house.

When we first built our house I wanted a garden. My brother said, "You
might as well plant seeds on the seashore," but we did plant them and I
never had seen such green stuff. I measured one pumpkin vine and it was
thirty feet long.

Whenever the Red River carts came by, I used to tie the dog to the
doorlatch. I did not want any calls from such rough looking men as they
were. Those carts would go squawking by all day. Later they used to camp
where the Winslow house was built. There would be large numbers there, a
regular village. Once when I was driving with Mr. McMullen, one of them
stopped by us and I said, "Oh, see that ox is a cow!"

In '49 or '50 the old black schoolhouse was the site of an election. I
lived near enough to hear them yell, "To Hell mit Henry Siblee--Hurrah
for Louis Robert." If those inside did not like the way the vote was to
be cast, they would seize the voter and out the back window he would
come feet first, striking on the soft sand. This would continue until
the voter ceased to return or those inside got too drunk or tired to
throw him out. The town was always full of rough lumberjacks at these
early elections and for the day they run the town.

I used always to make twenty-one pies a week. One for every meal. I had
two boarders who were friends of ours. Not that I wanted boarders, but
these men had to stay somewhere and there was no somewhere for them to
stay. Each took her friends to help them out. I was not very strong and
cooking was hard on me. There was no one to hire to work. After a very
hot day's work, I was sick and did not come down to breakfast. One of
the boarders was not working. I came down late and got my breakfast. I
set half of a berry pie on the table and went to get the rest of the
things. When I came back, it was in the cupboard. The boarder sat
reading. I thought I had forgotten and had not put it on, so set it on
again and went for the tea. When I came back again, the pie was again in
the cupboard and the boarder still studying the almanac. I said, "What
are you doing to that pie?" He said, "Keeping it from being et! After
this you make seven pies instead of twenty-one and other things the same
and you won't be all wore out, we'll only have them for dinner," and so
it was. I suppose there were more pies on the breakfast tables of that
little village of St. Anthony than there would be now at that meal in
the great city of Minneapolis, for it was then a New Engl