What days we spent in the White City inspecting the treasures of our own and other countries! What a wonder electricity and the telephone was, and a hundred other things. And the great city stretching out along the lake, southward, westward, northward, its railroads running swiftly to and fro, its streets a busy hive of the industry that has made her famous.
The trolleys go everywhere and at times we ramble in them or out of them. Here is old Fort Dearborn with the tablet to mark its memory. Did we loiter about it and sit on the steps and recapitulate the massacre? And here was the old Kinzie house, where the San Domingo trader had his cabin, and here the first school I went to, here the old Towner log cabin where the Little Girl lived, and I used to come in and help her get supper, and we read that dear, delightful, stirring "Lady of the Lake." Here we went to Sunday School and walked home together. But dearest of all is the old house where we five boys were born and brought up, because here I first saw the Little Girl as her father lifted her out of the wagon and I glanced into her sapphire blue eyes and loved her forever after.
None of them are there. We look at them through the wizard glass of memory. There is no more Little Girl, there is no more Old Chicago.
Then we kiss each other and go our way. We have lived and loved.
THE END