e,
quaint houses lie wrapped in light and quiet. Breezes cool and
delightful, breezes that have traversed the broad expanse of the lakes,
blow over your face softly, as in Indian myth blows the wind from the
Land of Souls. The scene and the hour lulls you into a sense of
delicious quietude. You are aroused by the shrill whistle of a steamer,
and you descend dockward to note the fresh arrivals.

Several days' excursions do not exhaust the island. One day we go to
see Arch Rock, a beautiful natural bridge of rock spanning a chasm some
eighty feet in height and forty in width. The summit is one hundred and
fifty feet above the level. Another day we visit Sugar-loaf Rock, an
isolated conical shape one hundred and forty feet high, rising from a
plateau in the centre of the island. A hole half-way up its side is
large enough to hold a dozen persons, and has in it the names of a
hundred eager aspirants after immortality. On the southwest side of the
island is a perpendicular rock bluff, rising one hundred and fifty feet
from the lake and called "Lover's Leap." The legend was told us one
afternoon by Hugh, as follows:--

"In the ancient time, when the red men held their councils in this heart
of the waters, and the lake around rippled to the canoe fleets of
warrior tribes going and returning, a young Ojibway girl had her home on
this sacred isle. Her name was Mae-che-ne-mock-qua, and she was
beautiful as the sunrise of a summer morning. She had many lovers, but
only to one brave did the blooming Indian girl give her heart. Often
would Mae-che-ne-mock-qua wander to this solitary rock and gaze out upon
the wide waters after the receding canoes of the combined Ojibway and
Ottawa bands, speeding south for scalps and glory. There, too, she
always watched for their return, for among them was the one she loved,
an eagle-plumed warrior, Ge-win-e-gnon, the bravest of the brave. The
west wind often wafted the shouts of the victorious braves far in
advance of them as they returned from the mainland, and highest above
all she always heard the voice of Ge-win-e-gnon. But one time, in the
chorus of shouts, the maiden heard no longer the voice of her lover. Her
heart told her that he had gone to the spirit-land behind the sunset,
and she should no more behold his face among the chieftains. So it was:
a Huron arrow had pierced his heart, and his last words were of his
maiden in the Fairy Isle. Sad grew the heart of the lovely
Mae-che-ne-mock