"In fancied security we had dwelt under our own vine and fig-tree, knowing naught of the evil which was to come upon us, until the very night of the 18th of August, 1862. Friendly Indians, who knew something of the evil intent of chiefs and braves, had given Miss Jane Williamson hints concerning it during that day. More than that they _dared_ not tell. But few of our own Indians had known much more respecting the coming storm than ourselves. When intelligence came of the bloody work which that morning's sun had looked upon, at the Lower Sioux Agency, thirty-five miles below, our good friends came to us, and, in an agony of fear for our lives and for theirs, besought us to flee. We would certainly be killed, and they would be in danger on account of our presence. Some believed, but more doubted. We had heard Indian stories before; by morning light we were confident this too would prove nothing but a drunken frolic, and we would only lose our worldly possessions if we should depart. The believing ones made ready a little clothing and provision, in case of need. The principal men gathered in council. _Could_ they protect us? They would _try_, at least until the morning. We sang 'God is the Refuge of his Saints,' commended ourselves to our Father's safe-keeping, and most of us retired to rest. An hour or two passed in peaceful slumber by some--in nervous anxiety by others. "One o'clock had passed: a heavy knock at the door. Our friends had learned more of the extent of the outbreak, and felt that their protection would be worse than useless. 'If you regard your own lives or ours, you must go.' To their entreaties we yielded, and made hasty preparations to depart. In a quarter of an hour we had left our homes forever. Our company consisted of my father's family, Mr. Cunningham's, and Mr. Pettijohn's, and a Mr. and Mrs. Moore from New Jersey; in all twenty-one persons. Mr. Cunningham had charge of the Hazelwood boarding-school, and Mr. Pettijohn, a former missionary under the American Board, had been recently a government teacher, twelve miles farther up the river. He had been moving his family down that day, on their way to St. Peter. As he drove my father's team along, with the last of his goods, early in the evening, he was met by two Indians, who took the horses from him, and set him on an inveterately lazy horse belonging to another Indian. Consequently our family had but a light buggy and one horse left, which was to aid Mr. Cunningham's two-horse team in carrying the _all_ of the party. Room was found in the conveyances for the smaller children and all the women, except my sister Anna and myself. We walked with the men and boys. Our Indian friends guided us through the woods, the thick and