On the Trail of Pokagon 67 



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 before 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 never read his writings on the birds. Then it 

 was that I felt uncomfortable in being forced to confess that 

 I had not had the pleasure. Pokagon then told me his legend 

 of the robin, which I have since seen in birch-bark book form, 

 and his story of the days when the chimney swifts dwelt 

 in hollow trees and went in and out like black clouds and 

 with a "roar of wings like the mutter of thunder." 



We left the old Pottawattomie at dusk with a sort of a sad- 

 ness on our spirits. The drive back to Hartford was under 

 the glittering stars of a cloudless sky. Pokagon had cared 

 for the inner cravings of his guests both man and beast and 

 our rested and refreshed horses homeward bound needed 

 neither the urging of voice nor whip. As we sped onward 

 through the darkness, the thought that I was through with 

 the birds for the day came into my mind. No sooner was the 

 thought framed than from a wood by the roadside came the 

 loud hoot of an owl, as if to say, "Day or night, you cannot 

 get away from us." 



