pointed at the top like those of the Squamscot Indians who camped along
the river.

"Look," cried Susan with delight as she rested three poles together at
the top, "this will stand over our fire, and we can swing Tom's kettle
from it."

But Tom and the kettle were missing. At last he was found in the curled
roots of an old oak, scratching the picture of an Indian on the rough
surface of his treasured kettle, which he was persuaded to use for the
new play. The fun went with zest until Susan was called into the house.

"There, dear," explained her mother, passing her an armful of woolen
stuff, "you must take my needle and finish this seam, while I prepare
these birds for a stew. This is the last of six shirts your father wished
completed soon."

Susan seated herself by the fireside on a stool, which was merely a tree
stump, for their furniture was of the roughest kind. Her mother quickly
plucked the feathers from the wild fowl that had just been brought in and
prepared them for the kettle that hung on the crane over the hearth
fire.

"Oh, may we have that little one, Mother, for our camp?" begged Susan.
"We want to make a stew out there in Tom's kettle."

Her mother consented and laid the bird aside, while Susan watched
carefully to see just how the stew was made. When it began to boil, her
mother picked up the sewing and told her to run and play again.

The children soon had a fire crackling and the fowl stewing. They sat
delightedly about it, planning many fine uses for the little black kettle
with its three short legs. Then Edward and Joseph started on a scouting
trip, but returned later with eyes that told of something more real than
play.

"We've found an Indian boy, a real one, Susan, lying on the ground as if
he were sick."

"Then," replied Susan quickly, "take him some of our broth. I am sure it
will help him. There it is, just as good as mother's," she exclaimed, as
she gave a final taste and poured out a bowlful.

Some half dozen children followed the boys and soon circled about a
frightened Indian lad stretched on the ground. In a trice, Susan had
propped him up and was feeding him with the stew, which seemed to revive
him. Soon he allowed the children to lead him back to their wigwam, where
he dropped again to the ground. They brought him food from the house, and
then to amuse him they showed their black kettle and pointed out the
Indian Tom had scratched on its side. Though the lad said nothing,