Rolf In The Woods, Ernest Thompson Seton [warren buffett book recommendations TXT] 📗

Swishes Through

The Grove,  Until A Faint Air Current Took A Wreath Of It To The

Moose.  The Great Nostrils Drank In A Draught That Conveyed

Terror To The Creature's Soul,  And Wheeling It Started At Its

Best Pace To The Distant Swamp,  To Be Seen No More.

 

Five Times,  During These Four Days,  Did Deer Come By And Behave

As Though They Knew Perfectly Well That This Young Human Was

Harmless,  Entirely Without The Power Of The Far-Killing Mystery.

 

How Intensely Rolf Wished For A Gun.  How Vividly Came Back The

Scene In The Trader's Store,  -- When Last Month He Had Been

Offered A Beautiful Rifle For Twenty-Five Dollars,  To Be Paid For

In Fur Next Spring,  And Savagely He Blamed Himself For Not

Realizing What A Chance It Was.  Then And There He Made Resolve

To Be The Owner Of A Gun As Soon As Another Chance Came,  And To

Make That Chance Come Right Soon.

 

One Little Victory He Had In That Time.  The Creature That Had

Torn Open The Venison Bag Was Still Around The Camp; That Was

Plain By The Further Damage On The Bag Hung In The Storehouse,

The Walls Of Which Were Not Chinked. Mindful Of Quonab's Remark,

He Set Two Marten Traps,  One On The Roof,  Near The Hole That Had

Been Used As Entry; The Other On A Log Along Which The Creature

Must Climb To Reach The Meat.  The Method Of Setting Is Simple; A

Hollow Is Made,  Large Enough To Receive The Trap As It Lies Open;

On The Pan Of The Trap Some Grass Is Laid Smoothly; On Each Side

Of The Trap A Piece Of Prickly Brush Is Placed,  So That In

Leaping Over These The Creature Will Land On The Lurking Snare.

The Chain Was Made Fast To A Small Log.

 

Although So Seldom Seen There Is No Doubt That The Marten Comes

Out Chiefly By Day.  That Night The Trap Remained Unsprung; Next

Morning As Rolf Went At Silent Dawn To Bring Water From The Lake,

He Noticed A Long,  Dark Line That Proved To Be Ducks.  As He Sat

Gazing He Heard A Sound In The Tree Beyond The Cabin.  It Was

Like The Scratching Of A Squirrel Climbing About.  Then He Saw

The Creature,  A Large,  Dark Squirrel,  It Seemed.  It Darted Up

This Tree And Down That,  Over Logs And Under Brush,  With The

Lightning Speed Of A Lightning Squirrel,  And From Time To Time It

Stopped Still As A Bump While It Gazed At Some Far And Suspicious

Object.  Up One Trunk It Went Like A Brown Flash,  And A Moment

Later,  Out,   Cackling From Its Top,  Flew Two Partridges.  Down To

The Ground,  Sinuous,  Graceful,  Incessantly Active Flashed The

Marten.  Along A Log It Raced In Undulating Leaps; In The Middle

It Stopped As Though Frozen,  To Gaze Intently Into A Bed Of

Sedge; With Three Billowy Bounds Its Sleek Form Reached The

Sedge,  Flashed In And Out Again With A Mouse In Its Snarling

Jaws; A Side Leap Now,  And Another Squeaker Was Squeakless,  And

Another.  The Three Were Slain,  Then Thrown Aside,  As The Brown

Terror Scanned A Flight Of Ducks Passing Over.  Into A Thicket Of

Willow It Disap- Peared And Out Again Like An Eel Going Through

The Mud,  Then Up A Tall Stub Where Woodpecker Holes Were To Be

Seen. Into The Largest It Went So Quickly Rolf Could Scarcely See

How It Entered,  And Out In A Few Seconds Bearing A Flying

Squirrel Whose Skull It Had Crushed.  Dropping The Squirrel  It

Leaped After It,  And Pounced Again On The Quivering Form With A

Fearsome Growl; Then Shook It Savagely,  Tore It Apart,  Cast It

Aside.  Over The Ground It Now Undulated,  Its Shining Yellow

Breast Like A Target Of Gold.  Again It Stopped.  Now In Pose

Like A Pointer,  Exquisitely Graceful,  But Oh,  So Wicked!  Then

The Snaky Neck Swung The Cobra Head In The Breeze And The Brown

One Sniffed And Sniffed,  Advanced A Few Steps,  Tried The Wind And

The Ground. Still Farther And The Concentrated Interest Showed In

Its Outstretched Neck And Quivering Tail.  Bounding Into A

Thicket It Went,  When Out Of The Other Side There Leaped A

Snowshoe Rabbit,  Away And Away For Dear Life. Jump,  Jump,  Jump;

Twelve Feet At Every Stride,  And Faster Than The Eye Could

Follow,  With The Marten Close Behind.  What A Race It Was,  And

How They Twinkled Through The Brush! The Rabbit Is,  Indeed,

Faster,  But Courage Counts For Much,  And His Was Low; But Luck

And His Good Stars Urged Him Round To The Deer Trail Crossing Of

The Stream; Once There He Could Not Turn.  There Was Only One

Course.  He Sprang Into The Open River And Swam For His Life.

And The Marten - Why Should It Go In?  It Hated The Water; It Was

Not Hungry; It Was Out For Sport,  And Water Sport Is Not To Its

Liking.  It Braced Its Sinewy Legs And Halted At The Very Brink,

While Bunny Crossed To The Safe Woods.

 

Back Now Came Wahpestan,  The Brown Death,  Over The Logs Like A

Winged Snake,  Skimming The Ground Like A Sinister Shadow,  And

Heading For The Cabin As The Cabin's Owner Watched.  Passing The

Body Of The Squirrel It Paused To Rend It Again,  Then Diving Into

The Brush Came Out So Far Away And So Soon That The Watcher

Supposed At First That This Was Another Marten.  Up The Shanty

Corner It Flashed,  Hardly Appearing To Climb,  Swung That Yellow

Throat And Dark-Brown Muzzle For A Second,  Then Made Toward The Entry.

 

Rolf Sat With Staring Eyes As The Beautiful Demon,  Elegantly

Spurning The Roof Sods,  Went At Easy,  Measured Bounds Toward The

Open Chink -- Toward Its Doom.  One,  Two,  Three -- Clearing The

Prickly Cedar Bush,  Its Forefeet Fell On The Hidden Trap; Clutch,

A Savage Shriek,  A Flashing,  -- A Struggle Baffling The Eyes To

Follow,  And The Master Of The Squirrels Was Himself Under

Mastery.

 

Rolf Rushed Forward Now.  The Little Demon In The Trap Was

Frothing With Rage And Hate; It Ground The Iron With Its Teeth;

It Shrieked At The Human Foeman Coming.

 

The Scene Must End,  The Quicker The Better,  And Even As The

Marten Itself Had Served The Flying Squirrel And The Mice,  And As

Quonab Served The Mink,  So Rolf Served The Marten And The Woods

Was Still.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 29 (Snowshoes)

That's For Annette," Said Rolf,  Remembering His Promise As He

Hung The Stretched Marten Skin To Dry.

 

"Yi!  Yi!  Yi!" Came Three Yelps,  Just As He Had Heard Them The

Day He First Met Quonab,  And Crossing The Narrow Lake He Saw His

Partner's Canoe.

 

"We Have Found The Good Hunting," He Said,  As Rolf Steadied The

Canoe At The Landing And Skookum,  Nearly Well Again,  Wagged His

Entire Ulterior Person To Welcome The Wanderer Home.  The First

Thing To Catch The Boy's Eye Was A Great,  Splendid Beaver Skin

Stretched On A Willow Hoop.

 

"Ho,  Ho!" He Exclaimed.

 

"Ugh; Found Another Pond."

 

"Good,  Good," Said Rolf As He Stroked The Flrst Beaver Skin He

Had Ever Seen In The Woods.

 

"This Is Better," Said Quonab,  And Held Up The Two Barkstones,

Castors,  Or Smell-Glands That Are Found In Every Beaver And Which

For Some Hid Reason Have An Irresistible Attraction For All Wild

Animals.  To Us The Odour Is Slight,  But They Have The Power Of

Intensifying,  Perpetuating,  And Projecting Such Odorous

Substances As May Be Mixed With Them.  No Trapper Considers His

Bait To Be Perfect Without A Little Of The Mysterious Castor.  So

That That Most  Stenchable Thing They Had Already Concocted Of

Fish-Oil,   Putrescence,  Sewer-Gas,  And Sunlight,  When Commingled

And Multiplied With The Dried-Up Powder Of A Castor,  Was

Intensified Into A Rich,  Rancid,  Gas-Exhaling Hell-Broth As

Rapturously Bewitching To Our Furry Brothers As It Is

Poisonously Nauseating To Ourselves -- Seductive Afar Like The

Sweetest Music,  Inexorable As Fate,  Insidious As Laughing-Gas,

Soothing And Numbing As Absinthe -- This,  The Lure And

Caution-Luller,  Is The Fellest Trick In All The Trappers' Code.

As Deadly As Inexplicable,  Not A Few Of The States Have Classed

It With Black Magic And Declared Its Use A Crime.

 

But No Such Sentiment Prevailed In The High Hills Of Quonab's

Time,  And Their Preparations For A Successful Trapping Season

Were Nearly Perfect.  Thirty Deadfalls Made By Quonab,  With The

Sixty Made On The First Trip And A Dozen Steel Traps,  Were Surely

Promise Of A Good Haul.  It Was Nearly November Now; The Fur Was

Prime; Then Why Not Begin?  Because The Weather Was Too Fine.

You Must Have Frosty Weather Or The Creatures Taken In The

Deadfalls Are Spoiled Before The Trapper Can Get Around.

 

Already A Good,  Big Pile Of Wood Was Cut; Both Shanty And

Storeroom Were Chinked,  Plugged,  And Banked For The Winter.  It

Was Not Safe Yet To Shoot And Store A Number Of Deer,  But There

Was Something They Could Do.  Snowshoes Would Soon Be A Necessary

Of Life; And The More Of This Finger Work They Did While The

Weather Was Warm,  The Better.

 

Birch And Ash Are Used For Frames; The Former Is Less Liable To

Split,  But Harder To Work.  White Ash Was Plentiful On The Near

Flat,  And A Small Ten-Foot Log Was Soon Cut And Split Into A Lot

Of Long Laths.  Quonab Of Course Took Charge; But Rolf Followed

In Everything.  Each Took A Lath And Shaved It Down Evenly Until

An Inch Wide And Three Quarters Of An Inch Thick.  The Exact

Middle Was Marked,  And For Ten Inches At Each Side Of That It Was

Shaved Down To Half An Inch In Thickness.  Two Flat Crossbars,

Ten And Twelve Inches Long,  Were Needed And Holes To Receive

These Made Half Through The Frame.  The Pot Was Ready Boiling And

By Using A Cord From End To End Of Each Lath They Easily Bent It

In The Middle And Brought The Wood Into Touch With The Boiling

Water.  Before An Hour The Steam Had So Softened The Wood,  And

Robbed It Of Spring,  That It Was Easy To Make It Into Any Desired

Shape.  Each Lath Was Cautiously Bent Round; The Crossbars

Slipped Into Their Prepared Sockets; A Temporary Lashing Of Cord

Kept All In Place; Then Finally The Frames Were Set On A Level

Place With The Fore End Raised Two Inches And A Heavy Log Put On

The Frame To Give The Upturn To The Toe.

 

Here They Were Left To Dry And The Indian Set About  Preparing

The Necessary Thongs.  A Buckskin Rolled In Wet,  Hard Wood Ashes

Had Been Left In The Mud Hole.  Now After A Week The Hair Was

Easily Scraped Off And The Hide,  Cleaned And Trimmed Of All Loose

Ends And Tags,  Was Spread Out -- Soft,  White,  And Supple.

Beginning Outside,  And Following Round And Round The Edge,  Quonab

Cut A Thong Of Rawhide As Nearly As Possible A Quarter Inch Wide.

This He Carried On Till There Were Many Yards Of It,  And The Hide

Was All Used Up. The Second Deer Skin Was Much Smaller And

Thinner. He Sharpened His Knife And Cut It Much Finer,  At Least

Half The Width Of The Other.    Now They Were Ready To Lace The

Shoes,  The Finer For The Fore And Back Parts,  The Heavy For The

Middle On Which The Wearer Treads.  An Expert Squaw Would Have

Laughed At The Rude Snowshoes That Were Finished That Day,  But

They Were Strong And Serviceable.

 

Naturally The Snowshoes Suggested A Toboggan.  That Was Easily

Made By Splitting Four Thin Boards Of Ash,  Each Six Inches Wide

And Ten Feet Long.  An Up-Curl Was Steamed On The Prow Of Each,

And Rawhide Lashings Held All To The Crossbars.