Still tracing the garden wall as we turn to the left, we face the “Big Tamarac” through an opening in the wall, a swamp of dense tamarac, one mile wide, and six miles long, bordered with belts and groves of oak, furnishing fencing and fuel for the upper end of the garden. Another turn and you are looking through “Whistler’s Pass,” another of “Nature’s highways” out of the garden; this leading through the Polander settlement into the Trempealeau Valley. Another turn and we mark the bluff outline and entrance into the garden—the third and last eastern gate,—of the Trempealeau river, crossing it at the upper end; and like Black river, it forms a delta, one part running down along side of the Mississippi, forming an island, on the lower end of which, is that wonderful “Mount Trempealeau,” a rocky cone covered with pine trees, where with the outlet of Trempealeau lake, it flows through a narrow opening between the mountain and crescent hanging garden—of which it forms a part—into the Mississippi river. Trempealeau Lake, at the head of the hanging garden, just back of the mountain, is a body, principally of spring water, and is one of the most notable fishing ponds known, attracting fishermen from far and near. “Trempealeau; surrounded, soaked, fertilized _with water._” So expressive, so important to this region is the word, that the lake, the island, the mountain, the river, the county; the township, and the village are all named Trempealeau. Another slight turn and we are looking into the closed up valley of the Mississippi,—on account of a bend in the river—which is the fourth and last river that enters, crosses, and waters this garden is on the west bank of which, at the upper end of our garden, right there, plainly before you, lies the charming bustling city of Winona,—associated with a thousand legends of Indian traditions,—with its tall water tower, its numerous lumber mills, churches, normal school, and enterprising people, stretching itself over a smooth and most lovely prairie. Vandal proprietors are devouring their “Sugar Loaf,” standing just back of the city, as well as quarrying down their native garden walls. In our constant turning to the left, that string of white buildings below Winona, on the river’s bank and pressed against the foot of the wall, is Homer, a quiet little ville.