150 EVERYDAY ADVENTURES 



specimens. Yet, in some way, to me they lacked the 

 charm and loveliness of my lost flowers of the North. 



It was a cold May day. The Ornithologist and 

 myself were climbing Kent Mountain, along with 

 Jim Pan, the last of the Pequots. Whenever Jim 

 drank too much hard cider, which was as often as 

 he could get it, he would give terrible war-whoops 

 and tell how many palefaces his ancestors had 

 scalped. He would usually end by threatening to do 

 some free-hand scalping on his own account — but 

 he never did. He had a son named Tin Pan, who 

 never talked unless he had something to say, which 

 was not more than once or twice during the year. 



The two lived all alone, in a little cabin on the 

 slope of Kent Mountain. On the outside of Jim's 

 door some wag once painted a skull and crossbones, 

 one night when Jim was away on a hunt for some of 

 the aforesaid hard cider. When the Last of the 

 Pequots came back and saw what had been done, he 

 swore mightily that he would leave said insignia 

 there until he could wash them out with the heart's 

 blood of the gifted artist. They still show faintly 

 on the door, although Jim has slept for many a year 

 in the little Indian cemetery on the mountain, beside 

 his great-aunt Eunice who lived to be one hundred 

 and four years old. Lest it may appear that Jim 

 was an unduly fearsome Indian, let me hasten to 

 add that there was never a kinder, happier, or more 

 untruthful Pequot from the beginning to the end of 

 that long-lost tribe. 



