What that name suggested to Chicagoans up to a short time ago was the loneliest, most rural drive of their park system. It even wound through the woods at one point, making the refreshing variety of a curve in the city of straight lines.
On this morning of the summer of '89, when Mr. Van Tassel's horses turned into the broad avenue, their hoofs rang out in unbroken stillness. Not another vehicle or human being was in sight. Birds glided noiselessly among the trees that lined each side of the driveway. Grassy fields stretched away in level, tranquil monotony in all directions. It was the Midway Plaisance: but with no dull rhythmic beat of drum to be the first greeting of each new arrival, no shadowing forth of the scenes in the near future, when this unknown plot of ground should become the rendezvous and rallying place of the civilized, half-civilized, and savage nations of the earth.
It was the Midway Plaisance. What's in a name? The words now signify to millions a babel of tongues, a baffling concatenation of noises and odors, a dizzying throng of sensations and emotions, a wondrous collection of novel sights. Yet, a little while ago it was the Midway Plaisance, and Richard Van Tassel chose to drive through it with this young girl because he wished for solitude, and he could find no more secluded and unfrequented spot.
"You must be introduced to the charms of the sea before you decide on the question of my loyalty," he said.
"That will never be, I fear," she answered soberly.
"Never is a long time. Hope for the best," said her companion cheerily.
"I do try to, but I haven't Jack's cork-like disposition." A sadness had crept into the girl's tone in spite of herself.
"She is thinking of Mrs. Breckinridge's invitation," decided Van Tassel.
"Your day will come. Every man and woman has his opportunity," he suggested.
"I hope you are right," answered Clover rather dispiritedly.