“I,” said John, “should like to go to some strange place, where we never have been. I heard Joe Griffin and Henry telling about a place; they said it was eight or nine miles to the eastward of Birch Point, where nobody lives. They said there were great hills of strange-looking rocks, with a flat between them, and a brook running through it; that the Indians used to live there; and you could see the stones where they made their fires, and find arrow-heads, and Indian things that were buried there; and Uncle Isaac knew where; that somewhere along the side of the brook there was red paint, as good as ever was, and that Uncle Isaac had a room painted with it; that there were partridges there, and way back was a pond, that the brook ran out of, with pickerel in it. Joe said the way to tell it was, right off the mouth of the cove there was a great, high rock, that came up out of the water, with three spruces on the top of it, and a little turf, but the sides were all bare; and he said there were reefs and breakers all round it; but I’ll bet, if we could find it, we could see the reefs break, and keep clear of them.”