But it contained one thing at least of interest--something that at
once brought Sam and Yan together. This was a collection of a score
of birds' eggs. They were all mixed together in an old glass-topped
cravat box, half full of bran. None of them were labelled or properly
blown. A collector would not have given it a second glance, but it
proved an important matter. It was as though two New Yorkers, one
disguised as a Chinaman and the other as a Negro, had accidently
met in Greenland and by chance one had made the sign of the secret
brotherhood to which they both belonged.

"Do you like these things?" said Yan, with sudden interest and warmth,
in spite of the depressing surroundings.

"You bet," said Sam. "And I'd a-had twice as many only Da said it was
doing no good and birds was good for the farm."

"Well, do you know their names?"

"Wall, I should say so. I know every Bird that flies and all about it,
or putty near it," drawled Sam, with an unusual stretch for him, as he
was not given to bragging.

"I wish I did. Can't I get some eggs to take home?"

"No; Da said if I wouldn't take any more he'd lend me his Injun Chief
gun to shoot Rabbits with."

"What? Are there Rabbits here?"

"Wall, I should say so. I got three last winter."

"But I mean _now_," said Yan, with evident disappointment.

"They ain't so easy to get at _now_, but we can try. Some day
when all the work's done I'll ask Da for his gun."

"When all the work's done," was a favourite expression of the Raftens
for indefinitely shelving a project, it sounded so reasonable and was
really so final.

Sam opened up the lower door of the sideboard and got out some flint
arrow-heads picked up in the ploughing, the teeth of a Beaver dating
from the early days of the settlement, and an Owl very badly stuffed.
The sight of these precious things set Yan all ablaze. "Oh!" was all
he could say. Sam was gratified to see such effect produced by the
family possessions and explained, "Da shot that off'n the barn an' the
hired man stuffed it."

The boys were getting on well together now. They exchanged
confidences all day as they met in doing chores. In spite of the long
interruptions, they got on so well that Sam said after supper, "Say,
Yan, I'm going to show you something, but you must promise never
to tell--Swelpye!" Of course Yan promised and added the absolutely
binding and ununderstandable word--"Swelpme."

"Le's both go to the barn," said Sam.

When they were half way he said: "Now I'll let on I went back
for something. You go on an' round an' I'll meet you under the
'rusty-coat' in the orchard." When they met under the big russet apple
tree, Sam closed one of his melancholy eyes and said in a voice of
unnecessary hush, "Follow me." He led to the other end of the orchard
where stood the old log house that had been the home before the
building of the brick one. It was now used as a tool house. Sam led up
a ladder to the loft (this was all wholly delightful). There at the
far end, and next the little gable pane, he again cautioned secrecy,
then when on invitation Yan had once more "swelped" himself, he
rummaged in a dirty old box and drew out a bow, some arrows, a rusty
steel trap, an old butcher knife, some fish-hooks, a flint and steel,
a box full of matches, and some dirty, greasy-looking stuff that he
said-was dried meat. "You see," he explained, "I always wanted to be a
hunter, and Da was bound I'd be a dentist. Da said there was no money
in hunting, but one day he had to go to the dentist an' it cost four
dollars, an' the man wasn't half a day at the job, so he wanted me to
be a dentist, but I wanted to be a hunter, an' one day he licked me
and Bud (Bud, that's my brother that died a year ago. If you hear Ma
talk you'll think he was an angel, but I always reckoned he was a
crazy galoot, an' he was the worst boy in school by odds). Wall, Da
licked us awful for not feeding the hogs, so Bud got ready to clear
out, an' at first I felt just like he did an' said I'd go too, an'
we'd j'ine the Injuns. Anyhow, I'd sure go if ever I was licked again,
an' this was the outfit we got together. Bud wanted to steal Da's gun
an' I wouldn't. I tell you I was hoppin' mad that time, an' Bud was
wuss--but I cooled off an' talked to Bud. I says, 'Say now, Bud, it
would take about a month of travel to get out West, an' if the Injuns
didn't want nothin' but our scalps that wouldn't be no fun, an' Da
ain't really so bad, coz we sho'ly did starve them pigs so one of
'em died.' I reckon we deserved all we got--anyhow, it was all dumb
foolishness about skinnin' out, though I'd like mighty well to be a
hunter. Well, Bud died that winter. You seen the biggest coffin plate
on the wall? Well, that's him. I see Ma lookin' at it an' cryin' the
other day. Da says he'll send me to college if I'll be a dentist or a
lawyer--lawyers make lots of money: Da had a lawsuit once--an' if I
don't, he says I kin go to--you know."

Here was Yan's own kind of mind, and he opened his heart. He told all
about his shanty in the woods and how he had laboured at and loved it.
He was full of enthusiasm as of old, boiling over with purpose and
energy, and Sam, he realized, had at least two things that he had
not--ability with tools and cool judgment. It was like having the best
parts of his brother Rad put into a real human being. And remembering
the joy of his Glen, Yan said:

"Let's build a shanty in the woods by the creek; your father won't
care, will he?"

"Not he, so long as the work's done."




III

The Wigwam


The very next day they must begin. As soon as every chore was done
they went to the woods to select a spot.

The brook, or "creek," as they called it, ran through a meadow, then
through a fence into the woods. This was at first open and grassy, but
farther down the creek it was joined by a dense cedar swamp. Through
this there was no path, but Sam said that there was a nice high place
beyond. The high ground seemed a long way off in the woods, though
only a hundred yards through the swamp, but it was the very place for
a camp--high, dry and open hard woods, with the creek in front and the
cedar swamp all around. Yan was delighted. Sam caught no little of the
enthusiasm, and having brought an axe, was ready to begin the shanty.
But Yan had been thinking hard all morning, and now he said: "Sam, we
don't want to be _White_ hunters. They're no good; we want to be
Indians."

"Now, that's just where you fool yourself," said Sam. "Da says there
ain't nothin' an Injun can do that a White-man can't do better."

"Oh, what are you talking about?" said Yan warmly. "A White hunter
can't trail a moccasined foot across a hard granite rock. A White
hunter can't go into the woods with nothing but a knife and make
everything he needs. A White hunter can't hunt with bows and arrows,
and catch game with snares, can he? And there never yet was a White
man could make a Birch canoe." Then, changing his tone, Yan went on:
"Say, now, Sam, we want to be the best kind of hunters, don't we, so
as to be ready for going out West. Let's be Injuns and do everything
like Injuns."

After all, this had the advantage of romance and picturesqueness, and
Sam consented to "try it for awhile, anyhow." And now came the point
of Yan's argument. "Injuns don't live in shanties; they live in
teepees. Why not make a teepee instead?"

"That would be just bully," said Sam, who had seen pictures enough to
need no description, "but what are we to make it of?"

"Well," answered Yan, promptly assuming the leadership and rejoicing
in his ability to speak as an authority, "the Plains Injuns make their
teepees of skins, but the wood Injuns generally use Birch bark."

"Well, I bet you can't find skins or Birch bark enough in this woods
to make a teepee big enough for a Chipmunk to chaw nuts in."

"We can use Elm bark."

"That's a heap easier," replied Sam, "if it'll answer, coz we cut a
lot o' Elm logs last winter and the bark'll be about willin' to peel
now. But first let's plan it out."

This was a good move, one Yan would have overlooked. He would probably
have got a lot of material together and made the plan afterward, but
Sam had been taught to go about his work with method.

So Yan sketched on a smooth log his remembrance of an Indian teepee.
"It seems to me it was about this shape, with the poles sticking up
like that, a hole for the smoke here and another for the door there."

"Sounds like you hain't never seen one," remarked Sam, with more point
than politeness, "but we kin try it. Now 'bout how big?"

Eight feet high and eight feet across was decided to be about right.
Four poles, each ten feet long, were cut in a few minutes, Yan
carrying them to a smooth place above the creek as fast as Sam cut
them.

"Now, what shall we tie them with?" said Yan.

"You mean for rope?"

"Yes, only we must get everything in the woods; real rope ain't
allowed."

"I kin fix that," said Sam; "when Da double-staked the orchard fence,
he lashed every pair of stakes at the top with Willow withes."

"That's so--I quite forgot," said Yan. In a few minutes they were
at work trying to tie the four poles together with slippery stiff
Willows, but it was no easy matter. They had to be perfectly tight or
they would slip and fall in a heap each time they were raised, and it
seemed at length that the boys would be forced to the impropriety of
using hay wire, when they heard a low grunt, and turning, saw William
Raften standing with his hands behind him as though he had watched
them for hours.

The boys were no little startled. Raften had a knack of turning up at
any point when something was going on, taking in the situation fully,
and then, if he disapproved, of expressing himself in a few words of
blistering mockery delivered in a rich Irish brogue. Just what view
he would take of their pastime the boys had no idea, but awaited with
uneasiness. If they had been wasting time when they should have been
working there is no question but that they would have been sent with
contumely to more profitable pursuits, but this was within their
rightful play hours, and Raften, after regarding them with a searching
look, said slowly: "Bhoys!" (Sam felt easier; his father would have
said "_Bhise_" if really angry.) "Fhat's the good o' wastin' yer
time" (Yan's heart sank) "wid Willow withes fur a job like that? They
can't be made to howld. Whoi don't ye git some hay woire or coord at
the barrun?"

The boys were greatly relieved, but still this friendly overture might
be merely a feint to open the way for a home thrust. Sam was silent.
So Yan said, presently, "We ain't allowed to use anything but what the
Indians had or could get in the woods."

"An' who don't allow yez?"

"The rules."

"Oh," said William, with some amusement. "Oi see! Hyar."

He went into the woods looking this way and that, and presently
stopped at a lot of low shrubs.

"Do ye know what this is, Yan?"

"No, sir."

"Le's see if yer man enough to break it aff."

Yan tried. The wood was brittle enough, but the bark, thin, smooth and
pliant, was as tough as leather, and even a narrow strip defied his
strength.

"That's Litherwood," said Raften. "That's what the Injuns used; that's
what we used ourselves in the airly days of this yer settlement."

The boys had looked for a rebuke, and here was a helping hand. It all
turned on the fact that this was "play hours," Raften left with a
parting word: "In wan hour an' a half the pigs is fed."

"You see Da's all right when the work ain't forgot," said Sam, with
a patronizing air. "I wonder why I didn't think o' that there
Leatherwood meself. I've often heard that that's what was used fur
tying bags in the old days when cord was scarce, an' the Injuns used
it for tying their prisoners, too. Ain't it the real stuff?"

Several strips were now used for tying four poles together at the top,
then these four were raised on end and spread out at the bottom to
serve as the frame of the teepee, or more properly wigwam, since it
was to be made of bark.

After consulting, they now got a long, limber Willow rod an inch
thick, and bending it around like a hoop, they tied it with
Leatherwood to each pole at a point four feet from the ground. Next
they cut four short poles to reach from the ground to this. These were
lashed at their upper ends to the Willow rod, and now they were ready
for the bark slabs. The boys went to the Elm logs and again Sam's able
use of the axe came in. He cut the bark open along the top of one log,
and by using the edge of the axe and some wooden wedges they pried off
a great roll eight feet long and four feet across. It was a pleasant
surprise to see what a wide piece of bark the small log gave them.

Three logs yielded three fine large slabs and others yielded pieces of
various sizes. The large ones were set up against the frame so as to
make the most of them. Of course they were much too big for the top,
and much too narrow for the bottom; but the little pieces would do to
patch if some way could be found to make them stick.

Sam suggested nailing them to the posts, and Yan was horrified at the
idea of using nails. "No Indian has any nails."

"Well, what _would_ they use?" said Sam.

"They used thongs, an'--an'--maybe wooden pegs. I don't know, but
seems to me that would be all right."

"But them poles is hard wood," objected the practical Sam. "You can
drive Oak pegs into Pine, but you can't drive wooden pegs into hard
wood without you make some sort of a hole first. Maybe I'd better
bring a gimlet."

"Now, Sam, you might just as well hire a carpenter--_that_
wouldn't be Indian at all. Let's play it right. We'll find some way. I
believe we can tie them up with Leatherwood."

So Sam made a sharp Oak pick with his axe, and Yan used it to pick
holes in each piece of bark and then did a sort of rude sewing till
the wigwam seemed beautifully covered in. But when they went inside
to look they were unpleasantly surprised to find how many holes
there were. It was impossible to close them all because the bark was
cracking in so many places, but the boys plugged the worst of them and
then prepared for the great sacred ceremony--the lighting of the fire
in the middle.

They gathered a lot of dry fuel, then Yan produced a match.

"That don't look to me very Injun," drawled Sam critically. "I don't
think Injuns has matches."

"Well, they don't," admitted Yan, humbly. "But I haven't a flint and
steel, and don't know how to work rubbing-sticks, so we just got to
use matches, _if_ we _want_ a fire."

"Why, of course we want a fire. I ain't kicking," said Sam. "Go ahead
with your old leg-fire sulphur stick. A camp without a fire would be
'bout like last year's bird's nest or a house with the roof off."

Yan struck a match and put it to the wood. It went out. He struck
another--same result. Yet another went out.

Sam remarked:

"Pears to me you don't know much about lightin' a fire. Lemme show
you. Let the White hunter learn the Injun somethin' about the woods,"
said he with a leer.

Sam took the axe and cut some sticks of a dry Pine root. Then with his
knife he cut long curling shavings, which he left sticking in a fuzz
at the end of each stick.

"Oh, I've seen a picture of an Indian making them. They call them
'prayer-sticks,'" said Yan.

"Well, prayer-sticks is mighty good kindlin'" replied the other. He
struck a match, and in a minute he had a blazing fire in the middle of
the wigwam.

"Old Granny de Neuville, she's a witch--she knows all about the woods,
and cracked Jimmy turns everything into poetry what she says. He says
she says when you want to make a fire in the woods you take--

  "First a curl of Birch bark as dry as it kin be,
  Then some twigs of soft-wood, dead, but on the tree,
  Last o' all some Pine knots to make the kittle foam,
  An' thar's a fire to make you think you're settin' right at home."

"Who's Granny de Neuville?"

"Oh, she's the old witch that lives down at the bend o' the creek."

"What? Has she got a granddaughter named Biddy?" said Yan, suddenly
remembering that his ancient ally came from this part of Sanger.

"Oh, my! Hain't she? Ain't Biddy a peach--drinks like a fish, talks
everybody to death about the time she resided in Bonnerton. Gits a
letter every mail begging her to come back and 'reside' with them some
more."

"Ain't this fine," said Yan, as he sat on a pile of Fir boughs in the
wigwam.

"Looks like the real thing," replied Sam from his seat on the other
side. "But say, Yan, don't make any more fire; it's kind o' warm here,
an' there seems to be something wrong with that flue--wants sweepin',
prob'ly--hain't been swep' since I kin remember."

The fire blazed up and the smoke increased. Just a little of it
wandered out of the smoke-hole at the top, then it decided that this
was a mistake and thereafter positively declined to use the vent. Some
of it went out by chinks, and a large stream issued from the door, but
by far the best part of it seemed satisfied with the interior of the
wigwam, so that in a minute or less both boys scrambled out. Their
eyes were streaming with smoke-tears and their discomfiture was
complete.

"'Pears to me," observed Sam, "like we got them holes mixed. The dooer
should 'a 'been at the top, sence the smoke has a fancy for usin' it,
an' then _we'd_ had a chance."

"The Indians make it work," said Yan; "a White hunter ought to know
how."

"Now's the Injun's chance," said Sam. "Maybe it wants a dooer to
close, then the smoke would have to go out."

They tried this, and of course some of the smoke was crowded out, but
not till long after the boys were.

"Seems like what does get out by the chinks is sucked back agin by
that there double-action flue," said Sam.

It was very disappointing. The romance of sitting by the fire in one's
teepee appealed to both of the boys, but the physical torture of
the smoke made it unbearable. Their dream was dispelled, and Sam
suggested, "Maybe we'd better try a shanty."

"No," said Yan, with his usual doggedness. "I know it can be done,
because the Indians do it. We'll find out in time."

But all their efforts were in vain. The wigwam was a failure, as far
as fire was concerned. It was very small and uncomfortable, too; the
wind blew through a hundred crevices, which grew larger as the Elm
bark dried and cracked. A heavy shower caught them once, and they were
rather glad to be driven into their cheerless lodge, but the rain came
abundantly into the smoke-hole as well as through the walls, and they
found it but little protection.

[Illustration: "The wigwam was a failure."]

"Seems to me, if anything, a _leetle_ wetter in here than
outside," said Sam, as he led in a dash for home.

That night a heavy storm set in, and next day the boys found their
flimsy wigwam blown down--nothing but a heap of ruins.

Some time after, Raften asked at the table in characteristic stern
style, "Bhoys, what's doin' down to yer camp? Is yer wigwam finished?"

"No good," said Sam. "All blowed down."

"How's that?"

"I dunno'. It smoked like everything. We couldn't stay in it."

"Couldn't a-been right made," said Raften; then with a sudden
interest, which showed how eagerly he would have joined in this forty
years ago, he said, "Why don't ye make a rale taypay?"

"Dunno' how, an' ain't got no stuff."

"Wall, now, yez have been pretty good an' ain't slacked on the wurruk,
yez kin have the ould wagon kiver. Cousin Bert could tache ye how to
make it, if he wuz here. Maybe Caleb Clark knows," he added, with a
significant twinkle of his eye. "Better ask him." Then he turned to
give orders to the hired men, who, of course, ate at the family table.

"Da, do you care if we go to Caleb?"

"I don't care fwhat ye do wid him," was the reply.

Raften was no idle talker and Sam knew that, so as soon as "the law
was off" he and Yan got out the old wagon cover. It seemed like an
acre of canvas when they spread it out. Having thus taken possession,
they put it away again in the cow-house, their own domain, and Sam
said: "I've a great notion to go right to Caleb; he sho'ly knows more
about a teepee than any one else here, which ain't sayin' much."

"Who's Caleb?"

"Oh, he's the old Billy Goat that shot at Da oncet, just after Da beat
him at a horse trade. Let on it was a mistake: 'twas, too, as he
found out, coz Da bought up some old notes of his, got 'em cheap, and
squeezed him hard to meet them. He's had hard luck ever since.

"He's a mortal queer old duck, that Caleb. He knows heaps about the
woods, coz he was a hunter an' trapper oncet. My! wouldn't he be down
on me if he knowed who was my Da, but he don't have to know."




IV

The Sanger Witch

  The Sanger Witch dwelt in the bend of the creek,
  And neither could read nor write;
  But she knew in a day what few knew in a week,
  For hers was the second sight.
  "Read?" said she, "I am double read;
  You fools of the ink and pen
  Count never the eggs, but the sticks of the nest,
  See the clothes, not the souls of men."

  --Cracked Jimmy's Ballad of Sanger.


The boys set out for Caleb's. It was up the creek away from the camp
ground. As they neared the bend they saw a small log shanty, with some
poultry and a pig at the door.

"That's where the witch lives," said Sam.

"Who--old Granny de Neuville?"

"Yep, and she just loves me. Oh, yes; about the same way an old hen
loves a Chicken-hawk. 'Pears to me she sets up nights to love me."

"Why?"

"Oh, I guess it started with the pigs. No, let's see: first about the
trees. Da chopped off a lot of Elm trees that looked terrible nice
from her windy. She's awful queer about a tree. She hates to see 'em
cut down, an' that soured her same as if she owned 'em. Then there
wuz the pigs. You see, one winter she was awful hard up, an' she had
two pigs worth, maybe, $5.00 each--anyway, she said they was, an' she
ought to know, for they lived right in the shanty with her--an' she
come to Da (I guess she had tried every one else first) an' Da he
squeezed her down an' got the two pigs for $7.00. He al'ays does that.
Then he comes home an' says to Ma, 'Seems to me the old lady is
pretty hard put. 'Bout next Saturday you take two sacks of flour and
some pork an' potatoes around an' see that she is fixed up right.'
Da's al'ays doin' them things, too, on the quiet. So Ma goes with
about $15.00 worth o' truck. The old witch was kinder 'stand off.'
She didn't say much. Ma was goin' slow, not knowin' just whether to
give the stuff out an' out, or say it could be worked for next year,
or some other year, when there was two moons, or some time when the
work was all done. Well, the old witch said mighty little until the
stuff was all put in the cellar, then she grabs up a big stick an'
breaks out at Ma:

"'Now you git out o' my house, you dhirty, sthuck-up thing. I ain't
takin' no charity from the likes o' you. That thing you call your
husband robbed me o' my pigs, an' we ain't any more'n square now, so
git out an' don't you dar set fut in my house agin'.

"Well, she was sore on us when Da bought her pigs, but she was five
times wuss after she clinched the groceries. 'Pears like they soured
on her stummick."

"What a shame, the old wretch," said Yan, with ready sympathy for the
Raftens.

"No," replied Sam; "she's only queer. There's lots o' folk takes her
side. But she's awful queer. She won't have a tree cut if she can help
it, an' when the flowers come in the spring she goes out in the woods
and sets down beside 'em for hours an' calls 'em 'Me beauty--me little
beauty,' an' she just loves the birds. When the boys want to rile her
they get a sling-shot an' shoot the birds in her garden an' she just
goes crazy. She pretty near starves herself every winter trying to
feed all the birds that come around. She has lots of 'em to feed right
out o' her hand. Da says they think its an old pine root, but she has
a way o' coaxin' 'em that's awful nice. There she'll stand in freezin'
weather calling them 'Me beauties'.

"You see that little windy in the end?" he continued, as they came
close to the witch's hut. "Well, that's the loft, an' it's full o' all
sorts o' plants an' roots."

"What for?"

"Oh, for medicine. She's great on hairbs."

"Oh, yes, I remember now Biddy did say that her Granny was a herb
doctor."

"Doctor? She ain't much of a doctor, but I bet she knows every plant
that grows in the woods, an' they're sure strong after they've been up
there for a year, with the cat sleepin' on them."

"I wish I could go and see her."

"Guess we can," was the reply.

"Doesn't she know you?"

"Yes, but watch me fix her," drawled Sam. "There ain't nothin' she
likes better'n a sick pusson."

Sam stopped now, rolled up his sleeves and examined both arms,
apparently without success, for he then loosed his suspenders, dropped
his pants, and proceeded to examine his legs. Of course, all boys
have more or less cuts and bruises in various stages of healing. Sam
selected his best, just below the knee, a scratch from a nail in the
fence. He had never given it a thought before, but now he "reckoned
it would do." With a lead pencil borrowed from Yan he spread a hue
of mortification all around it, a green butternut rind added the
unpleasant yellowish-brown of human decomposition, and the result
was a frightful looking plague spot. By chewing some grass he made a
yellowish-green dye and expectorated this on the handkerchief which he
bound on the sore. He then got a stick and proceeded to limp painfully
toward the witch's abode. As they drew near, the partly open door was
slammed with ominous force. Sam, quite unabashed, looked at Yan and
winked, then knocked. The bark of a small dog answered. He knocked
again. A sound now of some one moving within, but no answer. A third
time he knocked, then a shrill voice: "Get out o' that. Get aff my
place, you dirthy young riff-raff."

Sam grinned at Yan. Then drawling a little more than usual, he said:

"It's a poor boy, Granny. The doctors can't do nothin' for him," which
last, at least, was quite true.

There was no reply, so Sam made bold to open the door. There sat the
old woman glowering with angry red eyes across the stove, a cat in her
lap, a pipe in her mouth, and a dog growling toward the strangers.

"Ain't you Sam Raften?" she asked fiercely.

"Yes, marm. I get hurt on a nail in the fence. They say you kin git
blood-p'isinin' that way," said Sam, groaning a little and trying to
look interesting. The order to "get out" died on the witch's lips. Her
good old Irish heart warmed to the sufferer. After all, it was rather
pleasant to have the enemy thus humbly seek her aid, so she muttered:

"Le's see it."

Sam was trying amid many groans to expose the disgusting mess he had
made around his knee, when a step was heard outside. The door opened
and in walked Biddy.

She and Yan recognized each other at once. The one had grown much
longer, the other much broader since the last meeting, but the
greeting was that of two warm-hearted people glad to see each other
once more.

"An' how's yer father an' yer mother an' how is all the fambily? Law,
do ye mind the Cherry Lung-balm we uster make? My, but we wuz greenies
then! Ye mind, I uster tell ye about Granny? Well, here she is.
Granny, this is Yan. Me an' him hed lots o' fun together when I
'resided' with his mamma, didn't we, Yan? Now, Granny's the one to
tell ye all about the plants."

A long groan from Sam now called all attention his way.

"Well, if it ain't Sam Raften," said Biddy coldly.

"Yes, an' he's deathly sick," added Granny. "Their own docther guv him
up an said mortal man couldn't save him nohow, so he jest hed to come
to me."

Another long groan was ample indorsement.

"Le's see. Gimme my scissors, Biddy; I'll hev to cut the pant leg
aff."

"No, no," Sam blurted out with sudden vigour, dreading the
consequences at home. "I kin roll it up."

"Thayer, thot'll do. Now I say," said the witch. "Yes, sure enough,
thayer _is_ proud flesh. I moight cut it out," said she, fumbling
in her pocket (Sam supposed for a knife, and made ready to dash for
the door), "but le's see, no--that would be a fool docther trick. I
kin git on without."

"Yes, sure," said Sam, clutching at the idea, "that's just what a fool
doctor would do, but you kin give me something to take that's far
better."

"Well, sure an' I kin," and Yan and Sam breathed more freely.
"Shwaller this, now," and she offered him a tin cup of water into
which she spilled some powder of dry leaves. Sam did so. "An' you
take this yer bundle and bile it in two gallons of wather and drink a
glassful ivery hour, an' hev a loive chicken sphlit with an axe an'
laid hot on the place twicet ivery day, till the proud flesh goes, an'
it'll be all right wid ye--a fresh chicken ivery toime, moind ye."

"Wouldn't--turkeys--do--better?" groaned Sam, feebly. "I'm me mother's
pet, Granny, an' expense ain't any objek"--a snort that may have meant
mortal agony escaped him.

"Niver moind, now. Sure we won't talk of yer father an' mother;
they're punished pretty bad already. Hiven forbid they don't lose
the rest o' ye fur their sins. It ain't meself that 'ud bear ony
ill-will."

A long groan cut short what looked like a young sermon.

"What's the plant, Granny?" asked Yan, carefully avoiding Sam's gaze.

"Shure, an' it grows in the woods."

"Yes, but I want to know what it's like and what it's called."

"Shure, 'tain't like nothin' else. It's just like itself, an' it's
called Witch-hazel.

  "'Witch-hazel blossoms in the faal,
  To cure the chills and Fayvers aall,'

"as cracked Jimmy says."

"I'll show you some av it sometime," said Biddy.

"Can it be made into Lung-balm?" asked Yan, mischievously.

"I guess we'll have to go now," Sam feebly put in. "I'm feeling much
better. Where's my stick? Here, Yan, you kin carry my medicine, an'
be _very_ keerful of it."

Yan took the bundle, not daring to look Sam in the face.

Granny bade them both come back again, and followed to the door with a
hearty farewell. At the same moment she said:

"Howld on!" Then she went to the one bed in the room, which also was
the house, turned down the clothes, and in the middle exposed a lot of
rosy apples. She picked out two of the best and gave one to each of
the boys.

"Shure, Oi hev to hoide them thayer fram the pig, for they're the
foinest iver grew."

"I know they are," whispered Sam, as he limped out of hearing, "for
her son Larry stole them out of our orchard last fall. They're the
only kind that keeps over. They're the best that grow, but a trifle
too warm just now."

"Good-by, and thank you much," said Yan.

"I-feel-better-already," drawled Sam. "That tired feeling has left me,
an' sense tryin' your remedy I have took no other," but added aside,
"I wish I could throw up the stuff before it pisens me," and then,
with a keen eye to the picturesque effect, he wanted to fling his
stick away and bound into the woods.

It was all Yan could do to make him observe some of the decencies
and limp a little till out of sight. As it was, the change was quite
marked and the genial old witch called loudly on Biddy to see with
her own eyes how quickly she had helped young Raften "afther all the
dochters in the country hed giv him up."

"Now for Caleb Clark, Esq., Q.C.," said Sam.

"Q.C.?" inquired his friend.

"Some consider it means Queen's Counsel, an' some claims as it stands
for Queer Cuss. One or other maybe is right."

"You're stepping wonderfully for a crippled boy the doctors have given
up," remarked Yan.

"Yes; that's the proud flesh in me right leg that's doin' the high
steppin'. The left one is jest plain laig."

"Let's hide this somewhere till we get back," and Yan held up the
bundle of Witch-hazel.

"I'll hide that," said Sam, and he hurled the bundle afar into the
creek.

"Oh, Sam, that's mean. Maybe she wants it herself."

"Pooh, that's all the old brush is good for. I done more'n me duty
when I drank that swill. I could fairly taste the cat in it."

"What'll you tell her next time?"

"Well, I'll tell her I put the sticks in the right place an' where
they done the most good. I soaked 'em in water an' took as much as I
wanted of the flooid.

"She'll see for herself I really did pull through, and will be a
blamed sight happier than if I drank her old pisen brushwood an' had
to send for a really truly doctor."

Yan was silenced, but not satisfied. It seemed discourteous to throw
the sticks away--so soon, anyway; besides, he had curiosity to know
just what they were and how they acted.




V

Caleb


A mile farther was the shanty of Caleb Clark, a mere squatter now on a
farm once his own. As the boys drew near, a tall, round-shouldered man
with a long white beard was seen carrying in an armful of wood.

"Ye see the Billy Goat?" said Sam.

Yan sniffed as he gasped the "why" of the nickname.

"I guess you better do the talking; Caleb ain't so easy handled as the
witch, and he's just as sour on Da."

So Yan went forward rather cautiously and knocked at the open door of
the shanty. A deep-voiced Dog broke into a loud bay, the long beard
appeared, and its owner said, "Wall?"

"Are you Mr. Clark?"

"Yep." Then, "Lie down, Turk," to a black-and-tan Hound that came
growling out.

"I came--I--we wanted to ask some questions--if you don't mind."

"What might yer name be?"

"Yan."

"An' who is this?"

"He's my chum, Sam."

"I'm Sam Horn," said Sam, with some truth, for he was Samuel
Horn Raften, but with sufficient deception to make Yan feel very
uncomfortable.

"And where are ye from?"

"Bonnerton," said Yan.

"To-day?" was the rejoinder, with a tone of doubt.

"Well, no," Yan began; but Sam, who had tried to keep out of notice
for fear of recognition, saw that his ingenuous companion was being
quickly pumped and placed, and now interposed: "You see, Mr. Clark, we
are camped in the woods and we want to make a teepee to live in. We
have the stuff an' was told that you knew all about the making."

"Who told ye?"

"The old witch at the bend of the creek."

"Where are ye livin' now?"

"Well," said Sam, hastening again to forestall Yan, whose simple
directness he feared, "to tell the truth, we made a wigwam of bark in
the woods below here, but it wasn't a success."

"Whose woods?"

"Oh, about a mile below on the creek."

"Hm! That must be Raften's or Burns's woods."

"I guess it is," said Sam.

"_An' you look uncommon like Sam Raften_. You consarned young
whelp, to come here lyin' an' tryin' to pull the wool over my eyes.
Get out o' this now, or I'll boot ye."

[Illustration: "Get out o' this now, or I'll boot ye."]

Yan turned very red. He thought of the scripture text, "Be sure your
sin will find you out," and he stepped back. Sam stuck his tongue in
his cheek and followed. But he was his father's son. He turned and
said:

"Now see here, Mr. Clark, fair and square; we come here to ask a
simple question about the woods. You are the only man that knows or we
wouldn't 'a' bothered you. I knowed you had it in for Da, so I tried
to fool you, and it didn't go. I wish now I had just come out square
and said, 'I'm Sam Raften; will you tell me somethin' I want to know,
or won't you?' I didn't know you hed anything agin me or me friend
that's camping with me."

There is a strong bond of sympathy between all Woodcrafters. The mere
fact that a man wants to go his way is a claim on a Woodcrafter's
notice. Old Caleb, though soured by trouble and hot-tempered, had a
kind heart; he resisted for a moment the first impulse to slam the
door in their faces; then as he listened he fell into the tempter's
snare, for it was baited with the subtlest of flatteries. He said to
Yan:

"Is your name Raften?"

"No, sir."

"Air ye owt o' kin?"

"No, sir."

"I don't want no truck with a Raften, but what do ye want to know?"

"We built a wigwam of bark, but it's no good, but now we have a big
canvas cover an' want to know how to make a teepee."

"A teepee. H-m--" said the old man reflectively.

"They say you've lived in them," ventured Yan.

"Hm--'bout forty year; but it's one thing to wear a suit of clothes
and another thing to make one. Seems to me it was about like this,"
and he took up a burnt stick and a piece of grocer's paper. "No--now
hold on. Yes, I remember now; I seen a bunch of squaws make one oncet.

"First they sewed the skins together. No, first thar was a lot o'
prayin'; ye kin suit yerselves 'bout that--then they sewed the skins
together an" pegged it down flat on the prairie (B D H I, Cut No. 1).
Then put in a peg at the middle of one side (A). Then with a burnt
stick an' a coord--yes, there must 'a' been a coord--they drawed a
half circle--so (B C D). Then they cut that off, an' out o' the pieces
they make two flaps like that (H L M J and K N O I), an' sews 'em on
to P E and G Q. Them's smoke-flaps to make the smoke draw. Thar's a
upside down pocket in the top side corner o' each smoke-flap--so--for
the top of each pole, and there is rows o' holes down--so (M B and N
D, Cut No. 2)--on each side fur the lacin' pins. Then at the top of
that pint (A, Cut 1) ye fasten a short lash-rope.

[Illustration: CUT I.--PATTERN FOR A SIMPLE 10-FOOT TEEPEE]

[Illustration: CUT II.--THE COMPLETE TEEPEE COVER--UNORNAMENTED]

"Le's see, now. I reckon thar's about ten poles for a ten-foot lodge,
with two more for the smoke-flaps. Now, when ye set her up ye tie
three poles together--so--an' set 'em up first, then lean the other
poles around, except one, an' lash them by carrying the rope around a
few times. Now tie the top o' the cover to the top o' the last pole by
the short lash-rope, hist the pole into place--that hists the cover,
too, ye see--an' ye swing it round with the smoke-poles an' fasten the
two edges together with the wooden pins. The two long poles put in the
smoke-flap pockets works the vent to suit the wind."

[Illustration: 1st set up tripod]

In his conversation Caleb had ignored Sam and talked to Yan, but
the son of his father was not so easily abashed. He foresaw several
practical difficulties and did not hesitate to ask for light.

"What keeps it from blowin' down?" he asked.

"Wall," said Caleb, still addressing Yan, "the long rope that binds
the poles is carried down under, and fastened tight to a stake that
serves for anchor, 'sides the edge of the cover is pegged to the
ground all around."

"How do you make the smoke draw?" was his next.

[Illustration: 2nd set up and bind other six poles]

"Ye swing the flaps by changing the poles till they is quartering down
the wind. That draws best."

"How do you close the door?"

"Wall, some jest lets the edges sag together, but the best teepees has
a door made of the same stuff as the cover put tight on a saplin'
frame an' swung from a lacin' pin."

[Illustration: 3rd set up tenth pole with teepee cover fastened to it
by lash rope]

[Illustration: SIOUX TEEPEE]

This seemed to cover the ground, so carefully folding the dirty paper
with the plan, Yan put it in his pocket, said "Thank you" and went
off. To the "Good-day" of the boys Caleb made no reply, but turned as
they left and asked, "Whar ye camped?"

"On the knoll by the creek in Raften's swamp."

"H-m, maybe I'll come an' see ye."

"All right," Sam called out; "follow the blazed trail from the brush
fence."

"Why, Sam," said Yan, as soon as they were out of hearing, "there
isn't any blazed trail; why did you say that?"

"Oh, I thought it sounded well," was the calm answer, "an' it's easy
to have the blazes there as soon as we want to, an' a blame sight
sooner than he's likely to use them."




VI

The Making of the Teepee


Raften sniffed in amusement when he heard that the boys had really
gone to Caleb and got what they wanted. Nothing pleased him more than
to find his son a successful schemer.

"Old Caleb wasn't so dead sure about the teepee, as near as I sized
him up," observed Sam.

"I guess we've got enough to go ahead on," said Yan, "an' tain't a
hanging matter if we do make a mistake."

The cover was spread out again flat and smooth on the barn floor, and
stones and a few nails put in the sides to hold it.

The first thing that struck them was that it was a rough and tattered
old rag.

And Sam remarked: "I see now why Da said we could have it. I reckon
we'll have to patch it before we cut out the teepee."

"No," said Yan, assuming control, as he was apt to do in matters
pertaining to the woods; "we better draw our plans first so as not to
patch any part that's going to be cut off afterward."

"Great head! But I'm afraid them patches won't be awful ornamental."

"They're all right," was the reply. "Indians' teepees are often
patched where bullets and arrows have gone through."

"Well, I'm glad I wa'n't living inside during them hostilities," and
Sam exposed a dozen or more holes.

"Oh, get off there and give me that cord."

"Look out," said Sam; "that's my festered knee. It's near as bad
to-day as it was when we called on the witch."

Yan was measuring. "Let's see. We can cut off all those rags and still
make a twelve-foot teepee. Twelve foot high--that will be twenty-four
feet across the bottom of the stuff. Fine! That's just the thing. Now
I'll mark her off."

"Hold on, there," protested his friend; "you can't do that with chalk.
Caleb said the Injuns used a burnt stick. You hain't got no right to
use chalk. 'You might as well hire a carpenter.'"

"Oh, you go on. You hunt for a burnt stick, and if you don't find one
bring me the shears instead."

Thus, with many consultations of Caleb's draft, the cutting-out
was done--really a very simple matter. Then the patching was to be
considered.

Pack-thread, needles and _very l-o-n-g_ stitches were used, but
the work went slowly on. All the spare time of one day was given to
patching. Sam, of course, kept up a patter of characteristic remarks
to the piece he was sewing. Yan sewed in serious silence. At first
Sam's were put on better, but Yan learned fast and at length did by
far the better sewing.

[Illustration: Decoration of Black Bull's Teepee: (Two Examples of
Doors)]

[Illustration: THUNDER BULL'S TEEPEE]


  Notes on Making Teepee:

  The slimmer the poles are at the top where they cross the smaller
  the opening in the canvas and the less danger of rain coming in.

  In regions where there is much rain it is well to cut the projecting
  poles very short and put over them a "storm cap," "bull boat" or
  "shield" made of canvas on a rod bent in a three-foot circle. This
  device was used by the Mandans over the smoke-hole of their lodges
  during the heavy rains.

That night the boys were showing their handiwork to the hired hands.
Si Lee, a middle-aged man with a vast waistband, after looking on
with ill-concealed but good-natured scorn, said:

"Why didn't ye put the patches inside?"

"Didn't think of it," was Yan's answer.

"Coz we're goin' to live inside, an' need the room," said Sam.

"Why did ye make ten stitches in going round that hole; ye could just
as easy have done it in four," and Si sniffed as he pointed to great,
ungainly stitches an inch long. "I call that waste labour."

"Now see here," blurted Sam, "if you don't like our work let's see you
do it better. There's lots to do yet."

"Where?"

"Oh, ask Yan. He's bossin' the job. Old Caleb wouldn't let me in. It
just broke my heart. I sobbed all the way home, didn't I, Yan?

"There's the smoke-flaps to stitch on and hem, and the pocket at
the top of the flaps--and--I--suppose," Yan added, as a feeler,
"it--would--be--better--if--hemmed--all--around."

"Now, I tell ye what I'll do. If you boys'll go to the 'Corner'
to-night and get my boots that the cobbler's fixing, I'll sew on the
smoke-flaps."

"I'll take that offer," said Yan; "and say, Si, it doesn't really
matter which is the outside. You can turn the cover so the patches
will be in."

The boys got the money to pay for the boots, and after supper they set
out on foot for the "Corner," two miles away.

"He's a queer duck," and Sam jerked his thumb back to show that he
meant Si Lee; "sounds like a Chinese laundry. I guess that's the only
thing he isn't. He can do any mortal thing but get on in life. He's
been a soldier an' a undertaker an' a cook He plays a fiddle he made
himself; it's a rotten bad one, but it's away ahead of his playing. He
stuffs birds--that Owl in the parlour is his doin'; he tempers razors,
kin doctor a horse or fix up a watch, an' he does it in about the same
way, too; bleeds a horse no matter what ails it, an' takes another
wheel out o' the watch every times he cleans it. He took Larry de
Neuville's old clock apart to clean once--said he knew all about
it--an' when he put it together again he had wheels enough left over
for a new clock.

"He's too smart an' not smart enough. There ain't anything on earth
he can't do a little, an' there ain't a blessed thing that he can do
right up first-class, but thank goodness sewing canvas is his long
suit. You see he was a sailor for three years--longest time he ever
kept a job, fur which he really ain't to blame, since it was a whaler
on a three-years' cruise."




VII

The Calm Evening


It was a calm June evening, the time of the second daily outburst of
bird song, the day's aftermath. The singers seemed to be in unusual
numbers as well. Nearly every good perch had some little bird that
seemed near bursting with joy and yet trying to avert that dire
catastrophe.

As the boys went down the road by the outer fence of their own orchard
a Hawk came sailing over, silencing as he came the singing within a
given radius. Many of the singers hid, but a Meadow Lark that had been
whistling on a stake in the open was now vainly seeking shelter in the
broad field. The Hawk was speeding his way. The Lark dodged and put on
all power to reach the orchard, but the Hawk was after him now--was
gaining--in another moment would, have clutched the terrified
musician, but out of the Apple trees there dashed a small
black-and-white bird--the Kingbird. With a loud harsh twitter--his
war-cry--repeated again and again, with his little gray head-feathers
raised to show the blood-and-flame-coloured undercrest--his war
colours--he darted straight at the great robber.

"Clicker-a-clicker," he fairly screamed, and made for the huge Hawk,
ten times his size.

"Clicker-a-clicker!" he shrieked, like a cateran shouting the
"slogan," and down like a black-and-white dart--to strike the Hawk
fairly between the shoulders just as the Meadow Lark dropped in
despair to the bare ground and hid its head from the approaching
stroke of death.

"Clicker-a-clicker"--and the Hawk wheeled in sudden consternation.
"Clicker-a-clicker"--and the dauntless little warrior dropped between
his wings, stabbing and tearing.

The Hawk bucked like a mustang, the Kingbird was thrown, but sprung on
agile pinions above again.

"Clicker-a-clicker," and he struck as before. Large brown feathers
were floating away on the breeze now. The Meadow Lark was forgotten.
The Hawk thought only of escape.

"Clicker-a-clicker," the slogan still was heard. The Hawk was putting
on all speed to get away, but the Kingbird was riding him most of the
time. Several brown feathers floated down, the Hawk dwindled in the
distance to a Sparrow and the Kingbird to a fly dancing on his back.
The Hawk made a final plunge into a thicket, and the king came home
again, uttering the shrill war-cry once or twice, probably to let the
queen know that he was coming back, for she flew to a high branch of
the Apple tree where she could greet the returning hero. He came with
an occasional "clicker-a-clicker"--then, when near her, he sprung
fifty feet in the air and dashed down, screaming his slogan without
interruption, darting zigzag with the most surprising evolutions and
turns--this way, that way, sideways and downward, dealing the
deadliest blows right and left at an imaginary foe, then soared, and
did it all over again two or three times, just to show how far he was
from being tired, and how much better he could have done it had it
been necessary. Then with a final swoop and a volley of "clickers" he
dashed into the bush to receive the congratulations of the one for
whom it all was meant and the only spectator for whose opinion he
cared in the least.

[Illustration: "Clicker-a-clicker!' he shrieked ... and down like a
dart."]

"Now, ain't that great," said Sam, with evident sincerity and
pleasure. His voice startled Yan and brought him back. He had been
wholly lost in silent admiring wonder of the dauntless little
Kingbird.

A Vesper Sparrow ran along the road before them, flitting a few
feet ahead each time they overtook it and showing the white outer
tail-feathers as it flew.

"A little Graybird," remarked Sam.

"No, that isn't a Graybird; that's a Vesper Sparrow," exclaimed Yan,
in surprise, for he knew he was right.

"Well, _I_ dunno," said Sam, yielding the point.

"I thought you said you knew every bird that flies and all about it"
replied his companion, for the memory of this first day was strong
with him yet.

Sam snorted: "I didn't know you then. I was just loadin' you up so
you'd think I was a wonderful feller, an' you did, too--for awhile."

A Red-headed Woodpecker, carrying a yellow butterfly, flew on a fence
stake ahead of them and peeped around as they drew near. The setting
sun on his bright plumage, the lilac stake and the yellow butterfly,
completed a most gorgeous bit of colour and gave Yan a thrill of joy.
A Meadow Lark on a farther stake, a Bluebird on another, and a Vesper
Bird on a stone, each added his appeal to eye and ear, till Sam
exclaimed:

"Oh, ain't that awful nice?" and Yan was dumb with a sort of saddened
joy.

Birds hate the wind, and this was one of those birdy days that come
only with a dead calm.

They passed a barn with two hundred pairs of Swallows flying and
twittering around, a cut bank of the road had a colony of 1,000 Sand
Martins, a stream had its rattling Kingfishers, and a marsh was the
playground of a multitude of Red-winged Blackbirds.

Yan was lifted up with the joy of the naturalist at seeing so many
beautiful living things. Sam felt it, too; he grew very silent, and
the last half-mile to the "Corner" was passed without a word. The
boots were got. Sam swung them around his neck and the boys set out
for home. The sun was gone, but not the birds, and the spell of the
evening was on them still. A Song Sparrow by the brook and a Robin
high in the Elm were yet pouring out their liquid notes in the
gloaming.