The torrent of immigration swells very strongly towards this place.  During the fine weather, the poor refugees arrive daily, in their national dresses, all travel-soiled and worn.  The night they pass in rude shantees, in a particular quarter of the town, then walk off into the country,—­the mothers carrying their infants, the fathers leading the little children by the hand, seeking a home where their hands may maintain them.

One morning we set off in their track, and travelled a day’s journey into this country,—­fair, yet not, in that part which I saw, comparable, in my eyes, to the Rock River region.  Rich fields, proper for grain, alternate with oak openings, as they are called; bold, various, and beautiful were the features of the scene, but I saw not those majestic sweeps, those boundless distances, those heavenly fields; it was not the same world.

Neither did we travel in the same delightful manner.  We were now in a nice carriage, which must not go off the road, for fear of breakage, with a regular coachman, whose chief care was not to tire his horses, and who had no taste for entering fields in pursuit of wild-flowers, or tempting some strange wood-path, in search of whatever might befall.  It was pleasant, but almost as tame as New England.

But charming indeed was the place where we stopped.  It was in the vicinity of a chain of lakes, and on the bank of the loveliest little stream, called, the Bark River, which, flowed in rapid amber brightness, through fields, and dells, and stately knolls, of most poetic beauty.

The little log-cabin where we slept, with its flower-garden in front, disturbed the scene no more than a stray lock on the fair cheek.  The hospitality of that house I may well call princely; it was the boundless hospitality of the heart, which, if it has no Aladdin’s lamp to create a palace for the guest, does him still higher service by the freedom of its bounty to the very last drop of its powers.

Sweet were the sunsets seen in the valley of this stream, though, here, and, I grieve to say, no less near the Rock River, the fiend, who has every liberty to tempt the happy in this world, appeared in the shape of mosquitos, and allowed us no bodily to enjoy our mental peace.

One day we ladies gave, under the guidance of our host, to visiting all the beauties of the adjacent lakes,—­Nomabbin, Silver, and Pine Lakes.  On the shore of Nomabbin had formerly been one of the finest Indian villages.  Our host said, that once, as he was lying there beneath the bank, he saw a tall Indian standing at gaze on the knoll.  He lay a long time, curious to see how long the figure would maintain its statue-like absorption.  But at last his patience yielded, and, in moving, he made a slight noise.  The Indian saw him, gave a wild, snorting sound of indignation and pain, and strode away.

What feelings must consume their hearts at such moments!  I scarcely see how they can forbear to shoot the white man where he stands.