Rolf In The Woods

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"I have heard," said the Indian, "that my people still dwell in
Canada, beyond Rouse's Point. I would see them. I will come
again in the Red Moon (August)."

So they hired a small canoe, and one bright morning, with Skookum
in the bow, Quonab paddled away on his voyage of 120 miles on the
plead waters of Lakes George and Champlain. His canoe became a
dark spot on the water; slowly it faded till only the flashing
paddle was seen, and that was lost around a headland.

The next day Rolf was sorry he let Quonab go alone, for it was
evident that Van Trumper needed no help for a month yet; that is,
he could not afford to hire, and while it was well enough for
Rolf to stay a few days and work to equalize his board, the
arrangement would not long continue satisfactory to both.

Yet there was one thing he must do before leaving, take Annette
to pick out her dress. She was well again now, and they set off
one morning in the canoe, she and Rolf. Neither father nor mother
could leave the house. They had their misgivings, but what could
they do? She was bright and happy, full of the childish joy that
belongs to that age, and engaged on such an important errand for
the first time in her life.

There was something more than childish joy showing in her face,
an older person would have seen that, but it was largely lost on
Rolf. There was a tendency to blush when she laughed, a
disposition to tease her "big brother," to tyrannize over him in
little things.

"Now, you tell me some more about 'Robinson Crusoe,'" she began,
as soon as they were in the canoe, and Rolf resumed the ancient,
inspiring tale to have it listened to eagerly, but criticized
from the standpoint of a Lake George farm. "Where was his wife?"
"How could he have a farm without hens?" "Dried grapes must be
nice, but I'd rather have pork than goat," etc.

Rolf, of course, took the part of Robinson Crusoe, and it gave
him a little shock to hear Quonab called his man Friday.

At the west side they were to invite Mrs. Callan to join their
shopping trip, but in any case they were to borrow a horse and
buckboard. Neither Mrs. Callan nor the buckboard was available,
but they were welcome to the horse. So Annette was made
comfortable on a bundle of blankets, and chattered incessantly
while Rolf walked alongside with the grave interest and
superiority of a much older brother. So they crossed the
five-mile portage and came to Warren's store. Nervous and
excited, with sparkling eyes, Annette laid down her marten skin,
received five dollars, and set about the tremendous task of
selecting her first dress of really, truly calico print; and Rolf
realized that the joy he had found in his new rifle was a very
small affair, compared with the epoch-making, soul-filling,
life-absorbing, unspeakable, and cataclysmal bliss that a small
girl can have in her first chance of unfettered action in choice
of a cotton print.

"Beautiful? " How can mere words do justice to masses of yellow
corn, mixed recklessly with green and scarlet poppies on a bright
blue ground. No, you should have seen Annette's dress, or you
cannot expect to get the adequate thrill. And when they found
that there was enough cash left over to add a red cotton parasol
to the glorious spoils, every one there beamed in a sort of
friendly joy, and the trader, carried away by the emotions of the
hour, contributed a set of buttons of shining brass.

Warren kept a "meal house," which phrase was a ruse that saved
him from a burdensome hospitality. Determined to do it all in the
best style, Rolf took Annette to the meal-house table. She was
deeply awed by the grandeur of a tablecloth and white plates, but
every one was kind.

Warren, talking to a stranger opposite, and evidently resuming a
subject they had discussed, said:

"Yes, I'd like to send the hull lot down to Albany this week, if
I could get another man for the canoe."

Rolf was interested at once and said: "What wages are you offering?"

"Twenty-five dollars and board."

"How will I do?"

"Well," said Warren, as though thinking it over:
"I dunno but ye would. Could ye go to-morrow?"

"Yes, indeed, for one month."

"All right, it's a bargain."

And so Rolf took the plunge that influenced his whole life.

But Annette whispered gleefully and excitedly, "May I have some
of that, and that?" pointing to every strange food she could see,
and got them all.

After noon they set out on their return journey, An- nette
clutching her prizes, and prattling incessantly, while Rolf
walked alongside, thinking deeply, replying to her chatter, but
depressed by the thought of good-bye tomorrow. He was aroused at
length by a scraping sound overhead and a sharp reprimand, "Rolf,
you'll tear my new parasol, if you don't lead the horse better."

By two o'clock they were at Callan's. Another hour and they had
crossed the lake, and Annette, shrill with joy, was displaying
her treasures to the wonder and envy of her kin.

Making a dress was a simple matter in those and Marta promised:
"Yah, soom day ven I one have, shall I it sew." Meanwhile,
Annette was quaffing deep, soul-satisfying draughts in the mere
contempt of the yellow, red, green, and blue glories in which was
soon to appear in public. And when the bed came, she fell asleep
holding the dress-goods stuff in arms, and with the red parasol
spread above her head, tired out, but inexpressibly happy.
Travelling to the Great City

He's a bad failure that ain't king in some little corner --
Sayings of Sylvanne Sylvanne

The children were not astir when Rolf was off in the morning. He
caught a glimpse of Annette, still asleep under the red parasol,
but the dress goods and the brass buttons had fallen to the
floor. He stepped into the canoe. The dead calm of early morning
was on the water, and the little craft went skimming and wimpling
across. In half an hour it was beached at Callan's. In a little
more than an hour's jog and stride he was at Warren's, ready for
work. As he marched in, strong and brisk, his colour up, his
blue eyes kindled with the thought of seeing Albany, the trader
could not help being struck by him, especially when he remembered
each of their meetings -- meetings in which he discerned a keen,
young mind of good judgment, one that could decide quickly.

Gazing at the lithe, red-checked lad, he said: "Say, Rolf, air ye
an Injun?? "

"No, sir."

"Air ye a half-breed?"

"No, I'm a Yank; my name is Kittering; born and bred in Redding,
Connecticut."

"Well, I swan, ye look it. At fust I took ye fur an Injun; ye did
look dark (and Rolf laughed inside, as he thought of that
butternut dye), but I'm bound to say we're glad yer white."

"Here, Bill, this is Rolf, Rolf Kittering, he'll go with ye to
Albany." Bill, a loose-jointed, middle-aged, flat-footed, large-
handed, semi-loafer, with keen gray eyes, looked up from a bundle
he was roping.

Then Warren took Rolf aside and explained: "I'm sending down all
my fur this trip. There's ten bales of sixty pounds each, pretty
near my hull fortune. I want it took straight to Vandam's, and,
night or day, don't leave it till ye git it there. He's close to
the dock. I'm telling ye this for two reasons: The river's
swarming with pirates and sneaks. They'd like nothing better
than to get away with a five-hundred-dollar bundle of fur; and,
next, while Bill is A1 on the river and true as steel, he's awful
weak on the liquor; goes crazy, once it's in him. And I notice
you've always refused it here. So don't stop at Troy, an' when ye
get to Albany go straight past there to Vandam's. You'll have a
letter that'll explain, and he'll supply the goods yer to bring back.
He's a sort of a partner, and orders from him is same as from me.

"I suppose I ought to go myself, but this is the time all the fur
is coming in here, an' I must be on hand to do the dickering, and
there's too much much to risk it any longer in the storehouse."

"Suppose," said Rolf, "Bill wants to stop at Troy?"

"He won't. He's all right, given he's sober. I've give him the
letter."

"Couldn't you give me the letter, in case?"

"Law, Bill'd get mad and quit."

"He'll never know."

"That's so; I will." So when they paddled away, Bill had an
important letter of instructions ostentatiously tucked in his
outer pocket. Rolf, unknown to any one else but Warren, had a
duplicate, wrapped in waterproof, hidden in an inside pocket.

Bill was A1 on the river; a kind and gentle old woodman, much
stronger than he looked. He knew the value of fur and the danger
of wetting it, so he took no chances in doubtful rapids. This
meant many portages and much hard labour.

I wonder if the world realizes the hard labour of the portage or
carry? Let any man who seeks for light, take a fifty-pound sack
of flour on his shoulders and walk a quarter of a mile on level
ground in cool weather. Unless he is in training, he will find it
a heavy burden long before he is half-way. Suppose, instead of a
flour sack, the burden has sharp angles; the bearer is soon in
torture. Suppose the weight carried be double; then the strain
is far more than doubled. Suppose, finally, the road be not a
quarter mile but a mile, and not on level but through swamps,
over rocks, logs, and roots, and the weather not cool, but
suffocating summer weather in the woods, with mosquitoes boring
into every exposed part, while both hands are occupied, steadying
the burden or holding on to branches for help up steep places --
and then he will have some idea of the horror of the portage; and
there were many of these, each one calling for six loaded and
five light trips for each canoe-man. What wonder that men will
often take chances in some fierce rapid, rather than to make a
long carry through the fly-infested woods.

It was weighty evidence of Bill's fidelity that again and again
they made a portage around rapids he had often run, because in
the present case he was in sacred trust of that much prized
commodity -- fur.

Eighty miles they called it from Warren's to Albany, but there
were many halts and carries which meant long delay, and a whole
week was covered before Bill and Rolf had passed the settlements
of Glens Falls, Fort Edward, and Schuylerville, and guided their
heavily laden canoe on the tranquil river, past the little town
of Troy. Loafers hailed them from the bank, but Bill turned a
deaf ear to all temptation; and they pushed on happy in the
thought that now their troubles were over; the last rapid was
past; the broad, smooth waters extended to their port.

Albany

Only a man who in his youth has come at last in sight of some
great city he had dreamed of all his life and longed to see, can
enter into Rolf's feelings as they swept around the big bend, and
Albany -- Albany, hove in view. Abany, the first chartered city
of the United States; Albany, the capital of all the Empire
State; Albany, the thriving metropolis with nearly six thousand
living human souls; Albany with its State House, beautiful and
dignified, looking down the mighty Hudson highway that led to the
open sea.

Rolf knew his Bible, and now he somewhat realized the feelings of
St. Paul on that historic day when his life-long dream came true,
when first he neared the Eternal City -- when at last he glimpsed
the towers of imperial, splendid Rome.

The long-strung docks were massed and webbed with ship rigging;
the water was livened with boats and canoes; the wooden
warehouses back of the docks were overtopped by wooden houses in
tiers, until high above them all the Capitol itself was the
fitting climax.

Rolf knew something of shipping, and amid all the massed boats
his eyes fell on a strange, square-looking craft with a huge
water-wheel on each side. Then, swinging into better view, he
read her name, the Clermont, and knew that this was the famous
Fulton steamer, the first of the steamboat age.

But Bill was swamped by no such emotion. Albany, Hudson,
Clermont, and all, were familiar stories to him and he stolidly
headed the canoe for the dock he knew of old.

Loafers roosting on the snubbing posts hailed him, at first with
raillery; but, coming nearer, he was recognized. "Hello, Bill;
back again? Glad to see you," and there was superabundant help to
land the canoe.

"Wall, wall, wall, so it's really you," said the touter of a fur
house, in extremely friendly voice; "come in now and we'll hev a
drink."

"No, sir-ree," said Bill decisively, "I don't drink till business
is done."

"Wall, now, Bill, here's Van Roost's not ten steps away an' he
hez tapped the finest bar'l in years."

"No, I tell ye, I'm not drinking -- now."

"Wall, all right, ye know yer own business. I thought maybe ye'd
be glad to see us."

"Well, ain't I?"

"Hello, Bill," and Bill's fat brother-in-law came up. Thus does
me good, an' yer sister is spilin' to see ye. We'll hev one on
this."

"No, Sam, I ain't drinkin'; I've got biz to tend."

"Wall, hev just one to clear yer head. Then settle yer business
and come back to us."

So Bill went to have one to clear his head. "I'll be back in two
minutes, Rolf," but Rolf saw him no more for many days.

"You better come along, cub," called out a red-nosed member of
the group. But Rolf shook his head.

"Here, I'll help you git them ashore," volunteered an effusive
stranger, with one eye.

"I don't want help."

"How are ye gain' to handle 'em alone?"

"Well, there's one thing I'd be glad to have ye do; that is, go
up there and bring Peter Vandam."

"I'll watch yer stuff while you go."

"No, I can't leave." "Then go to blazes; d'yte take me for yer
errand boy?" And Rolf was left alone.

He was green at the business, but already he was realizing the
power of that word fur and the importance of the peltry trade.
Fur was the one valued product of the wilderness that only the
hunter could bring. The merchants of the world were as greedy for
fur as for gold, and far more so than for precious stones.

It was a commodity so light that, even in those days, a hundred
weight of fur might range in value from one hundred to five
thousand dollars, so that a man with a pack of fine furs was a
capitalist. The profits of the business were good for trapper,
very large for the trader, who doubled his first gain by paying
in trade; but they were huge for the Albany middleman, and
colossal for the New Yorker who shipped to London.

With such allurements, it was small wonder that more country was
explored and opened for fur than for settlement or even for gold;
and there were more serious crimes and high-handed robberies over
the right to trade a few furs than over any other legitimate
business. These things were new to Rolf within the year, but he
was learn- ing the lesson, and Warren's remarks about fur stuck
in his memory with growing value. Every incident since the trip
began had given them new points.

The morning passed without sign of Bill; so, when in the
afternoon, some bare-legged boys came along, Rolf said to them:
"Do any of ye know where Peter Vandam's house is?"

"Yeh, that's it right there," and they pointed to a large log
house less than a hundred yards away.

"Do ye know him?"

"Yeh, he's my paw," said a sun-bleached freckle-face.

"If you bring him here right away, I'll give you a dime. Tell him
I'm from Warren's with a cargo."

The dusty stampede that followed was like that of a mustang herd,
for a dime was a dime in those days. And very soon, a tall,ruddy
man appeared at the dock. He was a Dutchman in name only. At
first sight he was much like the other loafers, but was bigger,
and had a more business-like air when observed near at hand.

"Are you from Warren's?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alone? "

"No, sir. I came with Bill Bymus. But he went off early this
morning; I haven't seen him since. I'm afraid he's in trouble."

"Where'd ho go?"

"In there with some friends."

"Ha, just like him; he's in trouble all right. He'll be no good
for a week. Last time he came near losing all our stuff. Now
let's see what ye've got."

"Are you Mr. Peter Vandam? "

"Of course I am."

Still Rolf looked doubtful. There was a small group around, and
Rolf heard several voices, "Yes, this is Peter; ye needn't
a-worry." But Rolf knew none of the speakers. His look of
puzzlement at first annoyed then tickled the Dutchman, who
exploded into a hearty guffaw.

"Wall, wall, you sure think ill of us. Here, now look at that,"
and he drew out a bundle of letters addressed to Master Peter
Vandam. Then he displayed a gold watch inscribed on the back
"Peter Vandam"; next he showed a fob seal with a scroll and an
inscription, "Petrus Vandamus"; then he turned to a youngster and
said, "Run, there is the Reverend Dr. Powellus, he may help us";
so the black-garbed, knee-breached, shovel-hatted clergyman came
and pompously said: "Yes, my young friend, without doubt you may
rest assured that this is our very estimable parishioner, Master
Peter Vandam; a man well accounted in the world of trade."

"And now," said Peter, "with the help of my birth- register and
marriage-certificate, which will be placed at your service with
all possible haste, I hope I may win your recognition." The
situation, at first tense, had become more and more funny, and
the bystanders laughed aloud. Rolf rose to it, and smiling said
slowly, "I am inclined to think that you must be Master Peter
Vandam, of

Albany. If that's so, this letter is for you, also this cargo."
And so the delivery was made.

Bill Bymus has not delivered the other letter to this day.
Presumably he went to stay with his sister, but she saw little of
him, for his stay at Albany was, as usual, one long spree. It was
clear that, but for Rolf, there might have been serious loss of
fur, and Vandam showed his appreciation by taking the lad to his
own home, where the story of the difficult identification
furnished ground for gusty laughter and primitive jest on many an
after day.

The return cargo for Warren consisted of stores that the Vandam
warehouse had in stock, and some stuff that took a day or more to
collect in town.

As Rolf was sorting and packing next day, a tall, thin, well-dressed
young man walked in with the air of one much at home.

"Good morrow, Peter."

"Good day to ye, sir," and they talked of crops and politics.

Presently Vandam said, "Rolf, come over here."

He came and was presented to the tall man, who was indeed very
thin, and looked little better than an invalid. "This," said
Peter, "is Master Henry van Cortlandt the son of his honour, the
governor, and a very learned barrister. He wants to go on a long
hunting trip for his health. I tell him that likely you are the
man he needs."

This was so unexpected that Rolf turned red and gazed on the
ground. Van Cortlandt at once began to clear things by
interjecting: "You see, I'm not strong. I want to live outdoors
for three months, where I can have some hunting and be beyond
reach of business. I'll pay you a hundred dollars for the three
months, to cover board and guidance. And providing I'm well
pleased and have good hunting, I'll give you fifty dollars more
when I get back to Albany."

"I'd like much to be your guide," said Rolf, "but I have a
partner. I must find out if he's willing."

"Ye don't mean-that drunken Bill Bymus?"

"No! my hunting partner; he's an Indian." Then, after a pause, he
added, " You wouldn't go in fly-time, would you?"

"No, I want to be in peace. But any time after the first of August."

"I am bound to help Van Trumper with his harvest; that will take
most of August."

As he talked, the young lawyer sized him up and said to himself,
"This is my man."

And before they parted it was agreed that Rolf should come to
Albany with Quonab as soon as he could return in August, to form
the camping party for the governor's son.

The Rescue of Bill

Bales were ready and the canoe newly gummed three days after
their arrival, but still no sign of Bill. A messengers sent to
the brother-in-law's home reported that he had not been seen for
two days. In spite of the fact that Albany numbered nearly "six
thousand living human souls," a brief search by the docksharps
soon revealed the sinner's retreat. His worst enemy would have
pitied him; a red-eyed wreck; a starved, sick and trembling
weakling; conscience-stricken, for the letter intrusted to him
was lost; the cargo stolen -- so his comforters had said -- and
the raw country lad murdered and thrown out into the river. What
wonder that he should shun the light of day! And when big Peter
with Rolf in the living flesh, instead of the sheriff, stood
before him and told him to come out of that and get into the
canoe, he wept bitter tears of repentance and vowed that never,
never, never, as long as he lived would he ever again let liquor
touch his lips. A frame of mind which lasted in strength for
nearly one day and a half, and did not entirely varnish for three.

They passed Troy without desiring to stop, and began their fight
with the river. It was harder than when coming, for their course
was against stream when paddling, up hill when portaging, the
water was lower, the cargo was heavier, and Bill not so able. Ten
days it took them to cover those eighty miles. But they came out
safely, cargo and all, and landed at Warren's alive and well on
the twenty-first day since leaving.

Bill had recovered his usual form. Gravely and with pride he
marched up to Warren and handed out a large letter which read
outside, "Bill of Lading," and when opened, read: "The bearer of
this, Bill Bymus, is no good. Don't trust him to Albany any more.
(Signed) Peter Vandam."

Warren's eyes twinkled, but he said nothing. He took

Rolf aside and said, "Let's have it." Rolf gave him the real
letter that, unknown to Bill, he had carried, and Warren learned
some things that he knew before.

Rolf's contract was for a month; it had ten days to run, and
those ten days were put in weighing sugar, checking accounts,
milking cows, and watching the buying of fur. Warren didn't want
him to see too much of the fur business, but Rolf gathered
quickly that these were the main principles: Fill the seller with
liquor, if possible; "fire water for fur" was the idea; next,
grade all fur as medium or second-class, when cash was demanded,
but be easy as long as payment was to be in trade. That afforded
many loopholes between weighing, grading, charging, and
shrinkage, and finally he noticed that Albany prices were 30 to
50 per cent. higher than Warren prices. Yet Warren was reckoned
a first-class fellow, a good neighbour, and a member of the
church. But it was understood everywhere that fur, like
horseflesh, was a business with moral standards of its own.

A few days before their contract was up, Warren said: "How'd ye
like to renew for a month?"

"Can't; I promised to help Van Trumper with his harvest."

"What does he pay ye?"

"Seventy-five cents a day and board."

"I'll make it a dollar."

"I've given my word," said Rolf, in surprise.

"Hey ye signed papers?"

"They're not needed. The only use of signed papers is to show ye
have given your word," said Rolf, quoting his mother, with rising
indignation.

The trader sniffed a little contemptuously and said nothing. But
he realized the value of a lad who was a steady, intelligent
worker, wouldn't drink, and was absolutely bound by a promise;
so, after awhile, he said: "Wall, if Van don't want ye now, come
back for a couple of weeks."

Early in the morning Rolf gathered the trifles he had secured for
the little children and the book he had bought for Annette, a
sweet story of a perfect girl who died and went to heaven, the
front embellished with a thrilling wood-cut. Then he crossed the
familiar five-mile portage at a pace that in an hour brought him
to the lake.

The greeting at Van's was that of a brother come home.

"Vell, Rolf, it's goood to see ye back. It's choost vat I vented.
Hi, Marta, I told it you, yah. I say, now I hope ze good Gott
send Rolf. Ach, how I am shpoil!"

Yes, indeed. The hay was ready; the barley was changing. So Rolf
took up his life on the farm, doing work that a year before was
beyond his strength, for the spirit of the hills was on him, with
its impulse of growth, its joy in effort, its glory in strength.
And all who saw the longlegged, long-armed, flat- backed youth
plying fork or axe or hoe, in some sort ventured a guess: "He'll
be a good 'un some day; the kind o' chap to keep friendly with.

The Sick Ox

The Thunder Moon passed quickly by; the hay was in; the barley
partly so. Day by day the whitefaced oxen toiled at the creaking
yoke, as the loads of hay and grain were jounced cumbrously over
roots and stumps of the virgin fields. Everything was promising
well, when, as usual, there came a thunderbolt out of the clear
sky. Buck, the off ox, fell sick.

Those who know little about cattle have written much of the meek
and patient ox. Those who know them well tell us that the ox is
the "most cussedest of all cussed" animals; a sneak, a bully, a
coward, a thief, a shirk, a schemer; and when he is not in
mischief he is thinking about it. The wickedest pack mule that
ever bucked his burden is a pinfeathered turtle-dove compared
with an average ox. There are some gentle oxen, but they are
rare; most are treacherous, some are dangerous, and these are
best got rid of, as they mislead their yoke mates and mislay
their drivers. Van's two oxen, Buck and Bright, manifested the
usual variety and contrariety of disposition. They were all
right when well handled, and this Rolf could do better than Van,
for he was "raised on oxen," and Van's over voluble, sputtering,
Dutch- English seemed ill comprehended of the massive yoke
beasts. The simpler whip-waving and fewer orders of the Yankee
were so obviously successful that Van had resigned the whip of
authority and Rolf was driver.

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