t of those who had murdered
their neighbor and friend. I could not understand a word they said, but
their gestures and words were so fierce that I expected to be killed.
They fired at our team and one of the horses was so seriously injured
that we had to stop. Mrs. Riggs and I walked the rest of the journey,
five miles, she carrying her fifteen months old baby. This was July 4,
1843. My first baby was born on the 10th of the following September.

On this last five miles of our journey, Indian women came out to meet
us. Some of them had umbrellas and held them over us. They seemed to
know that this was a terrible adventure for us. One of them put her arms
around me and tried to help me on and was as kind as any white woman.
They offered to carry Mrs. Riggs' baby, but the little thing was afraid
of them and cried so that they could not. Mrs. Riggs kept saying over
and over again, "Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father's good
pleasure to give you the kingdom."

The Indians seemed to me very poor, indeed. They had for many years
depended upon the buffalo but now these were growing very scarce and no
longer furnished a living for them. The Indian women each year planted
small patches of corn with only their hoes for plows. They raised only
small amounts and they had no store houses. Sometimes they buried their
supply of food for the coming spring in holes in the ground, but dared
not mark the place for fear of having their supplies stolen, so they
were not always able to find it when it was wanted. In the fall they
gathered wild rice which they threshed by flailing it in buffalo skins.
In the spring they made a little maple sugar. They were often very short
of food and suffered from hunger.

One day I cooked a squash, putting the parings in a swill pail. An old
Indian woman came in and made loud cries of dismay when she saw my
wastefulness, saying, "Why did you throw this away?" She then gathered
them carefully out of the pail and carried them home in her blanket to
cook. Pies that were set out on the window sill to cool disappeared
also.

This first winter was spent at Lac qui Parle, or Medeiadam,
(med-day-e-a-da) "The lake that speaks," in both tongues. I was told
that it was so named from a remarkable echo about the lake. I kept house
in a little room on the second floor of a log house. Dr. Williamson and
his family lived on the lower floor.

One day as I was alone sitting at my table writing, the door of my