It happened that one evening we pitched our tent near a small stream, in a grove composed principally of young birch, but interspersed with large and shaggy ones. Everyone at all familiar with the birch knows there is much of it, on which the outer bark peels naturally, and it is no uncommon thing to be able to peel, with the use of the hands only, large quantities of the bark. There was almost an inexhaustible supply of just such bark near this camping ground. Joe was either tired or indisposed to work that evening, and when bedtime arrived, the pile of wood looked very scant for the long hours of the night. No one likes a little innocent fun better than my friend Patrick. Looking at the small woodpile, then at Joe, Patrick gave me a twinkle of his eye, started out into the semidarkness, and commenced peeling bark off the birch trees. He busied himself thus, until he had peeled off and brought in near our tent, a huge pile of this beautiful birch bark. No matter how rainy the weather may be, or how deep the snow in winter, if the frontiersman is fortunate enough to be camped in a grove of live birch, he knows that this ever friendly and useful birch bark will afford him a sure means of kindling a fire. It carries much oil and burns readily when a match is applied to it. The fire was fixed for the night, and Patrick and I lay down in our tent under our blankets to sleep. Joe, as was his custom, curled up at the foot of the tent and left his bare feet sticking out toward the fire. His requirement of blanket was less than half of what would satisfy a white man. As long as his feet were warm, the Indian did not suffer from cold. About midnight the fire had burned very low, when Patrick emerged from the tent and commenced dropping pieces of birch bark on the fast consuming fire logs. I was well back in the tent, propped up a little on my elbows, enjoying the glow of the fire, and watching it, as well as watching the Indian. As the fire increased and the flames rose higher, the Indian's feet began to twitch, and to draw up closer to his body. Soon the heat was so tremendous that the tent was in danger, when, like a missile, thrown by a strong spring, the Indian shot out of his blanket and into the woods, muttering his imprecations in Chippewa. He did not swear, for praise be to the Chippewa language, it contains no such words; but a madder Indian and a happier white man are seldom seen. The sequel to this episode was plenty of good fuel to burn during all of the following nights of this cruise in the forest. We employed LaGarde on other and later trips, and his services were always satisfactory. He has since gone to the happy hunting ground, and, with his passing, a tinge of sadness steals over us, for his memory is dear, and we have no right or wish to count him as other than our brother. He was always true to the white man, and deserves his meed of praise.