This little Indian colony on the edge of the forest extends for several miles along the river, where its banks are highest and best adapted to the purpose of settlement.  It ends at last just below the village which bears the name of Fort Saranae, in the neighborhood of which I was shown an odd-looking wooden building, and was told that this was the house of worship provided for the Indians by the government.

At Fort Huron, a village on the American side, opposite to Fort Saranae, we stopped to land passengers.  Three Indians made their appearance on the shore, one of whom, a very large man, wore a kind of turban, and a white blanket made into a sort of frock, with bars of black in several places, altogether a striking costume.  One of this party, a well-dressed young man, stopped to speak with somebody in the crowd on the wharf, but the giant in the turban, with his companion, strode rapidly by, apparently not deigning to look at us, and disappeared in the village.  He was scarcely out of sight when I perceived a boat approaching the shore with a curiously mottled sail.  As it came nearer I saw that it was a quilt of patchwork taken from a bed.  In the bottom of the boat lay a barrel, apparently of flour, a stout young fellow pulled a pair of oars, and a slender-waisted damsel, neatly dressed, sat in the stern, plying a paddle with a dexterity which she might have learned from the Chippewa ladies, and guiding the course of the boat which passed with great speed over the water.

We were soon upon the broad waters of Lake Huron, and when the evening closed upon us we were already out of sight of land.  The next morning I was awakened by the sound of rain on the hurricane deck.  A cool east wind was blowing.  I opened the outer door of my state-room, and snuffed the air which was strongly impregnated with the odor of burnt leaves or grass, proceeding, doubtless, from the burning of woods or prairies somewhere on the shores of the lake.  For mile after mile, for hour after hour, as we flew through the mist, the same odor was perceptible:  the atmosphere of the lake was full of it.

“Will it rain all day?” I asked of a fellow-passenger, a Salem man, in a white cravat.

“The clouds are thin,” he answered; “the sun will soon burn them off.”

In fact, the sun soon melted away the clouds, and before ten o’clock I was shown, to the north of us, the dim shore of the Great Manitoulin Island, with the faintly descried opening called the West Strait, through which a throng of speculators in copper mines are this summer constantly passing to the Sault de Ste. Marie.  On the other side was the sandy isle of Bois Blanc, the name of which is commonly corrupted into Bob Low Island, thickly covered with pines, and showing a tall light-house on the point nearest us.  Beyond another point lay like a cloud the island of Mackinaw.  I had seen it once before, but now the hazy atmosphere magnified it into a lofty