“I think,” said Charlie, “a higher power than Tige had something to do with it; you know how loath your mother was to have you bring him, and wouldn’t let you the first time. I think it was what my mother used to call a ‘providence of God.’”
“That’s just what my mother will say, the moment I tell her about it.”
The sail of the canoe, spread over a pole supported by crotches, made them a tent, and they were soon asleep. Tige showed no disposition this time to leave the tent, but stretching himself at his master’s feet, snored audibly. The morning sun, shining in their faces, woke up the tired sleepers, and, going down to the bluff, they saw the high rock with the three spruces not more than half a mile off. The tide had now ebbed so much that they went into the cave with the canoe. The guns were full of water, but the powder in the horns was not injured. A jug of coffee, that was stopped tight, was as good as ever. The remains of their pie and bread were soaked in salt water, but the hungry boys ate a good part of it. They drew the charges from the guns, and heating some water in the tin pan that had contained their pie, scalded out the gun-barrels, and dried them at the fire, and they went as well as before.
They now set out for the high rock, and doubling it, entered the cove. It was, indeed, a singular spot. Along the edge of the water were about two acres of land, entirely bare of trees, and covered with grass. Upon each side rose two rugged hills, that seemed to have been cleft in two, so perpendicular—so much alike were their sides of smooth rock—as to permit the passage of a brook between them. The hills were covered with an enormous growth of yellow birch, rock maple, and oaks. The birches thrust their roots into the crevices of the rocks, and hung from the sides wherever there was the least soil.
“What kind of rocks are these?” asked Charlie; “they are red, and look like rusty iron; the ground is red, too. How hard some of these rocks are! and some are soft, and crumble in your hand.”
“Just taste of that,” said Fred, giving Charlie a piece of shelly, yellowish rock, who, putting it to his mouth, instantly spit it out, saying that it tasted like copperas. Fred and Charlie began now to search among the long grass for some traces of the Indian village, but found only charred wood, and stones which had formed rude fireplaces, blackened by smoke. Their search naturally led them to the bank of the brook.
“I never saw such water as this before,” said Fred, stooping down to drink; “it is red, but it tastes well enough.”
Following along its banks they found some arrow-heads, where the soil had caved away. They were made of a stone resembling flint, sharp at the point, and on each edge, but the edges were irregular, showing that they were made by chipping. Some of them were light-colored, others dark. They had brought a hoe and shovel, and the soil, being sandy, offered but little resistance. They soon dug out more arrow-points, and something that looked like the bowl of a pipe, made of a softer stone.
“What is that, Fred?”
“An Indian pipe. I saw my cousin have one, and he said that’s what it was.”