“Pamanack is not alone! His squaw watches at the door of his wigwam, as she looks out upon the long waves of the ocean tumbling in upon the shores of Montaukett. His young men gather about him and catch the tautug from its huge beetling rocks, and tread out the quahog from its muddy bed. His old men still linger on the sandy beach, and their scalp-locks float wildly in the fresh sea-breeze. Pamanack has yet a home:—but Pequot—he is the last of his race. He stands on the high hills of Tashaway, and he sees no smoke but that from the wigwams of the Long Knives. He moves in silence along the plains of Pequonnuck,—but the fences of the pale faces obstruct his progress. His canoe dances at the side of the dripping rocks,—but the cheating white men paddle up to his side. His feet sink in the ploughed field,—but it is not the corn of the red man. His squaw has rolled her last log, and lies cold in her blanket. His young men,—the fire water and fire dust have consumed them. Pequot looks around for his people—where are they? The black snake and muskrat shoot through the water as his moccasin treads the swamp, where their bones lie, deep covered from the hate of their enemies. Pequot is the last of his race! Pamanack is good, but the heart of Pequot is heavy. He cannot drink the fire water, for his young men have sunk from its deadly poison, as the mist-wreath in the midday sun. The good Moravians have told him that it is bad—and Pequot will drink no more—for his race is nearly run. Pequot will sit on the high rocks of Sasco, and his robe shall fall from his shoulders as his broad chest waits the death-arrow of the Great Spirit. There will he sit and smoke in silence as he looks down upon the deserted hunting-grounds of his fathers. Pequot’s heart is heavy,—Pequot will not drink.” As he finished the last words, he abruptly turned, and was soon far distant on the sands, moving towards the high hill of which he had spoken. The Great Spirit was kind to him, for a few years after he was found stark and stiff, frozen to death on the very rocks to which he had alluded. As for old Pamanack, he did not appear to hold the fire water in such utter abhorrence; for, taking a long swig at the bottle, his eye following the retiring form of the Pequot, he slowly muttered, “Nigger drink—white man drink—why no Indian drink too?”