Among the women of the tribe with whom we early became acquainted, our greatest favorite was a daughter of one of the Day-kau-rays.  This family, as I have elsewhere said, boasted in some remote generation a cross of the French blood, and this fact might account for the fair complexion and soft curling hair which distinguished our friend.  She had a noble forehead, full, expressive eyes, and fine teeth.  Unlike the women of her people, she had not grown brown and haggard with advancing years.  Indeed, with the exception of one feature, she might be called beautiful.

She had many years before married a Mus-qua-kee, or Fox Indian, and, according to the custom among all the tribes, the husband came home to the wife’s family, and lived among the Winnebagoes.

It is this custom, so exactly the reverse of civilized ways, that makes the birth of a daughter a subject of peculiar rejoicing in an Indian family.  “She will bring another hunter to our lodge,” is the style of mutual congratulation.

The Mus-qua-kee continued, for some few years, to live among his wife’s relations; but, as no children blessed their union, he at length became tired of his new friends, and longed to return to his own people.  He tried, for a time, to persuade his wife to leave her home, and accompany him to the Mississippi, on the banks of which the Sauks and Foxes lived, but in vain.  She could not resolve to make the sacrifice.

One day, after many fruitless efforts to persuade her, he flew into a violent passion.

“Then, if you will not go with me,” said he, “I will leave you; but you shall never be the wife of any other man—­I will mark you!”

Saying this, he flew upon her, and bit off the end of her nose.  This, the usual punishment for conjugal infidelity, is the greatest disgrace a woman can receive—­it bars her forever from again entering the pale of matrimony.  The wretch fled to his own people; but his revenge fell short of its aim.  Day-kau-ray was too well known and too universally respected to suffer opprobrium in any member of his family.  This bright, loving creature in particular, won all hearts upon a first acquaintance—­she certainly did ours, from the outset.

She suffered much from rheumatism, and a remedy we gave her soon afforded her almost entire relief.  Her gratitude knew no bounds.  Notwithstanding that from long suffering she had become partially crippled, she would walk all the way from the Barribault, a distance of ten miles, as often as once in two or three weeks, to visit us.  Then, to sit and gaze at us, to laugh with childish glee at everything new or strange that we employed ourselves about—­to pat and stroke us every time we came near her—­sometimes to raise our hand or arm and kiss it—­these were her demonstrations of affection.  And we loved her in return.  It was always a joyful announcement when, looking out over the Portage road, somebody called out, “The Cut-Nose is coming!” In time, however, we learned to call her by her baptismal name of Elizabeth, for she, too, was one of Mr. Mazzuchelli’s converts.