The Country of the Pointed Firs

The heat of the open fire made us a little drowsy, but something in the way Mrs. Todd spoke of Shell-heap Island waked my interest. I waited to see if she would say any more, and then took a roundabout way back to the subject by saying what was first in my mind: that I wished the Green Island family were there to spend the evening with us,--Mrs. Todd's mother and her brother William. Mrs. Todd smiled, and drummed on the arm of the rocking-chair. “Might scare William to death,” she warned me; and Mrs. Fosdick mentioned her intention of going out to Green Island to stay two or three days, if the wind didn't make too much sea. “Where is Shell-heap Island?” I ventured to ask, seizing the opportunity. “Bears nor-east somewheres about three miles from Green Island; right off-shore, I should call it about eight miles out,” said Mrs. Todd. “You never was there, dear; 'tis off the thoroughfares, and a very bad place to land at best.” “I should think 'twas,” agreed Mrs. Fosdick, smoothing down her black silk apron. “'Tis a place worth visitin' when you once get there. Some o' the old folks was kind o' fearful about it. 'Twas 'counted a great place in old Indian times; you can pick up their stone tools 'most any time if you hunt about. There's a beautiful spring o' water, too. Yes, I remember when they used to tell queer stories about Shell-heap Island. Some said 'twas a great bangeing-place for the Indians, and an old chief resided there once that ruled the winds; and others said they'd always heard that once the Indians come down from up country an' left a captive there without any bo't, an' 'twas too far to swim across to Black Island, so called, an' he lived there till he perished.”