There were plenty of anecdotes of a certain trip performed by the three, in company with a French trader and his two sisters, then making their debut as Western travellers.  The manner in which Mademoiselle Julie would borrow, without leave, a fine damask napkin or two, to wipe out the ducks in preparation for cooking—­the difficulty of persuading either of the sisters of the propriety of washing and rinsing their table apparatus nicely before packing it away in the mess-basket, the consequence of which was, that another nice napkin must be stealthily whisked out, to wipe the dishes when the hour for meals arrived—­the fun of the young gentleman in hunting up his stray articles, thus misappropriated, from the nooks and corners of the boat, tying them with a cord, and hanging them over the stern, to make their way down the Wisconsin to Prairie du Chien.

Then there was a capital story of M. Rolette himself.  At one point on the route (I think in crossing Winnebago Lake) the travellers met one of the Company’s boats on its way to Green Bay for supplies.  M. Rolette was one of the agents of the Company, and the people in the boat were his employes.  Of course after an absence of some weeks from home, the meeting on these lonely waters and the exchanging of news was an occasion of great excitement.

The boats were stopped—­earnest greetings interchanged—­question followed question.

“Eh bien—­have they finished the new house?”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“Et la cheminee, fume-t-elle?” (Does the chimney smoke?)

“Non, Monsieur.”

“And the harvest—­how is that?”

“Very fine, indeed.”

“Is the mill at work?”

“Yes, plenty of water.”

“How is Whip?” (his favorite horse.)

“Oh!  Whip is first-rate.”

Everything, in short, about the store, the farm, the business of various descriptions being satisfactorily gone over, there was no occasion for farther delay.  It was time to proceed.

“Eh bien—­adieu! bon voyage!”

“Arrachez, mes gens!” (Go ahead, men!)

Then suddenly—­“Arretez! arretez!” (Stop, stop!)

“Comment se portent Madame Rolette et les enfans?” (How are Mrs. Rolette and the children?)

* * * * *

This day, with its excitement, was at length over, and we retired to our rest, thankful that we had not General Root and his secretary close to our bed’s head, with their budget of political news.

My slumbers were not destined, however, to be quite undisturbed.  I was awakened, at the first slight peep of dawn, by a sound from an apartment beneath our own—­a plaintive, monotonous chant, rising and then falling in a sort of mournful cadence.  It seemed to me a wail of something unearthly—­so wild—­so strange—­so unaccountable.  In terror I awoke my husband, who reassured me by telling me it was the morning salutation of the Indians to the opening day.