Sam suggested nailing them to the posts, and Yan was horrified at the idea of using nails.  “No Indian has any nails.”

“Well, what would they use?” said Sam.

“They used thongs, an’—­an’—­maybe wooden pegs.  I don’t know, but seems to me that would be all right.”

“But them poles is hard wood,” objected the practical Sam.  “You can drive Oak pegs into Pine, but you can’t drive wooden pegs into hard wood without you make some sort of a hole first.  Maybe I’d better bring a gimlet.”

“Now, Sam, you might just as well hire a carpenter—­that wouldn’t be Indian at all.  Let’s play it right.  We’ll find some way.  I believe we can tie them up with Leatherwood.”

So Sam made a sharp Oak pick with his axe, and Yan used it to pick holes in each piece of bark and then did a sort of rude sewing till the wigwam seemed beautifully covered in.  But when they went inside to look they were unpleasantly surprised to find how many holes there were.  It was impossible to close them all because the bark was cracking in so many places, but the boys plugged the worst of them and then prepared for the great sacred ceremony—­the lighting of the fire in the middle.

They gathered a lot of dry fuel, then Yan produced a match.

“That don’t look to me very Injun,” drawled Sam critically.  “I don’t think Injuns has matches.”

“Well, they don’t,” admitted Yan, humbly.  “But I haven’t a flint and steel, and don’t know how to work rubbing-sticks, so we just got to use matches, if we want a fire.”

“Why, of course we want a fire.  I ain’t kicking,” said Sam.  “Go ahead with your old leg-fire sulphur stick.  A camp without a fire would be ’bout like last year’s bird’s nest or a house with the roof off.”

Yan struck a match and put it to the wood.  It went out.  He struck another—­same result.  Yet another went out.

Sam remarked: 

“Pears to me you don’t know much about lightin’ a fire.  Lemme show you.  Let the White hunter learn the Injun somethin’ about the woods,” said he with a leer.

Sam took the axe and cut some sticks of a dry Pine root.  Then with his knife he cut long curling shavings, which he left sticking in a fuzz at the end of each stick.

“Oh, I’ve seen a picture of an Indian making them.  They call them ‘prayer-sticks,’” said Yan.

“Well, prayer-sticks is mighty good kindlin’” replied the other.  He struck a match, and in a minute he had a blazing fire in the middle of the wigwam.

“Old Granny de Neuville, she’s a witch—­she knows all about the woods, and cracked Jimmy turns everything into poetry what she says.  He says she says when you want to make a fire in the woods you take—­

  “First a curl of Birch bark as dry as it kin be,
  Then some twigs of soft-wood, dead, but on the tree,
  Last o’ all some Pine knots to make the kittle foam,
  An’ thar’s a fire to make you think you’re settin’ right at home.”