are always to be seen the row and sail boats belonging to
pleasure-seekers. From four to seven steamers call at the wharf daily,
while fleets of sailing-vessels may at any time be descried from old
Fort Holmes, creeping noiselessly on to the commercial marts of those
great inland seas.

Tradition lends its enchantment to the isle. According to the Indian
legend it rose suddenly from the calm bosom of the lake at the sunset
hour. In their fancy it took the form of a huge turtle, and so they
bestowed upon it the name of Moc-che-ne-nock-e-nung. In the Ojibway
mythology it became the home of the Great Fairies, and to this day it is
said to be a sacred spot to all Indians who preserve the memory of the
primal times. The fairies lived in a subterranean abode under the
island, and an old sagamore, Chees-a-kee, is related to have been
conducted _a la_ AEneus, in Virgil, to the halls of the spirits and
to have seen them all assembled in the spacious wigwam. Had some bard
taken up the tale of this fortunate individual, the literature of the
red man might have boasted an epic ranking perhaps with the AEneid or the
Iliad.

From the walls of old Fort Holmes, two hundred feet above the lake, a
fine view is obtained of the island and its surroundings. Westward is
Point St. Ignace, a sharply defined cape running out from the mainland
into the strait. There rest the bones of good Father Marquette, who, in
1671, erected a chapel on the island and began to Christianize the wild
natives of this region. On the northwest we see the "Sitting Rabbits,"
two curious-looking rockhills which bear a singular resemblance to our
common American hare. Eastward stretches away the boundless inland sea,
a beautiful greenish-blue, to the horizon. The mountains of St. Martin,
and the hills from which flow Carp and Pine Rivers meet the northern
vision. To the south is Boisblanc Island, lying like an emerald paradise
on the bosom of Lake Huron, and close beside it, as if seeking
protection, is lovely Round Island. Among all these islands, and laving
the shores of the adjacent mainland, are the rippling waves of the lake,
now lying as if asleep in the flooding light, anon white-capped and
angry, driven by the strong winds. Beneath us are the undulations of
billowy green foliage, calm and cool, intersected with carriage-roads,
and showing yonder the white stones of the soldiers' and citizens'
graves. Here, down by the water, and close under the fort, the whit