The last stories told at the folk-lore meetings in the Art Palace were largely in verse. One of these was a peculiar kind of old New England narrative, told in the “chink, chink” manner; another was an Illinois wonder-tale, with a peculiar refrain.
The old Puritan baby-story of the “wee, wee pig” was also recited in the colonial manner.
We end our folk-lore stories with these curious examples of legend and traditions.
THE ROCK OF THE ILLINOIS.
A BALLAD.
The Illini lived in the climes of the flowers,
Where the air-swimming birds in the sunshine delight,
Where the summers were splendors of magical hours,
And the day was a sun-torch, a star-torch the night.
Oh, fair were their lives on the carpets of bloom,
And loud were their fire-songs of triumph and joy,