Mrs. Muskrat had fallen in love with a fine fat kitten, whom the children had called “Buttermilk,” and she begged so hard for the little puss, that I presented it to her, rather marvelling how she would contrive to carry it so many miles through the woods, and she loaded with such an enormous pack; when, lo! the squaw took down the bundle, and, in the heart of the piles of dried venison, she deposited the cat in a small basket, giving it a thin slice of the meat to console it for its close confinement. Puss received the donation with piteous mews; it was evident that mice and freedom were preferred by her to venison and the honour of riding on a squaw's back. The squaws paddled us quickly across, and we laughed and chatted as we bounded over the blue waves, until we were landed in a dark cedar swamp, in the heart of which we found the Indian encampment. A large party were lounging around the fire, superintending the drying of a quantity of venison which was suspended on forked sticks. Besides the flesh of the deer, a number of muskrats were skinned, and extended as if standing bolt upright before the fire, warming their paws. The appearance they cut was most ludicrous. My young friend pointed to the muskrats, as she sank down, laughing, upon one of the skins. Old Snow-storm, who was present, imagined that she wanted one of them to eat, and very gravely handed her the unsavoury beast, stick and all. “Does the old man take me for a cannibal?” she said “I would as soon eat a child.” Among the many odd things cooking at that fire there was something that had the appearance of a bull-frog. “What can that be?” she said, directing my eyes to the strange monster. “Surely they don't eat bull-frogs!” This sally was received by a grunt of approbation from Snow-storm; and, though Indians seldom forget their dignity so far as to laugh, he for once laid aside his stoical gravity, and, twirling the thing round with a stick, burst into a hearty peal. “_Muckakee!_ Indian eat _muckakee?_--Ha! ha! Indian no eat _muckakee!_ Frenchmans eat his hind legs; they say the speckled beast much good. This no _muckakee!_--the liver of deer, dried--very nice--Indian eat him.” “I wish him much joy of the delicate morsel,” said the saucy girl, who was intent upon quizzing and examining every thing in the camp. We had remained the best part of an hour, when Mrs. Muskrat laid hold of my hand, and leading me through the bush to the shore, pointed up significantly to a cloud, as dark as night, that hung loweringly over the bush. “Thunder in that cloud--get over the lake--quick, quick, before it breaks.” Then motioning for us to jump into the canoe, she threw in the paddles, and pushed us from the shore.