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.
Our nearest neighbor was Mrs. Wass. She had two little girls about our
ages. They had come from Ohio. We used to love to go there to play and
often did so. Once when I was four, her little girls had green and white
gingham dresses. I thought them the prettiest things I had ever seen and
probably they were, for we had little. When mother undressed me that
night, two little green and white scraps of cloth fell out of the front
of my little low necked dress. Mother asked at once if Mrs. Wass gave
them to me and I had to answer, "No." "Then," she said, "in the morning
you will have to take them back and tell Mrs. Wass you took them." I
just hated to and cried and cried. In the morning, the first thing, she
took me by the hand and led me to the edge of their plowed field and
made me go on alone. When I got there, Mrs. Wass came out to meet me. I
said, "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 let
me 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 stay
with his wife while he was away. Someone shot him for a black bear. No
person 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 went
right 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 have
made the Indians ugly to use them. Late one afternoon, we saw a big war
party of Sioux coming. They had been in a scrimmage with the Chippewas
and had their wounded with them and many gory scalps, too. We ran
shrieking for the house but only our timid mother and grandmother were
there. The Sioux camped just above the house, and at night had their war
dance. I was only seven years old at the time, but I shall never forget
the awful sight of those dripping scalps and those hollering, whooping
fiends, as they danced. I think they must have been surprised in camp by
the Chippewas for they had wounded squaws, too, with them. One old one
was shot through the mouth. The men were hideously painted. One side of
one's face would be yellow and the other green. It seemed no two were
exactly alike.
One Sunday morning I was barefoot, playing in the yard. There were
bushes around and I heard a queer noise like peas rattling in a box. I
could not see what made it, so finally ran in and told father. He came
out and lifted up a wide board over two stones. He jumped back and
called to me to run in the house, then grabbed an ax and cut the head
off a huge rattlesnake. It had ten rattles. We never saw its mate.
The first school taught in Minneapolis proper was taught by Clara
Tuttle, a niece of Calvin Tuttle, in one of the rooms of the government
log cabin where we were living in '51. The pupils were her cousins. Miss
Tuttle returned to the east the next summer and died of consumption. My
cousin Luella Tuttle, the next year used to go over to St. Anthony to
school, on the logs, jumping from one to the other, rather than wait for
the 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 nose
bleeds. His treatment was to whittle pine plugs and insert them in the
nostrils. It always cured. No matter how poor a patient was, Dr. Ames
always did his best. No child was ever afraid of him. He was very slow
in his movements.
Mrs. Mary Harrison--1850.
I came to Minnesota from Maine. I had never been on the railroad or seen
a train, so when I saw what I thought then was the most awe inspiring
and stupendous mechanism there was ever going to be in the world, I took
my seat with elation and bumped along on that crazy track with the
greatest joy. I took no thought of danger. Now I should want an
insurance of $100,000 to ride a block under those circumstances. The
rails were of wood, with an iron top. I have heard my friends say that
these iron pieces sometimes came up through the floor. We went by water
to 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 building
their first sidewalks then. I can shut my eyes and see those little
narrow walks now. We drove in wagons with boards across for seats from
Milwaukee to Galena. Weren't those seats easy!
Somewhere in Wisconsin we stopped at a little log hotel over night. We
knew that rattlesnakes abounded in this region as we had seen them on
our way. There were holes all around the base of the room. We took off
our petticoats, of which every little girl had several, and stuffed them
in the holes, shaking them carefully the next morning to see that there
were no enquiring friends of the snake tribe rolled up in them.
We took the Nominee at Galena. After the high bluffs began, the scenery
was magnificent. At a trading station called La Crosse, fifty Indians
came on board. One chief in a white blanket I have always remembered. He
was certainly majestic looking. A little two year old tot had his ears
pierced from top to bottom and common wire with three cornered pieces of
shiny tin run through all the places. His eyes were very black, shiny
and bright, but we could not raise a smile from him. That chief was all
porcupine quill and bead embroidery. He was painted, too, as were all
the rest. St. Paul, after we had climbed that awful flight of stairs up
the bluff, looked like a little town that had been left. Our carriage to
St. 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 in
sight, 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 tavern
between the two little towns.