near the line of Clay and O'Brien counties, we saw a long line of Sioux in the distance, moving westward towards the Big Sioux river, in single file, which at first I thought to be Parker's Company. As soon as they sighted us, they changed their course and the whole body, men, women, children and dogs, came towards us just as fast as their horses could be urged, or the footmen run-the light-mounted ones reaching us ahead of the footmen and squaws, with their ponies drawing the teepee poles lashed to their sides. As soon as they came up, they dismounted and paying no more attention to their horses, exchanged the usual salutation of "How, How." This proved to be Inkpadutah with about one hundred of his immediate band, the same no doubt that Gov. Carpenter had met a few days before at Armstrong's Grove. They had always held supreme dominion over these vast prairies. They wanted to hold a pow-wow, and urged me to get off of my horse and sit down in the grass. But not feeling in a diplomatic mood, and my knowledge of their language being confined to but few words, I declined, feeling a little suspicious, too, that one of them might jump on my horse and ride off. They wanted to know who we were, and our business, where the teepee was, if we had whiskey, tobacco, &c. On my part, I inquired if they had seen any surveying companies, but gave them an evasive answer as to where my camp was. I found them more willing to ask than to impart information. Much of our talk was by signs. When the conference was over and I was about starting, the Chief selected two of his footmen to go with us. He had them discharge their rifles before leaving. I set off in a different direction from the right course, but the fellows kept right up with us, in fact they could have outrun our jaded horses. When we reached the camp, the cook had a first-rate Sunday dinner ready, consisting of Sioux river fish, salt pork and beans, hot biscuits and molasses, dried apple sauce and coffee. My Indian guests had a cordial invitation to dine with us. After that I took special pains to let them know we had no whiskey. There was a jug of molasses setting in the back part of the tent, and I saw one of them kept eyeing

that. To dispel any doubt he might have on that point, I took up the jug and went to hold it to his nose to smell of. He threw back his head and opened his mouth to take down the whiskey. I stuck my finger in the molasses and showed him "no whiskey." They could all say "whiskey." That was the last I saw of that band, but it seems that two years later they turned up at Spirit Lake.

Since that time, northwestern Iowa has wonderfully changed. The Sioux Indians have gone, and comfortable farm houses stand in place of the teepees. The wild animals have disappeared and lowing herds of cattle have stamped out the wild grass. The hunter is displaced by the plowman. The report of the deadly rifle is succeeded by the clanging dinner bell, calling weary laborers to bountiful repasts. The solitude of the unbroken prairies is broken by the noise of the reaper and threshing machine. The single narrow trail of the buffalo and Sioux Indian is replaced by the wagonroad and railway; and the dome and steeples of a magnificent State Institution, for the mentally unfortunate, loom above the hills of the Little Sioux river.

But one who trod the first paths and set the first landmarks, can scarcely repress a sigh at remembrance of the grandeur and sublimity of the scenery when viewed in its native solitude.

The blue haze in the distance beyond the river, settling around the groves and other guiding points, obscured and mystified their distant forms and gave a charming solemnity to the view. So is the hoped-for final state beyond, covered behind a hazy veil which no one has lifted.

Truly did the poet sing of "the charms," seen by sages in the face of "solitude," and of a life "with a chosen band" in a frontier land, as against one who "loved to roam o'er the bright sea foam."

THE EARLY SCHOOLS AND TEACHERS OF IOWA.

BY T. S. PARVIN, LL. D.

Every now and then a new error comes to the front in the newspapers of the day: First one and then another claims to have "taught the first school in Iowa," or erected "the first school house." Having thoroughly investigated this matter I have from time to time corrected these errors until I have abandoned the hope of keeping the newspaper press correct upon the subject.

In the ANNALS OF Iowa, Vol. 3, No. 1, April, 1897, under the heading "Notable Deaths," I find an editorial, evidently based upon a newspaper article first appearing in The Fairfield Ledger, a few weeks later repeated in The Burlington Hawkeye and other papers of the State. The paragraph reads:

Susan Smith Russell, the first woman teacher in Iowa, and an old pioneer of Jefferson, died at that place Feb. 22, 1897. In 1837 she came to old Fort Des Moines and began teaching in the barracks; this was one year after the territory of Wisconsin had been taken from Michigan territory. While still engaged in this work Iowa was made a separate territory (July 4, 1838) and consequently Mrs. Russell had the honor of being its first woman teacher.

Finding so grave an error in a leading historical magazine of the State I at the time called the editor's attention to the incorrectness of the statement, which was overlooked, however, in the subsequent numbers as issued.

It is not too late to correct an error, as one of these days some one will be re-writing-I say re-writing because I have written the history of "early education in Iowa," and will naturally turn to THE ANNALS AND HISTORICAL RECORD as affording the best evidence from which to write such history.

In the winter of 1888-89 I wrote and published my "History of the Early Schools and Education in Iowa, 1830-59," and in the preparation of this work I made a thorough study and examination into all the evidence accessible at that time, (and I may here add none has become accessible since to