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Now that I am on the new causeway, broad and spacious like all the others, it may be well to conclude the discussion of the physical condition of this valley by determining the size of the old Aztec causeways. An island embosomed in a marsh has always formed a favorite retreat for an Indian tribe, whether among the everglades of Florida, or the wild-rice swamps of north-western Canada.
"Have you seen the beautiful new canoe father has just finished?" asked White Cloud. "Seen it! I helped make it," answered Swift Elk. "I cut nearly all the birch bark." "Your father has it ready for the wild-rice harvest," said Good Bird. "To-day I go to tie the stalks. You are to help me, White Cloud." Nothing could have pleased the little girl better.
This little book tells how children lived and played long ago in the wild-rice country. Their tribe was then at peace with the fierce Indians farther west. A few men of the village had traveled north with furs, but the children had never seen a white man. The old-time life of the Indians is ended.
The rest of this heart-rending story was gathered from the lips of their little protege. Her father, mother, and herself had started from Otter Tail lake in September, 1862, after the quelling of the Sioux outbreak, and voyaged down the Red river in a canoe, intending to settle in the wild-rice region a few miles southeast of the spot where they then were.
The Menomonie, or Wild-rice Indians, one of the western branches of the Algonquin family, wished to dissuade them from going further. The voyagers thanked them and pushed on, up Fox River and across Lake Winnebago. At the approach to the lake are the Winnebago Rapids, which necessitate a portage, or "carry." Our voyagers do not mention having any trouble here.
In September I have seen them literally in tens of thousands wheeling about the inundated wild-rice fields bounding the western end of Lake Erie, their black backs and gay red epaulets glistening in the sun "like an army with banners."
But there are camps in the unsettled lands of the wild-rice region where many strange customs can still be seen; where the Indian drum is heard, and the women gather wild rice as in the olden time. The Indians of long ago had no books and no schools; but each tribe had its story-tellers, who went from one wigwam to another. Everywhere they were welcomed by old and young and begged to return.
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