He looked at the green woods.

Birds, blue or gray or brown, were darting here and there in the foliage, and his eye rested for a moment on a tiny wren.
"The voice of Onontio is the voice of a bird chattering in a tree," he said.

"In the day of my father's father's father the children of Onontio, under Champlain, came with guns, which were strange to us, and with presents they induced the Adirondack warriors to help them.

They came up the great lake which the white people call Champlain, then they crossed to Ticonderoga, near the outlet of the lake, Saint Sacrement, and fell upon two hundred warriors of the Ganeagaono, who then knew only the bow and arrow and the war club, and slew many of them.

It was four generations ago, but we do not forget.