f 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.

At break of day we are aroused by the shout of the bourgeois,--

"How! how! how!"

All start from their slumbers. The fire, which has been occasionally
replenished through the night, is soon kindled into a flame. The horses
are caught and saddled, while a breakfast, similar in kind to the meal
of the preceding evening, is preparing--the tent is struck--the
pack-horse loaded--"_tout demanche_," as the Canadian says. The
breakfast finished, we rinse our kettles and cups, tie them to our
saddle-bows, and then mount and away, leaving our fire, or rather our
smoke, to tell of our visit.

March 9th.--Our journey this day led us past the first of the Four
Lakes. Scattered along its banks was an encampment of Winnebagoes. They
greeted their Father with vociferous joy--"_Bon-jour, bon-jour,
Shaw-nee-aw-