Mike, who had been born and brought up in that part of the country, made a most interesting courier and stopped now and then to point out with his whip some place of especial interest, which he at once proceeded to describe in whimsical language all his own. For the Irish strain in his blood had gifted him with both wit and humor and there was very little of the comical side of things that Mike did not discover.
But the climax of all interest was finally reached when Mike pointed out a gently swelling hill topped by a lofty oak, at the summit of which he declared was the grave of Cuyahoga, the great Indian chief, from whom the beautiful valley and laughing river both had been named.
Further on they struck the Indian trail along which the savages portaged their canoes from the Cuyahoga to the Tuscarawas rivers.
Miss Palmer, who was sentimental, drew forth a pencil and tablet, and proceeded pensively to jot down her poetic impressions, while Peter Pan whispered very slyly to Bob that his friend, the crow, whose name was Tim, had come along, although not invited. And sure enough there he was, roosting comfortably and unobserved on the tail-board of the wagon.
So the happy little party proceeded on their leisurely way through the lovely country, beautiful with “the new green and the stress of spring,” until suddenly as they swung around a curve in the road, the great gorge of the Cuyahoga lay spread out before them in all its majestic grandeur.
Here through a great chasm rent in the walls of living rock by some mighty convulsions of Nature leaped the mystic river, clothed in her sheen of sparkling foam as a maid in her bridal veil. Dimpling and murmuring, it pursued its sparkling way over the rocks that lined its bed, murmuring in its shallows, thundering at last over the mighty Falls, and from thence tumbling into a sun kissed, mossy basin from which it wound away, a placid stream laughing and whispering into the blue distance.
The children had stood up to obtain a better view and Bob reverently removed his cap, seized by the same feeling that always moved him when he stood in church and saw the vested choir sweep up the aisle bearing at their head the great golden cross.
Miss Palmer fell to writing poetry more briskly than before and Tim, who was now perched comfortably on the back of the seat, leaned over and whispered to Peter Pan that it was a great place for worms.
To reach their destination was now a matter of but a few moments, and as the drive had not been long enough to tire them, the children, under the guidance of Mike, departed for a walk along the river and a visit to the Old Maid’s Kitchen, a queer cave in the vicinity that took its name from a natural fireplace of rock which it contained.