“All right,” he said. “I’ll be all right here near the fire. You two search for the paddles. But be careful, don’t fall in the water again.”

We left him and worked our way down the creek bank. We went at least a mile but found no trace of the three paddles we had been using only an hour before. When we reported our failure to my father, he shook his head. “We’ll have to carve one,” he said. “We can’t go any farther without at least one paddle.”

“They may have floated up on the other side,” said Tim.

“Then they’re lost,” my father told him. “Lizzy, you had better put some beans to soaking, because they’re all we’ll have for supper. While you’re in the pack, hand me my revolver. You never know, a rabbit might just come out into sight.”

“I could hunt for one,” said Tim.

“The rifles are gone,” said my father. “And few men are a good enough pistol shot to hit a rabbit.”

“I saw a partridge while I was cutting the splint,” Tim said.

“Next time you see one, try to hit it with a stone,” said my father.

“I’ll go look again,” said Tim.

“While you’re in the woods, find a small birch tree,” my father said. “The inner bark is sweet and good food. Cut several long strips, and we’ll add them to the beans. Lizzy, while your brother is hunting, go down to the shore and examine the waterline. There may be freshwater clams or crayfish that we can add to the supplies. We must use all the daylight we have. Later, when it’s dark, we’ll talk and make our plans.”

Tim went in one direction, while I did as my father had asked. I didn’t see any clams, but I found several snails and one small green turtle. I didn’t know what to do with them, but my father told me.

“Put the large pot near the fire,” he said. “Get the water boiling, and then throw in the snails and the turtle.”

“But, Father,” I protested, “they’re still alive.”

He held out his hand and I put the turtle into it. He tried to cut its head off with his knife, but it withdrew into the shell. He placed the turtle down on the ground. I stared in fascination as he struck its shell squarely in the center with the butt of his revolver.

“Now it’s dead,” he told me. “If you can cut the head off, fine. Otherwise, hit the shell with something heavy. The concussion will kill it. Once the turtle is cooked, it’ll be easy to quarter the underpart and scoop out the innards.” I put the turtle, which was oozing a green liquid, into the pot. When my father threw in the snails, I didn’t say anything.