66 Birds of Lakeside and Prairie 



rest of the hawks, the scientists tell us, without laying our- 

 selves open to the charge of keeping bad company. 



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 door- 

 way 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 "Century 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 algo inherited the care of my people. 



