8th.  I went to rest last night with the heavy murmuring sound of the falls in my ears, broken at short intervals by the busy thump-thump-thump of the Indian drum; for it is to be added, to the otherwise crowded state of the place, that the open grounds and river-side greens of the village, which stretch along irregularly for a mile or two, are filled with the lodges of visiting Indian bands from the interior.  The last month of spring and the early summer constitute, in fact, a kind of carnival for the natives.  It is at this season that the traders, who have wintered in the interior, come out with their furs to the frontier posts of St. Mary’s, Drummond Island, and Michilimackinack, to renew their stocks of goods.  The Indians, who have done hunting at this season, as the furred animals are now changing their hair, and the pelt becomes bad, follow them to enjoy themselves along the open shores of the lakes, and share in the good things that may fall to their lot, either from the traders at their places of outfit, from presents issued by the British or American governments at their chief posts, or from merchants in the towns, to whom a few concealed skins are still reserved to trade.  An Indian’s time appears to be worth but little to him at this season, if at any season.  He lives most precariously on small things, such as he can pick up as he travels loitering along the lake shores, or strolls, with easy footsteps, about the forest precincts of his lodge.  A single fish, or a bird or squirrel, now and then, serves to mitigate, if it does not satisfy, hunger.  He has but little, I am told, at the best estate; but, to make amends for this, he is satisfied and even happy with little.  This is certainly a philosophic way of taking life, but it is, if I do not mistake it, stoic philosophy, and has been learned, by painful lessons of want, from early youth and childhood.  Where want is the common lot, the power of endurance which the race have must be a common attainment.

9th.  This day I hired an interpreter for the government, to attend at the office daily, a burly-faced, large man of some five-and-forty, by the name of Yarns.  He tells me that he was born at Fort Niagara, of Irish parentage, to which an originally fair skin, blue eyes, and sandy hair, bear testimony.  He has spent life, it seems, knocking about trading posts, in the Indian country, being married, has metif children, and speaks the Chippewa tongue fluently—­I do not know how accurately.

The day which has closed has been a busy day, having been signalized as the date of my first public council with the Indians.  It has ushered in my first diplomatic effort.  For this purpose, all the bands present were invited to repair to camp, where Colonel Brady, at the appointed hour, ordered his men under arms, in full dress.  They were formed in a hollow square in front of his marque.  The American flag waved from a lofty staff.  The day was bright