arms are from one-fourth of a mile to one mile wide, and the lake's
extreme length is about seven miles. Its water is clear and warm. July
thirteenth, when the temperature of the air was 76°, the water in the
largest arm of the lake varied between 74° and 80°. We saw no springs
nor evidences of them, and the water's temperature indicates that it
receives nothing from below. Still, it is sweet and pure to the taste
and bright and sparkling to the eye. Careful soundings gave a depth
varying between fourteen and a half and twenty-six feet. The only
island is that named by Schoolcraft after himself in 1832. It is in the
central body of the lake, and commands a partial view of each arm. It
is about one hundred and fifty feet wide by three hundred feet long,
varying in height from its water-line to twenty-five feet, and is
thickly timbered with maple, elm, oak and a thicket of bushes.

On Tuesday morning, July 14, at six o'clock, we paddled away from the
island to the foot of the lake. The outlet is entirely obscured by
reeds and wild rice, through which the water converges in almost
imperceptible current toward the river's first definite banks. This
screen penetrated, I stopped the Kleiner Fritz in mid-stream and
accurately measured width, depth and current. I found the width twenty
feet, the depth on either side of my canoe as she pointed down the
stream thirty-one inches, and the speed of the current two and
one-tenth miles to the hour. The first four miles of the infant's
course is swift and crooked, over a bed of red sand and gravel, thickly
interspersed with mussel and other small shells, and bordered with
reeds. Through these, at two points, we beat our way on foot, dragging
the canoes through unmade channels. Indeed, nearly all of these first
four miles demanded frequent leaps from the boats to direct their swift
and crooked course, until we came to a stretch of savanna country,
through which the river washes its way in serpentine windings for nine