rtage, the distance by land is about
seventy miles; by water, it is not less than a hundred and thirty, so
serpentine is the course of the river through the low swampy prairies
which stretch over a great portion of this part of the country.

About six miles above the Butte, a tolerably broad stream, called Wolf
River, joins the Fox, and as it is much the more direct and promising of
the two, strangers have sometimes mistaken it for the main stream, and
journeyed up it a considerable distance before discovering, to their
great chagrin, that they must retrace their steps.

Beyond this place, the river begins to play its pranks with the compass.
As I was always looking out for pretty scenery to sketch, I was at one
spot much attracted by a picturesque group on a bank quite close to the
stream. There were broad overhanging trees, and two or three wigwams
nestled under their shade. Bright-looking little children, quite
unencumbered with clothing, were sporting about, and their two mothers
were sitting on the ground, engaged in the manufacture of a mat for
their lodge. It was a pretty scene, and I commenced a sketch. As usual,
the whole party on the bank set up a shout when they recognized
Shaw-nee-aw-kee,--

"Ee-awn-chee-wee-rah, Hee-nee-kar-ray-kay-noo."[12]

It was an occasion on which they became demonstrative. After a little
time we proceeded, and I went on to complete my drawing. The sun kept
coming more and more into the wrong place. He had been just behind me,
presently he was on my left hand, now he was straight ahead. I moved
from time to time; at length the sun was decidedly on my right hand.
What could be the matter? I looked up. "Oh, here is a pretty scene; I
must have this too! But how surprisingly like the one I have just
finished, only in a different direction." Again we were greeted with
shouts and laughter; it was the same spot which we had passed not an
hour before, and, having taken a circuit of nearly four miles, we had
returned to find that we had made an actual progress of only the width
of the bank on which the trees and wigwams stood. Decidedly not very
encouraging to an impatient traveller.

We reached Lake Puckaway late in the evening of our second day from
Butte des Morts. Here lived a white man named Gleason, the same
concerning whom, owing to his vast powers of exaggeration, poor Hooe was
fond of uttering his little pun, "All is not gold that Gleasons." We did
not seek shelter at his house,