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 his friends 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. 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? what? what? Who's dead?"

"Who's 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 storytellers, 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 Northwestern
States, not of their statistical but their geographical features, lakes,
rivers, and mountains, with the greatest accuracy, giving their relative
distances,