sky, sat a sharp-sliinned hawk. A flock of the tree sparrows was flitting about 

 tlie tops of the snow banks not many yards beyond his perch. I had not the 

 slightest doubt that the villain's maw already contained several of the birds. 

 At any rate his hunger must have been jjretty well satisfied for in the midst of 

 plenty he made no attempt to secure food. I have confessed elsewhere to a sort 

 of liking for the hawk; but the hawk is one thing and the sharp-shinned hawk 

 is another. The scientists of Uncle Sam's agricultural department tell us that 

 the sharp-shinned hawk is a double-dyed rascal, and they prove their point to 

 my satisfaction. The Cooper's hawk is another villain and with his sharp- 

 shinned friend has an inordinate appetite for song birds and small chickens. We 

 may make friends of the rest of the hawks, the scientists tell us, without laying 

 ourselves open to the charge of keeping bad compan}'. 



The hawk sitting on his watch tower was the last glimpse of bird life that 

 we had before Pokagon's hut came into view. Just before we reached it our 

 horses and sleigh became fast in a huge snowdrift. The horses were in it 

 much more than leg deep and all their efforts to free themselves and the cutter 

 were unavailing. Soon we saw someone come to the doorway of the house. 

 It was Pokagon. He looked across the snow and, seeing our predicament, came 

 plowing through the big drifts to the rescue. He had just the trace of a smile 

 on his face as he went to the back of the sleigh and put his shoulder well under 

 the box. There was a heave forward and upward, an encouraging word to the 

 horses, and with a great lurch the cutter was free. Pokagon was old, but he 

 had a deal of strength left in his arms, legs and body, and a talk with him showed 

 likewise that no weakness had entered into his brain. 



I am tempted to forget momentarily that this is a book of birds and tell 

 a little something of this visit to the fireside of the famous Pottawattomie chief. 

 He told the pathetic story of his attempt to get from the United States what was 

 due the remnant of his people under their treaty rights. He told of violated 

 promises and of perfidy whose recital would have better place in another "Cen- 

 tury of Dishonor" than in this little volume. It was Pokagon's father who 

 sold, for three cents an acre, the land on which now stands the city of Chicago. 

 On that winter day in Michigan, the chief said: "They tell me that vast sums 

 now are paid for a few feet of what was then sold for a trifle by the square 

 mile. I inherited my father's rights and I also inherited the care of my people. 

 They are scattered all through the country now and are few in numbers. The 

 tribal relation is broken by their becoming citizens of the United States. All this 

 has weakened my efforts to do for them what might be done. There is much 

 more money due from the white people and I shall try to get it. I may die be- 

 fore success comes; if I do, my eldest son will take up what little there is left 

 of my authority and the much that there is left of my troubles." 



In his youth Pokagon hunted deer on the site of the hut in which he 

 told his troubles that day. The old fellow knew nature like a book. I drew him 

 out on the subject of birds and mammals. When I spoke of my interest in birds 

 and asked him if he knew them well he smiled a little and asked me if I had 



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