Jibby Jones by Ellis Parker Butler

There was no doubt in our minds what Jibby Jones had found when we pushed through the corn and came to where he was. The corn grew close up to its edges, but it was a cellar, as plain as anything could be. The cellar wall had been made of creek stones, piled up, and it had mostly crumbled inward, half filling the cellar and, on top of the stones, brush and trash, and old tin boilers and tin cans, and a couple of bedsprings and some old rusted barbed wire had been dumped, but there were four or five ends of squared logs, burned down to the ends, and we guessed what had happened to that house -- it had burned down.

The cellar was small, not over ten feet square, and we judged the house had been small -- maybe an old log cabin and maybe not -- but it had been a house, and it was near the creek and near the hill road, and it was the only sign of a house Jibby had been able to find.