During this journey, which lasted eight months, Audubon kept a voluminous journal, which was written in a fine hand on large sheets of linen paper that could be easily rolled and carried in his pocket; this was afterwards sent to Bachman, was returned, and was lost for fifty years, or until 1896, when it was recovered from an old secretary by Audubon's granddaughters, one of whom published it in 1898.[193] It is a highly interesting and spirited narrative from beginning to end, and abounds in graphic pictures of the Indians and trappers, the military posts and pioneer settlements, the abundant bird life and big game, the biggest of which, the buffalo, was then seen by Audubon in a state of nature for the first time, the grand and turbulent rivers, and the smiling or frowning face of the great wilderness so soon to be changed by the devastating hands of civilized man. What Audubon thought to be a new finch, discovered near the Snake Hills in Missouri, was named for Edward Harris, and though it proved to have been previously described, the bird is still known as "Harris' Finch"; a few days later a new vireo, _Vireo bellii_, received the name of John G. Bell, his taxidermist, and similar honors were passed to artist Isaac Sprague, to whom was dedicated the little titlark, _Alauda spragueii_, now _Anthus spraguei_. In those days of river navigation, the frequent tying up for fuel or necessary repairs, not to speak of grounding in a treacherous channel, gave almost daily opportunities for the hunters to go ashore, and these occasions seldom failed to produce something interesting, new, or rare. In the Indian country, at Bellevue, Nebraska, where they touched to land a part of their cargo, Audubon "saw a trick of the trade, which made _him_ laugh. Eight cords of wood were paid for with five tin cups of sugar and three of coffee—value at St. Louis about twenty-five cents." They began to meet with buffalo about the mouth of the James River, in South Dakota, on May 20; the ground, said Audubon, was literally covered with their tracks, and the bushes with their hair. On the same day they discovered "Meadow Larks whose songs and single notes _were_ quite different from those of the Eastern States," and this proved to be the first notice of the Western Meadow Lark, which later appeared as the _Sturnella neglecta_ in the small edition of his _Birds of America_, then in course of publication. Audubon's opinion of the Indian was modified considerably after having seen him in the western wilderness, and his confidence in George Catlin's descriptions was completely shattered; "His book," he said, "must, after all, be altogether a humbug. Poor devil! I pity him from the bottom of my soul; had he studied, and kept up to the old French proverb that says, 'Bon Renommé vaut mieux que ceinture doré,' he might have become an honest man—the quintessence of God's works."