Squanto

They go onshore, and they meet the Indians.

One of the blessings was is one of them was Squanto.

Squanto had been taken as a slave from an, uh, an earlier English tr- uh, group had landed there in 1610, and they took him back to England and made him a slave, but they taught him English.

Hmm.

He talked, he, he learned English real well.

But the colonial accounts are also really clear on the settlers' reliance on Indigenous expertise, that the English are not good at catching beavers.

As one colonist writes, "Beavers are full of cunning evasions." After the arrival of the Mayflower in 1620, William Bradford admitted that no one saw a beaver skin here till they were informed so by Squanto, or Tisquantum, who served as a broker between English and local groups.

And the records are just full of this kind of inefficiency of the English in capturing beavers and their reliance on Indigenous peoples to trade or give them, or in some, and at some times steal these, um, collections of beavers.

And Thomas Morton's anti-Puritan account of life in New England, he starts to give these kind of nasty story of merchant rivalries and colonists pretending to come to Indigenous villages to preach, and they're really trying to steal their beaver pelts and their beaver coats.

No.

They gave Squanto a beer, and he was happy to have a beer.

Sometimes

you just got to have a beer.

Read by Marie Therese.

Squanto.

Read by Tom Cosby.

First Woman.

Welcome, Englishman.

You talk good English.

My name's Squanto.

I've been to London.

Let them come if they like, and the sooner they try it, the better.

Let them come if they like, be it Sagamore, Sachem, or Powwow, Aspinet, Samuset, Corbatant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon.

long at the window he stood and wistfully gazed on the landscape washed with a cold gray mist the vapory breath of the east wind forest and meadow and hill and the steel-blue rim of the ocean lying silent and sad in the afternoon shadows and sunshine over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape gloom intermingled with light and his voice was subdued with emotion tenderness pity regret as after a pause he proceeded yonder there on the hill by the sea lies buried rose standish beautiful rose of love that bloomed for me by the wayside she was the first to die of all who came in the mayflower green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there better to hide from the indian scouts the graves of our people lest they should count them and see how many already have perished sadly his face he averted and strode up and down and was thoughtful Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding.

Barif's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Caesar, out of the Latin translated by Arthur Golding of London, and as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible.

Let them come if they like, and the sooner they try it, the better.

Let them come if they like, be it Sagamore, Sachem, or Powwow, Aspinet, Samuset, Corbatant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon.

long at the window he stood and wistfully gazed on the landscape washed with a cold gray mist the vapory breath of the east wind forest and meadow and hill and the steel-blue rim of the ocean lying silent and sad in the afternoon shadows and sunshine Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape, gloom intermingled with light, and his voice was subdued with emotion, tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded.

Yonder there on the hill by the sea lies buried Rose Standish, beautiful Rose of Love, that bloomed for me by the wayside.

Let them come if they like, and the sooner they try it, the better.

Let them come if they like, be it Sagamore, Sachem, or Powwow, Aspinet, Samuset, Corbatant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon.

long at the window he stood and wistfully gazed on the landscape washed with a cold gray mist the vapory breath of the east wind forest and meadow and hill and the steel-blue rim of the ocean lying silent and sad in the afternoon shadows and sunshine over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape gloom intermingled with light and his voice was subdued with emotion tenderness pity regret as after a pause he proceeded yonder there on the hill by the sea lies buried rose standish beautiful rose of love that bloomed for me by the wayside she was the first to die of all who came in the mayflower green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there better to hide from the indian scouts the graves of our people lest they should count them and see how many already have perished sadly his face he averted and strode up and down and was thoughtful Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding.

Barif's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Caesar, out of the Latin translated by Arthur Golding of London, and as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible.

Is a lie.

I can't help myself, but only to clear up the difference between Pilgrims and Puritans, and also to talk about Squanto.

God, I love me some Squanto.

Let's go to the Thought Bubble.

Most of the English men and women who settled in New England were uber-Protestant Puritans, who believed the Protestant Church of England was still too Catholic-y with its kneeling and incense and extravagantly hatted archbishops.

But anyway, the Pilgrims had the excellent fortune of landing in Massachusetts with six weeks before winter, and they had the good sense not to bring very much food with them or any farm animals.

Half of them died before winter was out.

The only reason they didn't all die was that local Indians, led by Squanto, gave them food and saved them.