"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.
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