hat part of the country. And in order to make it more easy of access,
he has constructed a branch from the Rock Island and Milan railroad,
leading directly to the Tower. Now its many visitors in the future can
sit on the veranda, and while enjoying the elegant scenery, can take
ease and comfort in the cool shade. And for this high privilege the name
of Davenport will receive many hearty greetings.

Fifty years ago (1832) we made, our first visit to Black Hawk's Tower
with Col. George Davenport, and listened with intense interest to his
recital of scenes that had been enacted there may years before; and one
year later had them all repeated, with may more, from the lips of Black
Hawk himself. How changed the scene. Then it was in its rustic state,
now this fine pavilion, being a long, low structure, built somewhat
after the Swiss cottage plan, with broad sloping roofs, and wide, long
porches on the north and south sides, the one facing the road and the
other fronting the river and giving a view of a beautiful stretch of
country up and down Rock river, greatly enhances its beauty and adds
much to the comfort of visitors.

The following beautiful word paintings by a recent visitor to the Tower,
we take from the Rock Island Union:

BLACK HAWK'S WATCH TOWER.

BY JENNIE M. FOWLER

Beautiful tower! famous in history
Rich in legend, in old-time mystery,
Graced with tales of Indian lore,
Crowned with beauty from summit to shore.

Below, winds the river, silent and still,
Nestling so calmly 'mid island and hill,
Above, like warriors, proudly and grand,
Tower the forest trees, monarchs of land.

A land mark for all to admire and wonder,
With thy history ancient, for nations to ponder,
Boldly thou liftest they head to the breeze,
Crowned with they plumes, the nodding trees.

Years are now gone--forever more fled,
Since the Indians crept, with cat-like tread,
With mocasined foot, with eagle eye--
The red men our foes in ambush lie.

The owl, still his nightly vigil keeps,
While the river, below him, peacefully sleeps,
The whip-poor-will utters his plaintive cry,
The trees still whisper, and gently sigh.

The pale moon still creeps from her daily rest,
Throwing her rays o'er the river's dark breast,
The katy-did and cricket, I trow,
In days gone by, chirruped, even as now.

Indian! thy camp-fires no longer are smoldering,
They bones 'neath the forest moss long