72 ROUND ABOUT CHICAGO 



of Mount Forest, and view on the right the gray, 

 weather-scored flanks and bare, rocky peaks of 

 the "Drainage Mountains"; those two long 

 parallel ranges of debris that stand as witnesses 

 to the upheavals of the nineties, when these quiet 

 villages shook with the dynamite earthquakes 

 that were to open anew the ancient waterway be- 

 tween the Lakes and the Gulf, and as in defiance 

 of the Great Engineer, re-establish the flow as 

 it was when the straits to the north lay ice- 

 dammed. 



We alight at Sag. The noise of the disap- 

 pearing trolley gives place to the songs of birds 

 and rustle of leaves as we climb the steep hill 

 path over mossy stones and beneath cool shadows. 

 Reaching the top, we pass through the quiet 

 garden of the parish house into the churchyard, 

 and as we turn to shut the gate, our surprised eyes 

 rest upon a shrine built against a tree trunk. 



There is a snow-white figure of a saint, and on 

 the little shelf below are bowls of fresh flowers 

 placed there no doubt by the sweet-faced nuns 

 whom we presently meet in the peaceful paths 

 of the little churchyard. There the flowers and 

 vines grow untrained over the graves and head- 

 stones. The wooden crosses of the humble and 

 the stone memorials of the well-to-do show whence 



