River--where formerly were
a large Indian population and an important trading-post, founded and
for many years conducted by Mr. Aitkin, who was prominently identified
with the early history of that region, and is now commemorated in the
town and county bearing his name, but where now remain only one or two
deserted cabins and a few Indian graves, over which white flags were
flapping in the sultry breeze--and camped two miles below. Monday's
afternoon brought us to Aitkin, so that we had covered one hundred and
fifty miles of sluggish channel, at low summer tide, in three working
days. We had been four weeks beyond possibility of home-tidings, and we
swooped down upon the disciple of Morse in that far-away village with
work that kept him clicking for an hour. We were handsomely taken in by
Warren Potter, a pioneer and an active and intelligent factor in the
business of that region, in whose tasteful home we for the first time
in a month sat down and ate in Christian fashion under a civilized
roof. Having lost a week in the farther wilderness, we decided to take
the rail to Minneapolis, that we might enjoy the beautiful river thence
to Lake Pepin, yet reach our homes within the appointed time. Half a
day was enjoyed at Brainerd, the junction of the Northern Pacific main
line with the St. Paul branch, and the most important town between Lake
Superior and the Missouri. It is beautifully built and picturesquely
scattered among the pines upon the Mississippi's eastern bank, not far
above Crow Wing River. Thence we were carried over the splendid
railway, passing the now abandoned Fort Ripley, winding along or near
to the river and across the wheat-fields, through the busy and
beautiful city of mills, below St. Anthony's roar and down the dancing
rapids to a pleasant island-camp between the green-and-gray bluffs that
bind Minneapolis to Minnehaha--the first really fine scenery this side
of Itasca's solitude. A delightful paddle under a bright morning sun
and over swift, clear water carried us to the little brook whose
laughter, three-quarters of a mile up a deep ravine, has been sent by
Longfellow rippling outward to all the world. We rounded the great
white-faced sand-rock that marks the outlet, paddled as far as we might
up the quiet stream, beached the canoes under the shade of the willows,
walked a little way up the brook, past a deserted mill, under cool
shadows of rock and wood, and enjoyed for half an hour the simple,
sed