I have never heard that Christian missionaries, with all their efforts to convert them, have made much progress in enlightening their minds upon the doctrines of the Gospel. Mr. Mazzuchelli, a Roman Catholic priest, accompanied by Miss Elizabeth Grignon as interpreter, made a missionary visit to the Portage during our residence there, and, after some instruction to them, about forty consented to be baptized.[84] Christian names were given to them with which they seemed much pleased; and not less so, with the little plated crucifixes which each received, and which the women wore about their necks. These they seemed to regard with a devotional feeling; but I was not sufficiently acquainted with their language to gather from them whether they understood the doctrine the symbol was designed to convey. Certain it is, they expressed no wish to learn our language, in order that they might gain a fuller knowledge of the Saviour, nor any solicitude to be taught more about him than they had received during the missionary’s short visit.

One woman, to whom the name of Charlotte had been given, signified a desire to learn the domestic ways of the whites, and asked of me as a favor through Madame Paquette that she might be permitted to come on “washing-day,” and learn of my servants our way of managing the business. A tub was given her, and my woman instructed her, by signs and example, how she was to manage. As I was not a little curious to observe how tilings went on, I proceeded after a time to the kitchen where they all were. Charlotte was at her tub, scouring and rubbing with all her might at her little crucifix. Two other squaws sat upon the floor near her, watching the operation.

“That is the work she has been at for the last half hour,” said Josette, in a tone of great impatience. “She’ll never learn to wash.”

Charlotte, however, soon fell diligently to work, and really seemed as if she would tear her arms off, with her violent exertions.

After a time, supposing that she must feel a good deal fatigued and exhausted with unaccustomed labor, I did what it was at that day very much the fashion to do,—what, at home, I had always seen done on washing-day,—what, in short, I imagine was then a general custom among housekeepers. I went to the dining-room closet, intending to give Charlotte a glass of wine or brandy and water. My “cupboard” proved to be in the state of the luckless Mother Hubbard’s—nothing of the kind could I find but a bottle of orange shrub.

Of this I poured out a wine-glass full, and, carrying it out, offered it to the woman. She took it with an expression of great pleasure; but, in carrying it to her lips, she stopped short, and exclaiming “Whiskee!” immediately returned it to me. I would still have pressed it upon her; for, in my inexperience, I really believed it was a cordial she needed; but, pointing to her crucifix, she shook her head and returned to her work.

I received this as a lesson more powerful than twenty sermons. It was the first time in my life that I had ever seen spirituous liquors rejected upon a religious principle, and it made an impression upon me that I never forgot.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE CUT-NOSE

Among the women of the tribe with whom we early became acquainted, our greatest favorite was a daughter of one of the Day-kau-rays.[85] This family, as I have elsewhere said, boasted in some remote generation a cross of the French blood, and this fact may account for the fair complexion and soft curling hair which distinguished our friend. She had a noble forehead, full expressive eyes, and fine teeth. Unlike the women of her people, she had not grown brown and haggard with advancing years. Indeed, with the exception of one feature, she might be called beautiful.

She had many years before married a Mus-qua-kee, or Fox Indian, and, according to the custom among all the tribes, the husband came home to the wife’s family, and lived among the Winnebagoes.

It is this custom, so exactly the reverse of civilized ways, that makes the birth of a daughter a subject of peculiar rejoicing in an Indian family. “She will bring another hunter to our lodge,” is the style of mutual congratulation.

The Mus-qua-kee continued, for some few years, to live among his wife’s relations; but, as no children blessed their union, he at length became tired of his new friends, and longed to return to his own people. He tried, for a time, to persuade his wife to leave her home, and accompany him to the Mississippi, where the Sacs and Foxes live, but in vain. She could not resolve to make the sacrifice.

One day, after many fruitless efforts to persuade her, he flew into a violent passion.

“Then, if you will not go with me,” said he, “I will leave you; but you shall never be the wife of any other man—I will mark you!”

Saying this, he flew upon her, and bit off the end of her nose. This, the usual punishment for conjugal infidelity, is the greatest disgrace a woman can receive—it bars her forever from again entering the pale of matrimony. The wretch fled to his own people; but his revenge fell short of its aim. Day-kau-ray was too well known and too universally respected to suffer opprobium in any member of his family. This bright, loving creature in particular, won all hearts upon a first acquaintance—she certainly did ours from the outset.

She suffered much from rheumatism, and a remedy we gave her soon afforded her almost entire relief. Her gratitude knew no bounds. Notwithstanding, that from long suffering she had become partially crippled, she would walk all the way from the Barribault, a distance of ten miles, as often as once in two or three weeks, to visit us. Then, to sit and gaze at us, to laugh with childish glee at everything new or strange that we employed ourselves about—to pat and stroke us every time we came near her—sometimes to raise our hand or arms and kiss them—these were her demonstrations of affection. And we loved her in return. It was always a joyful announcement when, looking out over the Portage road, somebody called out, “the Cut-nose is coming!” In time, however, we learned to call her by her baptismal name of Elizabeth, for she, too, was one of Mr. Mazzuchelli’s converts.

She came one day, accompanied by a half-grown boy, carrying a young fawn, she had brought me as a present. I was delighted with the pretty creature—with its soft eyes and dappled coat; but having often heard the simile, “as wild as a fawn,” I did not anticipate much success in taming it. To my great surprise, it soon learned to follow me like a dog. Wherever I went, there Fan was sure to be. At breakfast, she would lie down at my feet, under the table. One of her first tokens of affection was to gnaw off all the trimming from my black silk apron, as she lay pretending to caress and fondle me. Nor was this her only style of mischief.

One day we heard a great rattling among the crockery in the kitchen. We ran to see what was the matter, and found that Miss Fan had made her way to a shelf of the dresser, about two feet from the ground, and was endeavoring to find a comfortable place to lie down, among the plates and dishes. I soon observed that it was the shelter of the shelf above her head that was the great attraction, and that she was in the habit of seeking out a place of repose under a chair, or something approaching to an “umbrageous bower.” So after this I took care, as the hour for her morning nap approached, to open a large green parasol, and set it on the matting in the corner—then when I called Fan, Fan, she would come and nestle under it, and soon fall fast asleep.

One morning Fan was missing. In vain we called and sought her in the garden—in the enclosure for the cattle—at the houses of the Frenchmen—along the hill towards Paquette’s—no Fan was to be found. We thought she had asserted her own wild nature and sped away to the woods.

It was a hot forenoon, and the doors were all open. About dinner time, in rushed Fan, panting violently, and threw herself upon her side, where she lay with her feet outstretched, her mouth foaming, and exhibiting all the signs of mortal agony. We tried to give her water, to soothe her, if perhaps it might be fright that so affected her; but in a few minutes, with a gasp and a spasm, she breathed her last. Whether she had been chased by the greyhounds, or whether she had eaten some poisonous weed, which, occasioning her suffering, had driven her to her best friends for aid, we never knew; but we lost our pretty pet, and many were the tears shed for her.

Very shortly after the departure of my husband, we received a visit from “the White Crow,” “the Little Priest,” and several others of the principal chiefs of the Rock River Indians. They seemed greatly disappointed at learning that their father was from home, even though his errand was to get “the silver.” We sent for Paquette,[86] who interpreted for us the object of their visit.

They had come to inform us that the Sac Chief, Black Hawk and his band, who, in compliance with a former treaty, had removed sometime previous to the west of the Mississippi, had now returned to their old homes and hunting grounds, and expressed a determination not to relinquish them, but to drive off the white settlers who had begun to occupy them.

The latter, in fact, he had already done, and having, as it was said, induced some of the Pottowattamies to join him, there was reason to fear that he might persuade some of the Winnebagoes to follow their example.

These chiefs had come to counsel with their father, and to assure him that they should do all in their power to keep their young men quiet. They had heard that troops were being raised down among the whites in Illinois, and they had hopes that their people would be wise enough to keep out of difficulty. Furthermore, they begged that their father, on his return, would see that the soldiers did not meddle with them, so long as they remained quiet and behaved in a friendly manner.

White Crow seemed particularly anxious to impress it upon me, that if any danger should arise in Shawnee-aw-kee’s absence, he should come with his people to protect me and my family. I relied upon his assurances, for he had ever shown himself an upright and honorable Indian.

Notwithstanding this, the thoughts of “Indian troubles” so near us, in the absence of our guardian and protector, occasioned us many an anxious moment, and it was not until we learned of the peaceable retreat of the Sacs and Foxes, west of the Mississippi, that we were able wholly to lay aside our fears.[87]

We were now called to part with our friends. Major Twiggs and his family, which we did with heartfelt regret. He gave me a few parting words about our old acquaintance, Christman.

“When I went into the barracks the other day,” said he, “about the time the men were taking their dinner, I noticed a great six-foot soldier standing against the window-frame, crying and blubbering. ‘Halloo,’ said I, ‘what on earth does this mean?’

“‘Why, that fellow there,’ said Christman, (for it was he), ‘has scrowged me out of my place!’ A pretty soldier your protege will make, madam!”

I never heard any more of my hero. Whether he went to exhibit his prowess against the Seminoles and Mexicans, or whether he returned to till the fertile soil of his native German Flats, and blow his favorite boatman’s horn, must be left for some future historian to tell.

There is one more character to be disposed of—Louisa. An opportunity offering in the Spring, the Major had placed her under the charge of a person going to Buffalo, that she might be returned to her parents. In compliment to the new acquaintances she had formed, she shortened her skirts, mounted a pair of scarlet leggins, embroidered with porcupine quills, and took her leave of military life, having deposited with the gentleman who took charge of her, sixty dollars, for safe keeping, which she remarked “she had saved up, out of her wages at a dollar a week through the winter.”

A very short time after we were settled in our new home at the Agency, we attempted the commencement of a little Sunday School. Edwin, Harry and Josette, were our most reliable scholars, but besides them, there were the two little Manaigres, Therese Paquette, and her mother’s half sister, Florence Courville, a pretty young girl of fifteen. None of these girls had even learned their letters. They spoke only French, or rather, the Canadian patois,[88] and it was exceedingly difficult to give them at once the sound of the words, and their signification, which they were careful to inquire. Besides this, there was the task of correcting the false ideas, and remedying the ignorance and superstition which presented so formidable an obstacle to rational improvement. We did our best, however, and had the satisfaction of seeing them, after a time, making really respectable progress with their spelling-book, and what was still more encouraging, acquiring a degree of light and knowledge in regard to better things.

In process of time, however, Florence was often absent from her class. “Her sister,” she said, “could not always spare her. She wanted her to keep house while she, herself, went over on Sunday to visit her friends, the Roys, who lived on the Wisconsin.”

We reasoned with Madam Paquette on the subject. “Could she not spare Florence on some hour of the day? We would gladly teach her on a week day, for she seemed anxious to learn, but we had always been told that for that there was no time.”

“Well—she would see. Madame Allum (Helm) and Madame John, were so kind!”

There was no improvement, however, in regularity. After a time Manaigre was induced to send his children to Mr. Cadle’s mission-school at Green Bay.[89] Therese accompanied them, and very soon Florence discontinued her attendance altogether.

We were obliged, from that time forward, to confine our instructions to our own domestic circle.

CHAPTER XXVIII

INDIAN CUSTOMS AND DANCES

Before we had any right to look for my husband’s return, I one day received a message inviting me to come up to the new house. We all went in a body, for we had purposely staid away a few days, expecting this summons, of which we anticipated the meaning.

Plante, in full glee, was seated astride of a small keg on the roof, close beside the kitchen chimney, on the very summit of which he had planted a green bough. To this he held fast with one hand, while he exultingly waved the other and called out,

“Eh! ban, Madame John! à cette heure, pour le rigal!”

“Yes, Plante, you are entitled to a treat, and I hope you will not enjoy it the less that Pillon and Manaigre are to share it with you.”

A suitable gratification made them quite contented with their “bourgeoise,” against whom Plante had sometimes been inclined to grumble, “because,” as he said, “she had him called up too early in the morning.” He might have added, because, too, she could not understand the philosophy of his coming in to work in his own garden, under the plea that it was too wet and rainy to work in Monsieur John’s.

It was with no ordinary feelings of satisfaction, that we quitted the old log tenement for our new dwelling, small and insignificant though it was.

I was only too happy to enjoy the luxury of a real bed-chamber, in place of the parlor floor which I had occupied as such for more than two months. It is true that our culinary arrangements were still upon no improved plan. The clay chimney was not of sufficient strength to hold the trammel and pot-hooks, which, at that day had not been quite superseded by the cooking-stove and kitchen-range. Our fire was made as in the olden time, with vast logs behind, and smaller sticks in front, laid across upon the andirons or dogs. Upon the sticks were placed such of the cooking-utensils as could not be accommodated on the hearth, but woe to the dinner or the supper, if through a little want of care or scrutiny one treacherous piece was suffered to burn away. Down would come the whole arrangement—kettles, saucepans, burning brands, and cinders, in one almost inextricable mass. How often this happened under the supervision of Harry or little Josette, while the mistress was playing lady to some visitor in the parlor, “'twere vain to tell.”

Then, spite of Mons. Plante’s palisades round the chimney, in a hard shower the rain would come pelting down, and, the hearth unfortunately sloping a little the wrong way, the fire would become extinguished; while the bark on the roof, failing to do its duty, we were now and then so completely deluged, that there was no resource but to catch up the breakfast or dinner and tuck it under the table until better times—that is, till fair weather came again. In spite of all these little adverse occurrences, however, we enjoyed our new quarters exceedingly.

Our garden was well furnished with vegetables, and even the currant bushes which we had brought from Chicago with us, tied in a bundle at the back of the carriage, had produced us some fruit.

The Indian women were very constant in their visits and their presents. Sometimes it was venison—sometimes ducks or pigeons—whortleberries, wild plums, or cranberries, according to the season—neat pretty mats for the floor or table—wooden bowls or ladles, fancy work of deer-skin or porcupine quills. These they would bring in and throw at my feet. If through inattention I failed to look pleased, to raise the articles from the floor and lay them carefully aside, a look of mortification and the observation, “Our mother hates our gifts,” showed how much their feelings were wounded. It was always expected that a present would be received graciously, and returned with something twice its value.

Meantime, week after week wore on, and still was the return of “the master” delayed.

The rare arrival of a schooner at Green Bay, in which to take passage for Detroit, made it always a matter of uncertainty what length of time would be necessary for a journey there and back again—so that it was not until the last of August that he again reached his home. Great was his surprise to find us so nicely “moved and settled,” and under his active supervision, the evils of which we had to complain were soon remedied.

My husband had met at Fort Gratiot, and brought with him, my young brother, Julian, whom my parents were sending, at our request, to reside with us. Edwin was overjoyed to have a companion once more, for he had hitherto been very solitary. They soon had enough to occupy their attention, for, in obedience to a summons sent to the different villages, the Indians very shortly came flocking in to the payment.

There was among their number this year, one whom I had never seen before—the mother of the elder Day-kau-ray. No one could tell her age, but all agreed that she must have seen upwards of a hundred winters. Her eyes dimmed, and almost white with age—her face dark and withered, like a baked apple—her voice tremulous and feeble, except when raised in fury to reprove her graceless grandsons, who were fond of playing her all sorts of mischievous tricks, indicated the very great age she must have attained.

She usually went upon all fours, not having strength to hold herself erect. On the day of the payment, having received her portion, which she carefully hid in the corner of her blanket, she came crawling along and seated herself on the door-step, to count her treasure.

My sister and I were watching her movements from the open window.

Presently, just as she had, unobserved as she thought, spread out her silver before her, two of her descendants came suddenly upon her. At first they seemed begging for a share, but she repulsed them with angry gestures, when one of them made a sudden swoop, and possessed himself of a tolerable handful.

She tried to rise, to pursue him, but was unable to do more than clutch the remainder, and utter the most unearthly screams of rage. At this instant the boys raised their eyes and perceived us regarding them. They burst into a laugh, and with a sort of mocking gesture they threw her the half-dollars, and ran back to the pay-ground.

I think there was but little earnest in their vexatious tricks, for she seemed very fond of them, and never failed to beg something of “her father,” that she could bestow upon them.

She crept into the parlor one morning, when straightening herself up, and supporting herself by the frame of the door, she cried in a most piteous tone—“Shaw-nee-aw-kee! Wau-tshob-ee-rah Thsoonsh-koo-nee-noh!” (Silverman, I have no looking-glass.) Her “father” smiling and taking up the same little tone, cried in return,

“Do you wish to look at yourself, Mother?”

The idea seemed to her so irresistibly comic, that she laughed until she was fairly obliged to seat herself upon the floor and give way to the enjoyment. She then owned that it was for one of her boys that she wanted the little mirror. When her father had given it to her, she found that she had “no comb,” then that she had “no knife,” then that she had “no calico shawl,” until it ended, as it generally did, by Shaw-nee-aw-kee paying pretty dearly for his joke.

When the Indians arrived and when they departed, my sense of “woman’s rights” was often greatly outraged. The master of the family, as a general thing, came leisurely bearing his gun and perhaps a lance in his hand. The woman, with the mats and poles of her lodge upon her shoulders, her pappoose, if she had one, her kettles, sacks of corn and wild rice, and not unfrequently, the household dog perched on the top of all. If there is a horse or pony in the list of family possessions, the man rides, the squaw trudges after.

This unequal division of labor is the result of no want of kind, affectionate feeling on the part of the husband. It is rather the instinct of the sex to assert their superiority of position and importance, when a proper occasion offers. When out of the reach of observation, and in no danger of compromising his own dignity, the husband is willing enough to relieve his spouse from the burden that custom imposes on her, by sharing her labors and hardships.[90]

The payment had not passed without its appropriate number of complimentary and medicine dances. The latter take place only at rare intervals—the former whenever an occasion presents itself—demanding a manifestation of respect and courtesy.

It is the custom to ask permission of the person to be complimented, to dance for him. This granted, preparation is made by painting the face elaborately, and marking the person, which is usually bare about the chest and shoulders, after the most approved pattern. All the ornaments that can be mustered, are added to the hair, or head dress. Happy is he, who, in virtue of having taken one or more scalps, is entitled to proclaim it by a corresponding number of eagle’s feathers. The less fortunate make a substitute of the feathers of the wild turkey, or, better still, of the first unlucky “rooster” that falls in their way. My poor fowls, during the time of payment, were always thoroughly plucked.

When their preparations are completed, the dancers assemble at some convenient place, and then come marching to the spot appointed, accompanied by the music of the Indian drum and shee-shee-qua or rattle. They range themselves in a circle and dance with violent contortions and gesticulations, some of them graceful, others only energetical, the squaws, who stand a little apart, and mingle their discordant voices with the music of the instruments, rarely participating in the dance. Occasionally, however, when excited by the general gaiety, a few of them will form a circle outside and perform a sort of ungraceful, up and down movement, which has no merit, save the perfect time which is kept, and for which, the Indians seem, without exception, to possess a natural ear.

The dance finished, which is only when the strength of the dancers is quite exhausted, a quantity of presents are brought and placed in the middle of the circle, by order of the party complimented. An equitable distribution is made, by one of their number; and the object of all this display having been accomplished, they retire.

The medicine-dance is carried on chiefly to celebrate the skill of the “Medicine-man,” in curing diseases. This functionary belongs to a fraternity who are supposed to add to their other powers some skill in interpreting the will of the Great Spirit in regard to the conduct of his people. He occasionally makes offerings and sacrifices which are regarded as propitiatory. In this sense, the term “priest” may be deemed applicable to him. He is also a “prophet” in so far as he is, in a limited degree, an instructor, but does not claim to possess the gift of foretelling future events.

A person is selected to join the fraternity of the “Medicine-man” by those already initiated, chiefly on account of some skill or sagacity that has been observed in him. Sometimes it happens that a person who has had a severe illness which has yielded to the prescriptions of one of the members, is considered a proper object of choice from a sort of claim thus established.

When he is about to be initiated, a great feast is made, of course at the expense of the candidate, for in the most simple, as in the most civilized life, the same principle of politics holds good, “honors must be paid for.” An animal is killed and dressed, of which the people at large partake—there are dances and songs and speeches in abundance. Then the chief Medicine-man takes the candidate and privately instructs him in all the ceremonies and knowledge necessary to make him an accomplished member of the fraternity. Sometimes the new member selected is still a child. In that case he is taken by the Medicine-man so soon as he reaches a proper age, and qualified by instruction and example to become a creditable member of the fraternity.

Among the Winnebagoes, there seems a considerable belief in magic. Each Medicine-man has a bag or sack, in which is supposed to be enclosed some animal, to whom in the course of their pow-wows, he addresses himself, crying to him in the note common to his imagined species. And the people seem to be persuaded that the answers which are announced are really communications in this form, from the Great Spirit.

The Indians appear to have no idea of a retribution beyond this life. They have a strong appreciation of the great, fundamental virtues of natural religion—the worship of the Great Spirit, brotherly love, parental affection, honesty, temperance and chastity. Any infringement of the laws of the Great Spirit, by a departure from these virtues, they believe will excite his anger, and draw down punishment. These are their principles. That their practice evinces more and more, a departure from them, under the debasing influences of a proximity to the whites, is a melancholy truth, which no one will admit with so much sorrow as those who lived among them, and esteemed them, a quarter of a century ago, before this signal change had taken place.

One of the first improvements that suggested itself about our new dwelling, had been the removal of some very unsightly pickets surrounding two or three Indian graves, on the esplanade in front of the house. Such, however, is the reverence in which these burial-places are held, that we felt we must approach the subject with great delicacy and consideration.

My husband at length ventured to propose to Mrs. “Pawnee Blanc,” the nearest surviving relative of the person interred, to replace the pickets with a neat wooden platform.

The idea pleased her much, for through her intimacy in Paquette’s family, she had acquired something of a taste for civilization. Accordingly a little structure about a foot in height, properly finished with a moulding around the edge, was substituted for the worn and blackened pickets, and it was touching to witness the mournful satisfaction with which two or three old crones would come regularly every evening at sunset, to sit and gossip over the ashes of their departed relatives.

On the fine, moonlight nights too, there might often be seen a group sitting there, and enjoying what is to them a solemn hour, for they entertain the poetic belief that “the moon was made to give light to the dead.”

The reverence of the Indians for the memory of their departed friends, and their dutiful attention in visiting and making offerings to the Great Spirit, over their last resting-places, is an example worthy of imitation among their more enlightened brethren. Not so, however, with some of their customs in relation to the dead.

The news of the decease of one of their number is a signal for a general mourning and lamentation—it is also, in some instances, I am sorry to say, when the means and appliances can be found, the apology for a general carouse.

The relatives weep and howl for grief—the friends and acquaintances bear them company through sympathy. A few of their number are deputed to wait upon their “father,” to inform him of the event, and to beg some presents “to help them,” as they express it, “dry up their tears.”

We received such a visit one morning, not long after the payment was concluded.

A little drunken Indian, named by the French people around, “Old Boilvin,” from his resemblance to an Indian Agent of that name,[91] at Prairie du Chien, was the person on account of whose death the application was made. “He had been fishing,” they said, “on the shores of one of the little lakes near the Portage, and having taken a little too much ‘whiskee,’ had fallen into the water and been drowned.” Nothing of him had been found but his blanket on the bank, so there could be no funeral ceremonies, but they were prepared to make a great lamentation about him.

Their father presented them with tobacco, knives, calico and looking-glasses, in proportion to what he thought might be their reasonable grief at the loss of such a worthless vagabond, and they departed.

There was no difficulty, notwithstanding the stringent prohibitions on the subject, in procuring a keg of whiskey from some of the traders who yet remained, so armed with that and their other treasures, they assembled at an appointed spot, not far from the scene of the catastrophe, and sitting down with the keg in their midst, they commenced their affliction. The more they drank the more clamorous became their grief, and the faster flowed their tears.

In the midst of these demonstrations a little figure, bent and staggering, covered with mud and all in disorder, with a countenance full of wonder and sympathy, approached them and began,

“Why’s what? what? Who’s dead?”

“Who! dead?” repeated they, looking up in astonishment. “Why, you’re dead! you were drowned in Swan Lake! Did not we find your blanket there? Come, sit down and help us mourn.”

The old man did not wait for a second invitation. He took his seat and cried and drank with the rest, weeping and lamenting as bitterly as any of them, and the strange scene was continued as long as they had power to articulate, or any portion of the whiskey was left.

CHAPTER XXIX

STORY OF THE RED FOX

The Indians, of whatever tribe, are exceedingly fond of narrating or listening to tales and stories, whether historical or fictitious. They have their professed story-tellers, like the oriental nations, and these go about, from village to village, collecting an admiring and attentive audience, however oft-told and familiar the matter they recite.

It is in this way that their traditions are preserved and handed down unimpaired from generation to generation. Their knowledge of the geography of their country is wonderfully exact. I have seen an Indian sit in his lodge, and draw a map in the ashes, of the North-Western States, not of its statistical but its geographical features, lakes, rivers, and mountains, with the greatest accuracy, giving their relative distances, by day’s journeys, without hesitation, and even extending his drawings and explanations as far as Kentucky and Tennessee.

Of biography they preserve not only the leading events in the life of the person, but his features, appearance and bearing, his manners, and whatever little trait or peculiarity characterized him.

The women are more fond of fiction, and some of their stories have a strange mingling of humor and pathos. I give the two which follow as specimens. The Indian names contained in them are in the Ottawa or “Courte Oreilles” language, but the same tales are current in all the different tongues and dialects.

THE STORY OF THE RED FOX

This is an animal to which many peculiarities are attributed. He is said to resemble the jackal in his habit of molesting the graves of the dead, and the Indians have a superstitious dread of hearing his bark at night, believing that it forebodes calamity and death. They say, too, that he was originally of one uniform reddish-brown color, but that his legs became black in the manner related in the story.

There was a chief of a certain village who had a beautiful daughter. He resolved upon one occasion to make a feast, and invite all the animals. When the invitation was brought to the red fox he inquired, “What are you going to have for supper?”

“Mee-dau-mee-nau-bo,” was the reply.

This is a porridge made of parched corn, slightly cracked. The fox turned up his little sharp nose. “No, I thank you,” said he, “I can get plenty of that at home.”

The messenger returned to the chief, and reported the contemptuous refusal of the fox.

“Go back to him,” said the chief, “and tell him we are going to have a nice fresh body,[AT] and we will have it cooked in the most delicate maimer possible.”

Pleased with the prospect of such a treat, the fox gave a very hearty assent to the second invitation.

The hour arrived, and he sat off for the lodge of the chief to attend the feast. The company were all prepared for him, for they made common cause with their friend who had been insulted. As the fox entered, the guest next the door with great courtesy rose from his place, and begged the new-comer to be seated. Immediately the person next him also rose, and insisted that the fox should occupy his place, as it was still nearer the fire—the post of honor. Then the third, with many expressions of civility, pressed him to exchange with him, and thus, with many ceremonious flourishes, he was passed along the circle, always approaching the fire, where a huge cauldron stood, in which the good cheer was still cooking. The fox was by no means unwilling to occupy the highest place in the assembly, and besides, he was anxious to take a peep into the kettle, for he had his suspicions that he might be disappointed of the delicacies he had been expecting.

So, by degrees, he was ushered nearer and nearer the great blazing fire, until by a dexterous push and shove he was hoisted into the seething kettle.

His feet were dreadfully scalded, but he leaped out, and ran home to his lodge, howling and crying with pain. His grandmother, with whom, according to the custom of animals, he lived, demanded of him an account of the affair. When he had faithfully related all the circumstances (for, unlike the civilized animals, he did not think of telling his grandmother a story), she reproved him very strongly.

“You have committed two great faults,” said she. “In the first place you were very rude to the chief who was so kind as to invite you, and by returning insult for civility, you made yourself enemies who were determined to punish you. In the next place, it was very unbecoming in you to be so forward to take the place of honor. Had you been contented modestly to keep your seat near the door, you would have escaped the misfortune that has befallen you.”

All this was not very consolatory to the poor fox, who continued to whine and cry most piteously, while his grandmother, having finished her lecture, proceeded to bind up his wounds. Great virtue is supposed to be added to all medical prescriptions and applications by a little dancing, so, the dressing having been applied, the grandmother fell to dancing with all her might, round and round in the lodge.

When she was nearly exhausted, the fox said, “Grandmother, take off the bandages and see if my legs are healed.”

She did as he requested, but no—the burns were still fresh. She danced and danced again. Now and then, as he grew impatient, she would remove the coverings to observe the effect of the remedies. At length, towards morning, she looked, and, to be sure, the burns were quite healed. “But oh!” cried she, “your legs are as black as a coal! They were so badly burned that they will never return to their color!”

The poor fox, who, like many another brave, was vain of his legs, fell into a transport of lamentation.

“Oh! my legs! My pretty red legs! What shall I do? The young girls will all despise me. I shall never dare to show myself among them again!”

He cried and sobbed until his grandmother, fatigued with her exercise, fell asleep. By this time he had decided upon his plan of revenge.

He rose and stole softly out of his lodge, and pursuing his way rapidly towards the village of the chief, he turned his face in the direction of the principal lodge and barked. When the inhabitants heard this sound in the stillness of the night, their hearts trembled. They knew that it foreboded sorrow and trouble to some one of their number.

A very short time elapsed before the beautiful daughter of the chief fell sick, and she grew rapidly worse and worse, spite of medicines, charms, and dances. At length she died. The fox had not intended to bring misfortune on the village in this shape, for he loved the beautiful daughter of the chief, so he kept in his lodge and mourned and fretted for her death.

Preparations were made for a magnificent funeral, but the friends of the deceased were in great perplexity. “If we bury her in the earth,” said they, “the fox will come and disturb her remains. He has barked her to death, and he will be glad to come and finish his work of revenge.”

They took counsel together, and determined to hang her body high in a tree as a place of sepulture. They thought the fox would go groping about in the earth, and not lift up his eyes to the branches above his head.

But the grandmother had been at the funeral, and she returned and told the fox all that had been done.

“Now, my son,” said she, “listen to me. Do not meddle with the remains of the Chief’s daughter. You have done mischief enough already—leave her in peace.”

As soon as the grandmother was asleep at night, the fox rambled forth. He soon found the place he sought, and came and sat under the tree where the young girl had been placed. He gazed and gazed at her, all the live-long night, and she appeared as beautiful as when in life. But when the day dawned, and the light enabled him to see more clearly, then he observed that decay was doing its work—that instead of a beautiful, she presented only a loathsome appearance.

He went home sad and afflicted, and passed all the day mourning in his lodge.

“Have you disturbed the remains of the Chief’s beautiful daughter?” was his parent’s anxious question.

“No, grandmother,”—and he uttered not another word.

Thus it went on for many days and nights. The fox always took care to quit his watch at the early dawn of day, for he knew that her friends would suspect him, and come betimes to see if all was right.

At length he perceived that, gradually, she looked less and less hideous in the morning light, and that she by degrees resumed the appearance she had presented in life, so that in process of time, her beauty and look of health quite returned to her.

One day he said, “Grandmother, give me my pipe, that I may take a smoke.”

“Ah!” cried she, “you begin to be comforted. You have never smoked since the death of the chief’s beautiful daughter. Have you heard some good news?”

“Never you mind,” said he, “bring the pipe.”

He sat down and smoked, and smoked. After a time he said, “Grandmother, sweep your lodge and put it all in order, for this day you will receive a visit from your daughter-in-law.”

The grandmother did as she was desired. She swept her lodge, and arranged it with all the taste she possessed, and then both sat down to await the visit.

“When you hear a sound at the door,” said the Fox, “you must give the salutation, and say. Come in.”

When they had been thus seated for a time, the grandmother heard a faint, rustling sound. She looked towards the door. To her surprise, the mat which usually hung as a curtain was rolled up, and the door was open.

“Peen-tee-geen n’dau-nis!”[AU] cried she.