Rolf In The Woods

S >> Seton >> Rolf In The Woods

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22

Mick did not return till late. He had been drawing wood for
Horton that day, which was the reason he happened in Quonab's
neighbourhood; but his road lay by the tavern, and when he
arrived home he was too helples to do more than mutter.

The next day there was an air of suspended thunder. Rolf
overheard his uncle cursing "that ungrateful young scut - not
worth his salt." But nothing further was said or done. His aunt
did not strike at him once for two days. The third night Micky
disappeared. On the next he returned with another man; they had
a crate of fowls, and Rolf was told to keep away from "that there
little barn."

So he did all morning, but he peeped in from the hayloft when a
chance came, and saw a beautiful horse. Next day the "little
barn" was open and empty as before.

That night this worthy couple had a jollification with some
callers, who were strangers to Rolf. As he lay awake, listening
to the carouse, he overheard many disjointed allusions that he
did not understand, and some that he could guess at: "Night work
pays better than day work any time," etc. Then he heard his own
name and a voice, "Let's go up and settle it with him now."
Whatever their plan, it was clear that the drunken crowd,
inspired by the old ruffian, were intent on doing him bodily
harm. He heard them stumbling and reeling up the steep stairs.
He heard, "Here, gimme that whip," and knew he was in peril,
maybe of his life, for they were whiskey-mad. He rose quickly,
locked the door, rolled up an old rag carpet, and put it in his
bed. Then he gathered his clothes on his arm, opened the window,
and lowered himself till his head only was above the sill, and
his foot found a resting place. Thus he awaited. The raucous
breathing of the revellers was loud on the stairs; then the door
was tried; there was some muttering; then the door was burst open
and in rushed two, or perhaps three, figures. Rolf could barely
see in the gloom, but he knew that his uncle was one of them.
The attack they made with whip and stick on that roll of rags in
the bed would have broken his bones and left him shapeless, had
he been in its place. The men were laughing and took it all as a
joke, but Rolf had seen enough; he slipped to the ground and
hurried away, realizing perfectly well now that this was
"good-bye."

Which way? How naturally his steps turned northward toward
Redding, the only other place he knew. But he had not gone a
mile before he stopped. The yapping of a coon dog came to him
from the near woods that lay to the westward along Asamuk. He
tramped toward it. To find the dog is one thing, to find the
owner another; but they drew near at last. Rolf gave the three
yelps and Quonab responded.

"I am done with that crowd," said the boy. "They tried to kill
me tonight. Have you got room for me in your wigwam for a couple
of days?"

"Ugh, come," said the Indian.

That night, for the first time, Rolf slept in the outdoor air of
a wigwam. He slept late, and knew nothing of the world about him
till Quonab called him to breakfast.

Skookum Accepts Rolf at Last

Rolf expected that Micky would soon hear of his hiding place and
come within a few days, backed by a constable, to claim his
runaway ward. But a week went by and Quonab, passing through
Myanos, learned, first, that Rolf had been seen tramping
northward on the road to Dumpling Pond, and was now supposed to
be back in Redding; second, that Micky Kittering was lodged in
jail under charge of horse-stealing and would certainly get a
long sentence; third, that his wife had gone back to her own
folks at Norwalk, and the house was held by strangers.

All other doors were closed now, and each day that drifted by
made it the more clear that Rolf and Quonab were to continue
together. What boy would not exult at the thought of it? Here
was freedom from a brutal tyranny that was crushing out his young
life; here was a dream of the wild world coming true, with
gratification of all the hunter instincts that he had held in his
heart for years, and nurtured in that single, ragged volume of
"Robinson Crusoe." The plunge was not a plunge, except it be one
when an eagle, pinion-bound, is freed and springs from a cliff of
the mountain to ride the mountain wind.

The memory of that fateful cooning day was deep and lasting.
Never afterward did smell of coon fail to bring it back; in spite
of the many evil incidents it was a smell of joy.

"Where are you going, Quonab?" he asked one morning, as he saw
the Indian rise at dawn and go forth with his song drum, after
warming it at the fire. He pointed up to the rock, and for the
first time Rolf heard the chant for the sunrise. Later he heard
the Indian's song for "Good Hunting," and another for "When His
Heart Was Bad." They were prayers or praise, all addressed to the
Great Spirit, or the Great Father, and it gave Rolf an entirely
new idea of the red man, and a startling light on himself. Here
was the Indian, whom no one considered anything but a hopeless
pagan, praying to God for guidance at each step in life, while he
himself, supposed to be a Christian, had not prayed regularly for
months -- was in danger of forgetting how.

Yet there was one religious observance that Rolf never forgot --
that was to keep the Sabbath, and on that day each week he did
occasionally say a little prayer his mother had taught him. He
avoided being seen at such times and did not speak of kindred
doings. Whereas Quonab neither hid nor advertised his religious
practices, and it was only after many Sundays had gone that
Quonab remarked:

"Does your God come only one day of the week? Does He sneak in
after dark? Why is He ashamed that you only whisper to Him?
Mine is here all the time. I can always reach Him with my song;
all days are my Sunday."

The evil memories of his late life were dimming quickly, and the
joys of the new one growing. Rolf learned early that, although
one may talk of the hardy savage, no Indian seeks for hardship.
Everything is done that he knows to make life pleasant, and of
nothing is he more careful than the comfort of his couch. On the
second day, under guidance of his host, Rolf set about making his
own bed. Two logs, each four inches thick and three feet long,
were cut. Then two strong poles, each six feet long, were laid
into notches at the ends of the short logs. About seventy-five
straight sticks of willow were cut and woven with willow bark
into a lattice, three feet wide and six feet long. This, laid on
the poles, furnished a spring mattress, on which a couple of
blankets made a most comfortable couch, dry, warm, and off the
ground. In addition to the lodge cover, each bed had a dew cloth
which gave perfect protection, no matter how the storm might rage
outdoors. There was no hardship in it, only a new-found
pleasure, to sleep and breathe the pure night air of the woods.

The Grass Moon - April - had passed, and the Song Moon was
waxing, with its hosts of small birds, and one of Rolf's early
discoveries was that many of these love to sing by night. Again
and again the familiar voice of the song sparrow came from the
dark shore of Asamuk, or the field sparrow trilled from the top
of some cedar, occasionally the painted one, Aunakeu, the
partridge, drummed in the upper woods, and nightly there was the
persistent chant of Muckawis, the whippoorwill, the myriad voices
of the little frogs called spring-peepers, and the peculiar,
"peent, peent," from the sky, followed by a twittering, that
Quonab told him was the love song of the swamp bird -- the big
snipe, with the fantail and long, soft bill, and eyes like a
deer.

"Do you mean the woodcock?" "Ugh, that's the name;
Pah-dash-ka-anja we call it."

The waning of the moon brought new songsters, with many a
nightingale among them. A low bush near the plain was vocal
during the full moon with the sweet but disconnected music of the
yellow-breasted chat. The forest rang again and again with a
wild, torrential strain of music that seemed to come from the
stars. It sent peculiar thrill into Rolf's heart, and gave him a
lump his throat as he listened.

"What is that, Quonab?"

"The Indian shook his head. Then, later, when it ended, he said:
"That is the mystery song of some one I never saw him."

There was a long silence, then the lad began, "There's no good
hunting here now, Quonab. Why don't you go to the north woods,
where deer are plentiful?"

The Indian gave a short shake of his head, and then to prevent
further talk, "Put up your dew cloth; the sea wind blows
to-night."

He finished; both stood for a moment gazing into the fire. Then
Rolf felt something wet and cold thrust into his hand. It was
Skookum's nose. At last the little dog had made up his mind to
accept the white boy as a friend.

Rolf Works Out with Many Results

He is the dumbest kind of a dumb fool that ain't king in
some little corner. -- Sayings of Si Sylvanne

The man who has wronged you will never forgive you,
and he who has helped you will be forever grateful.
Yes, there is nothing that draws you to a man so much
as the knowledge that you have helped him.

Quonab helped Rolf, and so was more drawn to him
than to many of the neighbours that he had known for
years; he was ready to like him. Their coming together
was accidental, but it was soon very clear that a friendship
was springing up between them. Rolf was too much
of a child to think about the remote future; and so was
Quonab. Most Indians are merely tall children.

But there was one thing that Rolf did think of -- he
had no right to live in Quonab's lodge without contributing
a fair share of the things needful. Quonab got his living
partly by hunting, partly by fishing, partly by selling
baskets, and partly by doing odd jobs for the neighbours.
Rolf's training as a loafer had been wholly neglected, and
when he realized that he might be all summer with Quonab
he said bluntly:

"You let me stay here a couple of months. I'll work
out odd days, and buy enough stuff to keep myself any
way." Quonab said nothing, but their eyes met, and the
boy knew it was agreed to.

Rolf went that very day to the farm of Obadiah Timpany,
and offered to work by the day, hoeing corn and root
crops. What farmer is not glad of help in planting time
or in harvest? It was only a question of what did he know
and how much did he want? The first was soon made
clear; two dollars a week was the usual thing for boys in
those times, and when he offered to take it half in trade,
he was really getting three dollars a week and his board.
Food was as low as wages, and at the end of a week, Rolf
brought back to camp a sack of oatmeal, a sack of cornmeal,
a bushel of potatoes, a lot of apples, and one dollar
cash. The dollar went for tea and sugar, and the total
product was enough to last them both a month; so Rolf
could share the wigwam with a good conscience.

Of course, it was impossible to keep the gossipy little
town of Myanos from knowing, first, that the Indian had
a white boy for partner; and, later, that that boy was Rolf.
This gave rise to great diversity of opinion in the
neighbourhood. Some thought it should not be allowed, but
Horton,
who owned the land on which Quonab was camped, could
not see any reason for interfering.

Ketchura Peck, spinster, however, did see many most
excellent reasons. She was a maid with a mission, and
maintained it to be an outrage that a Christian boy should
be brought up by a godless pagan. She worried over it
almost as much as she did over the heathen in Central
Africa, where there are no Sunday schools, and clothes
are as scarce as churches. Failing to move Parson Peck
and Elder Knapp in the matter, and despairing of an early
answer to her personal prayers, she resolved on a bold move,
"An' it was only after many a sleepless, prayerful night,"
namely, to carry the Bible into the heathen's stronghold.

Thus it was that one bright morning in June she might
have been seen, prim and proper -- almost glorified, she
felt, as she set her lips just right in the mirror -- making
for the Pipestave Pond, Bible in hand and spectacles clean
wiped, ready to read appropriate selections to the unregenerate.

She was full of the missionary spirit when she left Myanos,
and partly full when she reached the Orchard Street Trail;
but the spirit was leaking badly, and the woods did appear
so wild and lonely that she wondered if women had any
right to be missionaries. When she came in sight of the
pond, the place seemed unpleasantly different from Myanos
and where was the Indian camp? She did not dare to
shout; indeed, she began to wish she were home again,
but the sense of duty carried her fully fifty yards along the
pond, and then she came to an impassable rock, a sheer
bank that plainly said, "Stop!" Now she must go back
or up the bank. Her Yankee pertinacity said, "Try first
up the bank," and she began a long, toilsome ascent,
that did not end until she came out on a bigh, open rock
which, on its farther side, had a sheer drop and gave a
view of the village and of the sea.

Whatever joy she had on again seeing her bome was
speedily queued in the fearsome discovery that she was
right over the Indian camp, and the two inmates looked so
utterly, dreadfully savage that she was thankful they had
not seen her. At once she shrank back; but on recovering
sufficiently to again peer down, she saw something roasting
before the fire -- "a tiny arm with a hand that bore
five fmgers," as she afterward said, and "a sickening
horror came over her. " Yes, she had heard of such things.
If she could only get home in safety! Why had she
tempted Providence thus? She backed softly and prayed
only to escape. What, and never even deliver the Bible?
"It would be wicked to return with it!" In a cleft of
the rock she placed it, and then, to prevent the wind
blowing off loose leaves, she placed a stone on top, and
fled from the dreadful place.

That night, when Quonab and Rolf had finished their
meal of corn and roasted coon, the old man climbed the
rock to look at the sky. The book caught his eye at once,
evidently hidden there carefully, and therefore in cache.
A cache is a sacred thing to an Indian. He disturbed it
not, but later asked Rolf, "That yours?"

"No."

It was doubtless the property of some one who meant
to return for it, so they left it untouched. It rested
there for many months, till the winter storms came down,
dismantling the covers, dissolving the pages, but leaving
such traces as, in the long afterward, served to identify
the book and give the rock the other name, the one it
bears to-day - "Bible Rock, where Quonab, the son of
Cos Cob, used to live."

The Law of Property Among Our Four-Footed Kin

Night came down on the Asamuk woods, and the two in the wigwam
were eating their supper of pork, beans, and tea, for the Indian
did not, by any means object to the white man's luxuries, when a
strange "yap-yurr" was heard out toward the plain. The dog was up
at once with a growl. Rolf looked inquiringly, and Quonab said,
"Fox," then bade the dog be still.

"Yap-yurr, yap-yurr," and then, "yurr, yeow," it came again and
again. "Can we get him?" said the eager young hunter. The
Indian shook his head.

"Fur no good now. An' that's a she-one, with young ones on the
hillside."

"How do you know?" was the amazed inquiry. "I know it's a
she-one, 'cause she says:

"Yap-yurr" (high pitched)

If it was a he-one he'd say:

"Yap-yurr" (low pitched)

"And she has cubs, 'cause all have at this season. And they are
on that hillside, because that's the nearest place where any fox
den is, and they keep pretty much to their own hunting grounds.
If another fox should come hunting on the beat of this pair, he'd
have to fight for it. That is the way of the wild animals; each
has his own run, and for that he will fight an outsider that he
would be afraid of at any other place. One knows he is right --
that braces him up; the other knows he is wrong -- and that
weakens him." Those were the Indian's views, expressed much less
connectedly than here given, and they led Rolf on to a train of
thought. He remembered a case that was much to the point.

Their little dog Skookum several times had been worsted by the
dog on the Horton farm, when, following his master, he had come
into the house yard. There was no question that the Horton dog
was stronger. But Skookum had buried a bone under some brushes
by the plain and next day the hated Horton dog appeared. Skookum
watched him with suspicion and fear, until it was no longer
doubtful that the enemy had smelled the hidden food and was going
for it. Then Skookum, braced up by some instinctive feeling,
rushed forward with bristling mane and gleaming teeth, stood over
his cache, and said in plainest dog, "You can't touch that while
I live!"

And the Horton dog -- accustomed to domineer over the small
yellow cur -- growled contemptuously, scratched with his hind
feet, smelled around an adjoining bush, and pretending not to see
or notice, went off in another direction.

What was it that robbed him of his courage, but the knowledge
that he was in the wrong?

Continuing with his host Rolf said, "Do you think they have any
idea that it is wrong to steal?"

"Yes, so long as it is one of their own tribe. A fox will take
all he can get from a bird or a rabbit or a woodchuck, but he
won't go far on the hunting grounds of another fox. He won't go
into another fox's den or touch one of its young ones, and if he
finds a cache of food with another fox's mark on it, he won't
touch it unless he is near dead of hunger."

"How do you mean they cache food and how do they mark it?"

"Generally they bury it under the leaves and soft earth, and the
only mark is to leave their body scent. But that is strong
enough, and every fox knows it."

"Do wolves make food caches?"

"Yes, wolves, cougars, weasels, squirrels, bluejays, crows, owls,
mice, all do, and all have their own way of marking a place."

"Suppose a fox finds a wolf cache, will he steal from it?"

"Yes, always. There is no law between fox and wolf. They are
always at war with each other. There is law only between fox and
fox, or wolf and wolf."

"That is like ourselves, ain't it? We say, 'Thou shalt not
steal,' and then when we steal the Indian's land or the
Frenchman's ships, we say, 'Oh, that don't mean not steal from
our enemies; they are fair game.'"

Quonab rose to throw some sticks on the fire, then went out to
turn the smoke flap of the wigwam, for the wind was changed and
another set was needed to draw the smoke. They heard several
times again the high-pitched "yap yurr," and once the deeper
notes, which told that the dog fox, too, was near the camp, and
was doubtless seeking food to carry home.

Where the Bow Is Better Than the Gun

Of all popular errors about the Indians, the hardest to down is
the idea that their women do all the work. They do the
housework, it is true, but all the heavy labour beyond their
strength is done by the men. Examples of this are seen in the
frightful toil of hunting, canoeing, and portaging, besides a
multitude of kindred small tasks, such as making snowshoes, bows,
arrows, and canoes.

Each warrior usually makes his own bow and arrows, and if, as
often happens, one of them proves more skilful and turns out
better weapons, it is a common thing for others to offer their
own specialty in exchange.

The advantages of the bow over the gun are chiefly its
noiselessness, its cheapness, and the fact that one can make its
ammunition anywhere. As the gun chiefly used in Quonab's time
was the old-fashioned, smooth-bore flint-lock, there was not much
difference in the accuracy of the two weapons. Quonab had always
made a highclass bow, as well as high-class arrows, and was a
high- class shot. He could set up ten clam shells at ten paces
and break all in ten shots. For at least half of his hunting he
preferred the bow; the gun was useful to him chiefly when flocks
of wild pigeons or ducks were about, and a single charge of
scattering shot might bring down a dozen birds.

But there is a law in all shooting -- to be expert, you must
practise continually -- and when Rolf saw his host shoot nearly
every day at some mark, he tried to join in the sport.

It took not many trys to show that the bow was far too strong for
him to use, and Quonab was persuaded at length to make an outfit
for his visitor.

From the dry store hole under the rock, he produced a piece of
common red cedar. Some use hickory; it is less liable to break
and will stand more abuse, but it has not the sharp, clean action
of cedar. The latter will send the arrow much farther, and so
swiftly does it leave the string that it baffles the eye. But
the cedar bow must be cared for like a delicate machine;
overstring it, and it breaks; twang it without an arrow, and it
sunders the cords; scratch it, and it may splinter; wet it, and
it is dead; let it lie on the ground, even, and it is weakened.
But guard it and it will serve you as a matchless servant, and as
can no other timber in these woods.

Just where the red heart and the white sap woods join is the
bowman's choice. A piece that reached from Rolf's chin to the
ground was shaved down till it was flat on the white side and
round on the red side, tapering from the middle, where it was one
inch wide and one inch thick to the ends, where it was three
fourths of an inch wide and five eighths of an inch thick, the
red and white wood equal in all parts.

The string was made of sinew from the back of a cow, split from
the long, broad sheath that lies on each side the spine, and the
bow strung for trial. Now, on drawing it (flat or white side in
front), it was found that one arm bent more than the other, so a
little more scraping was done on the strong side, till both bent
alike.

Quonab's arrows would answer, but Rolf needed a supply of his
own. Again there was great choice of material. The long,
straight shoots ol' the arrowwood (Viburnuin dentatum) supplied
the ancient Indians, but Quonab had adopted a better way, since
the possession of an axe made it possible. A 25-inch block of
straight-grained ash was split and split until it yielded enough
pieces. These were shaved down to one fourth of an inch tbick,
round, smooth, and perfectly straight. Each was notched deeply
at one end; three pieces of split goose feather were lashed on
the notched end, and three different kinds of arrows were made.
All were alike in shaft and in feathering, but differed in the
head. First, the target arrows: these were merely sharpened, and
the points hardened by roasting to a brown colour. They would
have been better with conical points of steel, but none of these
were to be had. Second, the ordinary hunting arrows with barbed
steel heads, usuauy bought ready-made, or filed out of a hoop:
these were for use in securing such creatures as muskrats, ducks
close at hand, or deer. Third, the bird bolts: these were left
with a large, round, wooden head. They were intended for quail,
partridges, rabbits, and squirrels, but also served very often,
and most admirably, in punishing dogs, either the Indian's own
when he was not living up to the rules and was too far off for a
cuff or kick, or a farmer's dog that was threatening an attack.

Now the outfit was complete, Rolf thought, but one other touch
was necessary. Quonab painted the feather part of the shaft
bright red, and Rolf learned why. Not for ornament, not as an
owner's mark, but as a finding mark. Many a time that brilliant
red, with the white feather next it, was the means of saving the
arrow from loss. An uncoloured arrow among the sticks and leaves
of the woods was usually hidden, but the bright-coloured shaft
could catch the eye ioo yards away.

It was very necessary to keep the bow and arrows from the wet.
For this, every hunter provides a case, usually of buckskin, but
failing that they made a good quiver of birch bark laced with
spruce roots for the arrows, and for the bow itself a long cover
of tarpaulin.

Now came the slow drilling in archery; the arrow held and the bow
drawn with three fingers on the cord - the thumb and little
finger doing nothing. The target was a bag of hay set at twenty
feet, until the beginner could hit it every time: then by degrees
it was moved away until at the standard distance of forty yards
he could do fair shooting, although of course he never shot as
well as the Indian, who had practised since he was a baby.

There are three different kinds of archery tests: the first for
aim: Can you shoot so truly as to hit a three-inch mark, ten
times in succession, at ten paces?

Next for speed: Can you shoot so quickly and so far up, as to
have five arrows in the air at once? If so, you are good: Can
you keep up six? Then you are very good. Seven is wonderful.
The record is said to be eight. Last for power: Can you pull so
strong a bow and let the arrow go so clean that it will fly for
250 yards or will pass through a deer at ten paces? There is a
record of a Sioux who sent an arrow through three antelopes at
one shot, and it was not unusual to pierce the huge buffalo
through and through; on one occasion a warrior with one shot
pierced the buffalo and killed her calf running at the other
side.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22