Chapter II: Part 2

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

Once we moved out on the Government Road, three miles from Morgan's. It was a lonesome place. The Chippewas and Sioux were on the warpath as usual. A large party of Sioux camped right by us. They were dressed for what they were going after, a war dance, and were all painted and feathered. They were looking in the windows always. It used to make me sick 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 with my baby a great deal. One Sunday I was all alone when a lot of bucks come in--I was so frightened I took my baby's little cradle and set it on the table. She had curly hair and they would finger it and talk in their lingo. When they left I took the baby and hailed the first team going by and made them come and stay with me. It was the Cormacks from St. Anthony. I made my husband move back to Stillwater the next day.

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

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

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

Mr. James McMullen--1849.

Mr. McMullen, in his ninetieth year says--I started from Maine by the steam cars, taking them at Augusta. As I look back now, I see what a comical train that was, but when I first saw those cars, I was overpowered. To think any man had been smart enough to make a great big thing like that, that could push itself along on the land. It seemed impossible, but there we were, going jerkily along, much faster than any horse could run. The rails were wood with an iron top and after we had bumped more than usual, up came some of that iron through the floor. One lady was so scared that she dropped her traveling basket and all the most sacred things of the toilet rolled out. She just covered them quickly with the edge of her big skirt and picked them up from under that. 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 ten days on a good clean canal boat and paid five dollars for board and our ticket. 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 and teams to Galena, so I hired them, put boards across for seats and took two loads of passengers over. We got pretty stiff before we got there. I was glad to get that money as I was about strapped. It just about bought my 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 made three trips to St. Paul that year. We bought wood along the way, anywheres we could see a few sticks that some settler had cut. The Indians always came down to see us wherever we stopped. I did not take much of a fancy to them devils, even then. It was so cold the fifteenth day of October that the Captain was afraid that his boat would freeze in, so would go no further and dumped us in Stillwater. Cold! Well, I should say it was pretty durned cold!

I had been a sailor, so knew little about other work. On the way up, I kept wondering, am I painter, blacksmith, shoemaker, carpenter or farmer? On voyages, the sailors always got together and discussed the farm they were to have when they saw fit to retire. Said farm was to be a lot with a vine-wreathed bungalow on some village street. Having talked this question over so much with the boys, I felt quite farmerfied, though I had never used shovel, hoe or any farm tool. I said to myself, I must find out what I am at once for I only have four shillings. My brother-in-law borrowed this, for it was agreed that he should go on to St. Paul. As I walked along the one street in Stillwater with its few houses, I saw a blacksmith shop with the smith settin' and smokin' and stopped to look things over. There were three yoke of oxen standing ready to be shod. They were used to haul square timbers. The smith 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 saw I was not a blacksmith. I could see that there were not houses enough around to make the paintin' trade last long so gave that up too. In a little leanto I saw a man fixing a pair of shoes. I watched him, but saw nothing that looked possible to me so said to myself, "Surely I am no shoemaker." Further I met a young man sauntering along the road and asked him about farming. Said he, "You can't raise nothing in this here country. 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 left a tool chest with me. I was much afraid they would ask for board in advance, but they did not. In the morning, the proprietor said, "I have a job of work I want done--is that your chest?" I said, "Here is the key." "Then", said he, "you are a carpenter." I had worked a little at boat building so I let him say it. I worked sixteen days for him building an addition out of green timber. At the end of that time he asked what I wanted for the work. I did not know so he gave me $25.00 in shin plasters. It was Grocers Bank, Bangor, Maine money. All of the money here was then.

As soon as I got it, I hiked out for St. Anthony, where I took to building 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 log cabin while it was building and I boarded with them there. I also built the mill at Elk River.

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

I helped build the Governor Ramsey which plied above the Falls and up the river. She was loaded with passengers each trip going to look over sites for homes. I also helped build the H. M. Rice. After the railroad was built, these boats were moved on land over the Falls and taken by river 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 the Exposition Building on the river bank. All butter and supplies of that nature were brought a long distance and were not in the best of condition when received, so this messhouse was called by the boarders, "The Soap Grease Exchange," and this was the only appellation it was known by in old St. Anthony.

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

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

Mr. Welles ran for Mayor and, as there was no opposition, the before mentioned wags decided to have some. A colored man, called Banks, had a barbershop that stood up on blocks. The boys told him he must run for Mayor in opposition. They told him he must have a speech, so taught him one which said, "Down, Down, Down!" and he was to stand in the door and deliver this. Just as he got to the last "Down" these wags put some timbers 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 worth while.

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

I remember seeing tame buffalo hitched to the Red River carts. They seemed 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 today and dark colored. The most carts I remember having seen passing along at one time, was about one hundred. These carts were not infrequently drawn by cows. The drivers were very swarthy, generally dressed in buckskin with a bright colored knit sash about the waist and a coonskin cap with a tail hanging down behind or a broad brimmed hat.

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

Among them Indians was Ed, the greatest thief of all. He had been for years at a school in Chicago and had been their finest scholar. The Indians were all making dugout canoes and found it hard with their tools. I had a fine adz and Ed stole it. I could not make him bring it back. I used to feed the chief well and one day I told him Ed had stolen my adz. He said, "I make him bring it back." Sure enough, the next day at dusk Ed sneaked up and thinking no one was looking, threw it in a pile 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 to Princeton to get some things, so I started. I had to pass a camp of those dirty Winnebagoes. They had trees across for frames and probably two hundred deer frozen and hanging there. I was sneaking by, but the old 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. I had 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 a horn spoon and all ate out of the kettle. They gave me a spoon and I started in to eat. I did not touch it but poured it inside my inside coat for a couple of times. When I left the chief went and picked out one of the thinnest, poorest pieces of venison there was and insisted on my taking it. I was disgusted but did not dare refuse. A short distance away, I threw it in the snow which was about two feet deep off the trail. Shortly afterward I met the chief's son and was frightened, for I thought he would notice the hole and find what I had done. I watched him, but he was too drunk to notice and as it soon began to snow, I was safe. I guess the dogs got it.

Mrs. James McMullen--1849.

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

When we first built our house I wanted a garden. My brother said, "You might as well plant seeds on the seashore," but we did plant them and I never had seen such green stuff. I measured one pumpkin vine and it was thirty feet long.

Whenever the Red River carts came by, I used to tie the dog to the doorlatch. I did not want any calls from such rough looking men as they were. Those carts would go squawking by all day. Later they used to camp where the Winslow house was built. There would be large numbers there, a regular village. Once when I was driving with Mr. McMullen, one of them stopped 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. I lived near enough to hear them yell, "To Hell mit Henry Siblee--Hurrah for Louis Robert." If those inside did not like the way the vote was to be cast, they would seize the voter and out the back window he would come feet first, striking on the soft sand. This would continue until the voter ceased to return or those inside got too drunk or tired to throw him out. The town was always full of rough lumberjacks at these early elections and for the day they run the town.

I used always to make twenty-one pies a week. One for every meal. I had two boarders who were friends of ours. Not that I wanted boarders, but these men had to stay somewhere and there was no somewhere for them to stay. Each took her friends to help them out. I was not very strong and cooking was hard on me. There was no one to hire to work. After a very hot day's work, I was sick and did not come down to breakfast. One of the boarders was not working. I came down late and got my breakfast. I set half of a berry pie on the table and went to get the rest of the things. When I came back, it was in the cupboard. The boarder sat reading. I thought I had forgotten and had not put it on, so set it on again and went for the tea. When I came back again, the pie was again in the cupboard and the boarder still studying the almanac. I said, "What are you doing to that pie?" He said, "Keeping it from being et! After this you make seven pies instead of twenty-one and other things the same and you won't be all wore out, we'll only have them for dinner," and so it was. I suppose there were more pies on the breakfast tables of that little village of St. Anthony than there would be now at that meal in the 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 and every time that her captain would see a pile of wood that some new settler had cut, he would run ashore, tie up and buy it. A passenger was considered very haughty if he did not take hold and help.

My father built his house partly of lumber hauled from Stillwater, but finished with lumber from here, as the first mill at the foot of First Avenue Southeast was then completed. It had one saw only and so anxious were the settlers for the lumber, that each board was grabbed and walked off with as soon as it came from the saw.

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

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

What is now Elwell's Addition was a swamp. I have run a twelve foot pole down 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. His friend, Mr. Draper, was with him. It was below the Falls where the river had rapids and rocks. They tipped over and were so soaked that St. Paul had to get along that day without them. It was considered a great joke to ask the dominie if he was converted to immersion, now that he practiced it.

The peculiarity of the swamp land in St. Paul was that it was all on a ledge and was only about two feet deep. You could touch rock bottom anywhere 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 what is now Northeast Minneapolis.

I once took my sister over on the logs to pick strawberries on the end of what is now Eastman Island. They were large, very plentiful and sweet. Almost every tree that grew anywhere in the new territory grew there. 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 a little storehouse for supplies for the woods, across from our home on the corner of Third Avenue and Second Street, Southeast. A school house was much needed so they cleared this out and Miss Backus taught the first school there. It was also used for Methodist preachin'. Our first aid society was held there in '49.

I well remember the first Fourth of July celebration in 1849. The women found there was no flag so knew one must be made. They procured the materials from Fort Snelling and the flag was made in Mrs. Godfrey's house. Those working on it were Mrs. Caleb Dorr, Mrs. Lucien Parker, Misses Julia and Margaret Farnham, Mrs. Godfrey and myself. I cut all the stars. Mr. William Marshall who had a small general store was orator and no one could do better. That reminds me of that little store. I just thought I'd laugh out loud the first time I went in there. There were packs of furs, all kinds of Indian work, hats and caps, tallow dips and more elegant candles, a beautiful piece of delaine for white women and shoddy bright stuff for the squaws, a barrel of rounds of pork most used up, but no flour, that was all gone. There was a man's shawl, too, kind of draped up. You know men wore shawls in them days; some hulled corn the Indians done, too, I saw. But to return to that first Fourth--it seemed a good deal like a Farnham Fourth, for the music which was just soul stirrin' was sung by them and the Gould boys. When the Farnhams all got out, it made a pretty big crowd for them days. Perhaps their voices wan't what you call trained, but they had melody. Seems to me nowadays some 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 like birds. Old Doctor Kingsley played the bass viol so it was soul stirrin' too. Margaret Farnham, the president of our first aid society married a Hildreth--Julia a Dickerson.

In '49 my husband paid a ten cent shin plaster for three little apples no bigger than crabs. I tried to make these last a long time by just taking a bite now and then, but of course, they couldn't hold out forever.

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 travelers on board the boat were Mr. and Mrs. Lyman Dayton and a brother of Goodhue, the Editor of the Pioneer Weekly Newspaper. The principal, if not the only hotel at that time, was the Central, a frame building about twenty-four by sixty feet, two stories kept by Robert Kenedy. It was used 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 the river in front of the Central House in conversation with a large robust lumberman who had come out of the woods where he had been all winter logging and was feeling very happy over his prospects. Suddenly he stopped and looking down on the flowing waters of the Mississippi, he exclaimed, "See those logs." A number of logs were coming down with the current. "What mark is on them? My God, that is my mark!--the logs are mine! My boom has broken! I am a ruined man." He went direct to the hotel and died before sun down of cholera, the Doctor said. He was hurriedly buried and there was a cholera panic in St. Paul. The next day while walking in front of the hotel, Mrs. Dayton called from an open window excitedly to me, "Come and help me quick. Mr. Baker has the cholera!" (Mr. Baker was a boarder at the Central and a school teacher at that time.) Mrs. Dayton was frightened and said she had given him all the brandy she had and must have some more. I got more brandy and she insisted on his taking it, altho' he was then drunk. He recovered next day and I have never heard of a case of cholera in Minnesota since that time.

I hired a little board shack about twelve by sixteen feet at the Northeast corner of Third and Roberts Streets, St. Paul, and put out my sign as Attorney and Counselor at Law, but soon discovered there was little law business in St. Paul, not enough to sustain the lawyers already there and more coming with every boat. My business did not pay the monthly rent, $9.00, so I rented a large house on the southwest corner and started a shop selling books and stationery, and in this succeeded in making a living.

On the 22nd day of July '50, a number of citizens of St. Paul and some travelers chartered a little stern wheel steamboat, the Yankee, and intended to explore the St. Peter River, now the Minnesota, if possible to its source, Big Stone Lake. We invited the ladies who wished to go, promising them music and dancing. A merry time was anticipated and we were eager to see the fertile valley, knowing it was to be purchased of the Indians and opened for settlement to the frontier settlers. The passengers were men mostly, but enough women went to form three or four cotillion sets. The clergy was represented by Rev. Edward Duffield Neill; the medical fraternity by Dr. Potts; statesmen by one who had been an Aide to General Harrison and later Ambassador to Russia; another was 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 his post at the mouth of Little Cottonwood. He was noted for his linguistic ability and attainments and could acquire a talking acquaintance with an Indian language if given a day or two opportunity; another was a noted Winnebago half breed, Baptiste, whose Indian dress and habits attracted much attention.

As we entered the sluggish current of the St. Peters at Mendota, the stream was nearly bank full and it seemed like navigating a crooked canal. The first stop was at an Indian village, fifteen or twenty miles from the Mississippi, called Shakopee, or Little Six village. Our boat attracted a crowd of all kinds and conditions of Indian village population, not omitting Little Six who claimed toll for permission to navigate his river. His noisy demand was settled by the trader by some trifling presents, including some whiskey and we proceeded on our voyage up the river. The next stop was at Traverse des Sioux. Here there was a Missionary station in charge of Mr. Hopkins, from whom we bought the rails of an old fence for fuel. Next we landed at a beautiful level grassy meadow called Belle Prairie, where we tried to have a dance. The next 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 the passengers wandered about the grove while the boat hands were cutting and carrying the wood. Leaving the Blue Earth we slowly ascended the stream, hoping to arrive at the Cottonwood where La Framboise promised some fuel for the boat, but night overtook us and Captain Harris tied up to the bank and announced the voyage ended for want of fuel and that early in the morning he would return. Millions of mosquitoes invaded the boat. Sleep was impossible. A smudge was kept up in the cabin which gave little relief and in the morning all were anxious to return. I stationed myself on the upper deck of the boat with watch and compass open before me and tried to map the very irregular course of the river. It was approximately correct and was turned over to a map publisher in New York or 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 Mississippi River, ten miles Northwest of St. Paul. I crossed the river to the west side in a birch bark canoe, navigated by Tapper, the ferryman for many years 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 Fort Snelling and measured the retrocession of the fall by the fresh break of the rock from the water race way and found it had gone back one hundred and three feet which seemed very extraordinary until examination disclosed 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 it was a territory. He was the "Great Trader" of the Indians, a partner of the American Fur Co., and adopted into the Sioux Tribe or nation, the language of which spoke as well or better than the Indians. He told me that Little Crow, the chief of the Kaposia Band of Sioux, located on the west side of the Mississippi river, six miles below St. Paul, was a man of unusual ability and discernment, who had chivalric ideas of his duty and that of others. As an instance he told me the following story. A medium of the tribe had a dream or vision and announced that he would guide and direct two young members of the tribe, who were desirous of winning the right to wear an eagle's feather, as the sign to all that they had killed and scalped an enemy, to the place where this would be consummated. He conditioned that if they would agree to obey him implicitly, they would succeed and return safely home to their village with their trophies. Little Crow's eldest son, a friend of the whites, much beloved by all, and another young man were interested in the venture. He took them into the Chippewa country. They concealed themselves in some dense bushes along a trail used by the Chippewas traveling from camp to camp. Instructions were given that they should fire from cover and on no account show themselves or pursue the Chippewa. They awaited silently in their ambush until two Chippewas came unsuspectedly along the path. When opposite, the Sioux boys fired and the Chippewa in the lead fell dead. The one in the rear fled with his gun over his shoulder and was pursued instantly by young Little Crow with tomahawk in hand. The Chippewa discharged his gun backward as he ran and killed the young man as he was about to bury his tomahawk in the Chippewa's brain. Little Crow's comrade took the scalp of the dead Chippewa, returned to Kaposia, reported to Little Crow the death of his son and that his body had been left where he fell. Little Crow at once summoned 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 the Chippewa country in sitting position against a large tree; laid across his knees the best double barreled gun in the tribe and left the body in the enemies' country. When he came to Mendota and reported the facts to the "Great Trader," Sibley said, "Little Crow, why did you give your best gun and fine blankets and all that your tribe prize so highly to the Chippewas. Your son was dead; why leave his body to his enemies." Little Crow replied, "He was killed in the enemies' country and according to the custom of Indian warfare his enemies were entitled to his scalp; therefore I left his body. I left the gun and blankets that they might know they had killed a man of distinction."

Some years subsequently, Little Crow came to his death by carelessness on returning from a duck hunting expedition. Having stepped ashore from his 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. He was carried to his tent and sent a message to Sibley to come to him and bring with him the surgeon then stationed at Fort Snelling. When they arrived he said, "First I will see the surgeon," to whom he said, "I am not afraid of death. Examine my wound and tell me truly if there is a chance for life." The surgeon told him he had no possible chance for recovery; that he could do nothing but give him some medicine to relieve the pain. "For that I care not. I will now talk with the 'Great Trader,'" to whom he said, "My friend, I wish you to be present while I talk 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 of the 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 the tribe. I thought it would have been the duty of your older brother, who was a good boy in whom I trusted and who I hoped would prove a good leader to the people, but he is dead, and I also must die, and leave you to 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 to you and to advise you in all matters of interest to the tribe, and I wish you to take heed to his advice; he is my friend and the friend of my people and in all matters of importance I desire you to listen to his advice and follow his directions. Especially, I charge you never to quarrel with the whites. You may go now my son, and remember what I have said to you."

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

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

Joseph R. Brown had a trading post on Gray Cloud Island, sixteen miles below St. Paul and was a Justice of the Peace with unlimited jurisdiction. Pigs Eye, an old toughened voyageur and a young fellow, both claimed the same quarter section of land and agreed to refer their quarrel to Brown. Accordingly both appeared at his place on Gray Cloud and stated their cases to Brown. Brown knowing that he had no jurisdiction over land titles and seeing an opportunity for a joke, informed them that the one who first put up a notice that he would write and give them, would be entitled to possess the land. They must strip for the race and he would give them a fair start, which accordingly he did, by marking a line and causing them to toe the line, and then solemnly giving the word "Go" started the sixteen mile race and retired to his cabin to enjoy the joke. The young man started off at his best speed, thinking he had an easy victory before him, but the experienced old Pigs Eye, knowing it was a sixteen mile race took a stride he could keep up to the end and placed his notice first on the property; hence the first name of St. Paul was Pigs Eye. The second and real name was given by the Missionary Priest, Father Gaultier, who told me that having occasion to publish the marriage notice of Vitale Guerin, he had to give the little log confessional on the hill some name, and as St. Croix and St. Anthony and St. Peter had been honored in this neighborhood, he thought St. Paul should receive the distinction.

Mr. Reuben Robinson--1850.

Mr. Reuben Robinson, ninety-five years old, says: I came to St. Anthony and worked at the mill near St. Anthony Falls. A fine bathing place had been discovered near the mill and was much used by the few women and men of St. Anthony who came over in boats for the purpose. One day when I was at work I heard hollering and thought someone must have gone beyond his depth. I went out and looked around, saw nobody, but still heard the calling. I finally looked at a pile of logs near the Falls and there saw a man who was calling for help. I threw a rope to him several times which 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 on his head although it was so wet that the green band had run into the straw. No trace of his boat was ever found. As soon as he landed, he took a whiskey flask from his pocket and took a long pull, which disgusted me very much. I discovered that these long pulls were what was accountable for his trouble, as he had taken a boat when he was drunk and 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 deep hole where the old road had been, a big scantling stuck up with these words painted on it, "They leave all hope who enter here."

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

When I was in the Indian war, one of the Indian scouts showed me how to find the Indians' underground store houses. Only an Indian could find these. The soldiers had hunted for days without success, but the Indian succeeded in a short time and found a community store house holding several hundred bushels of corn. This was six feet under the ground and looked exactly like the rest of the ground except that in the center a small 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 I was always coughing. After I was married my wife induced me to take the water cure. She kept me wrapped in wet sheets for several days. At the end of that time an abscess of the lungs was relieved and my cough was cured. 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 dollars worth of fishing tackle and a gun, also quantities of cartridges. I never 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 and fancy 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 those days.

They were paying the Sioux Indians at Red Wing. A noble looking chief in a white blanket colored band with eagles' feathers colored and beautifully worked buckskin shirt, leggings and moccasins was among them. 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 the year before and had a block house where Troutmere now is, four miles from 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 one end of a double block house and school was held in the other end. Our first teacher in '51 and '52 was Susie Thompson. There were thirty-five scholars from St. Croix Falls and our own town. Boats came up the river to 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 on them. The fire was directly under them. My mother brought a crane that was a part of andirons, with her, but we never used that.

I was married when I was sixteen. My husband built a house the next year. The shingles were made by hand and lasted forty years. The enamel paint came from St. Louis and was as good as new fifty years afterward. The paper, too, which was a white background with long columns with flowers 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 first remember it.

In '52 I saw a party of Chippewa Indians hiding in the rough ground near Taylor's Falls. They said they were going to fight the Sioux. Some white men came and drove them away. They killed a Chippewa. A Sioux warrior, looking for Chippewa scalps found the dead Indian, skinned his whole head 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 du Lac. It went through Stillwater and Sunrise Prairie, too. I used to watch it as the Indians passed back and forth on it and wish I could go to 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 four with a circle of fours all around the room, and many other old style dances, too. We put in all the pretty fancy steps in the cotillion. No prettier sight could be than a young girl, with arms circled above her head, jigging on the corners.

My wedding dress was a white muslin, made very full around the bottom and plaited in at the waist. My traveling dress was made the same. It was a brown and white shepherd check and had eight breadths of twenty-seven inch silk. That silk was in constant wear for fifty years and if it was not all cut up, would be just as good today. My shoes were brown cloth to match and had five or six buttons. I had another pair that laced on the outside. Nothing has ever fitted the foot like those side-lace shoes. My traveling cape was of black net with bands of silk--very ample looking. I wore a white straw bonnet trimmed with lavender. The strings were white lute-string and the flowers in front of the flaring rim were small and dainty looking. There was a wreath of them on the crown too. When I tied this bonnet on, I felt very grown up for 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 before our windows watching everything we did. In time we were as calm with those glittering black eyes on us as we would have been if a gentle old cow had been looking in.

Mrs. Rufus Farnham--1850.

I moved to the farm on what is now Lyndale Avenue North, sixty-four years ago. The Red River carts used to pass along between my home and the river, but I was always holding a baby under one arm and drawing water from the well, so could not tell which way they went. I only saw them when they were straight in front of me. Women in those days never had time to look at anything but work.

Sugar came in a large cone. It was cracked off when needed. When purchased, a blue paper was wrapped around it. This when boiled, made a dye 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 way in '56 that still retains its color. Later I paid 50c for three teacups of sugar. This just filled a sugar bowl.

My mother used to live on First Street North. Once when I was spending the day with her a dog sled from Fort Garry, now Winnipeg, passed the house. There were never many of these after we came for it seemed that the Red River carts had taken their places. There were six dogs to this team. They laid down and hollered just in front of the house. I suppose they were all tired out. The half breed driver took his long rawhide whip and give them a few cracks and they got up and went whimpering on to 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 and from the fort, while it took the carts many weeks. The drivers would have suits of skin with the hair inside. They never forgot a bright colored sash. A bridal couple came with a dog team once, after I moved here, 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, then set it aside to sour. When it was thoroughly sour, I put in my saleratus, shortening and flour enough to make it stiff. It took judgment to make this bread, but everyone thought there was nothing like it.

Captain John Van der Horck--1850.

I always relied on an Indian just as I did on a white man and never found my confidence misplaced. I often went hunting with them on the sloughs out of St. Paul. Game was very plentiful. My Indian companion and I would both have a gun. He would paddle the frail canoe. We would see the game. "Bang!" would go my gun. "Bang!" would go his. I would be loading while he was shooting. All game was plenty, plenty.

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

There were such mighty flocks of ducks and geese in season that their flight would sound like a train of cars does now. Once I went deer hunting and saw six does. They turned their beautiful faces towards me and 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 in a small house belonging to the government, but my father and he added two more rooms so we could stay with them. In the spring my father took up land and built a house down by the river not far from the Minnehaha Falls. He began to work on the Godfrey mill at Minnehaha. My mother was very 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 were always around. Timber wolves, too, were always skulking around and following the men, but I never knew them to hurt anyone. Father said it used to make even him nervous to have them keep so near him. They would be right close up to him, as close as a dog would be. He always took a lively gait and kept it all the time. One night father was a little late and mother had seen more terrifying things than usual during the day, so she was just about ready to fly. She always hated whip-poor-wills for she said they were such lonesome feeling things. This night she stood peering out, listening intently. Then she, who had tried so hard to be brave, broke into wild lamentations, saying, she knew the wolves or Indians had killed father and she would never see him again. My grandmother tried to calm her, but she would not be comforted until father came, then he had a great time getting her settled down. She said the whip-poor-wills seemed to say as she looked out in the blackness of the night, "Oh, he's killed--Oh, he's killed." What these timid town bred women, used to all the comforts of civilization, suffered as pioneers, can never be fully understood. After that, whenever father was late, little as I was, and I was only four, I knew what mother was going through 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. We thought 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 gave them all we had but when they ate it all up they demanded more. We were much frightened, but they did not hurt us. Father used to tap the maple trees, but we could not get any sap for the Indians drank it all. That winter we lived a week on nothing but potatoes.