And bricks piled up, as bricks are wont,
In cloud-capp’d turrets frown’d;
And through the living, boiling throng
Thunder’d a thousand carts along,
And railroads howl’d their shrieking song,
Across the groaning ground.”
Norman had many little friends to say good-by to as he left for the cars on Thursday morning, and very many pleasant memories to take with him.
Kind friends were waiting for them at the station at Chicago, and they were soon driving through its busy streets. They approached the river, which has made the town, affording as it does a safe harbor for vessels. This river runs due east and falls into the lakes, receiving, about a mile from its mouth, branches from the north and the south. The river and its branches, lined with substantial warehouses, divide the city into the north, south and west side. On approaching the bridge it suddenly swung round to give passage to a large schooner towed by a little puffing black tug, which gave its shrill whistle as a signal for the drawbridge to open, and then went panting and snorting through.
While waiting for the bridge to resume its place, Emily Percy, a blue-eyed, fair-haired little girl who was seated beside Norman, showed him an old wooden house that formerly belonged to Fort Dearborn, and that, with the light-house, was the only thing left to tell of its existence.
“Norman,” said Mrs. Lester, “this is the fort spoken of in those lines you are so fond of repeating about the Indians: