On the shore were two log-houses inhabited by woodmen, one of whom drew a pail of water for the refreshment of some of the passengers, from a well dug in the sand by his door.  “It is not so good as the lake water,” said I, for I saw it was not so clear.  “It is colder, though,” answered the man; “but I must say that there is no purer or sweeter water in the world than that of our lake.”

Next morning we were coasting the western shore of Lake Michigan, a high bank presenting a long line of forest.  This was broken by the little town of Sheboygan, with its light-house among the shrubs of the bank, its cluster of houses just built, among which were two hotels, and its single schooner lying at the mouth of a river.  You probably never heard of Sheboygan before; it has just sprung up in the forests of Wisconsin; the leaves have hardly withered on the trees that were felled to make room for its houses; but it will make a noise in the world yet.  “It is the prettiest place on the lake,” said a passenger, whom we left there, with three chubby and healthy children, a lady who had already lived long enough at Sheboygan to be proud of it.

Further on we came to Milwaukie, which is rapidly becoming one of the great cities of the West.  It lies within a semicircle of green pastoral declivities sprinkled with scattered trees, where the future streets are to be built.  We landed at a kind of wharf, formed by a long platform of planks laid on piles, under which the water flows, and extending to some distance into the lake, and along which a car, running on a railway, took the passengers and their baggage, and a part of the freight of the steamer to the shore.

“Will you go up to town, sir?” was the question with which I was saluted by the drivers of a throng of vehicles of all sorts, as soon as I reached the land.  They were ranged along a firm sandy beach between the lake and the river of Milwaukie.  On one side the light-green waters of the lake, of crystalline clearness, came rolling in before the wind, and on the other the dark thick waters of the river lay still and stagnant in the sun.  We did not go up to the town, but we could see that it was compactly built, and in one quarter nobly.  A year or two since that quarter had been destroyed by fire, and on the spot several large and lofty warehouses had been erected, with an hotel of the largest class.  They were of a fine light-brown color, and when I learned that they were of brick, I inquired of a by-stander if that was the natural color of the material.  “They are Milwaukie brick,” he answered, “and neither painted nor stained; and are better brick besides than are made at the eastward.”  Milwaukie is said to contain, at present, about ten thousand inhabitants.  Here the belt of forest that borders the lake stretches back for several miles to the prairies of Wisconsin.  “The Germans,” said a passenger, “are already in the woods hacking at the trees, and will soon open the country to the prairies.”