The funeral observances in honor of the chief had not yet ceased.  Throughout the day, and all that night, the sound of instruments, mingled with doleful lamentations, and with the discordant whoops and yells of those in a partial state of intoxication, filled the air, and disturbed our repose.  To these were added occasionally the plaintive sounds of the Indian flute, upon which the young savage plays when he is in love.  Grief and whiskey had made their hearts tender, and the woods resounded to their melancholy strains.

Early the following morning, before I left my room, I was startled by the sounds of lamentation and woe proceeding from the adjoining apartment.  On entering it, I found several squaws seated on the floor, with downcast looks expressive of condolence and sympathy, while in their midst sat a little ugly woman, in tattered garments, with blackened face and dishevelled hair, sobbing and wailing bitterly.

Not doubting they were the family of the deceased chief, I was quite troubled at my inability to express, otherwise than by gestures, my participation in their sorrows.

Unacquainted as I was with their customs, I took it for granted from their wretched appearance that poverty and destitution formed one of the sources of their affliction.  One of the party, at least, seemed in the very depths of misery.  “Can it be possible,” said I to myself, “that this poor creature has only these scanty rags to cover her?”

Stepping back to my own room, I brought out a pretty calico wrapper, which I presented to the little, dirty, blackened object.  She took it, and commenced a fresh series of sobbing and sighing.  I made signs to her to put it on, opening it and explaining to her how it was to be worn, and recommending to her, by gestures, to lose no time in making herself more comfortable.

At this, the other women burst into a laugh.

“Very mal-a-propos,” thought I, “and somewhat unfeeling.”  At that moment my husband, entering, explained to me that the chief mourner was Madame Four-Legs, the widow; that she had undoubtedly a comfortable wardrobe at home, but that it was part of the etiquette of mourning to go for a season with neglected persons and blackened faces.  All this was told me in the intervals of shaking hands, and offering and receiving condolences in the most uncouth, guttural language I had ever heard.  Their Father at length dismissed them, with a promise of some presents to help dry up their tears.  It must not be inferred that the grief of the poor little widow was not sincere.  On the contrary, she was greatly attached to her husband, and had had great influence not only with him but with the nation at large.  She was a Fox woman, and spoke the Chippewa, which is the court language among all the tribes, so that she was often called upon to act as interpreter, and had, in fact, been in the habit of accompanying her husband, and assisting him by her counsels upon all occasions.  She was a person of great shrewdness and judgment, and, as I afterwards experienced, of strong and tenacious affections.