502 THE GEORGE CATLIN INDIAN GALLERY. 



off from the shore to the middle of the river, which was there a mile and a half in width* 

 to meet the steamer, which was stemming the opposing torrent, and slowly moving np 

 the rapids. I made my signal as I neared the steamer, and desired my old friend Cap. 

 tain Rogers not to stop his engine, feeling full confidence that I could, with an Indian 

 touch of the paddle, toss my little bark around, and gently grapple to the side of the 

 steamer, which was loaded down, with her gunnels near to the waters' edge. Oh, that 

 my skill had been equal to my imagination, or that I could have had at that moment the 

 balance and the skill of an Indian woman, for the sake of my little craft and what 

 was in it. I had brought it about with a master hand, however, but the waves of 

 the rapids and the foaming of the waters by her sides were too much for my peace- 

 able adhesion, and at the moment of wheeling, to part company with her, a line, with 

 a sort of i( laso throw," came from an awkward hand on the deck, and falling over my 

 shoulder and around the end of my canoe with a simultaneous " haul" to it, sent me 

 down head foremost to the bottom of the river, where I was tumbling along with the 

 rapid current over the huge rocks on the bottom, whilst my gun and pistols, which 

 were emptied from my capsized boat, were taking their permanent position amongst 

 the rocks, and my trunk, containing my notes of travel for several years, and many 

 other valuable things, was floating off upon the surface. If I had drowned, my death 

 would have been witnessed by at least a hundred ladies and gentlemen who were 

 looking on, but I did not. I soon took a peep, by the side of my trunk, &c, above 

 tho water, and for the first time in my life was collared, and that by my friend Cap- 

 tain Rogers, who undoubtedly saved me from making further explorations on the 

 river bottom by pulling me into the boat, to the amusement of all on deck, many of 

 whom were my old acquaintances, and not knowing the preliminaries were as much, 

 astounded at my sudden appearance, as if I had been disgorged from a whale's belly. 

 A small boat was sent off for my trunk, which was picked up about half a mile below 

 and brought on board, full of water, and, consequently, clothes, and sketch-books and 

 everything else entirely wet through. My canoe was brought on board, which was 

 several degrees dearer to me now than it had been for its long and faithful service; 

 but my gun and pistols are there yet, and at the service of the lucky one who may 

 find them. I remained on board for several miles till we were passing a wild and 

 romantic rocky shore, on which the sun was shining warm, and I launched my little 

 boat into the water, with my trunk in it, and put off to the shore, where I soon had 

 every paper and a hundred other things spread in the sun, and at night in good order 

 for my camp, which was at the mouth of a quiet little brook, where I caught some 

 fine bass and fared well, till a couple of hours' paddling the next morning brought 

 me back to Camp Des Moines." 



ANOTHER ADVENTURE ON THE RIVER; LOSING HIS CANOE. 



Here my friend Joe laughed excessively, but said not a word, as I kept on painting 

 and told him, also, that a few days after this, I put my little canoe on the deck of a 

 steamer ascending the river, and landed at Rock Island, ninety miles above, on some 

 business with General Street, the Indian agent, after which I put off in my little 

 bark, descending the river alone to Camp Des Moines, with a fine double-barreled 

 fowling-piece, which I had purchased at the garrison, lying in the canoe before me 

 as the means of procuring wild fowl and other food on my passage. "Egad!" said 

 Joe, "how I should like to have been with you!" " Sit still," said I, "or I shall 

 lose your likeness." So Joe kept his position and I proceeded: 



"I left Rock Island 11 o'clock in the morning, and at half-past three on a pleasant 

 afternoon, in the cool month of October, ran my canoe to the shore of Mas-co-tin 

 Island, where I stepped out upon its beautiful pebbly beach, with my paddle in my 

 hand, having drawn the bow of my canoe, as usual, on the beach, so as to hold it in 

 its place. This beautiful island, so called from a band of the Illinois Indians of that 

 name, who once dwelt upon it, is twenty-five or thirty miles in length, without habi- 



