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of boys are made 
happy with_ this 
Boys, 
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Where a gun 
your 
if he happens not to have 
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é Dept. 102, Columbia, S.C. TRO seen 7; 
Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 
put out and damp earth thrown over 
it, our luggage was shouldered, and off 
we started again, the machete hewing a 
path through the dense vegetation when 
necessary. Since there was no possible 
trail along shore, we were compelled to 
strike into the hammock again, but 
after hours on the prairie and saw- 
grass land, under the beating sun, we 
were thankful for this deep and shaded 
jungle peace. A mile or so, and the 
undergrowth opened, allowing us to 
walk in perfect comfort beneath the 
fine trees. The soil was responsive to 
touch, springy, sponge-like, the residue 
of the centuries, and largely decayed 
vegetable matter, black as ink. 
Now Sonnyboy was leading the way, 
his rifle ready for chance game. From 
his guardianship of it, I think he half- 
expected to see a lion leap out at him, 
or a great black bear plunge from the 
thickets. 
Suddenly I heard him cry out to me: 
“Come here—quick! quick!” 
Fearful lest he had come upon a 
giant moccasin or a wild cat, I ran to 
join him. 
But it was neither of these perils. 
What I did see, in a clearing, now 
partly overrun with ferns and young 
custard apples, with hints of the gleam 
of the beautiful “Christmas Berry,” 
was the remnants of a former Seminole 
camp! 
It had not been occupied in years, 
but it gave the place an unmis- 
takable atmosphere of occupancy, of 
life. There were the upright poles and 
cross-pieces of the grotesque bunks 
upon which Indians of this section sleep 
—a half-dozen of them, forming a sort 
of colony; there were the two thatched 
huts — community houses, as it were; 
there were the enclosures for chickens 
and pigs, and a stake to which a dog 
had been fastened, the earth padded 
smooth around it; there were the three 
logs, meeting at a given point in a 
radius of old ashes—the Seminole solu- 
tion of the camp-fire problem, and a 
very happy solution too, which simply 
means the shoving up of each log as it 
burns; there were even rusty cooking 
utensils and a battered black pot, out 
of which grew a clump of dauntless 
ferns. On the opposite side we found 
a half-dozen orange trees, gone wild, 
but loaded with golden globes. Sonny- 
boy made a dash for one, sliced it open 
and took a bite, only to toss it aside 
with a grimace. It was both sour and 
bitter ! 
“TIndians—their camp?” Sonny asked, 
after we had completed our investiga- 
tion. 
“‘Seminoles—a little tribe of them,” I 
explained. ‘The chief must have died. 
We'll find his grave around abouts 
somewhere. It is the custom, when one 
in high authority dies, for the others to 
leave the camp and never return. Su- 
Tt will 
perstition. But the chief is left behind, 
sole custodian of the deserted king- 
dom.” 
A path led out and down through the 
sweet-scented bay trees. I knew its 
significance, also. No Seminole ever 
lives too near the edge of a hammock, 
where stragglers might happen upon 
him. But there is invariably a trail to 
the open, deftly concealed the moment it 
comes to the water. You might pass it 
a thousand times and never know it 
was there. And this trail is always 
“covered,” by day and by night: sen- 
tries never release their vigil. 
We followed the weed-grown path, 
and, true to my suspicions, there again 
loomed the gleam and glitter of the 
sunshine on dancing waters. Along- 
side, I observed unmistakable signs of 
‘gator nests. It was a none too re- 
assuring spot. 
But the clearing and the camp 
seemed to me to be ideal for our own 
purposes. We had gone quite far 
enough. This was a perfect camping 
ground, with much that we would need 
already provided, and I favored the 
idea of rolling up in our pup tents on 
the raised platforms. So it was defi- 
nitely decided to make this our head- 
quarters. 
Things were put in ship-shape order, 
and, relieved of our traps, we set forth 
on an afternoon expedition into the 
hammock jungle to the westward of 
the Indian camp. It was wild, colorful, 
immensely engrossing to Sonnyboy who 
was seeing it all for the first time and 
whose vivid young imagination sup- 
plied anything which was lacking. 
We shot three limpkins for supper, 
I having promised to try my hand at 
limpkin stew. It’s a bit “gamey,” but 
a rare morsel if you care for that sort 
of thing. Sonnyboy killed his second 
and third moccasin, when we came to 
the water evain. But nothing could 
get him near them—and I did not 
blame him. 
What with our slow gait and our 
interest in every phase of the ham- 
mock’s interior, we did not turn camp- 
ward until dusk. It was almost dark 
when we reached the little grove of 
wild oranges. 
Sonnyboy’s hand gripped my arm. 
The tightening fingers hurt me, they 
were so tense. 
But I had seen the same thing at the 
self-same second. 
A gleam of light burning through the 
darkness—the smell of smoke! 
It was a fire in the Seminole camp, 
and we had built none before leaving. 
Someone had taken possession! 
(Concluded in neat issue) 

identify you. vee 104 
