This did not dissipate the gloom on her countenance.  Finding that he must commence the subject, the father says,—­

“Well, I have brought you my daughter, according to our agreement.  How do you like her?”

“Ah, yes—­she is a very nice young woman, and would make a first-rate wife, I have no doubt.  But do you know a very strange thing has happened since you were here?  Our father, Governor Cass,[10] has sent for me to come to Detroit, that he may send me among the Wyandottes and other nations to learn their customs and manners.  Now, if I go, as I shall be obliged to do, I shall be absent two or three years,—­perhaps four.  What then?  Why, the people will say, Shaw-nee-aw-kee has married Four-Legs’ daughter, and then has hated her and run away from her, and so everybody will laugh at her, and she will be ashamed.  It will be better to take some good, valuable presents, blankets, guns, etc., and to marry her to one of her own people, who will always stay by her and take care of her.”

The old man was shrewd enough to see that it was wisest to make the best bargain he could.  I have no doubt it cost a round sum to settle the matter to the satisfaction of the injured damsel, though I have never been able to ascertain how much.  This I know, that the young gentleman took care not to make his next bargain while in a fit of the ague.  The lady up on the Mississippi is called, in derision, by his name to this day.

About midway of the lake we passed Garlic Island—­a lovely spot, deserving of a more attractive name.  It belonged, together with the village on the opposite shore, to “Wild Cat,” a fat, jolly, good-natured fellow, by no means the formidable animal his name would imply.

He and his band were absent, like their neighbors of Four-Legs’ village, so there was nothing to vary the monotony of our sail.  It was too wet to sing, and the men, although wrapped in their overcoats, looked like drowned chickens.  They were obliged to ply their oars with unusual vigor to keep themselves warm and comfortable, and thus probably felt less than we, the dulness and listlessness of the cold, rainy, October day.

Towards evening the sun shone forth.  We had passed into the Fox River, and were just entering that beautiful little expanse known as Butte des Morts Lake, at the farther extremity of which we were to encamp for the night.

The water along its shores was green with the fields of wild rice, the gathering of which, just at this season, is an important occupation of the Indian women.  They push their canoes into the thick masses of the rice, bend it forward over the side with their paddles, and then beat the ripe husks off the stalks into a cloth spread in the canoe.  After this, it is rubbed to separate the grain from the husk, and fanned in the open air.  It is then put in their cordage bags and packed away for winter use.  The grain is longer and more slender than the Carolina rice—­it is of a greenish-olive color, and, although it forms a pleasant article of food, it is far from being particularly nutritive.  The Indians are fond of it in the form of soup, with the addition of birds or venison.