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, for, late as the season was, we found the
shore so infested with mosquitoes that we were glad to choose a spot as
far as possible from the bank, and make ourselves comfortable in our
boat.

This lake has its name from the long flags or rushes which are found in
its waters in great abundance, and of which the squaws manufacture the
coarse matting used in covering their wigwams. Their mode of fabricating
this is very primitive and simple. Seated on the ground, with the rushes
laid side by side, and fastened at each extremity, they pass their
shuttle, a long flat needle made of bone, to which is attached a piece
of cordage formed of the bark of a tree, through each rush, thus
confining it very closely, and making a fine substantial mat. These mats
are seldom more than five or six feet in length, as a greater size would
be inconvenient in adjusting and preparing the lodges.

It is a species of labor usually assigned to the elder women of the
family. When they become broken down and worn out with exposure and
hardship, so that they cannot cut down trees, hoe corn, or carry heavy
burdens, they are set to weaving mats, taking care of the children, and
disciplining the dogs, with which every Indian lodge abounds.

Lac de Boeuf, or Buffalo Lake, into which our course next brought us, is
a lovely sheet of water. In some places its banks are exceedingly