The prospect was not an encouraging one. Around us was an unbroken sheet of snow. We had no compass, and the air was so obscured by the driving sleet, that it was often impossible to tell in which direction the sun was. I tied my husband's silk pocket-handkerchief over my veil, to protect my face from the wind and icy particles with which the air was filled, and which cut like a razor; but, although shielded in every way that circumstances rendered possible, I suffered intensely from the cold.
We pursued our way, mile after mile, entering every point of woods, in hopes of meeting with, at least, some Indian wigwam at which we could gain intelligence. Every spot was solitary and deserted; not even the trace of a recent fire, to cheer us with the hope of human beings within miles of us.
Suddenly, a shout from the foremost of the party made each heart bound with joy.
"Une clôture! une clôture!" (A fence! a fence!)
It was almost like life to the dead.
We spurred on, and indeed perceived a few straggling rails crowning a rising ground at no great distance.
Never did music sound so sweet as the crowing of a cock which at this moment saluted our ears.
Following the course of the inclosure down the opposite slope, we came upon a group of log cabins, low, shabby, and unpromising in their appearance, but a most welcome shelter from the pelting storm.
"Whose cabins are these?" asked Mr. Kinzie, of a man who was cutting wood at the door of one.
"Hamilton's," was his reply; and he stepped forward at once to assist us to alight, hospitality being a matter of course in these wild regions.