Produced by David Widger THE BLUE MAN From “Mackinac And Lake Stories”, 1899 By Mary Hartwell Catherwood The lake was like a meadow full of running streams. Far off indeed it seemed frozen with countless wind-paths traversing the ice, so level and motionless was the surface under a gray sky. But summer rioted in verdure over the cliffs to the very beaches. From the high greenery of the island could be heard the tink-tank of a bell where some cow sighed amid the delicious gloom. East of the Giant’s Stairway in a cove are two round rocks with young cedars springing from them. It is easy to scramble to the flat top of the first one and sit in open ambush undetected by passers. The world’s majority is unobservant. Children with their nurses, lovers, bicyclists who have left their wheels behind, excursionists--fortunately headed towards this spot in their one available hour--an endless procession, tramp by on the rough, wave-lapped margin, never wearing it smooth. Amused by the unconsciousness of the reviewed, I found myself unexpectedly classed with the world’s majority. For on the east round rock, a few yards from my seat on the west round rock, behold a man had arranged himself, his back against the cedars, without attracting notice. While the gray weather lightened and wine-red streaks on the lake began to alternate with translucent greens, and I was watching mauve plumes spring from a distant steamer before her whistles could be heard, this nimble stranger must have found his own amusement in the blindness of people with eyes. He was not quite a stranger. I had seen him the day before; and he was a man to be remembered on account of a peculiar blueness of the skin, in which, perhaps, some drug or chemical had left an unearthly haze over the natural flush of blood. It might have appeared the effect of sky lights and cliff shadows, if I had not seen the same blue face distinctly in Madame Clementine’s house. He was standing in the middle of a room at the foot of the stairway as we passed his open door. So unusual a personality was not out of place in a transplanted Parisian tenement. Madame Clementine was a Parisian; and her house, set around three sides of a quadrangle in which flowers overflowed their beds, was a bit of artisan Paris. The ground-floor consisted of various levels joined by steps and wide-jambed doors. The chambers, to which a box staircase led, wanted nothing except canopies over the beds. “Alors I give de convenable beds,” said Madame Clementine, in mixed French and English, as she poked her mattresses. “Des bons lits! T’ree dollar one chambre, four dollar one chambre--” she suddenly spread her hands to include both--“seven dollar de tout ensemble!”