You who love the weed they call sweet,
Plug or fine cut, twist or leaf,
Go to Warrington’s at Vall street
There where stands the Indian Chief.”
Punch with Impressive Nose
Another Punch—less fortunate
Punchinello and Nondescript
Puck
VIII
WHAT a sarcasm of Destiny it is that when we have driven out and killed off all the Indians who were so happy here, we write poetry praising them, novels about the good looking, brave, and almost, too saintly Red Man. And now it is seriously urged that a suitable Memorial be erected in New York Harbor to the Memory of the North American Indian whose ranks are thinning so rapidly, that within a comparatively few years more, the race will be obliterated by the advance of the white man’s civilization. That is rather a rosy way of describing the treatment the Indian has received.