelay hidden in the swamps or crawled on her way at night, this baby hadnever made a sound. As soon as it became warm and was thoroughly fed, itcried incessantly for twelve hours. The mother said that for three daysthe Indians had pursued her with dogs, but she had managed to evade themby criss-crossing through the streams. She had said "Winnebago" as shethought she was approaching a Sioux camp and they were supposed to befriendly to the Winnebagoes. She would then have welcomed captivity asit seemed that the white people had left the earth and death wasinevitable. 

In May 1857, eggs were selling in St. Peter for 6c a dozen, butter at 5cper pound and full grown chickens at 75c a dozen as game was soplentiful. 

Mrs. Jane Sutherland--1856. [3]

[Footnote 3: A sister of Mrs. Duncan Kennedy. ]

Mrs. Cowan came to Traverse in 1856 when it was almost nothing. At herhome in Baltimore she had always had an afternoon at home, so decided tocontinue them here. She set aside Thursday and asked everyone in town, no matter what their situation in life, to come. My maiden name was JaneDonnelly and she asked me to come and "Help pass things"--"assist"--asyou call it now. She had tea and biscuits. Flour and tea were bothscarce so she warned me not to give anyone more than one biscuit or onecup of tea. This we rigidly adhered to. She had the only piano in ourpart of the country and we all took great pride in it. I could sing andplay a little in the bosom of my family, but was most easilyembarrassed. Judge Flandrau was our great man. He dropped in, bringinghis tatting shuttle, and sat and made tatting as well as any woman. Mrs. Cowan explained that he had learned this on purpose to rest hismind and keep it off from weighty matters. Mrs. Cowan insisted that Ishould sing and play while he was there. I resisted as long as I could, then was led still protesting to the piano where I let out a little thinpiping, all the while covered with confusion. When I arose we bothlooked expectantly toward the Judge, but he never raised his eyes--justkept right on tatting. 

Finally Mrs. Cowan asked, "Don't you like music, Judge?" He looked upwith a far-away look in his eyes and said, "Yes, martial music in thefield. " Then we knew he had never heard a thing, for, as Mrs. Cowanexplained to me as we were making a fresh pot of tea, "He is the kindestman in the world. If he had noticed you were singing he would have saidsomething nice. "

Shortly after this we took a claim out at Middle Lake and moved outthere to live. The first time I came into town was on a load of wild haydrawn by my father's oxen. The man I later married saw me, a girl ofsixteen, sitting there and said he fell in love with me then. A few dayslater he drove past our farm and saw me out in the corn field trying toscare away the blackbirds. I was beating on a pan and whooping andhollering. That finished him for he said he could see I had all therequisites for a good wife, "Industry and noise. "

During the outbreak of 1862, after my husband went to the war, we wererepeatedly warned to leave our home and flee to safety. This we wereloath to do as it would jeopardize our crops and livestock. We often sawthe Indian scouts on a hill overlooking the place and sometimes heardshots. One day I was with my children at a neighbor's when a new alarmwas given by a courier. Without waiting for us to get any clothes ortell my parents, the farmer hitched up and we fled to Fort Snelling. Itwas two months before I ever saw my home or parents. 

There were three grasshopper years when we never got any crops atMiddle Lake. When I say that, I mean just what I say; we got nothing. The first time they came the crops were looking wonderful. Wheat fieldsso green and corn way up. The new ploughed fields yielded marvelouslyand this was the first year for ours. I went out to the garden about teno'clock to get the vegetables for dinner and picked peas, string beans, onions and lettuce that were simply luscious. The tomatoes were settingand everything was as fine as could be. I felt so proud of it. The mencame home to dinner and the talk was all in praise of this new countryand the crops. While we were talking it gradually darkened. The menhastily went out to see if anything should be brought in before thestorm. What a sight when we opened the door! The sky darkened by myriadsof grasshoppers and no green thing could be seen. Everything in thatlovely garden was gone. By the middle of the afternoon, when they left, the wheat fields looked as if they had been burned, even the rootseaten. Not a leaf on the trees. My husband's coat lying outside wasriddled. Back of the house where they had flown against it they werepiled up four feet high. They went on after awhile leaving their eggs tohatch and ruin the crops the following year. And enough the second forthe third, though we did everything. The last year the county offered abounty of three cents a bushel for them and my little boy, four yearsold, caught enough with a net to buy himself a two dollar pair of boots. You can perhaps get an idea how thick they were from that. The railfences used to look as if they were enormous and bronzed. Thegrasshoppers absolutely covered them. 

We lived only a short distance from my father's farm. One afternoon Isaw smoke coming from there and could hear explosions like that ofcannon. I caught our pony, jumped on bareback, and dashed for theirhome. We trusted the Indians and yet we did not. They were so differentfrom the whites. I thought they had attacked the family. I don't knowhow I expected to help without a weapon of any kind, but on I went. WhenI got there I saw my father and mother tearing a board fence down. Aswamp on the place was afire and the fire coming through that long swampgrass very rapidly. The swamp had a number of large willows and when thefire would reach them they would explode with a noise like a cannon. Idon't know why, but I have heard many of the old settlers tell ofsimilar experiences. I jumped off the pony and helped tear down thefence. 

Governor Swift had paid me $5. 00 to make him a buffalo coat. I had putit all into "nigger blue" calico and had the dress on. When we went intothe house mother said, "What a shame you have spoiled your new dress. " Icould see nothing wrong, but in the back there was a hole over twelveinches square burned out. 

Another time my husband was a short distance from the house putting upwild hay. We had several fine stacks of it near the house in thestubble. I happened to glance out and saw our neighbor's stacks burningand the fire coming through the stubble for ours. I grabbed a blanket, wet it soaking and dragging that and a great pail of water, made for thestacks. I run that wet blanket around the stacks as fast as I couldseveral times. My husband came driving like mad with half a load of hayon the rack and grabbed me but as the stubble was short that soppingsaved the stacks. 

We had a German hired man that we paid $30 a month for six months. Cropswere plentiful and we hoped for a good price. No such good luck. Wheatwas 25c a bushel and oats 12-1/2. He hauled grain to market with our oxteam to pay himself and was nearly all winter getting his money. Thatwas before the war. We boarded him for nothing while he was doing it. How little those who enjoy this state now think what is cost the makersof it!

Mrs. Mary Robinson--1856. 

We came to St. Anthony in 1856. Butter was 12-1/2c a pound; potatoes15c a bushel and turnips, 10c. I have never seen finer vegetables. Wemade our mince pies of potatoes soaked in vinegar instead of apples. 

One of our neighbors was noted for her molasses sponge cake. If askedfor the recipe, she would give it as follows: "I take some molasses andsaleratus and flour and shortening, and some milk. How much? Oh, amiddling good sized piece, and enough milk to make it the rightthickness to bake good. " Needless to say, she continued to be the onlymolasses sponge cake maker. 

Mrs. Margaret A. Snyder--1856. 

Mr. Snyder and Mr. Pettit used to batch it in a cabin in Glencoe beforeour marriage. In '56 we decided to move to Glencoe and live in thisplace. We, together with Mr. Cook and Mr. McFarland were forty-eighthours going the sixty miles. We stayed the first night at Carver and thenext night got to "Eight Mile Dutchman's. " When we came to the cabin wefound the walls and ceiling covered with heavy cotton sheeting. Mymother had woven me a Gerton rag carpet which we had with us. Thestripes instead of running across, ran lengthwise. There was a widestripe of black and then many gaily colored stripes. When it was down onthe floor, it made everything cheerful. We had bought some furniture tooin Minneapolis so everything looked homelike. Later, six of us neighborwomen were invited into the country to spend the day. While we were gonesome of the neighbors said, "The mosquitoes must be awful at theSnider's today--they have such a smudge. " A little later, they saw thehouse was in flames. In this fire, we lost money and notes together withall our possessions. These notes were never paid, as we had no record sowe were left poor indeed. We were able to get boards for the sides ofour new house, but lived in it six weeks without a roof, doors orwindows. We had a few boards over the bed. There was only one hard rainin all that time but the mosquitoes were awful. During this time, welived on King Phillip's corn, a large yellow kind. We pounded it in abag and made it into cakes and coffee. We had nothing to eat on thecakes nor in the coffee and yet we were happy. My husband always kepthis gun by the bed during this time. One morning we awoke to see twoprairie chickens preening their feathers on the top of our house wall. Father fired and killed both, one falling inside and the other outside. 

Mrs. Colonel Stevens was our nearest neighbor. We just took a littleIndian trail to her house. 

We had wild plums and little wild cherries with stems just like tamecherries, on our farm. They helped out tremendously as they withcranberries were our only fruit. 

One morning twelve big braves came into my kitchen when I was gettingbreakfast. They said nothing to me, just talked and laughed amongthemselves; took out pipes and all smoked. They did not ask for anythingto eat. Finally they went away without trouble. 

Indian Charlie, afterwards hung at Mankato, was often at the house andbecame a great nuisance. He would follow me all over the house. I wouldsay, "Go sit down Charlie, " at the same time looking at himdeterminedly. He would stand and look and then go. He once found myhusband's gun and pointed it at me, but I said firmly, stamping my foot, "Put it down Charlie, " and very reluctantly he finally did. Then, I tookit until he left. 

My husband enlisted, so in 1862 we moved to Fort Ridgely and lived inone room. One day three squaws, one of whom was old Betts, came in tosell moccasins. I asked her to make some for my baby and showed her apiece of pork and some sugar I would give her for it. She brought themlater. We had eaten that piece of pork and I got another piece which waslarger but not the same, of course. When she saw it as not the same, shesaid, "Cheatey Squaw, Cheatey squaw, " and was very angry. I then gaveher the pork and two bowls of sugar instead of one and she went away. Later I saw her in the next room where another family lived and said, "Aunt Betts called me, Cheatey Squaw, Cheatey Squaw. " Quick as a flashshe drew a long wicked looking knife from her belt and ran for me and itwas only by fleeing and locking my own door that I escaped. She wasnever again allowed on the reservation. Later in the year, before themassacre, I went home to Pennsylvania. 

When we built on the corner of Fourth Avenue and Tenth Street, we couldplainly hear the roar of St. Anthony Falls. I used to follow an Indiantrail part of the way down town. 

Mrs. Helen Horton--1856, Minneapolis. 

When I came, things were pretty lonesome looking here. I found the youngpeople just as gay as they could be anywhere, however. The first party Iattended was a cotillion. I wore a black silk skirt, eighteen feetaround the bottom, with three flounces, over hoops too. A black velvetbasque pointed front and back, and cut very short on the sides gave agreat deal of style to the costume. My hair was brought low in front andpuffed over horsehair cushions at the sides. It stuck out five inchesfrom the sides of my head. We danced square dances mostly. We took tenregular dancing steps forward and ten back and floated along just like athistledown--no clumping around like they do now. Just at this time, Ihad a plaid silk too. It was green and brown broken plaid. The blockswere nine inches across. 

One evening we were to have a sociable. It was great fun playing gamesand singing. They wanted me to make a cake. It was in the spring monthsbefore the boats began to run and after the teams that brought supplieshad stopped. It was always a scarce time. I wanted some white sugar tomake a white cake as I knew a friend who was to make a pork and driedapple cake, a dark cake, so I wanted the opposite kind. We wenteverywhere but could find no sugar. I was so disappointed. Finally afriend took his horse and cutter and in one of the houses we were ableto find a little. My cake was delicious. Did you ever make a pork applepie? You cut the pork so thin you can almost see through it. Cover thebottom of a pie tin with it, then cut the apples up on top of this. Puttwo thin crusts one on top of the other over this, then when cooked, turn upside down in a dish and serve with hard sauce. This recipe isover a hundred years old but nothing can beat it. 

The first home we owned ourselves was at the corner of Ninth Street andNicollet Avenue. There was only one house in sight, that of Mr. Welles. Our whole house was built from the proceeds of land warrants that myhusband had bought. 

My father had a store at the corner of Helen St. , and Washington Avenue. To reach it from our home at Fourth Street and Second Avenue North, wefollowed an Indian trail. There was generally a big cow with a bell toturn out for somewhere on it. 

Mrs. Mary Staring Smith--1856. 

When we first came to live at Eden Prairie I thought I had never seenanything so beautiful as that flowering prairie. In the morning we couldhear the clear call of the prairie chickens. I used to love to hear it. There were great flocks of them and millions of passenger pigeons. Theircall of "pigie! pigie!" was very companionable on that lonely prairie. Sometimes when they were flying to roost they would darken the sun, there were such numbers of them. Geese and ducks were very numerous, too. Black birds were so thick they were a menace to the growing crops. I used to shoot them when I was twelve years old. 

Once my father and uncle went deer hunting. They got into some poisonouswild thing, perhaps poison ivy. My uncle's face was awful and fathernearly lost his sight. He was almost blind for seven years but finallyDr. Daniels of St. Peter cured him. 

Once during war time we could get no one to help us harvest. I cut onehundred acres strapped to the seat as I was too small to stay there anyother way. 

We had a cow named Sarah. A lovely, gentle creature. Mr. Andersonbrought her up on the boat. My dog was an imported English setter. Theseand an old pig were my only playmates. I used to love to dress my dog upbut when I found my old pig would let me tie my sunbonnet on her I muchpreferred her. She looked so comical with that bonnet on lying out atfull length and grunting little comfortable grunts when I would scratchher with a stick. 

I never saw such a sad expression in the eye of any human being as I sawin "Otherdays" the Sioux friend of the whites. It seemed as if he couldlook ahead and see what was to be the fate of his people. Yes, I haveseen that expression once since. After the massacre when the Indianswere brought to Fort Snelling I saw a young squaw, a beauty, standing inthe door of her tepee with just that same look. It used to bring thetears to my eyes to think of her. 

There used to be a stone very sacred to the Indians on Alexander Gould'splace near us. It was red sandstone and set down in a hollow that theyhad dug out. The Sioux owned it and never passed on the trail that ledby it without squatting in a circle facing it, smoking their pipes. Ihave often stood near and watched them. I never heard them say a word. They always left tobacco, beads and pipes on it. The Indian trails couldbe seen worn deep like cattle paths. 

At the time of the Indian outbreak the refugees came all day long ontheir way to the fort. Such a sad procession of hopeless, terrifiedwomen and children. Many were wounded and had seen their dear ones slainas they fled to the corn fields or tall grass of the prairies. I cannever forget the expression of some of those poor creatures. 

Mrs. Mary Massolt--1856. 

I first lived at Taylor's Falls. I was only fourteen and spoke littleEnglish as I had just come from France. Large bands of Indians used tocamp near us. They never molested anything. I took a great fancy to themand used to spend hours in their camps. They were always so kind andtried so hard to please me. When the braves were dressed up they alwayspainted their faces and the more they were dressed the more hideous theymade themselves. I would often stick feathers in their head bands, whichpleased them very much. 

The storms were so terrible. We had never seen anything like them. Onecrash after another and the lightning constant. Once I was sitting by alittle stove when the lightning came down the chimney. It knocked me oneway off the bench and moved the stove several feet without turning itover. 

Mrs. Anna Todd--1856. 

We came to St. Anthony in '56 and lived in one of the Hudson Bay houseson University Avenue between Fourth and Fifth Streets. They were in avery bad state of repair and had no well or any conveniences of anykind. The chimneys would not draw and that in the kitchen was so badthat Mr. Todd took out a pane of glass and ran the stovepipe throughthat. Everybody had a water barrel by the fence which was filled withriver water by contract and in the winter they used melted snow and ice. Mr. Todd built the first piers for the booms in the river. The haulingwas all done by team on the ice. The contract called for the completionof these piers by April 15. The work took much more time than they hadfigured on and Mr. Todd realized if the ice did not hold until the lastday allowed, he was a ruined man. There were many anxious days in the"little fur house" as it was called, but the ice held and the money forthe contract was at once forthcoming. I remember those winters as muchcolder and longer than they now are. They began in October and lasteduntil May. 

When we were coming from St. Paul to St. Anthony, just as we came to thehighest point, I looked all around and said "This is the most beautifulcountry I have ever seen. "

Where Mrs. Richard Chute lived in Minneapolis, the view was wonderfullybeautiful. Near there, was a house with the front door on the back sideso that the view could be seen better. Times were very, very hard in '57and '58. We never saw any money and to our Yankee minds this was theworst part of our new life. A friend had been staying with us for monthssharing what we had. One day he said to my husband, "I'm here and I'mstranded, I can see no way to pay you anything, but I can give you anold mare which I have up in the country. " He finally induced Mr. Todd totake her and almost immediately, we had a chance to swap her for anIndian pony. A short time after, there was a call for ponies at the fortand the pony was sold to the Government for $50. 00 in gold. This seemedlike $1, 000. 00 would now. 

The first time I saw an apple in Minnesota was in '58. A big spaniel hadcome to us, probably lost by some party of homeseekers. After having hima short time, we became very tired of him. One of the teamsters wasgoing to St. Paul, so we told him to take the dog and lose him. Betterthan that, he swapped him for a barrel of apples with a man who hadbrought them up the river as a speculation. The new owner was to takethe dog back down the river that day, but that dog was back almost assoon as the teamster was. We used to joke and say we lived on that dogall winter. 

The early settlers brought slips of all kinds of houseplants which theyshared with all. The windows were gay with fuchias, geraniums, roses, etc. Most everyone had a heliotrope too. All started slips under aninverted tumbler to be ready for newcomers. 

Mr. Edwin Clarke--1856. 

On April 12, 1865, President Abraham Lincoln, two days prior to hisassassination, signed my commission as United States Indian Agent forthe Chippewas of the Mississippi, Pillager and Lake Winnebagosish bands, and the Indians of Red Lake and Pembina. 

The Mississippi Bands, numbering about two thousand five hundred, wereprincipally located around Mille Lac, Gull and Sandy Lakes; the Pillagerand Winnebagosish bands, about two thousand, around Leach, Winnebagosish, Cass and Ottertail Lakes; the Red Lake Bands, numberingabout fifteen hundred, were located about Red Lake and the Pembina Bandsabout one thousand at Pembina and Turtle Mountain, Dakota. 

At that time there were no white settlers in Minnesota north of CrowWing, Long Prairie and Ottertail Lake. 

The Chippewa Indians were not migratory in their habits, living in theirbirch-bark covered wigwams around the lakes, from which the fish andwild rice furnished a goodly portion of their sustenance and where theywere convenient to wood and water. The hunting grounds, hundreds ofmiles in extent, covering nearly one-half of the State, furnished moose, deer and bear meat and the woods were full of rabbits, partridges, ducks, wild geese and other small game. The Indians exchanged the fursgathered each year, amounting to many thousand dollars in value, withtraders for traps, guns, clothing and other goods. Some of the Indiansraised good crops of corn and vegetables and they also made severalthousand pounds of maple sugar annually. They also gathered largeamounts of cranberries, blueberries and other wild fruit. 

The Chippewa Indians had very few ponies, having no use for them, as itwas more convenient to use their birch bark canoes in traveling aboutthe lakes and rivers. At that time the Chippewas were capable of makinggood living without the Government annuities, which consisted of a cashpayment to each man, woman and child of from $5. 00 to $10. 00 and aboutan equal amount in value of flour, pork, tobacco, blankets, shawls, linsey-woolsy, flannels, calico, gilling twine for fish nets, thread, etc. 

An Indian in full dress wore leggings, moccasins and shirt, all made bythe women from tanned deer skins, and trimmed with beads, over which hethrew his blanket, and with his gun over his arm and his long hairbraided and hanging down, and face streaked with paint, he presentedquite an imposing appearance. The young men occasionally supplementedthe above with a neat black frock coat. 

The Indians during the time I was agent were friendly and it was onlyupon a few occasions when whiskey had been smuggled in by someunprincipled persons, that they had any quarrels among themselves. 

The late Bishops Whipple and Knickerbocker were my traveling companionsat different times thru the Indian country, as were General Mitchell ofSt. Cloud, Daniel Sinclair of Winona, Rev. F. A. Noble of Minneapolis, Rev. Stewart of Sauk Center, Mr. Ferris of Philadelphia, Mr. Bartling ofLouisville, Doctors Barnard and Kennedy and others. The late Ennegahbow(Rev. John Johnson) was appointed by me as farmer at Mille Lac upon therequest of Shawboshkung, the head chief. 

Ma-dosa-go-onwind was head chief of the Red Lake Indians andHole-in-the-day head chief of the Mississippi bands at the time I wasagent. 

Captain Isaac Moulton--1857, Minneapolis. 

The middle of December 1857, it began to rain and rained for three daysas if the heavens had opened. The river was frozen and the sleighing hadbeen fine. After this rain there was a foot of water on the ice. I wason my way to Fond du Lac, Wis. To get insurance on my store that hadburned. You can imagine what the roads leading from St. Paul to Hastingswere. It took us a whole day to make that twenty mile trip, four stageloads of us. 

I have often thought you dwellers in the Twin Cities nowadays givelittle thought to the days when the stage coach was the essence ofelegance in travel. The four or six horses would start off with aflourish. The music of the horn I have always thought most stirring. Thetwo rival companies vied with each other in stage effect. If one driverhad an especial flourish, the other tried to surpass him, and so it wenton. No automobile, no matter how high powered, can hold a candle tothose stage coaches in picturesque effect, for those horses were alive. 

On this trip, I hired a man with two yearling steers to take my trunkfull of papers from the Zumbro River that we had crossed in a skiff, asthe bridge was out, to Minnieski where we could again take the stage. Those steers ran and so did we eight men who were following them inwater up to our knees. We reached Minnieski about as fagged as any mencould be. 

Mr. George A. Brackett--1857, Minneapolis. 

Prior to the Indian outbreak, I had charge of the feeding of the troops, comprising Stone's Division at Poolville, Md. , with beef and othersupplies. In this Division were the First Minnesota, several New York(including the celebrated Tammany Regulars) and Pennsylvania troops. Icontinued in that service until the Sioux outbreak, when Franklin Steeleand myself were requested by General Sibley to go to Fort Ridgely andaid in the commissary department, General Sibley being a brother-in-lawof Franklin Steele. I remained in this position until the close of theSibley campaign, other St. Paul and Minneapolis men being interestedwith me in the furnishing of supplies. 

Just after the battle of Birch Coolie, when General Sibley had assembledat Fort Ridgely a large force to go up the Minnesota River against theIndians, he sent Franklin Steele and myself to St. Peter to gather upsupplies for his command. We started in a spring wagon with two goodhorses. A number of refugees from the fort went with us in Burbank'sstages and other conveyances. At that time Burbank was running a line ofstages from St. Paul to Fort Ridgely, stopping at intervening points. Allen, the manager of the lines, was in Fort Ridgely. A few miles outthe cry was raised, "The Indians are in sight. " Immediately the wholeparty halted. Allen went over the bluff far enough to see down to thebottoms of the river. Soon he returned very much frightened saying, "Thevalley is full of Indians. " This caused such a fright thatnotwithstanding our protest, the whole party returned pell-mell to FortRidgely, except Steele and myself. The party was so panic stricken thatAllen was nearly left. He had to jump on behind. We determined to go on. A mile or so further on, we saw a man crawling through the grass. I saidto Steele, "There's your Indian, " and drove up to him. It proved to be aGerman who, in broken English said, "The Indians have stolen my cattleand I am hunting for them. " Driving a few miles further, we came to whathad been Lafayette, burned by the Indians days before. Some of thehouses were still smoking. 

We stopped at the ruins of a house belonging to a half breed, Mrs. Bush, and killed and ate two chickens with our other lunch. When the refugeesgot back to the fort they reported to General Sibley that we had goneon. He said we were reckless and sent George McLeod, Captain of theMounted Rangers, with fifty men to overtake us and bring us back. However, we drove on so fast that McLeod got to St. Peter about the timewe did. There we bought out a bakery and set them to baking hard tack, and purchased cattle and made other arrangements for the feeding of thetroops. 

One day, before this, while I was at General Sibley's camp talking tohim, I saw someone coming toward the camp. I called General Sibley'sattention to it and he sent an officer to investigate. It proved to be afriendly Indian who had stolen a widow and her children from thehostiles and brought them to the fort. Her husband had been killed bythe Indians. 

Mrs. C. A. Smith--1858. 

In the spring of 1858 we came to St. Paul. We took a boat which pliedregularly between St. Paul and Minnesota river points, to Chaska. Therewe left the boat and walked to Watertown where our new home was to be. My father carried $2, 000 in gold in inside pockets of a knitted jacketwhich my mother had made him. With this money we paid for two quartersections of improved land and the whole family began to farm. We livedjust as we had in Sweden, as we were in a Swedish settlement. We wereLutheran, so there were no parties. Going to church was our onlyamusement. 

The prairies were perfectly lovely with their wild flower setting. Therehad been a fire two years before and great thickets of blackberry vineshad grown up. I never saw such blackberries. They were as large as thefirst joint of a man's thumb. The flavor was wild and spicy. I never ateanything so good. Cranberries by the hundreds of bushels grew in theswamps. We could not begin to pick all the hazel nuts. We used to eatturnips as we would an apple. They were so sweet, they were as good. Wemade sun-dials on a clear spot of ground and could tell time perfectlyfrom them. 

We children made dolls out of grass and flowers. I have never seenprettier ones. We kept sheep and mother spun and wove blankets andsheets. We had bolts and bolts of cloth that we made and brought with usfrom Sweden. Here, we raised flax and prepared it for spinning, makingour own towels. 

Nothing could be cozier than our cabin Christmas eve. We had broughtsolid silver knives, forks and spoons. These hung from racks. Quantitiesof copper and brass utensils burnished until they were like mirrors hungin rows. In Sweden mother had woven curtains and bed coverings of red, white and blue linen and these were always used on holidays. How glad wewere they were the national colors here! We covered a hoop with gaycolored paper and set little wooden candle holders that my father hadmade all around it. This was suspended from the ceiling, all aglow withdips. Then, as a last touch to the decorations, we filled our brasscandle sticks with real candles and set them in the windows as agreeting to those living across the lake. A sheaf for the birds and allwas done. 

The vegetables grew tremendous. We used to take turns in shelling cornand grinding it, for bread, in a coffee mill. Mother would say, "If youare hungry and want something to eat of course you will grind. " We mademaple sugar and fine granulated sugar from that. 

My sisters used to walk from Watertown to Minneapolis in one day, thirty-seven miles, following an Indian trail and then were ready for agood time in the evening. How many girls of today could walk that manyblocks?

The lake was full of the biggest fish imaginable. We used to catch them, and dry and smoke them. They made a nice variety in our somewhat samediet. We used to fish through the ice, too. 

Major C. B. Heffelfinger--1858, Minneapolis. 

Well I remember the St. Charles hotel as it was when I first boardedthere. The beds were upstairs in one room in two rows. Stages werebringing loads of passengers to Minneapolis. They could find noaccommodations so no unoccupied bed was safe for its owners. Although myroommate and I were supposed to have lodging and were paying for it, theonly safe way was for one to go to bed early before the stage came inand repel all invaders until the other arrived. If the sentry slept athis post the returning scout was often obliged to sleep on the floor, orsnuggle comfortably against a stranger sandwiched between them. 

The strangers who arrived had made a stage coach journey from La Crossewithout change and spent two nights sitting erect in the coaches, andwere so tired that they went to bed with the chickens. On lucky nightsfor us they were detained by some accident and got in when the chickenswere rising. 

Nothing was ever stolen and many firm friendships were thus cemented. Our pocketbooks were light, but our hearts were also. It was acombination hard to beat. 

1857 was the most stringent year in money that Minnesota has ever known. There was absolutely no money and every store in the territory failed. Everything was paid by order. Captain Isaac Moulton, now of La Crosse, had a dry goods store. A woman, a stranger, came in and asked the priceof a shawl. She was told it was $15. 00. It was done up for her. She hadbeen hunting through her reticule and now put down the money in gold. The Captain looked at it as if hypnotized, but managed to stammer, "MyGod woman, I thought you had an order. It is only $5. 00 in money. "

Mrs. Martha Gilpatrick--1858, Minneapolis. 

When I married, my husband had been batching it. In the winter his dietwas pork! pork! pork! Mrs. Birmingham, who helped him sometimes, saidshe bet if all the hogs he ate were stood end to end, they would reachto Fort Snelling. 

We had a flock of wild geese that we crossed with tame ones. They werethe cutest, most knowing things. I kept them at the house until theywere able to care for themselves, then I turned them out mornings. Iwould go in the pasture and say, "Is that you nice gooses?" They wouldact so human, be so tickled to see me and flop against me and squawk. When Mr. Fitzgerald came home they would run for him the same way assoon as they saw the horse. They were handsome birds. 

I used to go to my sister's. She had a boarding house on the East Side. Her boarders were mill workers and "lathers. " That is what we used tocall the river drivers. They always had a pike pole in their hand. Itlooked like a lath from a distance, so they got the name of "lathers"from this. 

[Illustration: GROUP OF CONTRIBUTORS TAKEN AT A PARTY AT THE HOME OFMRS. JAMES T. MORRIS, May 26, 1915

Upper row from left to right: Mrs. Robert Anderson, Mrs. James Pratt, Mrs. John Brown, Mrs. Mary E. Partridge, Mrs. Anna Todd, Mrs. MarthaGilpatrick, Mrs. Rufus Farnham, Mrs. Charles Godley, Mrs. PaulinaStarkloff. 

Second row: Mrs. Elizabeth Clifford, Mrs. Stephen Rochette. 

Lower row: Mrs. Mahlon Black. Mrs. Mary Schmidt, Mrs. Margaret Hern, Mrs. Margaret A. Snyder, Miss Carrie Stratton, Mrs. Mary Weeks, Mrs. Rebecca Plummer. Eleven of these ladies are over eighty-four years oldand Mrs. Weeks is ninety. All have wonderful memories. ]

Mrs. Margaret Hern--1858. 

My husband enlisted in the Fall of 1861. It was not a very easy thingfor him to do, for our farm was not yet very productive, our threechildren were very young, one a tiny baby, and we had no ready money. However, he felt that his country called him and when the recruitingofficer told him that all soldier's families would be welcome at thepost and that we could go there with him, he rented our farm to GeorgeWells and went on to Fort Ridgeley. We lived forty miles from there onthe Crow River, near Hutchinson. 

We found that the officer had lied. We were not expected or wanted atthe fort. We finally made arrangements to stay by promising to board theblacksmith in his quarters. His name was John Resoft. His rations and myhusband's supported us all. Mr. Hern was very handy about the house, ashe was a Maine Yankee and daily helped me with the work. 

There was a great sameness about the life as there were only about ahundred men stationed at the fort. Very few of them had their familieswith them. The only women were Mrs. Mueller, wife of the doctor, Mrs. Sweet, wife of the chaplain and their three children, Mrs. Edson, theCaptain's wife; Sargeant Jones' wife and three children; Mrs. Dunn andtheir three children; Mrs. Snider and three children; Mrs. Mickel andthree children; Mrs. Randall, the sutler's wife, and myself and ourthree children. 

The winter passed monotonously. We used to have some fun with thesquaws. Once I was writing home to mother. I wanted a little lock ofIndian hair to show her how coarse an Indian's hair was. Old Bettshappened to come in just then, so I took my scissors and was going tocut a little bit of her "raving locks. " When she saw what I was going todo she jumped away screaming and acting like a crazy woman. She nevercame near that house again, but in the spring after my husband had goneto the front and Mrs. Dunn and I had joined forces and gone to living inanother cabin, she stuck her head in our window to beg. I jumped andgrabbed a looking glass and held it before her to let her see how shereally did look. She was a sight. She had an old black silk hood I hadgiven her and her hair was straggling all over. When she saw thereflection she was so mad she tried to break the glass. 

Three weeks before the outbreak, the Sioux, our Indians had a wardance back of the fort and claimed it was against the Chippewas. Atfirst we believed them, but when the half breed, Indian Charlie, came into borrow cooking utensils, he sat down and hung his head, as if underthe influence of liquor. He kept saying "Too bad! Too bad!"

Mrs. Dunn became suspicious and knowing I knew him well, as he had oftenstopped at our cabin, said "Ask him what is too bad. " He said, "Injinskill white folks. Me like white folks. Me like Injins. Me have to fight. Me don't want to. " He seemed to feel broken-hearted. I did not believehim and thought him drunk, but Mrs. Dunn said "You go over and tellSergeant Jones what he said. " I did. Sergeant Jones said, "Whatnonsense! They are only going to have their war dance. All of you whitepeople go over and see that dance. "

We all went. The soldiers were all there. The Indians had two tom-toms, and the squaws beat on them while the Indians, all painted hideously, jumped stiff legged, cut themselves until they were covered with bloodand sweat and yowled their hideous war whoop. They were naked exceptingtheir breech clout. Sargeant Jones had control of all the guns at thefort, and unknown to us, the cannon were all trained on the dancers. Wecould not understand why the soldiers were so near us, but later in theday learned that there was a soldier for everyone of us to snatch usaway if it was necessary to fire on the Indians. 

On Monday morning, August eighteenth, 1862, at about ten o'clock, we sawa great cloud of dust arising. Soon it resolved itself into teams, people on horseback and on foot coming pell mell for the fort. They saidthat Redwood Agency, twelve miles distant, had been attacked and theIndians were killing all the white settlers. 

As they were flying for their lives, they passed the sutler of theRedwood store lying face downwards with a board on his back on which waswritten, "Feed your own squaws and papooses grass. "

He had trusted the Indians until he would do so no longer. Theirannuities were long, long overdue and they were starving. They appealedto him again and again and pleaded for food for their starving families. He finally told them to "Go eat grass. " The settlers had seen theconsequence. They had passed seven dead, besides on the way. 

This was only the beginning of a sad multitude of refugees, who, woundedin every conceivable way, and nearly dead from terror, poured into thefort. 

Captain Marsh, as soon as he had heard the stories, called the soldiersout on the parade ground and called for volunteers, who would go withhim to try and stop the awful carnage. Every soldier came forward. Captain Marsh told them that he thought the sight of the soldiers wouldcow them as it had so many times before. They at once departed, leavingabout thirty men with us. 

We knew nothing of what was happening to this little handful ofsoldiers, but as more and more refugees came in with the terriblymutilated, our fears increased. We knew a small group of the savagescould finish us. Just at dusk, Jim Dunn, a soldier of nineteen whoalways helped us about our work, came reeling in, caked with blood andsweat. I said, "For God's sake, what is the news, Jim?" He only panted, "Give me something to eat quick. " After he had swallowed a fewmouthfuls, he told us that nearly all of the boys had been killed by theIndians. He said, "The devils got us in the marsh by the river. Quinntold the Captain not to go down there, but he held his sword above hishead and said, 'All but cowards will follow me. '" The Indians on theother side of the river were challenging us to come by throwing up theirblankets way above their heads. Only three more of the boys came in thatnight. 

All of us who were living outside, had gone into the stone barracks withthe refugees. That night we were all sitting huddled together tremblingwith fear. We had helped feed the hungry and cared for the wounded allday long and now were so fatigued we could hardly keep awake. I hadbrought my little kerosene lamp with me. I lit it and brought out of thedarkness the sorrowful groups of women and children. Some one called"Lights out. " I turned mine down and set it behind the door. We sat indarkness. A voice called, "Up stairs. " I gathered my baby in my arms, told Walter to hold on to mother's dress on one side and Minnie on theother, and up stairs we went, all pushed from behind so we could notstop. We were pushed into a large room, dark as pitch. There we allstood panting through fear and exertion. How long, I do not know. Avoice in the room kept calling, "Ota! Ota!" meaning "Many! Many!" Weknew there were Indians with us, but not how many. I had the butcherknife sharpened when the first refugees came and covered with a piece ofan old rubber. It was now sticking in my belt. I asked Mrs. Dunn whatshe had to protect herself with. She said she had nothing, but found hershears in her pocket. I told her to put out their eyes with them, whilethey were killing us, for we expected death every minute after hearingthose Indian voices. I heard Jim Dunn's voice and called him and toldhim where my lamp was and asked him to bring it up. He brought it to me. This was the crucial moment of my life. I sat the lamp on the floor, andwith one hand on the butcher knife, slowly turned up the light. I sawonly three squaws and three half breed boys, instead of the large numberof Indians I expected. Each declared "Me good Injin! Me good Injin!"

All was confusion. William Hawley was inside guard at the door of theroom we were in upstairs. He was just out of the hospital and was veryweak. In spite of this he had gone with the soldiers to Redwood and hadjust returned after crawling out from under his dead companions andcreeping through the brush and long grass those dreadful miles. He wasall in. His gun had a fixed bayonet. 

My eyes never left those squaws for a moment. I was sure they werespies who would go to the devils outside and tell them of the weaknessof the fort. Two of the squaws began to fight about a fine tooth comb. The more formidable of the two, with much vituperation, declared shewould not stay where the other one was. Just at the height of the fight, a gun outside was fired. The minute it was fired, the squaw started forthe door. I suspected that it was a signal for her to come outside, andtell what she knew. Hawley had left his post and come in among us. Ourbabies were on a field bed on the floor. Calling to Mrs. Dunn to lookafter them, I sprang to the door and grabbed the discarded gun. At thatmoment, the squaw tried to pass. I ordered her back. She called me a"Seechy doe squaw" meaning "mean squaw" and tried to push me back. Iraised the bayonet saying, "Go back or I'll ram this through you. " Shewent back growling and swearing in Sioux. Probably in half an hour I wasrelieved of my self-appointed task. Martin Tanner taking my place, Isaid to him, "Don't let that squaw get away. " I sat down on a board oversome chairs and made the squaw sit beside me. There we sat all that longnight with my right hand hold of my knife and the other holding her bluepetticoat. Didn't she talk to me and revile me? None of the others eventried to leave. At last we saw the dawn appear. 

Have you ever been in great danger where all was darkness where thatdanger was? If so, you will know what an everlasting blessing thatdaylight was. 

From our upper windows we could look out and see that our foes were notyet in sight. All night long among the refugees, praying, supplicatingand wailing for the dead, was constant, but as the light came and webegan to bestir ourselves among them, nursing the wounded and feedingthe hungry, this ceased and only the crying of the hungry children washeard. 

The Indians had driven away all the stock so there was no milk. My babyhad just been weaned. All those ten days we stayed in the fort, I fedher hard tack and bacon; that was all we had. I chewed this for her. There were many nursing mothers, but all were sustaining more than theirown. 

There was no well or spring near the fort. All water had to be broughtfrom the ravine by mule team. Early that morning, under an escort, withthe cannon trained on them, the men drove the mule teams again and againfor water. Busy as all the women who lived at the fort were, I never letthat squaw out of my sight. I kept hold of a lock of her hair whenever Iwalked around. She swore volubly, but came along. 

About ten o'clock in the morning Lieutenant Gere, a boy of nineteen, whowas left in command when the senior officers were killed, called on me. On a hill to the northwest, a great body of Indians were assembled. Hewanted me to look through the field piece and see if Little Crow was theleader. I knew him at once among the cavorting throng of challengingdevils. I knew too, whose captive I would be if the fort fell, for hehad offered to buy me from my husband for three ponies. He loved so tohear me sing. Mr. Gideon Pond had tried to teach him to sing. We watchedthem breathlessly as they sat in council knowing that if they came thenwe were lost. The council was long, but finally after giving the bloodcurdling war whoop, they rode away. 

They were hardly out of sight before the soldiers who had been with usand had just left for Fort Ripley before the outbreak, filed in. CaptainMarsh had sent for them just before leaving the fort for Redwood. Thosenoble fellows, nearly exhausted from the long march, with no sleep forthirty hours, immediately took their places with the defenders, withoutrest or sleep the night before. Gere had sent to St. Peter for theRenville Rangers and some of our own men. They came in the evening. 

The prayers of thanksgiving that could be heard in many tongues fromthat mournful group of refugees, as they knew of the soldiers return, could never be forgotten. Mrs. Dunn and I had asked for guns to helpfight, but there were none for us. There was little ammunition too. Theblacksmith, John Resoft, made slugs by cutting iron rods into pieces. Mrs. Mueller, Mrs. Dunn and I worked a large share of that day makingcartridges of these, or balls. We would take a piece of paper, give it atwist, drop in some powder and one of these, or a ball, and give itanother twist. The soldiers could fire twice as fast with these as whenthey loaded themselves. All the women helped. 

My squaw was still with me. The others made no effort to escape. Just asnight came, she broke away and when she really started she could run offwith me, as she was big and I only weighed one hundred and three pounds. When I found I could not stop her, I screamed to Sargeant MCGrew, "Thissquaw is going to get away and I can't stop her. " He turned his gun onher and shouted, "If you don't go back, I'll blow you to h---. " Thatnight I had to sleep and she got away. 

With a hundred and sixty soldiers in the fort, all were so reassuredthat we all slept that night. 

The next morning was a repetition of Tuesday. The care of the woundedunder that great man, Doctor Mueller and his devoted wife, was our work. One woman who was my especial care had been in bed with a three day'sold baby when the smoke from the burning homes of neighbors was seen andthey knew the time to fly had come. A wagon with a small amount of hayon it stood near the door with part of a stack of hay by it. Her husbandand the hired man placed her and the baby on this and covered them withas much hay as they could get on before the savages came, then mountedthe horses and started to ride away. They were at once shot by theIndians who then began a search for her. They ran a pitch fork into thehay over and over again, wounding the woman in many places and hurtingthe child so that it died. They then set fire to the hay and went on tocontinue their devilish work elsewhere. She crawled out of the hay moredead than alive and made her way to the fort. Besides the pitchforkholes which were in her legs and back, her hair and eyebrows were goneand she was dreadfully burned. 

None of the women seemed to think of their wounds. They lamented theirdead and lost, but as far as they themselves were concerned werethankful they were not captives. The suffering of these women stirred meto the depths. One poor German woman had had a large family of children. They all scattered at the approach of the Indians. She thought they wereall killed. She would sit looking into space, calling, "Mine schilder!Mine schilder!" enough to break your heart. I thought she had gone crazywhen I saw her look up at the sound of a child's voice, then begin toclimb on the table calling, "Mine schilder! Mine schilder!" In a groupon the other side she had seen four of her children that had escaped andjust reached the fort that Wednesday morning. 

Early in the afternoon the long expected fighting began. We were allsent up stairs to stay and obliged to sit on the floor or lie prone. Allthe windows were shot in and the glass and spent bullets fell all aroundus. I picked up a wash basin heaping full of these and Mrs. Dunn as manymore. By evening the savages retired, giving their awful war whoops. 

Thursday there was very little fighting as the rain wet the Indians'powder. Mrs. Dunn, Mrs. Sweatt and I spent the time making cartridges inthe powder room in our stocking feet. We also melted the spent bulletsfrom the day before and ran them in molds. These helped out the supplyof ammunition amazingly. 

Friday was the terrific battle. A short distance from the fort was alarge mule barn. The Indians swarmed in there. Sergeant Jones understoodtheir method of warfare, so trained cannon loaded with shell on thebarn. At a signal these were discharged, blowing up the barn and settingthe hay on fire. The air was full of legs, arms and bodies, which fellback into the flames. We were not allowed to look out, but I stood atthe window all the time and saw this. Later I saw vast numbers of theIndians with grass and flowers bound on their heads creeping like snakesup to the fort under cover of the cannon smoke. I gave the alarm, andthe guns blew them in all directions. There was no further actualfighting, though eternal vigilance was the watchword. It was thosehundred and sixty men who saved even Minneapolis and St. Paul, and allthe towns between. If Fort Ridgely had fallen, the Sioux warriors wouldhave come right through. General Sibley did not get there withreinforcements until the next Thursday after the last battle. 

You can imagine the sanitary condition of all those people cooped up inthat little fort. No words I know could describe it. 

Note. --Mrs. Hern has a medal from the government for saving the fort. 

Mrs. Mary Ingenhutt--1858, Minneapolis. 

Mrs Ingenhutt, now one hundred years old, for ninety years has made"Apfel Kuchen, " "Fist Cheese" and wine as follows:

Apfel Kuchen--Mix a rich dough using plenty of butter and rich milk. Line a pan with this, cut in squares and cover with apples sprinkledthick with sugar and cinnamon. Bake until apples are thoroughly cooked. 

Fist Cheese--Take a pan of clabbered milk. Set over a slow fire. Whenthe whey comes to the top, strain off and shape in balls. Let stand inwarm place until it is ripe--that is, until it is strong. 

Wine--Grape, currant, rhubarb and gooseberry wine: Mash home grown fruitwith a home made potato masher, squeeze it through a coarse cloth, addsugar and place in warm spot to ferment. Draw off in kegs and allow tostand at least two years. 

I used to love to go to the picnics in the early days. Everyone had sucha good time, and was trying to have everyone else have one, too. Then, all were equal. Nowadays, each one is trying to be prouder than the nextone. 

Captain L. L. McCormack. 

Georgetown on the Red River was the Hudson Bay post. After the railroadwas built to St. Cloud the Red River carts crossed there on a ferry andthen on the Dakota side went from point to point on the river in thetimber to camp. The river is very crooked. A days journey with one ofthese carts was twelve miles. The first stop was at Elk River, nowDalyrimple, then to Goose River, the present site of Caledonia and thento Frog Point and from there to what is now Grand Forks. The freight wasteamed to and from St. Cloud and Benson. 

Mr. Charles M. Loring--1860. 

On the 20th day of September 1860, I reached Minneapolis with my wifeand little son, and went to the Nicollet Hotel where I made arrangementsfor board for the winter. The hotel was kept by Eustis & Hill. Theyfixed the price at $6. 00 a week including fire and laundry for thefamily, i. E. $2. 00 a week for each person. Mr Loren Fletcher occupiedthe rooms adjoining and paid the same price that I paid, notwithstandingthere were but two in his family, but his rooms were considered to bemore favorably located being on the corner of Hennepin and WashingtonAvenues. 

The cook at the hotel was a Mrs. Tibbets from New England who was anexpert in preparing the famous dishes of that section of our country, and in the many years that have elapsed since that time, I have neverbeen in a hotel where cooking was so appetizing. 

Our first winter in Minnesota was passed in the most delightful andpleasant manner. 

The following spring, I rented the house on the corner of what is nowThird Avenue and Sixth Street, for the sum of $6. 00 a month. This houseis still standing and is a comfortable two story New England house. Atthat time it stood alone on the prairie with not more than three or fourhouses south of it. One of these is still standing at the corner ofTenth Street and Park Avenue and is occupied as a "Keeley Cure. "

There were few luxuries in the market, but everything that could bepurchased was good and cheap. There was but one meatshop which was keptby a Mr. Hoblet. He kept his place open in the forenoon only, as hisafternoons were spent in driving over the country in search of a "fatcritter. " The best steaks and roasts were 8c a pound and chickens 4 to6c a pound. Eggs, we bought at 6c a dozen and butter at 8 to 10c apound. In winter, we purchased a hind quarter of beef at 3 and 4c apound, chickens 3c and occasionally pork could be bought at 6c a pound, but this was rarely in market. Mutton was never seen. Prairie chickens, partridges, ducks and venison was very plentiful in the season and verycheap. We used to purchase these in quantities after cold weather came, freeze them and pack them in snow. This worked well provided we had no"January thaw" and then we lost our supplies. 

The only fruit we had for winter use was dried apples, wild plums, wildcrab apples and cranberries. In the season, we had wild berries whichwere very plentiful. There was a cranberry marsh a half mile west ofLake Calhoun, on what is now Lake Street, where we used to go to gatherberries. One day a party of four drove to the marsh and just as we wereabout to alight, we saw that a large buck had taken possession of ourfield. We did not dispute his claim, but silently stole away. That sameautumn a bear entered the garden of W. D. Washburn, who lived on FifthStreet and Eighth Avenue and ate all of his sweet corn. 

About this time the settlers on Lake Minnetonka were clearing theirclaims in the "Big Woods" burning most of the timber, but some of thehard maple was cut as cordwood and hauled to Minneapolis and sold forfrom $2. 00 to $2. 50 a cord. 

The winters were cold but clear and bright. The few neighbors werehospitable and kind and I doubt if there has been a time in the historyof Minneapolis when its citizens were happier than they were in thepioneer days of the early sixties. 

There were few public entertainments, but they enjoyed gathering at thehouses of their neighbors for a game of euchre and occasionally for adance in Woodmans' Hall which was situated on the corner of HelenStreet, now Second Avenue, and Washington Avenue. One violinistfurnished the music. Sleighing, horse racing on the river and skatingwere the out-of-doors amusements for the winter. A favorite place forskating was in a lot situated on Nicollet Avenue between Fourth andFifth Streets. Nicollet Avenue had been raised above the grade of thislot, causing a depression which filled with water in the fall. There wasa small white house in the center of the lot and the skaters went aroundand around it, and no skating park was more greatly enjoyed. 

At the time the war broke out, the town began to show signs ofrecovering from the effects of the panic of 1857 and its wonderfullybeautiful surroundings attracted new settlers and the foundation of thegreat commercial city was laid. 

Dr. Stewart of Sauk Center. 

I was government physician for many years and so was back and forth allthe time. I used to meet old man Berganeck, an old German, who carriedsupplies for the government. He always walked and knit stockings all theway. This was very common among the German settlers. The government paidsuch an enormous price for its freighting that one could almost pay foran outfit for supplies in one trip. Berganeck became very wealthy. 

I often passed the night near the bivouac of the Red River drivers. Theyknew me and were very glad to have me near. I never saw a more ruggedrace. They always had money even in the panic times of '57. If I treatedthem for any little ailment, I could have my choice of money or furs. The mosquitoes did not seem to bother them, though they would drive awhite man nearly crazy. 

I started for Fort Wadsworth, a four company post, in January '68. Thewinters, always severe, had been doubly so in '67 and '68. I went byteam, leaving Sauk Center with the mercury at forty below zero. It nevergot above forty five below in the morning, while we were on the trip. The snow was three feet on a level and we broke the roads. It took ustwelve days to make this three day's trip. My driver was drunk most ofthe time. There were no trees from Glenwood to Big Stone Lake on thetrail. When I drove up to Brown's station, a big log house with a familyof about forty people, Nellie met me. To my inquiry as to whether Icould stay over night, she answered, "Yes, but there is no food in thehouse. We have had none for three days. My father is somewhere betweenhere and Henderson with supplies. He knows we are destitute, so willhurry through. " About three o'clock, we heard an Indian noise outside. It was Joe with his Indian companions. All he had on that big sled washalf a hog, a case of champagne and half a dozen guns. These men werealways improvident and never seemed to think ahead. 

His daughters, Amanda and Emily, twins, had a peculiarity I never knewbefore in twins. One day, one would be gay, the other sad. The next day, it would be reversed. 

Mrs. J. M. Paine, Minneapolis. 

During the early days of the war my husband raised a company of cavalryand wanted me to inspect them as they drilled. I was only a girl ofseventeen, but had instructions enough how to behave when they weredrilling, for a regiment. I was mounted on one of the cavalry horses andwas to sit sedately, my eye on every maneuver and a pleased smile on myface. 

I was ready with the goods, but unfortunately when I was ready, mysteed was not. At the first bugle call he started on a fierce gallop, squeezing himself in where he had belonged, while a terrified brideclung to his neck with both arms. The only reason that I did not clingwith more was that I did not have them. 

I went once on a buffalo hunt with my husband. It does not seem possiblethat all those animals can be gone. The plains were covered with them. The steaks from a young male buffalo were the most delicious I have evertasted. 

Miss Minnesota Neill. 

My father, the Reverend Mr. J. D. Neill, first came to St. Paul in April'49, then returned east to get my mother. In July, when they arrived atBuffalo on their way west, at the hotel, they met Governor and Mrs. Ramsey who were on their way to Minnesota to take up their duties there. They were delighted to meet my father as he was the first man they hadever met who had seen St. Paul. When they arrived, they were muchsurprised at the smallness of the place. My mother was not easilyconsoled over the size of their metropolis. Among other supplies she hadbrought a broom as she had heard how difficult it was to get them. Mr. H. M. Rice, who came down to meet them, chided her for beingdisappointed and putting the broom over his shoulder with pure militaryeffect, led her along the little footpath which led over the bluff tothe town, and to the American House. Although this was a hotel parexcellence for the times, the floor was made of splintered, unplanedboards. My mother was obliged to keep her shoes on until she had gotinto bed and put them on before arising, to escape the slivers. Thefurniture of the bedroom consisted of a bed and wash stand on which lastpiece, the minister wrote powerful sermons. My mother wished to put downa carpet and bring in some of her own furniture, but the landlady wouldnot allow this, saying, "There was no knowing where it would stop, ifone was allowed to do the like. "

They early began the construction of a small chapel and a large brickhouse which later became the stopping place of all ministers enteringthe state. In the fall of '49 the house was not completed, but thechapel was. They felt that the Scotts, where they then lived, neededtheir room, so moved into the chapel and putting up their bed on oneside of the pulpit and stove on the other, kept house there for sixweeks. The only drawback was that the bed had to be taken down everySunday. In all the six weeks it never rained once on Sunday. 

My mother used often to go alone through a ravine at night to see theRamsey's. She carried a lantern but was never molested or afraidalthough it was often very dark. Their storeroom, in those days everyonehad one, was stocked in the fall with everything for the winter. Myfather would buy a side of beef and then cut it up according to thedirections his wife would read from a diagram in a cook book. This wasfrozen and placed in an outside storeroom. 

One Sunday my father announced from the pulpit that if anyone was inneed they always stood ready to help. That night everything was takenfrom the storehouse. It was thought the act was done by someone whorespected my father's wishes as expressed in his sermon. 

Their first Christmas here, the doorbell rang. When it was answered, noone was there, but a great bag containing supplies of all kinds hungfrom the latch. A large pincushion outlined in black was among thethings. It was years before the donor was known. 

Once some eastern people came to see us and we took them for a longdrive. The bridges were not built, so we had to cross the Mississippi ona ferry. We went first to Fort Snelling which seemed to be abandoned. Inone of the rooms we found some peculiar high caps which had belonged tothe soldiers. My father took one and amused the children much when hewent under Minnehaha Falls by leaving his own hat and wearing that funnycap. 

Mr. L. L. Lapham. 

When we were coming to Houston County, if we couldn't get game webreakfasted on codfish. I think it was the biggest slab of codfish Iever saw when we started. It made us thirsty. The fish called for waterand many's the time mother and I knelt down and drank from stagnantpools that would furnish fever germs enough to kill a whole citynowadays, but I suppose we had so much fresh air that the germs couldn'tthrive in our systems. 

Speaking of codfish, reminds me that one day we met a man and his familymaking their way to the river. I halted him and asked him what he wasgoing back for. You see we met few "turnouts" on the road for all weregoing the same way. 

"Well, " said he, "I'm homesick--homesick as a dog and I'm going backeast if I live to get there. " "Why what's the matter with the west?" Iasked. "Oh nothing, only it's too blamed fur from God's country and Igot to hankering fer codfish--and I'm agoin' where it is. Go lang!" andhe moved on. I guess he was homesick. He looked, and he talked it andthe whole outfit said it plain enough. You can't argue withhomesickness--never. 

Arnold Stone and his good wife lived up there on the hill. One day inthe early 60's an Indian appeared in Mrs. Stone's kitchen and asked forsomething to eat. They were just sitting down to dinner and he wasinvited to join the family. The butter was passed to him, and he said, "Me no butter knife. " "I told Arnold, " said Mrs. Stone, "that when itgets so the Injuns ask for butter knives it's high time we had one. "

ANTHONY WAYNE CHAPTER

Mankato

LILLIAN BUTLER MOREHART

(Mrs. William J. Morehart)

Mrs. Margaret Rathbun Funk--1853. 

I came to Mankato in the year 1853 on the Steamer Clarion from St. Paul. I was eleven years old. My father, Hoxey Rathbun, had left us at St. Paul while he looked for a place to locate. He went first to Stillwaterand St. Anthony, but finally decided to locate at the Great Bend of theMinnesota River. We landed about four o'clock in the morning, and fathertook us to a little shack he had built on the brow of the hill west ofFront Street near the place where the old Tourtelotte Hospital used tobe. Back of this shack, at a distance of a couple of blocks were twentyIndian tepees, which were known as Wauqaucauthah's Band. As nearly as Ican remember there were nine families here at that time and their nameswere as follows: Maxfield, Hanna, Van Brunt, Warren, Howe, Mills, Jackson and Johnson, our own family being the ninth. 

The first winter here I attended school. The school house was built bypopular subscription and was on the site of the present Union School onBroad Street. It was a log structure of one room, and in the middle ofthis room was a large, square, iron stove. The pupils sat around theroom facing the four walls, the desks being wide boards, projecting outfrom the walls. Miss Sarah Jane Hanna was my first teacher. I came frommy home across the prairie, through the snow in the bitter cold of thewinter. Oftentimes I broke through the crust of the snow and had a hardtime getting out. One of the incidents I remember well while going toschool, was about a young Indian whom we called Josh, who pretended hewas very anxious to learn English. Most every day he would come to theschool, peer in at the windows, shade his eyes with his hand and mutter"A" "B" "C", which would frighten us very much. The education thechildren received in those days had to be paid for either by theirparents or by someone else who picked out a child and paid for his orher tuition. That was how I received my education. My parents were toopoor to pay for mine, and a man in town, who had no children volunteeredto pay for same. I went to school for a few years on this man'ssubscription. 

The first winter was a very cold one and although we were not botheredmuch by the Indians as yet, they often came begging for something toeat. 

Although the Indians had never harmed us we were afraid of them. When wecame to this country we brought a dog, and when these Indians camebegging we took the dog into the house with us and placed him beside thedoor, where his barking and growling soon frightened them away. Theyseemed afraid of dogs, as there were very few in this country at thattime. One time when father was on his way home he saw an Indian boy whohad been thrown from his horse. He picked him up and put him back on hishorse and took him to his tepee. Later this same Indian remembered myfather's kindness to him by warning us that the Indians were planning anuprising and telling us to leave the country. 

My father was the first mail carrier through this part of the country. John Marsh and his brother, George Marsh contracted with him to carrythe mail, they having previously contracted with the government. He wasto carry the mail from Mankato to Sioux City and return. He made hisfirst trip in the summer of 1856. The trip took about three weeks. Hemade several trips during the summer. His last trip was in the fall of1856, when he started from here to Sioux City. The government wassupposed to have built shacks along his route at regular intervals ofabout twenty miles, where he could rest and seek shelter during coldweather and storms, but this had been neglected. He often slept underhay stacks, and wherever shelter was afforded. 

On his way to Sioux City he encountered some very severe weather, andfroze one of his sides. The lady where he stopped in Sioux City wantedhim to stay there for a while before returning home, and until his sidehad been treated and he had recovered, but he would not have it so, andstarted on his return trip during exceedingly cold weather. He did notreturn on schedule time from Sioux City on this trip, and mother becamevery much worried about him. She went to the men who had contracted withfather to carry the mail and asked them to send out men to look for him. They promised to send out a Frenchman, and a dog team. This contentedmother for awhile, but as father did not return she again went to thesemen and this time they sent out three men with a horse and cutter tolook for him. 

After traveling over the route for some time they came to a shack on theDes Moines river, near where Jackson, this state, now is and in thisshack they found my father, badly frozen and barely alive. He lived buta few moments after shaking hands with the men who found him. Theybrought the body back to Mankato and he was buried out near our place ofresidence, at the foot of the hill. The weather was so extremely cold atthat time that the family could not go out to the burial. 

Later, after I was married, myself and husband came down to what is nowthe central part of town for the purpose of buying a lot for building ahome, and we selected the lot where I now live, at the corner of Walnutand Broad streets. We purchased the same for $487. We could have had anylot above this one for $200, but selected this for the reason that itwas high. The country around us was all timber and we had no sidewalksor streets laid out at that time. 

At the time of the Indian outbreak I lived on what is now Washingtonstreet, directly across from where the German Lutheran school nowstands. The Indians started their outbreaks during the Civil war. Theystarted their massacres in this neighborhood in July and August of 1862. I can distinctly remember seeing, while standing in the doorway of myhome, a band of Indians coming over the hill. This was Little Priest andhis band of Winnebagoes. These Winnebagoes professed to be friendly tothe white people and hostile to the Sioux. They claimed that a Sioux hadmarried a Winnebago maiden, and for that reason they were enemies to theSioux. To prove that they were their enemies they stalked the Sioux whohad married a maid of one of their tribes and murdered him, bringingback to show us his tongue, heart, and scalp, and also dipped theirhands in the Sioux's life blood and painted their naked bodies with it. 

Mrs. Mary Pitcher--1853. 

The old Nominee with a cabin full of passengers and decks and hold loadedwith freight bound for St. Paul was the first boat to get through LakePepin in the spring of 1853. The journey from Dubuque up was full ofinterest, but although on either side of the Mississippi the Indians werethe chief inhabitants, nothing of exciting nature occurred until PigseyeBar on which was Kaposia, the village of the never-to-be-forgotten LittleCrow was reached. Then as the engines were slowed down to make the landinga sight met our gaze that startled even the captain. The whole village ofseveral hundred Indians was in sight and a most frightful sight it was. Everyone young and old was running about crying, wailing, with facespainted black and white. They did not seem even to see the big steamer. Itwas such an appalling spectacle that the captain deemed it best not toland, but there were two men on board, residents of St. Paul returning fromSt. Louis who got into a boat and went ashore. 

They learned that there had been a fight in St. Paul the day beforebetween this band of Sioux and a party of Chippewas in which one of theSioux was killed and several wounded. It was not a very pleasant thingto contemplate, for these people on board the boat were going to St. Paul with their families to make homes in this far away west. 

There were also on board some Sisters of Charity from St. Louis, one ofthem Sister Victorine, a sister of Mrs. Louis Robert. They all fell ontheir knees and prayed and wept and they were not the only ones who wepteither. There were many white faces and no one seemed at ease. 

I remember my mother saying to my father, "Oh Thomas, why did we bringthese children into this wild place where there can be an Indian fightin the biggest town and only ten miles from a fort at that. "

The excitement had not subsided when St. Paul was reached, but the firstman that came on board as the boat touched the landing was my mother'sbrother, Mr. W. W. Paddock. The sight of him seemed to drive away someof the fear, as he was smiling and made light of the incident of the daybefore. He took us up to the Old Merchants' Hotel, then a large ramblinglog house and as soon as we had deposited some of our luggage, he said, "Well, we will go out and see the battlefield. " It was in the back yardof our hotel, an immense yard of a whole block, filled with huge logsdrawn there through the winter for the year's fuel. 

The morning of the fight, a party of Chippewas coming into St. Paul fromthe bluffs saw the Sioux in canoes rounding the bend below and knowingthey would come up Third Street from their landing place, just belowForbes' Store and exactly opposite the hotel, the Chippewas made hasteto hide behind the logs, and wait the coming of the Sioux. 

The landlady, Mrs. Kate Wells, was standing on one of the logs, hangingup some clothes on a line. Frightened almost to death at the sight ofthe Indians running into the yard and hiding behind the logs, she jumpeddown and started to run into the house. Instantly she was made tounderstand she could not go inside. The Indians pointed their guns ather, and motioned her to get down behind the logs out of sight, whichshe did and none too soon, as just then the Sioux came in sight and weremet by a most deadly fusilade that killed Old Peg Leg Jim and woundedmany others. Some of the Sioux took refuge in Forbes store and openedfire on any Chippewa who left his hiding place. Pretty soon theinhabitants began to come into hailing distance and the Chippewasconcluded to beat a hasty retreat but not before they had taken OldJim's scalp. When the Sioux ran into Forbes store, the clerk, thinkinghis time had come, raised a window and taking hold of the sill, lethimself drop down to the river's edge, a distance of over fifty feet. 

Between the Sioux and Chippewas ran a feud further back than the whiteman knew of and no opportunity was ever lost to take the scalp of afallen foe. 

The Indians mourn for the dead but doubly so if they have lost theirscalps, as scalpless Sioux cannot enter the Happy Hunting Grounds. 

One of the things about this same trip of the old Nominee was the factthat almost every citizen of St. Paul came down to see this welcomemessenger of spring. 

Provisions had become very scarce and barrels of eggs and boxes ofcrackers and barrels of hams, in fact almost everything eatable wasrolled out on the land and sold at once. It didn't take long to empty abarrel of eggs or a box of crackers and everyone went home laden. 

Mrs. J. R. Beatty--1853. 

I landed in Mankato on my twelfth birthday, May 26, 1853. We came fromOhio. My father, George Maxfield and his family and my uncle, JamesHanna and family and friend, Basil Moreland, from Quincy, Ill. We tookthe Ohio River steam boat at Cincinnati. Somewhere along the river webought a cow. This cow started very much against her better judgment andafter several days on the boat decided she wouldn't go west after alland in some way jumped off the boat and made for the shore. We did notdiscover her retreat until she had reached the high bank along the riverand amid great excitement the boat was turned around and everybodylanded to capture the cow. She was rebellious all along the way, especially when we had to transfer to a Mississippi boat at St. Louis, and when we transferred to a boat on the Minnesota river at St. Paul, but she was well worth all the trouble for she was the only cow in thesettlement that first summer. She went dry during the winter and not adrop of milk could be had for love or money in the town. 

The want of salt bothered the pioneers more than anything else. Gameabounded. Buffalo herds sometimes came near and deer often came throughthe settlement on the way to the river to drink. The streams were fullof fish, but we could not enjoy any of these things without salt. However, our family did not suffer as much inconvenience as some othersdid. One family we knew had nothing to eat but potatoes and maple syrup. They poured the syrup over the potatoes and managed to get through thewinter. Sometimes flour would be as high as $24 a barrel. During thesummer when the water was low and in the winter when the river wasfrozen and the boats could not come down from St. Paul, the storekeeperscould charge any price they could get. 

Our family had a year's supply of groceries that father had bought atSt. Louis on the way up. We had plenty of bedding and about sixty yardsof ingrain carpet that was used as a partition in our house for a longtime. There was very little to be bought in St. Paul at that time. Father bought the only set of dishes to be had in St. Paul and the onlyclock. 

There were only a few houses in Mankato and the only thing we could findto live in was the frame of a warehouse that Minard Mills had just begunto build on the south end of the levee, where Otto's grocery store nowstands. My uncle purchased the building and we put a roof on and movedin. We were a family of twenty-one and I remember to this day the awfulstack of dishes we had to wash after each meal. A frame addition was putalong side of the building and in July my cousin, Sarah J. Hanna (laterMrs. John Q. A. Marsh) started a day school with twenty-four scholars. It was the first school ever held in Mankato. 

In 1855, a tract of land twenty four miles long and twelve miles widewas withdrawn from civilization and given as a reservation to twothousand Winnebago Indians who took possession in June of that yearagainst the vigorous protest of the people. Everyone in the town wasdown to see them come in. The river was full of their canoes for two orthree days. As soon as they landed, the Indians began the erection of arude shelter on the levee of poles and bark, perhaps twenty feet longand twelve feet wide. The squaws were all busy cooking some kind of meatand a cake something like a pancake. We soon discovered that they werepreparing a feast for the Sioux who had come down in large numbers fromFort Ridgely which was near New Ulm to meet them. After the shelter wasfinished the feast began. Blankets were spread on the ground and rows ofwooden bowls were placed before the Indians, one bowl to about threeIndians. The cakes were broken up and placed near the bowls. After thefeast was over, the peace-pipe was passed and the speaking began. Thefirst speaker was a Sioux chief, evidently delivering an address ofwelcome. He was followed by several others all very dignified andimpressive. 

We had heard that the Sioux would give a return feast on the next dayand when we got tired of watching the speakers, we went down to theSioux wigwams to see what was going on there and found an old Indiansquatting before the fire. Dog meat seemed to be the main article offood. Evidently it was to be a ceremonial feast for he had a largesupply of dog beside him on the ground and was holding one over thefire to singe the hair off. When we came near, he deftly cut off an earand offered it to me with a very fierce look. When I refused it, helaughed very heartily at his little joke. 

The Winnebagoes were sent to the agency four miles from town soon after. The agency buildings were where St. Clair is now located. 

One day at noon the school children heard that the Indians were having asquaw dance across the river. It was in the spring, just as the snow wasbeginning to melt. We found about twenty-five squaws dancing around in acircle and making a fearful noise in their high squealing voices. Theydanced in the same way that the Indians did, and I had never seen anyother form of dancing among them. They were wearing moccasins and weretramping around in the water. The Indians were sitting on logs watchingthem. One was pounding on a tom-tom. 

One day when we were eating dinner, about twenty-five Indians came tothe house and looked in the window. They always did that and then wouldwalk in without knocking. They squatted down on the floor until dinnerwas over and then motioned for the table to be pushed back to the wall. Then they began to dance the begging dance. In their dances they pushedtheir feet, held close together over the floor and came down veryheavily on their heels. There were so many of them that the house fairlyrocked. Each Indian keeps up a hideous noise and that with the beatingof the tom-tom makes a din hard to describe. The tom-tom is a dried skindrawn tightly over a hoop and they beat on this with a stick. After theywere through dancing they asked for a pail of sweetened water and somebread which they passed around and ate. This bread and sweetened waterwas all they asked for. It is a part of the ceremony, although theywould take anything they could get. 

The Sioux were the hereditary foes of the Chippewas who lived near thehead waters of the Mississippi and during this summer about threehundred Sioux on their way to Fort Ridgely where they were to receivetheir annuity, pitched their wigwams near our house. They had been onthe war path and had taken a lot of Chippewa scalps and around thesebloody trophies they held a savage scalp dance. We children were notallowed to go near as the howling, hooting and yelling frightenedeverybody. It continued for three nights and the whole settlement wasrelieved when they went away. 

Mrs. A. M. Pfeffer--1858. 

My father, Miner Porter had been closely connected with the earlyhistory of Fox Lake, Wis. He had conducted the leading hotel and storefor years, was Postmaster, and did much by his enterprise and liberalityfor the town. He went to bed a wealthy man and awoke one morning to findeverything but a small stock of merchandise swept away by the State Bankfailures of that state. Selling that, he came to Mankato in 1857 andpre-empted a tract of land near Minneopa Falls, now our State Park. Itwas one half mile from South Bend, located on the big bend of theMinnesota River. 

The following year, 1858 father started to build on our claim. Therewere sawmills in our vicinity where black walnut and butternut for theinside finishing could be bought, but the pine that was needed for theother part of the building had to be hauled from St. Paul by team. Ittook all summer to get the lumber down. 

After our house was finished it came to be the stopping place forlodging and breakfast for settlers traveling over the territorial roadtowards Winnebago and Blue Earth City. 

Pigeon Hill, a mile beyond our house was used as a camping ground forthe Sioux all of that winter. We could see the smoke from theircampfires curling up over the hill, although they were supposed to stayon their reservation at Fort Ridgely they were constantly coming andgoing and they and the Winnebagoes roved at will over the entirecountry. 

One night mother was awakened by an unusual noise. She called father, who got up and opened the bedroom door. The sight that met their eyeswas enough to strike terror to the heart of any settler of those days. The room was packed with Indians--Winnebagoes--men, women and children, but they were more frightened than we were. They had had some encounterwith the Sioux and had fled in terror to our house. After muchpersuasion, father induced them to leave the house and go down to asmall pond where the timber was very heavy and they remained in hidingfor two days. We were in constant terror of the Sioux. All the settlersknew they were a blood thirsty lot and often an alarm would be sentaround that the Sioux were surrounding the settlement. Mother would takeus children and hurry to the old stone mill at South Bend, where wewould spend the night. 

They became more and more troublesome until father thought it unsafe toremain any longer and took us back to our old home in Wisconsin. 

Mr. I. A. Pelton--1858. 

I came into the State of Minnesota in April, 1858 and to Mankato May 1, 1858 from the State of New York, where I was born and raised. This was apretty poverty stricken country then. The panic they had in November1857 had struck this country a very hard blow. It stopped immigration. Previous to this panic they had good times and had gone into debtheavily, expecting to have good times right along. Everyone was badly indebt and money was hard to get. Currency consisted of old guns, townlots, basswood lumber, etc. These things were traded for goods andgroceries. Money was loaned at three to five per cent per month, orthirty-six to sixty per cent per year. I knew of people who paid sixtyper cent a year for a short time. Three per cent a month was a commoninterest. I hired money at that myself. 

The farmers had not developed their farms much at that time. A farmerwho had twenty to twenty-five acres under plow was considered a bigfarmer in those days. The summer of 1858 was a very disastrous, unprofitable one. It commenced very wet and kept raining during thesummer until North Mankato was all under water and the river in placeswas a mile wide. The river was the highest about the first of August. The grain at the time of this heavy rain was ripening causing it toblight, ruining the crop. Wheat at this time was worth from $2 to $3 perbushel. A great many of the farmers did not cut their grain becausethere was nothing in it for them. The man where I boarded cut his grainbut he had little or nothing, and that which he did get was soft andsmutty. He took the same to be ground into flour and the bread the flourmade was almost black, as they did not at that time have mills to takeout the smut. 

The people in the best condition financially were mighty glad if theyhad Johnny cake, pork and potatoes and milk and when they had these theythought they were on the "top shelf. "

At this time too, they had to watch their fields with guns, or protectthem with scarecrows and have the children watch them to keep them clearfrom the blackbirds, which were an awful pest. There were millions ofthese birds and there was not a time of day when they were not hoveringover the fields. These birds would alight in the corn fields, tear thehusks from the corn and absolutely ruin the ears of corn; also feed onthe oats and wheat when it was not quite ripe and in a milky condition. 

During the winter they would go south, but come back in the spring whenthey would be considerable bother again, by alighting on fields that hadjust been sown and taking the seed from the ground. Farmers finallythrew poisoned grain in the fields. This was made by soaking wheat andoats in a solution of strychnine. It was ten years before these birdswere exterminated enough to make farming a profitable occupation. 

Farming was more successful after that, for the reason that these birdsdid not need watching. During the summer of 1858 and all during thesummer of 1859 the river was navigable. St. Paul boats came up often andsometimes a Mississippi boat from St. Louis. We had no railroads in thestate at that time. 

During the year of 1859 State Banks were put into the state but thesedid not last long. I know at that time my brother sent out $150 that Ihad borrowed of Harry Lamberton. He sent this money by a man named DavidLyon from New York. He came to where I was boarding and left State Bankmoney. The people where I was staying gave me the money that night whenI came home and told me about what it was for. I started for St. Peterthe next day to pay the debt and during the time the money was left andwhen I arrived at St. Peter it had depreciated in value ten per cent andit kept on going down until it was entirely valueless. Money was veryscarce at that time and times were hard. We had some gold and a littlesilver. 

In the year of 1859 we had the latest spring I ever experienced. We didnot do any farming of any kind until the first week in May and this madeit very late for small grain. We had a short season, but the wheat wasvery good. We had an early frost that year about the third of Septemberand it killed everything. I saw killdeers frozen to death the third dayof that month. Corn was not ripe yet and was ruined. It would have beenquite a crop. It was dried up afterwards and shrunk, but was not good. Oats and wheat however were good and it made better times. 

The country was gradually developing. In the spring of 1860 we had anearly spring. The bees flew and made honey the seventeenth of March. Wecommenced plowing on the sixteenth of March. I brought down potatoesthat spring and put them in an open shed and they did not freeze. Thissummer was a very productive one. Wheat went as high as forty bushels tothe acre, No. 1. All crops were good. 

The fall of 1860 was the time they held presidential election andLincoln was elected that fall. We had very many speakers here at Mankatoand excitement ran high. General Baker, Governor Ramsey, Wm. Windom, afterwards Secretary of the Treasury and other prominent men spoke. 

After the war commenced and the volunteers were called out, most of theable bodied men joined the army. These men sent their pay home andafterward business began to get better and conditions improved. Early inAugust of 1862 Lincoln called for five hundred thousand men and thosemen in this immediate vicinity who had not already joined, went to war, leaving only those not able to join to protect their homes and property. 

Mr. John A. Jones. 

We were among the very earliest settlers in the vicinity of Mankato andcame from Wisconsin. I had come in April and pre-empted a claim at thetop of what is known as Pigeon Hill. Two other families came with us. 

Traveling across country, we and our teams and live stock made quite aprocession. We had five yoke of oxen, several span of horses, and aboutforty head of cattle, among them a number of milch cows. The wagons, inwhich we rode and in which we carried our household goods were the real"prairie schooner" of early days. We found our way by compass and madeour own road west, traveling over the soft earth in which deep ruts weremade by our wheels. The following teams were compelled to proceed withcare in order not to get stalled in the ruts made by the first wagons. 

We made the trip in four weeks, fording all rivers and streams on theway. At La Crosse we hired both ferries and took all day to cross. During the difficult journey we averaged about twenty-two miles, someof us walking all the time driving the large drove of cattle. No Indianvillages were passed although we met a number of friendly redskins. Atnight we slept in the wagons and cooked our meals as all emigrants did. We brought a large store of provisions and on Saturdays would set asmall stove up in the open and do our weekly bread baking. We passedthrough eighteen miles of heavy timber beyond what is now Kasota, comingout from the forest about three miles this side onto a very nice road. 

We finally arrived at the homestead. We set our stove up in the yard bya tree and lived in the shanty until our new log house was completed. The shanty was covered with seven loads of hay to make it warm insideand a quilt was hung over the door. Here we lived for two months, suffering at times from rain penetrating. At one time a heavy cloudburst nearly drowned us out. 

The first winter in our new home was a severe one. For three weeks thecold was very intense, and what was known as three "dog moons" at nightand three "dog suns" during the day heralded the cold weather, the moonand sun being circled with these halos for the entire three weeks. Provisions began to run low. The prices were very high and Mr. Joneswent to St. Paul to lay in a stock of provisions. Among other things hebrought home sixty barrels of flour and eight barrels of salt. Thesuperfine flour was $16 a barrel and the second grade $13. Theprovisions were brought by boat to Kasota, where they were stranded inthe sand and were brought the rest of the way by team. There was also abarrel of sugar and one of apples. Sugar in those days sold at the rateof six pounds for $1. 00. 

The families used this flour until they raised their own wheat and afterthat they used graham flour. The Jones' planted five acres to wheat thefollowing spring. 

Mrs. Clark Keysor. 

After my husband had enlisted and went to Fort Snelling, I was quitetimid about staying alone and got a neighbor girl to stay with me. Thethird night I thought I might as well stay alone. That night a rap cameat the door. A neighbor was there and wanted to know if Mr. Keysor had agun. He said the Indians had broken out and they wanted to get all theguns they could. Of course we were paralyzed with fear. From that on thetrouble began. 

As soon as the rumor reached Fort Snelling my husband's company was sentback. On the day they arrived I got a good dinner for them. I knew theywould be tired and when he arrived he looked worn and haggard, havingmarched all the way from Fort Snelling to Mankato. We could not eat muchdinner, we were so excited. He left right away for the frontier. Thelast thing he told me before he went away was, "Fight 'til you die, never be taken prisoner. "

The bluest day of all was one Sunday. Everyone who could get away waspacking up. Women and children were walking the streets and crying. Theyexpected the Sioux to start from Fort Ridgely to kill all the whites, but when they got to Birch Coolie where the Winnebagoes were to jointhem, the Indians found a barrel of whiskey there. They becameintoxicated and had a big fight, so they did not come to Mankato. Thatwas one time when whiskey served a good purpose. 

One night not very long after the Indians broke out, there were four ofour neighbors' families came into our house, as they felt safertogether. There were twelve children in the house. About midnight weheard the town bell begin to ring and one of the women got up and wentto the door to see what the trouble was. When she opened the door, shesaw a fire, which was Seward's Mill, but she cried out, "The Indianshave come, the town is all on fire. " The children began screaming and wewere all nearly frightened to death but it proved it wasn't Indians atall. Someone had set the mill on fire. 

A few of the men who were left thought that we had better pack a few ofour best things and go to Leeche's old stone building for protection. What few men there were could protect us better there than at differenthomes. This old building was three stories high. Some women were sick, some screaming. It was a scene of trouble and distress. It was the worstbedlam I ever got into. 

Mr. Hoatling was then our best friend and helped me get my things overto this store building. We stayed one night. The cries of women in painand fright were unbearable, so the next day I went back home thinking Iwould risk my chances there. 

Judge Lorin Cray--1859. 

While at St. Peter and in the early part of December, 1862 a few of uslearned, by grapevine telegraph, late one afternoon, that an effort wasto be made the following evening, by the citizens of Mankato, New Ulmand vicinity, to kill the Indian prisoners, three hundred and more thenin camp at Mankato near the present site of Sibley Park. As no admissionfee was to be charged the select few determined to be present at theentertainment. The headquarters of the blood-thirsty citizens was theold Mankato House located where the National Citizens Bank now stands, where liquid refreshments were being served liberally, without money andwithout price. 

I have never seen a correct history of this fiasco in print. A verylarge crowd congregated there, and there seemed to be no great haste tomarch on the Indian camp. Several times starts were made by a squad offifty or one hundred persons, who would proceed for a few hundred feet, and then halt and return for more refreshments. 

Finally at nearly midnight the supply of refreshments must have beenexhausted for the army moved. Several hundred citizens started southalong Front Street for the Indian camp, straggling for a distance ofseveral blocks. When the head of the column reached West Mankato ithalted until the rear came up, and while a rambling discussion was goingon as to what they should do and how they should do it, Capt. (sincegovernor) Austin with his company of cavalry, surrounded the whole squadand ordered them to move on towards Colonel (since governor) Miller'sheadquarters, right at the Indian camp. They seemed reluctant to go, andrefused to move. Capt. Austin ordered his men to close in, which theydid--crowding the citizens and yet they refused to move. Finally Capt. Austin gave the command to "draw sabers" and when a hundred sabers cameout in one movement, the army again moved on Colonel Miller'sheadquarters at the Indian camp. 

The scene here was supremely ridiculous. Colonel Miller came out fromhis tent and spoke kindly to the citizens and asked why they werecongregated in such large numbers. He finally ordered their release andsuggested that they go home which they hastened to do. 

The next morning these Indians were removed, under guard of all thetroops in the city, to log barracks, which had been built for them onFront Street diagonally across the street from where the Saulpaugh nowstands. The Indians remained in these barracks only about two weeks. They had been there but a short time when the officer of the day, makinghis morning inspection, which was very formal, thought that he saw ahatchet or knife under the blanket of one of the Indians. Without achange of countenance or a suspicious movement he proceeded with theinspection until it was completed, and retired from the barracks, and atonce caused to be mustered around the barracks every soldier in the citywith loaded guns and fixed bayonets. Then with a squad of soldiers heentered the barracks and searching every Indian, he secured a largenumber of hatchets, knives, clubs and other weapons. These weapons, itwas learned had been gotten at the Winnebago agency about twelve milesaway by several squaws, who prepared food for these Indians and who wereallowed to go to the woods to gather wood for their fires. Immediatelyafter this discovery the Indians who were under sentence of death wereremoved to a stone building near by where they were kept under heavyguard. A few days after this incident, Dec. 26, 1862, my company camefrom St. Peter to act as guard on one side of the scaffold at theexecution of the thirty-eight Indians who were then hanged on what isnow the southerly end of the grounds of the Chicago and Northwesternfreight depot, in Mankato. A granite monument now marks the place. 

Captain Clark Keysor. 

I served as first Lieutenant, Co. E, 9th Minnesota of the frontierextending from Fort Ridgely through the settlement at Hutchinson, LongLake and Pipe Lake. At the latter place we built a sod fort and I was incharge. Mounted couriers, usually three in number, traveling together, reported daily at these forts. I was stationed along the frontier formore than a year and we had many encounters with the Indians, and I soonlearned that a white man with the best rifle to be bought in those dayshad a poor chance for his life when he had to contend with an Indianwith a double barrel shot gun. 

The Indian, with one lightning like movement throws a hand full of mixedpowder and shot into his gun, loading both barrels at once and takes ashot at his enemy before the white man can turn around, and when theIndian is running to escape, he jumps first to this side and then tothat, never in a straight line, and it is an expert marksman, indeed, who can hit him. 

I worked on the Winnebago agency as carpenter and millwright and learnedto know the habits of the Indians very well. I learned to follow a trailand later during the Indian trouble that knowledge came in very handy. 

It is very easy for a white man to fall into the habits of the Indian, but almost impossible to raise the Indian to the standard of the whiteman. The head chief of the Winnebagoes was well known to me, and webecame fast friends. He was a friendly man to all the settlers, but Iknew the characteristics of the Indian well enough to trust none ofthem. He never overcomes the cunning and trickery in his nature and Ilearned to know that when he seemed most amiable and ingratiating wasthe time to look out for some deviltry. The Indians were great gamblers, the squaws especially. They would gamble away everything they owned, stopping only at the short cotton skirt they wore. 

"Crazy Jane" was an educated squaw and could talk as good English as anyof us. She was very peculiar and one of the funny things she did was toride her Indian pony, muffled up in a heavy wool blanket carrying aparasol over her head. She had the habit of dropping in to visit thewives of the settlers and would frequently; on these visits, wash herstockings and put them on again without drying. One day when we wereliving at the agency I came home and found my wife in a great fright. Our little three year old girl was missing. She had looked everywherebut could not find her. I ran to the agency buildings nearby, but no onehad seen her. They were digging a deep well near our house and I had notdared to look there before, but now I must and after peering down intothe depths of the muddy water and not finding her, I looked up and sawCrazy Jane coming towards me with a strange looking papoose on her back. When she came nearer I found it was my child. I snatched the little girlaway from her. She said she was passing by and saw the child playingoutside the door and had carried her away on her back to her tepee, where she had kept her for several hours but had meant no harm. 

We were ordered to New Ulm after the outbreak. We found the placedeserted. The doors had been left unlocked and everyone had fled fortheir lives. The desk and stamps from the postoffice were in the streetand all the stores were open. I put out scouting parties from there andwe stood guard all night. After two or three days a few came back toclaim their property. They had to prove their claim before I would allowthem to take charge again. Uncle "Tommy" Ireland came to us a few daysafter we arrived there. He was the most distressed looking man I eversaw in my life. He had been hiding in the swamps for seven days andnights. He had lain in water in the deep grass. When we examined him, wefound seventeen bullet holes where he had been shot by the Indians. Hetold me about falling in with Mrs. Eastlake and her three children. 

They had all come from Lake Shetek. The settlement there comprised aboutforty-five people. They had been attacked by the Indians under Lean Bearand eight of his band, and the bands of White Lodge and Sleepy Eye, although Sleepy Eye himself died before the massacre. 

Many of the settlers knew the Indians quite well and had treated themwith great kindness. Mr. Ireland and his family were with the rest ofthe settlers when they were overtaken by the Indians. Mrs. Ireland, Mr. Eastlake and two of his children, were among the killed. Mrs. Eastlakewas severely wounded, and wandered for three days and nights on theprairie searching for her two children, hoping they might have escapedfrom the slough where the others met their death. Finally on the way toNew Ulm she overtook her old neighbor, Mr. Ireland, whom she supposedkilled, as she had last seen him in the slough pierced with bullets, buthe had revived and managed to crawl thus far, though in a sorry plight. From him she received the first tidings from her two missing children. Later on when she found her children, they were so worn by theirsuffering she could hardly recognize them. The eldest boy, eleven yearsold had carried his little brother, fifteen months old on his back forfifty miles. All the baby had to eat was a little piece of cheese whichthe older boy happened to have in his pocket. When within thirty milesfrom New Ulm they found the deserted cabin of J. F. Brown in BrownCounty, where Mrs. Eastlake and children, a Mrs. Hurd and her twochildren, and Mr. Ireland lived for two weeks on raw corn, the only foodthey could find. They dared not make a fire for fear the Indians wouldsee the smoke. Mr. Ireland had been so badly injured that he had notbeen able to leave the cabin to get help, but finally was forced by theextreme need of the women and children to start for New Ulm. He fell inwith a priest on the way, and together they came to our headquarters andtold their story. We started at four o'clock next morning, with acompany of soldiers and a wagon with a bed for the injured women. Whenwe reached the cabin the women were terribly frightened and thought itwas the Indians after them again. On our return to New Ulm we took adifferent turn in the road. It was just as near and much safer. One ofour men, Joe Gilfillan had not had his horse saddled when the reststarted and when he came to the fork in the road, he took the one he hadcome by and was killed by the Indians. Undoubtedly we would have met thesame fate had we taken that road as the Indians were on our trail andwere in ambush waiting for our return. However, we got safely back toNew Ulm and later Mrs. Eastlake and her children and Mr. Ireland came toMankato where they were cared for with the other refugees. Thesufferings and hardships endured by the older Eastlake boy soon carriedhim to an untimely grave. 

COLONIAL CHAPTER

Minneapolis

CARRIE SECOMBE CHATFIELD

(Mrs. E. C. Chatfield)

RUTH HALL VAN SANT

(Mrs. S. R. Van Sant)

Miss Carrie Stratton--1852. 

My father was Levi W. Stratton who was born in Bradford, N. H. , who cameto St. Croix valley in 1838, taking up a claim where Marine now stands. 

He helped to build the old mill there, the ruins of which are still tobe found there. After two or three years he removed to Alton, Ill. , where he remained for ten or twelve years marrying my mother there in1842. 

In 1852 he returned to Minnesota, coming up the river in the old "WarEagle. " His family consisted of my mother, myself and my four brothersand sisters, the youngest an infant of six months. 

We arrived at St. Paul on June 8. Being a child of but seven years, mymemory of the appearance of the town at that time, is very indistinct. In fact the only clear remembrance of anything there, is of a large signupon a building directly across the street from the little inn or tavernwhere we stopped for the night. It was "Minnesota Outfitting Company. "On account of our large family of little children, I had been put intoschool when I was between two and three years of age and so was able toread, write and spell, and I have a very vivid recollection of the threelong words of that sign. 

We came from St. Paul to St. Anthony in the stage of the WilloughbyCompany, which was the first stage line in Minnesota. The driver stoppedto water his horses at the famous old Des Noyer "Half Way House. "

We stopped at the old St. Charles Hotel while the house my father hadengaged was made ready for us. It was the Calvin Tuttle home, which wason the river bank at the foot of the University hill. 

My father's previous residence in Minnesota had taught him to understandand speak the Indian language and so the Indians were frequent visitorsat our house on one errand or another, generally, however to getsomething to eat. The first time they came, my father was absent, and mymother, never having seen any Indians before, was very much frightened. Not being able to understand what they wanted, she imagined with amother's solicitude, that they wanted the baby, and being actually tooterrified to stand any longer, she took the baby and went into her roomand laid down upon the bed. After a while, either from intuition, orfrom the motions the Indians made, it occurred to her to give themsomething to eat, which was what they wanted and they then wentpeaceably away. The rest of the children, like myself, did not appear tobe at all frightened, but instead, were very much entertained by thenovel sight of the Indians in their gay blankets and feathered headdress. After that they were frequent visitors but always peaceable ones, never committing any misdemeanor. 

One of the earliest diversions I can remember was going up Universityhill to the old Cheever tower and climbing to the top, in accordance tothe mandate at the bottom, to "Pay your Dime and Climb, " to get themagnificent view of the surrounding country, which included that of thegreat falls in their pristine glory. I can remember too, like all theothers here who were children at that time, the stupendous roar of thefalls, which was constantly in our ears especially if we were awake atnight, when every other noise was stilled. 

In the fall of that first year, I entered school, which was an academyin a building on University Avenue opposite the present East HighSchool. This school was the nucleus of the State University and waspresided over by Mr. E. W. Merrill, who was afterward a Congregationalminister and home missionary. 

After two or three years we moved into the home of the Rev. Mr. SethBarnes above Central Avenue, and between Main and Second streets. Heremy father cultivated a fine garden which included, besides corn, beansand other usual vegetables, some fine sweet potatoes, which were quite anovelty in the town at that time. 

Mr. Irving A. Dunsmoor--1853. 

In 1852 on account of poor health, my father resolved to come toMinnesota and become a farmer, and in the fall of that year, he set outwith his family, consisting of my mother, myself and my three brothers. 

We arrived at Galena, Ill. , only to find that the last boat of theseason had gone up the river the day before. So my father left us therefor the winter and came up by the stage. 

The end of his journey found him in the little town of Harmony, whichwas afterwards changed to Richfield, and is now within the city limitsof Minneapolis. 

Here he was able to buy for $100 a claim of two hundred and sixty acres, with a house upon it, which was only partly finished, being, howeverentirely enclosed. This particular claim attracted his attention onaccount of the house, as his family was so soon to follow. It began atwhat is now Fiftieth street and Lyndale Avenue and continued out Lyndalethree quarters of a mile. The house (with some addition) is stillstanding on Lyndale Avenue between Fifty Third and Fifty Fourth streets. Minnehaha creek ran through the farm and the land on the north side ofthe creek (part of which is now in Washburn Park) was fine wooded land. 

When the first boat came up the river in the spring it brought my motherand us boys. My father had sent us word to come up to Fort Snelling onthe boat, but we had not received the message and so got off at St. Paul and came up to St. Anthony by stage and got a team to take us toour new home. We found it empty, as my father and an uncle who was alsohere, had gone to the fort to meet us. As we went into one of the backrooms, a very strange sight met our eyes. My father and uncle had set afish trap in the creek the night before and had poured the results oftheir catch in a heap on the floor and there was such a quantity of fishthat it looked like a small haycock. This was done for a surprise forus, and as such, was a great success, as we were only accustomed to thevery small fish that lived in the creek that ran through our home townin Maine, and these long pickerel and large suckers were certainly anovelty. 

We salted them down and packed them in barrels and for a long time hadplenty of fish to eat, to sell and to give away. 

Our house soon took on the character of a public building, as my fatherwas made Postmaster, Town Treasurer and Justice of the Peace, and allthe town meetings were held there, as well as church and Sunday school. My father gave five acres down at the creek to a company who erected agrist mill and the settlers from fifty or sixty miles away would come tohave grain ground and would all stop at our house to board and sleepwhile there. Then the house would be so full that we boys would have tosleep on the floor, or out in the barn or anywhere else we could find aplace. 

During our first winter, a party of about fifty Sioux Indians came andcamped in our woods just west of where the Washburn Park water tower nowstands. They put up about twenty tepees, made partly of skins and partlyof canvas. We boys would often go in the evening to visit them and watchthem make moccasins, which we would buy of them. They would often cometo our house to beg for food, but in all the time they remained there(nearly the whole winter) they committed no depredations, except thatthey cut down a great deal of our fine timber, and killed a greatquantity of game, so that when they wanted to come back the next winter, father would not allow it. 

Once after they had gone away, they came back through the farm and wentoff somewhere north of us, where they had a battle with the Chippewas. When they returned, they brought two scalps and held a "pow-wow" on theside of our hill. 

We had a great deal of small game in our woods, and great quantities offish in the creek. We used to spear the fish and sometimes would get twoupon our spears at once. 

My mother was very fond of dandelion greens, and missed them very much, as she could find none growing about our place. So she sent back toMaine for seed and planted them. But I hardly think that the greatquantities we have now are the result of that one importation. 

After a few years we had a school at Wood Lake, which is down Lyndaleavenue two or three miles. 

Mrs. Mary Pribble--1854. 

My father, Hiram Smith arrived in Minnesota Apr. 21, 1854 settling firstin Brooklyn, Hennepin County. My mother followed in July of the sameyear, with the family of three children, myself, aged seven, and twobrothers aged two and five years. We arrived in St. Paul July ninth andmy mother, with her usual forethought and thrift, (realizing that beforelong navigation would close for the winter and shut off all source ofsupplies) laid in a supply of provisions while we were in St. Paul. Among other things she bought a bag of rice flour which was all theflour in our colony until April of the next year. 

We came by stage to Anoka and were to cross the Mississippi river in acanoe, to the trading post of Mr. Miles, which was on a high point ofland in what is now Champlin. It was where Elm creek empties into theMississippi. But the canoe was too small to carry us all at once and soI was left on the east shore sitting upon our baggage, to wait for areturn trip. When I finally arrived across the river, there were Indiansgathered at the landing and they touched me on the cheek and called me"heap pale face. "

There was great joy in our little colony when that same autumn my fatherdiscovered a fine cranberry marsh. Much picnicking and picking followed. My parents secured seven bushel and alloted very much on the wintersupplies that these cranberries would buy when they could send them toSt. Paul, our only market. 

Soon one of the neighbors prepared to set out on a trip by ox-team toSt. Paul. The only road at that time was by the Indian trail, which forseveral miles was where the county road now leads from Robbinsdale toChamplin. Then to the ferry at St. Anthony Falls, and so on down theeast side of the river to St. Paul. 

My mother had made out a careful list of the real necessities to bepurchased, putting them in the order of the need for them, in case hewould not be able to buy them all. 

She knew very well that there would be no possible way to purchase anynew clothing all winter and so the first items on the list were: newcloth for patches and thread to sew them with. This latter came in"hanks" then, instead of on spools. 

After that came the list of provisions, as seven bushels of cranberrieswere expected to buy a great many supplies. How well I remember the joyupon my mother's face, when those precious cranberries were loaded onthe neighbor's already full wagon and the oxen slowly disappeared downthe old trail! It was a long tedious journey to be made in that way, andthey had many days to wait before they would receive the fruits of thatwonderful wagon load. 

Finally the neighbor was back, and came to my mother and said: "Theewill be disappointed when I tell thee that the last boat left for St. Louis the day before I arrived in St. Paul. There is not a yard ofcloth or a hank of thread in the town, and I could only get thee threebrooms for thy fine cranberries. "

The next spring my father made maple sugar and was able to buy a cow andsix hens from a man who came overland from southern Illinois, drivingseveral cows and bringing a box of hens, and so we began to live morecomfortably. 

In 1856 many people came, and by that time we had school, church andSunday school and a lyceum, the pleasures of which I can never forget. We also had a portable sawmill. 

I think it was in the winter of 1855 that an agent, a real live agent, appeared in our midst to tell us of the remarkable qualities of a newoil called kerosene. He said if he could be sure of the sale of abarrel, it would be brought to St. Paul and delivered to any address onor before Aug. 15. I have the lamp now, in which part of that firstbarrel was burned. 

Mrs. Edmund Kimball--1855. 

My father, Freeman James, left his home in New York state and came toHasson, Minn. , in 1854. The next year he decided to go after his familyand so wrote my mother to be ready to start in August. My mother goteverything in readiness to start, but for some reason my father wasdelayed in getting back home, and my mother, thinking that she hadmisunderstood his plans in some way, decided to start anyway, and so sheloaded our belongings on the wagon and we started alone. I was onlyeleven years old, and well I remember how great an undertaking it seemedto me to leave our pleasant home and all my playmates and start withoutfather on such a long trip. But when we arrived at Dunkirk, where wetook boat to cross Lake Erie, we found father, and so made our journeywithout mishap. We arrived by boat in St. Paul in August '55 and startedat once for Hasson, stopping that first night at the home of Mr. Longfellow, at a place called Long Prairie. We were most cordiallyreceived and found other settlers stopping there for the night too, which made the house so crowded that they were obliged to make beds onthe sitting room floor for all the children. After we were put in bed, still another traveler arrived, a man who was expecting his family andhad come part way to meet them. Just for fun the family told him thathis family had arrived and pointed to us children on the floor. He wasoverjoyed, and came and turned the covers down to see us. Only for amoment was he fooled but shook his head and said we were none of his. 

I shall never forget the shock I felt at the first view I had of our newhome. It was so different from what we had left behind, that to a childof my age, it seemed that it was more than I could possibly endure. Itwas growing dark and the little log cabin stood in the deep woods, andthe grass was so long in the front yard, it seemed the most lonely placein the world. And dark as it was, and as long as I knew the way back tobe, I was strongly tempted and half inclined to start right off to mydear old home. This was all going through my mind while I stoppedoutside to look around after the rest had gone in. When they had lightedone or two candles and I followed them in, the homesick feeling wasincreased by the new prospect. My father had evidently left in a greathurry for every dish in the house was piled dirty upon the table, andthey were all heavy yellow ware, the like of which I had never seenbefore. The house had been closed so long that it was full of mice, andthey ran scurrying over everything. 

But there was much work to do before we could get the place in order togo to bed, and it fell to my lot to wash all those dishes, no small taskfor an eleven year old girl. 

In the morning, when the house was in order and the sun was shining in, and we could see what father had done to make us comfortable, the placetook on a very different aspect and soon became another dear home. 

He had made every piece of the furniture himself. The bed was made ofpoles, with strips of bark in place of bedcords, the mattress was ofhusks and the pillows of cat-tail down. There were three straight chairsand a rocking chair with splint bottoms. The splints were made bypeeling small ash poles and then pounding them for some time with someheavy instrument, when the wood would come off in thin layers. The floorwas of split logs. Father had made some good cupboards for the kitchenthings. 

That first year mother was not well and young as I was, I was obliged todo a great deal of housework. I did the washing and made salt-risingbread. And one time I surprised the doctor who came to see mother bymaking him a very good mustard poultice. 

Mr. Frank G. O'Brien--1856. 

The Reason I did not Graduate. 

In the winter of 1856-57 I worked for my board at the home of "Bill"Stevens, whose wife was a milliner--the shop, or store, was located ashort distance below where the Pillsbury mill stands, on Main Street. 

My duty while there this particular winter, was to take care of thehouse and chaperone Lola Stevens, the young daughter to the privateschool which was called the "Academy"--the same being the stepping stoneto our great State University. 

There were two departments up stairs and two below--hallway in thecenter and stairs leading from this hallway to the upper rooms. I do notrecall who were the teachers in the primary department on the lowerfloor, but I do remember those on the floor above. Miss Stanton (lateron the wife of D. S. B. Johnston) taught the girls in the east room and"Daddy" Roe the boys. 

I was a pupil of Mr. Roe and Lola of Miss Stanton and were it not that Iwas wrongfully accused of making charcoal sketches on the wall of thehall, I might have been numbered among the charter members of the firstgraduating class of the Academy--the forerunner of the State University. 

"Daddy" Roe informed the boys at recess time that he was going to flogthe perpetrator of the act--yet, if they would own up, and take a basinof water and scrub same from the walls, he would spare the rod. Theguilty one, no doubt, held his hand up and gained the attention of Mr. Roe, and stated that Frank O'Brien did it. I denied it, but it did notgo--yet I being innocent, was determined I would not take the basin fromthe teacher's hand; but he forced same upon me and said if it was notwashed off within half an hour, he would give me a severe flogging. 

The threat did not prove effective, because I was so worked up over theaffair that when I closed the door to enter the hall, I gave the basinand its contents a fling down stairs, the sound of which aroused allfour of the departments, while I double quicked it for home--leavingLola to reach home as best she could. 

I explained matters to Mr. Stevens and had it not been for Mrs. Stevensand her sister, Miss Jackman, he would have proceeded at once to theschool room and meted out the punishment on "Daddy" Roe which heintended for me. 

Something to Crowe Over. 

The little village of St. Anthony had good reason to become elated whenthe news spread up and down Main street and was heralded to St. Paul, that three "Crowes" had perched on the banner of our village during theearly morning of June 26th, 1859, when Mrs. Isaac Crowe gave birth tothree white Crowes, two girls and one boy. The father of these threebirds--wingless, though fairest of the fair, was a prominent attorney ofSt. Anthony and one of its aldermen. 

Bridge of Size (900 feet long. )

It was while our family resided on the picturesque spot overlooking St. Anthony's Falls in the year 1857, the "Howe Truss" passenger bridge wascompleted from the east to the west side of the Mississippi river, ashort distance down the hill from the State University at a cost of$52, 000. 

All went well as a means of traffic and many a dollar was taken in fortoll, but an evil time came to disturb conditions, owing to an overabundance of rain which came in torrents, which caused the river to riseto that extent that the logs which followed in the wake of the flood, acted as a battering ram and proved too much for the structure and greatwas the fall thereof. I among others of our family were witnesses ofthis event, which took place at eight o'clock on the morning of Junefirst, 1859. 

Mr. Michael Teeter--1857. 

Tom and Bill were the first horses which came into Lyle township. Theywere fine powerful fellows and created much comment throughout thatsection of the country. 

Some of my neighbors envied me my prize while others thought that a fooland his money had easily parted, for I had paid three hundred and fortydollars for them, and the best yoke of oxen in the country side could bebought for seventy. But I was well satisfied, for I was able to do mywork and get about quickly. When haste was necessary, Bill and Tom werepressed into service. 

I recall very well one dark rainy night when I was taking a neighbor tonurse a settler who lived at some distance to the west. So thick was thedarkness that we could never have kept the trail had it not been for theflashes of vivid lightning. The horses showed so much intelligencethrough it all that I finally gave them the lines and they brought ussafely to our destination. 

New Year's day, '58 we took the ladies of Otranto village for asleigh-ride--not on the snow, for the ground was bare--but on the RedCedar river, which was frozen clear and smooth as glass. We fairly flewover the ice and the home-made sleigh swerved from side to side, as Billand Tom took it upon themselves to show off their speed to friends whowere in the habit of riding behind deliberate and stubborn oxen. Suddenly, without warning, the sleigh tipped and we found ourselves in aheap, and although there was much shouting and crying, no damage wasdone, and the little shaking up tended to make the day memorable. 

Another incident that stands out vividly in my mind after all theseyears, has no amusing aspect. Late in the fall of '57 I found itnecessary to make a trip to Decorah, Iowa, for supplies of variouskinds. My absence from home was to be shorter than usual on such trips, for Bill and Tom had endurance as well as speed. All went well duringthe journey, and on my return I halted for supper at Little Cedar andhoped to reach home that evening. When I was ready to start, the tavernkeeper told me that I had better stay the night, for a prairie fire wassweeping from the northwest. This was unwelcome news--but sure enough, the red light was very bright and growing more so all the time. Icalculated the distance and decided to hasten on across the path of thefire before it reached the road, so I started. I had miscomputed bothtime and distance, so before I was aware of it, I found myself on asmall knoll, with the fire directly in front and coming on at a greatrate through the tall dry weeds and grasses. The horses snorted andshook their heads, but I urged them on. They plunged forward and in avery short time (although it seemed hours) we found ourselves out of theflames. We paused but a moment to rest, for the ground was very hot. Thehorses shook with, fright and their bodies were badly singed. We reachedhome in safety, and I think Bill and Tom were no less thankful than wasI, to be out of the danger and discomfort of the situation. 

In 1857 I moved from Decorah, Iowa, to Otranto on the state line. ThereI found a number of families living in rude houses which were a poorprotection against the hard winters we had those early years. There wasplenty of good timber along the Red Cedar river, but the settlers werefarmers who had little or no experience in cutting and dressing logs andfor that reason handled their few small tools to poor advantage. Theywere anxious, too, to be "breaking" the prairie so that a crop could beharvested that first year. So after all, these first houses were ratherpoor specimens of the joiner's craft. I was a carpenter and put up arather more substantial house than the others, but none too comfortableduring the winters that were to follow. The unbroken stretch of prairieto the north and west of Otranto gave those old "northwesters" asplendid sweep before they struck our frail little homes. 

Fortunately there was plenty of fine wood, but the cracks were sonumerous and large in our houses that we veritably warmed the outdoorsin keeping ourselves warm. We chopped and sawed wood every spare momentin winter and summer in order to keep the booming fires which werenecessary all winter long. We used to talk and think much of thesettlers who were on the prairie who were so unsheltered and far fromstanding timber. 

This "yarn" about one of them went the rounds and was enjoyed by all, for the "victim" was a merry fellow and always ready for a joke, nomatter how great the privations and anxieties. The story runs thus: Jimsat before a fine fire washing his feet. Soothed by the warmth of theroom and the water, he fell asleep to awaken suddenly toward morningwith his feet nearly to his knees embedded in a solid cake of ice! Welaughed at our hardships, for there was no escaping them, and we learnedto turn them, as well as everything else we possessed, to some usefulpurpose. 

Robes, buffalo coats, all available garments, were used during thosefirst winters for bed-clothing. There was one flock of chickens inOtranto, but not until much later were flocks of ducks and geese raisedso that feather pillows and beds could be used. Floor covering at firstwas uncommon, but finally rag carpets added to the comfort of the homeduring the winter. 

Had food been abundant, or even sufficient, we would have felt lessanxious, but with the winter hanging on far into the spring months, wehad good reason to watch our stores carefully. Buckwheat ground in acoffee mill kept one family for two months in the winter of '57. Anotherneighbor's family subsisted upon musty corn meal, ground by revolving acannon ball in the scooped out trunk of a tree. So long drawn out wasthe winter, that the amount of meal for each member of the family wascarefully measured out each day. One family living near the river couldget plenty of fish through the ice, but having no fat in which to frythem, were obliged to use them boiled. When their salt was exhausted, they ate the fish unflavored. 

I possessed a good team of horses and made trips to Decorah forsupplies. I went only when it was really necessary, for the journey wasbeset with many dangers and discomforts. Flour and salt pork were thefoods purchased, which I sold to the other settlers in small quantities. Prairie chickens were abundant, and some of the pioneers tried dryingthe breasts and found that one way to provide meat for the winter. 

In the winter of '56, there was a thick coating of ice over the snow, sufficiently strong to hold a man's weight, but the deers' legs cutthrough the crust. My neighbors told of how easily they were able to getplenty of venison without venturing far from home. Never did a settlerdare to go far away to hunt during those first winters, for the dangersof being lost and frozen were very great. I have often heard the wishexpressed that fresh meat could be had every winter, with as few risksas in that year before I moved to Otranto. 

We all felt the lack of fruit, for all of us had come from districtswhere fruit was grown, so on festive days such as Thanksgiving andChristmas, we had dried wild crab-apples boiled up in soda water, thensweetened with molasses. We were all used to better than this, but wenever complained and felt that better times were coming. 

Mrs. W. L. Niemann. 

My mother was Sophia Oakes. She was born in Sault Ste. Marie in 1823. She was the daughter of Charles Oakes who had charge of a trading postfor the American Fur Company. Her mother died when she was a very smallchild and her father removed with his two children, my mother and hersister two years younger, to La Pointe, where he had charge of anotherpost of the same company. 

The winters there were very long and severely cold and many times theywould be shut in by the depth of the snow for weeks at a time. One timein particular the snow was so deep and the cold so intense that they hadbeen snowbound so long that their supplies were almost exhausted, and mygrandfather sent the men off to get a fresh supply. They were gone muchlonger than usual and the little family began to suffer for want of foodand were obliged to go out and scrape away the snow to find acorns. Theyalso ate the bark of trees. 

Finally my grandfather concluded that he, too, must start out to try andget some food. The windows of the cabin were covered in place of glass, with deerskins. In getting ready to leave the children, grandfather tookdown these skins and replaced them with blankets to keep out the coldand boiled the skins to provide a soup for the children to drink whilehe was gone. My mother was twelve and her sister was ten. 

Grandfather had not gone far when his feet were both frozen and he laydisabled in the snow. Some men chanced along, and carried him to a housewhich was about a mile further along. When they reached the house herefused to be carried in, for he knew he would surely lose his feet ifhe went in where it was warm. He asked for an awl and punctured hisfeet full of holes and had the men pour them full of brandy. This, whileit was excruciatingly painful, both at the time and afterwards, savedhim his feet. 

When he and his men returned to the cabin, he had been gone all day andall night and into the next afternoon, and they found the little girlslocked in each other's arms fast asleep, having cried themselves tosleep the night before. 

Soon after the little girls were sent to school back in New York and mymother stayed until her education was completed, graduating from aseminary in Fredonia. 

On her return to her home, she was married to my father, JeremiahRussell, who had come in 1837 to Fort Snelling on an exploring trip. Hesettled first at Edina Mills, but soon went to Marine, where withFranklin Steele and Levi Stratton he built a sawmill, (1838) the ruinsof which can still be seen. 

In '49 he went to take charge of a trading post for the American FurCompany which was located two miles above Sauk Rapids. After a few yearshe purchased the land where Sauk Rapids stands, laid out the town andmoved down there, building a large hotel which was called theHyperborean Hotel, which took a prominent part in the history of thetown as it was the scene of many large gatherings. It served to shelterthe townspeople when they were driven from home through fear of theIndian uprisings. Later it was remodeled by new owners and rechristenedthe Russell House in honor of my father. 

One time, before I was born and while my parents still lived at thepost, a band of warlike Indians, each armed with a gun came to the houseand completely filled the kitchen. My brother, who was a very smallchild was attracted by the fire arms and went up to one of the Indiansand put his hand on the gun. This angered the Indian and with a terriblescowl he put his finger on the trigger as if to shoot my brother. Myfather sprung up before him and with a very fierce voice (which was theonly way to deal with them when they were unruly) ordered him to putdown his gun. This he did but with bad grace. My father then spoke tothe chief and told him to keep order, which he did, and they soon wentaway. But my father was sorry he did not keep them a little longer andgive them up to the authorities, for he found, soon after, that they hadkilled and scalped three white men, just a short time before they cameinto our house. 

At another time after we were living in Sauk Rapids, a Chippewa came andbegged for shelter for the night. My father knew that there was a bandof Sioux camped just across the river, in plain view of our house. Sofather surmised that this was a spy from the Chippewas. But he gave himpermission to stay in the house, providing that he would not showhimself outside, for it would enrage the Sioux against us if they knewwe were harboring a Chippewa. The Indian promised, but very soon mysister who was playing outside, saw him raise the window and aim his gunacross the river. She told my father, who went in and made him desistand nailed up the window. When we went to bed that night father did nottake pains to lock the Indian in. After we were asleep he crept out andslipped away, and before morning, the Chippewas descended upon thesleeping Sioux and killed every one of them. 

Christmas in those hard times did not mean to us little pioneer childrenwhat it does now. There was no spare money with which to buy presents. We always hung up our stockings, but got nothing in them but a littlecheap candy, and perhaps a few raisins. But one year, father determinedto give us and the other children of the village a little betterChristmas than usual. So he went out to his woods and cut enough firewood to exchange in St. Cloud for a barrel of apples. Then he dividedoff one end of our sitting room with a sheet and arranged a puppet showbehind it. And with the village children in one end of the room eatingapples, and father in the other managing the puppets, we celebrated theday in a very happy way. 

Mrs. F. Hoefer of Mound was an old settler of Watertown, and gives someinteresting information of the prices of food-stuffs after the war, asfollows:

"Flour was $15 a barrel, wheat was $5 a bushel, potatoes were $2. 50 abushel and calico was thirty-five cents a yard. My husband's salary forthat summer season was $5. During the winter months we had barley coffeeand pancakes, no bed clothes and no clothes for the children. Our bedquilt was a bear skin. When my first child was six weeks old, I went outwashing, walking twelve miles to my work, washing all day and thenwalking the twelve miles back home again. "

Ex-Governor Samuel R. Van Sant--1857. 

My father with his family moved to Illinois in 1837, coming on the"Adventure, " on the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. Like most of the earlypioneers he was poor and had to work. Tickets were sold at a less priceif the passenger would help to wood the boat; my father took advantageof this proposition. On board as a passenger, was the old Indian Chief, Black Hawk. He was much interested in my little sister and gave her avery fine string of beads. The beads, or a part of them, are still inour family. 

My father took up a claim near Rock Island on the banks of the RockRiver. While there, the family suffered all the privations of earlysettlers in a new country. Farming was new to him and he did not make agreat success of it. He was a ship builder by trade. 

Once he took a load of pumpkins to town, some twelve or fourteen miles, getting fifty cents for them. On his return he broke his wagon, costinga dollar to repair it. He often said he never felt so poor in all hislife, although he lived to be ninety-two years of age. On anotheroccasion we were out of provisions. He made a trip to the old watermill, a few miles distant, to get 50c worth of cornmeal, but theproprietor would not trust him so he had to return home to get a halfdollar that had been laid by for a rainy day. He was thus forced to makeanother trip to secure the purchase; by this time we children were goodand hungry. 

On another occasion, after killing his hogs, he drove with them onehundred miles to the lead mines at Galena, but the market was overstocked so he proceeded to Platteville, Wisconsin, twenty or more milesfurther, where he sold the pork for two and one-half cents per pound, taking one half in store pay and the other half in a note. The note isstill unpaid. It required a week or more to make the trip. 

I have always had a great fondness for the Mississippi River. I was bornon its banks and for more than forty years navigated its water. My firstdollar was spent to buy a small skiff. As soon as I was old enough, Icommenced running on the river. My first trip to St. Paul was in 1857. Iwas a boy of thirteen. What progress since that time in our state!

The steamboat was a mighty factor in the settlement growth anddevelopment of Minnesota. I feel safe in saying that during the palmydays of steamboating, more than one thousand different steamers broughtemigrants, their household goods and stock to this commonwealth. 

While there were regular lines of steamers, there were also many outsideboats which were termed "wild" boats. These boats would often secure afull cargo on the Ohio River, or at St. Louis and come to St. Paul. Ifwater was at a good stage, large profits would result. 

A story is told of the steamer, "Fire Canoe. " (I will not mention thecaptain's name. ) The water was low and the boat got aground a good manytimes causing much delay. For a meal or two, the passengers were withoutmeat but soon there seemed to be a plentiful supply of nice freshveal--one of the passengers who, with his family and stock of youngcalves, was moving to Minnesota, complimented the captain highly uponsecuring such fine meat, but after going to the lower deck and findingsome of his fine young stock missing, hunted up the Captain and said, "Captain, if it is all the same to you, I would prefer to dispense withmeat for the rest of the trip for I will need that young stock when Ireach my claim. "

There was always great strife to be the first boat to arrive at St. Pauland many risks were taken by steamers to get through Lake Pepin beforethe ice had really left the lake. Many steamers were crushed by the icein so doing. One advantage to the first boat was free wharfage thebalance of the season in every town and city along the river. 

Two steamers hardly ever came in sight of each other without a race. Weowned and operated a good many boats. We had a fast one named the"McDonald. " I remember on one occasion my partner, Mr. Musser, a wellknown lumberman of Muscatine, and wife were making a trip with us. Wehad a very spirited race with another swift boat; after a long, hardchase we passed her, but we had to trim boat and carry big steam to doit. After it was over, Mr. Musser said to me, "If I were you, I wouldnot race any more. It is expensive, dangerous and hard on the boat. " Iagreed that he was right and that we would not do so again. We had notbeen in our berths long before another boat was overtaken and a race wason. Mr. Musser arose, forgot his advice of a few hours previous, andsaid, "Pass that boat and I will pay for the extra fuel. " The boat waspassed, but no bill was presented for the extra fuel. 

REBECCA PRESCOTT SHERMAN CHAPTER

Minneapolis

MISS RITA KELLEY

MISS BEATRICE LONGFELLOW

Mrs. Delilah Maxwell--1855. 

We were married in Illinois, April 12, 1855 and in three days westarted. We went one hundred miles by team to the Mississippi river, putour wagon and mules on a steamer, and came up. Every business place onthe west side of the river in Minneapolis was a rough boarding house anda little ten-by-twelve grocery store. We camped there, cooked ourbreakfast, and came on out to Maxwell's bay at Minnetonka. The bay wasnamed for my husband and his two brothers who came up the year beforeand took claims. 

It was the roughest trip you ever saw. The road was an Indian trail withenough trees cut out on either side to let a wagon through and thestumps were sticking up a foot or two high and first you were up andthen you were down over those stumps. It was the trail through Wayzataand Long Lake, known as the Watertown road. 

We built an elm shack, a log house with the logs standing up so theIndians couldn't climb over them, and stripped bark off elm trees for aroof. The mosquitoes were terrible bad--and deer flies too. The men hadto wear mosquito bar over their hats down to their waists when at work. 

Mrs. Martha French lived on the Bestor place on Crystal Bay, the Burdonclaim. She and Mr. French had come the fall before in '54. We had ashort cut through the woods, a path about a mile long. They were ournearest neighbors. They came over to our house one Sunday. The men weregoing to Minneapolis on business, to see about their land and Mr. Maxwell was to start, Tuesday. Mrs. French said "Why can't us women gotoo, on a pleasure trip? I've been here pretty near two years and Mrs. Maxwell has been here over a year. I think it's about time we went on apleasure trip. "

Mr. French was a slow talking man and he drawled, "Well, you can go, butit won't be much of a pleasure trip. "

"I don't see why it wouldn't. You jest want to discourage us, " Mrs. French said and he said, "Oh, no-o! I don't want to discourage you. "

I didn't want to go very bad. I had a kid five months old and themosquitoes were so bad. It was June and awfully hot. But Mrs. Frenchhadn't any children and insisted that we ought to go for a pleasuretrip. So I fixed up on Tuesday night and went over and stayed all nightso we could get an early start. My husband went on ahead and we were tomeet him Wednesday noon in Minneapolis, or St. Anthony. 

Mr. French lined up old Bob and Jerry, their team of oxen and we gotstarted about sunrise. A mile from the house we came to a terrible steephill. We got up it all right and just as we started down Mrs. Frenchsaid, "Old Bob hasn't any tail, but Jerry has a lovely tail. He'll keepthe mosquitoes off all right. "

Just then Jerry switched his tail around a young sapling and it cameoff. It was wet with dew and it lapped tight, and we were going downhill so fast something had to give way. It was the tail! Well we had anawful time with that tail. There was only a stump left, less than a footlong, and the ox like to bled to death. Mrs. French was afraid thewolves would get Jerry's tail and kept worrying, and when we had goneabout a mile she made Mr. French go back and get it. 

We started on again and went about a mile and a half till we came toTepee hill where the Long Lake cemetery is. It's a steep hill now, butthen it hadn't been worked any and it was just straight up and down. Wehad boards across the wagon to sit on, and they slid off. Mr. And Mrs. French got out, they wouldn't ride. But I had just got the baby tosleep--she was awful hard to get to sleep and didn't sleep much--so Isaid I'd ride. I sat down in the bottom of the wagon with her in my armsand we started up. We got clear to the top and the tongue came out ofthe wagon and down we went! I crouched over the baby and just thought mytime had come. Before we got clear to the bottom the wagon veered andstopped on two wheels. 

Mr. French came down and got us fixed up and we went on to where theParrish place is now and camped, ate our lunch and built a smudge. Westayed about an hour and hooked up and started on again. Mr. Maxwell hadgone on expecting us at Minneapolis by this time and here we were aboutthree miles from home. 

Mr. French was an awfully sleepy man. He could go to sleep any place. Hedidn't have to lead the oxen. They couldn't get out of the road. We werein the big woods all this way with just a road of stumps to go through. Mr. French went to sleep and we hit a stump. He pitched forward, and Iraised up and caught him right by the pants. Busted a button or two--buthe'd broken his neck if he'd gone out. Mrs. French just sat there andnever offered to grab him. 

Finally we got to Wayzata. We bought a pound of flour and got some ragsand bound up Jerry's tail. We stayed all night at Clay's and got up at 4o'clock and started on. 

It was awfully hot. We went on till we came to the big marsh the otherside of Wayzata. The lake came up farther then, and the marsh was filledwith water, and all covered round the edges with logs and tree stumps. The oxen saw the water and made one lunge for it. They made down theside of the hill over stumps and logs and never stopped till they werein the water. Mr. French got out and took the ox chain and tied thetongue on the back of the wagon and hauled us up again. I remarked toMrs. French, "I guess we will be killed yet!" "Oh, " Mr. French said, "This is just a pleasure trip. "

Mrs. French wouldn't crack a smile, but I thought I'd die laughing. Westopped at the six-mile house Thursday night. We had started at 4o'clock in the morning and traveled till eight at night and gone aboutseven miles. 

We got up at four and started on again. We chugged along till towardsnoon and we camped and ate our lunch and met my husband. He'd been toMinneapolis, looked after his business and was on his way home. 

"Why, what's the matter?" he said. "Oh, not much. Jerry pulled his tailoff, " we said. "Oh, " Mr. French said, "it's only a pleasure trip. "

My husband was for going home, but I said, "Oh no, you won't go back. I'm all wore out now with the baby. This is a pleasure trip and we wantyou to have all the pleasure there is. "

We got to St. Anthony at eight thirty, tired--oh, dear! We did someshopping and came back with a big load; made six miles in the afternoonand stopped at the six-mile house for the night. 

Across Bassett's creek was a narrow, tamarack pole bridge. We might haveknown there would be trouble but we never thought of it. Old Jerry seenthe water and made one lunge for it. One ox went over the edge of thebridge and one went through, and there they hung across the beam. Weskedaddled out the backside of the wagon. "Well, Martha, I guess we willbe killed yet, " I said. But Mrs. French never smiled. She took herpleasures sadly. 

The men took the pin out of the ox yokes and let the oxen down into thewater and they grazed while the men went on a half a mile to borrow anax and cut tamarack poles to fix the bridge. We stayed all night againat Mr. Clay's and got up Sunday morning and started. When we got toTepee hill I said, "I'll walk down this hill. I rode up it. "

The rest of them rode. I walked on through the woods to Mr. Barnes'beyond Long Lake and got there just as supper was ready. They wanted meto eat supper, but I said, "No, they are coming on in a few minutes. I'll just take a cup of tea. " I waited--and waited--and waited--for anhour or so; and they didn't come. Finally I ate my supper and they came. 

"Well, what in the world, " I said, "is the matter?"

Well old Jerry had got in the creek at the bottom of Tepee hill, theoutlet of Long Lake into Minnetonka and they couldn't get him out. Mrs. French was in the wagon and the mosquitoes like to ate her up. 

We got to our place that night. It was Sunday night and we'd been gonesince Wednesday morning. We wanted the French's to stay all night, butthey said they couldn't think of it; they had to go. Their mother had agirl staying with her and expected them back Thursday night and would bescared to death wondering what had happened to them. So they left theoxen and took the path through the woods. I started in to get supper formy husband and I heard them hollering. I said, "They're lost. Go out andyell as loud as you can and build a big fire. " They got back to ourplace all right and had to stay all night. Mrs. French followed me outto the barn. "Don't it make you mad to hear of that pleasure trip?" shesaid. The men couldn't get through talking about it. "Well, it makes memad, " I said, "but I can't help laughing. "

"Well, " Mr. French yawned, "I believe this winds up the pleasure trip. "

Mr. B. F. Shaver--1853. 

My parents came from Lucerne Co. , Pa. , father in the fall of 1850 andmother just two years later. She came to Rockford, Ill. , by rail, thento Galena by stage and up the Mississippi by boat. One of her travelingcompanions was Miss Mary Miller, sister of Mrs. John H. Stevens. Motherspent the first night in Minneapolis in the old Stevens house, at thattime the only residence on the west side of the river, about where theUnion Station was. 

Two years before this father had learned of Lake Minnetonka and hadtaken some pork and flour and a frying pan and started west to find thelake, over somewhat the route of the Great Northern railroad track towhere Wayzata now is. He reached the site of Minnetonka Mills andlocated a claim about where Groveland park on the Deephaven trolley lineis. This was some time before the government survey. He blazed out aclaim. Like the old lady in the Hoosier Schoolmaster, he believed "Whileye're gittin', git a plenty" for after the survey he found he had blazedout seven hundred acres where he could pre-empt only a hundred andsixty. He had been up the creek several times to the lake where therewas a beautiful pebbly beach. Once, while wandering back, he had comeupon this spot, he said, "Beautiful as a poet's dream. " A forty acreprairie right in the midst of dense woods covered with wild flowers andprairie grass. He blazed out his claim right there. 

On November 8, 1852, father and mother traveled from St. Anthony toMinnetonka Mills with an ox team and sled on eight or ten inches ofsnow. They kept boarders at Minnetonka Mills that winter and in Marchmoved to their claim. The house was not completed. There were nowindows, no outside door and no floor. The following August were borntwin boys, the first white children born in Hennepin county outside thecity limits of Minneapolis. Mother was the first pioneer woman ofMinnetonka township. 

When we were about three weeks old mother's nearest neighbor, Mrs. Robinson, who lived on a claim near the present site of Wayzata, cameover to assist her with the twins, as she was all worn out. It was ahot, sultry night early in September and Mrs. Robinson made a bed on theground beside mother's and put us into it. She became very drowsytowards morning and lay down on the ground beside us. She was aroused bymy brother stirring about and complaining and reaching over wassurprised to feel something like a paw of a large dog thrust through acrack between the logs and pulling the baby towards the crack by itshand. She got up quietly and moving aside the blanket that hung for adoor, stepped out around the corner of the house. At the crack was alarge wolf. It was frightened off at seeing her and ran into the woods. 

Before mother came, in August, 1850, father and three others took a boatat Minnetonka Mills with provisions and went up to Gray's Bay andwestward on Lake Minnetonka to explore the lake and get a definite ideaof its area and characteristics. They went through Hull's narrows andexplored the upper lake several days, landed at a point about at ZumbraHeights and decided to carry their boat across to the Minnesota riverand row down to Fort Snelling. After wandering in the woods several daysthey abandoned the boat and subsisted for days on basswood sprouts andraspberries. They reached the Minnesota river directly north ofShakopee, descended a bluff and found the shanty of a squaw man. Thesquaw gave them some fat pork with gravy over it and mixed up doughwhich she baked on a griddle. Father said he had been to many a finebanquet but that was the best he ever had tasted. 

Father, mother and some of the men from the sawmill were eating supperone night by candle light, when there came a loud knocking at the door. Father opened the door and an Indian in hunting regalia staggered intothe house, holding his sides and evidently in great pain. Mother did thebest she could for him, gave him pain killer and hot drinks and made hima bed on the floor beside the kitchen stove, where after a time he fellinto deep sleep. About daylight several members of the tribe, includinghis squaw, came in search of him and learned from the crew at the millthat he had been cared for during the night. His squaw came into thehouse, talked with him for a while and then with the other Indiansstarted east. They were gone about two hours, returning with thecarcass of a very fine deer. The Indian had started hunting the daybefore and pursued a deer till almost night, finally bringing it down. Having had nothing to eat since early morning he was ravenous and cut apiece of steak from the deer and ate it raw. This made him desperatelysick and on his way back he had to stop at the mill. His squaw and theother Indians proceeded to skin the deer at the house and the squawbrought in the deer's kidneys to mother. This she thought very odd but afew days later was informed by Martin McCloud, an interpreter, that thegift of a deer's kidneys was one of the highest tokens of esteem that anIndian could bestow. Afterwards the Indian and his squaw were very kind, sending her fish and venison and the squaw presented her with somebeautiful bead work. 

The cruelty of the male Indians always astounded mother. Once she soldan Indian a sack of flour. He was to come for it the next day. At thetime appointed he came, bringing with him his squaw who had with her alittle papoose, and his mother, an aged woman. He brought an empty sackalong. Mother presumed he would empty a small portion of the flour intothis for his wife and mother to carry and he would shoulder theremainder in the sack which contained the flour. He emptied about onethird of the flour into the sack which he had brought. This he put downby the side of his mother. He took the papoose out of a broad straparound the squaw's head hanging in a loop in the back and taking up theremaining flour, put it in the strap on his wife's back, she stoopingover to receive the load. It was so heavy he had to help her straightenup; she could not rise alone. Then he took the papoose and set it atopthe sack of flour. He then assisted his mother about getting her portionof flour in her strap. His conduct provoked mother greatly and she toldhim in decided terms that he should be ashamed of himself. At herremarks he grinned and folding his arms complacently around his gun, strutted off after the women muttering, "Me big Injun. "

A curious trait about the Indians was that they wanted you to trust themand have no suspicions about their honesty. When going away from thehouse it was better not to lock it, but take a stick and lean it upagainst the house outside, intimating to them that you were away; andnothing would be molested. If the house was locked they were likely tobreak in and steal something. 

Not far from our house at Spirit Knob, now Breezy Point, LakeMinnetonka, on a bold hill projecting out into the water was a stoneidol, a smoothly polished stone a little larger than a wooden waterpail. The Indians came regularly to worship this idol and make offeringsto their god. In very early times, probably not later than 1853, adoctor from St. Louis, Mo. , is said to have stolen this image and takenit to St. Louis and put it in a museum. The Indians were very muchenraged at this and some people have assigned to this deed a motive formany of the atrocities committed in 1862. 

One winter day father was away teaming and was not expected home tilllate in the evening. As night drew on mother and her little boys werebusy about the chores. In cold winter weather we did not use thewoodshed and kitchen, but the two large rooms only, having to comethrough the two unused rooms to the main part of the house. We boys hadfinished our work, hung up our caps and put away our mittens for thenight and mother was bringing in her last arm load of wood. She hadpassed through three doors and turned around to shut the last one andthere, right behind her, stood a giant of an Indian. He seemed a foottaller than her and she was two inches less than six feet. So quietlyhad he followed her that she had no intimation of his presence. As sheconfronted him he said, "Ho" in deep, guttural tones, and then laughedat her fright. 

He evidently wanted something, but could speak little or no English. Hepeered about the house, looked in every corner and finally in order tomake us understand what he wanted, he took the ramrod out of his gun, set it up on end on the table, put the index finger of his left hand ontop of the ramrod and made counter motions up and down the rod with hisright hand. Mother divined it was pole beans that he had seen growingand she got him some and he went away satisfied. 

One cold winter day four Indians were in the kitchen. Mother waspreparing beans for dinner. Like all good housewives she first parboiledthem with pork before baking. She stepped into the pantry for something, when one of the braves slipped his hand into the kettle and stole thepork. He was just tucking it under his blanket when she, suspectingsomething, whirled around, caught up the teakettle of boiling water andpoured some on the Indian's hands. He roared with pain andmortification, but the other braves thought it very amusing. One of themslipped up, and patting her on the back said, "Tonka squaw! Tonkasquaw!" Tonka meaning big or brave. The Indians reversed their words, like Minnetonka--water-big--Minne meaning water. 

That Indian never came into the house again. The men at the mill were alittle afraid. They thought it unwise of her and kept close watch. TheIndians would come in from hunting and sit around on our floor. Motherwould give them a good kick if they got in the way. This made her morepopular than ever. They considered her a very fine lady because she wasnot afraid of them, but cudgelled them about. There were always three orfour of them sitting around on the kitchen floor. 

The Indians' sense of humor was very keen. Mrs. Maxwell's little girlwas tow-headed. The Indians always stroked her head and laughed. Myolder brother had beautiful curly hair. The Indians called it "Ha-hahair"--curling or laughing. He was very fond of the Indians and used totumble about them examining their powder horns, until one day an Indianpulled up his top curl and ran around it with the back of his knife asif to say what a fine scalp that would be. The frightened boy neverwould go near them again. 

"Washta Doc" pronounced gutturally and meaning North Bay is the originalof Wayzata, pronounced, Waytzete. 

Colonel A. P. Connolly--1857. 

By rail and boat we reached St. Paul on Friday, in May '57. A party ofus who had become acquainted on the steamer, chartered a smallfour-wheel craft, two-horse affair and headed toward St. Anthony. Wecame up to the old government road passing the "Half Way House" and thewell known Larpenteur and Des Noyer farms. It had been raining and theroads were bad. Four times we had to get out, put our shoulders to thewheels and get our little craft on the terra firma. 

The palatial Winslow house built at this time was largely patronized insummer by the slave-holding aristocracy of the South. I remember onesoutherner, Colonel Slaybeck, by name, who used to come each year withhis family and servants. He would always say to his slaves, "Now you arein the north where they do not own slaves, and if you wish to escape, this is your chance to run away. " Not one of his servants ever took theopportunity. 

My first unpleasant experience was in connection with this house. I wasone of its builders for I put on lath at 4 cents a yard. By workingearly and late, I made $4 a day. I was very economical and trusted myemployer to hold my hard earned money. So far as I know, he is holdingit yet, for he "skipped" in the night, leaving his boarding mistress toweep with me, for we had both been too confiding. 

Somewhat cast down by the loss of my first earnings, but not totallydiscouraged, I shipped with six others on board a prairie schooner, wellsupplied with provisions and three good horses and headed for the northand fortune. After thirteen days of frontier hardships, we landed at themouth of the Chien River where it empties into the Red River of theNorth. Here we erected two or three good log houses, surveyed andplatted our town, and planted common vegetables. They grew wonderfullywell. We caught fish and shot ducks and geese. On paper our town couldnot be excelled, with its streets and boulevards, its parks and drives, its churches and schools and public buildings. It was so inspiring tolook at, that we each took one hundred and sixty acres adjoining thetown, intending them as an addition to plat and sell to the on-rusherswhen the boom should commence. 

We also built a boat here, or rather made a dugout, so we could explorethe river. We had amusements in plenty, for wolves, Indians, mosquitoesand grasshoppers were in great abundance. The wolves were hungry andtold us so, congregating in great numbers for their nightly concerts. Wehad to barricade our doors to keep them out and burn smudges on theinside to keep mosquitoes out as well. Sixty-five Indians paid us avisit one day and they were not at all pleasant. We had a French halfbreed with us and he influenced them to leave. They only intended totake our yoke of cattle, but finally, after much parleying they movedon, and we breathed easier. 

All things come to an end, and so did this wild goose chase after richesand in time we got back to God's country and St. Anthony. I will notworry you by reciting our experiences in getting back, but they werevexatious and amusing. 

To sum up my reward for this five months of hard work, privation anddanger, I had one red flannel shirt, one pair of boots, one pair ofwhite duck pants and $13 worth of groceries. Wasn't this a jolt?

It was late in the fall, with a long cold winter ahead and things lookedrather blue. Judge Isaac Atwater was the owner of "The St. AnthonyExpress, " a good looking weekly paper of Whig politics. I went to workin this office at four dollars a week and as I advanced in efficiency, my salary was increased to twelve dollars. About this time an importantthing happened. I married the daughter of Alonzo Leaming, who had comehere in 1853. My wife was the first teacher of a private school inMinneapolis. The school being located near Minnehaha, she boarded withthe Prescott family who lived on a farm not far from the Falls. Afterthe Indian outbreak in August 1862, as we were marching up to the LowerAgency, we found Mr. Prescott's body about twelve miles out from thefort, and I helped bury him. His wife and children were prisoners atthat time, held by the hostile Sioux. 

I think it was in 1858, the people got clamorous for railroads and votedthe State credit for Five Million Dollars. The pamphlet exploiting thecelebrated "Five Million Dollar Loan Bill, " was printed in the "St. Anthony Express" office and I pulled the issue off on a very antiquatedhand press, known as the "Foster". It was too early for railroads. Timeswere too hard. But half the issue was made, and a foundation laid forsome of our great railroad systems. The St. Paul and Pacific was builtand operated for a few miles and was the pioneer of the Great Northernsystem. The first locomotive landed in St. Paul was the "WilliamCrooks, " named in honor of the Civil Engineer of the road, Col. WilliamCrooks, who was the Commander of the "Sixth Minnesota, " in which Iserved. Colonel Crooks is buried in Oakland, St. Paul and the locomotiveis on the retired list. 

As I said, one half of these bonds were issued and after severallegislatures had bandied them about and pigeonholed them, the debt waswiped out at fifty cents on the dollar with interest, which gave theholders par, and the credit of the state was saved. The bonds werethrown about as worthless and I had an opportunity to get some of themat $1 each. 

I erected the first street light in St. Paul. You could not see it ablock away. All the rest of the town was in darkness. Minneapolis hadone of these lights also, located on Bridge square. Burning fluid forlamps was one dollar a gallon. Candles were mostly used. Matches, handmade, were sold for five cents a bunch--five cents being worthtwenty-five cents now. 

In 1858 Minnesota was overrun with "Wild Cat" money. Perhaps I hadbetter explain this. It had no value outside the state and was not asure thing in it. You took money at night, not knowing whether it wouldbe worth anything in the morning. However, it looked well and we alltook chances. Any county could issue money by giving some sort of abond, so we had among others "Glencoe County, " "Freeborn County", "Fillmore County, " "Chisago County, " "La Crosse and La Crescent, " andmany others. Daily bulletins were issued telling what money was good. Inthe final round up, the only money redeemed at face value was "La Crosseand La Crescent. " I printed a directory with a Mr. Chamberlain ofBoston. I sold my book and took "Wild Cat" in payment and, after payingthe printer, had quite a bunch of it on hand, but merchants would nottake it at its face value. We had no bank of exchange then. Orin Curtishad a little place he called a bank, but I never saw money go in or outof it. 

I found what was termed a bank on the west side of the river--a two roomaffair, up one pair of stairs, and presided over by J. K. Sidle, whoafterwards was president of the First National Bank. He was at that timeloaning money at three per cent a month. The nearest bank of Exchangewas that of Borup & Oakes of St. Paul, and the only way to get there wasto walk or pay Allen & Chase one dollar and a half for the round trip. Ipreferred to walk, and so did, to receive an offer of eighty five centson the dollar for my "Wild Cat. " "No, sir, " I said, "I'll go back homefirst, " and walked back. I made three other trips and finally tooktwenty-five cents on the dollar and was glad to get it, for in a shorttime, it was worthless. Merchants issued their own individual scrip andpayed many local bills that way. For instance: "David Edwards will payfive dollars in goods at his store upon presentation of this paper, etc. " Times were hard, but pioneers never desert. They are always ondeck. Hence our Minneapolis of today. 

While on this subject of three and five per cent, I will relate anincident. There was a great revival in the First Methodist Church on theEast Side, J. F. Chaffee, pastor. We all got religion, and I thought Ihad a call to preach, so with a dozen others, took on theologicalstudies. We were very studious and zealous with a prospective D. D. Ahead; but, I "flunked, " got disgusted, side tracked the call, and intime enlisted for the war and went fighting rather than preaching. But, during the same revival and while it was at white heat, old Squire Geo. E. H. Day was in the fore front. Now brother Day was very zealous and attimes thought he got at the very foot of the throne; but, he loanedmoney at five per cent a month. I really think he was in dead earnest, especially in the per cent business. On this particular night he was onhis knees and was calling very loudly on the Lord, in his extremity, hesaid, "Oh, Lord give us more interest in Heaven. " The crowd was so greatthey were in the door and at the windows. A wag, Al Stone, was among theoutside crowd, and heard this urgent appeal of old Squire Day, and hecried out: "For God's sake, isn't five per cent enough?"

Among the enterprising men of the Falls was Z. E. B. Nash, or "Zeb" aswe called him. He operated a line of steamers from Fewer's Landing, onthe East Side above the present bridge, to St. Cloud. There were onlytwo small boats, but they served the purpose well. 

[Illustration: MRS. MARGARET KING HERN (ST. PAUL)]

[Illustration: Medal presented to Margaret King Hern by the State in1896. (See page 143. )]

[Illustration: Late type Red River Cart, taken in the Fifties. EarlierCarts had tires eight inches wide. (See pages 14-22-218)]

Colonel Levi Longfellow--1851. 

One day back in my old home in Machais, Maine, when I was six years oldand my sister Mary nine, my father said to her, "I will give you tencents for your little tin trunk. " This trunk was one of her mosttreasured possessions, and she asked him what he wanted it for. Heanswered, "I am going to save money to take you all out to Minnesota andI want the trunk to hold the pennies and dimes we shall save for thatpurpose. " She was so delighted with the idea that she readily gave upthe trunk and contributed a dime to start the famous fund. Many times weemptied the contents of that little trunk and counted to see how much wehad, though we all knew that not more than one or two dimes had beenadded since we last counted. It took us three long years to save enoughfor the eventful trip. In those days, instead of a run of two or threedays, it took a month to make the journey. 

One bright day in June, an ox team drove to our door and took us, afamily consisting of my father, mother, two boys and two girls with ourluggage to the Boston boat. From Boston, a train carried us to Albany, New York, and from there by canal boat we went to Buffalo. Here weboarded a lake steamer for Chicago. This place I remember as themuddiest hole I had ever seen. A plank road led from the boat landing tothe hotel. One railroad ran west out of Chicago for a distance of aboutten miles. Beyond this lay the unexplored country we were to enter. Wehired a man with a team and a covered farm wagon to drive us across theprairies to Galena. One week was occupied in this part of the journey. This same man three months later drove a herd of cattle from his home toSt. Anthony Falls. From Galena we took a steamboat to St. Paul where wewere met by my grandfather, Washington Getchell, who had come west withhis family three years previous. He brought us to St. Anthony Falls withhis ox team. Among our luggage was a red chest. Every family in thosedays owned one, and I remember in unloading our things from the boat, the bottom came out of the chest scattering the contents about. Men, women and children scrambled to pick up the things but mother alwayssaid one half of them were lost. 

On the second of July, 1851 we arrived, receiving a hearty welcome fromour relatives. My grandfather had built the second frame house erectedin the town. 

Early in the winter of 1854 at nine at night I was crossing theunfinished bridge one evening with a schoolmate named Russell Pease. Wehad been over to see his father who lived on the west side of the river. When we had reached the middle, Russell slipped and fell through ontothe ice beneath. I ran back and down the bank to where he was lying, buthe was unconscious and I could not lift him, so I ran back for help, found some men and they carried him home. 

One day, before there was a bridge of any kind across the river, myfather carried two calves over on the ferry, to pasture on the westshore. Several days later as he stood on the river bank, he noticedsomething moving on Spirit Island, the small island below the falls. Going out in a boat he found the two calves running about seeking a wayto reach the east bank. They had evidently become homesick and startedto swim across above the falls, and in some miraculous manner had beencarried over the falls and landed safely on the island. Father rescuedthem, bringing them to shore in a boat. 

I remember the greatest excitement each summer was the arrival of thecaravans of carts from the Red River of the North. They would come downto disperse their loads of furs, go into camp in St. Anthony and remainthree or four weeks while selling their furs and purchasing supplies. The journey and return required three months. 

In the spring of 1853 our family moved from St. Anthony to a farm inBrooklyn Center, about nine miles out from town. Roving bands of Indiansoften used to camp near our home. We never enjoyed these visits, butneither did we wish them to think we were afraid, so we never locked ourdoors or refused them anything they demanded in the way of food. Oftenmy mother has fed a troop of those hideously painted fellows. 

In those days the only means of communication between the settlers was amessenger, going from house to house. The people of our community wishedto have some way of signaling each other in case of danger. So a numberof tin horns were purchased, each family being given one, with theunderstanding that if a blast was heard from one of these horns, the menwould ride as fast as possible to the home giving the signal for help. Among the settlers was an old German who was given his horn along withthe rest. After a few days, this old fellow became curious to know whatsort of a sound the horn would make. Not wishing to give any alarm, hewent into his cellar, thinking to be out of hearing, and blew atremendous blast to test the power of the horn. The effect was far fromwhat he had anticipated. The neighbors hearing the signal came from alldirections, expecting to find serious trouble. My brother, Nathan, withhis friend Will Fisher, mounted their horses as quickly as they couldand rushed to the scene. In about an hour the boys came back disgusted, and what the settlers said and did to the old German, I leave to yourimagination. 

This same German figured in another amusing incident. When my father wasbuilding one of the roads in Brooklyn, he hired this man to work forhim. One Sunday morning the old fellow reported for duty. My fatherinformed him they did not work on Sunday. The man threw up his hands andexclaimed "Mine Gott! is this Sunday? My ole woman is at home washing;she tinks it is Monday too!"

I enlisted in '62 expecting our regiment would be ordered immediately tothe Army of the Potomac, but within a week after the formation of theregiment, news was received of the Sioux outbreak on the frontier. Wewere ordered to report at once to St. Peter where we arrived August 24. Four days later we were hurried across country forty miles to FortRidgely which was then in a state of siege. After a sharp skirmish withthe Indians, we drove them off on the second of September. We wereordered to Birch Cooley, sixteen miles away. Capt. Grant, with hiscommand had been sent out to bury the victims of the Indian massacre, including twenty-seven men of Capt. Marsh's Fifth Minnesota troops. Hehad gone into camp at Birch Cooley when the Indians attacked him. Thefiring was heard across the plain at Fort Ridgely and we were sent tohis relief. We arrived early in the morning and the command was haltedto wait for daylight. With the break of day the Indians opened fire, butafter a hard fight we drove them off and made our way into the camp. Itwas a sickening sight. Twenty-three men lay dead with fifty or sixtywounded. In the camp was a woman lying in a wagon. She had been pickedup on the prairie where the Indians had left her for dead. After theIndians had gone she had managed to crawl to a rock which had a cleft init, and there had fainted. One of our boys jumped up on this rock andnoticing what seemed to be a bundle of rags lying in the opening, pokedhis gun into it. To his horror he found it was a woman's body. He calledand another of the boys, Comrade Richardson, now living in Champlin, Minn. , sprang up beside him and together they lifted her out and she wasplaced in a wagon. When the Indians attacked the camp, the wagons weredrawn around in a circle with the camp inside and this poor woman laidthere for thirty-six hours all through the fight. The wagon was riddledwith bullets and she herself had been hit in the arm, though she wasscarcely conscious of what was going on, having not yet rallied from herterrible experience in the massacre. I understand she afterwardsrecovered and lived in Minnesota. 

At Wood Lake, I also helped to bury the dead, among them sixteen Indianskilled in the fight there. At Camp Release situated on the west side ofthe Mississippi river opposite where Montevideo is now located, wesurrounded an Indian camp and compelled them to give up over one hundredcaptive women and children. We were also sent out with a small squadand surrounded and captured another camp of hostile Indians, bringingthem in to our camp. Col. Crooks, of our regiment, was appointed JudgeAdvocate and I was present at the trial of over one hundred of theseIndians. All were found guilty and sentenced to be hung. PresidentLincoln commuted the sentence of all but thirty-nine, the rest beingsent to the government prison at Rock Island where they were kept asprisoners of war. At that time my wife who was then Olive Branch, wasattending High School in Moline, and she went with some friends to seethese Indians in the Rock Island prison. She recalls distinctly theinterest the people felt in seeing the savages who had been the authorsof such atrocities. 

In February of 1863, our regiment was sent to Forest City to build astockade for the protection of the settlers. From there we marchedacross country to Camp Pope, where the main forces were being assembled, preparatory to our expedition across the plains to the Missouri river afew miles below where Bismarck now stands. We had no fresh water on thistrip and were also on half rations for two months. When we finallyreached the river we rushed in to fill our canteens, when the Indianssuddenly opened fire on us from the opposite bank. Fortunately theyfired over our heads with but few casualties. While we were halted atthe river, Gen. Sibley, who had remained at his headquarters, two milesin our rear, sent a message to Col. Crooks, carried by an officer withhis orderly. Col. Crooks received the message, wrote his answer leaningon his saddle, and the messengers started back to Gen. Sibley with thereply. On our return trip we found the bodies of this officer and hisorderly horribly mutilated. The Indians had come up in our rear andencountered them as they rode back to camp. 

MINNEAPOLIS CHAPTER

CAROLINE ROGERS SHEPLEY

(Mrs. O. H. Shepley)

FLORENCE SHEPHERD LITTLE

(Mrs. F. W. Little)

MARY SHERRARD PHILLIPS

(Mrs. Alonzo Phillips)

Mrs. Helen Godfrey Berry--1849. 

My part in the history of the Godfrey house is the first chapter. Myidea of geography in 1847--at the age of eight years--was that Maine wasthe only state and that Bangor was not far from Boston in size andimportance. "Out West" was a wonderland in my child mind. I did notrealize when or how my father, Ard Godfrey, went so far from home as toSt. Anthony Falls, but I did realize his return to take my mother and uschildren west. My father was obliged to leave us with our relatives, Alex. Gordon's family. We stayed in Beloit, Wisconsin for the winter. He, with Capt. John Rollins and some others went through on ponies, oras best they could travel. Cold weather had stopped the boats fromrunning. That trip was one they did not forget and often told of it. 

In the spring of '49 we took a stage coach from Beloit, with our baggagestrapped on behind. I remember well the black mucky mud we rode through, the wheels sinking in to the hubs first on one side then the other. Father met us in St. Paul and we children at once got on the calicocovered settee of the Bass House, too sleepy to eat. My next idea ofbeing anywhere was in a room given up, very kindly, by Mrs. CalvinChurch to my mother, in what was called the "messhouse, " Main St. S. E. It was the most comfortable place to be had. We were hungry formother's cooking. Our first meal was of biscuits, salt and tea withstrawberry jam, mother had found in the blue chest. This was in April. If the work had not been already begun on our house, it must have beenhurried as in May my sister was born in the house. 

There was considerable concern because there was no doctor nearer thanSt. Paul to call on in case of need, but a few days before my sister, Harriet was born, someone said there was an old gentleman living on thelower island, a Doctor Kingsley, so he was called in. There was nofoot-bridge and but one way to get to the island, that of fording theriver. 

The house was built before the time of baloon frames. The principalworkmen were Chas. Merceau and James Brisette, who must have workedfaithfully and well. Doors and window-sash were done by hand, the lumberhaving to be seasoned after it was hauled to the spot. I was sointerested in the many kinds of planks and tools used by thesecarpenters, every floor board being tongued and groved by them. Thecellar under the whole house was dug after the house was partly built. Ihave a faint recollection that a limekiln was built near the old landingand lime burnt before the walls and plastering could be done. A brickoven was built, which did good service while we lived there. 

When it came to the painting of the outside of the house, father andmother wondered if the natural color of Minnesota pine was not a shadeor two different from that of the old state of Maine. They were soimpressed they concluded to paint the house as near the shade of thisnew pine as possible, but were hardly satisfied because not a perfectimitation. 

My mother was favored with much-needed help most of the time. The housewas often a hospital. Two years after we built, the brother of the youngwoman who was helping my mother, came with a bad attack of cholera. Hewas brought in, cared for and sent away comfortable. Many families camefrom the far east with sickness from the long journey, many of themcases of typhoid fever. My mother was not behind in extending a welcomeand assistance to these sufferers. 

I would not omit my recollection of our first Fourth of July. It waseither in '49 or '50 and carried out with all patriotism. I went earlyin the morning with my new friend, Emma J. Tyler, to touch the Libertypole set up on the hill not far from the mills and near where wasafterward built the Winslow Hotel. It was a genuine celebration. In mymind, somehow, like a dream of a birthday in spring, comes a faintpicture of a number of pioneer mothers, in my mother's partly furnishedparlor. I rushed in after school and stood upon the threshold. I sawbright colors in stripes, and stars of blue that they seemed to be in aquandary how to place and how many to use. Was this the first flag madein St. Anthony? Was it made in the old Godfrey House, or was I onlydreaming? Anyway, it was a real celebration that came after. TheDeclaration of Independence was read, I think by J. W. North, avolunteer choir of our best singers--Mrs. Caleb Dorr, Mrs. North andothers--sang the patriotic hymns, Isaac Atwater, Capt. John Rollins andothers sat upon the platform and my father was marshall of the day. 

I probably took the first music lesson on the piano given to a learnerin St. Anthony, my teacher being Mrs. J. W. North, living at First onHennepin Island in the house afterward known as the Tapper House, whereCapt. John Tapper lived while running the ferry-boat, before the bridgewas built from our side to the island. It was not a very safe or easytrip for me to skip over on the logs, but I got to be quite an expert. My piano came later than Mrs. North's, but was the first new pianobrought and bargained for to be sent to St. Anthony. 

By this time the house was comfortably furnished. At first a fewarticles were brought from the Slaymakers who had been one of thefamilies who had lived in the building I have spoken of--father's shop. This family became discontented enough to return to their old home sofrom them we got our large six-legged dining table, the cradle, both ofblack walnut, and a few other pieces of furniture. 

If such a thing could be done after fifty years, I could replace anypiece of furniture as my mother had then. The parlor with its warmcolored red and green carpet, the piano in its corner, the roundmahogany table of my mother's with its red and black table spread andalways the three worsted lamp mats I had made when seven years old. Mother's hair-cloth rocker, the parlor stove and the round back chairs, also in the sitting room were mother's small two-leaved tea-table andthe settee like four chairs in a row, a stove, etc. , all so comfortable. We never lived in a house in Minnesota in which we felt the cold solittle in winter. From an item in my old scrap-book concerning themoving of the house, it said it had three thicknesses of floor boards, and the same for the outside, so it was built for comfort. My littleroom over the parlor--my first own room--had in it the bureau made by mygrandfather Burr. My bedstead, a posted one, was corded with bed cords, had one good straw bed and a fluffy feather bed on top of that, withpatch work quilts. In that little room I made many beginnings. I learnedto wash the floor on my knees for I had no carpet. 

At the time when the Mill Company's property was partly owned by abachelor named A. W. Taylor, the other owners were very anxious to buyout his share so were making great effort to persuade him to sell. Mymother was given the money, all in gold, or probably father put it inher care, ready to make the payment if he came to terms which he finallydid. My knowledge of this fact came from mother being all alone atnight. She told me that in one corner of the blue chest were bags ofgold amounting to $10, 000. Afterward I could understand that she felttoo anxious to sleep and that in case of any foul deed, I could answerfor her. In those days, however, men were honest and money plentiful. Many times has my father ridden to or from St. Paul with a sack of moneyin the buggy seat beside him. 

About this time it was getting to be the custom in Washington and otherlarge cities for ladies to receive gentlemen callers on New Year's Day, so the first year St. Anthony followed that custom, by Mrs. Camp'ssuggestions and help, I was the first to receive callers, with Mrs. Campas chaperone. I am not quite sure who were our callers, probably Mr. Camp, T. E. B. North, J. B. Shaw and others. Pound and fruit cake withfragrant coffee and rich cream were served. 

In our house was organized the first Masonic Lodge. I remember itperfectly well. My mother had arranged the house in such perfect orderwe children felt something unusual was to happen. Mother first waselected Tyler. I couldn't understand why we couldn't even peep throughthe key-hole. I saw Mr. John H. Stevens and Mr. Isaac Atwater pass intothe parlor where they spent the evening with my father. Mother proved afaithful Tyler and all the satisfaction we got was that they had "Riddenthe goat. "

Father had told brother Abner wonderful stories about the country he wasintending to take us to and one was that "sleds grow on trees" and heshould have one when we got there. He did not forget. Maybe he wasreminded, but some time before one Christmas day daddy brought home twostrips of wood that he said could be bent into the shape he wanted it. It took some time and I do not know whether brother suspected what wascoming until his own frame sled was brought to him, all completed butthe steels--they came later. So he can claim having had the first realcoaster, for the other boys had only board runners or barrel staves. 

The mills (now burned) new then, with two upright saws, the people wereas proud of as they are now proud of all the fine mills in Minneapolis. Ard Godfrey had reason for feeling proud. He had the management of thebuilding of the first mill dam across the Mississippi River, had stoodwaist deep in its waters, half days at a time with his men to accomplishthis work. He was owner to not over one-seventh and not less thanone-tenth interest in the Mill Co. Business--was agent for FranklinSteele, of whom he always spoke with the greatest respect. I can realizethat he was a very busy man during the time he served there and that heneeded the rest and quiet he found afterward in his Minnehaha home. 

Our first nearest neighbors were Mrs. Marshall with her two sons, Wm. R. And Joseph, and her daughter, Rebecca. Their store was the first startedin our neighborhood until John G. Lennon built his a little later. Mrs. Marshall impressed me when she said to my mother that "If one of hersons was foolish enough to get into a fight and get whipped she wouldwhip him again when he came home. " I thought of her in after years whenI heard people speak of Wm. R. Marshall while he was Governor ofMinnesota. Once on our first acquaintance, my mother sent my brother, then about six years of age, to Mrs. Marshall for an article from thestore. She gave it to him with the change. The child was so interestedin his play with some boys, he hurried home, gave mother the package andwas hurrying off when she asked him for the change. He said he hadn'tany and from his eagerness to get away she feared he had spent the moneywithout leave, to treat the boys. I heard her say something about "Notletting this pass a first time, if it is an act of dishonesty now is mytime, " etc. So to sift the matter to the bottom, she took the reluctantboy to Mrs. Marshall, who said, "Don't you see, Mrs. Godfrey, he hasdone nothing wrong; he has the money; look again. " Sure enough, underthe wonderful things, balls and strings in his pocket, was the moneyjust where Mrs. Marshall had put it herself and he was the mostsurprised one to see it. The tears were dried and Mrs. Marshall hadsaved him from punishment only that he had lost his noon hour for play. 

One last remembrance is that of the great flood which came and spoiledso much of the work done in the beginning; I have still in my mind thegrandest picture of Almighty God I ever saw. Man seemed but an atomagainst Him, when the waters rushed and roared in their strong surgesover the ledges that made the Falls of St. Anthony; the long logs thathad been, but a few months before, proud monarchs of the pine forests, sailed along toward this brink like sticks, then with their long endsbalancing out over the rushing fall would tilt over and down into therushing, curling, foaming torrent out of sight. But little else wasthought of just then for we who were near were watching, watching thegrandeur but dreading the effect. One thing I realized that drew myattention from this mighty picture, that was the anxious face of myfather. Had he not foreseen the future possibilities of this greatwater-power? I am sure now that he had, and soon had the first strokecome and waived aside all that had been partly accomplished. A set-backbecause the work had been begun with rough tools and lack of material. Ithink he realized what might be--what has been. What we all can see now, power harnessed by inventions into monstrous manufactories, costingmints of gold, paying out mints of gold in return, costing more thanhalf a century of time and labor. 

Why do I think he foresaw all this? For several reasons. At that time hesecured title to a small island outside the others just at the brink ofthe Falls, although by some re-survey. I think it was afterwardconsidered a part of Nicollet Island, causing him to leave it, if I amright. Another reason seems indirect, but it was from what he said inregard to San Pedro Harbor in his first visit to California, that LosAngeles might become a city, but not what San Pedro could be with aharbor, a nucleous or center for business for all the surroundingcountry. It may take years enough to see all this, to make up its halfcentury too, but when I see what is already the beginning I know he wasright and knew what he was talking about. So as I now often sit andlisten to the breakers of the grand old Pacific Ocean, I am given an oldhome-feeling, I am listening, in memory, to the roar of that mightwater-fall, the Falls of St. Anthony, as they sounded fifty years ago. 

Abner Crossman Godfrey--1849. 

In the early days, before we had street cars, or any of the present dayimprovements, the country was all new. New families and interests werepouring in from the East. We had to travel by stage coach and very oftenthe roads were so muddy that the wheels of the coach would sink in tothe hub. I remember the year so well that the first State Capitol wasdedicated. That was the time of the pleasure trip that I am going totell you about. They got a four horse lumber wagon and put in long seatson either side, and piled in heavy robes. This was to convey the peoplefrom Minneapolis to St. Paul for the very important services. There werethree boys--Stillman Foster, Oat Whitney, Sam Tyler of the neighborhoodand myself that chummed together. The rig started off from the old milloffice, Main Street. That was the starting place for everything in thosedays, and is now Second Avenue Southeast. We boys decided that it wouldbe a great lark to get in the wagon and hide under the robes and ridearound to the St. Charles Hotel, where the passengers were waiting. Muchto our surprise, we were not ordered to get out when we were discovered. We soon arrived at the old Des Noyer place half way to St. Paul. It wasbitter cold, about forty-five degrees below zero. In St. Paul, I leftthe rig and wandered over to the old American House. My hands werefrozen and I soon began to cry with the pain. My fingers were white tothe first joint. A Frenchman who was standing near by, seeing mydistress, took compassion on me, took me inside and put my hands intohot whiskey. That saved them. 

Major Benjamin Randall--1849. 

In 1860, to prevent conflict between the Indians and white settlers, amilitary post called Fort Ridgely was built one hundred and eighty milenorthwest of Winona on the Minnesota River. Major Woods arrived soonafter navigation on the river was demonstrated to be practicable by thatveteran, Smith Harris and steamboats from the Ohio river were notinfrequent visitors. Ridgely was in no sense a fort, but by generalacceptation. It was not designed or constructed as a place of defense. It was built on a plain forty rods from the edge of a steep bluff of theriver on the south and a gradual sloping bluff, less abrupt, to a creekrunning at right angles on the east about the same distance. A deepwooded ravine extended up through the river bluff to about one hundredyards of the southwest corner, while a considerable depression wascontinued some distance farther. The St. Peter road led up the creekbluff ravine along the north side of the fort, with a level stretch ofprairie to the north. It was such a place as the Indians would haveselected for the building, if they had contemplated its capture. 

The Indians were frequent visitors at the fort and watched the LightBattery drill with wonder and surprise. The horses flying across theprairie like an Egyptian chariot race, the sudden changes of front andposition, and the rapid firing, awed the savage. In the spring of 1861, all this was changed. The artillery were ordered south. One andsometimes two companies of volunteers were stationed for a short time, and others succeeded them. The Indians knew the country was claiming itsable bodied and best men in its support, and watched with interest thedeparture of volunteers for its defence, and believed, as they talked, that only women and old men were left. The soldiers they respected andfeared had gone from our frontier. 

The anxiety to rush everybody to the front had left our posts withoutgarrison, and people without protection, and protests to officials wereunheeded or disregarded. The Indians felt that the time and opportunitywas present when they could win back without resistance the inheritancethey had lost. In furtherance of this scheme, on Monday morning, the18th of August, 1862, an attack was made on the citizens at the loweragency, twelve miles above the fort. Those that could, tried to escape. J. C. Dickinson, who kept a boarding-house, with his family and others, in a two-horse wagon, was the first to cross the ferry, notifying thesettlers as he made his way toward the fort. A little before nineo'clock in the morning, I was out about two miles from the agency in abuggy and met him. His team was jaded and I reached Capt. Marsh'squarters sometime in advance of him. A courier was sent after Lieut. Shehan, who with fifty men, was on his return to Fort Ripley. Capt. Marsh and forty-six men, started for the scene of the uprising, and wereambuscaded by the Indians, twenty-eight of the men being killed andCapt. Marsh drowned. 

That night small parties of Indians that were raiding the settlements, were drawn together and celebrated their victory by dance and song, which gave us valuable time at the fort, saving hundreds of lives by thedelay. 

The fort was left under the command of Lieut. Gere, a young man of lessthan twenty years, without military or frontier experience. Thesituation would, have appalled the most experienced frontier officer. Fortunately the advice and experience of Sergeant Jones was available. The four Reike brothers, who had the contract for furnishing hay to thepost, notified settlers, and hauled water, filling all the barrels thatcould be found. All the water used at the post was hauled from a springat the foot of the river bluff, nearly half a mile distant, and near theravine which the Indians went up two days later to make their attack. 

After a day of preparation and suspense, Lieut. Shehan returned with hisfifty men, who were welcomed with joy by those holding the post, andlater, about forty-six men arrived from St. Peter, the RenvilleRangers. There were enough men to post sentinels, to guard the salientpoints. I visited some of these posts with an officer and a lanternlater in the night, and no one was sleeping on them; they were deserted. We followed to where they had taken shelter in the barracks among therefugees, and they were ordered from under bedsteads, to resume theirguns and duties. 

The ravine was between my house and the garrison, where my family hadtaken shelter. About twelve o'clock I was at the house, with a horse andbuggy, when guns were discharged and sentinels shouting "Indians. "Seeing them running, I was not long in reaching the fort, and had beenthere but a short time, when flames shot up from my dwelling and theravine I had just crossed swarmed with painted savages. 

Miss Sara Faribault. 

My father, Oliver Faribault, built a house which was his home andtrading post near "Little Six" or Shakopee's village in 1844. It was afine point for a trading post, as three Indian villages were near; GoodRoads, Black Dog's and Shakopee's. He was a very successful trader. Ican well remember the great packs of furs. We used to play all aroundthe country near. I could shoot an arrow as well as a boy. The huntingwas fine. 

We used often to go to the sacred stone of the Indians and I have oftenseen the Sioux warriors around it. It was on the prairie below town. There was room for one to lie down by it and the rest would dance or sitin council around it. They always went to it before going into battle. They left gifts which the white people stole. I can remember taking somelittle thing from it myself. I passed a party of Indians with it in myhand. One of the squaws saw what I had and became very angry. She mademe take it back. She seemed to feel as we would if our church had beenviolated. This stone was stolen by a man from the east and taken there. This loss made the Indians very angry. 

Little Crow was often at our house and was much loved by us children. Heused to bring us candy and maple sugar. My father was fond of him too, and said he was always honest. 

The Indians did not understand the white man's ways. When the white manhad a big storehouse full of goods belonging to the Indians and theIndian was cold and hungry, he could not see why he could not have whatwas there, belonging to him, if it would keep him warm and feed him. Hecould not see why he should wait until the government told him it wastime for him to eat and be warm, when the time they had told him beforewas long past. It was the deferred payments that caused the outbreak, Ihave often heard from the Indians. 

One morning in the summer of '58 we heard firing on the river. Most ofthe Sioux had gone to get their annuities but a few who were late werecamped near Murphy's. These had been attacked by a large band of theChippewa. The fighting went on for hours, but the Chippewa wererepulsed. That was the last battle between the Sioux and the Chippewanear here. 

I have often seen Indians buried on platforms elevated about eight feeton slender poles. They used to put offerings in the trees to the GreatSpirit and to keep the evil spirits away. I remember that one of theselooked like a gaily colored umbrella at a distance. I never dared gonear. 

Mary Sherrard Phillips--1854. 

At the time of the Indian massacre in Minnesota, August, 1862, JohnOtherday, who was married to a white woman, sent word to the agent'swife to leave the Agency within an hour. This was at half past nine atnight. The trouble began at a small store a short distance from theagent's house. The shooting and fighting could be heard from the house. 

Otherday, with a party of sixty-two refugees, instead of taking them tothe fort, had them ford the Minnesota River and pass through the wildcountry, avoiding the main traveled roads. He was never with them, wouldbe seen in the distance on a hill to the right, and then in the oppositedirection. They came to the river at Carver, where they re-crossed, thento Shakopee, their old home, where I saw them. 

When Major Galbraith was given the office of Indian Agent at YellowMedicine, most of his employees went with him. Mrs. Galbraith and herthree children, and Miss Charles, a teacher, went in a one-horse buggy. They took this at the time of the outbreak and were in Otherday's party. Part of the time they walked and let others ride to rest them. Thislittle band of fugitives could make only a few miles in twenty-fourhours. The Indians did not follow them, as they thought they would go tothe fort, and then they would attack them as they neared the fort. Mrs. Galbraith and children came to father's house. They were a sorrowfullooking band. Dr. Wakefield and Maj. Galbraith were at the fort. 

The women told us this story. The day before the outbreak, Mrs. Wakefield and her two children, with George Gleason, started for FortRidgely. They saw some Indians coming. Mrs. Wakefield said: "I amafraid, " but Gleason said, "They are our own Shakopee Indians, they willnot hurt us. " Then as soon as they passed, they shot Gleason in theback, and he fell out of the buggy, dead. They took Mrs. Wakefield andthe children captives. She was saved by one Indian taking her as hissquaw. For two days, he had them hid in a straw stack. 

Mother asked Mrs. Galbraith if she saved any of her silver. She replied;"When life is at stake, that is all you think of. "

When Col. Sibley and his men came to Shakopee, they came mostly by boat. They pressed into service all the horses and wagons in town to transportthem to the seat of the Indian war. There was only one old white horseleft, that belonged to Dr. Weiser. The Little Antelope that passed downthe Minnesota did not have room for one more. The town was packed withrefugees, every house had all it could shelter. The women did what theycould to help the ones that had come there for shelter and safety, andcarried them provisions and clothes. We had refugees from Henderson, Belle Plaine, St. Peter, Glencoe, and all through the country, fleeingfrom the Indians. 

The Faribault House, covered with siding, is still standing. 

Shah-kpa-dan, or Shakopee in English, was named after Shakopee IndianChief, (Little Six), who with his band, had a village just across theriver. He died and was buried there in the fifties. I saw the dead bodyin the winter, which they had elevated on a platform, held up by fourslender poles, about eight feet high. In the trees near the camp, theyhad something that looked like a closed umbrella. They had a number ofthese to drive away the evil spirits. 

The Sioux counted their money by dimes, which they called Cosh-poppy. Then they counted up to ten; One-cha, No-pah, Yam-any, To-pa, Zo-ta, Shakopee, Sha-ko, Sha-kan-do, Nep-chunk, Wix-chiminey. Then thesenumerals would be used as One-cha Cosh-poppy, No-pa Cosh-poppy, up toWix-chiminey Cosh-poppy, which would be $1. 

I saw some squaws the day after a battle, mourning. They had lostrelatives. They sat on the ground and were moaning and rocking theirbodies back and forth. The squaws always carried a butcher knife intheir belts. They took the point of the knife and cut the skin of theirlegs from the knees down to the foot, just enough so it would bleed anda few drops trickle down these gashes. There were three or four of thesesquaws. 

In 1854 fifteen hundred Winnebago Indians came up the Minnesota River toShakopee, in their birch bark and dugout canoes, which lined the shore. They were on the way to their new agency. Their agent was to meet themat Shakopee with their government money and rations. He failed to comeon the day appointed. They waited several days for him and were angry atthe delay. The citizens found the Indians were being supplied with firewater and for their own safety, they hunted for it. They found threebarrels of it in the kitchen of a dwelling. They took it and broke inthe barrel-heads and flooded the kitchen. The agent came that evening, gave the Indians their money and rations, so they went on in theircanoes early the next morning. I saw them off, I was in the canoes withsome of them. They gave me beads and the little tin earrings, which theyused by the dozens, as ornaments. The river was filled with theircanoes, but their ponies and other heavy baggage went on land. 

The Winnebagoes gave a money dance in front of the hotel. Their tom-tommusic was on the porch. They formed in a semi-circle. They were clad inbreech-clouts with their naked bodies painted in all the colors of therainbow, put on in the most grotesque figures imaginable. They wouldsing and dance to their music, pick up the money that had been thrownthem, give their Indian war-whoops and yells, then fall back to form thesemi-circle and dance up again. This was an exciting scene with the sideand back scenery made up of hundreds of live and almost naked redskins. 

I saw one scalp-dance by the Sioux. They had a fresh scalp, said to beoff a Chippewa chief. It was stretched on a sort of hoop, formed by agreen twig, or limb. It was all very weird. This was in '54. 

The Indians enjoyed frightening the white women. They often found themalone in their homes. They were always hungry, would demand something toeat, and would take anything that pleased their fancy. My mother, Mrs. Sherrard, was very much afraid of the Indians. Once one of the bravesshook his tomahawk at her through a window. 

I have seen a dog train in St. Paul, loaded with furs from the HudsonBay Fur Company. 

WENONAH CHAPTER

Winona

JEANETTE THOMPSON MAXWELL

(Mrs. Guy Maxwell)

Mr. H. L. Buck--1854. 

In the spring of '54 Cornelius F. Buck and his young wife, located aclaim and built a log cabin on the present highway just before it entersthe village of Homer in Winona County. Homer at that time seemed a muchmore promising place than Winona. The few incidents I give are those Iheard from my mother's and father's lips during my childhood. Thecountry had been opened for settlement a year or two before, but fewsettlers had arrived at this time and everything that went to make afrontier was present, even to native Indians. They were peaceable enoughbut inclined to be curious and somewhat of a nuisance. One springmorning shortly after the cabin had been built, my mother was dressing, when, without warning of any kind, the door was opened and in stalked agreat Indian brave. My father had already gone out and my mother wasgreatly frightened, but her indignation at having her privacy thusdisturbed exceeded her fright and she proceeded to scold that Indian andtell him what she thought of such conduct, finally "shooing" him out. Hetook the matter good naturedly, grinning in a sheepish sort of way, butmy mother had evidently impressed him as being pretty fierce, for amongall the Indians of the neighborhood she became known as the "LittleHornet. "

The second spring my father and another settler securing some brasskettles, went to a maple grove a mile below their homes on the riverbank and commenced gathering sap for sugar. During the night theirkettles were stolen and suspecting some Indians who were encamped onthe Wisconsin side of the river, they armed themselves to the teeth withguns, revolvers and bowie knives and taking a canoe, crossed the river, entered the Indian camp and demanded to see the chief. 

He was told that some of his cowardly "braves" had stolen the paleface'skettles. The chief denied the theft. My father, allowing all his weaponsto be plainly seen, again demanded the return of his kettles, and saidif they were not returned by the next morning he would make war on thechief's whole tribe and annihilate them. This was too much for thenatives and the next morning the kettles were returned. 

My mother, who had spent her childhood and youth in the prairie country, had never seen any hills worth mentioning. She told me that when shelanded from the steamboat on which she had traveled from Galena and tookup her abode under the overtopping bluffs that lined the banks of theriver and the boat disappeared in the distance, she had an overpoweringfeeling that she had been imprisoned far from the world, that she wasshut out from civilization and would never be able to get out of these"mountains" and for several years that feeling stayed with her. Theriver was the only highway over which came human beings. In the winterthe river still was the main traveled road, but with sleighs instead ofboats. It was a rare treat for her to go as far as La Crosse. In thewinter this trip was often accompanied with danger, from the uncertaintyof the strength of the ice. I recall one trip she and my father madegoing to La Crosse one day upon the ice in the month of February. Theyhad planned to stay over night in the latter place and return in themorning. In the morning they hitched up the horse and drove to the riverbank, but the ice had entirely disappeared during the night and thesteamboating was again good. 

In '62 when the Indian outbreak occurred in the west, while Winona wasfar removed from the danger zone, much excitement prevailed here. Myfather organized a company of men of which he became captain and theWinona Rangers marched west to help in driving back the Indian forces. They met thousands of settlers fleeing to the east. Assisting them insuch ways as they might they continued westward until they reached LakeShetek where they were stationed for several months. They met no Indiansbut were of assistance in restoring confidence in the returningsettlers. 

Mrs. Harriet Gleason--1854. 

I was twenty-seven years old when I came to Minnesota, landing at atownsite on the Mississippi River then known as Manton, but now known asLa Crescent. My brother, Samuel Spalding had come the year preceding andhad taken a claim near that place and at his request I came and took aclaim there also and kept house for him. 

The country at that time was one almost unbroken wilderness. There wereno roads of any kind, only "blazed trails" through the timber from oneplace to another. 

There were wild animals in those days, and still wilder Indians, thoughthere were some "Good Indians. " One morning a "Good Indian" came to ourplace and wanted a needle and some thread, which I gave him. He said hewas going away hunting and thanked me. In the evening he came back and Ilost confidence in the "Good Indian" pretty quick. He had been drinkingand wanted me to give him more whiskey. I told him that I had none, butthat did not satisfy him. He kept asking for whiskey. I thought, "Whatmust I do?" I gave him the camphor bottle which he threw away; alsowater, with which he did the same, repeating his request for whiskey andflourishing his tomahawk over my head. I was now thoroughly frightenedbut tried not to let him see that I was. I then gave him a loaf ofbread, which he took and then he wanted me to go with him to his wigwam. I opened the door and told him to "Get out quick, " which he did with awhoop and a run. From that time on the Indians did not trouble us. 

Mrs. Bradley--1854. 

When our family, the Grants, came to Winona, there were more Indianshere than whites and to one who had never seen the Red Skins, a vividimpression which can never be forgotten was left. There were very fewhouses and the inhabitants were limited to a dozen families. 

Mr. Oliver K. Jones--1857. 

In the summer of '62 I enlisted in Company G of the Eighth MinnesotaInfantry. Before the six regiments required of Minnesota were fullyorganized the Sioux Indian massacre occurred. As fast as a company wasorganized it was rushed off somewhere on the frontier to protect thewhite settlers and drive back the Indians. My company and Company D ofthe 7th Regiment were sent on a forced march to Fort Abercrombie, twohundred and fifty miles northwest of St. Paul on the Red River, twelvemiles down the river from Breckenridge. This garrison was besieged byIndians. All the white people in that vicinity who had not been killedor captured had fled there for protection. There was but one company ofsoldiers there at this time under command of Captain Vanderhorck, whohad himself been wounded. This fort was nothing but a few buildingslocated on the open prairie on the Dakota side of the river. Earthenbreast-works had been hastily thrown up for the better protection of thepeople within. It required constant vigilance on the part of all thesoldiers to hold the garrison for the three or four weeks before ourarrival. The only water supply they had was the river, some rods outsideof the fort embankment. Their supply of rations had become nearlyexhausted, so that on our arrival about the middle of September, wefound a very hungry and badly scared lot of people. There were someunburied dead, some badly wounded and some sick. One woman who had beenwounded by the Indians at Breckenridge a few days before and left fordead, had regained consciousness and crawled on her hands and knees theentire twelve miles to the fort where she was taken care of and finallyrecovered. Two mornings some Indians concealed themselves among thewillows which grew on the Minnesota side of the river and fired uponsome teamsters who were watering their horses. One teamster died thenext day; the other, although wounded, recovered after several weekstreatment at the fort hospital. These teamsters were citizen farmers whohad been pressed into service to help haul the supplies of grain andprovisions to the starving people and animals at the fort. 

On our way to the fort, Sauk Center was the last place at which we foundany settlers. Many from the surrounding country had assembled here forsafety. A station with soldiers to guard it was established there andone also at Alexandria, some miles beyond. 

We did not see any Indians until the day before our arrival when a fewwere seen by our scouts. A mile or so from the fort, before we came tothe river, we found in the woods the mutilated remains of two soldierswho had been killed the day before by some Indians who attacked theescort of eight soldiers who were returning to the fort after taking amessenger through the woods on his way to Fort Snelling to officiallynotify the officers in charge there, of the conditions at Abercrombie. Other messengers had been sent but it was not known whether or not theyhad gotten through, communication having been entirely cut off betweenthat garrison and the settlements below. The messenger, having met ourexpedition, returned with us to the fort. 

Immediately after our arrival, details of men were set to work cuttinglogs to put a twelve foot stockade around the fort to provide betterprotection against the Indians. Scouting parties were sent out every fewdays to scour the country round about from ten to fifty miles in alldirections. Our company remained at Abercrombie until the spring of'64. We never saw another Indian except the few captured by the scoutingparties and brought to the fort for safe keeping. 

About the middle of October when we had been at the fort about a month, a call for volunteers was made to form a guard to some thirty Indianprisoners and take some cattle to Sauk Center. I was one of the fourfrom our company; not that I was more brave or reckless than manyothers, but I preferred almost anything to doing irksome guard andfatigue duties at a fort. So a little train of wagons in which to carryour camping outfit, our provisions and the few squaws and children, wasmade up. The guards, cattlemen and Indian men had to walk. While on thistrip we did not suppose there was an Indian in the whole outfit who knewor could understand a word of English, so we were not at all backwardabout speaking our minds as to Indians in general and some of those whomwe were guarding in particular. On the second or third day out I waswalking along behind the wagons near one of the big buck Indians who wasfilling up his pipe preparatory to having a smoke. When ready for alight he walked up alongside of me and said, "Jones, have you got anymatches?" Before this, no matter what we said to him or any of theothers, all we could get from them would be a grunt or a sullen look. Wearrived at our destination without seeing any Indians. We turned oursover to the officer in charge of Sauk Center post. Here we had to wait along time for a train of supplies which was being made up at St. Cloudto be taken to Abercrombie. By this time winter had set in and there wasno need for guards, so each man of our squad was assigned a six muleteam to drive up to the fort. If anyone thinks it is all pleasuredriving and caring for a six mule team from St. Cloud to FortAbercrombie, one hundred and seventy miles, in midwinter, with nothingto protect him from the cold but an ordinary army uniform, including anunlined tight blue overcoat, let him try it once. 

That spring our company was ordered to go to Fort Ripley, nobody everknew what for. We stayed there until sometime in May when we wereordered to Fort Ridgely, to get ready for an expedition across theplains after the Indians who were somewhere between Minnesota and theBad Lands of Dakota and Montana. 

In the June battle of Killdeer Mountain '64, a cavalry boy sixteen yearsold, as soon as the Indians were in sight, put spurs to his horse. Herode in among the Indians, killing two with his sword, picked up thelariat ropes of their ponies and returned to our firing line leading theponies, and never received a scratch of injury to himself. The boy herosaid the Indians had killed his father and mother and he enlisted onpurpose to avenge their death. 

On August 8, 1864, General Sully was sick and turned the entire commandover to Colonel Thomas. Before noon Indians were reported all around us. Colonel Thomas put strong guards in front, rear and on the flanks. Firing soon commenced on all sides, the soldiers having orders to fireat an Indian whenever one was in sight. The Indians always appearedsingly or in small bands on the hills and higher ground. This mode ofbattle was continued until dark, when we were obliged to stop and gointo camp with a strong guard all around. In the morning not an Indianwas in sight. It was learned afterward that there were some eightthousand warriors engaged and that they lost three hundred and elevenkilled and six hundred or seven hundred wounded. Our losses were ninekilled and about one hundred wounded. The battle was named"Waho-chon-chaka" and was the last fighting we had with the Indians forthat summer. 

Mrs. Arabella Merrit--1859. 

My father's family were among the early pioneers in Martin county, Minnesota. I well remember an emergency that tried our wits and Isuppose was equal to golf for developing arm muscle in a young girl--itcertainly developed patience. 

Much snow had fallen during the winter of 1858-9 and the sloughs ofwhich there were legions in that country, had frozen up in the fall, full of water. Toward the last of February, the snow began to melt. Aheavy rain setting in on February 28th caused it to melt very rapidlyuntil at last the whole prairie was flooded, making it impossible for usto leave our homes for any great distance. It was during this time thatthe flour and meal gave out. What could we do? Bread we must have! Atlast I thought of the coffee mill (one of the old fashioned kind, fastened to the wall. ) I filled it with wheat and went to work. Nevershall I forget those long hours of grinding to furnish bread for five inthe family. Never bread tasted sweeter. Some of the time I would grindcorn for a change and make meal, not, to be sure, the fine meal oftoday, but we pronounced it good then. Our coffee was parched rye. WhileI was grinding the wheat we had bread only twice a day. At noon, forthree weeks, there was nothing on the table except baked potatoes andsalt. Finally the salt gave out and for four meals we had only potatoes. At last the flood abated and my father started for Mankato, forty milesdistant, to procure some provisions. The roads were something awful, butafter three days he returned with flour, meal and other needed supplies. What a rejoicing to see him safely back! I was glad to be released frommy job as miller. 

On Aug. 21, '62 a messenger came through our little settlement situatedon East Chain Lakes in Martin County, telling us there seemed to betrouble at the Indian Agency. It was feared it might prove serious. Oursettlement consisted of six families. As there was scarcely anyammunition in the neighborhood one of the men started to Mankato, fortymiles distant, to procure some. When he reached Gordon City, half way, he was told that it would not be safe to proceed. Even if he did hecould get no ammunition, as Gordon City could not secure any andMinnesota was short. The massacre had begun on outlying country roundNew Ulm. Our little settlement awaited anxiously his return. He had leftSaturday morning, Aug. 22nd. Late in the afternoon of that day my fatherand mother were away some little distance from the house. I was alone. Chancing to look out I saw twenty mounted men coming across the prairie. My heart stood still. Where could I hide? At last I decided to run toour nearest neighbor's about a quarter of a mile away, warn her and wecould die together. She and her three little children were alone, as itwas her husband who had gone for ammunition. I ran, glancing back once, I could see the horsemen were increasing their speed. I reached herhouse and rushing in said, "Mrs. Fowler, the Indians are coming!"Calmly, she stood up and with a white face said. "Well we can die hereas well as anywhere. " Just then her little girl of eight years with achild's curiosity ran out and peeped around the corner of the house. Shecame running back saying, "Why, they are white men. " The reaction nearlytook all our strength. I stepped out. Just then two of our friends fromWinnebago City, twenty miles east of us, rode up. They had seen merunning and hurried after me guessing my fear that they were Indians. 

I went back home where there were twenty mounted men from WinnebagoCity, their objective point being Jackson, fourteen miles west of uswhere there was a small Norwegian settlement. My mother and I got supperfor them and they went on their way. During the night a messenger camefrom Winnebago asking how long since they had left. He said there wereorders for them to go to Madelia. He found them before morning andturned their course for Madelia. Had they gone to Jackson they wouldhave been in time to prevent the massacre of fourteen persons which tookplace where they were holding church services. A few escaped and toldthat it was a band of five Indians that did that awful work of killingand mutilating. We were not aware of that cruel work so near us on thatbright Sabbath day. 

Early in the spring, a son of Dr. Mills of Red Wing came, bringing withhim his pretty wife and two children, two and three years old. They hadtaken land six miles north of us and with the exception of an oldtrapper, who resided alone near them, our settlement was their nearestneighbors. On that morning my mother said to father, "I think it wouldbe best to go up and bring Mrs. Mills and children down here for a fewdays. " When father reached the Mills' home he found that Mr. Mills hadgone out on the prairie that morning to look for his yoke of oxen thathad strayed away during the night. Mrs. Mills left a note for himtelling where she and the children had gone and gladly came to our home. About four o'clock our neighbor returned saying there was no ammunitionto be had and that we must all leave our homes at once. It was not safeto stay. In those days every settler had hoops and canvas for his wagon, as those were what he had come into that part of the country with. Sowith all haste the "prairie schooners" were prepared. With true easternforethought for her family my mother put in food enough for severaldays, a bed and trunk of clothes. One wagon, we found, would not holdall our goods and us too. Meantime no word came from Mr. Mills. We leftour home just at dusk, a sad band of six families. We took Mrs. Millsand family with us, she not knowing what might have been the fate of herhusband, but bravely and quietly going with us. Every farmer drove hisherd of cattle and horses. It was all they could move. 

One of our neighbors, Mrs. George Fowler, sister of the late Mrs. J. J. Hillmer, was confined to her bed with a babe two weeks old. She had tobe carried on a bed in their wagon. Mr. Fowler's father, mother andsister from New Haven, Conn. , were spending the summer in the west withtheir son. We started for Winnebago City, our nearest town east. Wetraveled all night to make that twenty miles, making slow progress withour heavy wagons, poor roads and herds. That country was full of sloughsat that time. Often during the night, the wagon would become stuck, andthe men would unhitch the horses, we would walk out on the tongue of thewagon to more solid ground, then they would hitch chains to the end ofthe tongue and pull it out. We reached Winnebago in the morning andfound the people had fled in fright like ourselves. There were only afew men left to guard the post office and store. We could not findsafety there. We felt more fright. Thinking we were left behind todanger, we continued our course east all that day. From all cross roadswherever the eye turned we could see wagon loads of people and herds ofstock coming. Ask anyone where they were going, the answer would be, "Don't know. Going where the crowd goes. " On our second day out Mr. Mills found us and his wife and children. I often wonder how he did inthat crowd. 

At night the women and children slept in the wagons while the men layunder the wagons and kept guard. Every settlement we came to wasdeserted, every farm house empty, desolation everywhere. We traveled onuntil the afternoon of Aug. 25th when we reached the town of Albert Lea. Much to our joy we found this not deserted. There were five hundred ofthat frightened crowd camped near Albert Lea that night. We camped neara farm house on the outskirts of the town. We found there some finepeople who kindly took Mrs. Mills and children into the house. Five daysafter our arrival at this farm house, Mrs. Mills gave birth to a fineboy. We stayed here several days when the news came that it was thoughtthe trouble was over and it would be safe to return. Only, threefamilies returned to our settlement, the others going to relativesfarther east. 

On the second night after reaching home we were awakened toward morningby our neighbor saying, "There are buildings burning on the farms westof us. " We arose and dressed, lighting our lamps. My father and theneighbor, Mr. Holmes Fowler, said they would creep up carefully and seewhat it meant. Mother and I were left alone. Father returned shortlysaying, "The vacant houses are all burned. I shall send you and mother, Mrs. Fowler and her three children to Winnebago to get men to come toour rescue. We will stay here and guard our stock. " Four miles east andnear our road leading to Winnebago lived two young men. Said father, "You stop there and send one of the neighbors for help. " We started justat break of day. When two miles from home a sight met our gaze thatsurely froze the blood in our veins. There, a short distance from theroad, quietly grazing in the tall slough grass, were three Indianponies. Every moment we expected to see their riders rise from the grassand make a dash for us. Quietly we drove on feeling more dead thanalive, expecting every moment to hear that awful Indian yell. Butnothing happened. 

During the winter, six months before, a band of one hundred Siouxbraves, their squaws and papooses camped six miles west of our home. Often several of them at a time came down to the settlement. We alwaysgave them food and never thought of being afraid of them. When theybroke camp they camped one night near our house. How well I remembertaking out a milk pan of doughnuts and passing them around. I wonder ifthose doughnuts left an impression! Two miles from Winnebago we had toford the Blue Earth River. The banks were quite steep. One of our horseswas a high spirited full blood Morgan mare. She always made it a pointto kick when going down those banks, often coming down astride of thetongue of the wagon. My brave mother was the driver that day. We reachedthe bank. Carefully, with steady, dainty steps, head proudly raised, sheslowly took us down that steep bank and across the river bringing ussafely upon the other side. I say she, for so much depended upon her, for her good mate was always gentle. Fully she seemed to realize thesituation and fully demonstrated her love, and realized theresponsibility placed upon her one mate. Just before entering Winnebagowe met a company of ten mounted men going to the help of the three menwe had left. They returned that day accompanied by father and his twoneighbors bringing their herds of stock. After being in Winnebago a fewdays we received word that a company of fifty mounted men from Winonawere coming. They had enlisted for thirty days. They were called theWinona Rangers. After a few days they came and we were escorted home bythem. They built a barracks in our settlement and guarded a portion ofthat section of country for their enlisted term. 

The Government sent the Twenty-fifth Wisconsin regiment to Winnebagowhere barracks were built. Portions of companies were distributedthroughout the adjoining counties, a company of them taking the place ofthe Winona Rangers when their time was up. 

Owing to my mother's ill health we removed to Homer, where her brotherlived. Two hundred and fifty miles we went in our covered wagon, throughthe cold and snow of November. My father had made the trip weeks beforeand driven our stock down. In our wagon was stored what little we couldbring of our household goods, the rest was left. On Thanksgiving day of1862 we reached my uncle's house in the neighborhood where we now live. 

KEEWAYDIN CHAPTER

Minneapolis

MISS MARION MOIR

Mrs. Gideon Pond--1843. 

On the twenty-third day of August, 1842, I was married to RobertHopkins. He was preparing to come to the Northwest as an assistantmissionary in the Dakota mission, and in March 1843, we started on ourlong journey from Ohio to Fort Snelling, sent out by the American Board. We came down the Ohio and up the Mississippi in a steamboat, stoppingoff for Sabbath and had to wait a long time for a boat at Galena afterspending Sunday there. We reached Fort Snelling in May after a tediousjourney. From Fort Snelling we started up the Minnesota River in an openboat propelled by oars. At night we camped on the banks and cooked oursupper. In the party were Mr. And Mrs. Steven Riggs and their twochildren and his wife's brother. Dr. Riggs was just returning from theeast where he had had some books printed in the Dakota tongue. 

We also had three men to row the boat. We suffered much from the myriadsof mosquitoes. We baked our bread each day. It was simply flour and saltand water baked in a frying pan before a smoking camp fire. It was verydistasteful to me and I determined to have a loaf of light bread. I hadsome home made yeast cakes in my luggage as bought yeast cakes were thenunknown. I soaked one of them in a pail of river water, stirred in someflour and soon had some nice light yeast. I mixed a loaf of bread andset it where the hot sun would keep it warm. At night it was ready to bebaked and I used a little Dutch oven which was on the boat to bake itin. The oven was like a black iron kettle flat on the bottom andstanding on three little legs about three inches long. We placed coalsunder the oven and a thick iron cover heavier than any you ever saw, weheated in the fire and placed over the oven to bake the bread on thetop, while to bake it on the sides we turned the oven around. Iattending the baking of my bread with great solicitude and care. 

While it was baking an Indian man came into the camp and sat down by thefire. I paid no attention to him but attended to my loaf, just as Iwould have done if he had not been there. Mrs. Riggs said, "You shouldnot have let that man see your bread. " I said, "Why not, " and sheanswered, "He may come in the night and steal it, " which I thought waspreposterous. In the morning I fried some bacon, made coffee, spread thebreakfast on the ground and went to get my bread and it was gone. So thebreakfast had to wait until I could mix some of the bread I disliked somuch and bake it. I remember well I thought "So this is the kind ofpeople I have come to live among. "

At the point called Traverse de Sioux we left the river and made theremainder of our journey nearly one hundred miles in wagons which hadbeen sent from the mission at Lac qui Parle to meet us. A new stationwas to be started at Traverse and Mr. Riggs and two of the men remainedthere to build houses for us. 

We were four or five days going from Traverse to Lac qui Parle and hadmany thrilling adventures. Dr. Riggs had been east a year and had takenwith him three young Indian men that they might see and learn somethingof civilized life. They were returning with us on their way to theirhomes. The last morning of our journey two of them proposed to go aheadon foot and reach their friends, as they could go faster so, than inwagons. The other, being sick, remained with us. We had an extra horseand later he was told that he might ride on to meet his friends. Aftersome time he came tearing back. He excitedly told us that his onlybrother had come to meet him and had been murdered by ambushed OjibwayIndians. 

We soon came to where the scalped and bleeding body lay, right acrossthe road. The men of our party carried the body gently to one side andcovered it with a canvas. In a short time we met large numbers of Indianmen armed and very much excited, in pursuit of those who had murderedtheir neighbor and friend. I could not understand a word they said, buttheir gestures and words were so fierce that I expected to be killed. They fired at our team and one of the horses was so seriously injuredthat we had to stop. Mrs. Riggs and I walked the rest of the journey, five miles, she carrying her fifteen months old baby. This was July 4, 1843. My first baby was born on the 10th of the following September. 

On this last five miles of our journey, Indian women came out to meetus. Some of them had umbrellas and held them over us. They seemed toknow that this was a terrible adventure for us. One of them put her armsaround me and tried to help me on and was as kind as any white woman. They offered to carry Mrs. Riggs' baby, but the little thing was afraidof them and cried so that they could not. Mrs. Riggs kept saying overand over again, "Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father's goodpleasure to give you the kingdom. "

The Indians seemed to me very poor, indeed. They had for many yearsdepended upon the buffalo but now these were growing very scarce and nolonger furnished a living for them. The Indian women each year plantedsmall patches of corn with only their hoes for plows. They raised onlysmall amounts and they had no store houses. Sometimes they buried theirsupply of food for the coming spring in holes in the ground, but darednot mark the place for fear of having their supplies stolen, so theywere not always able to find it when it was wanted. In the fall theygathered wild rice which they threshed by flailing it in buffalo skins. In the spring they made a little maple sugar. They were often very shortof food and suffered from hunger. 

One day I cooked a squash, putting the parings in a swill pail. An oldIndian woman came in and made loud cries of dismay when she saw mywastefulness, saying, "Why did you throw this away?" She then gatheredthem carefully out of the pail and carried them home in her blanket tocook. Pies that were set out on the window sill to cool disappearedalso. 

This first winter was spent at Lac qui Parle, or Medeiadam, (med-day-e-a-da) "The lake that speaks, " in both tongues. I was toldthat it was so named from a remarkable echo about the lake. I kept housein a little room on the second floor of a log house. Dr. Williamson andhis family lived on the lower floor. 

One day as I was alone sitting at my table writing, the door of my roomopened and a hideously painted Indian came in. His face, as nearly as Ican remember, was painted half red and half black with white streaksacross. A band around his head contained a number of large feathers, indicating the number of enemies he had killed. He evidently hoped tofrighten me terribly. I determined I would try not to let him know howfrightened I was. I sat still at my table and kept on with my writingand in a short time he went down stairs again. This Indian was thefamous Little Crow, the leader of the outbreak of 1862. Afterwards mysecond husband, Mr. Pond, tried to teach Little Crow to read music andhe told me that he had double teeth all around. Little Crow learned tosing and had a fine voice. He was a fine looking fellow without hispaint; tall, slender and strong looking. 

In the spring of 1844, April 4, we started on our journey back toTraverse de Sioux. We had a snow storm on the way but reached our newhome in peace and safety. This was a one room log cabin with a littleattic above. The Indians here were not quite as friendly as those at Lacqui Parle and seemed to wish we had never come among them. 

I had a class of all the little Indian girls that I could persuade tocome to school. Their parents seemed very much opposed to having theirchildren learn to read, sew, cook or anything else. I think they had anidea that in some way we would be paid for our trouble in teaching themand that it would be to their disadvantage when they sold their land. Atany rate only a few girls came to school. In order to make my task ofteaching them less unpleasant I provided basins, towels, soap and combsand requested them to use them each day as they came in. Contrary to myexpectations they seemed to delight in these morning ablutions, especially if I brought a mirror so they might see themselves. 

One of these girls was an especial favorite of mine. She came quiteregularly and seemed interested in trying to learn all she could. Shewas about fifteen years old. The girls had to walk about a mile throughthe deep snow to reach the school. One day this favorite girl wasabsent. I asked why she was not there, but the other girls did not know. The next day again she was absent and the other girls told me the reasonwas because she did not wish to marry a man who had bought her and hadthree wives already. That day her parents went for food from a store ofprovisions which they had, leaving her at home to care for the youngerchildren. While they were gone she committed suicide by hanging herself. 

The Indian tents were heated by making a fire on the ground in thecenter, the smoke partially escaping through a hole in the top. On eachside of this fire they drove a forked stick into the ground and laying apole across these sticks hung on it their utensils for cooking. To thispole this poor Indian girl had tied a rope attached to a strap about herneck and, the pole being low, had lifted her feet from the ground andhanged herself rather than marry a man she did not love. 

One day when I was alone in my house at Oiyuwega or Traverse de Sioux anIndian man came softly in and sat down by the stove. I soon saw that hewas drunk, which frightened me a little. I said nothing to him except toanswer his questions because I did not wish to rouse his anger. Presently he reached to the stove and lifted a griddle and I thought hewas going to strike me. The griddles on the cook stoves then, each hadits handle attached instead of having a separate handle. I slipped outof the door and soon he went away. Later he came back and said, "Theytell me I was going to strike you the other day. I was drunk and that ismy reason. I would not have done it if I had been sober. " I accepted hisapology, thinking it a good one for an unlearned Indian. 

The treaty between the U. S. Government and the Dakota Indians was madein July of 1851. The commissioners of the government three in number, came in June. Their chief was Luke Lee. There were no houses where thewhite people could be entertained, so they camped in tents on the bluffsof the Minnesota river near an old trading house, occupied at that timeby Mr. Le Blanc. The bluff was not an abrupt one, but formed a series ofterraces from the river to the summit. The camp was on one of theseterraces. There was a scarce fringe of trees along the river but fromthere to the top and as far back as the eye could see, perhaps for twomiles back on the bluff, there was not a bush or tree. 

A great many white men assembled, Gov. Ramsey, Gen. Sibley, Hon. H. M. Rice, editors also from some of our newspapers, among them Mr. Goodhueof the Pioneer Press, were there. Traders, too, came to collect debtsfrom the Indians when they should receive the pay for their land. Mr. And Mrs. Richard Chute of St. Anthony came. Accidentally their tent hadbeen left behind and they found a boarding place with me. The Indianswere there in great numbers. Many of them were from the far west andthese were much more uncouth and savage looking than any who livedaround us. Some of their women wore no garment but the skin of animalswhich formed a skirt reaching from a few inches above the waist to theknee and hung from the shoulders by straps. The Indians pitched theirtents on different terraces of the bluff some little distance away fromthe white people's camp. 

Daily the Indians had their feasts, dances and games of different sorts. They seemed a little afraid to treat, were afraid of being wronged andwere very cautious. The commissioners were very kind to them and treatedthem with great respect. They prepared for a great celebration of theFourth of July. The mission families, Hopkins and Huggins, were invitedto be present. Mr. Hopkins was asked to make an address and lead in theopening prayer. He rose early that fair beautiful morning and went, aswas his custom, for a bath in the river. I made haste to preparebreakfast for my family of seven. My youngest child was seven weeks oldthat day. But the father never came back and the body was found threedays later. 

There were four white women at the place at that time, Mrs. Huggins, thewife of the other missionary, Miss Amanda Wilson, a mission schoolteacher, Mrs. Chute, a fair, beautiful young woman visitor and myself. We were just a short distance from the old crossing called by theDakotas, Oiyuwega, (O-e-you-way-ga) and by the French Traverse de Sioux. 

In September I went back to my mother in Ohio with my three littlechildren. Mr. And Mrs. Riggs were going east, too, for a visit, andagain I journeyed with them. As there was a large party of us and theAmerican board which paid our expenses was not wealthy, Mr. Riggsthought we ought not to travel first class, so we went in the secondclass coaches. The seats were hard, like benches. My daughter, Sadie, then two and a half years old, was taken sick and cried and begged forwater but there was none. I was in the deepest distress at not beingable to give the poor sick little thing a drink. In the night the trainstopped somewhere for water and a young man whom I could not rememberever having seen before got off and bought a cup of water fortwenty-five cents and gave it to the poor, sick baby. If I have thoughtof that young man once I have thought hundreds, perhaps thousands oftimes of him and wished that I could thank him again and tell him what abeautiful thing he did. 

I remained with my mother till I was married to Mr. Pond in April 1854. Again this northwest became my home. The Indians had sold their land tothe government and been sent farther west. The country was filling upwith white settlers. Bloomington has been my home ever since. 

When I came to Bloomington as a bride there were seven motherlesschildren of the first Mrs. Pond, the eldest being about fifteen yearsold. I brought with me my three fatherless children, so our familynumbered twelve. Our home was a log house of six rooms. There were noschools anywhere within our reach. Every morning our children and someof our neighbor's gathered about our long kitchen table which was ourdining table as well, for their lessons taught by the mother or one ofthe older children. There were no sewing machines to make the numerousgarments necessary for our family, no lamps, no kerosene. We made ourown candles as well as our own bread and butter and cheese and soap. Ourlives were as busy as lives could be. 

In the summer of 1856 we made bricks on our own place with which webuilt the house where I have lived ever since. Mr. McLeod was ournearest neighbor. North of us I cannot remember that we had any nearerthan Minneapolis. Down toward Fort Snelling lived Mr. Quinn in a littlebit of a house. 

One night Mr. Pond was at the Old Sibley House at Mendota when a numberof traders were there. During the evening as they told stories and mademerry, many of the traders told of the joys of sleeping out of doorswith nothing between them and the starry sky; how they never minded howhard the bed was if they could only see the green trees around them andthe stars above. Mr. Pond, who also had had experience in outdoorsleeping, said that he liked nature too, but he preferred to sleep, whenhe could, with a roof over him and a good bed beneath him. After somelaughter and joking on the subject, the traders, one by one, stole outand gathering up all the feather beds the house afforded, heaped themupon the bed in the attic which Mr. Pond was to occupy, thinking that hewould at once see the joke and return their beds to them. Instead, heclimbed upon the mountain of feathers, laughing at the joke on hiswould-be-tormentors and slept comfortably all night while they had tospend the night on hard boards. He loved to tell this story of how thelaugh was on them. 

Mrs. E. R. Pond--1843. 

After the Indian outbreak the different tribes were broken up andoutside Indians called to the leadership. A little, wavy-haired Indiannamed Flute was one of these. He had never learned to wear the whiteman's foot gear. With a number of others he was taken to Washington. Hewent as a chief and soon after his return came one day to my door. Hewas a keen observer and, I knew, would have something interesting totell of his journey, so I was glad to ask him about it. He began bysaying that when he had seen the young Indians all dressed up in suitsof store clothes, especially in long boots, he thought, they must bevery comfortable. He was very glad when he reached Yankton, to put on asuit of white man's clothes. He said all those who were going on thetrip were put into a car where there was not room to lie or sit down andwere in it for two nights. When he got off at Chicago he found his feetand legs were very sore from his new boots. When he saw all the peoplein Chicago he thought, "It seems very strange that Little Crow should besuch a fool as to think he could conquer the white man. Little Crow hadbeen to Washington and knew how many men 'Grandfather' (president) had. "He knew he had a great many soldiers but he also knew he was having abig war. 

"There were so many people in Chicago that I thought he must havesummoned the young men from all over the country that we might beimpressed by their number. And they were all in such a hurry. No one hadtime to stop anywhere. We finally reached New York and were taken up, up, in a building and allowed to stay there and rest several days. Wewondered a good deal what they would do in case of fire, but supposedthey never had any. We asked the interpreter about it. One evening therewas an unusual noise. It was always noisy, but this was everythingnoise. Then the interpreter came and said, 'Come quick now and see howgrandfather fights fire. ' We went downstairs quick and every man wascalling as loud as he could. All of a sudden we heard a great bellringing and there were a number of those little men with horses hitchedto something that looked like buffalo's paunch with entrails rolledaround it. They had a great many ladders and how they did it I don'tknow, but they went to work like squirrels and climbed, one ladder aboveanother, until they reached the top. White men are wonderful. They ranup just like squirrels and took the buffalo entrails with them. Threwwater, zip! Pretty soon, all dark! Fire gone!"

"We stayed in grandfather's country three or four weeks. Tobacco wasplenty, very strong, no good! We walked about in Washington a good deal. One day we saw some red willow on little island. Little bridge led toisland. We thought we could cross over and get some red willow to gowith strong tobacco. Two or three went over to get it. After they beganto cut it one looked up and said, 'Why grandfather didn't want us tocome here, ' and there were men with little sticks and they just made afew motions and broke the bridge. Then we saw a boat coming. As soon asit got through and the bridge was mended we thought we had better startback, so we started over and pretty soon a train of cars was coming. Wecouldn't go back, were afraid to stay on bridge, so dropped down andheld on to beam while train went by. Bridge shook dreadfully. We hurriedback and thought we would use white man's tobacco as it was. "

All the while Flute was telling this story he was gesticulating withmotions appropriate to the story and often reiterating "Little Crow is afool, " and crying, "Hey!"

Mrs. John Brown--1852. 

The Sioux Indians did not often give a child to be brought up by whitepeople, but Jane Williamson--"Aunt Jane" took little Susan and David, two very young Dakota children, to see what environment would do for theIndian. Later they were placed in other families. 

Little Susan, though a Sioux Indian, was dreadfully afraid of Indianshaving always lived with the white people. One day in 1852 when all themen about the two places were busy plowing the field back of our house, Mrs. Whalen, with whom little Susan lived, felt nervous as a number ofIndians had been seen about, so she took little Susan and come to spendthe day with me, her nearest neighbor. The house was just a smalltemporary board one. Little Susan asked for a piece of bread and butterand went out and sat on the Indian mound by the house to eat it. Herethe Indians must have seen her, for soon after she went back into thehouse, twenty Indians came into the yard and up to the open doorway--thedoor not yet being hung. Twelve Indians filed in and filled the room. Mybaby was in the cradle by the door. Little Susan, Mrs. Whalen and I werealso in the room. The braves began to ask questions about little Susan, "Is she good squaw? We are Sioux and love little Sioux girl. We want toshake hands with her. " They passed her along, one handing her hand toanother, till the one nearest the door pushed her out. The Indians outdoors shot her through the arm and breast and she fell forward. I seizedmy baby from the cradle and looking out the door, saw that five or sixof the Indians had their feet on little Susan's breast, scalping her. Iscreamed for the men who were hidden from view by the trees between thehouse and clearing. When they reached the house the Indians--Chippewas, were gone. For months afterwards arrow heads and other things which theyhad dropped in their flight were found about the place. One large bundlewas found in the yard. There is a stone in memory of little Susan in theBloomington cemetery. 

Often as I came up the hill from the spring with water, an Indian wouldsoftly cross the path in his moccasined feet and give me such a startthat I nearly dropped my pail of water. This spring is the one fromwhich the Minneapolis Automobile club, situated on the Minnesota riverdraws its supply. Just a little west of the club house is the placewhere little Susan was killed, also an Indian mound and the marks of anold trail. 

One day an Indian walked into my house and asked me for a whetstone. Igave it, not daring to refuse him. He sat down and sharpened his knife, feeling its edge and pointing often and looking significantly at me. 

A Shakopee Indian once said to Mr. James Brown, keeper of the ferry, "Our Pond's a good deal better man than your Pond. Your Pond preachesfor nothing, but our Pond preaches for nothing and gives a good deal tothe church. "

Mr. Pond once met a Shakopee Indian on the trail and neither would turnout for the other. They ran into each other "bump. " Indian said "Ho. "Mr. Pond said, "Ho. " Each continued on his way. 

ROCHESTER CHAPTER

BELLE BOYNTON WELCH

(Mrs. E. A. Welch)

MISS IDA WING

Marion L. Dibble--1855. 

After a tedious journey alternating between steam boats and railroadcars, we arrived at Red Wing. Here father left us and went on foot tohis new home. Procuring a yoke of oxen from a kind neighbor, he returnedto Red Wing and brought us there. Our first work was to cover our barkroof with sods taken from our future garden, and to build a stonefireplace to warm our house and cook our food. 

The country was wild prairie with some strips of timber along thebranches of Zumbro River, which ran about a mile east of our house, along the banks of which river could be seen the remains of Indiantepees and their paths crossed the country in all directions. 

Game and fish were very plentiful. During our first winter, we had adeer hung on every rafter on the north side of the house. Our supply ofmeat for the first year or two depended upon our success as hunters andfishermen. 

Mr. M. G. Cobb--1857. 

In July 1857, I walked from High Forest to Austin to record a deed. Thedistance was thirty-five miles, and as there were no roads, I was guidedby my compass. I passed only three houses on the way. I found no one athome, and was unsuccessful in my endeavor to get a drink of water. Imade the journey on Sunday, and a hot July day. There was no means ofgetting water from the wells, as there were no pumps. Water was drawnfrom the wells by a rope and bucket. I looked into the window of onehouse and could see the bucket and rope in the kitchen, but the houseswere locked. So I traveled wearily on until I reached Austin, when mytongue fairly hung out of my mouth, and was so swollen that I could notspeak aloud for two hours. I made this trip in one day. I could havemailed the deed, as there was a stage coach carrying the mail once aweek, but I was a young man and thought I could easily walk thatdistance, and then be sure that my business was attended to properly. 

Two rival stage coach lines went from Chatfield to Winona. It took awhole day to make the trip, a stop being made for dinner at a villagecalled Enterprise. The regular fare for the trip was $2. 50. Thestagecoaches started from Madarra Hotel, Chatfield. This hotel is stillthere, and is called by the same name. 

Walker & Co. Ran one of the lines. It was Mr. Walker who first accostedme and said, "If you will go with me, I will take you for 50c. " Ianswered that I had a lady friend who was going on the same trip, andMr. Walker at once agreed to take her also at the same price--50 cents. 

A little later I was accosted by Mr. Burbank, who had established stagelines on the most important routes in Minnesota and he was endeavoringto run out his rival, Mr. Walker. He asked me to go with him. I told himthat Walker had agreed to take me for 50 cents, wherewith Mr. J. C. Burbank declared, "Well, I will take you for nothing and pay for yourdinner besides. "

Judge Lorin Cray--1859. 

In the early spring of '59 my father and brother-in-law started withteams of oxen and covered wagons from our home near Oshkosh, Wisconsin, to seek a location in the West, where homes could be had "Without moneyand without price, " in the great new state of Minnesota. 

In October of '59 all of the earthly belongings of my father, being mymother, seven children and a handful of household goods, were loadedinto a wagon drawn by a pair of unbroken steers, and we started for ournew home with great anticipations. Our two cows were driven behind thewagon. My elder brother drove the steers attached to the wagon, and we, the younger children drove the cows, and in the short period ofprecisely thirty days we reached our new home in the western part ofShelby county. Now we make the trip in twelve hours. But our loads wereheavy for the teams we had, and through Wisconsin sand and goodMinnesota mud, we made scarcely more than ten miles a day, camping atnight in and under our wagons. 

The year had been a peculiar one in Wisconsin. There had been severefrost at some time in every month during the entire summer and corn andother produce was badly frost bitten. By October first all vegetationwas brown and dead. But there had been much rain in Minnesota, evidentlypreventing frosts, and when we crossed the great Father of Waters at LaCrosse, much swollen and turbid, we were greeted by green foliage andthe freshness of spring. Vegetation was rank, grass tender, crops good, foliage magnificent, and boy-like, I at once fell in love withMinnesota. 

We entered Blue Earth county near the southeast corner, and went asnearly directly west as possible, passing Minnesota lake near the northshore, camping for the last time very close to the north shore of Luralake, where we spent the night. 

My recollection of the southern part of this county, is that it wasmostly low and level, with a wonderful growth of wild grasses. The landswere nearly all taken and there were seen here and there settlers'shanties, and in some places quite comfortable homes, until we crossedthe Blue Earth river west of Shelbyville, when, after leaving thesettlers' cabins in or near the river timber, the picture was wild anddreary to the very limit. Save a few cabins and claim shanties in thevicinity of the Mounds, one could look from the river west, southwestand northwest, and not a sign of human life or habitation could be seen. 

We were four miles from Shelbyville, and to get our mail we must go thisdistance, and cross the Blue Earth river, either in a canoe or byfording. I remember one occasion in the very early spring, when theriver was scarcely free from ice, and was badly swollen, filling itsbanks, five or six of us, neighbors, started for Shelbyville on foot toget our mail, and to hear the postmaster read the news from the weeklySt. Paul paper which came to him, there being at that time, I think, nonewspaper taken west of the river. We reached the river. The ice hadgone out, and the boat was on the other side. We agreed to draw cuts anddecide who should swim the river and get the boat. The lot fell uponJonah, and I have had chills ever since. I am not quite certain that thecuts were fairly held. 

Father's claim was not a very desirable one. Soon after he had taken ita man named Sam Tait came into the country and "jumped" a claim whichadjoined ours upon the east, and was the making of a much more desirablefarm than ours. He succeeded in holding the claim. A few days after ourarrival a prairie fire came from the west and with a brisk wind sweptthe whole country with a very besom of destruction. We came near losingeverything we had. Sam was a loser, quite a quantity of his hay wasdestroyed. Very shortly after the fire he made us an informal call andin language not the most polite but very emphatic, declared hisintention to leave the country at once and offered to sell us his claim. We bought it, one hundred and sixty acres of land, three acres broken, asmall stock of hay not burned, his sod stable and board shanty. For thepurchase price we gave him a shot gun and hauled two loads of his goodsto Mankato. 

This was my first visit to Mankato. We removed our shanty to our newpurchase at once. Two years ago my brother and I sold the farm for$9600, and it was well worth it. 

It seemed at first in those early days impossible to have socialrelations with anyone. Neighbors as we had known them, we had none. Thenearest settlers were a mile distant from us, and there were but four orfive families nearer than two or three miles distant. But we soonlearned that we had neighbors even though the distance was considerable. First one neighbor and then another would extend to every family in thevicinity an invitation to spend an afternoon or an evening. Someonewould hitch his oxen to his wagon or sled, and going from house tohouse, gather up a full load well rounded up and then at the usual gaitfor such conveyances, we rode and visited and sang until we reached theappointed place, where perhaps, eight, ten or a dozen persons spent theafternoon or evening, in the one little room, where the meal was beingprepared and the table spread. There were no sets or clans, no grades ofsociety, all belonged to the select four hundred, and all were treatedand fared alike. Friendships were formed which were never broken, andwhen recalled always revive tender memories. 

August 18th, 1862, the Sioux Indian troubles began. There were norailroads, no telegraph or telephone lines, but one stage line, and Icould never understand how the reports of these troubles traveled asrapidly as they did. On August 19th this whole country had reasonablyreliable information of the uprising. A neighbor came to our house inthe night, neighbor went to neighbor and so the news traveled. The menwere in a fury of excitement and anxiety, the women and children werequaking with fear. Wagons were hastily loaded with women and children, and a little food, animals were turned loose to provide for themselves;houses were left unlocked, oxen were hitched to the wagons, and ageneral stampede was started toward the east, with all eyes turnedtoward the west. No one knew whither they were going, they only knewthat they dare not stay. 

A halt was made at Shelbyville, the strongest buildings were selectedfor occupancy, the women and children were placed inside, and the menacted as pickets. In our whole country there were scarcely a dozen guns. The reports came worse and worse, and another pell-mell stampede beganfor the east, some stopping at Wilton, Owatonna and Rochester. Afterwaiting two or three weeks, and hearing encouraging reports, some of themore venturesome returned to their homes with their families, only toremain a few days, and to be again driven away by the near proximity ofthe Indians, and the sickening reports of their savage murders. 

This condition continued until late in the fall, when, under the generalbelief that the Indians would not move on the warpath in the winter, thegreater number of settlers returned to their homes to save what theycould of their nearly destroyed and wasted crops. Some never returned. With feelings of partial security, and encouraged by their escape fromslaughter thus far, the settlers remained at their homes, under anintense strain of anxiety, but nearly undisturbed until 1864, when therumblings and rumors of Indian troubles were again heard; but thesettlers were not so easily terrified as before, and held their ground. 

On the 11th day of August, 1864, after quite a long period ofcomparative repose and freedom from Indian disturbances, a party of sixor eight Indians suddenly appeared in the edge of the timber on the eastside of the Blue Earth, near the town line of Shelby and Vernon, andtaking wholly by surprise Mr. Noble G. Root and his two sons, who werestacking grain, shot and killed Mr. Root and seriously wounded one, andI think, both of his sons. These Indians then crossed the river in awesterly direction, reaching the open country where the Willow Creekcemetery now is. On that day Mr. Charles Mack of Willow Creek, with histeam and mower had gone to the farm of Mr. Hindman, a short distancesouthwest of Willow Creek to mow hay for Mr. Hindman, and in exchangeMr. Hindman had gone to the farm of Mr. Mack to assist Mr. Jesse Mack instacking grain. 

Mr. Mack and Mr. Hindman were loading grain directly across the roadfrom the cemetery, when, on looking toward the road, but a few rodsaway, they saw some Indians coming directly toward them. They bothhastily got upon the load and Mr. Mack whipped his horses into a run, when in crossing a dead furrow Mr. Hindman was thrown from the load, pitchfork in hand, striking upon his face in the stubble and dirt. Rubbing the dirt from his eyes as best he could so that he could see, hestarted to run and when he was able to open his eyes he discovered thathe was running directly toward the Indians. He reversed the enginessomewhat suddenly, put on a little more steam, and made splendid time inthe other direction toward the creek bed, less than a quarter of a mileaway. Once in the creek, the water of which was very shallow at thattime, he followed the bed of the creek for nearly a quarter of a mile, and then stopped to rest and to wash the blood and dirt from his face. Soon he left the stream and started up the bluff on the opposite side, which was quite steep and covered thickly with timber and brush. Whennearly at the top of the bluff he came to a little opening in the brush, and looking ahead about one hundred feet he saw those Indiansdeliberately watching his approach. Utterly exhausted and unnerved, hedare not run; he paused, and in a moment a burly Indian drew a largeknife and started directly toward him. Concluding that his day ofreckoning had come Mr. Hindman took the position of a soldier, with hispitchfork at "charge bayonets" and awaited the approach of the Indian. The Indian came to within a very few feet of Mr. Hindman and stopped. Each stood, looked, and waited for the other to open the meeting;finally the Indian turned as if to retreat, and Mr. Hindman turned againtoward the creek. 

He then followed the creek bed down to the house of Mr. Charles Mack, where he found a pony belonging to himself, which he had ridden therethat morning, and started with all speed for his own home, where hearrived just before dark. His children were gone, his house ransacked, nearly everything broken or destroyed, and in the meadow a shortdistance from the house was the dead body of Mr. Charles Mack. By thistime darkness had set in. His wife had gone that day about two miles tothe house of Mr. Jesse Thomas to attend a neighborhood quilting. Heagain mounted his pony and started across the prairie for that place. When about one-half the distance had been made, his pony looked sharplythrough the semi-darkness in the direction indicated and there aboutthree hundred feet away were the Indians; four of them were mounted, theremainder on foot. Mr. Hindman put whip and spur to his pony and ran himfor about a mile, then he stopped in a valley to listen for the Indians, but he did not hear or see them. 

On arriving at the house of Jesse Thomas he found it deserted, ransackedand nearly everything destroyed. 

It proved that his children saw the Indians attack Mr. Mack, and ranfrom the house and secreted themselves in the very tall grass of theslough in which Mr. Mack was mowing, and escaped with their lives. Theladies at the quilting had a visit from the Indians; they saw themapproaching from a belt of timber but a few rods away, and escaping byway of a back door to a cornfield which came quite up to the house, allof their lives were saved. The Indians secured the horses of Mr. Root, and also those of Mr. Charles Mack, and those of Mr. Stevens whosehorses were at the place of the quilting. 

No more honest men, kindhearted and generous neighbors, or hardypioneers, ever gave their lives in the defense of their property andtheir families, than were Charles Mack and Noble G. Root. 

A man was asked, why did you return to the west, after having gone backto New York and having spent two years there? His answer was. "Neighbors. Would you want to spend your life where the people twentyfeet away do not know your name or care whether you live or die? We usedto have neighbors in the west, but when our baby died in New York, not aperson came near us, and we went alone to the cemetery. We thought wewould come back home. " How very many have had nearly the sameexperience. In the congested districts it seems to be everyone forhimself. On the frontier a settler becomes ill, and his grain is sown, planted and harvested. Who by? Neighbors. A widow buries her husband andagain the neighbors come. It is no light thing for one to leave his ownharvest and go miles to save the crop of another, but it is and has beendone times without number by those who are tried and true neighbors andthe sentiment which prompts such kindly acts counts for something sometime, and it means something in making up the sum total of happiness inthis short life of ours. 

What did we have to eat that first year? Potatoes and corn. No flour, nomeat, some milk. I doubt whether there was a barrel of flour withinthree miles of our home. No wheat had been raised, no hogs had beenfattened; corn and potatoes were the only food. 

Mr. M. R. Van Schaick--1860. 

I cast my vote for Abraham Lincoln in 1860 in New York and immediatelyafter, with my family, started for Minnesota, arriving in Rochester latein the season. Our household goods were lost for some time, but wererecovered at La Crosse and hauled by oxen to Rochester. 

One night a man rode into Rochester bearing the news that a thousandIndians were on their way to massacre all the people west of theMississippi river. Great excitement prevailed and most of the farmersand their families rushed into town. I sent my family into town, but mybrother and I decided to stay in our homes. 

After barricading the doors and windows and loading our muskets, we wentto bed. About midnight, we heard a stealthy step outside and a momentlater someone entered the loft overhead. We sat the rest of the nightwatching the stairs, but the Indian did not appear. Just at daylight, Isaw him drop silently down by the side of the house and glide away inthe shrubbery. The reason of his visit was never known. 

Another time, my near neighbor, Mr. Jaffeney, who was living alone in alog house was visited by twelve Indians on a cold stormy night. At firsthe saw a dusky face appear at his window, then the form of an Indian whosilently raised the sash and crept in. He was wet to the skin and hisclothes were frozen to his body. He made no sound but sat down on thefloor near the fire; soon eleven more followed his example. The man wasmuch frightened, but felt more reassured when the Chief lighted a pipepassing it to each of the twelve, and then to the Pale Face. 

At the first peep of day, they silently passed through the window andwere lost in the shadows. In the early spring when they were breaking uptheir camp, they left a large deer on his door step to pay for theirlodging. 

Wolves and bears were plenty at this time, as well as Indians. Cattleran at large, and once when I was yarding my cattle, I was followed forover a mile by wolves. 

Mrs. Conrad Magnus. 

Several homes near New Ulm had been burned by the Indians. The women andchildren left without homes were all sheltered in a warehouse in town. At night the men were on guard. They lacked ammunition, so I sat up allone night melting lead in a teaspoon to make balls. 

During the night an infant cried incessantly until finally we wereafraid it would cry itself to death. There was no milk to give it. Atthree o'clock in the morning I said I would go out and milk the cow ifthe men would guard me. Several men, with loaded guns, stood around thecow while I got a cupful of milk for the baby. 

Mrs. Orin Pike--1864. 

We left Buffalo late in September, 1864 for Rochester. As we went on, soldiers came on board the train returning to the country's service, asthey said; after a brief furlough at home; votes were then taken fromtime to time to ascertain the most popular candidate for the presidencyresulting, as I recall it now, each time in a large majority forLincoln. This seemed to greatly disturb an elderly man and whenapparently he could stand it no longer, he denounced the government asdespotic, the draft unconstitutional, the Emancipation Proclamation asan effort on Lincoln's part to flood the whole North with "niggers, "characterizing Lincoln as a tyrant, who ought to be shot. 

Then there stepped out into the aisle a fine looking young man, who woreshoulder straps and in distinct tones said, "There are three things inthis world that I hate--a thousand legged worm, a rattlesnake and acopperhead. A copperhead is the meanest of all. " Then turning to the oldman he went on, "Your gray hairs have been your protection while youabused the government. This is a land of free speech, but if you traduceAbraham Lincoln farther, I will not be answerable for the consequences. "Votes were afterward taken but the old man was silent contenting himselfwith looking mad. 

Our train was gone when we reached Chicago. We stayed all night, goingon early in the morning, reaching La Crosse at dusk and leaving the carsto take the boat for Winona. The Mississippi was very low and the nightwas spent ere we reached Winona. 

Monday morning we again took the cars for St. Charles. The railroad thencalled Winona and St. Peter, was not completed beyond that point. Looking from the car windows, we saw sleds and low looking wagons withone and sometimes two large barrels in them which those who knew, saidwere for hauling water. The stage took us safely to the "American House"at Rochester. 

MONUMENT CHAPTER

Minneapolis

MARY FRANCES PARTRIDGE

(Mrs. M. E. Partridge)

ANNA MACFARLANE TORRANCE

(Mrs. Ell Torrance)

Mrs. Mary E. Partridge--1854. 

The pioneers were brave souls, able to cope with emergencies of manykinds. In them, the adage was verified, "As thy days so shall thystrength be. " In 1854 I left Wisconsin, a bride, with my husband, tobegin life on a government claim in Minnesota. As we passed through whatis now the beautiful city of Faribault, there was only one frame house, which belonged to a half breed from whom the town was named. We settledeight miles beyond in the township of Medford in a small log cabin withbark floors, as there were at that time no saw mills in that locality. Soon our simple house was crowded to the utmost with relatives andfriends looking for claims in this rare section of the state. There wasa scarcity of neighbors, no schools nor places for church or holidaymeetings. It was years before I heard a sermon preached. 

It was plain living in those years of self-denial. Only necessitiescould be gotten, but soon all this changed. Neighbors began to settlenear. All were willing to share, ever solicitous for the other, all wereon a level, simplicity and cordiality prevailed. There were hardships, hard labor and trials of many kinds, but these developed strength ofcharacter. All were in the prime of life, of strong manhood and joyouswomanhood. "How beautiful is youth, how fair it gleams, with itsillusions, aspirations, dreams. " There were no complaints or murmurs. Children were welcomed gladly. To my home came three before the oldestwas four years old. 

In 1857 came the hard times. Indian corn was the staple food. Few thingsthe farmer raised would bring money. We went without many comfortsheretofore deemed indispensable. 

A little later this first home was sold and another in a southern countybetter adapted to cattle raising was bought and thither we moved. With agood beginning in horses and cattle and an experience in farming, betterthan all else, the future held high hopes and bright promises, but, alasfor human expectations, the Civil War come. Already one call had thinnedthe county of the younger and unmarried men. The second call sounded. The call was urgent, "Cease to consult, the time of action calls. War, horrid war, approaches to your walls. "

All able-bodied patriots enlisted, my husband among the number, with apromise from the stay-at-homes to take care of the crops and look outfor the interests of the family. 

Then came hardships and troubles to which pioneer life could not becompared. I was obliged to see crops lost for lack of help to harvestthem; cattle and horses well nigh worthless as there was no sale forthem, neither was there male help sufficient to cultivate the farm, which went back to former wildness. The government was months behind inpaying the soldiers, who at best received only a beggarly pittance. Onenight, alone with my children, I was awakened by a knock on the windowand a call, "Hurry! Leave at once. The Indians are upon us, scalping asthey come. " With the little ones I fled across the fields to the nearesthouse, a half mile away, later, to find this a false alarm. Another timethe alarm was given and again it proved false, but was no easier bornefor it was believed the truth. All night long we were kept to thehighest pitch of terror expecting every minute to hear the awfulwar-whoop. The night dragged on without this culmination. 

My husband died just before the war closed. His nurse at the hospitalwrote me of his serious condition and I started at once for the hospitalin Louisville. There were no railroads in the country at that time, stages and boats were the only means of reaching that point. To show thecontrast between traveling then and now, it took me over two weeks toreach Louisville and when I arrived at the hospital found that myhusband had been buried a week before my arrival. The nurses andofficials at the hospital, while exceedingly busy, were most kind andsympathetic in relating to me pleasant recollections of my husband'slast days. 

I recall only two pleasant instances in the otherwise unhappy experienceof our separation occasioned by the war. These were the furloughs whichbrought him home, one while he was stationed at Fort Snelling lastingfor a few days, and later when he was sent home for two or three monthsas a recruiting officer for his regiment. 

Does the luxurious life men and women of today enjoy, develop character, consideration for others, generosity and sympathy towards the lessfortunate neighbor as did the trying pioneer days? If not, where liesthe blame? What is the cure?

Judge Loren W. Collins--1852. 

In 1853 my father visited Eden Prairie. On arriving they found a lynchcourt in session. A man named Gorman who had squatted upon a verydesirable piece of land had gotten into an altercation with a squatterby the name of Samuel Mitchell. These men were Irishmen, Gorman aCatholic and Mitchell a Protestant. Gorman had filled Mitchell's leftarm full of shot, and the court gave its judgment that Gorman must getout of the country with his family, within twenty-four hours. He hadstaked out the claim, had built a log house and had ready for crop abouttwo acres of land. My father had $100. 00 in gold with him, probably moremoney than any other man in the community possessed at that time. Gorman sold out to him for the $100. 00 and father took possession. 

There were then a dozen or fifteen settlers in that vicinity, among themthe Goulds, the Mitchells, Mr. Abbott and Mr. Gates. There came aboutthat time, Mr. Staring, who lived immediately east of us. 

During that summer some fifteen acres were broken up and the two acreswhich had been previously made ready for seed by Mr. Gorman, wereplanted to corn and potatoes. Father hired a yoke of oxen to use duringthe summer and kept one cow. 

Father returned to Massachusetts and in the winter we came to Buffalo byrail. In early May we embarked on the steamer "Nominee, " which was thenthe fastest boat on the river. At the head of the flagstaff was a newbroom which indicated that the boat had beaten every other vessel thenrunning on the river north of Galena. The Captain was Russell Blakeleywho for many years commanded the best boats belonging to the PacketCompany. 

We reached St. Paul about ten o'clock on May seventh and I remember verywell that the thing which attracted my attention more than any other wasthe newly trimmed cupola of the Territorial Capitol building. There wereat least fifteen steamboats at the lower levee when we arrived there, all busy in unloading. They were packed with passengers and freightcoming up the river, but going down they carried very little, for therewas nothing to ship. The first shipments of any consequence werepotatoes in the spring of 1855. For two or three years after that nearlyall the flour and grain used in the territory was brought from Galena. 

Father took a pair of oxen and his wagon from the boat and we made ourway up a very steep hill from Jackson Street to Third. From there wewent up Third to the corner of Wabasha, where father bought some flourand feed and we drove back to the boat. About five o'clock in theafternoon the Nominee steamed up the river as far as Fort Snelling, taking at least one-fifth of its passengers and freight. We tied up atthe ferry boat landing, at the foot of the hill under the old fort, andbegan to take off our cattle and freight. The hill was very steepleading up to the fort and father, aided by the boys, began to take ourgoods in small wagon loads to the top of the hill, so that we couldproperly load them. Uncle William, my mother, Aunt Isabel and the smallchildren had been transferred at St. Paul to a small steamboat calledthe "Iola, " which was to take them up the Minnesota river to HennepinLanding, a mile or two from our claim at Eden Prairie. 

One of the wagons was left at the top of the hill while father went backfor more of the goods. I was told to take care of the cattle. Among thecattle was a white heifer, a very wild animal. Father put a rope aroundher horns and gave me the rope to hold, while he went down the hill. Iput the rope around one hind wheel of the wagon thinking I could holdthe animal that way. While I was standing there in the twilight, six orseven soldiers came out of the fort for guard duty and when they passedme the heifer became frightened, gave a jerk upon the rope andnecessarily upon the wheel. The wagon had not been properly coupled, andwhen the animal at one end of the rope and myself at the other broughtpressure upon the wheel, the hind wheels separated from the front, andthe wheels, the heifer and the boy, went very hastily to the foot of thehill. Part of the time the wheels were off the ground, some of the timeit was the heifer, but it seemed to me it was the boy who filled airspace the greater portion of the period consumed in the descent. Thismishap created great consternation not only among the representatives ofUncle Sam, but among the people who had just left the boat. It was myfirst encounter with the United States Army and I was badly scared. 

About ten o'clock after we landed, we started three wagons with a pairof oxen for each and about ten head of cows and young stock. It was abeautiful night, with full moon and after traveling a mile to what wasknown as Bloomington Creek, we stopped to graze the cattle and to rest. We all got more or less sleep and it was eight in the morning before wewere able to start the cavalcade. We arrived in sight of our futurehome, under most auspicious circumstances. The weather was mild and thesun shining brightly when we came to a place from where father pointedout the log house in the edge of the woods, with a stovepipe through theroof and the smoke coming out. My uncle Sherbuel had remained anoccupant of this house all winter, that he might hold this claim of myfather's and the one next to it, which had been selected for my UncleWilliam. Uncle Sherbuel was something of a hunter and trapper, and hadmade good use of his time during the winter and had a good assortment offurs, otter, wolf, mink, fox and those of smaller animals. He had killedseveral deer and was tanning the hides at the time we arrived. He hadalso caught and salted several hundred pounds of bass, pike andpickerel. 

Father had little money left and we were without seed, except potatoes, for about three acres of our land. Potatoes were of very little valueand it was doubtful if it would pay to plant them, but as we had nothingelse to put into the ground father concluded that he would seed thethree acres with potatoes, of which he had plenty of the kind known asIrish Reds, a round potato of exceedingly fine variety. He sowed a fewacres of wheat, two or three acres of oats and planted two or threeacres of corn and of course, we had a garden. We had to build a yard forthe cattle at night, some sort of shelter for them, and we also had tobuild pig-pens. Lumber was almost unobtainable so these structures werelargely of logs. They had to be very well built, strong as well as high, in order to keep cattle and hogs out of the fields. I remember that wehad one hog that would climb anything in sight and what she could notclimb she would dig under. Many a time in the summer of '54 and '55 didI chase that animal and her offspring back into the pig-pen. 

I had a most tremendous appetite. Our food consisted mostly of potatoes, bread, wheat or corn, beans and plenty of game. Ducks, chickens or fishcould be had by going a few hundred feet in almost any direction. We hadno well and all the water we used was hauled from the lake, nearly ahalf mile distant. Father rigged up a crotch of a tree upon which wasplaced a water barrel and this was dragged back and forth by a yoke ofcattle. Starting from the lake with a full barrel we had good luck if wereached the house with half of it. 

In the summer when the corn began to get into the milk stage, we had agreat fight with the blackbirds. They would swarm down upon the fieldsand picking open the heads of the ears, would practically spoil everyear they touched. Scare-crows were of no service in keeping the birdsoff, and finally the boys were put into the fields, upon littleelevations made of fence rails, with guns loaded with powder and shot. We killed hundreds of birds in order to save the corn and had good cropsof wheat and oats and we also had a most remarkable yield of potatoes;so large in fact, that we had to build a root-cellar in the hillside outof logs. We dug potatoes and picked them up that fall until I was nearlyworn out, but in the spring the demand for potatoes was so great thatfather sold bushels at $1. 05 a bushel. This gave him a large amount ofready money and he bought a pair of horses. 

There were plenty of Sioux Indians living in the vicinity of Shakopee. Areddish colored stone, about two feet high stood a half mile west of ourplace on the Indian trail leading from Minnetonka to Shakopee. Aroundthis stone the Indians used to gather, engaged apparently in somereligious exercise and in smoking kinni kinic. 

My cousin William and I raised that summer a quantity of nicewatermelons, the seeds having been brought from Springfield. In the fallwe loaded up two wagons with them and with oxen as the motive powerstarted one afternoon for St. Anthony. We had to make our way downtowards Fort Snelling until we came within two miles of the fort. Thenwe turned towards our destination. It was a long and tedious trip. Wecamped out over night and did not reach the west bank of the MississippiRiver opposite St. Anthony until three o'clock the next afternoon. Wefed our cattle in a grove not far from where the Nicollet House nowstands, then started for the ferry, which swung across the MississippiRiver about where the stone arch bridge now is. The island was heavilytimbered and the road ran across at an angle, coming out at a bridge onFirst Street South. We got up onto the street just about the time themen were coming out of the mills, sold our watermelons and went homewith $10. 00 each, the proceeds of our first farming. It was a three daystrip and a very tiresome one for the boys as well as for the cattle. 

A friend by the name of Shatto and I took up a claim but were hailedout. When the storm ceased, I crawled out and looked around. My stovewas broken, everything was water soaked, except some provisions which Ihad in a bucket which had a cover and my cattle had disappeared. Iconsidered matters for a few minutes and concluded that the only thing Icould do was to start for the hotel at Kenyon, some three miles away. Iwas drenched. My boots, all wore boots in those days, were soaked withwater and very soon hurt my feet so I had to take them off. I made myway into Kenyon and there saw the great destruction which had been doneby the hail. There was not a whole pane of glass in the little villageand the inhabitants were engaged in patching up their windows withboards and blankets, as best they could. The crops were entirelydestroyed. Many people had suffered by being struck by hailstones, someof which were as large as hens eggs. 

I had in my pocket $1. 50, and I told the landlord, Mr. Bullis, mycondition and that I wanted to stay all night. 

When supper was ready I went to the table and much to my surprise met aHastings lawyer with whom I had some acquaintance, our Seagrave Smith. Smith urged me to give up the idea of becoming a farmer and take up thestudy of law. So it was this hail storm that made me a lawyer. 

In the fall of 1858 I secured a school and was initiated as a countryschool-master. The school house was a log building, about two and a halfmiles up the river from Cannon Falls. The neighborhood was largelyMethodist and the pupils were all boys, about twenty-five in number. There was not at that time in the district a single girl over six yearsof age and under sixteen. Mr. Hurlbut had one boy Charles about fourteenyears of age. Very soon after my school commenced for a four months termthe Methodists concluded they would have a revival. They used the schoolhouse every evening for that purpose and on Sunday it was occupied allday. Nearly all of the pupils attended these meetings, began to professconversion and in three or four weeks had become probationists. 

I had adopted the New England custom of having each pupil read a versefrom the New Testament at the opening of school in the morning, and in ashort time Deacon Morrill and Elder Curray came to me with thesuggestion that I open the school with prayer. I replied that it wouldnot be just the thing for me to be very active in this for I was not aprofessor of religion but that I had considered the matter and if theboys were willing I should be very glad to call upon them inalphabetical order for a prayer each morning. I submitted this questionto the pupils and found that, without exception, they were anxious toadopt the plan. I then said that if it was adopted it would have to befollowed to the end of school, no matter what their wishes might be. 

I made out a roll, putting the names down in order and called upon oneboy each morning for prayer. This worked well for a few weeks, but oneevening Mr. Hurlbut said to me that Charlie had told him, while theywere feeding the cattle, that night, that he would refuse to pray nexttime I called upon him. I had found it unnecessary to inflict corporalpunishment upon a single pupil up to that time, but had in my desk agood stout switch. A few mornings afterwards when it was Charlie's turnto open the school with prayer, I called upon him and met a point blankrefusal. I directed his attention to what had been said at the outsetabout continuing this as a school exercise when once adopted, and hestill refused. It became necessary for me to stop the insurrectionwithout delay. I took the switch, seized Charlie by the coat collar, ashe was attempting to get out of his seat, switched him around the legspretty smartly and the rebellion was at an end. Charlie prayed briefly, but fervently. After that there was no more trouble but many of the boyshad somewhat fallen from grace before school ended. Yet they kept uptheir devotional exercises without any urging on my part. Mr. Hurlbutwas something of a scoffer at religion and my prompt action with his boymade me extremely popular in the district. 

I boarded around as was the custom in those days and built my own firesin the schoolhouse. Some of the pupils are still residents of thatneighborhood and I rarely meet one who does not remind me of my whippingCharlie Hurlbut until, as they say, he dropped on his knees in prayer. 

For my four months teaching I received a school district order for$60. 00 and in the fall of '59 with this as my sole asset, I commencedthe study of law in Hastings, with the firm of Smith and Crosby. It ishardly necessary for me to say that we were all poor in those days. There was no money and no work except farming, but in this way we couldearn enough to live upon in a very humble manner. 

I first saw the late Judge Flandrau at Lewiston, he was then Indianagent and was making his way on horseback from Faribault to Hastings. Hehad a party of twelve or fifteen men with him, all full blood or mixedblood Indians, and they stopped for dinner. Judge Flandrau was verytanned and clad in the garb of the Indian as were his associates; it waswith difficulty that I determined which one of the party was the whiteman Flandrau. 

[Illustration: EARLY SOLDIERS AT FORT SNELLING. 

(See pages 19 and 158. )

Presented by Mrs. P. V. Collins. ]

CHARTER OAK CHAPTER

Faribault

MISS STELLA COLE

Mr. Elijah G. Nutting--1852. 

My father's hotel, the Hotel de Bush, as we derisively called it, wasthe first hotel in Faribault. It may perhaps be called a frame house bycourtesy, rather than technically, as it was made by placing boardsvertically side by side, battened together by a third board. On thefirst floor were the family apartments, separated from the dining roomand the "office" by partitions of cotton cloth hung on wires. Theoffice, ten feet by twelve, boasted an improvised desk, a stool and acandle. The second floor was called the "school section, " a largeapartment filled with bedsteads rudely made of boards and supportingstraw, hay or coarse grass ticks. Here the fortunate early bird took hisrest, fully clothed, even to his boots, protected from the snow, whichblustered in at the unglazed windows by his horse blankets. Later comerstook possession of the straw ticks on the floor and made no complaintnext morning when, after a breakfast of salt pork, black tea with brownsugar and butter so strong it could seldom be eaten, they were presentedwith a bill of $2. 00. In one corner of this "school section" was a tinyenclosure, screened with a cotton cloth partition, containing a bed andtwo soap boxes, one for a dressing table and the other for a chair. Thiswas called the "bridal chamber" and was to be had at a suitable price, by those seeking greater privacy. We had bread and pork for breakfast, pork and bread for dinner, and some of both for supper. 

A large sheet iron stove down stairs was kept red hot in the winter anda man was employed to prevent people, coming in from the icyout-of-doors, from rushing too near its heat and thus suddenly thawingout their frozen ears, cheeks or noses. 

When in 1858 or '59 my father sold the hotel, its purchaser mortgagedit, paying an interest rate of twenty-four per cent a year. 

On July Fourth, 1856 the Barron House was formally opened on such ascale of splendor that the days of the Faribault House were numbered. 

The Scott brothers built the first saw mill in Faribault. It was locatedon the spot where the new addition to the shoe factory now is. Themachinery was brought in from St. Louis and came up by boat to Hastingsat an enormous cost and it took twelve yoke of oxen to haul the boilerfrom that point. They were a long time getting it from Cannon City, asthey had to cut a road through the dense woods. A party whom they metafter dusk, when he saw the huge cylinder, exclaimed, "Well that is thelargest saw log I ever saw. "

Mr. J. Warren Richardson--1854. 

I came with my father and mother from St. Anthony where we had lived fora short time, to Faribault and settled in Walcott where we secured a loghouse and a claim for $75. 00. This was on Mud Creek. While at St. Anthony my father had made us such furniture as we needed. From the sawmill he got plank fourteen feet in length, which he cut into strips. Hethen bored holes in the corners and inserted pieces of pine, taken outof the river, for legs, and thus we were provided with stools. Fortables we used our trunks. We slept on ticks full of prairie hay on thefloor. These were piled in the corner daytimes and taken out at night. 

Our house on the farm contained one room twenty feet square and as myfather used to say "A log and a half story high. " We were ourselves afamily of five besides three boarders and a stray family of threeappearing among us with no home, my mother invited them also to shareour scanty shelter. At night she divided the house into apartments byhanging up sheets and the two families prepared their meals on the samecookstove. We made our coffee of potatoes by baking them till there wasnothing left in them but a hole, and then crushing them. It wasexcellent. In winter my father cut timber for his fences. He loaded itonto the bobs which I, a ten year old boy, would then drive back, stringing the logs along the way where they would lie till spring whenfather split them into rails and built the fence. I have often chasedthe timber wolves with my whip as I drove along. They would follow theteam and then when I turned around to chase them they would turn and runin front of the team. 

Finding that the snow blew in through our covered shake roof, we cut sodand covered the roof with it. The following summer, my father beingaway, I planted some popcorn, which we had brought from the east, inthis sod roof. It grew about fourteen inches high and my father, uponhis return, was greatly puzzled by the strange crop which he foundgrowing on his roof. 

When kindling was needed, my father would raise the puncheons which madeour floor and hew some from these. 

Our clothing consisted of Kentucky jeans and white shirts for best, withoveralls added for warmth in winter. We also wore as many coats as wehad left from our eastern outfit. These had to be patched many, manytimes. The saying always was "Patch beside patch is neighborly; patchupon patch is beggarly. " I never had underwear or an overcoat until Ienlisted. 

One day I was plowing with a double yoke of oxen. I was driving whileMr. Whitney was guiding the plow. Mr. Whitney's brother was across theriver hunting for a lost horse. For a long time we heard him shouting, but paid no attention until at last we saw him retreating slowly downthe opposite bank before a big bear. He called for help. We got overthere in short order. Mr. Whitney said that the bear had three smallcubs up a tree, but when we reached there she had disappeared with onecub. He climbed the tree while his brother and I kept guard below. Hecaught the two cubs by their thick fur and brought them down and keptthem. 

In 1856, we came into town and I often played with the Indian boys, shooting with bows and arrows in "Frogtown, " which was lined with Indiantepees. They always played fair. 

Our log schoolhouse had rude desks facing the sidewall. 

Mrs. Henry C. Prescott--1855. 

My father, Dr. Nathan Bemis, came to Faribault where his father andbrother had already settled when I was eight years old. We went first tothe Nutting House, but as there was only the "bridal chamber" with itsone bed for the use of women, Mr. John Whipple, although his wife wasill, invited my mother, with my baby sister, to stay at his house, whichwas across the street. My sister, and a young lady who had come with us, slept in the bed in the "bridal chamber. " My father and brother laidtheir straw ticks on the floor outside and I occupied a trundle bed inMrs. Nutting's room. 

We soon moved out to the Smallidge House, east of town, where our familyconsisted of our original seven and four men who boarded with us. Therewas but one room, and only a small part of the floor was boarded overand on this, at night, we spread our cotton ticks, filled with "prairiefeathers" or dried prairie grass, and the men went out of doors whilethe women went to bed. In the morning the men rose first and withdrew. The ticks were then piled in a corner and the furniture was lifted ontothe floor and the house was ready for daytime use. Gradually by standingin line at the sawmill, each getting a board a day, if the supply heldout, our men got enough boards to cover the entire floor. 

The next winter General Shields offered us his office for our home, ifwe could stand the cold. He, himself, preferred to winter in the NuttingHotel. This winter was a horror to us all. We all froze our feet and thebedclothes never thawed out all winter, freezing lower each night fromour breath. Before going to bed my brother used to take a run in thesnow in his bare feet and then jump into bed that the reaction mightwarm them for a little while. All thermometers froze and burst at thebeginning of the winter so we never knew how cold it was. Someone hadalways to hold my baby sister to keep her off the floor so that shemight not freeze. At night my mother hung a carpet across the room todivide the bedroom from the living room. Dish towels hung to dry on theoven door would freeze. 

That winter my father's nephew shot himself by accident and it wasnecessary to amputate his leg. My father had no instruments and therewere no anesthetics nearer than St. Paul, so my cousin was lashed to atable while my father and Dr. Jewett took off the leg with a finecarpenter's saw and a razor. He was obliged to stay in bed all winterfor fear the stump would freeze. 

Later we lived, for a time, in a log house. The rain penetrated thechinks, and I remember once when my sister was ill the men had to keepmoving the table around, as the wind shifted, to screen her from therain. 

There was no butter, eggs, milk or chickens to be had; no canned thingsor fresh vegetables. My mother once bought a half bushel of potatoes ofa man who came with a load from Iowa, paying $3. 00 a bushel. When shecame to bake them, they turned perfectly black and had to be thrownaway. The man was gone. Again my father bought half a hog from a man whobrought in a load of pork, but my mother had learned her lesson andcooked a piece before the man left town and, as it proved to be bad, myfather hunted him up and made him take back his hog and refund themoney. 

The first Thanksgiving my mother said she was going to invite some younglawyers to dinner who boarded with "Old Uncle Rundle". What she had Ican not remember, except "fried cakes" and rice pudding made withoutmilk or eggs, but the guests said they never had eaten anything sodelicious. 

Judge Thomas S. Buckham--1856. 

In 1856 three or four hundred Indians on their way to the annualpayment, camped in the woods between town and Cannon City. One eveningwe went, in a body, to visit them and were entertained by dancing. However, too much "fire water" caused some fear among the guests. 

We had several courses of lectures during those early years. One year wehad as lecturers, Wendell Phillips, Douglas, Beecher, Tilton andEmerson; following them came the Peake family, bell ringers and last ofall, a sleight of hand performer from Mankato, Mr. Wheeler, whoastonished his audience by swallowing a blunt sword twenty-two incheslong. 

At another time we had a home-made "lecture course" in which Mr. Cole, Mr. Batchelder, Judge Lowell, myself and others took part. 

One of our first celebrations of the Fourth of July ended ratherdisastrously. We had planned a burlesque procession in which everybodywas to take part. It started out fairly well. Dr. Jewett delivered anoration and Frank Nutting sang a song called "The Unfortunate Man, " butthe enthusiasm was shortly quenched by torrents of rain which in the endliterally drove most of the participants to drink. 

After the panic of 1857-8, I was sitting idly one day in front of myoffice on Main Street, as there was absolutely no law business. No otherman was in sight, and there hadn't been a dollar seen in the town inmonths, except the "shin-plaster" issued by banks, which must be cashedon the instant lest the bank in question should fail over night. Suddenly I saw a stranger walking down the street, and as very fewstrangers had come to town of late, I watched him idly. As he came uphe asked, "Young man, do you know of a good piece of land which can bebought?" I spoke of a farm south of town of which I had charge, whichwas for sale for $2100. 00 or $12. 50 an acre. He said, "I'll go and seeit. " Two or three hours later as I still sat dreaming, as there was noother business of any kind for any one to do, the man returned and afterasking about the title of the land which its owner had pre-empted, saidthat he would think about it and went into the bank. Having made someinquiries as to my responsibility, he shortly reappeared with a bundleof greenbacks of small denominations and counted out the $2100. 00. Theywere the first government bank notes I had ever seen and such a sum ofmoney as had not been seen in Faribault in many months. My client thensaid, "Now young man, you'll see that land worth $25. 00 an acre someday. " Today it is part of the Weston farm and is valued at $150. 00 anacre and is the nicest farm in the county. 

The first political machine in the State was organized in Faribault theyear Minnesota became a State. Five or six of us young men decided toput a little new life into politics and we prepared a slate. It was fiveor six against a hundred unorganized voters and we carried the caucusand were all sent as delegates to the Convention. Here also our modernmethod produced a revolution, but such a fight resulted that theConvention split and some of them went over to vote the Democraticticket. However, we elected a fair proportion of our candidates anddefeated those who had been holding the offices by force of habit. 

Mrs. Rodney A. Mott--1857. 

We came to Faribault, I think, the nicest and easiest way. We drove fromIllinois in a covered immigrant wagon. At first we tried to findlodgings at night, but the poor accommodations and the unwillingness totake us in, led us at last to sleep in the wagon, and we came to preferthat way. After we got away from the really settled country, everyonewelcomed us with open arms and gladly shared with us everything theyhad. 

We came up through Medford. I begged to stay there, but Mr. Mottinsisted on going to Faribault as they had planned. Our first house wasa little cabin on the site of the present cathedral and later we livedin a house where the hay market now stands, but this was lost on amortgage during the hard times in 1857. 

Mrs. Kate Davis Batchelder--1858. 

As Kate Davis, a girl of ten, I came with my brother, a lad of eighteenand a sister fourteen, from New York to Wisconsin. Our father was inFond du Lac, Wisconsin, where his business as a millwright had calledhim, and it was thought best to have us go out to be with him. We camein a wagon drawn by a team of spirited horses. We came over the thousandmiles between New York and Wisconsin, fording unfamiliar rivers, stopping in strange cities, through prairie and forest, with only roughwild roads at best, never doubting our ability to find our father at ourjourney's end and perhaps because of that unquestioning faith, we didfind him. What a journey to remember. We camped in Chicago when it wasno larger than Faribault is now, on the spot near the Lake front wherethe Congress Hotel now houses the most exclusive of Chicago's mob ofhumanity. Milwaukee as we passed through it was a tiny hamlet. 

When I went to visit my brother who had taken the farm on the east shoreof Cannon Lake, I made the trip to Hastings in a boat, and from there ina wagon. As we were driving along, I saw coming towards us, threefigures which instinct told me were Indians. On coming nearer, I saweach of them had scalps dripping with blood, hanging to his belt. Theyreassured me by telling me they were only Indian scalps. 

Mr. Berry, afterward a Judge on the Supreme Bench, started out on footfrom Janesville, Wisconsin with Mr. Batchelder and after prospectingaround and visiting St. Paul, Shakopee, Mankato, Cannon Falls andZumbrota, they finally walked in here. Fifty years afterwards Mr. Batchelder went out to Cannon Lake and walked into town over the sameroad that he had come over as a young man, and he said that while, ofcourse, the buildings had changed things somewhat, on the whole itlooked surprisingly as it had the first time he passed over it. Mr. Berry and Mr. Batchelder opened a law office in a little one story framebuilding in the back of which they slept. While coming into town, theyhad met O. F. Perkins, who had opened a law office, and business notbeing very brisk, he had turned a rather unskillful hand to raisingpotatoes. At $2. 50 a bushel he managed to do well enough and eked outhis scanty income from the law. It was while he was carrying thepotatoes to plant that he met Mr. Berry and Mr. Batchelder and havingbecome friends, they all, together with Mr. Randall and Mr. Perkins'brother, started bachelor's hall back of Mr. Perkins' office, where theytook turns cooking and washing dishes. I have heard Mr. Batchelder saythat "hasty pudding" or what we call corn meal mush, was his specialtyand I believe, partly in recollection of those old days when lack ofmaterials as well as unskillful cooks compelled the frequent appearanceof this questionable dainty, partly perhaps, because he had learned tolike it, "hasty pudding" was served Monday on his table for all thelater years of his life. 

During one winter I attended several dances in a rude hall whose wallswere lined with benches of rough boards with the result that my blacksatin dress was so full of slivers that it took all my time to pick theslivers out. 

We always wore hoops and mine were of black whalebone, covered withwhite cloth. One day, when at my brother's house, my hoop skirt had beenwashed and was hanging to dry behind the stove and I was in the littlebedroom in the loft. My sister called to me that some young men werecoming to call and I was forced to come down the ladder from the loft, to my great mortification without my hoops. There they hung in plainsight all during that call. 

At Cannon Lake, near my brother's cabin was a place where the Indianshad their war dances. One night after we had gone to bed in the littleloft over the one down stairs room, I was awakened by my brother's voicein altercation with some Indians. It seemed the latch-string, theprimitive lock of the log cabin had been left out and these Indians camein. They wanted my brother to hide them as they had quarreled with theother Indians. This he refused to do and drove them out. The nextmorning the tribe came by dragging the bodies of those two Indians. Theyhad been caught just after leaving the house. The bodies were tied overpoles with the heads, arms and legs trailing in the dust. 

Mrs. John C. Turner. 

The Nutting Hotel was the scene of many a dance when settlers came frommiles around to take part in quadrilles and reels to the music ofviolin. We used to bring an extra gown so that after midnight we mightchange to a fresh one, for these dances lasted till daylight. 

When sliding down the hill where St. James School now stands, it wasrather exciting to be upset by barricades erected near the foot bymischievous Indian boys, who greeted the accident with hoots of joy. 

JOSIAH EDSON CHAPTER

Northfield

EMILY SARGENT BIERMAN

(Mrs. C. A. Bierman)

Mr. C. H. Watson--1855. 

One hundred and fifty soldiers were sent out from Fort Ridgely in 1862to bury those in the country around who had been massacred by theIndians. I was acting as picket out of Fort Ridgely and was first tohear the firing sixteen miles distant at Birch Coolie. It was theIndians attacking the burial party. I notified those at the fort and aparty was sent out for relief. As they neared Birch Coolie they foundthey were outnumbered by the savages and Lieut. Sheehan returned to FortRidgely for the rest of the regiment. Then I accompanied them. Theyfinally came to the small band of soldiers, who had been attacked by theIndians, to find twenty-three dead, and forty-five wounded out of theone hundred and fifty-three men. The soldiers horses had been tied closetogether to a rope to feed. There many of them had been shot, and beingso close together many were still standing, or had fallen down on theirknees--dead, but they served as a breast-work for the men. Thetwenty-three soldiers were buried on the spot and the wounded taken toFort Ridgely. 

I was also at Camp Release, under command of Gen. Sibley, where a greatmany Indians were taken prisoners. These Indians had killed many whites, and had some sixty women and children, prisoners. The soldiers managedto secure the Indians' guns and then released the women and children, finally taking the Indians prisoners, placing them in a log house, wherethey were carefully guarded. These, together with others secured atYellow Medicine were chained together and taken to Mankato, where, inDecember, thirty-eight were hanged. 

The Old Trail afterward Stage Coach road, known as theHastings-Faribault Trail, passed through Northfield along what is nowDivision Street. Going north it followed the Stanton road. At theentrance of Mr. Olin's farm it passed along in front of the house--andalong through his pasture--east of the pond--on down onto Mr. Alexander's land--following between two rows of trees, still standing, and crossed the Cannon river just above where the Waterford dam nowstands. Thence along what is still known as the Hastings road. ThroughMr. Olin's pasture there is still about fifteen or twenty rods of theOld Trail and road left. 

Mrs. Augusta Prehn Bierman. 

In the spring of '55 several of us German families, consisting of thePrehn's, Bierman's, Drentlaws and Sumner's, came to Minnesota from asettlement fifteen miles west of Chicago. We settled on claims near thepresent city of Northfield. We were on the way eleven and one-halfweeks. We came by way of Joliet, forded the river at La Crosse and cameup here by way of Rochester and Kenyon. We carried enough provisionswith us to last most of the trip. We had some sixteen yoke of oxen, manycows, calves, and six colts. We slept in the wagons and we baked breadin iron kettles by burying them in hot ashes. 

Our first home and the Prehn's was built in this way: We dug down in theearth four feet, very much as we would today for a cellar, but into aside hill. Above these four feet, logs were built up, plastered togetherwith mud. For a roof, logs and branches of trees were placed across theside walls and then plastered together with mud. 

Coming up through Kenyon we saw many Indians camping along the road. Thecolts and oxen were deathly afraid of them and would turn way out of theroad when passing, keeping just as far away as possible. 

Among the earliest marriages recorded in Rice county is that of WilliamBierman and Augusta Prehn 1857. 

Mrs. Ann Alexander. 

My husband with his father and a brother, Jonas, came in '54 and took upclaims adjoining the present site of Northfield. They drove two ox teamsand brought cattle, a couple of sheep and some pigs. 

My husband's parents kept boarders and had some sixteen or eighteen allof the time and each day brought many extra from the stage coachesplying between here and Hastings and here and St. Paul. 

Every mouthful of food consumed that first year was brought fromHastings, twenty-eight miles away, and it kept one man and an ox team onthe road all the time. 

Pork was purchased by the barrel and it would seldom last a week. 

By the following spring, '55, when I was married and came to Minnesotasome of the land had been broken, so small gardens were planted andpotatoes and other vegetables raised. I believe it was about the time ofthe civil war that butter sold as low as 5c a pound and eggs 3c a dozen. 

In these early days the Indians received annuities at Red Wing and ontheir yearly pilgrimages they would often camp in this vicinity as longas five or six weeks. The chiefs spent their time in hunting andfishing. The west side of the river was then not settled at all andthere they had their camps. The squaws would come to the settler'shomes, set their papooses up against the side of the house and walk intothe house to beg. I have seen the large living room of mother's boardinghouse lined with Indians, smoking one pipe--each man taking a few puffsand then passing the pipe along. In those days the mosquitoes were verythick and if anyone was out doors they would literally be eaten alive. Mother's boarding house would be filled and people would be begging tobe allowed to come and sleep under the tables--anything to get in awayfrom the pests. 

Mr. J. W. Huckins. 

I enlisted from Minneapolis in Captain Strout's company which was sentto guard the frontier at the time of the Indian outbreak. We went up theMississippi, then west to Litchfield, then to Glencoe and Hutchinson andwere finally at Acton, where the first blow fell. The place wasthirty-five miles northwest of the Lower Sioux agency, in Meeker county. 

We soldiers found that our cartridges were not the right calibre. Someof the men had personal rifles, and one was found who had a pair ofbullet molds of the right size. We took the bullets from the cartridgesand busied ourselves, making them over the right size, using the powderand balls separately. During the engagement near Acton, the Indiansmanaged to completely surround the soldiers. The captain ordered his mento dash through the Indian lines. The men ran for their lives, and thoseon horseback were ordered, at point of guns, to wait for men on foot. This sudden action took the Indians unawares and they were so surprisedthey forgot to keep up the fire. Most of us effected an escape. Out ofsixty men but three were killed, though some twenty were wounded. Wefell back to Hutchinson where there was a stockade. The Indians weregetting quite fearless and would come in closer and closer to thestockade. One man had a very rare, long range gun and killed an Indianat the distance of a mile, after which the Indians kept a betterdistance. 

Mrs. C. W. Gress--1855. 

We landed in St. Paul in April '55, making the trip in about threeweeks. We started on the boat, Minnesota Belle, but because of low waterour household effects had to be transferred at Davenport, Iowa, to asmall boat. There was a siege of cholera on the first boat, and twobodies were taken ashore and buried in the sand. 

During the time of transferring the baggage, I had to carry the moneyfor safe keeping. I made a wide belt with pockets of different lengthssuspended from it. Here, and in the pockets of my skirt was gold of alldenominations and some silver, of such weight that for three days I wasill from carrying it. After spending a few days in St. Paul we moved toMinnetonka Mills where we bought a relinquishment for $600 and paid $200to prove up--making $800 for one hundred and sixty acres or $5 an acre;that land fifty years later was well worth $100 an acre. For three yearswe were eaten out by grasshoppers. 

While here at Minnetonka Mills I often had Indians come to my house. Onone occasion I stood churning when an Indian stepped in and took thedasher from me indicating that he wanted some of it. I was not afraid ofhim and took the dasher from him and pushed him aside with my elbow. Ihad just finished baking and so gave him a large slice of bread, spreading it generously with butter. He dug the center out of the piececrowding it into his mouth, throwing the crust on the hearth. Thisangered me as my crust was soft and tender and I picked up a broom andstarted toward him yelling "puck-a-chee" (get out) and he rushed for thedoor and disappeared. 

We then concluded, after such bad luck with our crops, we would moveback to St. Paul, where Mr. Gress could work at his trade, that of ashoemaker. 

Mr. Gress would bring home work at night when I would assist him. Wemade a very high, cloth, buttoned shoe, called a snow shoe. I wouldclose the seams, front and back, all by hand, as we had no machine; openseams and back, stitch down flat, and would bind the tops and laps andmake fifteen or twenty buttonholes, for 50c a pair. The soles would thenbe put on in the shop. For slippers I received 15c for closing andbinding the same way. During the war I made shirts and haver-sacks forthe soldiers. The shirts were dark blue wool and were well made andfinished. I broke the record one day when I made six of these garmentsand took care of four small children. 

Mr. Alvin M. Olin--1855. 

We came to Minnesota in 1855. We brought with us four yoke of oxen, thirty-five head of cattle and three hogs. We, with a family of threesons and a daughter, were four weeks on the way. We crossed the river ona ferry at Prairie du Chien and came up through Rochester and CannonFalls and camped at Stanton while I went to a claim near Kenyon, that Ihad taken up the fall before, to find it had been jumped so I came on toNorthfield and took up a claim on the Cannon River. We had with us twocovered wagons--known as prairie schooners. In these we had ourprovisions, composed of flour, smoked meats and a barrel of crackers. Wealso had our furniture, chairs and chests and two rocking chairs for themother and daughter. Here all of their leisure time, while on the move, was spent industriously applying their knitting needles, meanwhilesinging to themselves to the accompaniment of the thud, thud of theoxen. 

Each day was opened with the family prayer, after which we had themorning meal and then the boys took turns starting on ahead with thepigs, this extra time being needed because of the pigs' obstinacy. Onemorning the boys found they had started back in the same direction fromwhich they had come and had traveled six miles before they found it out. We purchased a barrel of crackers in Milwaukee and our noonday mealconsisted of crackers and milk, and as milk soured, we fed it to thehogs. Butter was made on the way, and bread and biscuits were baked in akettle. 

When we staked out our claim, we laid a floor and placed a tent over itwhere we lived till logs could be procured. These we got on the westside of the river, then government land. For shingles we drove to TrimMill ten or twelve miles the other side of Prescott, Wis. At one timethat summer two hundred Indians were camped near our farm for two dayson their way to St. Paul. 

Mrs. Pauline Hagen. 

I was four years old when my parents settled in Hastings. Mother wasobliged to return to Wisconsin to see about our goods which were delayedin coming, and father wintered here and took care of us three smallchildren. Our house had no floor and very little furniture, and thishand-made, save for a small sheet iron stove through the cracks of whichthe fire could be plainly seen. 

At bed time father placed us in sacks, firmly tied around our littlebodies, and put us on straw beds on the ground and then covered us withstraw for warmth. We had no other covering. Our food that first winterconsisted mostly of corn meal, made up, in a variety of ways. But motheron her arrival in the spring with our lost household goods, found herfamily fat and rugged and none the worse for the severe winter of'55-'56. 

Mrs. Catherine Meade. 

We were at Fort Ridgely at the time of the outbreak. At the fort weregathered all the women and children of the settlers for protection. Wecould hear the Indian war whoops in the distance. The confusion wasterrible and twelve of the women were prematurely confined during thefirst twenty-four hours. I helped Dr. Miller, post surgeon, and forforty-eight hours I had no sleep and hardly time to eat. Finally, completely exhausted I fell asleep on the floor, with my little daughterby my side. When aroused by my husband, saying "The Indians are near athand, " I declared I might as well die one place as another. I could notgo on and remained where I was. The alarm was a false one and we wereall saved. 

One woman by the name of Jones told me she took part of her childreninto the stockade and returned for the rest. She found herselfconfronted by two stalwart Indians. She rushed into a small closet, andbracing herself between the wall and the door kept it closed in this wayuntil help came. She was nearly exhausted and gave birth to a childbefore morning. 

Another woman told me that instead of going into the stockade she fledwith her two children into a corn field, pursued by an Indian. He losttrack of her and as one child started to scream she almost smothered itin her effort to conceal their hiding place. The Indian after half anhour gave up the search. 

The stockade at Fort Ridgely had four entrances--one at each corner, atwhich a cannon was placed. There was but one man who could load thecannon, Sargeant Frantzkey, and as he had only unskilled help he waskept very busy running back and forth between the four guns. Ammunitionwas scarce and we had to use everything; nails, screws, sharp pieces ofiron and steel were saved and the cannons loaded with this mixturecalled Sharp Nails. This was considered much more deadly than cannonballs, for when fired, it would scatter and fly in all directions. 

The block house--where the ammunition was stored--was located outsidethe garrison and stockade, as a protection from fire. The only way toreplenish the supply was to make a trip to the block house. So a guardwas stationed at each end, and one man ran as fast as he could, secureda supply and ran back, of course at the risk of his life. The women alsohelped secure this ammunition, filling their aprons, while men filledgunny sacks. 

After the first fight, when the excitement had calmed down, the womenbusied themselves making bullets and were obliged to remain until helpcame from St. Paul--nearly two weeks. 

GREYSOLON DU LHUT CHAPTER

Duluth

MARIE ROBERTSON KEITH

(Mrs. Chas. Keith)

Mr. Glass--1848. 

I came to Minnesota in 1848 and was later purveyor to the Indians. AnIndian trail extended from Fond du Lac to St. Paul. It ran from Fond duLac by trail to Knife Falls, Knife Falls by canoe on St. Louis river toCloquet, from there to Hoodwood, from there to Sandy Lake, portage fromthere to Grand Rapids, from Grand Rapids by way of the Mississippi riverto St. Paul. 

Mr. John W. Goulding of Princeton. 

My first knowledge of Indians was when I was about ten years of age. Welived on Rum river about three miles above St. Francis, where a canoeload of Indians landed and camped near us. Mo-zo-man-e who was then achief, was said to be sick and his squaw came to our house asking bysigns for pills, of which my sister gave her a box. She was afterwardafraid that the Indian would take the entire box at one dose and wewould be killed in consequence. The taking of the whole box at one dosewas probably the fact, as the empty box was at once returned and thepatient reported to be cured, but no evil results came to us. 

In 1856 my father, who had been engaged with McAboy in the constructionof the Territorial road through Princeton to Mille Lacs Lake, thought itbest that the family remove to Princeton and we came with a six ox team. Princeton at that time with the outlying settlements of Estes Brook, Germany and Battle Brook, had perhaps one hundred and fifty people. Indians in blankets and paint were a daily, almost hourly sight. 

They outnumbered us many times, but gave us no trouble. In the summer of'57 two Sioux warriors came in by the way of Little Falls to the fallsin Rum river just above the mouth of Bradbury brook, where they shot andscalped "Same Day" brother of Kay-gway-do-say and returned home to theSioux country south of the Mississippi. Soon after this occurrence onehundred and twenty-five Chippewas came down Rum river on foot armed andpainted for war. They stayed with us in Princeton over night and had awar dance where Jay Herdliska's house now stands, which was witnessed bythe entire population then here. 

Among the Indians were Mo-zo-man-e, Noon-Day, Kay-gway-do-say, Benjamin, Keg-wit-a-see and others. The next morning they killed Dexter Paynes'cow for beef and took their departure down the east side of the river. In about twenty days they came back in a hurry somewhat scattered andbadly licked. They had found the Sioux at Shakopee and had beendefeated, it was said with the aid of the whites living near there, which was probably so, as we should have aided the Chippewas undersimilar circumstances. 

I remember nothing more worth repeating until 1862, the year of theSioux massacre. We, at Princeton, had heard of that outbreak, that theChippewas had been urged to join, that "Hole-in-the-day" had beensending runners to Mille Lacs asking that band to join with him inextermination of the whites, and we were all getting nervous. Finallyall the people in the outlying settlements came into Princeton andcamped in and about the old log hotel near the big elm (which stillstands, the largest and most beautiful tree in the city). CaptainBenedict Hippler, an old soldier who had seen service in Germany, tookcommand, and men and boys armed with all sorts of guns were drilledcontinually by the Captain, who was a martinet and at one timethreatened to shoot me and a companion for sleeping on our post. It wasfound that Stevens the Indian trader at Mille Lacs had a large stock ofpowder, and H. A. Pemberton was sent to haul it away, which he did withStevens mules, bringing it to Princeton where it was stored in mybrother's cellar. About this time it was determined to build a stockadefort. I hauled the poplar logs from which it was built with my father'soxen from just across the East Branch, and I made many loads in a day. We moved a small house within the enclosure for the women and childrenand had the fort, such as it was, about completed when one day asCaptain Hippler was putting us through one of his drills an Indian faceappeared at a port hole and Kay-gway-do-say said, "What you do here, this no good, pooh!" He then told us that Hole-in-the-day had sent hisrunners to Mille Lacs urging war and that the Mille Lacs band had held acouncil and that "some young men" had urged war but the older heads ledby Mun-o-min-e-kay-shein (Ricemaker) and others had counseled against itand that there would be no trouble. 

This eased our minds somewhat and the settlers gradually returned totheir homes. Soon we were reinforced by Co. F. Of the Eighth Minn. , whostayed with us two winters in "The old quarters" across the river, but, save their effect in overawing the Indians, their mission was peaceful. That same fall, '62, the Government concluded to make a display of forceat a delayed payment to be made to the Chippewas at Mille Lacs and anIowa regiment was sent with several cannon to accompany the paymaster toMille Lacs. 

Stevens, the trader at Mille Lacs had a large stock of Indian goods atPrinceton and just before the payment my father sent me, then sixteenyears of age, with four oxen and a wagon to haul these goods to MilleLacs some fifty miles over what was then and for twenty yearsafterwards, was one of the worst roads in the state. After several dayson the road I was reaching the trading post at night and as I nearedthere, was puzzled by the great number of lights to be seen. Finally asI approached the post I passed through a line of torches on each side, held by Indians who had heard that oxen were coming for beef and wereready to make beef of my team, had not the trader Stevens explained tothem that their share would come later. 

The next morning I set out on my return. Night found me at the uppercrossing of Rum river where I drew my wagon a few rods out of the road, tied my oxen and tried to sleep, but was disturbed all night by drunkenIndians "going to payment. " The next day I met the paymaster and anescort, who, after inquiring if I were not afraid passed along up river. That evening I met the troops at the lower crossing of Rum riverencamped on the east bank. 

The quartermaster at once told me that in the morning I must turn aboutand help draw his supplies to Mille Lacs and upon my refusal I wasplaced in a tent under guard. The next morning after we had againdiscussed the matter, I partially assented and gained permission todrive my oxen unyoked to the river for water, which, as soon as they haddrank, they waded and struck out for Princeton and no one could headthem. The quartermaster then used my yokes and wagon for four of hisbeef oxen and went his way allowing me to come home. After some days, with much labor the troops reached Mille Lacs, where, it was said, thedischarge of the cannon into the lake made a great scattering among theIndians, it being the first cannon they had ever seen. Upon the returnof the troops to Princeton the quartermaster returned my yokes and wagonand paid for the use of them. 

I have spoken several times in this story of Kay-gway-do-say, who wasalways a great friend of mine and of the whites in general. During theSioux war he served with others, as a scout, was always a great friendof Captain Jonathan Chase, whom he always spoke of as "Me and Jock. " Hevisited in my father's family many times and one of my sisters tried toteach him to read. It was not a success but he was much amused at hisown mistakes. A few years before he died he visited me, inquired for mysisters, hunted them out and visited them, and on his return said to me"Be-she-ke-o-ge-ma, " my Indian name, "you and your sisters seem justlike my own folks. " Poor old "Kaig, " like about all his associates hasgone to the "Happy Hunting Ground. " Peace to his ashes. 

Mrs. Colbrath. 

My father, Roswell P. Russell came to the region of Mendota as a boy andwas employed by Gen. Sibley. At one time, Mrs. Sibley sent him on anerrand to St. Paul and he ventured to make the trip on the ice, with ahorse and cutter. Coming suddenly upon a crack in the ice, he lashed thehorse, thinking he might spring over it, but the poor animal was caughtand swept under the ice, while he and the cutter remained on the ice andwere saved. This narrow escape made a great impression, naturally andthe story was handed down to his children. 

My father married a Miss Patch of an old family of pioneers and theywere the first couple married at the Falls of St. Anthony. 

CAPTAIN RICHARD SOMERS CHAPTER

St. Peter

MISS EMILY BROWN

Mrs. Mary B. Aiton. 

When the treaty was made at Mendota in 1851, the Indians who ceded theland gave up their settlement at Kaposia, (South St. Paul), leavingbehind them their dead, buried on the hill, and the land endeared tothem by association. With them, when they moved westward to YellowMedicine, went their faithful missionary and teacher, Doctor ThomasWilliamson. That same year his sister, familiarly know as "Aunt Jane, "made a visit to her old home town in Ohio, where I lived, and herinteresting accounts of her experiences so filled me with missionaryzeal that I went west, with her, as a teacher to the Indians. 

With "Aunt Jane, " I landed at Kaposia, and after a short rest, we beganthe overland journey to Yellow Medicine. The last night of our journey, two of our horses strayed away, and in the morning the ox-teams with thefreight, and us women went on, leaving Dr. Williamson to search for therunaways. When we rode down into the valley, we saw ahead of us, themissing horses. We two women volunteered to go back to tell Dr. Williamson, and the rest of the party went on. We found the doctor, andto save us fatigue, he suggested that we take a short-cut across countryto the agency, while he followed the road to rejoin the travelers. 

Somehow we failed to follow directions and traveled all the rest of theday, coming at night to a river. Here on the bank we decided to rest. Inthe distance we could see a prairie fire, gradually eating its waytowards the river; but we felt safe near the water and lay down tosleep. Just after we fell asleep, I was awakened by a loud call, and Irealized the joy of knowing that we were found. The men who had beensent in search of us were calling, in hopes that we would answer and wecontinued our journey without further incident. 

One morning in the spring of 1851, our little mission house at Kaposiawas full of bustle and confusion, for we were busy preparing for anIndian wedding. The prospective bride was a pretty Sioux maiden, and herfiance was a white trader. Everything was in readiness for the ceremony, but no groom appeared. The hours wore on; the bride wept; but no news ofthe groom came until late in the afternoon a rumor reached us that hewas celebrating the occasion by a drunken revel, and was not incondition to take his part in the ceremony. A white mother would havewept over daughter's grief, but not this Indian mother. When told thatthe ceremony must be postponed, she replied with stoical Indianpatience: "It is well; I like his white skin; but I hate his drunkenways. "

Dr. A. C. Daniels. 

When I was agency physician at Lac qui Parle, I often saw the humorousside of Indian life. One day when the Indians had received theirgovernment allowance, a party of them too freely indulged theirappetites for liquor; and one, a big brave, who had adopted thepatriotic name of George Washington, led a band of Indians to the homeof the Catholic sisters, and demanded food. The sisters saw the Indians'condition, barred the door, and told the braves to go away. George, however, was insistent in his demands, and finally put his giantstrength against the door, and splintered the upper part. He had put hishead into the opening, and was about to crawl through it, when one ofthe sisters seized a rolling pin, and rained sturdy blows upon his headand shoulders. He raised a yell that brought me to the spot just in timeto see a funny sight. Just as George was about to beat a retreat, hissquaw came running up and began to belabor him from the rear, while thenun continued the assault. There he was with part of his body in thehouse and part of it out, crying out in a manner most unseemly for anIndian brave. When the women desisted, he was both sober and repentant. 

In early days, the Indian agent at Lac qui Parle hoisted the Americanflag each morning over the agency. During a serious drought, the Indiansconceived the idea that the Great Spirit was displeased at the sight ofthe flag, and begged the agent to take it down. The patriotic agenttried to reason with them but to no avail, so one afternoon he took theflag down for a time. In a little while, a black cloud appeared and thena heavy downpour of rain followed. The Indians, as you know were verysuperstitious, and they were firmly convinced that the flag was a truebarometer, so the agent had to be cautious in his display of the flag. 

Mr. Z. S. Gault. 

One morning as I rode a horse down to the Minnesota River to water it, Inoticed a stolid looking Indian, with a gun by his side, sitting on aboulder by the river bank. Just as my horse began to drink, the Indianraised his gun and fired; the horse kicked up his heels, and I promptlybecame a Baptist by immersion. I can still show you the boulder, but youwill have to imagine the Indian. 

When I was a small boy, a party of Sioux Indians returned to Traversefrom an attack upon the Chippewas at Shakopee, and proceeded tocelebrate the event with a scalp dance. This dance and the whoops of theIndians attracted spectators from Traverse and St. Peter; and withboyish curiosity, I was as near as possible to the dancers. Suddenly Ispied one brave, dancing about, with a skunk skin tied to his heel andtrailing on the ground behind him. Obeying a mischievous impulse, Ijumped upon the trailing skin, and stopped the wild dancer. The savagewheeled, quickly raised his tomahawk, and was ready to strike; but whenhe saw a white boy, he merely kicked me out of the ring, and kept onwith the dance. 

Mr. J. C. Bryant. 

When Governor McGill, came to St. Peter as a young man, he was obligedto practice strict economy to make both ends meet. The revenue hederived from teaching was so very meager, that he had to do without someof what we regard as actual necessities. Late in the fall he was passingJack Lamberton's store, when the warm-hearted proprietor noticed thatthe school-master wore no overcoat. He guessed the reason; but he askedMr. McGill why he wore no overcoat. "Well, I haven't one, and I am notable to buy one yet, " he replied with sturdy honesty. "Just come rightin, and help yourself to one, and pay for it when you can, " said Mr. Lamberton with characteristic generosity. This kindness was a bond thatmade the two men friends for life, although later they were oftenarrayed against each other politically. 

When certain men in the state were trying to steal the Capital from St. Peter for St. Paul, Captain Dodd is said to have traveled on foot fromSt. Peter to St. Paul between sunrise and sunset in the interests of St. Peter. This feat would seem to me a physical impossibility, but it was astory current when I was a boy in St. Peter. It is a matter of history, too, that all the attempts to save the Capital were futile, and theindomitable Captain Dodd had his long walk in vain. 

Captain Dodd was considerable of a mimic and an actor. During apolitical campaign, he took the platform against a certain Tom Corwin ofOhio, who was considered a great political orator. On one occasionCorwin was the first speaker, and to emphasize his speech, he dancedabout on the stage, gesticulated freely, and made a great impression. When Mr. Dodd's turn to speak came, he arose, and without a word, gravely gave a pantomimic reproduction of the orator's acts andgestures. Then he sat down amid roars of laughter, that completelyspoiled the effect of his opponent's speech. 

Mrs. Nancy Kiethley Bean. 

When Edward Eggleston, the author of the "Hoosier Schoolmaster, " wasobliged to come west for his health, he was, for a number of years, aresident of Traverse, and St. Peter. Here on week days he engaged in thehumble occupation of soap-making, and on Sundays he went out to thecountry communities to preach the gospel. His church was often the oneroom of some farmer's log cabin, and he missed the pulpit upon which topound, to emphasize the points in his sermon in the good orthodox styleof the exhorter. One Sunday early in his ministry, he came to our homenear Cleveland, to preach, and that day he strongly felt the need of apulpit. "Why can't you make me a pulpit?" he asked my father after theservice. "I can and I will before you come again, " father replied. Father went to work, and from the trunk of a tree, he hewed out a roughpulpit! The young preacher exhorted with such fervor from his new pulpitthat I was the first convert of the man who afterwards became famous. 

In the fall of that same year, the annual Methodist conference was heldat Winona, and Mr. Eggleston prepared to go. Before he went my fathermet him, and asked him whether he was going to the conference. "Yes, "was the reply, "I am going. " Now father knew that money was scarce andthat Mr. Eggleston's preaching and soap-making yielded him littlerevenue, so he went to one of the brethren, a certain Mr. Arter, who hadrecently come from the east, bringing with him gold coin, and told ofMr. Eggleston's desire to go to Winona. Mr. Arter was interested andoffered Mr. Eggleston five dollars to help defray the expense of histrip, but was met with a polite but none the less firm refusal. 

"I shall not need money, " said Mr. Eggleston. "I can walk part of theway, some one will give me a lift now and then and the brethren willgive me food and lodging when I require it. "

However, Mr. Arter insisted that he should take the gold, and he finallyprevailed, but Mr. Eggleston started on foot for the conference. Uponhis return, he gave the gold to its original owner, for with sturdypioneer independence, he had traveled the distance to Winona on foot, except for an occasional lift from some traveler, driving a slow oxteam. 

Mrs. Mary Davis Fenton. 

One summer morning in 1852, a man on horseback rode rapidly up to thedoor of our farm house, shouted the news of the uprising of the Indians, and then rode on to warn others of the danger. We hastily gatheredtogether a few necessary articles, and fled to St. Peter. When wereturned home after the danger was over, we found that our house hadbeen looted, and father discovered that his pet razor had disappeared. 

"I will never shave again, " he declared, "until the man who stole myrazor, brings it back. "

Naturally the thief failed to return, and to the day of his death in1911, father wore his patriarchial beard, and kept his vow never toshave again. 

NATHAN HALE CHAPTER

St. Paul

GRACE RANDALL LYMAN

(Mrs. G. C. Lyman)

GERTRUDE KAERCHER

(Mrs. A. B. Kaercher)

Mrs. Frederick Penny. 

We lived about four miles from Shakopee, at what was called EdenPrairie. My father was William O. Collins. The Sioux Indians' oldcamping ground and home was on the river bottoms at Shakopee. Threemiles below our place was Hennepin Landing where the boats landed comingfrom St. Paul. The trail of the Sioux led directly past our house, so wesaw a great deal of the Indians. 

At one corner of my father's land was a big boulder called Red Rock, held sacred by the Indians. Whenever the Sioux were going into battleagainst the Chippewas, they came to this rock and if they weresuccessful, they brought their trophies of war and placed them on therock. There was room for one Indian to lie down close to the rock. Theothers would dance around or sit in council. As soon as they had gone, the white settlers would take everything of value. 

One thing we were taught was never to show fear of Indians. They knewvery quickly and loved to scare anyone who showed they were afraid. Chaska and five of his men had been out duck hunting and stopped at ourhouse for supper the night before the outbreak in 1862. The Indians werealways friendly with all members of my father's family, and never askedfor a meal unless they were willing to pay with ducks or in some way. Next morning after Chaska had supper with us, a man came riding from St. Peter telling everyone to flee. Twenty families (ours among the others)remained. 

My oldest brother had enlisted and the very day after Chaska was at ourhouse, he was ordered back from Fort Snelling to go to Fort Ridgely. 

The most disgraceful thing to an Indian is to be struck with a whip or astick. One day I was holding the baby in my arms when an Indian put hishead in through the window close to my face before I knew anyone wasnear. I was so frightened I ran to my mother. The Indians thought wewere afraid so started for the garden to destroy the melons, squash andpumpkins growing there. My mother put on father's coat, took a big caneand went after them saying, "Get out, these are to feed papoose" overand over. There were forty in the party but they went without furthertrouble. 

One day on my way to school, I heard the children calling to me to run, but the grass was so high I could see no one and did not know an Indianwas near. When I saw him, I was not afraid. I went on to the schoolhouse door, but the teacher was so frightened she had locked the doorand I could not get in. I stood waiting, and the Indian patted me on thehead and said, "Heap brave papoose" and went on down the trail. 

One family by the name of Dorr and another by the name of Horner wereboth very well to do. When a man rode to their places at the time of theoutbreak telling them the Indians were coming, they took what they couldin wagons and started for Eden Prairie where the Dorr family stayed withthe Neals. Mrs. Dorr was a Neal girl. The Horners stayed with us untilthe trouble was over. The Dorr house and barns were burned to theground, but the soldiers stopped the Indians before they reached theHorner place. Both families went back and rebuilt what had beendestroyed, living there for many years. 

Mr. James Clark of St. Peter. 

I came to St. Peter in March 1856. I was in the livery business, so wasamong the Indians more or less until the outbreak in 1862. I made thefirst trip from the Agency to Faribault with Bishop Whipple. Also thelast when we took a number of Indian girls from Faribault to the SiouxAgency in August 1862. 

I had enlisted and was with my company in line at Fort Snelling, beingsworn in when a man came riding in to tell us the Indians were on thewar path. We were ordered to St. Peter at once and found the familiesall sheltered in stone houses and the men barricading the town with cordwood and digging rifle pits in the bluffs. But none of the families wasmolested within a radius of about seven miles. Everyone who was left intown had to help. All the lead pipes were taken out of the wells andslugs were cut from pieces of iron. 

Jim Powell, a young man left in charge of the cattle at the Agency, waiting for the Indians to receive their pay, said to me when I came upon my last trip, "Jim, I am afraid there will be trouble. The Indiansare getting ugly. They shot an ox and skinned it and we can't say aword. " When the outbreak came Jim Powell was sitting on a mule at theAgency. Five Indians shot at him. He tried to make his mule go down tothe ferry. He would not go, so Jim slipped off and ran for the ferry. The boat had started across to Fort Ridgely, but he swam out and climbedon. He went across, then the twelve miles to the fort and enlisted. Before this the Indians were driven to beg for food, their rations hadbeen so slow in coming from the government. 

I often think there is many a man that should have a monument tocommemorate his brave deeds. There was Duncan Kennedy of St. Peter, oneof the bravest men I ever knew. During the outbreak he carried messagesback and forth from St. Peter to Fort Ridgely, alone. When asked why hedid not take someone with him, he said it was safer alone for if he sawan Indian he would know what to do; he would lie down and be quiet. Ifsome one was with him, he would have to tell them to be quiet. 

Mrs. John Crippen[4] was an early settler in the country, coming here byway of the Morris trail. There were two trails, one by way ofHutchinson, and the other following along the Minnesota River, thelatter being the trail used during the Sibley Expedition. 

[Footnote 4: Mrs. Kaercher's work begins with Mrs. Crippen. ]

Mr. And Mrs. Crippen, with a baby about a year old, came to theirhomestead, not far from Big Stone lake where they endured manyprivations the first few years. The first year the grasshoppers took allthe garden and grain. After the first year new settlers began to come inand Mr. Crippen assisted them in locating claims, and in that waymanaged to live until another crop was raised. In relating some of theexperiences Mrs. Crippen states that they had a house 10x12 and thefirst shingled roof in this country at that time. At one time, twogentlemen from Minneapolis, Messrs. Hyde and Curtiss, had occasion tostay over night with them so they gave these parties their only bed, making one on the floor for themselves, hanging a curtain between. Whilepreparing breakfast she heard one of the gentlemen say--"Hello, littlefellow, what are you doing with my toe?" Her baby had awakened and goneover to their bed. It was over a year before they had any chickens orcow; she used to hunt plover's eggs and several times was without flour, having to grind wheat and corn in a coffee mill. The nearest railroadtown was Morris forty miles northeast. 

The first 4th of July celebration was held near the lake at a place nowcalled "Point Comfort. " The flag staff is still where they placed it. AMrs. Tyler roasted a small pig, which they used as a center piece at thepicnic dinner, minus the apple in its mouth. 

One of the young gentlemen, whose father was a minister in Minneapolis, had him send him sermons which he read on the Sabbath in theschoolhouse. 

C. K. Orton, the founder of Ortonville took a homestead adjoining BigStone Lake. In the spring he returned for his family consisting then ofhis wife and child, Clara, together with several neighbors. They startedin the month of July, following the old trail via New Ulm, thence toMontevideo. When they reached Montevideo they discovered the bridges hadwashed away, so they were obliged to ford the Chippewa river which wasvery deep and rapid. Mr. And Mrs. Orton rode side by side, he carrying asack of flour which he lost while endeavoring to hold her, but which heafterward recovered. It took the party several days to get theirbelongings, which consisted of cattle, horses, oxen, etc. , on the westside of the river. 

They were badly frightened a few months later, which was after they hadsettled in their new home, by a Mr. Movius, of Big Stone City, who cameto them with a report that the Indians, five hundred in number, from theSisseton reservation were on the war path and were headed their way. Mrs. Orton and another woman, being alone with the children, say thatthey had a flat bottomed boat which they had planned to get in and getout into the middle of the lake and that if overtaken by the Indians, rather than be tortured as they had seen other people near New Ulm andother towns, would drown themselves and children, but luckily it was afalse report. 

Mr. Orton was the first postmaster of this place, the mail being broughtonce a week from Appleton, twenty-five miles east, by Mr. Lathrop, whohad a wagon train hauled by oxen by which he carried flour andprovisions to the settlers along the lake shore. 

There is a log cabin still standing in Big Stone City, which was builtin the year 1857. 

A. B. Kaercher has in his possession the Government Patent given in 1855and signed by Franklin Pierce to his father, John Kaercher, for 160acres of land in Fillmore County, Minnesota, where John Kaercherfounded the Village of Preston, and erected the second flouring mill inthe Territory of Minnesota. 

Lyman R. Jones of Ortonville has a stove door taken from the ruins ofthe Presbyterian mission, built in 1838 and which was destroyed by fireMarch 3, 1854. 

Mr. Roberts, an old timer here, has the powder horn which Little Crowcarried through the Sioux massacre. 

DAUGHTERS OF LIBERTY CHAPTER

Duluth

FRANCES ANGELINE POOLE WOODBRIDGE (Mrs. W. S. Woodbridge)

Mrs. Nettleton. 

My husband and I came to this region in 1854. At first we lived inSuperior, Wis. , but in September of that year we went down to MadelineIsland to the Indian payment when the government bought the Duluthproperty from the Indians. My husband got title to the best of MinnesotaPoint. This was the same payment where they gave Chief Buffalo his foursquare miles of land in Duluth. 

Minnesota Point is a narrow neck of land seven miles long and about aquarter of a mile wide projecting from the mainland in Duluth andseparating Lake Superior from St. Louis Bay. One day we had a picnicparty of Superior people over on Minnesota Point. Among them were Mrs. Post, Orator Hall and his wife, my husband and the Rev. Mr. Wilson fromsomewhere near Boston and a number of others. During the picnic variousnames for the new town started on Minnesota Point were proposed and Mr. Wilson at last proposed "Duluth. " He named the city in honor of thefirst navigator and explorer who ever came up here. When the otherproprietors came here and made preemptions and had obtained land theywanted to call it "Portland. " My husband said "No that his property wasin Duluth and it should stay in Duluth. " I had never been in Duluth atthat time unless it was for a picnic on Minnesota Point. 

We moved across the bay to Duluth in 1858. My husband and his brotherWilliam had a contract for carrying the mail from Superior to St. Paul. Sometimes the mail was carried by team and sometimes the men packed iton their backs. In the spring and fall the roads were so bad that theuse of the team was impossible. Letters were delivered once a week andpapers once a month, perhaps. The military road had been commenced butnot finished. 

Mrs. W. S. Woodbridge. 

While the experiences of the early days could be considered a hardshipfor the men it was ten times more annoying to women. The hardships ofhousekeeping, for instance and home making, keeping the home tidy andcomfortable, not to say attractive, were much greater than any hardshipsthe men were called upon to endure. The first year or two, there was nomirror at the head of the lakes. Those who were fortunate enough to havea new tin boiler, or new tin dishes could get along very well. One ofthe early settlers has told me that he had frequently seen the womencombing and arranging their hair by their reflection in the wash boileror dish pan. Ribbons, perfumes and fancy articles were wholly unknown. An old settler who came with his family told me "Our whole outfitcomprised a feather bed and a lunch basket in which were a knife, forkand two small china dishes. I also bought a single mattress and a pairof blankets in Cleveland on my way to Duluth. We built our bedsteads outof green tamarack poles peeled, using the bark for ropes to hold ittogether and made a table of two boards which were found floating in theBay. Bed clothing consisted of Indian blankets and moccasins answeredfor shoes, while curtains, carpets and upholstered furniture wereunknown. "

The postoffice was in a small building on First Street and First AvenueEast. The postmaster, Mr. Richard Marvin was a member of the FireBrigade. His friend, Mr. Melvin Forbes, who had just started in thepaper and stationery business opposite, spent the night with him. Themilkman was in the habit of bringing milk to the door in the morning. Alady who had come up by boat and was leaving by train in the earlymorning for St. Paul knocked on the door of the postoffice to inquireif any mail had been forwarded to her there. Mr. Forbes, supposing themilkman was at the door, leaped out of bed, caught Mr. Marvin'sfireman's helmet and put it on his head, opened the door wide with aflourish and making a profound bow in his short white night shirt said, "Good morning. " Not until he raised his head did he see the lady. I haveoften wondered what opinion she formed of Duluth in her short stay here. 

I used to watch the Indians who were a common sight in those early daysin Duluth, especially in the winter, when they would come into town withtheir dog teams, the sledges laden down with skins which they exchangedfor provisions. The dog teams were very interesting with theirintelligent well trained Indian dogs. There were usually three or fourdogs driven tandem with a simple harness consisting of a collar and astrap around the body of each. The driver always ran or walked by theside of the sledge never sitting on it. We see pictures of dog teams inAlaska, for instance, with a dozen or more dogs, but that would havebeen impossible in a heavily wooded country as this was in those days. 

The Indians did not know the use of a door bell, neither did they standon ceremony, but if they found the door of a house unlocked they walkedin without knocking. I remember that one New Year's Day we found ongoing into the sitting room after dinner, that six Indians had quietlytaken possession, two men and four squaws. They advanced, offering toshake hands and saying, "'Appy New Year, ten cents. " "'Appy New Year, ten cents. " It was all the English they could speak but they knew wellwhat it meant and did not leave until each one had received a gift. Wewere glad enough to see them go and to open the windows. 

I well remember a funeral which occurred in the early days. The coffinwas placed in a wagon which was drawn by one horse and the mournersfollowed on foot. I also remember how very muddy the roads were, consisting of sticky, tenacious red clay which clung to our rubbers andsucked them off our feet as we walked. 

We bought water by the pailful which was carted up from the Lake andplaced in a barrel in the kitchen and often on a cold winter morning, wewere obliged to chop it out and melt it in the tea kettle. The windowsin our house were always covered with half an inch of frost. I rememberon one very cold night I was awakened by a fire bell. The windows werered with light from some burning dwelling near and I rushed from windowto window trying in vain to see out and locate the fire. 

ST. PAUL CHAPTER

MISS K. MAUDE CLUM

Mrs. Martin Jay Clum. 

I accompanied my husband, Martin Jay Clum, a member of Company "D, "Second Minnesota Volunteers to Fort Ridgely in 1862. There were left atthe fort but few men to guard it, as the greater number of them had beenordered to the frontier to quell the Indian outbreaks. 

My daughter, Victoria Maria, nine months old, was ill, getting her teethand although the night was hot and sultry the windows of our quartershad to be kept closed on account of the mosquitoes. It was impossible toobtain any mosquito bar so I walked the floor nearly all night with heron my arm fanning her constantly as the heat was almost unbearable. 

Toward morning, I paused for a few seconds to look out of the window andas I did so, fancied I saw tiny dark objects moving around a huge strawstack some distance away. You can scarcely imagine my horror as the dawndisclosed the truth of my fears. 

I put down my dear baby--rushed outside--called to a herder to go atonce and find out what those objects were, moving about the stack. Hastily mounting a mule he made a detour of the straw stack andreported. "If there's one Indian there, there's fifty with their poniesburied in and around the stack. " He at once gave the alarm but beforethe guard reached the stack there was not an Indian to be seen. Interpreter Quinn soon sent his son, Tom, to warn me not to leave thegarrison as I had been in the habit of taking walks with my baby in hercarriage. 

Later in the day, the pickets and scouts came in and reported a largecamp of over four hundred Indians on the opposite bank of the river, waiting, no doubt, as Interpreter Quinn said, a chance to make a raid, capture and maybe massacre everyone of us. He also told me that whilethe Indians might not perhaps harm me they would be likely to take mybaby and it would be as bad to be frightened to death as to be scalped. 

Mr. August Larpenteur--1843, Ninety-three years old. 

The first day I came, in 1843, I had dinner with Mrs. Jackson. It was afine one--ducks, venison, and vegetables raised by the Selkirk refugees. Here I first tasted pemmican. It was most excellent. The bread was bakedin a Dutch oven. 

New Year's Day, Mr. Jackson, Luther Furnell and I took a yoke of oxen tomake some New Years calls. We first went to Mr. Gervais' where wetalked, took a drink, kissed the girls and then to Vital Guerin's. Nextwe went up to Mrs. Mortimer's where we made a sedate call. She livedwhere the police station now stands. Last, near present Seven Corners, we called on the Irvine's. By this time the OXEN were tired. We began tofeel drowsy, so we returned and took a rest. 

The Indians always called on us on Christmas, went through muchhandshaking and expected a present. 

INDEX

Aiton, Mrs. Mary B. , 307

Alexander, Mrs. Ann, 296

Anderson, Mrs. Robert, 91

Apgar, Mrs. Anna Simmons, 97

Balser, Mrs. Anna E. , 89

Batchelder, Mrs. Kate Davis, 291

Berry, Mrs. Helen Godfrey, 222

Bean, Mrs. Nancy Kiethley, 311

Beatty, Mrs. J. R. , 165

Bierman, Mrs. Augusta P. , 295

Black, Mrs. Mahlon, 29

Bohanon, Mr. Charles, 67

Bradley, Mrs. , 240

Buell, Major S. A. , 122

Burdick, Mrs. C. A. , 104

Buckham, Judge Thomas S. , 289

Buck, Mr. H. L. , 237

Brown, Mrs. John, 260

Bryant, Mr. J. C. , 310

Brackett, Mr. George A. , 139

Chute, Mrs. Richard, 65

Clark, Mr. Edwin, 136

Clarke, Mr. Edwin, 136

Clifford, Mrs. Elizabeth, 64

Clum, Mrs. Martin J. , 323

Cooper, Peter, 105

Cobb, Mr. M. G. , 262

Colbrath, Mrs. , 306

Connolly, Colonel A. P. , 212

Collins, Judge Loren W. , 275

Curtis, Mr. Theodore, 110

Cray, Judge Lorin, 176, 263

Daniels, Dr. A. C. , 308

Dibble, Marion L. , 262

Dorr, Mr. Caleb, 27

Dowling, Mrs. Mary E. , 90

Dow, Mr. D. E. , 62

Dow, Mrs. William, 81

Dresser, Mrs. Samuel B. , 48

Dunsmoor, Mr. Irving A. , 184

Ellison, Mr. William W. , 58

Faribault, Miss Sara, 232

Farnham, Mrs. Rufus, 50

Farnham, Mrs. Silas, 39

Farnsworth, Mr. Austin W. , 70

Farnsworth, Mrs. Austin W. , 110

Favel, Mr. Henry, 103

Fenton, Mrs. Mary Davis, 312

Fisher, Mrs. George E. , 107

Foster, Doctor Lysander P. , 38

Funk, Mrs. Margaret Rathbun 160

Gault, Mr. Zuriel S. , 309

Gilpatrick, Mrs. Martha, 143

Gilman, Ex-Lieutenant Gov. , 110

Gillespie, Miss Nancy, 75

Gillespie, Mr. James M. , 75

Gleason, Mrs. Harriett. , 239

Glass, Mr. , 302

Goulding, John W. , 302

Godfrey, Abner Crossman, 229

Godley, Mrs. Charles M. , 111

Gress, Mrs. C. W. , 297

Hagen, Mrs. Pauline. , 300

Hanks, Captain Stephen. , 24

Harrison, Mrs. Mary, 55

Heffelfinger, Major C. B. , 142

Hern, Mrs. Margaret, 143

Hoefer, Mrs. F. , 199

Hopkins, Miss Florinda, 101

Hopkins, Mr. Chester L. , 101

Horton, Mrs. Helen, 132

Huckins, Mr. J. W. , 297

Huston, Mrs. Anna Hennes, 103

Ingenhutt, Mrs. Mary, 152

Jones, Mr. Oliver K. , 240

Jones, Mrs. Virginia, 116

Jones, Mr. John A. , 173

Keysor, Captain Clark, 178

Keysor, Mrs. Clark, 175

Kennedy, Mrs. Duncan, 119

Kimball, Mrs. Edmund, 188

Layman, Mr. Isaac, 75

Ladd, Mrs. J. W. , 102

Larpenteur, Mr. August, 324

Lapham, Mr. L. L. , 159

Le Duc, General William, 40

Loring, Mr. Charles M. , 153

Lowell, Mrs. Nancy, 80

Longfellow, Colonel Levi, 216

Massolt, Mrs. Mary, 134

Maxwell, Mrs. Delilah, 202

Magnus, Mrs. Conrad, 271

Meade, Mrs. Catherine, 300

Merrit, Mrs. Arabella, 243

Merrill, Mrs. E. A. , 77

McMullen, Mr. James, 31

McMullen, Mrs. James, 36

McCormack, Captain L. L. , 153

Mott, Mrs. Rodney A. , 290

Moulton, Captain Isaac, 138

Neill, Miss Minnesota, 157

Niemann, Mrs. W. L. , 196

Nettleton, Mrs. , 319

Nutting, Mr. Elijah, 72, 284

O'Brien, Mr. Frank G. , 190

Olin, Mr. Alvin M. , 299

Paine, Mrs. J. M. , 156

Partridge, Mrs. Mary E. , 273

Pelton, Mr. I. A. , 170

Penney, Mrs. Frederick, 313

Pettijohn, Mr. Eli, 9

Pettit, Mrs. C. H. , 103

Pfeffer, Mrs. A. M. , 169

Phillips, Mary Sherrard, 233

Pike, Mrs. Orin, 272

Pitcher, Mrs. Mary, 163

Plummer, Mrs. Rebecca, 104

Pond, Mrs. Gideon, 22, 250

Pond, Mrs. E. R. , 258

Pratt, Mrs. James, 52

Pratt, Mrs. Missouri Rose, 16

Pribble, Mrs. Mary, 186

Prescott, Mrs. Henry C. , 287

Rochette, Mr. Stephen, 106

Rochette, Mrs. Stephen, 106

Robinson, Mr. Reuben, 47

Randall, Major Benjamin, 230

Robinson, Mrs. Mary, 129

Rye, Mr. Charles, 73

Richardson, J. Warren, 285

Slocum, Mr. Frank, 114

Starkloff, Mrs. Paulina, 88

Sampson, Mrs. Leroy, 97

Sutherland, Mrs. Jane, 126

Snyder, Mrs. Margaret A. , 130

Smith, Mrs. Mary Staring, 133

Smith, Mrs. C. A. , 140

Stewart, Doctor, 155

Stratton, Miss Carrie, 182

Shaver, Mr. B. F. , 206

Turner, Mrs. John C. , 293

Todd, Mrs. Anna, 135

Thorne, Mrs. Martha, 78

Teeter, Mr. Michael, 192

Van der Horck, Captain John, 51

Van Sant, Ex-Governor Samuel R. , 199

Van Schaick, Mr. M. R. , 270

Wakefield, Mr. Warren, 94

Watson, Mr. C. H. , 294

Woods, Mrs. Newman, 99

Weeks, Mrs. Mary, 76

White, Mrs. William J. , 84

Wilder, Mrs. , 93

Winter, Mrs. James A. , 107

Walker, Mrs. T. B. , 115

Way, Mrs. Georgiana M. , 116

Woodbridge, Mrs. W. S. , 320