Long before New Hampshire found its name, the deep river at its southeast was known as the Piscataqua by the Indians who could stem its strong currents, even in bark canoes. Perhaps it was because of the fresh spring close to its salty shores, some three miles from the sea, that the red men made their encampment on the spot that was later equally attractive to men of white skins. Nonowit, like his people, was glad to see the snows melt away during that spring of 1603. The bare branches of the oak and maple showed tufts of browns, reds, and greens. The fish stirred in the streams, and by the time that Nonowit's forest home had its roof of thick green foliage the Indians themselves were astir. For far up the river at the falls fish could be found in plenty, and that was a welcome change from the game of the winter food. The men of the tribe were the first to start afoot for the fishing spot, while the squaws broke camp, gathered their belongings, and herded the children. Nonowit suddenly recalled some sturdy reeds growing by the salt marsh which he thought would make fine arrow shafts. It had occurred to the boy that he might stand by the falls and shoot his fish as they bounded over. That is why he was not on the spot when the children were started on the march, and the last camp fire had been covered. Even though he was an Indian boy, his heart thumped with fear, when at the end of the day he returned from his hunt on the marsh to a deserted camp. No answer came to his long shrill call. The sun was setting, and it was of no use to follow the trail that night, even though he had known just where his people were to go. He munched some scraps that had been left behind and sought the shelter of a hollow oak which had been the playhouse of the Indian girls and boys. An old owl hooted and flew from a hole above, but Nonowit had no fear of him, though he was glad the hole by which he had crawled into the oak was far above the ground. This was some protection from the wolves, which he could even then hear howling in the distance. All night there was a beating rain, which washed away the last trace of the carefully hidden trail of the Indian travelers. When Nonowit crawled out into the sunshine the following morning, he could learn nothing of their direction. To get a wider view, he wandered through the thick forest to the river's edge, but there discovered no signs of his people. "There are so many children in the camp I might not be missed," he thought and dropped upon a rock in one little heap of loneliness.