On the floor of the lodge, between the fire and the outer wall, were spread mats, upon which my husband invited me to be seated and make myself comfortable.
The first demand of an Indian on meeting a white man is for _bread_, of which they are exceedingly fond, and I knew enough of the Pottowattamie language to comprehend the timid "_pe-qua-zhe-gun choh-kay-go_" (I have no bread) with which the squaw commenced our conversation after my husband had left the lodge.
I shook my head, and endeavored to convey to her that, so far from being able to give, I had had no breakfast myself.

She understood me, and instantly produced a bowl, into which she ladled a quantity of Indian potatoes from the kettle over the fire, and set them before me.

I was too hungry to be fastidious, and, owing partly, no doubt, to the sharpness of my appetite, I really found them delicious.
Two little girls, inmates of the lodge, sat gazing at me with evident admiration and astonishment, which were increased when I took my little Prayer book from my pocket and began to read.

They had, undoubtedly, never seen a book before, and I was amused at the care with which they looked _away_ from me, while they questioned their mother about my strange employment and listened to her replies.
While thus occupied, I was startled by a sudden sound of "hogh!" and the mat which hung over the entrance of the lodge was raised, and an Indian entered with that graceful bound which is peculiar to themselves.

It was the master of the lodge, who had been out to shoot ducks, and was just returned.