“No! he says you did not say anything particular about it, and he was not coming to ask you if you forgot it; but I thought I wouldn’t be bashful—I’d just come and ask.”
“That is right. Tell Kilgour I should like to have him serve out a ration apiece.”
“Thank you, sir,” in a most cheerful tone; “I’ll tell him.”
Christman was getting to be quite a character with us.
A row of a few miles, on the following morning, brought us to Four-Legs' village,[H] at the entrance to Winnebago Lake, a picturesque cluster of Indian huts, spread around on a pretty green glade, and shaded by fine lofty trees.
[H] The site of the town of Nee-nah.
We were now fairly in the Winnebago country, and I soon learned that the odd-sounding name of the place was derived from the principal chief of the nation, whose residence it was. The inhabitants were absent, having, in all probability, departed to their wintering grounds. We here took leave of our friend Wish-tay-yun, at the borders of whose country we had now arrived.
“Bon-jour, Chon!” (John) “Bon-jour, maman.” A hearty shake of the hand completed his adieu, as we pushed off into the lake, and left him smoking his kin-nee-kin-nick,[I] and waiting until the spirit should move him to take up his long Indian trot towards his home in the Menomonee country.
[I] The bark of the red willow, scraped fine, which is preferred by the Indians to tobacco.