I had gone into Minnesota to track down and correlate one of the ghost stories that still lingered on with the population along the Mississippi, from its upper most wooded parts down and around the bend and mound area of Pigs Eye, as it was referred to in the 1820s and thereafter, and cliffs of St. Paul, and Minneapolis. Mark Twain, had once visited St. Paul, and called it quite the hidden secret. I was searching for its lost lore, I could now vouch for that, for it had a strong and old Indian validation of lost legends. I now prefer to them, in particular one, as open-air ghost stories, or tales, told by old white folks back in the early 1960s, of those earlier years of the 1880s, which sounded flat. Indian mythology should be told by Native Americans, all woven around those vast, lonely looking mounds, resting quietly along the rim of the cliffs. When told by the Indians I could hear the hooves and the feet and the thud and the blows, the muffled cries of warriors. The Chippewa, or Ojibwa, the Cayuga, the old people.

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