Another Turn Of Our Vehicle Brought Us Into A
Public Square, Where The Oaks Of The Original Forest Were Left Standing,
A Miniature Of The _Champs Elysees_, Surrounding Which, Among The Trees,
Stand Many Neat Houses, Some Of Them Built Of A Drab-Colored Brick.
Back
of the town, we had a glimpse of a prairie approaching within half a mile
of the river.
We were next driven through a street of shops, and thence to
our steamer. The streets of Southport are beds of sand, and one of the
passengers who professed to speak from some experience, described the
place as haunted by myriads of fleas.
It was not till about one o'clock of the second night after leaving
Chicago, that we landed at Mackinaw, and after an infinite deal of trouble
in getting our baggage together, and keeping it together, we were driven
to the Mission House, a plain, comfortable old wooden house, built thirty
or forty years since, by a missionary society, and now turned into an
hotel. Beside the road, close to the water's edge, stood several wigwams
of the Potawottamies, pyramids of poles wrapped around with rush matting,
each containing a family asleep. The place was crowded with people on
their way to the mining region of Lake Superior, or returning from it, and
we were obliged to content ourselves with narrow accommodations for the
night.
At half-past seven the next morning we were on our way to the Sault Ste.
Marie, in the little steamer General Scott.
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