Sixteen railroads meet in Minneapolis, and sixty-five passenger trains arrive and depart daily.  In this place, as in St. Paul, journalism thrives.  Here there are three great dailies, ten weeklies, and three monthlies.

There is a university, with four hundred students—­and, better still, its good efforts are not confined to enlightening the one sex.  There are sixteen public schools, with buildings which cost $500,000; there are six thousand pupils and one hundred and twenty-eight teachers.  There are also seventy churches existing, and a lot more projected.  The banks aggregate a capital of $3,000,000, and the wholesale jobbing trade of the town amounts to $50,000,000 a year.

Near St. Paul and Minneapolis are several points of interest—­Fort Snelling, a fortress occupying a river-bluff a hundred feet high; the falls of Minnehaha, White-bear Lake, and so forth.  The beautiful falls of Minnehaha are sufficiently celebrated—­they do not need a lift from me, in that direction.  The White-bear Lake is less known.  It is a lovely sheet of water, and is being utilized as a summer resort by the wealth and fashion of the State.  It has its club-house, and its hotel, with the modern improvements and conveniences; its fine summer residences; and plenty of fishing, hunting, and pleasant drives.  There are a dozen minor summer resorts around about St. Paul and Minneapolis, but the White-bear Lake is the resort.  Connected with White-bear Lake is a most idiotic Indian legend.  I would resist the temptation to print it here, if I could, but the task is beyond my strength.  The guide-book names the preserver of the legend, and compliments his ‘facile pen.’  Without further comment or delay then, let us turn the said facile pen loose upon the reader—­

A legend of white-bear lake.

Every spring, for perhaps a century, or as long as there has been a nation of red men, an island in the middle of White-bear Lake has been visited by a band of Indians for the purpose of making maple sugar.

Tradition says that many springs ago, while upon this island, a young warrior loved and wooed the daughter of his chief, and it is said, also, the maiden loved the warrior.  He had again and again been refused her hand by her parents, the old chief alleging that he was no brave, and his old consort called him a woman!

The sun had again set upon the ‘sugar-bush,’ and the bright moon rose high in the bright blue heavens, when the young warrior took down his flute and went out alone, once more to sing the story of his love, the mild breeze gently moved the two gay feathers in his head-dress, and as he mounted on the trunk of a leaning tree, the damp snow fell from his feet heavily.  As he raised his flute to his lips, his blanket slipped from his well-formed shoulders, and lay partly on the snow beneath.  He began his weird, wild love-song, but soon felt that he was cold, and as he reached back for his blanket, some