We had passed into the Fox River, and were just entering that beautiful little expanse known as Butte des Morts Lake, at the farther extremity of which we were to encamp for the night.
The water along its shores was green with the fields of wild rice, the gathering of which, just at this season, is an important occupation of the Indian women.

They push their canoes into the thick masses of the rice, bend it forward over the side with their paddles, and then beat the ripe husks off the stalks into a cloth spread in the canoe.

After this, it is rubbed to separate the grain from the husk, and fanned in the open air.

It is then put in their cordage bags and packed away for winter use.

The grain is longer and more slender than the Carolina rice--it is of a greenish-olive color, and, although it forms a pleasant article of food, it is far from being particularly nutritive.