e very
angry at my father because he put a rail fence across their trail and
would have killed him if it had not been for mother.

The last time these good friends came was in May, 1862. A large body of
them on horseback camped on the little knoll across from our house where
the dead tree now is. They were sullen and despondent. Well do I
remember the dramatic gestures of their chief as he eloquently related
their grievances. My mother followed every word he said for she knew how
differently they were situated from their former condition. When she
first knew them they owned all the country--the whites nothing. In these
few years the tables had been turned. Her heart bled for them, her
childhood's companions. He said his warriors could hardly be kept from
the warpath against the whites. That, so far, his counsel had prevailed,
but every time they had a council it was harder to control them. That
their hunting and fishing grounds were gone, the buffalo disappearing
and there was no food for the squaws and papooses. The Great White
Father had forgotten them, he knew, for their rations were long overdue
and there was hunger in the camp.

They slept that night in our kitchen, "Little beckoning boy" and the
other playmates. I can still see the sad look on my mother's face as she
went from one to the other giving each a big, hot breakfast and trying
to cheer them. She could see how they had been wronged. She stood and
watched them sadly as they mounted their ponies and vanished down the
old trail.

Lieut. Governor Gilman--1855.

The winter of '55 and '56 was thirty five degrees below zero two weeks
at a time and forty degrees below was usual.

I have often seen the Red River carts ford the river here. They crossed
at the foot of Sixth Street between where the two warehouses are now.

Mrs. Austin W. Farnsworth--1855.

We came to Dodge County in 1855. The first year we were hailed out and
we had to live on rutabagas and wild tea. We got some game too, but we
were some tired of our diet before things began to grow again. When that
hailstorm came we were all at a quilting bee. There was an old lady,
Mrs. Maxfield there, rubbing her hundred mark pretty close. She set in a
corner and was not scared though the oxen broke away and run home and we
had to hold the door to keep it from blowing in. We said, "Ain't you
afraid?" She answered, "No, I'm not, if I do go out, I don't want to die
howling."

The first time I worked