The Arrival of my Father and Brother--Journey to Illinois--Work on a
Railroad--The Ague--Doctor Ober--Religious Impressions--The Arrival of
my Mother, Sister and her Husband--A Burning Railroad Train--We go to
Minnesota--Our Experience as Wood Choppers and Pioneers.
Finally my father and brother arrived, and again I turned my course
westwards in company with them and their friends. We traveled by rail to
Buffalo and across the lake to Toledo, thence by rail again to Chicago.
In the summer of 1852 there were no railroads west of Chicago, and our
company had to take passage on a canal-boat drawn by horses to La Salle,
and from this place we rode in farmers wagons to Andover and Galesburg.
The country around there was as yet only in the first stages of
development; there was very little money in circulation, and no demand
for farm products. The immigrants suffered a great deal from fever and
other climatic diseases.
My brother who was nearly sixteen years old soon obtained steady work
from an American farmer, while my father and I had to do different kinds
of work, such as building fences, stacking grain, etc. The only pay we
could get was checks on some store. I remember what an abundance of
provisions there was in that locality, and nobody seemed to be in need.
A farmer near Galesburg, for whom I worked a week, had so many hens and
chickens and eggs, that when people came out from town to buy eggs, they
were told to pay ten cents, go out to the barn and fill their baskets
with freshly-laid eggs, no matter how big the basket. Beef and pork had
scarcely any value, and anybody could go into a cornfield that fall and
gather a crop on half shares.
There was much religious interest among the Swedes in Illinois at that
time. The Methodists and Lutherans were already building churches, and
held services side by side in many of the towns and settlements,
although they numbered only a few families yet. I remember distinctly
one Sunday attending service in a Methodist church listening to an
eloquent preacher, taking for his text "The Broad and the Narrow Ways."
He depicted both in glowing language, and wound up with the following
words, pronounced in a broad (Swedish) dialect: "My dear brethren, I
have now shown you the two ways, and you may take which ever you like;
that is all the same to me."
My father had taken with him only just enough money to pay his way,
although he had by no means exhausted his resources in Sweden, for he
had prudently decided to spend at least a year in seeing the country and
making himself familiar with its institutions, customs, manner of
tilling the soil, etc. At this time he was a strong man, at the age of
fifty. In order to obtain steady work, we two, and a few others of our
company, hired a man in Galesburg to take us to Rock River, where a
bridge for the Chicago & Rock Island Railroad was being built. We all
got work, and had to take hold of the spade and the shovel. The wages in
those days for railroad laborers were from seventy-five cents to one
dollar per day. I received only seventy-five cents, out of which my
board was to be paid, which, however, was very cheap, one dollar and a
half per week only. A Swede by the name of Hoffman kept a boarding house
for thirty-four of us, and all would have been well except for the ague.
No man remained there many days without getting the "shakes;" I and my
father got them the second day. The lower part of the shanty in which we
boarded was used for dining-room and kitchen, the upper for sleeping on
the floor. The shanty was as shaky as the ague, which came regularly
every other day. Fate had so arranged it that seventeen of us had the
chills one day, and seventeen the next day. Hoffman and his wife
fortunately also had the chills alternate days, so that there was always
one to attend to the cooking.
Some may doubt it, but it is a solemn fact, that when seventeen ate
dinner below, the shaking of those upstairs sometimes shook the house
until we could hear the plates rattling on the table.
During my healthy days I stood on the bottom of Rock River from seven
o'clock in the morning until seven at night, throwing wet sand with a
shovel onto a platform above, from which it was again thrown to another,
and from there to terra firma. The most disagreeable part of the
business was that one-quarter of each shovel-full came back on the head
of the operator.
After a couple of weeks the company's paymaster came along, and upon
settling my board bill and deducting for the shaking days, I made the
discovery that I was able to earn only fifteen cents net per week in
building railroad bridges.
Being half dead by this time from over work and sickness, we decided to
see if we could strike an easier job, and, if possible, a better
climate. We happened to meet a farmer by the name of Peterson, with whom
we rode to a place near Moline, where my father tended to me during my
illness. When he was not occupied with this he chopped cord wood from
dry old trees. I also tried to assist him in this, but found my strength
gone.
Among the Swedes living in Moline at that time was a tailor, Johnson by
name, a good kind-hearted man who, together with his wife, was always
ready to aid his needy countrymen and get something to do for such as
could work. I went to him one day to ask for advice or assistance, just
as a great many had done before me. I was so weak and sickly that they
had to assist me in getting into the house, but they received me as if I
had been their own son, and, after a short rest, Mr. Johnson took me to
one Dr. Ober, who carefully investigated my mental as well as my
physical condition, and told me that such hard work as I had been doing
would kill me, and that I ought to rest and take it easy. He was one of
those magnanimous, noble men who are to be met with in all climes and
walks of life, but who are easily recognized because they are so few. As
I have said before, I have been very fortunate in getting acquainted
with the best men and women of different classes and nations with which
I have come in contact. While we were sitting in his reception room the
doctor suddenly left us and went into his private room. In a short time
he returned accompanied by his wife, a lady whose silvery locks and
benignantly sympathizing looks made her seem more beautiful to me than a
madonna. Having simply taken a hasty look at me, the doctor and his wife
again withdrew, and when they returned he offered to let me stay with
them like a member of the family in order that he might try to restore
my health; he also allowed me to avail myself of his library and to
attend school, the only condition being that I should do chores around
the house and take care of the horses.
I moved the same day, got a pleasant room and a snug bed, good,
substantial food, and, above all, good and friendly treatment, so that
from the time I came there until the day I left, I felt as if I had been
a child of the house. Dr. Ober, who was a religious man, belonged to the
Baptist Church, and as I now lived under its beneficient influence, and
also became acquainted with the Swedish Baptist Pastor, Rev. G.
Palmquist, and a few others who constituted the nucleus of the First
Swedish Baptist Church of America. I became a member of their society
before spring and would probably have continued a member of this
denomination, if circumstances which were beyond my control, had not
brought me to other fields of action and other surroundings.
This winter passed in a very pleasant manner. In the afternoon I
attended an English school, and in the evening I gave instructions in
English to other young men and women. The friendship of Dr. Ober and his
wife never failed, and many years afterwards I was a welcome guest at
their home in La Crosse, Wis., to which place they had moved from
Moline. Both of them now slumber under the sod, but their many good
deeds shall live for ever.
My father was much pleased with the great west, and he wrote back to the
rest of our family in Sweden to come to this country the next summer,
and in May I started to meet them in Boston. As there were no railroads
to Moline, I took a steamboat to Galena, and thence the stage-coach to
Freeport, and from there to Chicago by rail.
The vessel carrying my mother and the party with her was three months on
the ocean, and there was great scarcity of provisions on board. The ship
at last arrived, in the month of July, and a couple of days later the
whole party, consisting of about two hundred, took the train for the
west, I volunteering as their guide and interpreter. All went well until
about one hundred miles east of Chicago, when the baggage car attached
to our train in front caught fire. It was thought best to try to reach a
station, and the burning train sped on at the rate of sixty miles an
hour. The scene was a frightful one, the cars crammed full of frightened
emigrants, the flames hissing like serpents from car to car, windows
cracking, people screaming, and women fainting, all at the same time
looking to me, who was not yet twenty years of age, for protection and
deliverance.
As soon as possible I placed reliable men as guards at the doors to
prevent the people from rushing out and crowding each other off the
platform. The train did not reach the station but had to be stopped on
the open prairie, where we all were helped out of the cars with no
accident of any kind except every particle of baggage, saving only what
the passengers had in their seats with them, was burnt. In due time
another train brought us to Chicago, where the railroad company
immediately offered to pay all losses as soon as lists of the property
destroyed could be made out and properly verified. I undertook to do all
that work without the aid of consul, lawyer or clerk, collecting nearly
twenty thousand dollars, for old trunks, spinning-wheels, copper
kettles, etc. Having lost nothing myself, I of course received nothing,
and as the Company did not consider it their duty to pay me for my
trouble, one of the emigrants suggested that they should chip in to
compensate me for the valuable services I had rendered. Accordingly the
hat was passed, the collection realizing the magnificent sum of two
dollars and sixty cents, which was paid me for being their interpreter
during the long journey and for collecting that large sum of money
without litigation or delay. No lawyer, consul or agent would have been
satisfied with less than five hundred dollars, but I can truthfully say
that I never raised a word of complaint, but freely forgave the people
on account of their ignorance. Many of them I also served afterwards on
the way to Moline and Minnesota. In due time our party arrived in
Moline, where my parents bought a small piece of property with the money
brought from Sweden.
Minnesota was then a territory but little known; yet we had heard of its
beautiful lakes, forests, prairies and salubrious climate. Quite a
number of our company had decided to hunt up a place for a Swedish
settlement where land could be had cheap. It was finally agreed that a
few of us should go to Minnesota and select a suitable place. Being the
only one of the party who could speak English, I was naturally appointed
its leader. My father also went with us, and so did Mr. Willard and his
wife, the whole party taking deck passage on a Mississippi steamer, and
arriving at St. Paul in the month of August.
At that time St. Paul was an insignificant town of a few hundred
inhabitants. There we found Henry Russell, John Tidlund, and a few other
Swedish pioneers. Mr. Willard and I had very little money, and for the
few dollars which we did own we bought a little household furniture, and
some cooking utensils. We therefore at once sought employment for him,
while the rest of our party started off in search of a suitable location
for the proposed settlement.
We had been told that there were a number of our countrymen at Chisago
Lake and a few near Carver, but that all had settled on timber lands. We
also learned that near Red Wing, in Goodhue county, places could be
found with both timber and prairie, and an abundance of good water.
Having looked over the different localities we finally decided on the
present town of Vasa, about twelve miles west of Red Wing. The first
claims were taken at Belle Creek, south of White Rock, and afterwards
others were taken at a spring now known as Willard Spring, near which
the large brick church now stands.
After selecting this land my father returned to Illinois. In company
with the other explorers, I went to St. Paul, where a council was held
in which all participated, and at which it was decided that three of us,
Messrs. Roos, Kempe, and myself, should go to our claims that fall and
do as much work as possible, until the others could join us the
following spring.
Having made the necessary preparations we three went to Red Wing by
steamboat and found a little town with half a dozen families, among
whom was the Rev. J. W. Hancock, who for several years had been a
missionary among the Indians. The other settlers were Wm. Freeborn, Dr.
Sweeney, H. L. Bevans, and John Day. Besides these we also met two
Swedes, Peter Green, and Nels Nelson, and a Norwegian by the name of
Peterson. On the bank of the river the Sioux Indians had a large camp.
The country west of Red Wing was then practically a wilderness, and our
little party was the first to start in to cultivate the soil and make a
permanent settlement.
At Red Wing we supplied ourselves with a tent, a cook stove, a yoke of
oxen, carpenter's tools, provisions and other necessaries. Having hired
a team of horses, we then packed our goods on a wagon, tied the cattle
behind, and started for the new settlement. The first four miles we
followed the territorial road; after that we had nothing but Indian
trails to guide us. Toward evening we arrived at a grove on Belle Creek,
now known as Jemtland. Here the tent was pitched and our evening meal
cooked, and only pioneers like ourselves can understand how we relished
it after our long day's tramp. The team was taken back the next day, and
we were left alone in the wilderness.
After a day's exploration we moved our camp two miles further south, to
another point near Belle Creek, where Mr. Roos had taken his claim.
It was now late in September, and our first care was to secure enough
hay for the cattle, and in a few days we had a big stack. Having read
about prairie fires, we decided to protect our stack by burning away the
short stubble around it. But a minute and a half was sufficient to
convince us that we had made wrong calculations, for within that time
the stack itself was burning with such fury that all the water in Belle
Creek could not have put it out. Still, this was not the worst of it.
Before we had time to recover from our astonishment the fire had spread
over the best part of the valley and consumed all the remaining grass,
which was pretty dry at that time of the year. Inexperienced as we were,
we commenced to run a race with the wind, and tried to stop the fire
before reaching another fine patch of grass about a mile to the north;
but this attempt was, of course, a complete failure, and we returned to
our cheerless tent mourning over this serious misfortune.
The next morning we all started out in different directions to see if
any grass was left in Goodhue County, and fortunately we found plenty of
it near our first camping-ground. Having put up a second stack of very
poor hay, we proceeded to build a rude log house, and had just finished
it when my brother-in-law, Mr. Willard, surprised us by appearing in our
midst, having left in Red Wing his wife and baby, now Mrs. Zelma
Christensen of Rush City, who is, as far as I know, the first child born
of Swedish parents in St. Paul. Mr. Willard who was a scholarly
gentleman and not accustomed to manual labor, had found it rather hard
to work with shovel and pick on the hilly streets of St. Paul, and made
up his mind that he would better do that kind of work on a farm.
Messers. Roos and Kempe having furnished all the money for the outfit, I
really had no share in it, and as we could not expect Mr. Willard and
his family to pass the winter in that cabin, I immediately made up my
mind to return with him to Red Wing. In an hour we were ready and
without waiting for dinner we took the trail back to that place. I
remember distinctly how, near the head of the Spring Creek Valley, we
sat down in a little grove to rest and meditate on the future. We were
both very hungry, especially Mr. Willard, who had now walked over twenty
miles since breakfast. Then espying a tempting squirrel in a tree close
by, we tried to kill it with sticks and rocks; but we were poor
marksmen, and thus missed a fine squirrel roast.
Tired and very hungry we reached Red Wing late in the afternoon, and
soon found my sister, Mrs. Willard, comfortably housed with one of the
families there. Her cheerful and hopeful nature and the beautiful baby
on her arm gave us fresh joy and strength to battle with the hardships
that were in store for us. Mr. Willard and his wife had taken along what
furniture they owned, a few eatables and five dollars and fifty cents in
cash, which was all that we possessed of the goods of this world. But
who cares for money at that age? Mr. Willard was twenty-five years old,
my sister twenty-three, and I twenty, all hale and hearty, and never for
a moment doubting our success, no matter what we should undertake.
Our first work was wood chopping, for which we were less fit than almost
anything else. We had to go to a place about three miles above Red Wing,
where a man had made a contract to bank up fifteen hundred cords of wood
for the Mississippi steamers. There was an old wood chopper's cabin
which we repaired by thatching it with hay and earth, putting in a door,
a small window, and a few rough planks for a floor. In a few days we
were duly installed, baby and all, in the little hut which was only
twelve by sixteen feet, but to us as dear as a palace to a king.
We began to chop wood at once. The trees were tall, soft maples and ash,
and our pay was fifty-five cents a cord for soft and sixty-five cents
for hard wood. At first both of us could not chop over a cord a day
together; but within a week we could chop a cord apiece, and before the
winter was over we often chopped three cords together in a day. After a
few days we were joined by four Norwegian wood choppers for whom we put
up a new cabin to sleep in; but my sister cooked for us all, and the
others paid for their board to Mr. Willard and myself, who had all
things in common. Those four men were better workmen than we, and one of
them, Albert Olson, often chopped three cords a day. They were quiet,
industrious, and generous fellows, so that we soon became attached to
each other, and we were all very fond of the little Zelma. My sister
managed our household affairs so well and kept the little house so neat
and tidy that when spring came we were all loth to leave.
The weather being fine and the sleighing good in the beginning of
January, we hired John Day to take us with his team to our claims while
there was yet snow, so that we might chop and haul out logs for the
house which Mr. Willard and I intended to put up in the spring. My
sister remained in the cabin, but Albert went with us for the sake of
company. We put some lumber on the sled, and provided ourselves with hay
and food enough to last a few days, and plenty of quilts and blankets
for our bedding. John Day, who was an old frontiersman with an instinct
almost like that of an Indian, guided us safely to Willard Spring. A few
hundred yards below this, in a deep ravine, we stopped near some
sheltering trees, built a roaring camp-fire, and made ourselves as
comfortable as possible. Having supped and smoked our evening pipe, we
made our beds by putting a few boards on the snow, and the hay and
blankets on top of those. Then all four of us nestled down under the
blankets and went to sleep.
During the night the thermometer fell down to forty degrees below zero,
as we learned afterwards. If we had suspected this and kept our fire
burning there would, of course, have been no danger. But being very
comfortable early in the night and soon asleep, we were unconscious of
danger until aroused by an intense pain caused by the cold, and then we
were already so benumbed and chilled that we lacked energy to get up or
even move. We found, on comparing notes afterwards, that each one of us
had experienced the same sensations, namely, first an acute pain as if
pricked with needles in every fibre, then a deep mental tranquillity
which was only slightly disturbed by a faint conception of something
wrong, and by a desire to get up, but without sufficient energy to do
so. This feeling gradually subsided into one of quiet rest and
satisfaction, until consciousness ceased altogether, and, as far as pain
was concerned, all was over with us.
At this stage an accident occurred which saved our lives. Mr. Day, who
lay on the outside to the right, had evidently held his arm up against
his breast to keep the blankets close to his body. His will-force being
gone, his arm relaxed and fell into the snow. As the bare hand came in
contact with the snow the circulation of the blood was accelerated, and
this was accompanied by such intense pain that he was aroused and jumped
to his feet.
Thus we were saved. It took a good while before we could use our limbs
sufficiently to build a fire again, and during this time we suffered
much more than before. From that experience I am satisfied that those
who freeze to death do not suffer much, because they gradually sink into
a stupor which blunts the sensibilities long before life is extinct.
It was about four o'clock when we got up. Of course we did not lie down
again that morning, nor did we attempt to haul any timber, but started
in a bee line across the prairie for the ravine where Mr. Willard and I
had seen the tempting squirrel a few months before. We soon found that
going over the wild, trackless prairie against the wind, with the
thermometer forty degrees below zero was a struggle for life, and in
order to keep warm we took turns to walk or run behind the sleigh. In
taking his turn Mr. Willard suddenly sat down in the snow and would not
stir. We returned to him, and it required all our power of persuasion to
make him take his seat in the sleigh again. He felt very comfortable he
said, and would soon catch up with us again if we only would let him
alone. If we had followed his advice, he would never have left his cold
seat again. After a drive of eight miles we arrived at a house on Spring
Creek, near Red Wing, where we found a warm room and a good shed for the
horses. After an hour's rest we continued the journey, and safely
reached our little home in the woods before dark. I do not know that I
ever appreciated a home more than I did that rude cabin when again
comfortably seated by its warm and cheerful fire-place.
A few weeks later I had an opportunity to visit St. Paul, and while
there attended the wedding of a young Norwegian farmer from Carver
County and a girl just arrived from Sweden. The ceremony was performed
by the Rev. Nilsson, a Baptist minister, who had been banished from
Sweden on account of proselyting. Among the guests was Mr. John
Swainsson, who since became well known among the Swedes of Minnesota,
and who died in St. Paul a short time ago. I also made the acquaintance
of one Jacob Falstrom, who had lived forty years among the Indians and
devoted most of that time to missionary work among them. He was a
remarkable man, and was well known among the Hudson Bay employees and
other early settlers of the Northwest. As a boy he had deserted from a
Swedish vessel in Quebec and made his way through the wilderness,
seeking shelter among the Indians; and, by marrying an Indian girl, he
had become almost identified with them. I think he told me that he had
not heard a word spoken in his native tongue in thirty-five years, and
that he had almost forgotten it when he met the first Swedish settlers
in the St. Croix valley. His children are now living there, while he has
passed away to the unknown land beyond, honored and respected by all who
knew him, Indians as well as white men.
On my return from St. Paul I stopped at the cabin of Mr. Peter Green,
at Spring Creek, near Red Wing. The only domestic animals he had was a
litter of pigs, and as Mr. Willard and I intended to settle on our land
in the spring I thought it might be well to start in with a couple of
pigs. Accordingly, I got two pigs from Mr. Green, put them in a bag
which I shouldered, and left for our cabin in the woods. According to my
calculations, the distance I had to walk ought not to be over three
miles, and in order to be sure of not getting lost I followed the Cannon
river at the mouth of which our cabin stood. I walked on the ice where
the snow was about a foot deep, and, if I had known of the meandering
course of the river, I would never have undertaken to carry that burden
such a distance. From nine in the morning until it was almost dark I
trudged along with my burden on my back, prompted to the greatest
exertion by the grunting of the pigs, and feeling my back uncomfortably
warm. These were the first domestic animals I ever owned, and I think I
well earned my title to them by carrying them along the windings of the
river at least ten miles. Both I and the pigs were well received when we
reached the cabin. We made a pig pen by digging a hole in the ground and
covering it with poles and brush, and fed them on the refuse from the
table. Before we were ready to move one of them died, while the other,
after being brought to our new farm, ungratefully ran away, and was most
likely eaten up by the wolves, which perhaps was just as agreeable to
him as to be eaten by us.
While living in this camp we saw more Indians than white men. A band of
Sioux Indians camped near us for several weeks. They were very friendly,
and never molested us. The men brought us venison and fresh fish, which
they caught in great quantities by spearing them through the ice. We
gave them bread and coffee, and sometimes invited one or two to dinner
after we were through. Their women would stay for hours with my sister
and help her take care of the baby. Indeed they were so fond of the
white-haired child that they would sometimes run a race in vying with
each other to get the first chance to fondle her. Sometimes we visited
them in their tents in the evening and smoked Kinikinick with them.
Several of their dead reposed in the young trees near our cabin. When
somebody died it was their custom to stretch the dead body on poles
which were tied to young trees high enough to be out of the reach of
wild beasts, then cover it with blankets, and finally leave some corn
and venison and a jar of water close by. At some subsequent visit to the
neighborhood they would gather the bones and bury them at some regular
burial-ground, usually on a high hill or bluff.
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN CHIEF.]
Once we saw a regular war dance in Red Wing. A few Sioux had killed two
Chippewas and brought back their scalps stretched on a frame of young
saplings. At a given hour the whole band assembled, and, amid the most
fantastic gestures, jumping, singing, yelling, beating of tom-toms and
jingling of bells, gave a performance which in lurid savageness excelled
anything I ever saw. The same Indians again became our neighbors for a
short time on Belle Creek the following winter, and we rather liked
them, and they us. But eight years later they took part in the terrible
massacre of the white settlers in Western Minnesota, and thirty-nine of
their men were hanged on one gallows at Mankato in the fall of 1862 and
the rest transported beyond our borders.
Thus our first winter in Minnesota passed without further incidents,
until the beginning of March, when the weather turned so mild that we
were afraid the ice on the Mississippi might break up, and we therefore
hurried back to Red Wing. By our wood chopping and Mrs. Willard's
cooking enough money had been earned to buy the most necessary articles
for our new home. When we had procured everything and taken a few days'
rest, we again hired Mr. John Day to take us out to our land with his
team. Hundreds of thousands of immigrants have had the same experience,
and can realize how we felt on that fine March morning, starting from
Red Wing with a wagon loaded with some boards on the bottom, a cook
stove and utensils, doors, windows, a keg of nails, saws, spades, a
small supply of provisions, a bedstead or two with bedding, a few
trunks, and a little box containing our spotted pig, Mrs. Willard in the
seat with the driver, her baby in her arms, her husband and myself
taking turns as guides, John Day shouting to his horses, laughing and
joking; all of us full of hope, strength and determination to overcome
all obstacles and conquer the wildness. The snow was now nearly gone,
and the air was spring-like.
After a twelve miles' heavy pull we arrived at our destination, and made
a temporary tent of sticks and blankets, very much after the Indian
fashion. Two of the Norwegians had accompanied us to help build our
cabin. Mr. Day stopped a couple of days hauling building material, and
before night the second day the rear part of our cabin was under roof.
After a few days the Norwegians left us, and Mr. Willard and myself had
to finish the main part of the building which was also made of round
logs. For many a year this rude log cabin was the centre of attraction,
and a hospitable stopping place for nearly all the settlers of Vasa.
In the month of April cold weather set in again, and it was very late in
the season when steamboat navigation was opened on the Mississippi. At
that time all provisions had to be shipped from Galena or Dubuque, and
it happened that the winter's supplies in Red Wing were so nearly gone
that not a particle of flour or meat could be bought after the first of
April. Our supplies were soon exhausted, and for about two weeks our
little family had only a peck of potatoes, a small panful of flour, and
a gallon of beans to live on, part of which was a present from Messrs.
Roos and Kempe, who had remained all winter on their claims, three miles
south of us. They had been struggling against great odds, and had been
compelled to live on half rations for a considerable length of time.
Even their oxen had been reduced almost to the point of starvation,
their only feed being over-ripe hay in small quantities.
We would certainly have starved if it had not been for my shot-gun, with
which I went down into the woods of Belle Creek every morning at
day-break, generally returning with pheasants, squirrels or other small
game. One Sunday the weather was so disagreeable and rough that I did
not succeed in my hunting, but in feeding the team back of the kitchen
some oats had been spilt, and a flock of blackbirds came and fed on
them. Through an opening between the logs of the kitchen I shot several
dozen of these birds, which, by the way, are not ordinarily very
toothsome. But, being a splendid cook, my sister made them into a stew,
thickened with a few mashed beans and a handful of flour--in our
estimation the mess turned out to be a dinner fit for kings.
Our supplies being nearly exhausted, I started for Red Wing the next
morning, partly to save the remaining handful of provisions for my
sister and her husband, partly in hopes of obtaining fresh supplies from
a steamboat which was expected about that time. Three days afterwards
the steamer arrived. As soon as practicable the boxes were brought to
the store of H. L. Bevans. I secured a smoked ham, thirty pounds of
flour, a gallon of molasses, some coffee, salt and sugar, strapped it
all (weighing almost seventy pounds) on my back, and started toward
evening for our cabin in the wilderness. I had to walk about fourteen
miles along the Indian trail, but in spite of the heavy burden I made
that distance in a short time, knowing that the dear ones at home were
threatened by hunger; perhaps the howling of the prairie wolves near my
path also had something to do with the speed. There are events in the
life of every person which stand out like mile-stones along the road,
and so attract the attention of the traveler on life's journey that they
always remain vivid pictures in his memory. My arrival at our cabin that
evening was one of those events in our humble life. I will not attempt
to describe the joy which my burden brought to all of us, especially to
the young mother with the little babe at her breast.