I waited some little time, and hearing nothing I got frightened,
thinking father and mother had gone away and left me, I got up, ran out
of doors and met mother. She took a blanket from my bed, saying, "Come
Elizabeth and see the Menominee Indians, they are going away. They must
go home and see to their crops and cannot stay here any longer." I said,
"Where did the other two come from?" She made a quick motion, putting
her hand over her mouth, which I understood was to be silent and ask no
questions. We were both speaking in French. I followed her to the beach,
where a large birch bark canoe was packed. I saw four little children
packed away Indian fashion, each had a little black puppy dog in his
arms. The tall sick Indian got in first, seating himself and smoking his
pipe, then the young Indian woman followed, then the Indian and his
wife. There were many "bou shou's" (good-byes) spoken in subdued tones.
The Indian and his wife took the paddles, father gave one hard push and
away sped the bark canoe over the blue water. The sky was just getting
red in the east, little birds were twittering in the branches of the
trees, we all stood watching the fast receding canoe, which soon looked
a speck upon the water. I ran to the house and crept into bed, and when
I awakened the sun was high. I asked mother where the Indians were now;
she answered. "They are far away." All day she seemed cheerful, and I
heard her sing for the first time since I came home from Ohio. I
wandered down to the Indian camp and all I saw was just a few marks
where the wigwams had stood. No rubbish was lying about. They had
vanished as if they had never been. Surely "They had folded their tents
like the Arabs and as silently stole away."