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

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.

 

 

Chapter 3 (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.

 

Chapter 4 (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