Rolf In The Woods

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This etext was prepared by Ted Soldan and anonymous volunteers.

Preface

In this story I have endeavoured to realize some of the
influences that surrounded the youth of America a hundred years
ago, and made of them, first, good citizens, and, later, in the
day of peril, heroes that won the battles of Lake Erie,
Plattsburg, and New Orleans, and the great sea fights of Porter,
Bainbridge, Decatur, Lawrence, Perry, and MacDonough.

I have especially dwelt in detail on the woodland and peace
scouting in the hope that I may thus help other boys to follow
the hard-climbing trail that leads to the higher uplands.

For the historical events of 1812-14, I have consulted among
books chiefly, Theodore Roosevelt's "Naval War of 1812," Peter S.
Palmer's "History of Lake Champlain," and Walter Hill Crockett's
"A History of Lake Champlain," 1909. But I found another and
more personal mine of information. Through the kindness of my
friend, Edmund Seymour, a native of the Champlain region, now a
resident of New York, I went over all the historical ground with
several unpublished manuscripts for guides, and heard from the
children of the sturdy frontiersmen new tales of the war; and in
getting more light and vivid personal memories, I was glad,
indeed, to realize that not only were there valour and heroism on
both sides, but also gentleness and courtesy. Histories written
by either party at the time should be laid aside. They breathe
the rancourous hate of the writers of the age --the fighters felt
not so --and the many incidents given here of chivalry and
consideration were actual happenings, related to me by the
descendants of those who experienced them; and all assure me that
these were a true reflex of the feelings of the day.

I am much indebted to Miss Katherine Palmer, of Plattsburg, for
kindly allowing me to see the unpublished manuscript memoir of
her grandfather, Peter Sailly, who was Collector of the Port of
Plattsburg at the time of the war.

Another purpose in this story was to picture the real Indian with
his message for good or for evil.

Those who know nothing of the race will scoff and say they never
heard of such a thing as a singing and religious red man. Those
who know him well will say, "Yes, but you have given to your
eastern Indian songs and ceremonies which belong to the western
tribes, and which are of different epochs. "To the latter I
reply:

"You know that the western Inidians sang and prayed in this way.
How do you know that the eastern ones did not? We have no
records, except those by critics, savagely hostile, and
contemptuous of all religious observances but their own. The
Ghost Dance Song belonged to a much more recent time, no doubt,
but it was purely Indian, and it is generally admitted that the
races of continental North America were of one stock, and had no
fundamentally different customs or modes of thought."

The Sunrise Song was given me by Frederick R. Burton, author of
"American Primitive Music." It is still in use among the Ojibwa.

The songs of the Wabanaki may be read in C. G. Le- land's "
Kuloskap the Master."

The Ghost Dance Song was fumished by Alice C. Fletcher, whose
"Indian Song and Story" will prove a revelation to those who wish
to follow further.

ERNEST THOMPSON SETON.
The Wigwam Under the Rock

The early springtime sunrise was near at hand as
Quonab, the last of the Myanos Sinawa, stepped
from his sheltered wigwam under the cliff that
borders the Asamuk easterly, and, mounting to the lofty
brow of the great rock that is its highest pinnacle, he
stood in silence, awaiting the first ray of the sun over
the sea water that stretches between Connecticut and
Seawanaky.

His silent prayer to the Great Spirit was ended as a
golden beam shot from a long, low cloud-bank over the
sea, and Quonab sang a weird Indian song for the rising
sun, an invocation to the Day God:

"O thou that risest from the low cloud
To burn in the all above;
I greet thee! I adore thee!"

Again and again he sang to the tumming of a small
tom-tom, till the great refulgent one had cleared the cloud,
and the red miracle of the sunrise was complete.
Back to his wigwam went the red man, down to his home
tucked dosed under the sheltering rock, and, after washing
his hands in a basswood bowl, began to prepare his simple
meal.

A tin-lined copper pot hanging over the fire was partly
filled with water; then, when it was boiling, some samp or
powdered corn and some clams were stirred in. While
these were cooking, he took his smooth-bore flint-lock,
crawled gently over the ridge that screened his wigwam
from the northwest wind, and peered with hawk-like
eyes across the broad sheet of water that, held by a high
beaver-dam, filled the little valley of Asamuk Brook.

The winter ice was still on the pond, but in all the warming
shallows there was open water, on which were likely
to be ducks. None were to be seen, but by the edge of the
ice was a round object which, although so far away, he
knew at a glance for a muskrat.

By crawling around the pond, the Indian could easily
have come within shot, but he returned at once to his
wigwam, where he exchanged his gun for the weapons of
his fathers, a bow and arrows, and a long fish-line. A
short, quick stalk, and the muskrat, still eating a flagroot,
was within thirty feet. The fish-line was coiled on the
ground and then attached to an arrow, the bow bent -- zip
-- the arrow picked up the line, coil after coil, and trans-
fixed the muskrat. Splash! and the animal was gone under
the ice.

But the cord was in the hands of the hunter; a little
gentle pulling and the rat came to view, to be despatched
with a stick and secured. Had he shot it with a gun, it
had surely been lost.

He returned to his camp, ate his frugal breakfast, and fed a
small, wolfish-looking yellow dog that was tied in the lodge.

He skinned the muskrat carefully, first cutting a
slit across the rear and then turning the skin back like a
glove, till it was off to the snout; a bent stick thrust into
this held it stretched, till in a day, it was dry and ready for
market. The body, carefully cleaned, he hung in the
shade to furnish another meal.

As he worked, there were sounds of trampling in the
woods, and presently a tall, rough-looking man, with a
red nose and a curling white moustache, came striding
through brush and leaves. He stopped when he saw the
Indian, stared contemptuously at the quarry of the morning
chase, made a scornful remark about "rat-eater," and went
on toward the wigwam, probably to peer in, but the
Indian's slow, clear, "keep away!" changed his plan. He
grumbled something about "copper-coloured tramp,"
and started away in the direction of the nearest farmhouse.
Rolf Kittering and the Soldier Uncle

A feller that chatters all the time is bound to talk a certain
amount of drivel. -- The Sayings of Si Sylvanne

This was the Crow Moon, the white man's March.
The Grass Moon was at hand, and already the
arrow bands of black-necked honkers were passing
northward from the coast, sending down as they flew
the glad tidings that the Hunger Moon was gone, that
spring was come, yea, even now was in the land. And the
flicker clucked from a high, dry bough, the spotted
woodwale drummed on his chosen branch, the partridge
drummed in the pine woods, and in the sky the wild
ducks, winging, drummed their way. What wonder that
the soul of the Indian should seek expression in the drum
and the drum song of his race?

Presently, as though remembering something, he went
quietly to the southward under the ridge, just where it
breaks to let the brook go by, along the edge of Strickland's
Plain, and on that hill of sliding stone he found, as
he always had, the blue-eyed liver-leaf smiling, the first
sweet flower of spring! He did not gather it, he only sat
down and looked at it. He did not smile, or sing, or
utter words, or give it a name, but he sat beside it and
looked hard at it, and, in the first place, he went there
knowingly to find it. Who shall say that its beauty did
not reach his soul?

He took out his pipe and tobacco bag, but was reminded
of something lacking -- the bag was empty. He returned
to his wigwam, and from their safe hanger or swinging
shelf overhead, he took the row of stretched skins, ten
muskrats and one mink, and set out along a path which
led southward through the woods to the broad, open place
called Strickland's Plain, across that, and over the next
rock ridge to the little town and port of Myanos.

SILAS PECK
Trading Store

was the sign over the door he entered. Men and women
were buying and selling, but the Indian stood aside shyly
until all were served, and Master Peck cried out:

"Ho, Quonab! what have ye got for trade to-day?"

Quonab produced his furs. The dealer looked at them
narrowly and said:

"They are too late in the season for primes; I cannot
allow you more than seven cents each for the rats and
seventy-five cents for the mink, all trade."

The Indian gathered up the bundle with an air of "that
settles it," when Silas called out:

"Come now, I'll make it ten cents for the rats."

"Ten cents for rats, one dollar for mink, all cash, then
I buy what I like," was the reply.

It was very necessary to Silas's peace that no customer
of his should cross the street to the sign,

SILAS MEAD
Trading Store

So the bargain, a fair one now, was made, and the Indian
went off with a stock of tobacco, tea, and sugar.

His way lay up the Myanos River, as he had one or two
traps set along the banks for muskrats, although in constant
danger of having them robbed or stolen by boys, who
considered this an encroachment on their trapping grounds.

After an hour he came to Dumpling Pond, then set out
for his home, straight through the woods, till he reached
the Catrock line, and following that came to the farm and
ramshackle house of Micky Kittering. He had been told
that the man at this farm had a fresh deer hide for sale,
and hoping to secure it, Quonab walked up toward the
house. Micky was coming from the barn when he saw
the Indian. They recognized each other at a glance.
That was enough for Quonab; he turned away. The
farmer remembered that he had been "insulted." He
vomited a few oaths, and strode after the Indian, "To
take it out of his hide"; his purpose was very clear. The
Indian turned quickly, stood, and looked calmly at Michael

Some men do not know the difference between shyness
and cowardice, but they are apt to find it out unexpectedly
Something told the white man, "Beware! this red man is
dangerous." He muttered something about, "Get out
of that, or I'll send for a constable." The Indian stood
gazing coldly, till the farmer backed off out of sight, then
he himself turned away to the woods.

Kittering was not a lovely character. He claimed to
have been a soldier. He certainly looked the part, for
his fierce white moustache was curled up like horns on his
purple face, at each side of his red nose, in a most milita
style. His shoulders were square and his gait was
swaggering, beside which, he had an array of swear words that
was new and tremendously impressive in Connecticut. He
had married late in life a woman who would have made him
a good wife, had he allowed her. But, a drunkard himself
he set deliberately about bringing his wife to his own ways
and with most lamentable success. They had had no
children, but some months before a brother's child,
fifteen-year-old lad, had become a charge on their hands
and, with any measure of good management, would have
been a blessing to all. But Micky had gone too far. His
original weak good-nature was foundered in rum. Always
blustery and frothy, he divided the world in two --
superior officers, before whom he grovelled, and inferiors
to whom he was a mouthy, foul-tongued, contemptible
bully, in spite of a certain lingering kindness of heart that
showed itself at such rare times when he was neither
roaring drunk nor crucified by black reaction. His
brother's child, fortunately, had inherited little of the
paternal family traits, but in both body and brain favoured
his mother, the daughter of a learned divine who had spent
unusual pains on her book education, but had left her
penniless and incapable of changing that condition.

Her purely mental powers and peculiarities were such
that, a hundred years before, she might have been burned
for a witch, and fifty years later might have been honoured
as a prophetess. But she missed the crest of the wave
both ways and fell in the trough; her views on religious
matters procured neither a witch's grave nor a prophet's
crown, but a sort of village contempt.

The Bible was her standard -- so far so good -- but
she emphasized the wrong parts of it. Instead of
magnifying the damnation of those who follow not the truth (as
the village understood it), she was content to semi-quote:

"Those that are not against me are with me," and
"A kind heart is the mark of His chosen." And then
she made a final utterance, an echo really of her father:
"If any man do anything sincerely, believing that thereby
he is worshipping God, he is worshipping God."

Then her fate was sealed, and all who marked the blazing
eyes, the hollow cheeks, the yet more hollow chest and
cough, saw in it all the hand of an offended God destroying
a blasphemer, and shook their heads knowingly when
the end came.

So Rolf was left alone in life, with a common school
education, a thorough knowledge of the Bible and of
"Robinson Crusoe," a vague tradition of God everywhere,
and a deep distrust of those who should have been his
own people.

The day of the little funeral he left the village of Redding
to tramp over the unknown road to the unknown south
where his almost unknown Uncle Michael had a farm and,
possibly, a home for him.

Fifteen miles that day, a night's rest in a barn, twenty-
five miles the next day, and Rolf had found his future
home.

"Come in, lad," was the not unfriendly reception, for
his arrival was happily fallen on a brief spell of good
humour, and a strong, fifteen-year-old boy is a distinct
asset on a farm.

Rolf Catches a Coon and Finds a Friend

Aunt Prue, sharp-eyed and red-nosed, was
actually shy at first, but all formality vanished
as Rolf was taught the mysteries of pig-feeding,
hen-feeding, calf-feeding, cow-milking, and launched by list
only in a vast number of duties familiar to him from his
babyhood. What a list there was. An outsider might
have wondered if Aunt Prue was saving anything for herself,
but Rolf was used to toil. He worked without ceasing
and did his best, only to learn in time that the best could
win no praise, only avert punishment. The spells of good
nature arrived more seldom in his uncle's heart. His
aunt was a drunken shrew and soon Rolf looked on the
days of starving and physical misery with his mother as
the days of his happy youth gone by.

He was usually too tired at night and too sleepy in the
morning to say his prayers, and gradually he gave it up
as a daily habit. The more he saw of his kinsfolk, the
more wickedness came to view; and yet it was with a
shock that he one day realized that some fowls his uncle
brought home by night were there without the owner's
knowledge or consent. Micky made a jest of it, and
intimated that Rolf would have to "learn to do night work
very soon." This was only one of the many things that
showed how evil a place was now the orphan's home.

At first it was not clear to the valiant uncle whether the
silent boy was a superior to be feared, or an inferior to be
held in fear, but Mick's courage grew with non-resistance,
and blows became frequent; although not harder to bear
than the perpetual fault-finding and scolding of his aunt,
and all the good his mother had implanted was being
shrivelled by the fires of his daily life.

Rolf had no chance to seek for companions at the
village store, but an accident brought one to him.
Before sunrise one spring morning he went, as usual,
to the wood lot pasture for the cow, and was surprised to
find a stranger, who beckoned him to come. On going
near he saw a tall man with dark skin and straight black
hair that was streaked with gray -- undoubtedly an Indian.
He held up a bag and said, "I got coon in that hole. You
hold bag there, I poke him in." Rolf took the sack
readily and held it over the hole, while the Indian climbed
the tree to a higher opening, then poked in this with a long
pole, till all at once there was a scrambling noise and the
bag bulged full and heavy. Rolf closed its mouth
triumphantly. The Indian laughed lightly, then swung to the
ground.

"Now, what will you do with him?" asked Rolf.

"Train coon dog," was the answer.

"Where?"

The Indian pointed toward the Asamuk Pond.

"Are you the singing Indian that lives under Ab's Rock?

"Ugh!* Some call me that. My name is Quonab."

"Wait for an hour and then I will come and help,"
volunteered Rolf impulsively, for the hunting instinct was
strong in him.

The Indian nodded. "Give three yelps if you no find
me;" then he shouldered a short stick, from one end of
which, at a safe distance from his back, hung the bag with
the coon. And Rolf went home with the cow.

He had acted on hasty impulse in offering to come, but
now, in the normal storm state of the household, the
difficulties of the course appeared. He cudgelled his brain for
some plan to account for his absence, and finally took
refuge unwittingly in ancient wisdom: "When you don't
know a thing to do, don't do a thing." Also, "If you can't
find the delicate way, go the blunt way."

So having fed the horses, cleaned the stable, and milked
the cow, fed the pigs, the hens, the calf, harnessed the
horses, cut and brought in wood for the woodshed, turned
out the sheep, hitched the horses to the wagon, set the milk
out in the creaming pans, put more corn to soak for the
swill barrel, ground the house knife, helped to clear the
breakfast things, replaced the fallen rails of a fence,
brought up potatoes from the root cellar, all to the
maddening music of a scolding tongue, he set out to take the cow
back to the wood lot, sullenly resolved to return when ready.

*Ugh (yes) and wah (no) are Indianisms that continue no matter
how well the English has been acquired.

The Coon Hunt Makes Trouble for Rolf

Not one hour, but nearly three, had passed before
Rolf sighted the Pipestave Pond, as it was called.
He had never been there before, but three short
whoops, as arranged, brought answer and guidance.
Quonab was standing on the high rock. When Rolf came
he led down to the wigwam on its south side. It was like
stepping into a new life. Several of the old neighbours at
Redding were hunters who knew the wild Indians and had
told him tales that glorified at least the wonderful
woodcraft of the red man. Once or twice Rolf had seen Indians
travelling through, and he had been repelled by their sordid
squalour. But here was something of a different kind;
not the Champlain ideal, indeed, for the Indian wore clothes
like any poor farmer, except on his head and his feet; his
head was bare, and his feet were covered with moccasins
that sparkled with beads on the arch. The wigwam was
of canvas, but it had one or two of the sacred symbols
painted on it. The pot hung over the fire was tin-lined
copper, of the kind long made in England for Indian trade,
but the smaller dishes were of birch bark and basswood.
The gun and the hunting knife were of white man's make,
but the bow, arrows, snowshoes, tom-tom, and a quill-
covered gun case were of Indian art, fashioned of the things
that grow in the woods about.

The Indian led into the wigwam. The dog, although
not fully grown, growled savagely as it smelled the hated
white man odour. Quonab gave the puppy a slap on the
head, which is Indian for, "Be quiet; he's all right;" loosed
the rope, and led the dog out. "Bring that," and the
Indian pointed to the bag which hung from a stick between
two trees. The dog sniffed suspiciously in the direction
of the bag and growled, but he was not allowed to come
near it. Rolf tried to make friends with the dog, but
without success and Quonab said, "Better let Skookum* alone.
He make friends when he ready -- maybe never."

The two hunters now set out for the open plain, two or
three hundred yards to the southward. Here the raccoon
was dumped out of the sack, and the dog held at a little
distance, until the coon had pulled itself together and
began to run. Now the dog was released and chivvied on.
With a tremendous barking he rushed at the coon, only to
get a nip that made him recoil, yelping. The coon ran
as hard as it could, the dog and hunters came after it;
again it was overtaken, and, turning with a fierce snarl, it
taught the dog a second lesson. Thus, running, dodging,
and turning to fight, the coon got back to the woods, and
there made a final stand under a small, thick tree; and,
when the dog was again repulsed, climbed quickly up into
the branches.

The hunters did all they could to excite the dog, until he
was jumping about, tryng to climb the tree, and barking
uproariously. This was exactly what they wanted.
Skookum's first lesson was learned -- the duty of chasing
the big animal of that particular smell, then barking up
the tree it had climbed.

Quonab, armed with a forked stick and a cord noose,
now went up the tree. After much trouble he got the
noose around the coon's neck, then, with some rather
rough handling, the animal was dragged down, maneuvered
into the sack, and carried back to camp, where it was
chained up to serve in future lessons; the next two or three
being to tree the coon, as before; in the next, the coon
was to be freed and allowed to get out of sight, so that the
dog might find it by trailing, and the last, in which the
coon was to be trailed, treed, and shot out of the tree,
so that the dog should have the final joy of killing a
crippled coon, and the reward of a coon-meat feast. But
the last was not to be, for the night before it should have
taken place the coon managed to slip its bonds, and nothing
but the empty collar and idle chain were found in the
captive's place next morning.

These things were in the future however. Rolf was
intensely excited over all he had seen that day. His hunting
instincts were aroused. There had been no very obvious
or repellant cruelty; the dog alone had suffered, but
he seemed happy. The whole affair was so exactly in the
line of his tastes that the boy was in a sort of ecstatic
uplift, and already anticipating a real coon hunt, when
the dog should be properly trained. The episode so
contrasted with the sordid life he had left an hour before that
he was spellbound. The very animal smell of the coon
seemed to make his fibre tingle. His eyes were glowing
with a wild light. He was so absorbed that he did not
notice a third party attracted by the unusual noise of the
chase, but the dog did. A sudden, loud challenge called
all attention to a stranger on the ridge behind the camp.
There was no mistaking the bloated face and white
moustache of Rolf's uncle.

"So, you young scut! that is how you waste your time.
I'll larn ye a lesson."

The dog was tied, the Indian looked harmless, and the
boy was cowed, so the uncle's courage mounted high. He
had been teaming in the nearby woods, and the blacksnake
whip was in his hands. In a minute its thong was
lapped, like a tongue of flame, around Rolf's legs. The
boy gave a shriek and ran, but the man followed and
furiously plied the whip. The Indian, supposing it was Rolf's
father, marvelled at his method of showing affection, but
said nothing, for the Fifth Commandment is a large one
in the wigwam. Rolf dodged some of the cruel blows, but
was driven into a corner of the rock. One end of the lash
crossed his face like a red-hot wire.

"Now I've got you!" growled the bully.

Rolf was desperate. He seized two heavy stones and
hurled the first with deadly intent at his uncle's head.
Mick dodged in time, but the second, thrown lower, hit
him on the thigh. Mick gave a roar of pain. Rolf
hastily seized more stones and shrieked out, "You come on
one step and I'll kill you!"

Then that purple visage turned a sort of ashen hue.
Its owner mouthed in speechless rage. He "knew it was
the Indian had put Rolf up to it. He'd see to it later," and
muttering, blasting, frothing, the hoary-headed sinner
went limping off to his loaded wagon.

*"Skookum" or "Skookum Chuck," in Chinook means "Troubled waters."

Good-bye to Uncle Mike

For counsel comes with the night, and action comes with the day;
But the gray half light, neither dark nor bright, is a time to
hide away.

Rolf had learned one thing at least -- his uncle was a coward.
But he also knew that he himself was in the wrong, for he was
neglecting his work and he decided to go back at once and face
the worst. He made little reply to the storm of scolding that
met him. He would have been disappointed if it had not come. He
was used to it; it made him feel at home once more. He worked
hard and silently.

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