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One of the most charming features of this mode of travelling is the joyous, vocal life of the forest at early dawn, when all the feathered tribe come forth to pay their cheerful salutations to the opening day.

The rapid, chattering flourish of the bob-o’-link, the soft whistle of the thrush, the tender coo of the wood-dove, the deep, warbling bass of the grouse, the drumming of the partridge, the melodious trill of the lark, the gay carol of the robin, the friendly, familiar call of the duck and the teal, resound from tree and knoll and lowland, prompting the expressive exclamation of the simple half-breed,—­

“Voila la foret qui parle!"[46]

It seems as if man must involuntarily raise his voice, to take part in the general chorus—­the mating song of praise.

Birds and flowers, and the soft balmy airs of morning!  Must it not have been in a scene like this that Milton’s Adam poured out his beautiful hymn of adoration,—­

“These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good”?

This day we were journeying in hopes to reach, at an early hour, that broad expanse of the Rock River which here forms the Kosh-ko-nong.  The appellation of this water, rendered doubly affecting by the subsequent fate of its people, imports “the lake we live on.”

Our road for the early part of the day led through forests so thick and tangled that Grignon and Lecuyer were often obliged to go in advance as pioneers with their axes, to cut away the obstructing shrubs and branches.  It was slow work, and at times quite discouraging, but we were through with it at last, and then we came into a country of altogether a different description,—­low prairies, intersected with deep, narrow streams like canals, the passage of which, either by horses or carriages, was often a matter of delay and even difficulty.

Several times in the course of the forenoon the horses were to be taken from the carriage and the latter pulled and pushed across the deep narrow channels as best it might.

The wooded banks of the Kosh-ko-nong were never welcomed with greater delight than by us when they at length broke upon our sight.  A ride of five or six miles through the beautiful oak openings brought us to Man-Eater’s village, a collection of neat bark wigwams, with extensive fields on each side of corn, beans, and squashes, recently planted, but already giving promise of a fine crop.  In front was the broad blue lake, the shores of which, to the south, were open and marshy, but near the village, and stretching far away to the north, were bordered by fine lofty trees.  The village was built but a short distance below the point where the Rock River opens into the lake, and during a conversation between our party and the Indians at the village, an arrangement was made with them to take us across at a spot about half a mile above.

After a short halt, we again took up our line of march through the woods, along the bank of the river.