On the Trail of Pokagon 6i 



I have never been sorry that I left the warm Pullman for the 

 cold of the open fields. 



The proprietor of a Hartford livery stable agreed to drive 

 me to Pokagon's dwelling and back again in time to take the 

 late night train to Chicago. It was a matter of forty-eight 

 miles out and back, and with zero conditions and the snow 

 over the fences all the way, we flattered ourselves that we 

 were showing some little fortitude in undertaking the trip. 

 When we had reached the edge of the village we met a party 

 of Indians occupying a box sleigh. One of them was Poka- 

 gon's son upon whom now rests his father's mantle. We 

 stopped and talked to the Indians for a few minutes, and 

 while we were getting some hints for the shortening of our 

 journey two woodpeckers flew over our heads and flattened 

 themselves against the bole of a big beech tree at the side of 

 the road. I never had seen the species before, but I knew 

 what it was. I wondered if the Indians were true enough to 

 the traditions of their knowledge of wild life in all its forms 

 to give me the name of these stranger birds. I called the 

 chief's son's attention to them and asked him what they 

 were. The two visitors were showing just the tops of their 

 heads around the tree trunk. The Indian looked at them 

 and said simply, "Winter woodpeckers." I asked him 

 whether he never saw them in summer and he answered, 

 "No." Then he went on to tell me that there were some 

 woodpeckers that were "both summer and winter woodpeck- 

 ers." As members of this class he described accurately the 

 downy woodpecker, and its larger brother, the hairy. The 

 red-head, he said, was also sometimes a winter woodpecker. 

 The bird on the tree, he informed me, did not come every win- 

 ter, or if it did come, he did not always see it. The Indian 



