ed 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