The missionaries down there were charged with wanting to get hold of the Indians' money; and so the provision for education made by the treaty of 1837 effectually blocked all efforts at teaching among those lower Sioux. What should have been a help became a great hindrance. Indians and traders joined to oppose the use of that fund for the purpose for which it was intended, and finally the government yielded and turned over the accumulated money to be distributed among themselves. The Wahpatons of Lac-qui-parle had no interest in that treaty; and had yet made no treaty with the government and had not a red cent of money anywhere that missionaries could, by any hook or crook, lay hold of. Nevertheless it was easy to get up a fear and belief; for was it possible that white men and women would come here and teach year after year, and not expect, in some way and at some time, to get money out of them? If they ever made a treaty, and sold land to the government, would not the missionaries bring in large bills against them? It was easy to work up this matter in their own minds, and make it all seem true, and the result was the soldiers were ordered to stop the children from coming to school. There were some such moods as this, and our school had a vacation. But the absurdity appeared pretty soon, and the children were easily induced to come back.
Mr. and Mrs. Pond were now gone. For the next winter, Mary and Miss Fanny Huggins took care of the girls and younger boys, and Mr. Huggins, with such assistance as I could give, took care of the boys and young men. The women also undertook, under the instruction of Mrs. Huggins and Miss Fanny, to spin and knit and weave. Mr. Renville had already among his flock some sheep. The wool was here and the flax was soon grown. Spinning-wheels and knitting-needles were brought on, and Mr. Huggins manufactured a loom. They knit socks and stockings, and wove skirts and blankets, while the little girls learned to sew patchwork and make quilts. All this was of advantage as education.
My own special effort in the class-room during the first years was in teaching a knowledge of figures. The language of counting in Dakota was limited. The "wancha, nonpa, yamne"--one, two, three, up to ten,--every child learned, as he bent down his fingers and thumbs until all were gathered into two bunches, and then let them loose as geese flying away. Eleven was _ten more one_, and so on. Twenty was _ten twos_ or _twice ten_, and thirty _ten threes_. With each ten the fingers were all bent down, and one was kept down to remember the ten. Thus, when ten tens were reached, the whole of the two hands was bent down, each finger meaning ten. This was the perfected "bending down." It was "opawinge"--one hundred. Then, when the hands were both bent down for hundreds, the climax was supposed to be reached, which could only be expressed by "again also bending down." When something larger than this was reached, it was a _great count_--something which they nor we can comprehend--a million.