“Oh-h-h-h-!” cried Clarence.
Far, far below, the river rolled its flashing length, the broad river, silvery in the sun, the broad river with its green wooded islands, its lagoons, its lesser streams, its lakes. To the southeast another body of water, yet more silvery, emptied itself into the Mississippi. Beside both and around both and all the way that eye could see up and down the Mississippi River rose the full-bosomed hills, older than the Pyramids, holding their secrets of the past in a calm not to be broken till the day of judgment. Between the hills and the river, on the Wisconsin side, lay the valley, rich in golden grain, dotted here and there with granary and farm-house. It was in very deed a panorama beautiful in each detail, doubly so in its variety.
“What river is that?” asked Clarence.
“What! Don’t you know that? I thought from the way you were talking that you knew everything. That’s the Wisconsin River.”
“You don’t say! Why, that’s where Marquette came down. Think of that, Abe. Marquette came down that river and discovered the upper Mississippi. He must have passed right near to where we’re standing.”
“I’ve been round this river all my life, and I never heard of no Marquette. Who was he?”
“He was a priest.”
“A Catlic?”
“Yes, and a Jesuit.”
“I hate those dirty Catlics,” growled Abe, spitting savagely.