From one of Francis Parkman’s admirable works we have seized upon the scene of our story, which was acted out at the beginning of the eighteenth century, namely, 1725.  The Indians seem to have been very hostile in those early days in the immediate vicinity of the early New England provinces; and we are convinced some of the white men were very hostile as well.  Of course we, in our day, cannot blame them—­they had no telephones, autos, electricity, “hello girls”—­they had to be something, so they were hostile towards the Indians.

Dunstable was a town on the firing line of Massachusetts, and was attacked by Indians in the autumn of 1724, and two men were carried off.  Ten others went in pursuit, but fell into an ambush, and nearly all were killed.  But now we will follow the words of Francis Parkman, who has a delightful way of relating his stories.

“A company of thirty was soon raised.”  They were to receive two shillings and sixpence per day each, “out of which he was to maintain himself";—­very little to risk one’s life for; but in those days it was no concern with a man whether he was killed or not.  Besides, it was worth something to get killed and have Francis Parkman write about you more than a century later.  Perhaps they anticipated this perpetuation of their names and deeds.

However, “Lovewell was chosen captain; Farwell lieutenant, and Robbins, ensign.  They set out towards the end of November, and reappeared at Dunstable early in January, bringing one prisoner and one scalp.”  It does not seem to us to have paid the interest on the investment of two shillings and sixpence per day, “out of which he was to maintain himself,” and, for anything we know to the contrary, perhaps the captain was getting more than this—­it has not been recorded.  “Towards the end of the month Lovewell set out again, this time with eighty-seven men.  They ascended the frozen Merrimac, passed Lake Winnepesaukee, pushed nearly to the White Mountains, and encamped on a branch of the upper Saco.  Here they killed a moose—­a timely piece of luck, for they were in danger of starvation, and Lovewell had been compelled by want of food to send back a good number of his men.  The rest held their way, filing on snowshoes through the deathlike solitude that gave no sign of life except the light track of some squirrel on the snow, and the brisk note of the hardy little chickadee, or black-capped titmouse, so familiar in the winter woods.”

Now here is where the foolhardiness of the expedition begins to appeal to us.  Supposing just here they had met five hundred crazy Indians with five hundred crazy bows and arrows?  And they must have expected it.  They were searching for Indians.  Perhaps they were seeking martyrdom?  But the New Englander of the frontier was nothing if not foolhardy.  They mistook it for bravery, and there must have been some bravery amalgamated with it, because a man must have a certain quantity of that rarity before he can lend himself out as a target at two shillings and sixpence a day, “out of which he was to maintain himself.”