Legend of: Kurgan and old people (Minnesota history) Hyperborean myth

I went to Minnesota to track down and juxtapose one of the ghost stories that still lingered with the population along the Mississippi, from its highest wooded parts down and around the bend area and the Pig's Eye mound, as it was mentioned in the 1820s the years after, and the cliffs of St. Paul and Minneapolis. Mark Twain once visited St. Paul and called it a completely hidden secret.

I was looking for my lost knowledge, now I could vouch for it, because he had a strong and old Indian test of lost legends. Now I prefer them, in particular, as stories about ghosts in the open air or fairy tales told by old white people in the early 1960s of those early years of the 1880s, which sounded exactly. Indian mythology must be told by Native Americans, all woven around these huge, lonely looking mounds, quietly resting along a cliff face. When I told the Indians, I heard the hooves, legs and knocks and blows, the muffled cries of the warriors. Chippev, or Ojiva, Kayuga, old men.

In the late 1960s, I met an old fur seller, he was in his nineties, and he lived on York Street, on the eastern side of St. Paul, and kept these ghostly stories in a frightened revival and spoke little about them, but he liked mine beer, and one evening he told me a story; he was not a story-teller, but his Indian friend was, and yet one was never too clear, and it sounded more orderly, and, as the white old guy said, "the older the story, the more spirit," and we all the three laughed.

Now it is 2016, all this is old stuff from my youth, I am now sixty-eight, but the tale remains deep in my head, and I am not an ethnologist, but I traveled, and legends always have the tension of truth, and if this then only has This is enough for a true legend about long-buried races.
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"This is an old, old story," said the old Indian, and his partner in the fur trade nodded his head in agreement, "so old that he is completely new to the outside world." For me, this is excitement, because it is due to the distant history of my family, Red Wing Reservation, although it is wounded with the old myth of snakes. a hill, but it is as it is, a mound, the burial of a prehistoric tribe. , of the reservation I mentioned.

“Every night, one of the few warriors buried in this embankment leaves before dawn, when the crack takes its place until it returns, and sends it back to its resting dwelling. His place is that all seven sources are above her and behead each other; through the repentance of yeast, she gave her life to this task, and the spirit of her victims wandered the earth, feeling their return to her.

“One night, she received a mortal wound with a giant black snake that fell on her from the tree on which she lay, awaiting the return of her warrior, unable to find her or the entrance. proof of her death lay next to a tree on a mound, bitten by a snake, and she was buried at some distance from the embankment, although alone and alone.

This ghost, blinded without a head and unable to hear, touched only and felt its touch, now one and the restless figure, frightened and avoided, returns to this very area, near the place and rocks, several times in its long, very long history, delving in many different mounds, unable to find their resting place, their comrades, and never found their entrance, only knew the curse. And this lonely spirit, unable to find its hideous steps out of sight for another generation, left its comrades free to rest once more in the world.

№: 5119 / 3-25-2016