Our supper was truly delightful, at the pleasant sunset hour, under the tall trees beside the waters that ran murmuring by; and when the bright, broad moon arose, and shed her flood of light over the scene, so wild yet so beautiful in its vast solitude, I felt that I might well be an object of envy to the friends I had left behind.

But all things have an end, and so must at last my enthusiasm for the beauties around me, and, albeit unwillingly, I closed my tent and took my place within, so near the fall of canvas that I could raise it occasionally and peep forth upon the night.

In time all was quiet.  The men had become silent, and appeared to have retired to rest, and we were just sinking to our slumbers, when a heavy tread and presently a bluff voice were heard outside.

“Mr. Kinzie!  Mr. Kinzie!”

“Who is there?  What is it?”

“I’m Krissman; didn’t you mean, sir, that the men should have any liquor to-night?”

“Of course I did.  Has not Kilgour given out your rations?”

“No:  he says you did not say anything particular about it, and he was not coming to ask you if you forgot it; but I thought I wouldn’t be bashful—­I’d just come and ask.’”

“That is right.  Tell Kilgour I should like to have him serve out a ration apiece.”

“Thank you, sir,” in a most cheerful tone; “I’ll tell him.”

Krissman was getting to be quite a character with us.

A row of a few miles, on the following morning, brought us to Four-Legs’ village,[8] at the entrance to Winnebago Lake, a picturesque cluster of Indian huts, spread around on a pretty green glade, and shaded by fine lofty trees.

We were now fairly in the Winnebago country, and I soon learned that the odd-sounding name of the place was derived from the principal chief of the nation, whose residence it was.  The inhabitants were absent, having, in all probability, departed to their wintering grounds.  We here took leave of our friend Wish-tay-yun, at the borders of whose country we had now arrived.

“Bon-jour, Chon!” (John:) “bon-jour, maman.”  A hearty shake of the hand completed his adieu, as we pushed off into the lake, and left him smoking his kin-nee-kin-nick[9] and waiting until the spirit should move him to take up his long Indian trot towards his home in the Menomonee country.

With him our sunshine seemed to have departed.  The skies, hitherto so bright and serene, became overcast, and, instead of the charming voyage we had anticipated over the silver waters of the lake, we were obliged to keep ourselves housed under our canvas shelter, only peeping out now and then to catch a glimpse of the surrounding prospect through the pouring rain.

It was what might have been expected on an autumnal day, but we were unreasonable enough to find it tedious; so, to beguile the time and lessen my disappointment, my husband related to me some incidents of his early history, apropos to the subject of “Four-Legs.”