ornamented in a way that is truly wonderful for a people who, taken as a whole, could have had but little opportunity or material for ornament. Sometimes a copper knife or string of beads is picked up where the cows have tramped their paths along the banks or side hills and the searcher after those relics is seldom disappointed if he looks closely for them One of the finest spots, as well as one of the most interesting, is Burying-Ground-Point, about three miles above the village of Whitehall. Just why it came to be called by that name, no one seemed to know as there was nothing there to indicate that it had ever been a place of burial for human beings. The numerous mounds that are found on the high grounds just back of and overlooking the places where the homes of these people were made, show plainly where their dead were buried. But nevertheless it was known to all, from the earliest settler down to the present time, as Burying-Ground-Point. Legends there were, as there always is, concerning such places and I will tell you one that was told to me by one of the aborigines who was a familiar figure in these parts at an early day. Near the mouth of Silver Creek which the Indians called Bishegaindang (the beautiful) stood a little village presided over and governed by an aged chief, who at the time of my story had two sons just grown to manhood. These boys were the pride of the old man’s heart for they were great in the chase, and excelled in the games that these primitive people knew: the bird in the highest tree was not safe from their arrows, while the finny tribe of the river and creeks paid tribute to their skills One morning in Autumn when the wood and marshland was all aglow with the red and gold of an Indian Summer, these young men, taking their canoes, started for the great water (Lake Michigan) and promised the old father that they would be back before the fog and shadows of night fell; a promise that was never to be fulfilled, for the shadows of night fell, and the days came and went, but the pride and life of the old chief’s heart never came. Leading straight up from the bank of Silver Creek was a high bluff from