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