In the midst of these flowers our hunters pitched camp, picketing their animals, and putting up their tent as usual.
The sun was shining brightly, and they proceeded to spread their wet robes and blankets.
“It strikes me,” said Lucien, after they had completed their arrangements for camping, “that we have halted on the site of an old Indian town.”
“Why do you think so?” asked Basil.
“Why, I notice these heaps of rubbish here that are covered with weeds and briars. They are Indian graves, or piles of decayed logs where houses once stood. I can tell from the trees, too. Look around! do you see anything peculiar in these trees?”
“Nothing,” replied Basil and François together. “Nothing, except that they are mostly small and low.”
“Do you not observe anything odd in their species?”
“No,” said Basil. “I think I have seen them all before. There are mulberry-trees, and black walnuts, and Chicasaw plums, and pawpaws, and Osage orange, and shell-bark hickories, and pecans, and honey-locusts. I see no others except vines, and those great magnolias. I have seen all these trees before.”
“Yes,” returned Lucien, “but have you ever observed them all growing together in this way?”
“Ah! that is a different affair: I believe not.”