"_Eh bien--adieu! bon voyage!_"

"_Arrachez, mes gens!_" (Go ahead, men!)

Then suddenly--"_Arrêtez! arrêtez!_" (Stop, stop!)

"_Comment se portent Madame Rolette et les enfans?_" (How are Mrs.
Rolette and the children?)

* * * * *

This day, with its excitement, was at length over, and we retired to our
rest, thankful that we had not General Root and his secretary close to
our bed's head, with their budget of political news.

My slumbers were not destined, however, to be quite undisturbed. I was
awakened, at the first slight peep of dawn, by a sound from an apartment
beneath our own--a plaintive, monotonous chant, rising and then falling
in a sort of mournful cadence. It seemed to me a wail of something
unearthly--so wild--so strange--so unaccountable. In terror I awoke my
husband, who reassured me by telling me it was the morning salutation of
the Indians to the opening day.

Some Menomonees had been kindly given shelter for the night in the
kitchen below, and, having fulfilled their unvarying custom of chanting
their morning hymn, they now ceased, and again composed themselves to
sleep. But not so their auditor. There was to me something inexpressibly
beautiful in this morning song of praise from the untaught sons of the
forest. What a lesson did it preach to the civilized, Christianized