The unfortunate saddle and little trunk were then rescued, but not until they had received a pretty thorough wetting.  Our merriment was still further increased by the sight of the maladroit Pillon, who was attempting to ride my spirited Jerry across the marsh.  He was clinging to the neck of the animal, with a countenance distorted with terror, as he shouted forth all manner of French objurgations.  Jerry pranced and curveted, and finally shot forward his rider, or rather his burden, headforemost, a distance of several feet into the water.

A general outcry of mirth saluted the unfortunate Frenchman, which was redoubled as he raised himself puffing and snorting from his watery bed and waddled back to his starting-place, the horse, meanwhile, very sensibly making his way to join his companions, who had already reached the farther bank.

“Well, wifie,” said Mr. Kinzie, “I cannot trust you in the canoe again.  There is no way but to carry you across the marsh like a pappoose.  Will you take a ride on my shoulders?”

“With all my heart, if you will promise to take me safely.”  And I was soon mounted.

I most confess that the gentleman staggered now and then under his burden, which was no slight one, and I was sadly afraid, more than once, that I should meet a similar fate to old Pillon, but happily we reached the other side in safety.

There my husband insisted on my putting on dry shoes and stockings, and (must I confess it?) drinking a little brandy, to obviate the effects of my icy bath.  He would fain have made a halt to kindle a fire and dry my apparel and wardrobe properly, but this I would not listen to.  I endeavored to prove to him that the delay would expose me to more cold than riding in my wet habit and cloak, and so indeed it might have been, but along with my convictions upon the subject there was mingled a spice of reluctance that our friends at the fort should have an opportunity, as they certainly would have done, of laughing at our inauspicious commencement.

Soon our horses were put in order, and our march recommenced.  The day was fine for the season.  I felt no inconvenience from my wet garments, the exercise of riding taking away all feeling of chilliness.  It was to me a new mode of travelling, and I enjoyed it the more from having been secluded for more than five months within the walls of the fort, scarcely varying the tenor of our lives by an occasional walk of half a mile into the surrounding woods.

We had still another detention upon the road, from meeting Lapierre, the blacksmith, from Sugar Creek, who with one of his associates was going to the Portage for supplies, so that we had not travelled more than twenty-three miles when we came to our proposed encamping-ground.  It was upon a beautiful stream, a tributary of one of the Four Lakes,[14] that chain whose banks are unrivalled for romantic loveliness.

I could not but admire the sagacity of the horses, who seemed, with human intelligence, to divine our approach to the spot where their toils were to cease.  While still remote from the point of woods which foretold a halt, they pricked up their ears, accelerated their pace, and finally arrived at the spot on a full gallop.