He was a tall, finely-formed man, with a cheerful, open countenance, and he listened to what his wife in a quiet tone related to him, while he divested himself of his accoutrements, in the most unembarrassed, well-bred manner imaginable.
Soon my husband joined us.

He had been engaged in attending to the comfort of his horses, and assisting his men in making their fire, and pitching their tent, which the rising storm made a matter of some difficulty.
From the Indian he learned that we were in what was called the Big Woods,[17] or "Piche's Grove," from a Frenchman of that name living not far from the spot--that the river we had crossed was the Fox River--that he could guide us to _Piche's_, from which the road was perfectly plain, or even into Chicago if we preferred--but that we had better remain encamped for that day, as there was a storm coming on, and in the mean time he would go and shoot some ducks for our dinner and supper.

He was accordingly furnished with powder and shot, and set off again for game without delay.
I had put into my pocket, on leaving home, a roll of scarlet ribbon, in case a stout string should be wanted, and I now drew it forth, and with the knife which hung around my neck I cut off a couple of yards for each of the little girls.

They received it with great delight, and their mother, dividing each portion into two, tied a piece to each of the little clubs into which their hair was knotted on the temples.

They laughed, and exclaimed "Saum!" as they gazed at each other, and their mother joined in their mirth, although, as I thought, a little unwilling to display her maternal exultation before a stranger.
The tent being all in order, my husband came for me, and we took leave of our friends in the wigwam, with grateful hearts.
The storm was raging without.