was made Postmaster, Town Treasurer and Justice of the Peace, and all
the town meetings were held there, as well as church and Sunday school.
My father gave five acres down at the creek to a company who erected a
grist mill and the settlers from fifty or sixty miles away would come to
have grain ground and would all stop at our house to board and sleep
while there. Then the house would be so full that we boys would have to
sleep on the floor, or out in the barn or anywhere else we could find a
place.
During our first winter, a party of about fifty Sioux Indians came and
camped in our woods just west of where the Washburn Park water tower now
stands. They put up about twenty tepees, made partly of skins and partly
of canvas. We boys would often go in the evening to visit them and watch
them make moccasins, which we would buy of them. They would often come
to our house to beg for food, but in all the time they remained there
(nearly the whole winter) they committed no depredations, except that
they cut down a great deal of our fine timber, and killed a great
quantity of game, so that when they wanted to come back the next winter,
father would not allow it.
Once after they had gone away, they came back through the farm and went
off somewhere north of us, where they had a battle with the Chippewas.
When they returned, they brought two scalps and held a "pow-wow" on the
side of our hill.
We had a great deal of small game in our woods, and great quantities of
fish in the creek. We used to spear the fish and sometimes would get two
upon our spears at once.
My mother was very fond of dandelion greens, and missed them very much,
as she could find none growing about our place. So she sent back to
Maine for seed and planted them. But I hardly think that the great
quantities we have now are the result of that one importation.
After a few years we had a school at Wood Lake, which is down Lyndale
avenue two or three miles.
Mrs. Mary Pribble--1854.
My father, Hiram Smith arrived in Minnesota Apr. 21, 1854 settling first
in Brooklyn, Hennepin County. My mother followed in July of the same
year, with the family of three children, myself, aged seven, and two
brothers aged two and five years. We arrived in St. Paul July ninth and
my mother, with her usual forethought and thrift, (realizing that before
long navigation would close for the winter and shut off all source of
supplies) laid in a supply of provisions while we were in St. Paul.
Among other things she bought a bag of rice flour which was all the
flour in our colony until April of the next year.
We came by stage to Anoka and were to cross the Mississippi river in a
canoe, to the trading post of Mr. Miles, which was on a high point of
land in what is now Champlin. It was where Elm creek empties into the
Mississippi. But the canoe was too small to carry us all at once and so
I was left on the east shore sitting upon our baggage, to wait for a
return trip. When I finally arrived across the river, there were Indians
gathered at the landing and they touched me on the cheek and called me
"heap pale face."
There was great joy in our little colony when that same autumn my father
discovered a fine cranberry marsh. Much picnicking and picking followed.
My parents secured seven bushel and alloted very much on the winter
supplies that these cranberries would buy when they could send them to
St. Paul, our only market.
Soon one of the neighbors prepared to set out on a trip by ox-team to
St. Paul. The only road at that time was by the Indian trail, which for
several miles was where the county road now leads from Robbinsdale to
Champlin. Then to the ferry at St. Anthony Falls, and so on down the
east side of the river to St. Paul.
My mother had made out a careful list of the real necessities to be
purchased, putting them in the order of the need for them, in case he
would not be able to buy them all.
She knew very well that there would be no possible way to purchase any
new clothing all winter and so the first items on the list were: new
cloth for patches and thread to sew them with. This latter came in
"hanks" then, instead of on spools.
After that came the list of provisions, as seven bushels of cranberries
were expected to buy a great many supplies. How well I remember the joy
upon my mother's face, when those precious cranberries were loaded on
the neighbor's already full wagon and the oxen slowly disappeared down
the old trail! It was a long tedious journey to be made in that way, and
they had many days to wait before they would receive the fruits of that
wonderful wagon load.
Finally the neighbor was back, and came to my mother and said: "Thee
will be disappointed when I tell thee that the last boat left for St.
Louis the day before I arrived in St. Paul. There is not a yard of
cloth or a hank of thread in the town, and I could only get thee three
brooms for thy fine cranberries."
The next spring my father made maple sugar and was able to buy a cow and
six hens from a man who came overland from southern Illinois, driving
several cows and bringing a box of hens, and so we began to live more
comfortably.
In 1856 many people came, and by that time we had school, church and
Sunday school and a lyceum, the pleasures of which I can never forget.
We also had a portable sawmill.
I think it was in the winter of 1855 that an agent, a real live agent,
appeared in our midst to tell us of the remarkable qualities of a new
oil called kerosene. He said if he could be sure of the sale of a
barrel, it would be brought to St. Paul and delivered to any address on
or before Aug. 15. I have the lamp now, in which part of that first
barrel was burned.
Mrs. Edmund Kimball--1855.
My father, Freeman James, left his home in New York state and came to
Hasson, Minn., in 1854. The next year he decided to go after his family
and so wrote my mother to be ready to start in August. My mother got
everything in readiness to start, but for some reason my father was
delayed in getting back home, and my mother, thinking that she had
misunderstood his plans in some way, decided to start anyway, and so she
loaded our belongings on the wagon and we started alone. I was only
eleven years old, and well I remember how great an undertaking it seemed
to me to leave our pleasant home and all my playmates and start without
father on such a long trip. But when we arrived at Dunkirk, where we
took boat to cross Lake Erie, we found father, and so made our journey
without mishap. We arrived by boat in St. Paul in August '55 and started
at once for Hasson, stopping that first night at the home of Mr.
Longfellow, at a place called Long Prairie. We were most cordially
received and found other settlers stopping there for the night too,
which made the house so crowded that they were obliged to make beds on
the sitting room floor for all the children. After we were put in bed,
still another traveler arrived, a man who was expecting his family and
had come part way to meet them. Just for fun the family told him that
his family had arrived and pointed to us children on the floor. He was
overjoyed, and came and turned the covers down to see us. Only for a
moment was he fooled but shook his head and said we were none of his.
I shall never forget the shock I felt at the first view I had of our new
home. It was so different from what we had left behind, that to a child
of my age, it seemed that it was more than I could possibly endure. It
was growing dark and the little log cabin stood in the deep woods, and
the grass was so long in the front yard, it seemed the most lonely place
in the world. And dark as it was, and as long as I knew the way back to
be, I was strongly tempted and half inclined to start right off to my
dear old home. This was all going through my mind while I stopped
outside to look around after the rest had gone in. When they had lighted
one or two candles and I followed them in, the homesick feeling was
increased by the new prospect. My father had evidently left in a great
hurry for every dish in the house was piled dirty upon the table, and
they were all heavy yellow ware, the like of which I had never seen
before. The house had been closed so long that it was full of mice, and
they ran scurrying over everything.
But there was much work to do before we could get the place in order to
go to bed, and it fell to my lot to wash all those dishes, no small task
for an eleven year old girl.
In the morning, when the house was in order and the sun was shining in,
and we could see what father had done to make us comfortable, the place
took on a very different aspect and soon became another dear home.
He had made every piece of the furniture himself. The bed was made of
poles, with strips of bark in place of bedcords, the mattress was of
husks and the pillows of cat-tail down. There were three straight chairs
and a rocking chair with splint bottoms. The splints were made by
peeling small ash poles and then pounding them for some time with some
heavy instrument, when the wood would come off in thin layers. The floor
was of split logs. Father had made some good cupboards for the kitchen
things.
That first year mother was not well and young as I was, I was obliged to
do a great deal of housework. I did the washing and made salt-rising
bread. And one time I surprised the doctor who came to see mother by
making him a very good mustard poultice.
Mr. Frank G. O'Brien--1856.
The Reason I did not Graduate.
In the winter of 1856-57 I worked for my board at the home of "Bill"
Stevens, whose wife was a milliner--the shop, or store, was located a
short distance below where the Pillsbury mill stands, on Main Street.
My duty while there this particular winter, was to take care of the
house and chaperone Lola Stevens, the young daughter to the private
school which was called the "Academy"--the same being the stepping stone
to our great State University.
There were two departments up stairs and two below--hallway in the
center and stairs leading from this hallway to the upper rooms. I do not
recall who were the teachers in the primary department on the lower
floor, but I do remember those on the floor above. Miss Stanton (later
on the wife of D. S. B. Johnston) taught the girls in the east room and
"Daddy" Roe the boys.
I was a pupil of Mr. Roe and Lola of Miss Stanton and were it not that I
was wrongfully accused of making charcoal sketches on the wall of the
hall, I might have been numbered among the charter members of the first
graduating class of the Academy--the forerunner of the State University.
"Daddy" Roe informed the boys at recess time that he was going to flog
the perpetrator of the act--yet, if they would own up, and take a basin
of water and scrub same from the walls, he would spare the rod. The
guilty one, no doubt, held his hand up and gained the attention of Mr.
Roe, and stated that Frank O'Brien did it. I denied it, but it did not
go--yet I being innocent, was determined I would not take the basin from
the teacher's hand; but he forced same upon me and said if it was not
washed off within half an hour, he would give me a severe flogging.
The threat did not prove effective, because I was so worked up over the
affair that when I closed the door to enter the hall, I gave the basin
and its contents a fling down stairs, the sound of which aroused all
four of the departments, while I double quicked it for home--leaving
Lola to reach home as best she could.
I explained matters to Mr. Stevens and had it not been for Mrs. Stevens
and her sister, Miss Jackman, he would have proceeded at once to the
school room and meted out the punishment on "Daddy" Roe which he
intended for me.
Something to Crowe Over.
The little village of St. Anthony had good reason to become elated when
the news spread up and down Main street and was heralded to St. Paul,
that three "Crowes" had perched on the banner of our village during the
early morning of June 26th, 1859, when Mrs. Isaac Crowe gave birth to
three white Crowes, two girls and one boy. The father of these three
birds--wingless, though fairest of the fair, was a prominent attorney of
St. Anthony and one of its aldermen.
Bridge of Size (900 feet long.)
It was while our family resided on the picturesque spot overlooking St.
Anthony's Falls in the year 1857, the "Howe Truss" passenger bridge was
completed from the east to the west side of the Mississippi river, a
short distance down the hill from the State University at a cost of
$52,000.
All went well as a means of traffic and many a dollar was taken in for
toll, but an evil time came to disturb conditions, owing to an over
abundance of rain which came in torrents, which caused the river to rise
to that extent that the logs which followed in the wake of the flood,
acted as a battering ram and proved too much for the structure and great
was the fall thereof. I among others of our family were witnesses of
this event, which took place at eight o'clock on the morning of June
first, 1859.
Mr. Michael Teeter--1857.
Tom and Bill were the first horses which came into Lyle township. They
were fine powerful fellows and created much comment throughout that
section of the country.
Some of my neighbors envied me my prize while others thought that a fool
and his money had easily parted, for I had paid three hundred and forty
dollars for them, and the best yoke of oxen in the country side could be
bought for seventy. But I was well satisfied, for I was able to do my
work and get about quickly. When haste was necessary, Bill and Tom were
pressed into service.
I recall very well one dark rainy night when I was taking a neighbor to
nurse a settler who lived at some distance to the west. So thick was the
darkness that we could never have kept the trail had it not been for the
flashes of vivid lightning. The horses showed so much intelligence
through it all that I finally gave them the lines and they brought us
safely to our destination.
New Year's day, '58 we took the ladies of Otranto village for a
sleigh-ride--not on the snow, for the ground was bare--but on the Red
Cedar river, which was frozen clear and smooth as glass. We fairly flew
over the ice and the home-made sleigh swerved from side to side, as Bill
and Tom took it upon themselves to show off their speed to friends who
were in the habit of riding behind deliberate and stubborn oxen.
Suddenly, without warning, the sleigh tipped and we found ourselves in a
heap, and although there was much shouting and crying, no damage was
done, and the little shaking up tended to make the day memorable.
Another incident that stands out vividly in my mind after all these
years, has no amusing aspect. Late in the fall of '57 I found it
necessary to make a trip to Decorah, Iowa, for supplies of various
kinds. My absence from home was to be shorter than usual on such trips,
for Bill and Tom had endurance as well as speed. All went well during
the journey, and on my return I halted for supper at Little Cedar and
hoped to reach home that evening. When I was ready to start, the tavern
keeper told me that I had better stay the night, for a prairie fire was
sweeping from the northwest. This was unwelcome news--but sure enough,
the red light was very bright and growing more so all the time. I
calculated the distance and decided to hasten on across the path of the
fire before it reached the road, so I started. I had miscomputed both
time and distance, so before I was aware of it, I found myself on a
small knoll, with the fire directly in front and coming on at a great
rate through the tall dry weeds and grasses. The horses snorted and
shook their heads, but I urged them on. They plunged forward and in a
very short time (although it seemed hours) we found ourselves out of the
flames. We paused but a moment to rest, for the ground was very hot. The
horses shook with, fright and their bodies were badly singed. We reached
home in safety, and I think Bill and Tom were no less thankful than was
I, to be out of the danger and discomfort of the situation.
In 1857 I moved from Decorah, Iowa, to Otranto on the state line. There
I found a number of families living in rude houses which were a poor
protection against the hard winters we had those early years. There was
plenty of good timber along the Red Cedar river, but the settlers were
farmers who had little or no experience in cutting and dressing logs and
for that reason handled their few small tools to poor advantage. They
were anxious, too, to be "breaking" the prairie so that a crop could be
harvested that first year. So after all, these first houses were rather
poor specimens of the joiner's craft. I was a carpenter and put up a
rather more substantial house than the others, but none too comfortable
during the winters that were to follow. The unbroken stretch of prairie
to the north and west of Otranto gave those old "northwesters" a
splendid sweep before they struck our frail little homes.
Fortunately there was plenty of fine wood, but the cracks were so
numerous and large in our houses that we veritably warmed the outdoors
in keeping ourselves warm. We chopped and sawed wood every spare moment
in winter and summer in order to keep the booming fires which were
necessary all winter long. We used to talk and think much of the
settlers who were on the prairie who were so unsheltered and far from
standing timber.
This "yarn" about one of them went the rounds and was enjoyed by all,
for the "victim" was a merry fellow and always ready for a joke, no
matter how great the privations and anxieties. The story runs thus: Jim
sat before a fine fire washing his feet. Soothed by the warmth of the
room and the water, he fell asleep to awaken suddenly toward morning
with his feet nearly to his knees embedded in a solid cake of ice! We
laughed at our hardships, for there was no escaping them, and we learned
to turn them, as well as everything else we possessed, to some useful
purpose.
Robes, buffalo coats, all available garments, were used during those
first winters for bed-clothing. There was one flock of chickens in
Otranto, but not until much later were flocks of ducks and geese raised
so that feather pillows and beds could be used. Floor covering at first
was uncommon, but finally rag carpets added to the comfort of the home
during the winter.
Had food been abundant, or even sufficient, we would have felt less
anxious, but with the winter hanging on far into the spring months, we
had good reason to watch our stores carefully. Buckwheat ground in a
coffee mill kept one family for two months in the winter of '57. Another
neighbor's family subsisted upon musty corn meal, ground by revolving a
cannon ball in the scooped out trunk of a tree. So long drawn out was
the winter, that the amount of meal for each member of the family was
carefully measured out each day. One family living near the river could
get plenty of fish through the ice, but having no fat in which to fry
them, were obliged to use them boiled. When their salt was exhausted,
they ate the fish unflavored.
I possessed a good team of horses and made trips to Decorah for
supplies. I went only when it was really necessary, for the journey was
beset with many dangers and discomforts. Flour and salt pork were the
foods purchased, which I sold to the other settlers in small quantities.
Prairie chickens were abundant, and some of the pioneers tried drying
the breasts and found that one way to provide meat for the winter.
In the winter of '56, there was a thick coating of ice over the snow,
sufficiently strong to hold a man's weight, but the deers' legs cut
through the crust. My neighbors told of how easily they were able to get
plenty of venison without venturing far from home. Never did a settler
dare to go far away to hunt during those first winters, for the dangers
of being lost and frozen were very great. I have often heard the wish
expressed that fresh meat could be had every winter, with as few risks
as in that year before I moved to Otranto.
We all felt the lack of fruit, for all of us had come from districts
where fruit was grown, so on festive days such as Thanksgiving and
Christmas, we had dried wild crab-apples boiled up in soda water, then
sweetened with molasses. We were all used to better than this, but we
never complained and felt that better times were coming.
Mrs. W. L. Niemann.
My mother was Sophia Oakes. She was born in Sault Ste. Marie in 1823.
She was the daughter of Charles Oakes who had charge of a trading post
for the American Fur Company. Her mother died when she was a very small
child and her father removed with his two children, my mother and her
sister two years younger, to La Pointe, where he had charge of another
post of the same company.
The winters there were very long and severely cold and many times they
would be shut in by the depth of the snow for weeks at a time. One time
in particular the snow was so deep and the cold so intense that they had
been snowbound so long that their supplies were almost exhausted, and my
grandfather sent the men off to get a fresh supply. They were gone much
longer than usual and the little family began to suffer for want of food
and were obliged to go out and scrape away the snow to find acorns. They
also ate the bark of trees.
Finally my grandfather concluded that he, too, must start out to try and
get some food. The windows of the cabin were covered in place of glass,
with deerskins. In getting ready to leave the children, grandfather took
down these skins and replaced them with blankets to keep out the cold
and boiled the skins to provide a soup for the children to drink while
he was gone. My mother was twelve and her sister was ten.
Grandfather had not gone far when his feet were both frozen and he lay
disabled in the snow. Some men chanced along, and carried him to a house
which was about a mile further along. When they reached the house he
refused to be carried in, for he knew he would surely lose his feet if
he went in where it was warm. He asked for an awl and punctured his
feet full of holes and had the men pour them full of brandy. This, while
it was excruciatingly painful, both at the time and afterwards, saved
him his feet.
When he and his men returned to the cabin, he had been gone all day and
all night and into the next afternoon, and they found the little girls
locked in each other's arms fast asleep, having cried themselves to
sleep the night before.
Soon after the little girls were sent to school back in New York and my
mother stayed until her education was completed, graduating from a
seminary in Fredonia.
On her return to her home, she was married to my father, Jeremiah
Russell, who had come in 1837 to Fort Snelling on an exploring trip. He
settled first at Edina Mills, but soon went to Marine, where with
Franklin Steele and Levi Stratton he built a sawmill, (1838) the ruins
of which can still be seen.
In '49 he went to take charge of a trading post for the American Fur
Company which was located two miles above Sauk Rapids. After a few years
he purchased the land where Sauk Rapids stands, laid out the town and
moved down there, building a large hotel which was called the
Hyperborean Hotel, which took a prominent part in the history of the
town as it was the scene of many large gatherings. It served to shelter
the townspeople when they were driven from home through fear of the
Indian uprisings. Later it was remodeled by new owners and rechristened
the Russell House in honor of my father.
One time, before I was born and while my parents still lived at the
post, a band of warlike Indians, each armed with a gun came to the house
and completely filled the kitchen. My brother, who was a very small
child was attracted by the fire arms and went up to one of the Indians
and put his hand on the gun. This angered the Indian and with a terrible
scowl he put his finger on the trigger as if to shoot my brother. My
father sprung up before him and with a very fierce voice (which was the
only way to deal with them when they were unruly) ordered him to put
down his gun. This he did but with bad grace. My father then spoke to
the chief and told him to keep order, which he did, and they soon went
away. But my father was sorry he did not keep them a little longer and
give them up to the authorities, for he found, soon after, that they had
killed and scalped three white men, just a short time before they came
into our house.