Behind the Backlog 



life is rounded by a sleep," but nothing 

 worth while ever really dies. 



In the glowing embers there are 

 pictures now. The Des Plaines has 

 led us southward. The waters of Fox 

 River are emptying into the Illinois. 

 Starved Rock looms in the distance. 

 The Illini perish. Tonty passes. Some 

 stunted trees are clinging to their 

 ancient sand-stone cliffs. Far to the 

 west and north beyond the fertile 

 prairies where the waving oats and 

 rich green fields of tasseled Indian 

 corn now tell each year the story of a 

 thrifty husbandry, the Sinnissippi Val- 

 ley lies in all its beauty. The little 

 hamlet, Grand Detour, still dozes by 

 the river's edge. And farther on a 

 colossal figure from a dominating height 

 commands perhaps the fairest land- 

 scape in all this teeming west. Black 

 Hawk! A grand conception, that great 

 monument, the handiwork of Lorado 

 Taft! The last great chieftain surveys 

 the once happy home of the vanished 



