114 NARRATIVE OF THE EXPEDITION. 



the tortoise and a prairie-hen denoted the day's hunt. There 

 were three hacks on the pole, which leaned to the N. W., denoting 

 our course of travel. Having examined this unique memorial, it 

 was carefully replaced in its former position, when we again set 

 forward. It appeared we had rested in a sort of oasis in the 

 swamp, for we soon entered into a section of a decidedly worse 

 character than that we had passed the day before. The windfalls 

 and decaying timber were more frequent — the bogs, if possible, 

 more elastic — the spots dry enough to halt on, more infrequent, 

 and the water more highly colored with infuvsions of decaying 

 vegetable matter. We urged our way across this tract of morass 

 for nine hours, during which we estimated our progress at four- 

 teen miles, and encamped about four o'clock P. M., in a complete 

 state of exhaustion. Even our Indian guides demanded a halt ; 

 and what had, indeed, added to our discouragements, was the un- 

 certainty of their way, which they had manifested. 



Our second night's repose in this swampy tract, was on ground 

 just elevated above the water ; the mosquitos were so pertina- 

 cious at this spot as to leave us but little rest. From information 

 given by our guides, this wide tract of morass constitutes the 

 sources of the Akeek Seebi, or Kettle Eiver, which is one of the 

 remotest sources of the Mille Lac, and, through that body of water, 

 of Rum River. It is visited only by the Indians, at the proper 

 season for trapping the beaver, marten, and muskrat. During 

 our transit through it, we came to open spaces where the cran- 

 berry was abundant. In the same locality, we found the ripe 

 fruit, green berries, and blossoms of this fruit. 



It was five o'clock A. M. when we resumed our march through 

 this toilsome tract, and we passed out of it, after pressing forward 

 with our best might, during twelve hours. We had been ob- 

 servant of the perplexity of our guides, who had unwittingly, we 

 thought, plunged us into this dreary and seemingly endless mo- 

 rass, and were rejoiced, on a sudden, to hear them raise loud 

 shouts. They had reached a part of the country known to them, 

 and took this mode to express their joy, and we soon found our- 

 selves on the banks of- a small clear stream, called by them 

 Bezhiki Seebi, or Buffalo Creek, a tributary to Sandy Lake. 

 We had, at length, reached waters flowing into the Mississippi. 

 On this stream we prepared to encamp, in high spirits, feeling, as 



