say, "I am going to die!"—a trait that also extends to their half-breed descendants.
Another striking instance of the native passion for bad news occurred this month. One of the old women, already mentioned as our constant house pensioners, had a daughter, and a son-in-law called "Le Grand Blanc," in a camp not very distant. Two old men from that camp, having visited the fort, told Grand Blanc and his wife, on their return, that their mother was dead, after having eaten her deer-skin robe! The pair immediately began grieving and wailing, and repaired to the fort. They found the old beldame highly indignant at her reported death. "Yes," said she, "had I remained with you, I should have been stiff enough by this time; but the whites have acted the part of relations towards me: I have never wanted for meat, or fire, or water; they have provided all that for me. And look at my robe, have I eaten it; don't you see it is as good as ever?" I do not mean to accuse the two old tattlers of any malicious intention in what they said. It never entered into their minds that such a story reflected upon our character; for this simple reason, that they would themselves have acted the unfeeling part they attributed to us, with very slight compunction.
