new "mother." They were the first Winnebagoes I had seen, and they were
decidedly not the finest specimens of their tribe. The mitiff, a scion
of the wide-spreading tree of the Grignons, was the bearer of an
invitation to us from Judge Law, who, with one or two Green Bay friends,
was encamped a few miles above, to come and breakfast with him in his
tent. We had not dreamed of finding white neighbors here, but our
vicinity could be no secret to them, as long as there was an Indian in
the neighborhood. So, delaying only for the soldiers to finish their
breakfast, we pushed on for the "Butte des Morts," or, as Mrs. A always
persisted in calling it, _Betty More's_.

The white tent of the Judge gleamed in the morning sun as we approached
the little rising ground on which it stood. The river was filled with
canoes, paddled principally by squaws. Many Indians were to be seen on
the banks, all with their guns and hunting accoutrements, for the air
was filled in every direction with flocks of teal, which at this season
are most abundant and delicious. The immense fields of wild rice
abounding here and in the little lake below, make this vicinity their
favorite place of resort in the autumn months. The effect of this
nourishing food is to make the flesh of the birds so fat, so white, and
so tender, that a caution is always given to a young sportsman to fire
only at such as fly very low, for if shot high in the air they are
bruised to pieces and rendered unfit for eating by their fall to the
ground.

We were hemmed in by a little fleet of canoes which surrounded us, the
women chattering, laughing, and eagerly putting forward their little
wooden bowls of fresh cranberries as an offering of welcome to me.

I amused myself with tossing crackers to them, some of which would reach