DIGGING UP INDIAN MOUNDS

I wonder what the Iroquois would think if they could see this bunch hiking along through the woods," chuckled Harold, who was helping carry a bushel basked piled high with things for the dinner.

"O, they would enjoy this hike as much as we will," replied Dale, as he put down his end of the basket. "Only, of course, they would know a lot more about cooking over an open fire than any of us."

"Well, I guess so," replied Harold. "Why, any Indian could cook a loaf of bread on a green paddle just by holding the dough in the hot ashes. But there aren't twenty-five fellows in this bunch that have ever cooked a real camp meal, let along make bread. I'll bet we'll have a circus watching some of them at noon, for you know the 'chief' and the leaders aren't even going to make any suggestions, and the fellow that gets the best meal, all things considered, is going to get a prize."

"Gee, I'd like to win it," confided Harold to Vincent. "I wish he'd let two of us work together, don't you?"

"Longley's a peach at cooking on the fire," suggested Vincent. "He belongs to a club of fellows that cook their supper out once a week. He said they had made oyster-stew and cornbread and baked eggs and---"

"O, rats! I'll get enough to eat, anyway," said Dale, and the subject was dismissed as the basket was again moved forward.

The long line of fellows made a small army as they trudged along the lake road, in and out among the great oaks, stopping now and then to pick a handful of berries or to change the load to some of the other fellows.

After an hour's steady walking they turned in through an ancient gate, left the lake behind, and worked their way into an immense open meadow with low, heavily-wooded hills surrounding it. When well into the meadow, the baskets were put down and the entire party lined up for dinner instructions.

"You are each to cook a fresh egg, a piece of meat, and two potatoes," instructed the "chief." "Each boy is to select his own wood and bring it to a place that will be assigned him, build a fire that is his idea of a camp cooking fire, and cook each article any way he chooses. The contest will not depend on how well you cook any one thing, but upon the best average meal. The leaders will prepare a special fire and make coffee for all, and when the dinners are cooked, the sandwiches will be issued."

There was a wild scramble for wood, suitable flat stones, the proper clay, and such other things as would be needed. Dale had the good fortune to find two excellent tin-cans and promptly handed one over to Vincent. Wood of every size and of every description was carried to the allotted spots. Some carried in stones, with which to build fireplaces-just for what use, they didn't know. Others dug holes in the ground and built their fires in them. Some refused to burn anything but choice sassafras, while others were perfectly content with dead, half-rotten, water-soaked wood, dry brush, or chips.

After an hour of planning and preparing, several boys lighted their fires, or rater attempted to, with the two matches allowed them. Dale was one of the first to get a rousing blaze-one big enough to cook dinner over for a whole regiment-but it was his first attempt, and how was he to know? He determined to cook his egg first. By that time the other fellows would be started on their meat, and he would learn by watching them, just how to do it. He had seen his aunt boil eggs many a time, and he had a nice, clean can to boil his in now. It would be a simple matter, for while the others were improvising ways of cooking their eggs, his would be boiling away with no trouble at all.

A pail of fresh water had been brought from the spring in the swamp. He filled his can, dropped his egg into it, and after scorching both eyebrows, burning his right had, and nearly setting his clothes on fire, he succeeded in placing the can very insecurely in the blaze. He had purposely chosen a place near the Twins, so he could watch them, for he was anxious to learn.

Vincent and Harold busied themselves in silence, each carefully arranged. At one side of each blaze lay a neat little pile of carefully selected sticks as a reserve. Harold had secured a lump of good clay, and after working it smooth and picking all the little stones and sticks from it, he removed the ends from his potatoes, then covered them with a good coat of the clay, taking care to leave a tiny hole over the cut ends in order to allow the steam to escape. This would keep the potatoes from exploding. He then deftly raked away his ashes and placed the potatoes in the bottom of the fire, covering them with selected hickory sticks. Next he cleaned his flat stone by rubbing its surface well with gravel. When its condition suited him he placed it in the fire to warm, turning it now and then to distribute the heat so that it would not crack. When it was warmed through he propped it up on three other stones as legs, and fed his choicest sticks into the fire to heat it. Dale watched with concealed admiration, entirely forgetting his own fire. As he stood watching the Twins, suddenly there was a sputtering, a spitting, and a column of smoky steam behind him. He turned to see the water running out of the bottom of the now blackened can, for the solder had melted and released bottom, egg, and water into the fire. The egg probably would have been burned to a crisp, had it not been for the prompt action of Vincent, who, picking up a handful of green leaves, snatched the egg from the fire and deftly handed it to the astonished Dale, who instantly dropped it, and thereby ruined it. Vincent was disgusted beyond measure, but said nothing.

He had already dropped into his fire a number of carefully selected stones and was turning them over and over with a pair of tongs he had made by bending together a green hickory limb. Longley had long since had his meat frying on a flat stone, and was keeping the hot ashes over his clay-encrusted potatoes.

The air was blue with smoke, and fellows were coughing and sneezing all along the line, not knowing enough to stay on the smokeless side of their fires.

Bill Ruthford was doing nicely. He had built an excellent fire, his flat stone was getting hot, and he was ready to attempt to fry his egg on it.

Vincent had cleaned his tin-can and placed the necessary water in it and the egg. He then fished his hot stones from the fire with his tongs, and dropped them carefully, one at a time, into the can. In a short time the water was boiling. He thus cooked the egg without placing can or egg near the fire. His meat, which he had chosen to broil on the end of a forked stick rather than on a flat stone, was already turning to a beautiful brown. He was about ready to pull out his potatoes, which he had encrusted with clay and placed in the hot ashes, but after testing one with a sharp stick he decided to wait, as it was a little hard yet.

Harold had wrapped his egg in many thicknesses of hickory leaves, tying them on with long strips of hickory bark. He then wet the little bundle thoroughly, and placed it in the ashes to steam.

"And-a my egg slipped right off into the fire," complained Bill to Mr. Cooper, who immediately have him another and told him to try again.

Longley, who had profited by Bill's mistake, did not release all of the egg on to the flat stone at once, but let out only a tiny bit from the broken shell until it had fried and made something for the rest to gather about.

"Shrimp" Warren had had bad luck with his stones, for by some queer freak of nature they had, when they become hot; suddenly exploded, scattering his dinner over a space of twenty feet, much to his disgust.

Needless to say, there were some boys who could not eat the food they had cooked, so were delighted when their turn came in the sandwich line and at the coffee pot.

The leaders helped here and examined there, and after due consideration they decided that, though Longley and the Twins had each one employed different methods of cooking, they had all done exceedingly well and should be considered as equal winners.

There was not a boy present but that wished to try the thing over on their next hike, so that they could practice the things they had learned.

"That's the best dinner I've had since I've been to camp," declared Harold, and Vincent promptly seconded the motion.

After dinner they began the digging of the mysterious Indian mound. After a great deal of speculation it was decided to dig two trenches, intersecting at right angles, through the mounds. There were many willing hands at the start, and in a short time an opening was under way. Those who did not care to dig sat by and offered many suggestions.

"No use being careful till we are down three feet at least," explained Vincent between shovelfuls.

"O, three feet nothing," ejaculated Leonard. "Four feet is the regulation depth of Indian graves.

When one trench was three feet deep, and the color of the dirt suddenly changed from brown to white, the interest became intense.

"They always bury them in white sand," affirmed Durbin. "And when they didn't naturally strike it, they made rush-mats and carried it sometimes from long distances."

"Gee, I'd like to strike a skull," said Harold, pausing to wipe away the perspiration.

"Old Thomson had one on each end of his mantel over in the old cabin," stated "Shrimp." "Mr. George told a fellow that told me. And he used one of them to keep his money in, because he knew the Indians wouldn't dare touch it there, they were too superstitious."

"That Thomson was a funny old duffer, wasn't he?" remarked Dale, from his perch on the pile of dirt, anxious to get a good story going.

While Vincent worked in one end of the trench, Harold worked in the other, and every few minutes those digging would change off with those on the bank, so that all had a turn at it. Not so with the Twins, for they refused to give up their shovels even for an instant. Harold had his haversack slung on his shoulder, and, although it kept slipping around in his way, for some reason he refused to put it aside.

"Why don't you take that bag off while you dig?" suggested Durbin.

"'Cause. Think I want my cup and dished to get lost?" blandly replied Harold.

One by one the boys tired themselves out and withdrew to the shade to rest. Still the Twins kept digging.

"I feel it in my bones," remarked Harold, "that this is my lucky day. I'm surely going to strike an Indian."

By three o'clock the hole was four feet deep in places, and still no signs of Indians, when Vincent declared he smelled a strange odor "like a mummy smells;" but not being able to describe it any better than that, the others declared it was only his imagination.

By three-thirty there were but five fellows left in the trench, when Harold, who was digging at the further end of the hole, began to whistle softly as he worked. A keen observer would have noticed that Vincent promptly turned at the first whistled notes and winked slyly at his brother in the other end of the trench. Then, in as excited a tone as he could command, he suddenly called out:

"A bone! A bone! I've found a bone!" There was a wile race from every direction, and a bending eagerly over the hole to see the discovery. In another second the overcrowded bank had caved in and the discovered bone was lost under feet of dirt. The excitement knew no bounds, however, and every boy wanted a shovel.

Those that were fortunate enough to get hold of one worked like Turks. Meanwhile, while the rush and excitement was at its height at the other end of the trench, Harold quickly slipped the bag around and drew out several pieces of bone the cook had boiled white and clean for him. These he quickly buried under a few inches of dirt, then joined the excited crowd at the other end of the trench.

"Here, one of you fellows spell me off. I'm tired," he called, as he climbed out of the hole. Dale promptly took the shovel and began where Harold had left off. Harold watched him closely for a few seconds, then started for a drink. Dale lifted one, two-six shovels of earth, then his shovel struck something hard.

"A bone! A bone!" he shouted, and the crowd surged to his end of the trench. The next shovelful showed there in the white sand several pieces of bone as white and clean as the sand itself.

Proudly Dale lifted them, a piece at a time, and handed them to the eager boys on the bank. "Love" was among those fortunate enough to receive a specimen. It was a thin, flat bone, with the appearance of having been removed from a larger bone with a meat saw, which fact was overlooked in the excitement.

"What part of the body is it from?" eagerly inquired "Love," turning it over and examining it carefully from every side.

"It's a piece of skull, isn't it?" suggested "Shrimp."

"No, it's a femur, or something like that," added "Specks."

"Ask Bill," suggested Vincent. "His father's a doctor, he'll know."

Bill examined it critically. "And-a it's a knee-cap, I think," said he. The next shovelful brought up a half a dozen bones from last Sunday's chicken dinner, but each one, after considerable controversy, was named and identified. One was a collar-bone, another a vertebra, and a third a floating rib.

"Gee, isn't this great!" chuckled Vincent, with glee. "Now fellows, let's get busy and get the rest of him." While the Twins stood out on the bank and watched, the rest dug untiringly till the hole was too deep to any longer throw the dirt out. But they found no other traces, and at last gave up from sheer exhaustion.

"I suppose the rest of him just turned to dirt, didn't it?" said Harold to Vincent. Every specimen was carefully carried home and proudly displayed to the cook.

"O, dem is jest chicken bones," laughed the good-natured chef. "Some wise ole fox buried dem bones in dat hole so de farmers wouldn't cotch him foolin' roun' dere hen houses." But the boys were not willing to believe him.

That evening Vincent sat a long time silent by the fire, till his dream was broken by a good-natured slap on the shoulder from Cooper.

"What are you thinking about, boy?"

"O, I was just wondering why we didn't find any arrow-heads or stone axes in that hole if it was a real Indian grave. Seems queer, don't it? Anyway, it's kind of mean to be digging up Indian graves, don't you think so? If there are any spirits about, they are liable to make us sorry."

"There are those that say there are spirits around here," suggested Cooper. "You know a long time ago a woman jumped from a boat into Little Corey and was drowned. The folks around here believed she had seen old Thomson's ghost. She was just a little insane at times, and declared she had often met his spirit wandering in the woods."

"Spirits and bones," shivered Vincent. "I'll bet I'll dream about them to-night. Good night!" and he rose and went to his bunk.