Chapter IX: Among the Wonders of the Black Hills (1)

Soon after reaching St. Paul our party divided, two of our photographers being instructed to take views of the falls, lakes and river-scenery thereabouts, while the other set out with the camera car, over the Chicago, St. Paul and Omaha Railroad, to Sioux City, and thence by the Fremont, Elkhorn and Missouri Valley Railroad to Deadwood. There is nothing of particular interest to entertain the traveler in search of scenic wonders until Iowa is crossed and we reach the Big Sioux River; nor is the immediate district about Sioux City one affording scenery of much importance. But at Dell Rapids, something more than one hundred miles north, we come in contact with some surprises which are without example, save in the Wisconsin River, hereafter to be described. The town derives its name from the remarkable freaks of nature displayed along the river-banks, and known as the Dells, and which are recognized as the safety-valves of the immense water-power at Dell Rapids. This picturesque stretch of fantastic bluffs and eccentric stream is thus described by a writer who recently made the passage in a canoe from Dell Rapids to Sioux Falls.

“Beginning at a break in the Big Sioux River, on the south bank, opposite the town, at first the Dells present the appearance of a rivulet flowing out of the main body of water, taking a circuitous direction to re-unite with the parent stream some two and one-half miles further along its eccentric course. Yet only in the highest stages of its waters does the Sioux overflow the dam across the aperture between itself and the Dells, and it becomes instantly apparent that it is not from the river that this peculiar branch, which is not a branch, obtains its water supply. Investigation determines that the Dells are fed by invisible springs, indefinite in number and indefinable in volume, which maintain in the bed of this curious stream an average depth of about eleven feet, although a much greater depth is found in various places. As you progress along the banks of the Dells, you notice increasing accumulations of the well-known Big Sioux quartzite, in its dull red and leaden colors; the banks grow more and more precipitous; the rocks are heaped strata upon strata in immeasurable quantities, and take on fantastic shapes and unusual formations; the Dells deepen into a gorge, far down into the bottom of which the waters taking their hues from the sky above them, creep along in almost imperceptible ripples. Overhead, pile on pile, hangs the rugged quartzite, shelving out over the liquid blue beneath; in the sides of the rocky banks innumerable swallows build their nests, while above them shrubbery clings and cacti grow, seemingly nurtured in a soil of adamant. Perhaps the highest perpendicular point, from the summits of the overhanging rocks to the waters below, is very nearly forty-five feet; but so precipitous is the descent, and so grotesquely wild the aspect, that it is no wonder the majority of tourists report the height much greater. Descending a fissure, gazing down which descent seemed impossible, the writer pushed off in a rude canoe and paddled for some distance under the overshadowing banks. Here, indeed, looking upward, the impression was intensified, for upheavals had torn these banks apart and given to them, with whimsical violence, their strangely weird formations.” Beyond Sioux City the country is monotonously level until, far in Nebraska, the road rushes into Elkhorn Cañon and passes for a considerable distance between walls sometimes vertical, but never very high, and which lack the grandeur and coloring that characterize those of mountain streams. Emerging from Elkhorn Cañon, the road runs for a long distance through the Niobrara Valley, though never close to that stream, until it crosses the river at Valentine. The southern line of South Dakota lies only a few miles north, and from Valentine west the road approaches to within twenty-five miles of the Rose-Bud and Pine Ridge Reservations, and of Wounded Knee, the scene of the last Indian insurrection, and of Pine Ridge Agency, where Sitting Bull was killed. Crossing White River at Dakota Junction, the road turns due north, and passing out of the plains of Nebraska enters the mountainous country known as the Black Hills, at Buffalo Gap. On the east are the _Mauvais Terres_, or Bad Lands of South Dakota, which extend west to the South Fork of Cheyenne River, while towards the west is the rugous, rough and riotous district known as the Black Hills. At Buffalo Gap connection is made with a narrow-gauge spur of the main line of road, which runs southwesterly a distance of fifteen miles and terminates at the Minnekahta, or Hot Springs. In making this run we pass through a mighty gorge whose age-swept and vertical walls climb up, stratum upon stratum, to a height of several hundred feet, and then break into spear-pointed peaks, called the “Needles.” This is Fall River Cañon, noted for its spires, parti-colored walls, and beautiful waterfalls that leap from a hundred brinks into the arms of the rushing river. That this is a land of gold is not better proved by the fact that the Black Hills were purchased of the Sioux by the Government in 1876, at the enormous price of $70,000,000 and support of the Indians for seven generations, than that the output of the several gold and silver mines of the district exceeds $100,000,000; verily, a richer land than Ophir.

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SIGNAL ROCK, ELKHORN CAÑON.—The wild turbulence of nature that
distinguishes the scenery in the Black Hills district of Dakota is
handsomely represented in this photograph. In Elkhorn Cañon the
walls are some distance apart and only occasionally vertical, but
there is rugged, tumultuous chaos in the cañon that interposed great
difficulties to the engineers who built the railroad through it. The
bluff on the left of the picture rises to so great a height that
from its summit Indians could signal, by means of fire, a distance
of nearly one hundred miles, whence its name.
]

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Turning back, we resumed our journey northward over the Elkhorn road, and passed through many miles of the most magnificent scenery to be found anywhere on the American Continent. The entire region is mountain infested, and to penetrate it by rail the road is compelled to follow the almost interminable sinuosities of creeks and broken valleys, with tunnels every few miles, and bridges quite as frequent. Through Fan-Tail Gulch the road winds in tortuous ways that sometimes draw grotesque figures, and in one place the road-bed is of the exact shape of a horseshoe, while on both sides of Elk Creek Cañon there are butting and pinnacled walls that suggest ruins of gigantic cathedrals, or monuments in a graveyard of Titans. Everywhere we turn there is the carving and hieroglyphic writing of the glacier and the volcano that in some age wrestled with the rocks and left them in a confusion of whimsical forms. Particularly is this true of Elk Creek Cañon, which presents many curious bluffs and isolated shafts of stone, worn into monoliths of oddity by wind and water.

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NEEDLE POINTS, NEAR HARNEY’S PEAK, BLACK HILLS.—These remarkable
formations are prominent among the scenic wonders of the world, and
if they were located in some older country and connected with
legendary or historical incidents, would attract crowds of admiring
tourists from the four quarters of the earth. These whimsical
creations of the centuries, exhibiting as they do the severest
contortions of nature, are remarkable, even to the point of being
almost startling, but they are surrounded by, and are in the midst
of, so many other tremendous upheavals, that they do not attract the
attention which they deserve.
]

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After passing Piedmont the region is less rugged and gradually falls away into a plain, dotted here and there with buttes of clay, some of them reaching a height of fifty feet, and in the distance resembling large buildings. Fort Meade and Bear Butte are on the right as we make a turn towards the west, then run south, until we enter Deadwood, which lies at the gnarled and bunioned feet of the Hills. We have scarcely been out of a cañon since leaving Hot Springs, but at Deadwood the granite walls that have become so familiar slope away until they become hills of slate and red clay, which have been denuded of their vestures of pine to supply fuel for the reduction mills. Through one of the last rifts in the walls that confine the track of the railroad a glimpse of Central City is obtained, several miles away, and a few minutes later we roll into the great mining town that is celebrated for its wealth, energy, golden prospects, and as being the place where Wild Bill was killed, and Calamity Jane broke the biggest faro bank in the settlement. Though Deadwood is only sixteen years old, few cities have passed through so many terrible vicissitudes. In 1876 the gold prospectors in the Hills were harried by Indians; then when the district was purchased and active settlement began, gamblers and shady women flocked to the place, considering that every honest person was legitimate prey, until the vigilantes restored order. Building was rapid, so that three years after the miners staked their first claims in the Hills, Deadwood had become a place of 5,000 inhabitants and was rapidly flowering into a great city. Then a dreadful fire broke out, which ravaged and swept the town, leaving scarcely a house uninjured, and nearly every citizen homeless. The loss was estimated at $1,500,000, but in its effects the loss was probably twice that amount. But with that courageous energy which characterizes western settlements, the people went to work to rebuild before even the embers had turned to ashes, and by 1883, Deadwood was a second time showing a metropolitan bud. She had emerged from the crucible, but fate had resolved that she should be subjected to another ordeal. Accordingly, the elements gathered their forces all around upon the mountains and in the gulches. For weeks unprecedented snow-storms bombarded the country and covered it to an extraordinary depth. Then the windows of heaven were opened and the rain descended. Day and night a terrific down-pour continued, followed directly by a flood that struck the town from every direction, and with irresistible might washed nearly every building from its foundation, leaving even small opportunity for the unhappy people to escape to the hills. But though the town was twice destroyed, the citizens lost none of their pluck, and before the cruel waters were fully assuaged they resumed the work of building again on the same twice stricken site, and have so continued until Deadwood is fortified against calamity and is moving on at the head of the procession, with colors flying and drums beating, the capital city of a capital country.

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THE SUMMIT OF HARNEY’S PEAK, BLACK HILLS.—This famous and picturesque
mountain peak derives its name from the gallant old hero, Gen. W. S.
Harney, who won fame and glory in the battles of his country with
Mexico and the red warriors of the West. It was principally through
his firmness, bravery and wisdom, aided by the confidence which the
Indians reposed in his integrity, that the hidden treasures and
scenic wonders of the Black Hills were delivered up to the white
people. It is said that the Indians who formerly occupied this
region frequently exchanged gold nuggets and gold bullets for leaden
ones of the same weight, so abundant was the yellow metal in some
portions of their country—a statement, however, which lacks
confirmation.
]

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There are many interesting points within a few miles of Deadwood; for aside from the rugged character of the scenery, in the near vicinity are several of the largest wealth-producing mines in the world. The trip to Bald Mountain over the Fremont, Elkhorn and Missouri Valley narrow-gauge Road is one filled with pleasure and surprise. The way is almost incomparably winding, and exhibits remarkable examples of engineering skill and enormous investment. In several places the grade is four hundred and thirty feet to the mile, while the curves are said to be of one hundred and fifty feet radius. Passing up such grades and around such sharp turns, it is not so surprising that the train should in one minute be running along lofty benches, apparently in mid-air, over dizzy trestles, and in the next few moments be scurrying through a valley so deep that sunlight rarely ever visits it. North of Bald Mountain, and reached by a stage-line, are Crow Peak, Round-Top Mountain, and the town of Spearfish. This latter place is located on a creek of the same name that goes tumbling through a deep cañon with vertical, serrated walls, and diversified by roaring cascades and far-leaping waterfalls. Returning to Deadwood, we took the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad south through another long stretch of turbulent scenery, of rushing creeks, darksome gorges, under the shadows of lofty mountains, and by curious formations. Custer Peak is only two or three miles east of the road, and it is the center of a riotous region of broken stone, each one a very mountain of itself. Below, we strike Spring Creek, and go bowling along the valley cut out of the bills by that stream, until Harney’s Peak breaks into view, five miles to the east, and lifts its piney crest into the azure depths 8,000 feet. Hereabout are not only waterfalls, cañons, creeks, and huge bowlders dashed down from frost- riven peaks, for besides gold and silver, the region is said to abound with tin, that peculiarly elusive mineral which, though often found, seems to always dematerialize after the campaign is over; and though millions have been spent in developing the tin mines near Harney, the product has not yet paid the expense of mining. Three miles south of the peak are the Needles, bold-jutting pinnacles of sandstone that stand high above the bed of Squaw Creek and point their fingers toward the sky. Buckhorn Mountain stands very near the west side of the road, and close to its base reposes the town of Custer, the center of a broken district called Custer Park, famous for its scenery of river, tumultuary and distorted rocks over which a weasel can hardly make its way. A little further south we enter Red Cañon Creek, where the same general character of eroded and disrupted rocks continues, with occasional exhibitions of oddity exceeding those previously seen in the Hills. Evidently some terrific force has been at work in this uncanny region, for here and there our wonder is excited by extraordinary instances of displacement. Beecher Rocks are comicalities done in stone, but Wedge Rock must wear the garland as the most astounding example of natural tumult in this wonder-region, and which can be better understood by the accompanying illustration, than explained by the bare use of words.

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HARNEY’S PEAK, BLACK HILLS.—A general view of this famous mountain
from the valley where this photograph was taken does not show the
wonderful formations of the rocks on its summit and sides so well as
closer special views do; but it is sufficiently picturesque to be
entitled to a place in this representative work on American scenery.
The picture, however, exhibits the extent and magnitude of the
mountain, whose head is raised high above the timber line, in the
region of perpetual snow.
]

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WEDGE ROCK, NEAR CUSTER CITY.—This immense rock, weighing thousands of
tons, found a lodgment, where it is photographed, after a terrific
plunging descent from near the top of the mountain, whence it was
riven by some mighty convulsion. The path of its terrible fall is
still discernible, in seams and abrasions on the face of the
mountain, and in contemplating it one cannot refrain from regretting
that he was not present to witness such an awe-inspiring and
dreadful exhibition. It was a scene which might have frightened even
the imperturbable gods of the hills.
]

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But the country is not only rugged and mountain-spurred; it possesses curiosities even greater beneath the surface than those which diversify the sun-kissed landscape over which we have just passed. On Elk Creek, and entered from the cañon wall, is Keith’s Crystal Cave, a colossal rent in the mountain bowels, with passages fifteen miles in length. It is beautifully chambered, from which depend the most exquisite crystallizations in the form of stalactites and stalagmites that reflect the torchlight in glorious colors, dancing from column of onyx to pools of pellucid water.

But a more remarkable cave than Keith’s is found a little way west of Custer, and twelve miles north of Hot Springs. This marvelous natural excavation is ramified by many passages which have been explored for a distance of sixty-five miles, and the end is not yet. On account of the peculiar respiration of the cave, the air at one time rushing in with great velocity and again being expelled with equal force, it is called the Wind Cave; and no better name can be bestowed, for the cause of this inrushing and regurgitation of air seems to be beyond ascertainment. Like its more northerly cousin, Wind Cave is chambered and adorned with beautiful crystals that shimmer under the glances of the torch and are set aflame with color, with here and there such graceful formations as to suggest studios of monster sculptors.

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A CHAMBER IN CRYSTAL CAVE, BLACK HILLS.—This wonderful subterraneous
chamber is becoming more celebrated in many respects than the famous
Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, beautifully photographed and described in
later numbers of this work. Crystal Cave has been explored for a
distance of sixty-five miles, and the end is not yet discovered. It
has a marked peculiarity in its regular respiration or breathing,
like a living thing; the air at stated intervals rushes in with
great velocity, and is again expelled with equal force. Its chambers
are halls of stalactitic splendors, almost rivaling those of the
Luray Caverns.
]

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Continuing our way southward to the junction of the Wyoming Division, in Fall River county, we turned north on that small branch whose temporary terminus is Merino, at which point a team was engaged to take us to what is truly one of the seven wonders of the world. In our trip of several thousand miles through the mountainous regions of the great West, we had seen and photographed many extraordinary and startling prodigies of nature, so that all sentiment of awe, surprise and admiration had been aroused, but we were now to be confronted by a miracle in stone that confounded and mingled all feelings of wonderment and fascination into stupefaction of bewildered senses.

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DEVIL’S THUMB, CUSTER PARK, NEAR CUSTER CITY.—This grotesque formation
is weird enough to be in fact the thumb, or the toe, or any other
member of his Satanic majesty’s supposably ugly and immeasurably
immense body. Suggestive of evil power as it may be, the Thumb is
surrounded by other petrified imps of darkness, scarcely less
uncanny and frightful in appearance, indicative of nature in her
wildest mood.
]

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We had to travel about twenty-five miles across a fairly level stretch of country before reaching the Belle Fourche River, a main branch of the Cheyenne, on the west bank of which is located this marvelous monument of the ages, which for its astounding size and unaccountable formation is called the Devil’s Tower. Among the Sioux Indians, who have always regarded it with superstitious dread, it is known as the Mateo’s Tepee, signifying the Bear’s Lodge, and was by them supposed to be the haunt of a were-animal, who possessed the power of becoming a bear or man at pleasure. The country within a radius of fifty miles is slightly broken by high table-lands, but there is nothing to indicate any special spasm of nature by which so great a freak might have been formed; yet out of this undulating expanse of landscape suddenly rises a stupendous obelisk of vitrified stone, to the amazing height of eight hundred feet. The base, which measures 326 feet at its longest diameter, is 400 feet above the river-bed, which in turn is 500 feet above sea level. Thus measured, the peak of this amazing tower is 1,700 feet above the sea; no surprise therefore that it is visible for a distance of forty miles. But the wonder which such a colossal shaft naturally excites is immensely increased by the fact that the Devil’s Tower is a composition of huge crystals of basalt, or volcanic rock, which lie in columns some three feet in diameter, and continue unbroken from the base to the peak, giving to it a fibrous appearance. The walls are almost vertical, with a slightly vertical slope, to give it a more graceful contour, and though there are occasional rifts in the sides, no human being, however skilful as a spire-climber, can ever accomplish its ascent.

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THE DEVIL’S TOWER OF VITRIFIED ROCK, 800 FEET HIGH.—This unparalleled
curiosity, the most wonderful formation of the kind in the world, is
situated on the bank of Belle Fourche River, in Northeastern
Wyoming. It has a base of only 326 feet, and towers to the amazing
height of 800 feet above the level plain on which it stands. A full
description of this marvelous wonder is given in preceding pages,
also an account of the author’s visit to it, when it was specially
photographed for GLIMPSES OF AMERICA.
]

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The enquiry is irresistible: “What wondrous force created this petrified monster of the Wyoming table-lands?” One plausible answer may be built upon the theory that here, at one time, was the bed of an ocean, a supposition supported by such evidences as the finding of sea-shells and bones of extinct sea-creatures all about over the ground, and deeply embedded in the earth throughout the section. When the waters receded, this inequality, which might have existed as an island, was left as the product of volcanic action. But a yet more reasonable cause may be found in the supposition that along the Belle Fourche was the center of intense volcanic energy sometime during the very remote past, during which period the spot occupied by the tower was a volcano-vent out of which poured lava in such a slow and steady flow that it deposited in basaltic columnar crystals at the apex. Thus gradually it grew in size and height, like many of the formations in Yellowstone Park, until the volcano had expended its force and left this vast monument as an everlasting evidence of its persistence through centuries of activity. But however it was formed, the Devil’s Tower takes a place in the first list of the world’s greatest natural wonders, and it deserves to be much better known than it is.

Returning from a long and very wearying ride to the Tower, we again took the Burlington Road, retracing much of the way we had come, and proceeded to Crawford, Nebraska, in order to view two famous curiosities known as Crow Butte and Signal Rock, which are near that town. Fort Robinson post and military reservation are a mile west, on White River, and the country is picturesque with buttes, which rise out of the prairie lands in singular impertinence and unseemliness, while considerable bluffs confine the river. The territory was for many years the scene of bitter strifes between the Sioux and Crow Indians, who reddened nearly every acre of the ground with their blood, and left remembrances of their occupancy and incidents of their adventures in names which they gave to a hundred points in the near vicinity of Crawford. South of the town, about five miles, a conspicuous object in a wide range is Crow Butte, a titanic elevation of stone, nearly two hundred feet in height and several hundred yards in circumference, with vertical walls on all sides except one, in which there is a winding-way by which a horseman may ride to the top. The legend is told that on one occasion a party of Crow Indians were so savagely pursued by their old enemies that they took refuge on the top of Crow Butte, where, though much fewer in number, they so valorously defended the narrow roadway that the Sioux were driven back each time they attempted to gain the summit. Being unable to dislodge them, the Sioux resolved to besiege the Crows until starvation compelled them to surrender. For several days and nights the siege continued, until at length hunger drove the Crows to a desperate expedient. Watching their time, when the night was darkest, they killed some of their ponies, and converting their hides into lariats, lowered one after another of their number to the ground below on the opposite side of the butte, until all but one old Indian had been safely delivered, who was left a while to keep the camp-fire burning. On the following day the old man came down and surrendered himself to the Sioux, and related to them the wonderful means by which his comrades had escaped. Instead of killing him, as might have been expected, on this one occasion the Sioux magnanimously gave him his liberty as a recompense for the loyalty and bravery which he had exhibited.

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DOME ROCKS IN CUSTER PARK, SOUTH DAKOTA.—In this photograph we have
another striking example of the curious and wonderful natural
formations of this locality, one of the most remarkable scenic
regions in all the world. These rocks seem to have been built by
human hands and fashioned with a purpose into all sorts and shapes
of grotesque and gruesome figures, and yet it would be impossible
for human hands to mold such wonders. Nature, in one of her spasms,
brought them forth, and imprinted upon their face the agony of her
travail.
]

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Signal Rock is only a short distance from Crow Butte, and is a similar formation, though not nearly so large; and while the summit is nearly as high, it is peaked and not difficult to reach. It derives its name from the use to which it was frequently put by the Indians in previous years, who by means of fire at night were able to signal to their friends as far away as the Bad Lands of South Dakota.

The Fremont, Elkhorn and Missouri River Road crosses the Burlington at Crawford, and our work of photographing the Black Hills district being completed, the trip back to St. Paul was made, and a junction with other members of the expedition was formed, whose artist labors have already been described.

The twin cities of St. Paul and Minneapolis represent the intrusion of civilization upon the primeval lands of romance, and thus while we admire the imposing wealth and architectural beauties of these great metropoli, we cannot avoid a feeling of semi-regret that they have grown at the expense and sacrifice of some of the most charming natural wonders that first attracted public interest to the vast Northwest. The head of navigation on the Mississippi is unalterably fixed at St. Paul, for above that point the river is a brawling stream, flowing over ledges and rushing through contracted passages lined with bluffs. At Minneapolis are the Falls of St. Anthony, but no longer do these present the furious aspect which once characterized them, for the wild riot of turbulent waters that formerly went dashing over a high brink with a roar that made the shore to tremble, have been harnessed, and are now driven over sloping tables so as to glide softly into the bed below. The channel, too, has been cut and buttressed with masonry, so that the strong right arm of the falls is made a servant of commerce in supplying the motive-power for many immense flouring mills.

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CROW BUTTE AND SIGNAL ROCK, DAWES COUNTY, NEB.—Crow Butte is a titanic
elevation of stone, nearly 200 feet in height and several hundred
yards in circumference, located about five miles south of the town
of Crawford, in Nebraska. The walls are vertical on all sides except
one, where there is a winding way by which a horseman may reach the
top. The summit is a natural fortress, where a few well-armed and
determined men could hold thousands at bay. A very interesting
Indian legend connected with this rock-fortress is related in
GLIMPSES OF AMERICA, the story no doubt having a good foundation in
historical fact.
]

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The sight-seer turns with feelings of disappointment at the artificial appearance of St. Anthony’s Falls, and seeking the wonders of nature unadorned, drives over to Minnehaha’s sylvan solitudes, but upon which, alas, the encroachments of sacrilegious improvements characteristic of city extension are now apparent. But the voice of its falling waters is still attuned to the rhythm of the poet that sang it into fame. Down through flower-sprinkled meadows purls and gambols a silver stream, slaking the thirst of the linnet and bathing the feet of the dove, until weary of the sunshine it spreads itself over a ledge like a veil of gossamer and drops into the cool shades that welcome its embraces. The Falls of Minnehaha are an example of that coy and quiet comportment which sometimes blushes into notoriety, for no one with less imagery than a poet would discover the sublimity of its aspect, or the artfulness of its graces. It is to Longfellow, therefore, that we owe the immortality with which these laughing waters are invested, and the imperishable fame of Hiawatha, who, while in quest of better weapons

“Paused to purchase heads of arrows
Of the ancient Arrow-maker,
In the land of the Dacotahs,
Where the Falls of Minnehaha
Flash and gleam among the oak-trees,
Laugh and leap into the valley.
There the ancient Arrow-maker
Made his arrow-heads of sandstone,
Arrow-heads of chalcedony,
Arrow-heads of flint and jasper,
Smoothed and sharpened at the edges,
Hard and polished, keen and costly.”

But no one with a love for the picturesque can close an eye to the fairy-like beauty of Minnehaha, as it pours over a crescent brink in a sheet of gauze, so thin that the wall behind loses little of its distinctness, and the rocks upon which the water breaks are refreshed like the head of a babe at its christening. A lace curtain is not more delicate, and thistle-down is scarcely more dainty, as the illustration shows.

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FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY.—The principal historical interest attaching to
the Falls of St. Anthony is the fact that they were discovered by
the famous priest-explorer, Father Hennepin, in 1680. They no longer
present the furious aspect that originally characterized them, for
the turbulent waters that once dashed over the precipice with a roar
that made the earth tremble have been harnessed and made a part of
the requirements of modern invention, until they now glide smoothly
down sloping tables to the bed of the river below. The channel has
also been cut and buttressed until the banks no longer present the
features of scenic interest which a score of years ago they
possessed.
]

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The eroding fingers of percolating waters have worn the soft rock behind the fall, until a shelf is formed that extends three or four feet beyond the face of the wall. Visitors may therefore pass under this shelf and look outward through the transparent liquid sheet as it pours in a broad but tenuous stream, not unlike valencienne drapery gently agitated. A pathway leads from the falls down a gracefully embowered ravine to spots so temptingly secluded that maidens never wander there that love does not follow; and so many darts have been hurled at wooing swains in this romantic dell that I am almost persuaded to believe that it was not Hiawatha, but Cupid, who came here to get his arrows.

But if Minnehaha is beautiful in spring-time, it is sublime when folded in the crystal arms of winter, a frozen cascade of puffs and snow-balls, hibernating after its season of sporting, awaiting the return of bird, flower and lover. Not far away are lakes of various sizes, like Minnetonka and Great Bear, to which thousands resort when sultry winds blow and the blazing sun of summer-time drives sweltering humanity to such cool retreats. But the beauties of this northern region are not exhausted by lake and waterfall, which though charming, cannot compete for interest with some of the natural marvels that exist in the neighbor State of Wisconsin.

St. Croix River separates the two States and is a stream that exhibits both curious and exquisite formations along many miles of its banks, and but for the vast logging interests which it so admirably serves, penetrating as it does the great pine region, the river would be filled with pleasure-crafts throughout the summer, carrying tourists in and out among its dells and fairy-like grottos.

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Minnehaha is one of the smallest of the many beautiful and celebrated waterfalls of America, but it is also the most lovely and poetic. It is like a drapery of lace-work as it pours smoothly and gently over the cliff, keeping time to the merry music of its own laughing waters.—The accompanying photograph of Romance Cliff, on the St. Croix River, is as beautiful in its way as its twin sister of poetic renown, and the two together make pleasant company.

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The bluffs of sandstone are a source of unending surprise, rising out of the water so nearly perpendicular that they defy all effort to scale them, and present a front like the walled cities of ancient times. Nature has not left them undisturbed, either, for their toussled brinks and seared sides show the finger-marks of frost in deep fissures and eccentric cleavages, while here and there fantastic images of stone stand like grim sentinels on commanding ledges, keeping unwearied watch upon the industrious river. Most curious of these erratic formations is the Devil’s Chair, which the Chippewa Indians verily believe was one time the resting-place of his sable majesty, probably when he went fishing. Anyhow, the rock bears the autographs of many adventurous persons who have been there to see. The fishing certainly was very good in this spot before Wisconsin lumbermen filled the stream so full of pine-logs that not even the devil himself could keep his line from fouling.

East of the St. Croix is Chippewa River, flowing in the same general direction, but aside from being a pretty stream it has nothing to specially interest tourists, for the banks gently shelve, and where stone appears it is in thin layers, and the shore-line never rises to the dignity of bluffs. But the Chippewa Indians, though now small in numbers, still retain their ancient homes in the vicinity of the stream, which, because of its shallowness, is not used as extensively as the St. Croix for shooting logs to the Mississippi. Though surrounded by a vigorous civilization, these Indians, if we except their clothing, exhibit little change from their original customs and manners of living, subsisting by hunting, fishing, and gathering berries for the neighboring markets. They still make birch-bark canoes, like their forefathers, and in a way, too, that white men do not appear to be able to imitate. Specimens of their deft work are on sale in all the towns of Wisconsin, from which source they derive no little profit.

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MINNEHAHA FALLS IN WINTER.—If Minnehaha is beautiful in the spring and
summer, dressed in its flowing drapery of white, it is sublime when
folded in the crystal arms of winter, a frozen cascade of puffs and
snowballs, hibernating after its season of festivity, awaiting the
return of bird, flower and lover. Not many visitors go there in
winter-time, for the north wind is biting cold; but those who do go
are rewarded with a vision of loveliness unsurpassed in the realms
of romance or fact. Beneath the winter sun it becomes a fairy
palace, turreted with columns of alabaster, studded with diamonds
and pearls, that sparkle and glow with the iridescent hues of the
rainbow.
]

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In the eastern part of the State, in Howano county, lives a small tribe called the Menomines, who are in what may be called the transition period, for their manner of living is a composite of modern ways and ancient usage and belief. Some of the Menomines appear to be thoroughly civilized, at least so far as outward indications show, while the patriarchs of the tribe remain steadfast in the faith of their fathers. They have lost none of their confidence in the Medicine Man, whose counsel in political affairs is as important as their influence over diseases of the body is pronounced.

A Medicine Man being questioned as to how the power which he claimed was conferred, answered thus:

“My heart told me that I should be a Medicine Man, and I went out upon a mountain and fasted and prayed for two days, awaiting a sign from the Great Spirit. At the end of the second day, as the sun was going to sleep, I saw a great light which blinded my eyes, and heard a noise as of the rushing of many waters. I looked around again, and about me were four animals—a black-tailed deer, a white-tailed deer, a wolf and a buffalo. They all spoke the speech of men. They said that the Great Spirit had heard my prayer and had sent them to me. The animals then took me over the prairies and told me what plants were hurtful and what were good for my people. They told me what diseases of men the good herb would cure, and then they vanished as suddenly as they came. I returned to my people, told the chiefs what I had seen, was made and have since been a Medicine Man.”

But the transition from savage superstition to civilized modes is apparent among the Menomines, not only in the adoption of modern clothing, houses, household utensils and Christian ideas; it appears also in the change of their superstitions. They still believe in Medicine Men, and indulge in what is known as the Medicine Dance, but only at the time of the initiation of new candidates for such honors; and their doctors must now be the possessors of more or less medical knowledge, and be able to read and write. The ceremony is too long and tedious to describe, but the most superficial observer cannot fail to detect through it all the influence of contact with civilization.

The Ojibways are another remnant of the great Indian tribes of the Northwest, whose homes are in Polk county, in the vicinity of Balsam Lake, a pretty sheet of water in a wild district, where fishing is good and game still fairly abundant. One peculiarity of these Indians is the sacredness with which they regard their dead, and the care they take to preserve the bodies of relatives from violation. They are content to house themselves, even through the severest winters, in the flimsiest structures, which afford very little shelter from the cold, but their dead they carefully wrap in blankets and deposit them in small oblong houses that are made to perfectly exclude rain, snow and cold, except such as may enter by a square little door in one end. These miniature mortuary houses are placed close to the homes of the living, that a better watch may be kept upon them; but what superstitious motive prompts this custom, I have not been able to learn.

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FOOT AND WAGON BRIDGE OVER THE ST. CROIX RIVER.—This bridge unites the
States of Wisconsin and Minnesota, and spans one of the most
beautiful views in the celebrated scenic region of the Northwest.
The clear water of the river reflects the bluffs and surrounding
objects as perfectly as the most costly mirror could, producing a
double picture of exquisite loveliness, the reflection being even
more beautiful in its softened outlines than the original. The
region of the St. Croix is famous the world over, and is justly
entitled to the honorable distinction which it holds.
]

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CHIPPEWA INDIANS, OF WISCONSIN, BUILDING A BIRCH-BARK CANOE.—Although
the Chippewa Indians are now practically civilized, and differ but
little in their appearance, dress and manners from the whites, yet
they cling with remarkable tenacity to some of their ancient
customs, one of which is the building of light bark canoes which
glide like zephyrs over the surface of the water. They are very
expert in this line of work, some of their little crafts being so
artistically finished and ornamented as to arouse the sincere
admiration of even the most critical observers. But lightness and
speed are their main considerations, mere beauty being held as
unimportant and suited only to holiday occasions.
]

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A CANDIDATE FOR MEDICINE MAN BEFORE A COUNCIL OF MENOMINE INDIANS.—The
Menomines are a small tribe, living in the eastern part of
Wisconsin, who are in what may be called the transition period from
savagery to civilization. Some of the younger ones appear to be
thoroughly civilized, so far as outward indications go, while the
old patriarchs remain steadfast in the faith of their fathers and
their confidence in the wisdom and saving powers of the medicine
man. But even these have so far advanced, perhaps unconsciously to
themselves, that all candidates for this important office are
required to be able to read and write, and to possess more or less
knowledge of medicines. The ceremony of initiation is an important
event in the life of the candidate, and is regarded with a degree of
superstition and reverential awe by his friends and relatives.
]

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Wisconsin is very justly famous for many things: its semi-civilized Indian tribes, its lakes, dense pine forests, and above all for its wondrous scenery, particularly along the Wisconsin River, where wonders the equal of those to be seen in Watkins’ Glen, New York, are met with in rapid succession some six miles north and south of Kilbourn City. It was to Kilbourn City, therefore, that we proceeded, by way of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul Railroad, to view and photograph the truly marvelous scenery and whimsically erratic formations that characterize that section of the river known as the Dells. The river is deep, but at places so tortuously narrow between projecting elbows of the limestone walls that only such a dimity and fairy-like steamboat as the _Dell Queen_ can thread a passage, and we accordingly committed ourselves to this frail little craft for the trip which is made by tourists first to the Upper Dells, eight miles above the city, and then to the Lower Dells, which are three miles below. For many, many centuries the Wisconsin, probably always a rapid stream, has rasped its soft Potsdam sandstone-bed, and constantly wearing its shore, has finally carved out a way that is fantastically curious. Now the stream rolls laughing along under vertical walls sometimes a hundred feet high, and wrought into the most weirdly grotesque forms imaginable. All along, its capricious course is marked by caves, caverns, grottos, glens, and eccentric pillars of stone that are as humorously dressed as a zany in caps and bells. In making the ascent from Kilbourn City one of the first objects to arrest attention is “Angel Rock,” whose broad stretch of petrified wing is said to guard against intrusion into the spectral haunts that lie beyond. “Swallow’s Fortress” next appears, a perpendicular wall of very great height, and unbroken length of two hundred feet, garrisoned by myriads of swallows that have perforated the face until it looks like the lid of a huge pepper-box. Having passed this castle of many loop-holes, we enter a section where “Romance Cliffs” pays eternal greetings to “High Rock,” with their strange configurations and picturesque statuary; a spot that is favored by speckled trout as it is by lovers. “Chimney Rock” next bursts into view, built up of as many strata as a tower of pan-cakes, which from a distance the chimney somewhat resembles. From the “Gate’s Ravine” there is a splendid sight of “Sturgeon Rock,” which is so perfectly reflected as to appear twice its natural size. Why it is called Sturgeon Rock not even tradition tells us; but it is manifest in many cases that those who bestowed names upon these pictorial surprises were so arbitrary as to be indifferent to appropriateness, like the colored woman who called her first-born Beelzebub, because she heard that some prince bore that name.

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WINTER CAMP AND BURIAL HOUSE OF OJIBWAY INDIANS.—The Ojibways are a
remnant of the great Indian tribes of the Northwest, who live
chiefly by fishing and hunting. One of their peculiarities is the
sacredness with which they regard their dead, and the care they take
to preserve the bodies of friends and relatives from violation. They
are content to house themselves, even through the severest winters,
in the flimsiest structures, but their dead they carefully wrap in
blankets and deposit in small oblong houses so perfectly built as to
exclude rain, snow and cold, except such as may enter by a little
square door in the end. These miniature mortuary houses are placed
close to the abodes of the living, where they may receive loving
care and attention. The origin of this really commendable custom is
not known, but it is like a similar one in vogue among the Indians
of Alaska, which has been described elsewhere in these pages.
]

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At a place where the river broadens, and the left shore spreads into a long level covered with willows, while the right bank continues its precipitous career, there is a wide extension-table projecting from the wall which is called “Visor Ledge, of Stand Rock.” This jutting point is admirably designed for a jumping-off place, and it is a matter for surprise that it was not christened Lover’s Leap, like all other similar ledges and shelves that I have seen. Beyond this the river again narrows, and singular efflorescences of stone, like a garden of flowering curios, wrap our attention with questioning surprise. “The Hawk’s Bill” is certain to catch our notice, and equally sure to excite our wonder that it was not called the “Toothless Old Man,” for it does seem that he might make a nut-cracker of his nose and chin. “Black Hawk’s Leap” must be accepted as a poor substitute for the “Lover’s Jump,” but as the latter has no place on Wisconsin River the former name has been applied to a section of pictured wall that is excavated at the base, and in which the gurgle of water is accentuated by echo into ominous noises. This natural excavation is called Black Hawk’s Cave, and is said to have been the place of retreat of a vanquished party of Indians, who were murderously pursued by a large number of their enemies, but memory fails to recall the particulars. A little further beyond is another grotto of still more remarkable formation, called “Cave of the Dark Waters,” and rightly it is named, for the entrance is by a small portal into a commodious chamber whose first most noticeable characteristic is its darkness. The water is deep throughout, and continually suggests the advantages of the cave as a place in which to commit crime, or to kiss your girl while passing through a dark tunnel.

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BELEAGUERED CASTLE, CAMP DOUGLAS, WISCONSIN.—The scenery about Camp
Douglas is weird, sublime and curious. There are formations of odd
and fantastic shapes, like the conjurings of a disordered brain,
while others lift their rugged sides and castellated peaks into the
air with all the grandeur and picturesqueness of “castles on the
Rhine.” To this latter class belongs “Beleaguered Castle,” so boldly
photographed on this page. Its resemblance to the ruins of some
ancient fortification is so striking as to arouse the wonder and
admiration of all beholders. The trees that have planted their roots
in its sides and along the top of its mimic battlements serve to
heighten the resemblance, so that one standing in its presence can
hardly divest himself of the belief that he is really viewing the
walls of some frowning relic of the warlike past.
]

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It is a positive relief from the oppression which entrance to the Dark Waters Cave produces to be hailed, after emerging, by a sturdy little stone island with a tossing crest of pine, which some Sweet William has named the “Sugar-Bowl.” It is all the more refreshing because islands in the river are exceedingly scarce, and this diversity of landscape is accordingly doubly appreciated.

Still further beyond is the “Mouth of Witches’ Gulch,” commanded by picturesque cliffs that show the teeth-marks and lacerations of the gnawing waters. So romantic is the spot, and so inviting the little saucer-shaped beach of white sand, that all the pleasure-boats that ply in the Dells make a landing here and give their passengers opportunity to go on shore and carve their names on the terraced walls. So many persons had been there before us, however, that barely space was found to write a pencil autograph.

Another stop is made at “Cold Water Cañon,” usually dry, but through which the river pours in an impetuous torrent during high water. Hereabout are also glens and other curious excavations, among which is a hollow formation seventy feet high and fifty broad, called the “Devil’s Jug.” Another run of less than a mile brings us to “Steamboat Rock,” an oval island covered with hemlock and mountain cedars, opposite to which a third landing is made, and ascending three flights of stairs to gain the summit of the cliffs, across a stretch of woods, and descending a steep, rocky ledge, we find ourselves at the superlative wonder of the Dells—Witches’ Gulch. Abruptly arriving at the entrance of the gulch, above which 189 feet, in a projecting rock, may be seen the wry, unmistakable features of a tousled old hag, the queen of the witches, so ominously frowning on forms and faces below. Without the slightest exaggeration it certainly is one of the most wonderful, weird and peculiar places on this continent.

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The Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior and the scenery adjacent to them are celebrated in art and romance. The former derive their name from the great diversity of colors which they display. They have been worn into strange shapes by frost and storm, and stained by the thousand dyes of nature in every possible variety of arrangement, far beyond the power of words to describe; and this profusion of color and shape is repeated mile after mile, until the tourist is lost in wondering admiration.

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Entering the gulch, we look up—far up—and catch glimpses of sunlight and see huge pines prostrate and lying from one ledge to another, admonishing us to look well to our going. After many, many windings, we come into “Phantom Chamber,” and in the side of a rocky ledge, scooped out, as if by hand, find a natural basin, and take a drink of the cool spring water gurgling out of the great rock into this hidden Pool of Siloam. In this rocky apartment we ascend a pair of stairs, from under which the stream that meanders through the entire gulch leaps in majestic fall, its roar almost deafening, and spray dashing over us. For thousands of years this little stream—at first, probably, a switch of rainfall on the earth’s surface—has been engaged in wearing this chasm in the sandstone, until now the gorge is seventy-five feet deep, nearly a mile long, and in some places so narrow that a large person can only pass through with difficulty, especially at Fat Man’s (or Woman’s) Misery-point. In several places vast chambers have been formed, at the door-way of one of which a beautiful fall of water leaps down into a deep-cut basin.

There are several deep crevasses in the river leading to places of extraordinary beauty and wonder, and which on account of the narrow passage cannot be reached by the little steamboat. Row-boats are therefore provided, by the aid of which we visited a number of these side-attractions. “Skylight Cave” is one of these which, though having a small mouth, widens inside and receives light through a little crevice at the top. It is a cosy little retreat that well repays a visit.