“Tacomus” was then sent to one of the largest and most attractive country seats in Massachusetts, where he has found a fitting home and now stands on a small knoll, his earnest face turned towards forest, hills, and streams; a noble addition to the many charms of a far famed and beautiful estate. In his left hand Tacomus grasps a long barrelled gun, originally a flint lock, a real gun which had seen service and which he had when discovered. Many go to gaze at him, admire, and express themselves about this new comer. One child looked way up and exclaimed, “His head is in the skies!” then timidly touched his toes and ran away. Tacomus bears the name of an old Indian Chief, who with his sons, first sold the land which is now the town of Dudley, to Governor Winthrop’s representatives, in old Colonial Days. [Illustration: MY NAMELESS, FOOTLESS SQUAW] The proud possessor of this impressive Brave says, “I felt that I had secured a great prize and an unusually handsome Indian. I also fondly thought I was the first to discover the value of our old tobacco signs for lawn decoration; but found later that a woman had seized the idea first, and about fifteen years before. Visiting her ‘Breezy Meadows,’ I noticed that she had placed two old wooden Indians near a veritable wigwam or tepee on her ‘Adopted Farm!’ So to her I take off my hat and courteously bow.” This complimentary allusion is intended for me, but I make no claim to this honor; it is difficult and risky to try to prove oneself the first in any line of discovery and no doubt there are scores of others who have rescued these statues from oblivion, by giving them a place of refuge. It was the enthusiasm of this friend which suggested to me the idea of collecting the best surviving specimens of the Tobacco Sign Indian and I soon found that I must take a hint from the modern nature-lover, and do most of my hunting with the aid of the camera. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ II MY first wish for an Indian was to add to the effect of my wigwam. I’ve always been rather partial to the Indian race because there is a tradition (which cannot be verified) that my great grandmother, Abigail Eastman Webster, had a slight infusion of Indian blood. She was a noble looking woman, I have been told, with rather a dark skin and large black eyes. Her son, Daniel Webster, possibly owed to her his swarthy complexion and wonderful eyes, like “Lanterns on a dark night,” as the Websters were mostly of a florid complexion, and addicted to red hair. I feared my dear old Indian (my first purchase) might look too much like an advertisement as he carried a bunch of cigars in his right hand, so this was removed and replaced by a tomahawk. Next I suspected my unnamed brave might feel lonely; any way he looked so, as he was from the busy Bowery of New York, so I begged friends to aid me in providing him with an attractive spouse.