
THE DELLS OF THE 
BY ANNIE 
“Kilbourn City!’’ That was all the 
brakeman said as our train drew near 
the station midway of an afternoon one 
summer day. The place, at first glance, 
looked just as ordinary and unattractive 
as the brakeman’s words had sound- 
ed—commonplace, indeed. Our little 
party left the train and indifferently 
turned its faces toward the town, and 
although we did not in words give 
utterance to our thoughts, we were 
mentally asking. ourselves if we were 
not sorry we came. Then, when was 
it and how was it that the spell came 
upon us? We found ourselves catching 
glimpses of scenery, here and there in 
the distance, that suggested warm ad- 
miration, upon nearer acquaintance. 
We remembered the old adage that 
*‘distance lends enchantment to the 
view,” but ‘twas false in this case, and 
it seemed discourteous to harbor that 
trite old saying in our minds for an 
instant. 
Just how the miracle was wrought we 
never knew, but Kilbourn City seemed 
transformed before our very eyes. The 
narrow winding streets, rich in their 
wealth of shade, became attractive and 
RIVER. 
WISCONSIN 
TURNERSERESTON: 
even fascinating, leading and luring us 
on—sometimes turning a corner to un- 
fold a river before our eyes that was so 
sudden in its loveliness, we felt like 
apologizing for the thoughts that had 
flitted through our minds such a little 
while before. 
Through the winding streets we 
finally wended our way to a very home- 
like appearing hotel, the Finch House 
by name, finding it just as hospitable 
and homelike as its exterior had given 
promise, and after refreshing ourselves 
and resting while the arrangements 
were being made for our trip up through 
the Dells, we sallied forth. 
There are two steamers on the river, 
each making two daily trips through 
the Dells, but we had decided to make 
the trip in a row-boat. From the hotel 
to the river’s edge was only a short dis- 
tance, and our guide had waiting a 
boat of generous dimensions and com- 
fortably cushioned. It was about 4:30 
o'clock as our oars first dipped the 
water, and the row of five miles would 
just about bring us up into the Witch’s 
Gulch by supper time, and supper up 
at ‘‘ Robinson’s,’’ who lives in the Gulch, 
