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. 
