He had gone but short space when, suddenly, he stopped, drawn up by
sight of what lay in his path.
He had pierced a thicket of hanging vines, too eager to go around, and
come abruptly upon some pagan shrine, some savage Holy of Holies.
And yet not wholly savage, for the signs of the red man and the white
were strangely blended.
In the centre of the open space within the hanging wall of the vines,--
perfect sylvan temple,--there lay a mounded grave, covered from head to
foot with articles he knew at once to be the gifts of Indians to some
great chief gone to the shadowy hunting-grounds. Rich they were, these
gifts, in workmanship and carving, though mean and poor in quality,
showing that great love had attended their giving, though the givers
themselves must be a meagre people.
At the head of the mound towered a gigantic totem pole, carved and
painted with scenes of a most minute history, while at the foot of a
smaller stake, alike carved and coloured, bore, one upon another,
twelve rings of bone, each one of which stood for the circle of a year.
Crossed and shielded with infinite care, in the centre there lay a set
of smith's tools, crudely fashioned and well worn, tongs and a heavy
hammer and a small anvil.
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