Back to his wigwam went the red man, down to his home
tucked dosed under the sheltering rock, and, after washing
his hands in a basswood bowl, began to prepare his simple
meal.
A tin-lined copper pot hanging over the fire was partly
filled with water; then, when it was boiling, some samp or
powdered corn and some clams were stirred in. While
these were cooking, he took his smooth-bore flint-lock,
crawled gently over the ridge that screened his wigwam
from the northwest wind, and peered with hawk-like
eyes across the broad sheet of water that, held by a high
beaver-dam, filled the little valley of Asamuk Brook.
The winter ice was still on the pond, but in all the warming
shallows there was open water, on which were likely
to be ducks. None were to be seen, but by the edge of the
ice was a round object which, although so far away, he
knew at a glance for a muskrat.
By crawling around the pond, the Indian could easily
have come within shot, but he returned at once to his
wigwam, where he exchanged his gun for the weapons of
his fathers, a bow and arrows, and a long fish-line. A
short, quick stalk, and the muskrat, still eating a flagroot,
was within thirty feet.
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