making their way to the river. I halted him and asked him what he was
going back for. You see we met few "turnouts" on the road for all were
going the same way.
"Well," said he, "I'm homesick--homesick as a dog and I'm going back
east if I live to get there." "Why what's the matter with the west?" I
asked. "Oh nothing, only it's too blamed fur from God's country and I
got to hankering fer codfish--and I'm agoin' where it is. Go lang!" and
he moved on. I guess he was homesick. He looked, and he talked it and
the whole outfit said it plain enough. You can't argue with
homesickness--never.
Arnold Stone and his good wife lived up there on the hill. One day in
the early 60's an Indian appeared in Mrs. Stone's kitchen and asked for
something to eat. They were just sitting down to dinner and he was
invited 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 it
gets 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 Stillwater
and St. Anthony, but finally decided to locate at the Great Bend of the
Minnesota River. We landed about four o'clock in the morning, and father
took us to a little shack he had built on the brow of the hill west of
Front Street near the place where the old Tourtelotte Hospital used to
be. Back of this shack, at a distance of a couple of blocks were twenty
Indian tepees, which were known as Wauqaucauthah's Band. As nearly as I
can remember there were nine families here at that time and their names
were 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 by
popular subscription and was on the site of the present Union School on
Broad Street. It was a log structure of one room, and in the middle of
this room was a large, square, iron stove. The pupils sat around the
room facing the four walls, the desks being wide boards, projecting out
from the walls. Miss Sarah Jane Hanna was my first teacher. I came from
my home across the prairie, through the snow in the bitter cold of the
winter. Oftentimes I broke through the crust of the snow and had a hard
time getting out. One of the incidents I remember well while going to
school, was about a young Indian whom we called Josh, who pretended he
was very anxious to learn English. Most every day he would come to the
school, peer in at the windows, shade his eyes with his hand and mutter
"A" "B" "C", which would frighten us very much. The education the
children received in those days had to be paid for either by their
parents or by someone else who picked out a child and paid for his or
her tuition. That was how I received my education. My parents were too
poor to pay for mine, and a man in town, who had no children volunteered
to pay for same. I went to school for a few years on this man's
subscription.
The first winter was a very cold one and although we were not bothered
much by the Indians as yet, they often came begging for something to
eat.
Although the Indians had never harmed us we were afraid of them. When we
came to this country we brought a dog, and when these Indians came
begging we took the dog into the house with us and placed him beside the
door, where his barking and growling soon frightened them away. They
seemed afraid of dogs, as there were very few in this country at that
time. One time when father was on his way home he saw an Indian boy who
had been thrown from his horse. He picked him up and put him back on his
horse and took him to his tepee. Later this same Indian remembered my
father's kindness to him by warning us that the Indians were planning an
uprising 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 carry
the mail, they having previously contracted with the government. He was
to carry the mail from Mankato to Sioux City and return. He made his
first trip in the summer of 1856. The trip took about three weeks. He
made several trips during the summer. His last trip was in the fall of
1856, when he started from here to Sioux City. The government was
supposed to have built shacks along his route at regular intervals of
about twenty miles, where he could rest and seek shelter during cold
weather and storms, but this had been neglected. He often slept under
hay stacks, and wherever shelter was afforded.
On his way to Sioux City he encountered some very severe weather, and
froze one of his sides. The lady where he stopped in Sioux City wanted
him to stay there for a while before returning home, and until his side
had been treated and he had recovered, but he would not have it so, and
started on his return trip during exceedingly cold weather. He did not
return on schedule time from Sioux City on this trip, and mother became
very much worried about him. She went to the men who had contracted with
father 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 contented
mother for awhile, but as father did not return she again went to these
men and this time they sent out three men with a horse and cutter to
look for him.
After traveling over the route for some time they came to a shack on the
Des Moines river, near where Jackson, this state, now is and in this
shack they found my father, badly frozen and barely alive. He lived but
a few moments after shaking hands with the men who found him. They
brought the body back to Mankato and he was buried out near our place of
residence, at the foot of the hill. The weather was so extremely cold at
that time that the family could not go out to the burial.
Later, after I was married, myself and husband came down to what is now
the central part of town for the purpose of buying a lot for building a
home, and we selected the lot where I now live, at the corner of Walnut
and Broad streets. We purchased the same for $487. We could have had any
lot above this one for $200, but selected this for the reason that it
was high. The country around us was all timber and we had no sidewalks
or streets laid out at that time.
At the time of the Indian outbreak I lived on what is now Washington
street, directly across from where the German Lutheran school now
stands. The Indians started their outbreaks during the Civil war. They
started their massacres in this neighborhood in July and August of 1862.
I can distinctly remember seeing, while standing in the doorway of my
home, a band of Indians coming over the hill. This was Little Priest and
his band of Winnebagoes. These Winnebagoes professed to be friendly to
the white people and hostile to the Sioux. They claimed that a Sioux had
married a Winnebago maiden, and for that reason they were enemies to the
Sioux. To prove that they were their enemies they stalked the Sioux who
had married a maid of one of their tribes and murdered him, bringing
back to show us his tongue, heart, and scalp, and also dipped their
hands 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 loaded
with freight bound for St. Paul was the first boat to get through Lake
Pepin in the spring of 1853. The journey from Dubuque up was full of
interest, but although on either side of the Mississippi the Indians were
the chief inhabitants, nothing of exciting nature occurred until Pigseye
Bar on which was Kaposia, the village of the never-to-be-forgotten Little
Crow was reached. Then as the engines were slowed down to make the landing
a sight met our gaze that startled even the captain. The whole village of
several hundred Indians was in sight and a most frightful sight it was.
Everyone young and old was running about crying, wailing, with faces
painted black and white. They did not seem even to see the big steamer. It
was such an appalling spectacle that the captain deemed it best not to
land, but there were two men on board, residents of St. Paul returning from
St. Louis who got into a boat and went ashore.
They learned that there had been a fight in St. Paul the day before
between this band of Sioux and a party of Chippewas in which one of the
Sioux was killed and several wounded. It was not a very pleasant thing
to 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 of
them Sister Victorine, a sister of Mrs. Louis Robert. They all fell on
their knees and prayed and wept and they were not the only ones who wept
either. There were many white faces and no one seemed at ease.
I remember my mother saying to my father, "Oh Thomas, why did we bring
these children into this wild place where there can be an Indian fight
in the biggest town and only ten miles from a fort at that."
The excitement had not subsided when St. Paul was reached, but the first
man that came on board as the boat touched the landing was my mother's
brother, Mr. W. W. Paddock. The sight of him seemed to drive away some
of the fear, as he was smiling and made light of the incident of the day
before. He took us up to the Old Merchants' Hotel, then a large rambling
log 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 yard
of our hotel, an immense yard of a whole block, filled with huge logs
drawn there through the winter for the year's fuel.
The morning of the fight, a party of Chippewas coming into St. Paul from
the bluffs saw the Sioux in canoes rounding the bend below and knowing
they would come up Third Street from their landing place, just below
Forbes' Store and exactly opposite the hotel, the Chippewas made haste
to hide behind the logs, and wait the coming of the Sioux.
The landlady, Mrs. Kate Wells, was standing on one of the logs, hanging
up some clothes on a line. Frightened almost to death at the sight of
the Indians running into the yard and hiding behind the logs, she jumped
down and started to run into the house. Instantly she was made to
understand she could not go inside. The Indians pointed their guns at
her, and motioned her to get down behind the logs out of sight, which
she did and none too soon, as just then the Sioux came in sight and were
met by a most deadly fusilade that killed Old Peg Leg Jim and wounded
many others. Some of the Sioux took refuge in Forbes store and opened
fire on any Chippewa who left his hiding place. Pretty soon the
inhabitants began to come into hailing distance and the Chippewas
concluded to beat a hasty retreat but not before they had taken Old
Jim's scalp. When the Sioux ran into Forbes store, the clerk, thinking
his time had come, raised a window and taking hold of the sill, let
himself 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 white
man knew of and no opportunity was ever lost to take the scalp of a
fallen foe.
The Indians mourn for the dead but doubly so if they have lost their
scalps, as scalpless Sioux cannot enter the Happy Hunting Grounds.
One of the things about this same trip of the old Nominee was the fact
that almost every citizen of St. Paul came down to see this welcome
messenger of spring.
Provisions had become very scarce and barrels of eggs and boxes of
crackers and barrels of hams, in fact almost everything eatable was
rolled out on the land and sold at once. It didn't take long to empty a
barrel 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 from
Ohio. My father, George Maxfield and his family and my uncle, James
Hanna and family and friend, Basil Moreland, from Quincy, Ill. We took
the Ohio River steam boat at Cincinnati. Somewhere along the river we
bought a cow. This cow started very much against her better judgment and
after several days on the boat decided she wouldn't go west after all
and in some way jumped off the boat and made for the shore. We did not
discover her retreat until she had reached the high bank along the river
and amid great excitement the boat was turned around and everybody
landed 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 the
settlement that first summer. She went dry during the winter and not a
drop of milk could be had for love or money in the town.
The want of salt bothered the pioneers more than anything else. Game
abounded. Buffalo herds sometimes came near and deer often came through
the settlement on the way to the river to drink. The streams were full
of fish, but we could not enjoy any of these things without salt.
However, our family did not suffer as much inconvenience as some others
did. 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 the
winter. Sometimes flour would be as high as $24 a barrel. During the
summer when the water was low and in the winter when the river was
frozen and the boats could not come down from St. Paul, the storekeepers
could charge any price they could get.
Our family had a year's supply of groceries that father had bought at
St. Louis on the way up. We had plenty of bedding and about sixty yards
of ingrain carpet that was used as a partition in our house for a long
time. 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 only
clock.
There were only a few houses in Mankato and the only thing we could find
to live in was the frame of a warehouse that Minard Mills had just begun
to build on the south end of the levee, where Otto's grocery store now
stands. My uncle purchased the building and we put a roof on and moved
in. We were a family of twenty-one and I remember to this day the awful
stack of dishes we had to wash after each meal. A frame addition was put
along side of the building and in July my cousin, Sarah J. Hanna (later
Mrs. 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 wide
was withdrawn from civilization and given as a reservation to two
thousand Winnebago Indians who took possession in June of that year
against the vigorous protest of the people. Everyone in the town was
down to see them come in. The river was full of their canoes for two or
three days. As soon as they landed, the Indians began the erection of a
rude shelter on the levee of poles and bark, perhaps twenty feet long
and twelve feet wide. The squaws were all busy cooking some kind of meat
and a cake something like a pancake. We soon discovered that they were
preparing a feast for the Sioux who had come down in large numbers from
Fort Ridgely which was near New Ulm to meet them. After the shelter was
finished the feast began. Blankets were spread on the ground and rows of
wooden bowls were placed before the Indians, one bowl to about three
Indians. The cakes were broken up and placed near the bowls. After the
feast was over, the peace-pipe was passed and the speaking began. The
first speaker was a Sioux chief, evidently delivering an address of
welcome. He was followed by several others all very dignified and
impressive.
We had heard that the Sioux would give a return feast on the next day
and when we got tired of watching the speakers, we went down to the
Sioux wigwams to see what was going on there and found an old Indian
squatting before the fire. Dog meat seemed to be the main article of
food. Evidently it was to be a ceremonial feast for he had a large
supply of dog beside him on the ground and was holding one over the
fire to singe the hair off. When we came near, he deftly cut off an ear
and offered it to me with a very fierce look. When I refused it, he
laughed 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 a
squaw dance across the river. It was in the spring, just as the snow was
beginning to melt. We found about twenty-five squaws dancing around in a
circle and making a fearful noise in their high squealing voices. They
danced in the same way that the Indians did, and I had never seen any
other form of dancing among them. They were wearing moccasins and were
tramping around in the water. The Indians were sitting on logs watching
them. One was pounding on a tom-tom.
One day when we were eating dinner, about twenty-five Indians came to
the house and looked in the window. They always did that and then would
walk in without knocking. They squatted down on the floor until dinner
was 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 pushed
their feet, held close together over the floor and came down very
heavily on their heels. There were so many of them that the house fairly
rocked. Each Indian keeps up a hideous noise and that with the beating
of the tom-tom makes a din hard to describe. The tom-tom is a dried skin
drawn tightly over a hoop and they beat on this with a stick. After they
were through dancing they asked for a pail of sweetened water and some
bread which they passed around and ate. This bread and sweetened water
was all they asked for. It is a part of the ceremony, although they
would take anything they could get.
The Sioux were the hereditary foes of the Chippewas who lived near the
head waters of the Mississippi and during this summer about three
hundred Sioux on their way to Fort Ridgely where they were to receive
their annuity, pitched their wigwams near our house. They had been on
the war path and had taken a lot of Chippewa scalps and around these
bloody trophies they held a savage scalp dance. We children were not
allowed to go near as the howling, hooting and yelling frightened
everybody. It continued for three nights and the whole settlement was
relieved when they went away.
Mrs. A. M. Pfeffer--1858.
My father, Miner Porter had been closely connected with the early
history of Fox Lake, Wis. He had conducted the leading hotel and store
for years, was Postmaster, and did much by his enterprise and liberality
for the town. He went to bed a wealthy man and awoke one morning to find
everything but a small stock of merchandise swept away by the State Bank
failures of that state. Selling that, he came to Mankato in 1857 and
pre-empted a tract of land near Minneopa Falls, now our State Park. It
was one half mile from South Bend, located on the big bend of the
Minnesota River.
The following year, 1858 father started to build on our claim. There
were sawmills in our vicinity where black walnut and butternut for the
inside finishing could be bought, but the pine that was needed for the
other part of the building had to be hauled from St. Paul by team. It
took all summer to get the lumber down.
After our house was finished it came to be the stopping place for
lodging and breakfast for settlers traveling over the territorial road
towards Winnebago and Blue Earth City.
Pigeon Hill, a mile beyond our house was used as a camping ground for
the Sioux all of that winter. We could see the smoke from their
campfires curling up over the hill, although they were supposed to stay
on their reservation at Fort Ridgely they were constantly coming and
going and they and the Winnebagoes roved at will over the entire
country.
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 eyes
was 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 encounter
with the Sioux and had fled in terror to our house. After much
persuasion, father induced them to leave the house and go down to a
small pond where the timber was very heavy and they remained in hiding
for two days. We were in constant terror of the Sioux. All the settlers
knew they were a blood thirsty lot and often an alarm would be sent
around that the Sioux were surrounding the settlement. Mother would take
us children and hurry to the old stone mill at South Bend, where we
would spend the night.
They became more and more troublesome until father thought it unsafe to
remain 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 a
pretty poverty stricken country then. The panic they had in November
1857 had struck this country a very hard blow. It stopped immigration.
Previous to this panic they had good times and had gone into debt
heavily, expecting to have good times right along. Everyone was badly in
debt and money was hard to get. Currency consisted of old guns, town
lots, basswood lumber, etc. These things were traded for goods and
groceries. Money was loaned at three to five per cent per month, or
thirty-six to sixty per cent per year. I knew of people who paid sixty
per cent a year for a short time. Three per cent a month was a common
interest. I hired money at that myself.
The farmers had not developed their farms much at that time. A farmer
who had twenty to twenty-five acres under plow was considered a big
farmer in those days. The summer of 1858 was a very disastrous,
unprofitable one. It commenced very wet and kept raining during the
summer until North Mankato was all under water and the river in places
was 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 to
blight, ruining the crop. Wheat at this time was worth from $2 to $3 per
bushel. A great many of the farmers did not cut their grain because
there was nothing in it for them. The man where I boarded cut his grain
but he had little or nothing, and that which he did get was soft and
smutty. He took the same to be ground into flour and the bread the flour
made was almost black, as they did not at that time have mills to take
out the smut.
The people in the best condition financially were mighty glad if they
had Johnny cake, pork and potatoes and milk and when they had these they
thought they were on the "top shelf."
At this time too, they had to watch their fields with guns, or protect
them with scarecrows and have the children watch them to keep them clear
from the blackbirds, which were an awful pest. There were millions of
these birds and there was not a time of day when they were not hovering
over the fields. These birds would alight in the corn fields, tear the
husks from the corn and absolutely ruin the ears of corn; also feed on
the 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 when
they would be considerable bother again, by alighting on fields that had
just been sown and taking the seed from the ground. Farmers finally
threw poisoned grain in the fields. This was made by soaking wheat and
oats in a solution of strychnine. It was ten years before these birds
were exterminated enough to make farming a profitable occupation.
Farming was more successful after that, for the reason that these birds
did not need watching. During the summer of 1858 and all during the
summer of 1859 the river was navigable. St. Paul boats came up often and
sometimes a Mississippi boat from St. Louis. We had no railroads in the
state at that time.