irl in the lodge where I was,
persisted in moving so as to give me the dry place; a woman, with the
sweet melancholy eye of the race, kept off the children and wet dogs
from even the hem of my garment.

Without, their fires smouldered, and black kettles, hung over them on
sticks, smoked, and seethed in the rain. An old, theatrical-looking
Indian stood with arms folded, looking up to the heavens, from
which the rain clashed and the thunder reverberated; his air was
French-Roman; that is, more Romanesque than Roman. The Indian ponies,
much excited, kept careering through the wood, around the encampment,
and now and then, halting suddenly, would thrust in their intelligent,
though amazed faces, as if to ask their masters when this awful pother
would cease, and then, after a moment, rush and trample off again.

At last we got away, well wetted, but with a picturesque scene for
memory. At a house where we stopped to get dry, they told us that
this wandering band (of Pottawattamies), who had returned, on a visit,
either from homesickness, or need of relief, were extremely destitute.
The women had been there to see if they could barter for food their
head-bands, with which they club their hair behind into a form not
unlike a Grecian knot. They seemed, indeed, to have neither food,
utensils, clothes, nor bedding; nothing but the ground, the sky, and
their own strength. Little wonder if they drove off the game!

Part of the same band I had seen in Milwaukee, on a begging dance.
The effect of this was wild and grotesque. They wore much paint and
feather head-dresses. "Indians without paint are poor coots," said a
gentleman who had been a great deal with, and really liked, them;
and I like the effect of the paint on them; it reminds of the gay
fantasies of nature. With them in Milwaukie was a chief, the finest
Indian figure I saw, more than six feet in height, erect, and of a
sullen, but grand gait and gesture. He wore a deep-red blanket, which
fell in large folds from his shoulders to his feet, did not join in
the dance, but slowly strode about through the streets, a fine
sight, not a French-Roman, but a real Roman. He looked unhappy,
but listlessly unhappy, as if he felt it was of no use to strive or
resist.

While in the neighborhood of these lakes, we visited also a foreign
settlement of great interest. Here were minds, it seemed, to
"comprehend the trust" of their new life; and, if they can only stand
true to them, will