"He had been fishing," they said, "on the shores of one of the little lakes near the Portage, and, having taken a little too much '_whiskee_,' had fallen into the water and been drowned." Nothing of him had been found but his blanket on the bank, so there could be no funeral ceremonies, but his friends were prepared to make a great lamentation about him.
Their Father presented them with tobacco, knives, calico, and looking-glasses, in proportion to what he thought might be their reasonable grief at the loss of such a worthless vagabond, and they departed.
There was no difficulty, notwithstanding the stringent prohibitions on the subject, in procuring a keg of whiskey from some of the traders who yet remained.

Armed with that and their other treasures, they assembled at an appointed spot, not far from the scene of the catastrophe, and, sitting down with the keg in their midst, they commenced their affliction.

The more they drank, the more clamorous became their grief, and the faster flowed their tears.
In the midst of these demonstrations, a little figure, bent and staggering, covered with mud and all in disorder, with a countenance full of wonder and sympathy, approached them, and began,-- "Why?
what?
what?
Who's dead ?" "Who's dead ?" repeated they, looking up in astonishment.

"Why, you're dead! you were drowned in Swan Lake! Did not we find your blanket there?
Come, sit down and help us mourn." The old man did not wait for a second invitation.

He took his seat and cried and drank with the rest, weeping and lamenting as bitterly as any of them, and the strange scene was continued as long as they had power to articulate, or any portion of the whiskey was left..