occasionally cows seem to be like folks—that is, possessed with the thing which, in despair of classifying, we call “human nature.” a manifestation of this trait appeared several times in the spring, as each patch of tender, green grass seemed to say to the wandering cows, “it is just a little sweeter and juicier in the next swale, further on. don’t stop here.” and so they would wander, like folks, on and on, never quite satisfied with the present good, but always expecting to reach the goal of desire at the next place ahead.

this wandering propensity was a source of much annoyance and loss of time to the boys in their busy spring work. often the cows would fail to reach home until away in the night—only then impelled by over-full udders, and a tardy remembrance of the new calves in the barn lot.

but finally there came a night when no din of bawling aroused the boys to a late milking, and morning light revealed but a lot of half-starved calves at the barn.

“this won’t do at all,” said rob; “we’ve got to go after those cows, even if it means the loss of a precious day.”

the straight trail leading to their usual feeding

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grounds was easily followed, but there little trails led about in all directions. to the west lay the deep iron creek marsh, a vast morass fully a mile wide, supposed to be impassible except in the driest seasons. really, it was a sluggish, scarcely-moving, shallow river, overgrown with rushes and coarse grass, through which water moved slowly along, down from the great north country.

this had always acted as an effective barrier to the westward-roving of the cattle, and to the north lay the big woods, with their scanty growth of grass. until late in the afternoon the boys hunted off towards the south, circling around this low-lying island, climbing a tree on that, in hopes of discovering the bunch resting somewhere, hidden away. disheartened at last, they turned their faces homeward.

shortly after noon mrs. allen heard a great lowing of cows, accompanied with bleating of frantic calves, and going to the north door had seen the cows coming in on a run, the milk trickling in little streams from their udders—full almost to bursting. indeed it was now great concern those mothers were feeling for their offspring. she wisely let down the bars, and it was not long before the misery of over-fulness was transferred from the cows to the calves.

the return of the cows presented puzzling aspects to the boys, but there was another mystery to be solved, which was not able to be cleared up until later.

“see the cows’ legs!” exclaimed rob. “they’ve found another berry patch.” several times during

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those june days the cattle had returned home with shanks dyed red from crushing the long-stemmed wild strawberries, which grew in great profusion in patches on the higher portions of the marsh.

“strawberries never stained that high up,” answered ed, going over to the cattle. “maybe the mosquitoes have been at them again. see, their udders even are all red, and the calves have rubbed it all over their heads too.” ed’s supposition was a reasonable one, for not infrequently the insects had appeared in the marshes in such swarms as to drive the cattle in to dark shelter of the stables, even in day time, the poor beasts coming in frantic and all bloody from the attack of these pests. but this time the color was not the stain of strawberries, nor that of blood drawn by insects.

“come here, look at this, rob,” called ed as he held up his hand all red, where he had passed it over the belly of old spot. “some one has painted our cows! this is nothing else than red paint.” a quick examination showed that the entire bunch had received the same treatment—a thick, bright red plaster covered all their legs and the under parts of the body.

who had done such a thing, and why? the thought of their indian neighbors flashed into the minds of both boys; they had paint like that with which in some of their ceremonial dances they smeared themselves. had they held the cows overnight and painted them up this way? if so, what could have been the motive?

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had mr. allen been at home he might have ventured a shrewder guess as to the nature of the material with which the cows had been decorated, but he, too, would have lacked the revelation of the secret which came to the boys a little later.

the corn and oats were all in and growing nicely, and the boys had promised that before haying should begin, they would accompany their indian friend, kalichigoogah, and his people, blueberrying, over across iron creek marsh, to the somewhat higher swales and little sandy islands of the little yellow river, where this luscious berry found its natural habitat.

this pilgrimage was an annual custom of the red men. here, when the low bushes, growing luxuriantly in moist earth, were so heavily laden with great clusters, from a little distance it appeared as if a section of the sky had fallen upon the ground. then the indians would come and camp for a couple of weeks, while squaws and papooses—and sometimes the men, when they felt in the mood—would pick and spread the fruit out to dry in the hot sun, to be afterwards stored away in linden bark baskets, for their feasting in the lean months of snow and cold. so much of providence had the indian learned from the white man.

accompanying their red friends, the boys set forth one early morning. their guns were reluctantly left at home, for they would have provision to last them a week to pack one way, and some heavy loads of the half dried berries, they hoped, on the return. the

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indians shaped their course not due west, as the boys had supposed they would, to the iron creek marsh, but northwest, to where the timber belt came close down to the deep morass. it seemed to the boys a long way around, but it proved to be about the only way across. the rapid, swinging, half-trot soon brought them into a well-worn trail, leading in their desired direction. whether this was a deer trail, or a path worn deep by generations of indians passing this way, as was their custom, in single file, the boys could not tell. probably men and beasts both had a part in the formation of this easily travelled, narrow road.

as they reached the place where the timber came down to the edge of the marsh they saw why the trail had led that way. the marsh was narrow at this point, and nearly across, at some time in the long ago, beavers had constructed a dam, which probably for centuries had resisted the force of flood and current, and held back the waters in a little lake. along this grass-grown solid embankment the travellers passed dry-shod nearly to the further side of the swamp, where a break had been made, probably started by the hole-boring-crawfish.

except in the highest stages of the spring flood, all the waters of the big marsh passed through this break. dark and cold, and waist deep, the strong current was soon passed through, each of our boys, as well as the squaws, bearing upon their shoulders a big-eyed papoose, in addition to their packs of provision. the indian braves carried their guns—and much dignity.

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above the dam were perhaps an hundred turf houses, resembling miniature indian lodges, standing in the shallow water. “beavers?” enquired rob of his red friend. “musquash,” replied the indian boy. “beaver go. smell ’um white man—no like.” whether muskrat or beaver, the boys determined to come that way trapping in the fall.

as they reached the western side of the marsh, a strange sight met their eyes. a long, flat bank—how long they could not tell—lay up against the shore, gleaming in colors of yellow, orange and red. there were tracks where some kind of animals had come down across to drink at the running current.

“look at that, boys!” shouted rob. “did you ever hear such a thing? it’s a regular paint mine. there’s where our cows came, and they plastered themselves so well that the stuff didn’t all wash off when they waded through this water.”

rob and ed were for turning aside at once to investigate. “why, there must be tons and tons of that stuff.” “how far do you suppose it extends toward the north?” “i wonder how deep the bed is.” “what is the stuff, any how?” “there’s enough of it in sight to paint the world.” “if we can get that to market our fortune’s made.” these were some of the eager exclamations of the boys.

however, the indians seemed to be not in the least excited, but rather were anxious to reach their camping place, and refused to stop, pushing ahead at the steady, rapid pace. the trail led across a wide, sandy

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ridge covered with norway pines. here and there were depressions of from one to two acres in extent, already covered with a luxuriant growth of blue-joint grass, nearly waist high.

occasionally a deer would bound away from behind a fallen tree. the doe and her fawn were safe from the indian’s rifle, but the fat, grass-fed buck had best be wary. once the procession stopped for a moment as a huge lucivee, the canadian lynx—“indian devil” as it was called and dreaded by the early white hunters of the far north—dropped down from a pine tree into the trail in front of them. with insolent, yellow eyes the big cat looked them over, and, seeming to conclude that it was not worth his while to dispute the way, moved leisurely off. the indians, though armed, had a wholesome respect for this animal’s fighting qualities, who seemed to have not only the traditional nine lives of the cat, but a big added store of invincibility on his own account. any one of them, however, might have tackled the big brute, had they been alone, but all together would let him go in peace, if so he elected, for the sake of the women and little ones with them.

in a space bare of trees or other growth, the boys caught sight of some noble deer antlers, yet attached to bare skulls, and about which were scattered many white bones. here was the scene of a woods-folk tragedy. the brave antlers on the two bare skulls were inextricably locked together. the picture came to the boys as they trudged on:—

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the crisp brightness of an october morning—mating time; the meeting of the two gallant knights of the forest; the quick call of challenge; the fierce stamping of slender hoofs; the rush; the shock of impact, head to head; the great horns locked, prong in prong, the attempt to break away for thrust and stroke with knife-like hoof; the long day of alternate fierce struggle for freedom and panting exhaustion. then came night—and the wolves, for there were to be no more days, long-drawn-out with suffering, for these brave warriors.

it is the law of the wild that none of the woods-folk shall die of old age, neither shall very many suffer long of wounds, but, when the strength and cunning that nature has given, no longer protects, their flesh shall pass to add to the strength of the stronger.

the days of a week passed rapidly, as the boys gathered berries, which dried quickly on the clean, hot sand. however, they could not rid themselves of the thought of the great “paint mine,” as they called it, and the desire to investigate and learn its real value, possessed them. they already had twice as many berries, rob said, as the family could eat in a year. but ed argued that the paint mine could wait a little, while the berries would not. besides, he had a plan to sell a lot of this dried fruit to the men going up into the big woods, next fall. after talking over the matter, they concluded to go back after the steers and light wagon, as now they knew the trail, and bring more provision, and something in which to pack the dried berries.

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also, they would bring a barrel, which they would fill with the paint.

taking along a few quarts of the half-dried fruit for their mother, the boys started for home about sundown, preferring to make the trip of eight miles by the light of the moon, rather than in the heat of the day, for old sol had now begun to show his strength in the short northern summer. of course there would be no chance of an investigation of the paint mine, though ed would fill a pocket with the pasty, red stuff, to show to mother.

the berries were harvested, a goodly store, and for which they found a ready sale among the north-bound lumbermen, the next fall, at ten cents per pound. returning, they spent half a day at the red bank, inspecting the paint mine. where the bank lay clear and free from grass it extended for perhaps an hundred yards up stream, where it seemed to shelve off into the water, and there the grass and rushes were growing up through it. the deposit in the bank was not gritty, but smooth and slippery, like fine clay, apparently free from soil or dirt, and ranged in color from an orange yellow, to a deep brown. in several places where they dug, it was a full foot in depth, though perhaps half of that would be an average depth.

“just look at it, ed,” exclaimed rob. “how many tons of it do you suppose there is? if it wasn’t so far from some railroad, we could make our fortune shipping this.”

“but, rob,” replied sturdy ed, “it’s only about

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four miles straight to the river; and we could easily fill the five barrels that we have, and build a raft and float them down to necedah. i am sure we could sell it to mr. blake; he always keeps the mill buildings painted. and then, perhaps, we could raft another lot down to kilbourne.”

mr. allen had arrived at home when the boys reached there with their specimen barrel, and was greatly interested in their account of the paint mine. “it is a very pure specimen of ocher, boys, and some day, when the railroads push out into this country, will be of commercial value.”

“what is ocher, father?” asked rob.

“chemically speaking, son, it is iron peroxide. in plain terms—iron rust.”

“but why is some of it red and some yellow?” questioned ed.

father laughed. “that calls for some more hard words, words that tell what, but not so much why or how. that part you will have to puzzle out when you are in college. the red receives its color from the sesquioxide, and the yellow from the hydrous sesquioxide of iron.”

“but where has all that iron rust come from?” asked rob. “are there any iron mines about here?”

“no,” replied mr. allen, “i have seen no indication of iron in the rock of the bluffs which push up through the surface here. yet the water of all these marshes seems to be more or less impregnated with iron. and it is that fact which gives to this section

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its peculiar value in the culture of cranberries. somewhere at the north—how far, who can say?—this water of the iron creek marsh, you may be sure, flows over a bed of iron ore. who knows but that some day you boys may be the ones to locate that iron mine?”

mr. allen believed that boys, in order to become well-developed, strong men, should be allowed a wide range for experiment, thinking that the lessons thus learned would be of more permanent value than those learned in books or from mere advice. so he agreed to the plan the boys had explained, of rafting their five barrels of ochre down the river to necedah.

two days were spent in mining and bringing the mineral to the bank of the stream, another day in building the raft, and, as the river was half-bank full with the june rise, but two more days were required to bring them to the big sawmill town at the foot of the great granite bluff.

the boys had many questions to answer, when they had found the good-natured lumberman, but he took the raw “paint” off their hands, and the boys with happy hearts turned their faces homeward with five crisp five-dollar bills in their pockets.

these youngsters were not to be the discoverers of the hidden iron mine away to the north, for many necessary duties pressed in upon them, and they found no time to spare for so uncertain a trip, but when they had grown to manhood, the railroads did indeed come, and even before their coming, the mine was laid open. as the boys were bargaining with mr. blake for the

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sale of their ocher, they noticed in the crowd of interested bystanders “old john t.”, as everybody called the great man of all that country. “his eyes were like two sharp augers under those heavy eyebrows,” said rob, “as he asked questions regarding the deposit, the lay of the land, and the direction of the flowing water.”

it is a matter of history that not long after this incident the great gogebic iron range, which has made wisconsin famous as an iron producing state, was discovered in the northern part of the state, and “old john t.” was one of its large owners to the day of his death.