In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the western shore of Superior, at that narrow point of the Lake denominated by the ancient French navigators of the Sault Saint Marie, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of Saint Nicholas, there lies a small port town which is generally known by the name of du Luth. This name was given by the good housewives of the adjacent country from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley among high hills which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook murmurs through it and, with the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks the uniform tranquillity.