By noon of Friday, the 18th, we had come to an average width in the river of eighty feet and a sluggish flow of six feet in depth.  We halted for our lunch at the mouth of the South (or Plantagenian) Fork of the Mississippi, up which Schoolcraft’s party pursued its way to Itasca Lake.  Thence a short run brought us suddenly upon Lake Marquette, a lovely sheet of water with clearly-defined and solid shores, about one mile by two in extent, exactly across the centre of which the river has entrance and exit.  Beyond this, a short mile brought us to the sandy beaches of Bemidji Lake, the first considerable body of water in our downward travel, and about one hundred and twenty-five miles, as the river winds, from Itasca.  The real name of the lake, as used by the Indians and whites adjacent, is Benidjigemah, meaning “across the lake,” and Bemidji is frequently known as Traverse Lake.  It is a lovely, unbroken expanse, about seven miles long and four miles wide.  Its shores are of beautiful white sand, gravel and boulders, reaching back to open pine-groved bluffs.  Our shore-searchers found agate, topaz, carnelian, etc.  Our approach to Bemidji had been invested with special interest as the first unmistakable landmark in our lonely wanderings, and as the home of one man—­a half-breed—­the only human being who has a home above Cass Lake.  We found his hut, but not himself, at the river’s outlet.  The lodge is neatly built of bark.  It was surrounded by good patches of corn, potatoes, wheat, beans and wild raspberries.  There is a stable for a horse and a cow, and all about were the conventional traps of a civilized biped who lives upon a blending of wit, woodcraft and industry.  We greatly wished to see this hermit, whose nearest neighbors are thirty miles away.  His dog welcomed us with all the passion of canine hunger and days of isolation, but the master was gone to Leech Lake, as we afterward found from his Cass Lake neighbors.  The wind favored a sail across the lake—­a welcome variation from our hitherto entirely muscular propulsion—­so we rigged our spars and canvas, drifted smoothly out into the trough of the lively but not angry waves, and swept swiftly across the clear, bright little sea.  The white caps dashed over our decks and a few sharp puffs half careened our little ships, but the crossing was safely and quickly made.  It was yet only mid-afternoon, but we had paddled steadily and made good progress nearly four days; so we went into early camp on a bluff overlooking the entire lake, did our first washing of travel-stained garments, brought up epistolary arrearages, caught two fine lake-trout for our next breakfast and went to sound sleep in the nine-and-a-half-o’clock twilight.