“Then I’ll ask him.”
“Fred,” said Charlie, holding the rusty weapon in his hand, “do you expect this ever killed anybody?”
“Yes; I expect it has killed many a one; there’s something red on it; perhaps it’s blood.”
“May be so.”
They walked along the bank of the brook, digging here and there, but finding nothing to reward their search till they came to the edge of the forest. All around among the scattered pines were the remains of fireplaces, and large heaps of clam-shells. It was evident that here (in times long gone by) had been a camping ground, and that the forest had overgrown it. A large pine, torn up by the tempest, lay across the brook. Looking into the cavity made by its removal, they saw something white, and, examining more narrowly, found it was a bone.
“It’s Indian bones,” cried Fred; and, plying the shovel, he soon brought to view the skeleton of an Indian. The skull, teeth, hair, and thigh-bones were but very little decayed. A dark ring, evidently the remains of some vegetable substance, completely surrounding the skeleton, was distinctly visible in the yellow sand.
“That is what he was buried in,” said Fred. They set themselves to discover what it was.
“It’s birch bark,” said Charlie.
“No, it ain’t,” said Fred, who had at length found a portion that was less decayed than the rest; “it’s elm-rind.”
“What is that?”