but when it was over, trembled
and shook. My taste for horseback riding at Traverse was gone.

Mr. Sibley, Mr. Chute and I, with a guide, went to see a miniature
Minnehaha. We walked all day going there and back--crossing the little
stream many times. My husband took off his boots to ford the stream. He
always carried me over. He cut his foot badly and could hardly get to
the commission tent. Mr. Sibley urged us not to go to the Hopkins', but
to stay there, but Mr. Chute wanted to go. It was bright moonlight, and
I walked three quarters of a mile to Mr. Hopkins' to get a pony to take
my husband back. I passed a little lake on the prairie. Mr. Chute and I
always walked arm in arm as was then the custom for married people.
Mirrored in the lake I could see reflected many, many Indian lovers
walking as they had seen the pale faces do. I laughed to myself as I
thought what mimics these children were. It was their following the
customs of the white man, drinking as they saw him drink, that degraded
them so.

On the Fourth of July there was to be a great celebration. The Indians
were to have all their dances. Early in the morning, Mr. Hopkins went
out to bathe in the river. He did not return. A little Indian girl said
she had seen him go under the water and only two hands come above it.
His body was not found for two days. A great crowd of squaws surrounded
the house, showing by their sad looks what the loss was to them. At the
burial, the Indians, a vast number of them, sang the hymns in Sioux.
This funeral, way off in the wilderness, with these crowds of savage
mourners, could never be forgotten.

Mr. Charles Bohanon--1851.

I moved to the farm where I am now living in '53. My father first took
up a claim in 1851 where the Central Market now stands, but while he was
in the woods, Old Man Stimson squat on that, so he took a claim at what
is now Camden Place. He built a small house there. The farm was covered
with brush and "oak openins". Everyone of these trees had to be grubbed
out. One of my earliest recollections is the Red River carts that used
to go squawking by on this side of the river as well as on the St.
Anthony side. They were called the Red River Band. They were one of the
loudest bands ever brought together, as their music, that of wood
rubbing against wood, could be heard three miles. While my father was in
the woods, the Indians used to come and sleep in the dooryard. Sometimes
it would be full of painte