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Updated: June 22, 2025
Assacon had found it in his own camp. In some way he had secured it and, in appreciation of their goodness to him, had traveled some ten miles to return it. In the days when no lines were drawn between Massachusetts and New Hampshire, the General Court of Massachusetts had an eye open for a stretch of salt-marsh a few miles north of the Merrimac River, near the sea.
Suddenly a shadow fell across the path, and the little Indian's face brightened. There stood a full-grown Indian of the Piscataqua tribe. It was Nonowit, though these children did not know him. The little fellow was his son, Assacon, who had lost his father on this hunting trip and had become exhausted for want of food. Not only Nonowit, but other Indians began to arrive at the new settlement.
Joseph could not tell whether it was to take or to leave something. As the lad turned, he proved to be Assacon. Before Joseph could scramble from the tree, the Indian was gone, frightened perhaps by the voices of the returning children. Together they hurried to the wigwam, and there in the center stood the little black kettle with the same picture that Tom had scratched upon it.
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