hs 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