On reaching the swamp, we were disposed to laugh at the formidable representations which had been made to us. We saw only a strip of what seemed rather low land, covered with tall, dry rushes.
It is true the ground looked a little wet, but there seemed nothing to justify all the apprehensions that had been excited. Great was my surprise, then, to see my husband, who had been a few minutes absent, return to our circle attired in his duck trousers, and without shoes or stockings.
“What are you going to do?” inquired I.
“Carry you through the swamp on my shoulders. Come Petaille, you are the strongest—you are to carry Madame Kinzie, and To-shim-nuck there, (pointing to a tall stout Winnebago), he will take Madame Helm.”
“Wait a moment,” said I, and seating myself on the grass, I deliberately took off my own boots and stockings.
“What is that for?” they all asked.
“Because I do not wish to ride with wet feet all the rest of the day.”
“No danger of that,” said they, and no one followed my example.
By the time they were in the midst of the swamp, however, they found my precaution was by no means useless. The water through which our bearers had to pass was of such a depth that no efforts of the ladies were sufficient to keep their feet above the surface; and I had the satisfaction of feeling that my burden upon my husband’s shoulders was much less, from my being able to keep my first position instead of changing constantly to avoid a contact with the water.