Читать книгу Wau-Bun: The "Early Day" of the North-West - Mrs. John H. Kinzie - Страница 5

[F] Michaud climbed into a plum-tree, to gather plums. The branch broke. Michaud fell! Where is he? He is down on the ground. No, he is up in the tree.

It was always a point of etiquette to look astonished at the luck of Michaud in remaining in the tree, spite of the breaking of the branch, and the joke had to be repeated through all the varieties of fruit-trees that Michaud might be supposed able to climb.

By evening of the first day we arrived at the Kakalin, where another branch of the Grignon family resided.[29] We were very pleasantly entertained, although in my anxiety to begin my forest life, I would fain have had the tent pitched on the bank of the river, and have laid aside, at once, the indulgences of civilization. This, however, would have been a slight, perhaps an affront, so Ave did much better, and partook of the good cheer that was offered us in the shape of hot venison steaks and crepes, and that excellent cup of coffee which none can prepare like a Frenchwoman, and which is so refreshing after a day in the open air.

The Kakalin is a rapid of the Fox River, sufficiently important to make the portage of the heavy lading of a boat necessary; the boat itself being poled or dragged up with cords against the current. It is one of a series of rapids and chûtes, or falls, which occur between this point and Lake Winnebago, twenty miles above.[30]

The next morning, after breakfast, we took leave of our hosts, and prepared to pursue our journey. The bourgeois, from an early hour, had been occupied in superintending his men in getting the boat and its loading over the Kakalin. As the late rains had made the paths through the woods and along the banks of the river somewhat muddy and uncomfortable for walking, I was put into an ox-cart, to be jolted over the unequal road; saluting, impartially, all the stumps and stones that lay in our way, the only means of avoiding which seemed to be, when the little, thick-headed Frenchman, our conductor, bethought him of suddenly guiding his cattle into a projecting tree or thorn-bush, to the great detriment, not only of my straw-bonnet, but of my very eyes.

But we got through at last, and arriving at the head of the rapids, I found the boat lying there, all in readiness for our re-embarking.

Our Monomonee guide, Wish-tay-yun, a fine, stalwart Indian, with an open, good-humored, one might almost say roguish countenance, came forward to be presented to me.

“Bon-jour, bon-jour, maman,” was his laughing salutation. Again I was surprised, not as before at the French, for to that I had become accustomed, but at the respectable title he was pleased to bestow upon me.

“Yes,” said my husband, “you must make up your mind to receive a very numerous and well-grown family, consisting of all the Winnebagoes, Pottowattamies, Chippewas, and Ottawas, together with such Sioux, Sacs, and Foxes, and Iowas, as have any point to gain in applying to me. By the first named tribe, in virtue of my office, and by the others as a matter of courtesy, I am always addressed as ‘father’—you, of course, will be their ‘mother.’ ”

Wish-tay-yun and I were soon good friends, my husband interpreting to me the Chippewa language in which he spoke. We were impatient to be off, the morning being already far advanced, and all things being in readiness, the word was given.

“Pousse au large, mes gens!” (Push out, my men).

At this moment a boat was seen leaving the opposite bank of the river and making towards us. It contained white men, and they showed by signs that they wished to detain us until they came up. They drew near, and we found them to be Mr. Marsh,[31] a missionary among the Wau-ba-na-kees, or the New York Indians, lately brought into this country, and the Rev. Eleazar Williams,[G] who was at that time living among his red brethren on the left bank of the Fox River.[32]

[G] The supposed Dauphin of France.

To persons so situated, even more emphatically than to those of “the settlements,” the arrival of visitors from the “east countrie” was a godsend indeed. We had to give all the news of various kinds that we had brought—political, ecclesiastical, and social—as well as a tolerably detailed account of what we proposed to do, or rather what we hoped to be able to do, among our native children at “the Portage.”

I was obliged, for my part, to confess that, being almost entirely a stranger to the Indian character and habits, I was going among them with no settled plans of any kind—general good-will, and a hope of making them my friends, being the only principles I could lay claim to at present. I must leave it for time and a better acquaintance to show me in what way the principle could be carried out for their greatest good.

Mr. Williams was a dark-complexioned, good-looking man. Having always heard him spoken of, by his relations in Connecticut, as “our Indian cousin,” it never occurred to me to doubt his belonging to that race, although I now think that if I had met him elsewhere, I should have taken him for a Spaniard or a Mexican. His complexion had decidedly more of the olive than the copper hue, and his countenance was grave, almost melancholy. He was very silent during this interview, asking few questions, and offering no observations except in reply to some question addressed to him.

It was a hard pull for the men up the rapids. Wish-tay-yun, whose clear, sonorous voice was the bugle of the party, shouted and whooped—each one answered with a chorus, and a still more vigorous effort. By-and-by the boat would become firmly set between two huge stones—

“Whoop la! whoop! whoop!”

Another pull, and another, straining every nerve—in vain.

“She will not budge!”

“Men, overboard!” and instantly every rower is over the side and into the water.

By pulling, pushing, and tugging, the boat is at length released from her position, and the men walk along beside her, helping and guiding her, until they reach a space of comparatively smooth water, when they again take their seats and their oars.

It will be readily imagined that there were few songs this day, but very frequent pipes, to refresh the poor fellows after such an arduous service.

It was altogether a new spectacle to me. In fact, I had hardly ever before been called upon to witness severe bodily exertion, and my sympathies and sensibilities were, for this reason, the more enlisted on the occasion. It seemed a sufficient hardship to have to labor in this violent manner; but to walk in cold water up to their waists, and then to sit down in their soaking garments without going near a fire! Poor men! this was too much to be borne! What then was my consternation to see my husband, who, shortly after our noon-tide meal, had surprised me by making his appearance in a pair of duck trowsers and light jacket, at the first cry of “fast, again!” spring over into the water with the men, and “bear a hand” throughout the remainder of the day.

When he returned on board, it was to take the oar of a poor, delicate-looking boy, one of the company of soldiers, who from the first had suffered with bleeding at the nose on every unusual exertion. I was not surprised, on inquiring, to find that this lad was a recruit just entered the service. He passed by the name of Gridley, but that was undoubtedly an assumed name. He had the appearance of having been delicately nurtured, and had probably enlisted without at all appreciating the hardships and discomforts of a soldier’s life. This is evident from the dissatisfaction he always continued to feel, until at length he deserted from his post. This was some months subsequent to the time of which I am writing. He was once retaken, and kept for a time in confinement, but immediately on his release deserted again, and his remains were found the following spring, not many miles from the fort. He had died either of cold or starvation. This is a sad interlude—we will return to our boating.

With all our tugging and toiling we had accomplished but thirteen miles since leaving the Kakalin, and it was already late when we arrived in view of the “Grande Chûte,” near which we were to encamp.

We had passed the “Little Chûte” (the post where the town of Appleton now stands) without any farther observation than that it required a vast deal of extra exertion to buffet with the rushing stream, and come off, as we did, victorious.

The brilliant light of the setting sun was resting on the high wooded banks through which broke the beautiful, foaming, dashing waters of the Chûte. The boat was speedily turned toward a little headland projecting from the right bank, which had the advantage of a long strip of level ground, sufficiently spacious to afford a good encamping ground. I jumped ashore before the boat was fairly pulled up by the men, and with the Judge’s help made my way as rapidly as possibly to a point lower down the river, from which, he said, the best view of the Chûte could be obtained. I was anxious to make a sketch before the daylight quite faded away.

The left bank of the river was to the west, and over a portion less elevated than the rest the sun’s parting rays fell upon the boat, the men with their red caps and belts, and the two tents already pitched. The smoke now beginning to ascend from the evening fires, the high wooded bank beyond, up which the steep portage path could just be discerned, and more remote still, the long stretch of waterfall now darkening in the shadow of the overhanging forests, formed a lovely landscape, to which the pencil of an artist could alone do justice.

This was my first encampment, and I was quite enchanted with the novelty of everything about me.

The fires had been made of small saplings and underbrush, hastily collected, the mildness of the weather rendering anything beyond what sufficed for the purposes of cooking and drying the men’s clothes, superfluous. The soldiers' tent was pitched at some distance from our own, but not too far for us to hear distinctly their laughter and apparent enjoyment, after the fatigues of the day.

Under the careful superintendence of Corporal Kilgour, however, their hilarity never passed the bounds of respectful propriety, and, by the time we had eaten our suppers, cooked in the open air with the simple apparatus of a teakettle and frying-pan, we were, one and all, ready to retire to our rest.

The first sound that saluted our ears in the early dawn of the following morning, was the far-reaching call of the bourgeois:

“How! how! how!” uttered at the very top of his voice.

All start at that summons, and the men are soon turning out of their tents, or rousing from their slumbers beside the fire, and preparing for the duties of the day.

The fire is replenished, the kettles set on to boil, the mess-baskets opened, and a portion of their contents brought forth to be made ready for breakfast. One Frenchman spreads our mat within the tent, whence the bedding has all been carefully removed and packed up for stowing in the boat. The tin cups and plates are placed around on the new-fashioned table-cloth. The heavy dews make it a little too damp for us to breakfast in the open air, otherwise our preparations would be made outside, upon the green grass. In an incredibly short time our smoking coffee and broiled ham are placed before us, to which are added, from time to time, slices of toast brought hot and fresh from the glowing coals.

There is, after all, no breakfast like a breakfast in the woods, with a well-trained Frenchman for master of ceremonies.

It was a hard day’s work to which the men now applied themselves, that of dragging the heavy boat up the Chûte. It had been thought safest to leave the piano in its place on board, but the rest of the lading had to be carried up the steep bank, and along its summit, a distance of some hundreds of rods, to the smooth water beyond, where all the difficulties of our navigation terminated.

The Judge kindly took charge of me, while “the bourgeois” superintended this important business, and with reading, sketching, and strolling about, the morning glided away. Twelve o’clock came, and still the preparations for starting were not yet completed.

In my rambles about to seek out some of the finest of the wild flowers for a bouquet, before my husband’s return, I came upon the camp fire of the soldiers. A tall, red-faced, light-haired young man in fatigue dress was attending a kettle of soup, the savoury steams of which were very attractive.

Seeing that I was observing his occupation, he politely laded out a tin cup full of the liquid and offered it to me.

I declined it, saying we should have our dinner immediately.

“They left me here to get their dinner,” said he, apparently not displeased to have some one to talk to; “and I thought I might as well make some soup. Down on the German Flats, where I come from, they always like soup.”

“Ah! you are from the German Flats—then your name must be Bellinger or Weber.”

“No it isn’t—it’s Christman.”

“Well, Christman, how do you like the service?”

“Very well. I was only recruited last summer. I used to ride horse on the Canawl, and as I can blow a horn first-rate, I expect I will soon be able to play on a bugle, and then, when I get to be musician, you know, I shall have extra pay.”

I did not know it, but I expressed due pleasure at the information, and wishing Christman all manner of success in his dreams of ambition, or rather I should say, of avarice, for the hopes of “extra pay” evidently preponderated over those of fame, I returned to my own quarters.

My husband, with his French tastes, was inclined to be somewhat disappointed when I told him of this little incident, and my refusal of Christman’s soup; but we were soon gratified by seeing his tall, awkward form bearing a kettle of the composition, which he set down before the two gentlemen, by whom, to his infinite satisfaction, it was pronounced excellent.

Every thing being at length in readiness, the tents were struck and carried around the Portage, and my husband, the Judge, and I followed at our leisure.

The woods were brilliant with wild flowers, although it was so late in the season that the glory of the summer was well nigh past. But the lupin, the moss-pink, and the yellow wallflower, with all the varieties of the helianthus, the aster, and the solidago, spread their gay charms around. The gentlemen gathered clusters of the bitter-sweet (celastrus scandens) from the overhanging boughs to make a wreath for my hat, as we trod the tangled pathway, which, like that of Christabelle, was

“Now in glimmer and now in gloom,”

through the alternations of open glade and shady thicket. Soon, like the same lovely heroine,

“We reached the place—right glad we were,”

and without further delay, we were again on board our little boat and skimming over the now placid waters.

CHAPTER V

WINNEBAGO LAKE—MISS FOUR-LEGS

Our encampment this night was the most charming that can be imagined. Owing to the heavy service the men had gone through, in the earlier part of the day, we took but a short stage for the afternoon, and having pulled some seven or eight miles to a spot a short distance below the "little Butte,"[33] we drew in at a beautiful opening among the trees.

The soldiers now made a regular business of encamping by cutting down a large tree for their fire, and applying themselves to the preparing of a sufficient quantity of food for their next day’s journey, a long stretch, namely, of twenty-one miles across Winnebago Lake. Our Frenchmen did the same. The fire caught in the light dry grass by which we were surrounded, and soon all was blaze and crackle.

Fortunately the wind was sufficient to take the flames all in one direction, and besides, there was not enough fuel to have made them a subject of any alarm. We hopped upon the fallen logs, and dignified the little circumscribed affair with the name of “a prairie on fire.” The most serious inconvenience was its having consumed all the dry grass, some armfuls of which, spread under the bearskin in my tent, I had found, the night before, a great improvement to my place of repose.

Our supper was truly delightful, at the pleasant sunset hour, under the tall trees beside the waters that ran murmuring by; and when the bright, broad moon arose, and shed her flood of light over the scene, so wild yet so beautiful in its vast solitude, I felt that I might well be an object of envy to the friends I had left behind.

But all things have an end, and so must at last my enthusiasm for the beauties around me, and, albeit unwillingly, I closed my tent, and took my place within, so near the fall of canvas that I might raise it occasionally and peep forth upon the night.

In time all was quiet. The men had become silent, and appeared to have retired to rest, and we were just sinking to our slumbers, when a heavy tread and presently a bluff voice were heard outside.

“Mr. Kinzie—Mr. Kinzie!”

“Who is there? What is it?”

“I’m Christman; didn’t you mean, sir, that the men should have any liquor to-night?”

“Of course I did. Has not Kilgour given out your rations?”

“No! he says you did not say anything particular about it, and he was not coming to ask you if you forgot it; but I thought I wouldn’t be bashful—I’d just come and ask.”

“That is right. Tell Kilgour I should like to have him serve out a ration apiece.”

“Thank you, sir,” in a most cheerful tone; “I’ll tell him.”

Christman was getting to be quite a character with us.

A row of a few miles, on the following morning, brought us to Four-Legs' village,[H] at the entrance to Winnebago Lake, a picturesque cluster of Indian huts, spread around on a pretty green glade, and shaded by fine lofty trees.

[H] The site of the town of Nee-nah.

We were now fairly in the Winnebago country, and I soon learned that the odd-sounding name of the place was derived from the principal chief of the nation, whose residence it was. The inhabitants were absent, having, in all probability, departed to their wintering grounds. We here took leave of our friend Wish-tay-yun, at the borders of whose country we had now arrived.

“Bon-jour, Chon!” (John) “Bon-jour, maman.” A hearty shake of the hand completed his adieu, as we pushed off into the lake, and left him smoking his kin-nee-kin-nick,[I] and waiting until the spirit should move him to take up his long Indian trot towards his home in the Menomonee country.

[I] The bark of the red willow, scraped fine, which is preferred by the Indians to tobacco.

With him our sunshine seemed to have departed. The skies, hitherto so bright and serene, became overcast, and instead of the charming voyage we had anticipated over the silver waters of the lake, we were obliged to keep ourselves housed under our canvas shelter, only peeping out now and then, to catch a glimpse of the surrounding prospect through the pouring rain.

It was what might have been expected on an autumnal day, but we were unreasonable enough to find it tedious; so, to beguile the time and lessen my disappointment, my husband related to me some incidents of his early history, apropos to the subject of “Four-Legs.”

While he was living at Prairie du Chien, in the employ of the American Fur Company, the chiefs and other Indians, from the Upper Mississippi, used frequently to come to the place to sell their furs and peltries, and to purchase merchandise, ammunition, trinkets, &c.

FOUR-LEG’S VILLAGE

Entrance to Winnebago Lake (the present town of Neenah). From a sketch by Mrs. Kinzie, in original Edition.

As is usual with all who are not yet acclimated, he was seized with chills and fever. One day, while suffering with an unusually severe access of the latter, a chief of the Four-Legs family, a brother to the one before-mentioned, came in to the Company’s warehouse to trade. There is no ceremony or restraint among the Indians, so hearing that Shaw-nee-aw-kee was sick, Four-Legs instantly made his way to him, to offer his sympathy and prescribe the proper remedies.

Every one who has suffered from ague and the intense fever that succeeds it, knows how insupportable is the protracted conversation of an inconsiderate person, and will readily believe that the longer Four-Legs continued his pratings the higher mounted the fever of the patient, and the more intolerable became the pain of head, back, and limbs.

At length the old man arrived at the climax of what he had to say. “It was not good for a young man, suffering with sickness, and away from his family, to be without a home and a wife. He had a nice daughter at home, handsome and healthy, a capital nurse, the best hand in all the tribe at trapping beaver and musk-rats. He was coming down again in the spring, and he would bring her with him, and Shaw-nee-aw-kee should see that he had told no falsehood about her. Should he go now, and bring his daughter the next time he came?”

Stunned with his importunate babble, and anxious only for rest and quiet, poor Shaw-nee-aw-kee eagerly assented, and the chief took his departure.

So nearly had his disorder been aggravated to delirium, that the young man forgot entirely, for a time, the interview and the proposal which had been made him. But it was recalled to his memory some months after, when Four-Legs made his appearance, bringing with him a squaw of mature age, and a very Hecate for ugliness. She carried on her shoulders an immense pack of furs, which, approaching with her awkward criss-cross gait, she threw at his feet, thus marking, by an Indian custom, her sense of the relation that existed between them.

The conversation with her father now flashed across his mind, and he began to be sensible that he had got into a position that it would require some skill to extricate himself from.

He bade one of the young clerks take up the pack and carry it into the magazine where the furs were stored, then he coolly went on talking with the chief about indifferent matters.

Miss Four-Legs sat awhile with a sulky, discontented air, at length she broke out,

“Humph! he seems to take no more notice of me than if I was nobody!”

He again turned to the clerk—“Give her a calico shirt and half a dozen bread tickets.”

This did not dissipate the gloom on her countenance. Finding that he must commence the subject, the father says,

“Well, I have brought you my daughter, according to our agreement. How do you like her?”

"Ah! yes, she is a very nice young woman, and would make a first-rate wife, I have no doubt. But do you know a very strange thing has happened since you were here? Our father, Governor Cass,[J] has sent for me to come to Detroit; that he may send me among the Wyandots and other nations to learn their customs and manners. Now, if I go, as I shall be obliged to do, I shall be absent two or three years—perhaps four. What then? Why, the people will say, Shaw-nee-aw-kee has married Four-Legs' daughter, and then has hated her and run away from her, and so everybody will laugh at her, and she will be ashamed. It will be better to take some good, valuable presents, blankets, guns, &c., and to marry her to one of her own people, who will always stay by her and take care of her."

[J] General Cass was then Governor of Michigan, and Superintendent of the North-western Indians.

The old man was shrewd enough to see that it was wisest to make the best bargain he could. I have no doubt it cost a round sum to settle the matter to the satisfaction of the injured damsel, though I have never been able to ascertain how much. This, I know, that the young gentleman took care not to make his next bargain while in a fit of the ague. The lady up on the Mississippi is called, in derision, by his name to this day.

About midway of the lake we passed Garlic Island[34]—a lovely spot, deserving of a more attractive name. It belonged, together with the village on the opposite shore, to “Wild Cat,” a fat, jolly, good-natured fellow, by no means the formidable animal his name would imply.

He and his band were absent, like their neighbors of Four-Legs village, so there was nothing to vary the monotony of our sail. It was too wet to sing, and the men, although wrapped in their overcoats, looked like drowned chickens. They were obliged to ply their oars with unusual vigor to keep themselves warm and comfortable, and thus probably felt less than we, the dullness and listlessness of the cold, rainy, October day.

Towards evening the sun shone forth. We had passed into the Fox River, and were just entering that beautiful little expanse known as Butte des Morts Lake, at the further extremity of which we were to encamp for the night.

The water along its shores was green with the fields of wild rice, the gathering of which, just at this season, is an important occupation of the Indian women. They push their canoes into the thick masses of the rice, bend it forward over the side with their paddles, and then beat the ripe husks off the stalks into a cloth spread in the canoe. After this, it is rubbed to separate the grain from the husk, and fanned in the open air. It is then put in their cordage bags and packed away for winter use. The grain is longer and more slender than the Carolina rice—it is of a greenish, olive color, and, although it forms a pleasant article of food, it is far from being particularly nutritive. The Indians are fond of it in the form of soup, with the addition of birds or venison.[35]

CHAPTER VI

BREAKFAST AT BETTY MORE’S

The earth, the trees, and the shrubbery were all too much filled with the heavy rain which had fallen to allow us to think of encamping, so we made arrangements to bestow ourselves in our little saloon for the night. It was rather a difficult matter to light a fire, but among the underbrush, in a wild, undisturbed spot there will always be found some fragments of dried branches, and tufts of grass which the rain has not reached, and by the assistance of the spunk, or light-wood, with which travellers always go well provided, a comforting fire was at length blazing brightly.

After our chilling, tedious day, it was pleasant to gather round it, to sit on the end of the blazing logs, and watch the Frenchmen preparing our supper—the kettle, nestling in a little nook of bright glowing coals—the slices of ham browning and crisping on the forked sticks, or “broches,” which the voyageurs dexterously cut, and set around the burning brands—the savory messes of “pork and onions” hissing in the frying pan, always a tempting regale to the hungry Frenchmen. Truly, it needs a wet chilly journey, taken nearly fasting, as ours had been, to enable one to enjoy to its full extent that social meal—a supper.

The bright sun, setting amid brilliant masses of clouds, such as are seen only in our western skies, gave promise of a fine day on the morrow, with which comforting assurance we were glad to take our leave of him, and soon after of each other.

We had hardly roused up the following morning, in obedience to the call of the bourgeois, when our eyes were greeted with the sight of an addition to our company—a tall stalwart, fine-looking, young “mitiff,” or half-breed, accompanied by two or three Indians. Vociferous and joyous were the salutations of the latter to their “father” and their new “mother.” They were the first Winnebagoes I had seen, and they were decidedly not the finest specimens of their tribe. The mitiff, a scion of the wide-spreading tree of the Grignons, was the bearer of an invitation to us from Judge Law,[36] who, with one or two Green Bay friends, was encamped a few miles above, to come and breakfast with him in his tent. We had not dreamed of finding white neighbors here, but our vicinity could be no secret to them, as long as there was an Indian in the neighborhood. So, delaying only for the soldiers to finish their breakfast, we pushed on for the “Butte des Morts,” or, as old Mrs. Arndt always persisted in calling it, Betty More’s.

The white tent of the Judge gleamed in the morning sun as we approached the little rising ground on which it stood. The river was filled with canoes paddled principally by squaws. Many Indians were to be seen on the banks, all with their guns and hunting accoutrements, for the air was filled in every direction with flocks of teal, which at this season are most abundant and delicious. The immense fields of wild rice abounding here and in the little lake below, make this vicinity their favorite place of resort in the autumn months. The effect of this nourishing food is, to make the flesh of the birds so fat, so white, and so tender, that a caution is always given to a young sportsman to fire only at such as fly very low, for if shot high in the air they are bruised to pieces, and rendered unfit for eating by their fall to the ground.

We were hemmed in by a little fleet of canoes which surrounded us, the women chattering, laughing, and eagerly putting forward their little wooden bowls of fresh cranberries as an offering of welcome to me.

I amused myself with tossing crackers to them, some of which would reach them, others would fall into the water, and then such a scrambling and shouting! Hands and paddles were in requisition, and loud was the triumph of her who was successful in reaching a floating one.

Among the Indians with whom Shaw-nee-aw-kee was now engaged in shaking hands, and who all seemed old friends, were some fine, straight, well-formed figures, all of them exhibiting frames capable of enduring fatigue and the hardships of their mode of life. One was describing with much gesticulation the abundance of the game in the neighborhood, and he seemed greatly delighted at receiving a quantity of ammunition, with which he instantly departed to make good his boasts in the matter.

After walking a short distance we reached the tent, where I was introduced to Judge Law and a pleasant little gray-haired French gentleman of the name of Porlier.[37] Several voyageurs and half-breeds were near, the former busily at work, the latter lounging for the most part, and going through with what they had to do with a sort of listless indifference.

The contrast between the “all-alive” air of the one class and the apathetic manner of the other, was quite striking.

After a short conversation among the members of the party, breakfast was announced, and we entered the tent and took our seats on the ground around the Indian mat, which supplied the place of a table.

The post of honor, namely, the head of the table, was of course given to me, so that I could not only look around upon the circle of the company, but also enjoy a fine view out of the open door of the tent, and take an observation of all that was going on at the side-table outside. Judge Doty sat opposite me, with his back to the opening of the tent, and the other gentlemen on either hand. We had for our waiter the tall “mitiff” who had been the messenger of the morning. He was still in the same garb—calico shirt, bright colored scarf around his waist, and on his head a straw hat encircled with a band of black ostrich feathers, the usual dress of his class.

The tin cups which were to hold our coffee were duly set around, then breakfast plates of the same metal, with knives and forks, then followed the viands, among the most conspicuous of which was a large tin pan of boiled ducks.

The Judge, wishing to show, probably, that although we were in the vast wilderness, all fastidious nicety had not been left behind, took up the plate which had been set before him, and seeing something adhering to it which did not exactly please him, handed it over his shoulder to Grignon, requesting him to wipe it carefully. Grignon complied by pulling a black silk barcelona handkerchief out of his bosom, where it had been snugly tucked away to answer any occasion that might present itself, and giving the tin a furious polishing, handed it back again. The Judge looked at it with a smile of approbation, and giving a glance round the table as much as to say, “You see how I choose to have things done,” applied himself to his breakfast.

The trail for Fort Winnebago then led from the shore opposite Butte des Morts, through Ma-zhee-gaw-gaw swamp, and past Green Lake, and it was well for the Judge that his horses stood waiting for him to “mount and away” as early as possible after breakfast, or I am afraid the story I should have been tempted to tell, would have made his ride an uncomfortable one throughout the day.

We had hardly finished breakfast when our hunter, who had received the ammunition, returned, bringing with him about fifty fine ducks, which he had shot in little more than an hour. From that time until the close of our journey, our supply of these delicate birds was never wanting.

CHAPTER VII

BUTTE DES MORTS—LAKE PUCKAWAY

The Butte des Morts, or Hillock of the Dead, was the scene long since[K] of a most sanguinary battle between the French and the Mis-qua-kees, or Foxes. So great was the carnage in this engagement, that the memory of it has been perpetuated by the gloomy appellation given to the mound where the dead were buried. The Foxes up to this time had inhabited the shores of the river to which they had given their name, but being completely overwhelmed and beaten in this conflict, they retired to the neighborhood of the Mississippi, and sought an asylum among their allies, the Saukies, or as they are now called, the Sauks, with whom they became gradually incorporated, until the combined tribes came to be known, as at present, by the name of "Sauks and Foxes."[38]

[K] In the year 1714.

Among the French inhabitants of the upper country, each tribe of Indians has a particular appellation, descriptive of some peculiarity of either their habits or their personal appearance. Thus the Chippewas from their agility are denominated “Sauteurs” or Jumpers; the Ottawas, the “Courtes-oreilles” or Short-ears. The Menomonees, from the wild rice so abundant in their country, are called the “Folles Avoines”—the Winnebagoes, from their custom of wearing the fur of a pole-cat on their legs when equipped for war, are termed "les Puans"'[39]—the Pottowattamies, from their uncleanly habits, “les Poux”—the Foxes, are “les Renards,” &c., &c.

Hence you will never hear a French or half-breed resident of the country mention an Indian in any other style. “Such a person is a ‘Court-oreille.’ ” “Is that woman a ‘Winnebago?’ ” “No, she is a ‘Folle Avoine.’ ” In this manner a stranger is somewhat puzzled at first to classify the acquaintances he forms.

All the native friends with whom we were here surrounded were “les Puans,” or to use their own euphonious application, the “Ho-tshung-rahs.”

Having with great regret said adieu to our friend Judge Doty, whose society had contributed so much to the pleasure of our trip, and whose example, moreover, had given us a valuable lesson to take things as we find them, we bade good-bye at an early hour after breakfast to our kind hosts, and set forward on our journey.

From Butte des Morts to the Portage, the distance by land is about seventy miles; by water, it is not less than a hundred and thirty, so serpentine is the course of the river through the low swampy prairies which stretch over a great portion of this part of the country.

About six miles above the Butte, a tolerably broad stream called Wolf River joins the Fox, and as it is much the more direct and promising of the two, strangers have sometimes mistaken it for the main stream, and journeyed up it a considerable distance before discovering to their great chagrin that they must retrace their steps.

Beyond this place, the river begins to play its pranks with the compass. As I was always looking out for pretty scenery to sketch, I was at one spot much attracted by a picturesque group on a bank quite close to the stream. There were broad overhanging trees, and two or three wigwams nestled under their shade. Bright-looking little children, quite unencumbered with clothing, were sporting about, and their two mothers were sitting on the ground, engaged in the manufacture of a mat for their lodge. It was a pretty scene, and I commenced a sketch. As usual, the whole party on the bank set up a shout when they recognized Shaw-nee-aw-kee—“Ee-awn-chee-wee-rah, Hee-nee-kar-ray-kay-noo,”[L] It was an occasion on which they became demonstrative. After a little time we proceeded, and I went on to complete my drawing. The sun kept coming more and more into the wrong place. He had been just behind me, presently he was on my left hand, now he was straight ahead. I moved from time to time; at length the sun was decidedly on my right hand. What could be the matter? I looked up. “Oh, here is a pretty scene, I must have this too! But how surprisingly like the one I have just finished, only in a different direction.” Again we were greeted with shouts and laughter; it was the same spot which we had passed not an hour before, and having taken a circuit of nearly four miles, we had returned to find that we had made an actual progress of only the width of the bank on which the trees and wigwams stood. Decidedly not very encouraging to an impatient traveller.