We alighted at an open space, just within the verge of the wood, or, as it is called by Western travellers, “the timber.”  My husband recommended to me to walk about until a fire should be made, which was soon accomplished by our active and experienced woodsmen, to whom the felling of a large tree was the work of a very few minutes.  The dry grass around furnished an excellent tinder, which, ignited by the sparks from the flint (there were no loco-focos in those days), and aided by the broken branches and bits of light-wood, soon produced a cheering flame.  “The bourgeois,” in the mean time, busied himself in setting up the tent, taking care to place it opposite the fire, but in such a direction that the wind would carry the smoke and flame away from the opening or door.  Within upon the ground were spread, first a bear-skin, then two or three blankets (of which each equestrian had carried two, one under the saddle and one above it), after which, the remainder of the luggage being brought in, I was able to divest myself of all my wet clothing and replace it with dry.  Some idea of the state of the thermometer may be formed from the fact that my riding-habit, being placed over the end of the huge log against which our fire was made, was, in a very few minutes, frozen so stiff as to stand upright, giving the appearance of a dress out of which a lady had vanished in some unaccountable manner.

It would be but a repetition of our experience upon the Fox River to describe the ham broiled upon the “broches,” the toasted bread, the steaming coffee, the primitive table-furniture.  There is, however, this difference, that of the latter we carry with us in our journeys on horseback only a coffee-pot, a tea-kettle, and each rider his tin cup and hunting-knife.  The deportment at table is marked by an absence of ceremony.  The knife is drawn from the scabbard—­those who remember to do so, vouchsafe it a wipe upon the napkin.  Its first office is to stir the cup of coffee—­next, to divide the piece of ham which is placed on the half of a travelling biscuit, held in the left hand, to fulfil the office of a plate.  It is an art only to be acquired by long practice, to cut the meat so skilfully as not at the same time to destroy the dish.

We take our places around the mat to enjoy what, after our fatiguing ride, we find delicious food.  The Frenchmen are seated at a little distance, receiving their supplies of coffee, meat, and bread, and occasionally passing jokes with the bourgeois, who is their demi-god, and for whom their respect and devotion are never lessened by his affability or condescension.

The meal being finished, the table-furniture is rinsed in hot water and set aside until morning.  A wisp of dry prairie-grass is supposed in most cases to render the knife fit to be restored to the scabbard, and there being, at this season of the year, no amusement but that of watching the awkward movements of the spancelled horses in their progress from spot to spot in search of pasturage, we are usually soon disposed to arrange our blankets and retire to rest.