At the end of our first day’s journey, we found ourselves handily camping with several thousand Assinneboins, who had pitched their tents upon the bank of the river, and received us with every mark of esteem and friendship.
In the midst of this group was my friend Wi-Jun-Jon (the pigeon’s egg head), still lecturing on the manners and customs of the ‘pale faces’, continuing to relate without any appearance of exhaustion, the marvellous scenes which he had witnessed among the white people, on his tour to Washington City.
Many were the gazers who seemed to be the whole time crowding round him to hear his recitals ; and the plight which he was in rendered his appearance quite ridiculous. His beautiful military dress, of which I before spoke, had been so shockingly tattered and metamorphosed, that his appearance was truly laughable.
His keg of whisky had dealt out to his friends all its charms – his frock coat, which his wife had thought was of no earthly use below the waist, had been cut off at that place, and the nether half of it supplied her with a beautiful pair of leggings; and his silver-laced hat-band had been converted into a splendid pair of garters for the same. His umberella the poor fellow still affectionately held onto and kept spread at all times. As I before said. His theme seemed to be exhaustless, and he, in the estimation of his tribe, to be an unexampled liar.
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