eans
"long tidal stream" you hear it differently ever after. And it is fun to
find out that "Quogue" is all the years haven't nibbled off the word
"quohaug," a name the Indians gave to a great, round, purple-shelled
clam they loved.

It makes me sad to think of the poor Indians chased from the places and
the things they loved on this island. Even when you motor over these
velvet smooth roads, and pass fine modern places as at Southampton and
dreamy old ones at Quogue, and cottages pretty and modest as violets, on
the way through the woods to Westhampton, you can't put out of your head
the thought of Indians and their trails through the forests. It is a
thought like a dim background of ghosts in a picture where the
foreground is bright and gay.

I almost cried at _dejeuner_ yesterday when Captain Winston told about
Henry Hudson and the happy, kind tribe of the Canarsies--in 1609, three
hundred and seven years ago this spring. They were so pleased when he
came sailing into Gravesend Bay in his little ship the _Half Moon_ (that
is on another part of Long Island, not where I write of), and they put
on their best clothes of animals' skins and mantles made of brilliant
feathers, to go and meet the men from "another world." They took
presents of green tobacco and furs, and made feasts to honour their
visitors. But a man named John Colman admired their most beautiful woman
too much, and was shot by an arrow. After that they all fought, and a
great many Indians were killed, and they got to think that every
European was treacherous. If you, dear Adrienne, could see a place
called Coney Island, it would seem funny to you that John Colman (who
liked the Indian girl too well) should be buried there. It is not at all
a place to be buried in; and he feels that, for his ghost walks at
night. What a wonder they do not hire it for a side show! The story of
John Colman is not the only romance Captain Winston has found in the old
books. There are lots, but the nicest one happened in the Shinnecock
part I have told you of: the romance of the Indian Water Serpent, who
avenged the murder of a white girl, Edith Turner, who nursed him to life
when he was dying. Water Serpent travelled for months, tracking a man
who stabbed and threw her in the water of Peconic Bay. Through marshes
and forests he went, and at last he tired the murderer out. Then he left
him dead with a dagger in his heart, the same dagger that killed Edith.
After that there wa