He Called To Them; They Answered,
But He Could Not Understand Ther Spech; And He Having A Conow
Ther In The River, He Went To Breck His Conow That They Might
Not Have Ani Ues Of It.
In the mean time they shot about
thirty guns at him, and he being much frighted fled, and come
home forthwith to Nahamcock [Pawtucket Falls or Lowell], wher
ther wigowames now stand."
Penacooks and Mohawks! _ubique gentium sunt?_ In the year 1670, a
Mohawk warrior scalped a Naamkeak or else a Wamesit Indian maiden
near where Lowell now stands. She, however, recovered. Even as
late as 1685, John Hogkins, a Penacook Indian, who describes his
grandfather as having lived "at place called Malamake rever,
other name chef Natukkog and Panukkog, that one rever great many
names," wrote thus to the governor: -
"May 15th, 1685.
"Honor governor my friend, -
"You my friend I desire your worship and your power, because I
hope you can do som great matters this one. I am poor and
naked and I have no men at my place because I afraid allwayes
Mohogs he will kill me every day and night. If your worship
when please pray help me you no let Mohogs kill me at my place
at Malamake river called Pannukkog and Natukkog, I will submit
your worship and your power. And now I want pouder and such
alminishon shatt and guns, because I have forth at my hom and I
plant theare.
"This all Indian hand, but pray you do consider your humble
servant,
^John Hogkins^."
Signed also by Simon Detogkom, King Hary, Sam Linis, Mr. Jorge
Rodunnonukgus, John Owamosimmin, and nine other Indians, with
their marks against their names.
But now, one hundred and fifty-four years having elapsed since
the date of this letter, we went unalarmed on our way without
"brecking" our "conow," reading the New England Gazetteer, and
seeing no traces of "Mohogs" on the banks.
The Souhegan, though a rapid river, seemed to-day to have
borrowed its character from the noon.
Where gleaming fields of haze
Meet the voyageur's gaze,
And above, the heated air
Seems to make a river there,
The pines stand up with pride
By the Souhegan's side,
And the hemlock and the larch
With their triumphal arch
Are waving o'er its march
To the sea.
No wind stirs its waves,
But the spirits of the braves
Hov'ring o'er,
Whose antiquated graves
Its still water laves
On the shore.
With an Indian's stealthy tread
It goes sleeping in its bed,
Without joy or grief,
Or the rustle of a leaf,
Without a ripple or a billow,
Or the sigh of a willow,
From the Lyndeboro' hills
To the Merrimack mills.
With a louder din
Did its current begin,
When melted the snow
On the far mountain's brow,
And the drops came together
In that rainy weather.
Experienced river,
Hast thou flowed forever?
Souhegan soundeth old,
But the half is not told,
What names hast thou borne,
In the ages far gone,
When the Xanthus and Meander
Commenced to wander,
Ere the black bear haunted
Thy red forest-floor,
Or Nature had planted
The pines by thy shore?
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