The Greatest Works of Charles Carleton Coffin. Charles Carleton Coffin
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leaving the valley of the Connecticut for a home in the State of New York, then moving with the great army of emigrants to Ohio, Illinois, Missouri, and Iowa in succession, and now beginning again in Minnesota. Last year her hair, which had been as white as the purest snow, began to take on its original color, and is now quite dark! There are but few instances on record of such a renewal of youth.
The party have come from central Iowa to make this their future home, preferring the climate of this region, where the changes of temperature are not so sudden and variable. The women and children of the four families lived here alone for six weeks, while the men were away after their stock. Their nearest neighbors are twelve miles distant. On the 4th of July all hands — men, women, and children — travelled forty-five miles to celebrate the day.
"We felt," said one of the women, "that we couldn't get through the year without going somewhere or seeing somebody. It is kinder lonely so far away from folks, and so we went down country to a picnic."
Store, church, and school are all forty miles away, and till recently the nearest saw-mill was sixty miles distant. Now they can get their wheat ground by going forty miles.
The settlement is already blooming with half a dozen children. Other emigrants are coming, and these people are looking forward to next year with hope and confidence, for then they will have a school of their own.
In our march south from Detroit Lake we meet a large number of Chippewa Indians going to the Reservation recently assigned them by the government in one of the fairest sections of Minnesota. Among them we see several women with blue eyes and light hair and fair complexions, who have French blood in their veins, and possibly some of them may have had American fathers. Nearly all of the Indians wear pantaloons and jackets; but here and there we see a brave who is true to his ancestry, who is proud of his lineage and race, and is in all respects a savage, in moccasons, blanket, skunk-skin head-dress, and painted eagle's feathers.
They are friendly, inoffensive, and indolent, and took no part in the late war. They have been in close contact with the whites for a long time, but they do not advance in civilization. All efforts for their elevation are like rain-drops falling on a cabbage-leaf, that roll off and leave it dry. There is little absorption on the part of the Indians except of whiskey, and in that respect their powers are great, — equal to those of the driest toper in Boston or anywhere else devoting all his energies to getting round the Prohibitory Law.
Our halting-place for Monday night is on the bank of the Otter-Tail, near Rush Lake. The tents are pitched, the camp-fire kindled, supper eaten, and we are sitting before a pile of blazing logs. The dew is falling, and the fire is comfortable and social. We look into the glowing coals and think of old times, and of friends far away. We dream of home. Then the jest and the story go round. The song would follow if we had the singers. But music is not wanting. We hear martial strains, — of cornets, trombones, ophicleides, and horns, and the beating of a drum. Torches gleam upon the horizon, and by their flickering light we see a band advancing over the prairie. It is a march of welcome to the Northern Pacific Exploring Party.
Not an hour ago these musicians heard of our arrival, and here they are, twelve of them, in our camp, doing their best to express their joy. They are Germans, — all young men. Three years ago several families came here from Ohio. They reported the soil so fertile, the situation so attractive, the prospects so flattering, that others came; and now they have a dozen families, and more are coming to this land of promise.
Take a good long look at these men as they stand before our camp-fire, with their bright new instruments in their hands. They received them only three weeks ago from Cincinnati.
"We can't play much yet," says the leader, Mr. Bertenheimer, "but we do the best we can. We have sent to Toledo for a teacher who will spend the winter with us. You will pardon our poor playing, but we felt so good when we heard you were here looking out a route for a railroad, that we felt like doing something to show our good-will. You see we are just getting started, and have to work hard, but we wanted some recreation, and we concluded to get up a band. We thought it would be better than to be hanging round a grocery. We haven't any grocery yet, and if we keep sober, and give our attention to other things, perhaps we sha'n't have one, — which, I reckon, will be all the better for us."
Plain and simple the words, but there is more in them than in many a windy speech made on the rostrum or in legislative halls. Just getting started! Yet here upon the frontier Art has planted herself. The flowers of civilization are blooming on the border.
As we listen to the parting strains, and watch the receding forms, and look into the coals of our camp-fire after their departure, we feel that there must be a bright future for a commonwealth that can grow such fruit on the borders of the uncultivated wilderness.
Now just ride out and see what has been done by these emigrants. Here is a field containing thirty acres of as fine wheat as grows in Minnesota. It is just taking on the golden hue, and will be ready for the reaper next week. Beside it are twenty acres of oats, several acres of corn, an acre or two of potatoes. This is one farm only. On yonder slope there stands a two-storied house, of hewn logs and shingled roof. See what adornment the wife or daughter has given to the front yard, — verbenas, petunias, and nasturtiums, and round the door a living wreath of morning-glories.
Cows chew their cud in the stable-yard, while
"Drowsy tinklings lull the distant field"
where the sheep are herded.
We shall find the scene repeated on the adjoining farm. Sheltered beneath the grand old forest-trees stands the little log church with a cross upon its roof, and here we see coming down the road the venerable father and teacher of the community, in long black gown and broad-brimmed hat, with a crucifix at his girdle. It is a Catholic community, and they brought their priest with them.
In the morning we ride over smiling prairies, through groves of oak and maple, and behold in the distance a large territory covered with the lithe foliage of the tamarack. Here and there are groves of pine rising like islands above the wide level of the forest.
At times our horses walk on pebbly beaches and splash their hoofs in the limpid waters of the lakes. We pick up agates, carnelians, and bits of bright red porphyry, washed and worn by the waves. Wild swans rear their young in the reeds and marshes bordering the streams. They gracefully glide over the still waters. They are beyond the reach of our rifles, and we would not harm them if we could. There is a good deal of the savage left in a man who, under the plea of sport, can wound or kill a harmless bird or beast that cannot be made to serve his wants. It gives me pleasure to say that our party are not bloodthirsty. Ducks, plover, snipe, wild geese, and sand-hill cranes are served at our table, but they are never shot in wanton sport.
The stream which we have crossed several times is the Otter-Tail and flows southward into Otter-Tail Lake; issuing from that it runs southwest, then west, then northward, taking the name of the Red River, and pours its waters into Lake Winnipeg. From that great northern reservoir the waters of this western region of Minnesota reach Hudson Bay through Nelson River.
Looking eastward we see gleaming in the morning sunlight the Leaf Lakes, the head-waters of the Crow-Wing, one of the largest western tributaries of the Upper Mississippi.
The neck of land between these lakes and the Otter-Tail is only one mile wide. Here, from time out of mind among the Indians, the transit has been made between the waters flowing into the Gulf of Mexico and into Hudson Bay. When the Jesuit missionaries came here, they found it the great Indian carrying-place.
Mackenzie, Lord Selkirk, and all the early adventurers, came by this route on their way to British America. For a long time it has been a trading-post. The French Jesuit fathers were here a century ago and are here to-day, — not spiritual fathers alone, but according to the flesh as well! The settlement is composed wholly of French Canadians, their Indian wives and copper-colored children. There are ten or a dozen houses, but they are very dilapidated. A little old man with twinkling gray eyes, wearing a battered white hat, comes out to welcome us, while crowds of swarthy children and Indian women gaze at us from the doorways. Another little old man, in a black gown and broad-brimmed hat, with a long chain and crucifix dangling from his girdle, salutes us with