USA > Wisconsin > Three chapters in Wisconsin local history > Part 3
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We had no further mishaps, and when we actually saw the Green Lake outlet there was no doubt of it. Its stream of pure, bright spring water shot clear across the river. We knew then that we were all right.
It took us two days to wind up through the marshes to Green Lake. The last night we camped opposite the present Dartford boat-landing, where the road-bridge crosses toward Sherwood Forest resort. It was then surrounded with alders and marshes, and we did not know, that beautiful June night (June 11, 1840), that we were so near the lake. When we passed out from the thickets into Green Lake," the next morning, we shouted with joy.
There was at this time no heavy timber around the lake, ex- cept at the foot, in the marshes-only what were called "clay openings," burned over each autumn by the prairie fires. Com- ing up the crooked outlet, we had in one place gone around over a mile, by measure, to reach a place only a few rods from our former position, whereas we could have pulled our boat across the marsh and saved time. Rattlesnakes were plentiful; marshes were on both sides, most of the way up; deer-flies and mosqui- toes made us perfectly wretched.
We soon crossed the lake and reached our land, of which my father recognized the quarter-section corner. We lugged our stuff up by hand from the lake, erected a shanty for shelter, and at once went to work to build a plank house. We split and hewed white oak planks, about two inches thick by six feet long, and set them upright, two lengths end-to-end twelve feet high, held together by grooved girts or stringers. We used poles for rafters and "shakes" for shingles, the latter shaved out of green
7 The Indians always used the French appellation for both small and large Green Lake, calling them respectively Petit Lac Verd and Grand Lac Verd. We could never get them to use any other name.
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oak. We built a large fire-place, and a stick-chimney plastered with yellow clay. The roof was fastened on with tacked eross- pieces.
This house, of two rooms and a little attic, stood half a mile south of Sand Bluff. We kept our boat secure from the wash of the waves, either in the bay west of Sand Bluff or at the Cove where the Spring Grove resort now is, three miles below. The building was not all finished at once, but by slow degrees. We had in stock two barrels of flour, one barrel of pork, four bar- rels of potatoes, a few groceries, and $4 in money. We also had salt, pepper, Indian (or maple) sugar, but no butter or delica- cies. We soon got out of salt and other things, and to restock meant a journey to Green Bay. We were thirty miles from any other Americans, the nearest settler of our nationality being at Fond du Lac.
Winnebago Indians, who were then being collected at Portage for transportation, were plentiful, but our only civilized neigh- bor was Pete Le Roy.8 We got him and his ox-team to come over that month and break up for us a half acre that had been cleared by the boys, and in which we planted yellow corn.
There being no mill, we made a huge mortar by boring out a hard, white-oak log, and, with a heavy hickory pestle, we ground our corn. As the mortar held but two quarts, it was only by rising at four o'clock that we could get enough meal pounded for a breakfast Johnnie-cake. The coarser part we boiled as samp, for dinner, and had cornmeal fried for supper, with neither milk nor butter.
We had to pay $100 apiece for our first yoke of oxen, and $100 for our first cow; that is, in work, for we had no money. The cow we bought from Fox Lake, the oxen of our neighbor, Pete
8 Pete (probably Pierre) Le Roy was a half-breed trader-farmer, whose plantation lay four or five miles south of us, three miles due south of where the Centre House now stands. Le Roy had a big spring on his place, the source of a creek that bears his name. He was a son of the Le Roy at the Portage, mentioned in Wis. Hist. Colls., vii, pp. 346, 360; see also Mrs. Kinzie, Waubun, for whom Pierre Roy acted as guide in 1831. He was in Pauquette's employ, and moved on as the country settled. One of his daughters, a pretty girl, went insane, to Le Roy's great grief.
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Le Roy, who was a kind-hearted man and allowed us to split rails for him, in payment. That was all the stoek we had the first year.
Panthers
In the autumn, father and I started with two yoke of oxen, along the military road east of Lake Winnebago, to go to Green Bay for mother and my sisters.9 They had come to Buffalo by the Erie eanal, thenee to Mackinae in the steamer "Consola- tion," and from there in a schooner to the Bay. The vessel was beealmed among the Manitou Islands, and was a fortnight late in reaching its destination.
While father and I were gone, the other boys stayed alone. Only two sides of the house were finished, and a few roughly- hewn boards constituted the floor. Soon Le Roy came over, con- siderably excited, and said, "You must come over and stay with me; a big panther has been seen-two of them, in faet, near the lake. They'll come and kill you, if you stay here." These beasts had already been heard snarling at night-great fellows, nearly as big as a yearling ealf. The boys told him that, hav- ing drawn up their bunk, with ropes, to the foot of the rafters, they thought they would be safe. He urged strongly, but they didn't go with him, for it was the time when yellow corn was ready for roasting.
One evening, when the boys sat about, toasting eorn, they heard the bushes crack.
"What's that?"
"Can't think, unless one of Le Roy's cattle has strayed away."
But that could scareely be, for his place was four miles off. Then they heard a strange whine-almost a scream. The ani- mal was walking around them. Then came a tremendous sereech. It was the panther. They were scared enough, for they had no guns. The beast soon started off on the trail to- ward Le Roy's. Each boy grabbed a blazing brand from the corn-fire and started for the shanty, whirling the brands round his head. Father was gone two weeks, and the boys were well-
9 These sisters became Mrs. Mary Keene of Newark, N. J., and Mrs. Elizabeth Johnson of Minnesota.
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scared during that time and didn't sleep very well. The panthers came round, off and on, for a month and a half, but never molested us. Finally the Indians came over and shot them both. They were the only pair that had visited that neigh- borhood for years.
Pioneer Hardships
When mother came, only two sides of the house were up. One side was partly open the first winter, except for a carpet hung up. Wolves and other wild animals would come and peer through the cracks at the firelight. Sometimes the stick chim- ney caught fire, and to prevent this occurring too frequently we had to keep it well plastered over with clay.
Even after the house was finished it was very cold, for the joints were not tight. We tried to plaster up the cracks with white marl, but when dry this came crumbling off. Sometimes we used old newspapers, as far as we had any, to paste over the cracks. While we had no thermometer to measure the cold, I am sure that the winter of 1843-44 was the worst we ever ex- perienced.
Very early that season, two and a half feet of snow fell. Then came a January thaw, followed by fine weather, like In- dian summer. Then more snow came, and clear cold weather with sharp, cutting winds. Many wild animals were starved and frozen, and it was known in pioneer annals as the "great bitter winter." To add to the strangeness of it all, there was seen in the west a great comet, whose tail seemed to touch the ground. We nearly froze in our rudely-built house, for we had no stove-only a big fire-place, where in twenty-four hours we would sometimes burn two cords of four-foot wood. It took hard work for the boys just to keep the fires going. Nor did we always have enough food; again and again I have seen my mother sit down at the table and eat nothing, since there was not enough to go around.
Our house was built without a stick of anything but green oak, but we needed some sawed pine lumber for finishing. In the second year, we got enough money together to buy a little lum- ber. Then we borrowed an old wagon and a yoke of oxen from Pete Le Roy, and George, my oldest brother, started with the outfit for Green Bay. He arrived safely, got a jag of lumber
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and a few groceries, and started home by the military road, east of Lake Winnebago. On the return, the oxen gave out from ex- haustion, somewhere between Taycheedah and Fond du Lac. George camped on the spot, among the prairie-wolves, until morning, but rest had not relieved the beasts.1ยบ So, reluctantly, he left the wagon and the load by the lake-shore, and got the animals home as best he could.
After almost a week at home, they revived, and then George went back after his load. But when he reached the place where it had been abandoned, there was nothing left but the wagon- irons. The prairie fires had run through and burned out the country for twenty miles each way.11 What could be done ? We had lost the lumber, and the wagon was borrowed. As cus- tomary in those days, my brother had brought an axe with him; so he cut a timber crotch, bound stakes across, with withes tied on the burned wagon irons, and set out for home. It took a day and a half to drag the crotch and the load to our home. Father being a mechanical genius and a mill-wright,12 went resolutely to work, and hewed out a rough wagon of green oak, seasoned in hot ashes. It took a month or two to finish this rude cart, but at last it was done, and dear old Le Roy was satisfied.
All the while, we were clearing and breaking land. It was
10 The only settler in this region was Dr. Mason C. Darling, whose cabin at Fond du Lac stood on the river near the post-office site; later, he lived where Darling's block stood, on the corner of First and Main streets.
11 Every fall we had to burn round everything-house, sheds, and stacks-to save them from these fires that annually swept the prairies.
12 My father, Anson Dart, was born March 6, 1797, in Brattleboro, Vermont. Gaining some knowledge of drugs, he became a druggist in New York city, where he imported from France the first ounce of qui- nine brought to America. Later he removed to Oneida County, New York, and became a miller, having a large mill at the town of Delta. Afterwards he lived awhile in Utica, being constructive superintendent of the asylum at that place. He came West in 1835-36 and made in- vestments in Milwaukee, and also in pine lands, but lost them all in speculation. Daniel Whitney of Green Bay once offered the company my father represented, $100,000 for their pine lands, but father laughed at the offer. In the reverses of 1837 he was ruined, and finally took up land in Green Lake County, as herein narrated.
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thin and poor in the clay openings, and as yet we did not know how to farm to advantage. Father used to repair grist-mills and sawmills as far off as Watertown, leaving us boys to run the farm. Finally we got enough money together to go up on the prairie and buy a "forty" of better land, with richer soil.
Father built a grist-mill for Samuel Beall in 1843-44. It stood where there is still to be seen a remnant of an old dam on the south side of Green Lake, three-fourths of a mile south from Sand Bluff. Father ran this mill for two years; then the little- lakes13 began to dry up, the water gave out, the mill-site was abandoned, and the mill pulled down and carried off. My uncle, Mr. Catlin,14 came from Delta, Oneida County, New York, in. 1843 and was father's miller while he ran the Beall mill.
Game
In the early years of our coming to Green Lake, there was. plenty of small game-ducks, pigeons, and prairie-chickens. Deer were plentiful, except when they went south in winter to escape the cold. There were likewise wild turkeys and plenty of geese. Elk and moose were found upon Willow River, and occasionally around Green Lake. Shed elk and moose horns were then often found here; some weighed from sixty to seventy pounds. We saw no buffalo, but their wallows and chips and horns were visible, and seemed recent. Le Roy said that he had seen these prairies black with buffalo. The elk and moose soon went north, or disappeared. In cold, dreary winters, game was scanty.
Green Lake was much resorted to by Indians, but Lakes Rush and Puckaway more so, because of the abundance of wild rice, ducks, and fish. In winter, when these lakes had frozen over, and Green was still open, the latter would be visited by immense flocks of big mallards.
In tracking game, the Indians relied on stealth and skill, rather than marksmanship. They were generally indifferent
13 Old residents say that Twin Lakes were practically one in the early day, so were considerably larger than at present.
14 He came all the way from New York by wagon, and it took him from spring to autumn to come through.
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shots, and had very poor "agency" guns. But they stole noise- lessly upon their game, made no noise when they walked, and displayed remarkable sagacity in getting close to their prey un- awares. They took no chances with dangerous game; many of them would shoot at the same animal simultaneously, to make sure.
One afternoon, late in the season, we saw a lonely deer stalk past our camp, and down the lake valley, where we lost sight of him. That evening, an Indian came along. We told him of the deer.
He said, "I get him."
"Oh," we said, "you can't. He's far away by this time." "Yes," he replied, "I get him tomorrow," and he lay down near our camp to sleep.
We laughed at him, but he was as good as his word. Rising early, he did not follow the track of the deer, but started across- lots, down the valley, and got around the animal, which, as he anticipated, had, after a long journey, laid down tired, for a night's rest. The Indian shot him, almost before he waked. We boys followed the trail closely, next day, and proved that it was the same animal we had seen.
Prairie Flowers
I wish I could adequately describe the prairie flowers. Every month during spring and summer they grew in endless variety- such fields of changing beauty, I never saw before. It was a flower-garden everywhere. You could gather a bouquet any time, that couldn't be equalled in any greenhouse of New York or Chicago. There were double lady-slippers, shooting-stars, field-lilies, ete., ete. Some of them still linger beside the rail- way tracks. We tried over and over to transplant them, but only the shooting-stars would stand the change. There was also the tea-plant, whose leaves we dried for tea. When in blossom, the oak and elay openings, for miles around, were white with it, like buckwheat. We also had splendid wild honey from the bee-trees.
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Strawberry Story
Gov. John S. Horner15 had entered land where Ripon now stands, along Silver Creek and Gothic mill-pond. He wrote to father to take the earliest chance to go down and look over his valuable water-power. So four of us went in June, 1843, to the place where the old stone mill in Ripon afterwards stood, and viewed the land and stream. It was just at the crossing of the Big Buttes des Morts trail-but we looked at the water-power and laughed.
Coming back, we were skirting along the big marsh by the Dakin place, in Green Lake township, when a deer jumped out. We let him have two barrels of buck-shot, but he gave no sign of being wounded-simply stopped and looked back. My brother then shot him through the heart with a rifle, and taking his hams over our shoulders, we went on.
We were coming up near where you go down Scott Hill, by a thicket on the prairie, about the site of the old Bailey farm, when we snuffed a delightful odor-the smell of ripe straw- berries. We followed it up and found a place as big as an eighty-acre lot, that had been burned over, all covered with ripe wild strawberries as big as any tame ones you ever saw, and so thick that you could not lay your hand down without crushing berries. The ground was red with them, bushels and bushels for the picking. We carried home our handkerchiefs full, also everything else we had to hold them.
The next day we took the ox-team, laden with pails, pans, wash-tubs, etc .- everything that we had, to carry things-and the whole family went over. Whenever we had picked a lot, we went over to the shade of some plum-trees and hulled the berries, so as to take home the more. We filled all our dishes, but ex- actly what to do with them we scarcely knew. We had no sugar, save maple made by Indians, and this was very dirty. The natives used to pack this sugar in large baskets of birch-bark, and sell it.
How to dispose of the berries was a practical question; but when we reached home we were glad to find guests-David Jones
15 For a biographical sketch of John Scott Horner, see Wis. Hist. Soc. Proceedings, 1905, pp. 214-226 .- ED.
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and Richard Arndt from Green Bay, who had come down to pros- pect. We therefore hung the berries up in a large linen bag, half a bushel at a time, and squeezing out the juice, treated our friends to strawberry nectar, which was certainly a drink fit for gentlemen. . We improved this strawberry patch for one or two years. but at last the wild grass ran them out.
Indian Visitors
During our first years on Green Lake our most frequent visit- ors were Indians, usually of the Winnebago tribe. They would stalk up to the window and peer in, or open the door without knocking. One midsummer day in 1842, while we were eating dinner, there was a rap at the door, which we opened. There stood a stalwart, richly-dressed Indian whom we did not know. He had no gun, his only weapon being a long lance whose shaft was decorated with three white eagle feathers, tied on with deer- sinew. It was the symbol of his rank, but we did not know this. We shook hands, and he asked whether we could give him some dinner. We welcomed him to our modest feast, as we usually did such callers, and found that he talked English quite as well as we did.
After eating, he said: "I'm astonished to find you here. No white man was ever seen here before. I wonder that you are alone. I shouldn't have found you now ; only, as I passed up the trail [from Green Bay to Portage] I saw a wagon-track erossing it and coming this way. This excited my curiosity. I followed it. and found your house."
He asked many intelligent questions, and we also questioned him. He said that he would like to have a long talk with us, but must go, for he had to reach Portage that night. We thought it useless for him to try to do so, and vainly urged him to stay. While we saw him to be very intelligent and bright, he had not told us who he was.
"How much shall I pay for my dinner ?" he asked.
"Nothing. You are welcome."
"But," he replied, "I always pay for my dinner."
We still declined anything, whereupon he took out a fine buck- skin pouch, well-filled with shining half-dollars-thirty or so, I
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should think. Taking one out and playing with it for a few minutes, he then tossed it to my little sister.
"I don't want to be bragging of who I am," he said on leav- ing; "but you have treated me kindly, and it is fair for you to know that I am Dandy, chief of the Winnebago.16 I thank you !"
It was the first and last time that we ever saw him. He started back toward the trail, and soon passed out of sight. He was a splendid fellow, and it seems had, at the risk of his life, come back on a secret visit from the reservation at Turkey River, Iowa, to transaet business for his tribe at Green Bay.
Captain Marston's Story
Captain Marston, army officer at Portage, in the 40's, told us the following story of Dandy, whom he greatly admired, and vouched for its accuracy.
Dandy had been back from Turkey River, Iowa, several times without leave. He was forbidden by the federal government to visit Wisconsin, but insisted on coming when he chose.
Marston said to Dandy, one day, "Dandy, you are back here again against orders. I threatened you before with punishment, and here you are again."
Dandy answered, "Captain Marston, it was necessary for me to come for my tribe's sake. I told you what to expect. I could not do anything different. I shall certainly come again if busi- ness for my tribe makes it necessary."
Marston replied. "Very well. I will tell you what to expect, and I shall do as I say. Mark my words. If I catch you back again in Wisconsin without my permission, I will hang you up at the flag-staff yard in Fort Winnebago."
Dandy said: "You can't scare me a bit, Captain Marston.
16 Mr. Dart says: "Dandy was about twenty-five years old in 1840, was then head chief of the Winnebago, at the time of the deportation, and one of the brightest, finest looking young men I ever saw." This does not comport with Moses Paquette's statement that Dandy was about seventy in 1848, "a small thin man, of rather insignificant ap- pearance" See Wis. Hist. Colls., xii, p. 409; but see also Id., vii, p. 365 .- ED.
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My business here concerns the interests of my tribe. I shall do what I think is needful."
Captain Marston was angry, but they parted without further words. Some two months passed, when one day a runner came up the Wisconsin river from below, in a dugout, and reported to the captain, "Dandy is down the river, about six miles."
"What ! Dandy, the Winnebago Chief ?"
"Yes."
"I can hardly believe it," said Marston, "he wouldn't dare come. He isn't the man to do that, after what I told him when he was here last."
"Well," said the runner, "come with me and I'll show him to vou, or show you where I saw him-beside a big thicket, sitting on a log, smoking his pipe."
Marston hastily mustered a well-armed squad of about twelve soldiers, and went down the river with the spy until they came to the thicket. At first, Dandy was not to be seen ; but hardly had they fastened their horses for further search, for the thicket was dense and several acres in width, when Dandy appeared, calmly sat down on a log and began to smoke.
"Dandy, I'm surprised. Why are you here again?" said Marston. "You know what I said I would do, if you returned. I shall keep my word."
At the same time he signalled to his armed men to advance around him, which they did. Dandy sat complacently on the log and quietly knocked the ashes out of his pipe. He only said, "Captain Marston, I told you I should come and why I should come. You hurt my feelings and do me wrong by treating me so. I am here because it is necessary, and I do no one harm."
Marston answered, "Well, you know what to expect. I shall have to do as I said, and make you an example."
"Very well," said Dandy, "you see I am here, and in your power."
Marston then replied, "If you've got a pony here, get him and come with us. Our guns cover you, and you are in our power. It is useless for you to try to get away. If you try, you will be shot. You must go back to the fort with us."
Dandy said, "Follow me where my pony is;" and he pushed calmly back into the thicket, the soldiers following closely, with guns ready to fire. In this manner they penetrated the thicket
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for some thirty or forty rods. Marston, growing a bit suspicious, stopped them and asked, "Dandy, where is your horse ?"
"Right here. I didn't bring him outside, for fear he would get hurt."
"Well, be quick, for I'm going to take you back to the fort and hang you. You are my prisoner."
"Do you realize what you will come to, if you insist on this?"
"You see my twelve men surrounding you. They mean busi- ness, and will shoot if you don't hurry. You can't get away."
Just then Dandy jumped up on a log, pulled out an Indian whistle, and blew a shrill call. In an instant, fifty Indian war- riors jumped into view from a thick brush, each buck with a rifle aimed at Marston's little body of men. There was a mo- ment of silence.
"Now," said Dandy, with a faint smile upon his lips, "if I blow this whistle again, every man you've got is a dead man. Will you take Dandy back to the fort, before he is ready to go, or not ?"
Whereupon Marston, seeing his plight, answered, "Well, I see you have caught me in a clever ambush."
The chief replied, "I won't injure a hair of your head, or any of your men, Captain Marston, unless you oblige me to." Upon his signal, every Indian rifle dropped. "Now, Marston, take your choice. I was your friend. I never wronged you. You distrusted me, hurt my feelings, and forbade me to do my duty to my people. I have showed you what I can do."
In silence, Marston and his men turned from the thicket and retreated up the river to their fort.
Big Soldier
Big Soldier, who in 1840 was fifty years old, was a subordinate chief, or captain, of the Winnebago. He was the first Indian we saw at our house, and one of our best friends. Strictly honest, and always ready to do anything for us, he slept in our house at times and we in his wigwam. He became very im- portant to our successs in getting along. He told us ours was the first white man's boat he ever saw cross Green Lake.
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