fixed upon the ashes in which he was making marks with a
stick, rarely raising them to gaze on us, as children are wont to do,
interested me exceedingly, and I inquired of an intelligent little girl,
evidently a daughter of our host,--

"Who is that boy?"

"Oh, that is John Ogie," answered she.

"What is the matter with him? he looks very sad."

"Oh, he is fretting after his mother."

"Is she dead, then?"

"Some say she is dead, and some say she is gone away. I guess she is
dead, and buried up in one of those graves yonder"--pointing to two or
three little picketed inclosures upon a rising ground opposite the
window.

I felt a strong sympathy with the child, which was increased when the
little spokeswoman, in answer to my inquiry, "Has he no father?"
replied,--

"Oh, yes, but he goes away, and drinks, and don't care for his
children."

"And what becomes of John then?"

"He stays here with us, and we teach him to read, and he learns
_dreadful_ fast."

When the boy at length turned his large dark eyes upon me, it went to my
heart. It was such a _motherless_ look. And it was explained when, long
afterwards, I learned his further history. His mother was still living,
and he knew it, although, with the reserve peculiar to his people, he
never spoke of her to his young companions. Unable to endure the
continued ill treatment of her husband, a surly, intemperate Canadian,
she had left him, and returned to her own family among the
Pottowattamies. Years after, this boy and a brother who had also been
left behind with their father found their way to the Upper Missouri, to
join their mother, who, with the others of her tribe, had been removed
by the Government from the shores of Lake Michigan.

A most savory supper of ducks and venison, with their accompaniments,
soon smoked upon the board, and we did ample justice to it. Travelling
is a great sharpener of the appetite, and so is cheerfulness; and the
latter was increased by the encouraging account Mr. Dixon gave us of the
remainder of the route yet before us.

"There is no difficulty," said he, "if you keep a little to the north,
and strike the great _Sauk trail_. If you get too far to the south, you
will come upon the Winnebago Swamp, and, once in that, there is no
telling when you will ever get out again. As for the distance, it is
nothing at all to speak of. Two young men came out here from Chicago,
on foot, last fall. They got here the evening of the second