The principal crops of this great state are flax, oats, hops, and I might add ice. Large ice houses are seen on every side. Much of the country is yet wild. Acres of virgin prairie just now aglow with wild flowers, take me back to my childhood, when we spent whole days on the prairie, “Where the great warm heart of God beat down in the sunshine and up from the sod;” where Marguerites and black-eyed Susans nodded in the golden sunshine, and the thistle for very joy tossed off her purple bonnet.
Here and there in northern Illinois and Wisconsin kettle holes mark the track of the glaciers that once flowed down from the great névé fields of Manitoba and the Hudson lake district.
In traveling across Wisconsin one is reminded of the time when witches, devils, magicians, and manitous held sway over the Indian mind.
Milwaukee is a name of Indian origin,—Mahn-a-wau-kie, anglicized into Milwaukee—means in the language of the Winnebagoes, rich, beautiful land.
According to an Indian legend the name comes from mahn-wau, a root of wonderful medicinal properties. The healing power of this root, found only in this locality, was so great that the Chippewas on Lake Superior would give a beaver skin for a finger length piece.
The market place now stands on the site of a forest-clad hill, which had been consecrated to the Great Manitou. Here tomahawks were belted and knives were sheathed. Here the tribes of all the surrounding country met to hold the peace dance which preceded the religious festival. At the close of the religious services each Indian carried away with him from the holy hill a memento to worship as an amulet.
It was the greatest wish, the most passionate desire of every Indian to be buried at the foot of this hill on the bank of the Mahn-a-wau-kie.
Recent investigation has shown that Wisconsin was the dwelling place of strange tribes long before the advent of the Indian.
The Dells of the Wisconsin river was a favorite resort of the Indian manitous. Yonder is a chasm fifty feet wide, across which Black Hawk leaped when fleeing from the whites. He surely had the aid of the nether world.
In this beautiful region, hemmed in by rugged bowlder cliffs, lies a veritable Sleepy Hollow. In a dense wood back of the cliff stands the mythical “lost cabin.” Many have lost their way searching for it. The strange thing about it is that they who have once found it are never able to find it again. Weird stories are told about it. Its logs are old and strange, different from the wood of the dark old forest in which it stands. There are stories afloat that it is haunted by its former inhabitants, who move it about from place to place.