Was bathed in floods of living fire;
Their rocky summits, split and rent,
Form’d turret, dome, or battlement;
Or seem’d fantastically set,
With cupola or minaret.”
There is the mouth of the Upper Iowa River, on the boundary line of Iowa and Minnesota. “Good-by, Iowa,” said Norman, taking off his hat and waving it to the receding state.
“Crossing the river again,” said Mrs. Lester. “We will soon be at the mouth of the Bad Axe River, but the light is fading so rapidly that we will not be able to see the spot of the decisive conflict between the Indian and white man.”
“I never heard of that battle mother, will you tell me something about it?”
“It was at the close of the Black Hawk war, in 1832. The Indians were entirely defeated by the United States troops at this place. A number of squaws were slain in the wild confusion of battle, not being distinguished from the Indians in the long grass into which they had fled for refuge. One poor woman, as she received her mortal wound, clasped her child close to her bosom, and fell over upon it, thus pinioning it to the ground. The poor little thing was found the next day under the lifeless body of its mother. Its arm was broken, and the child was so starved that, even during the painful operation of setting the broken bone, it eagerly devoured some meat given to it by the compassionate soldier who had rescued it from the arms now powerless for its protection. The love of another mother bore her safely over the deep waters. She placed her papoose in her blanket, and holding it between her teeth, she swam across the broad river, and reached the opposite shore in safety.”