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

Wolf Raised Its Muzzle And Uttered A Long Smooth

Howl.

 

Rolf Had Left His Pistol Back At The Fire; He Dared Not Throw His

Hatchet,  As That Would Have Left Him Unarmed. He Stooped,  Picked

Up A Stick,  And Threw That; The Wolf Ducked So That It Passed

Over,  Then,  Stepping Back From The Log,  Stood Gazing Without

Obvious Fear Or Menace. The Others Were Howling; Rolf Felt

Afraid. He Backed Cautiously To The Fire,  Got His Pistol And Came

Again To The Place,  But Nothing More Did He See Of The Wolf,

Though He Heard Them All Night And Kept Up Two Great Fires For A

Protection.

 

In The Morning He Started As Usual,  And Before Half An Hour He

Was Aware Of A Wolf,  And Later Of Two,  Trotting Along His Trail,

A Few Hundred Yards Behind. They Did Not Try To Overtake Him;

Indeed,  When He Stopped,  They Did The Same; And When He Trotted,

They,  True To Their Dog-Like Nature,  Ran More Rapidly In Pursuit.

How Rolf Did Wish For His Long Rifle; But They Gave No

Opportunity For A Shot With The Pistol. They Acted,  Indeed,  As

Though They Knew Their Safe Distance And The Exact Range Of The

Junior Gun. The Scout Made A Trap For Them By Stealing Back After

He Had Crossed A Ridge,  And Hiding Near His Own Trail. But The

Wind Conveyed A Warning,  And The Wolves Merely Sat Down And

Waited Till He Came Out And Went On. All Day Long These Two

Strange Ban Dogs Followed Him And Gave No Sign Of Hunger Or

Malice; Then,  After He Crossed A River,  At Three In The

Afternoon,  He Saw No More Of Them. Years After,  When Rolf Knew

Them Better,  He Believed They Followed Him Out Of Mild Curiosity,

Or Possibly In The Hope That He Would Kill A Deer In Which They

Might Share. And When They Left Him,  It Was Because They Were

Near The Edge Of Their Own Home Region; They Had Seen Him Off

Their Hunting Grounds.

 

That Night He Camped Sixty Miles From Ticonderoga,  But He Was

Resolved To Cover The Distance In One Day. Had He Not Promised To

Be Back In A Week? The Older Hands Had Shaken Their Heads

Incredulously,  And He,  In The Pride Of His Legs,  Was Determined

To Be As Good As His Promise. He Scarcely Dared Sleep Lest He

Should Oversleep. At Ten He Lay Down. At Eleven The Moon Was Due

To Rise; As Soon As That Was Three Hours High There Would Be

Light Enough,  And He Proposed To Go On. At Least Half A Dozen

Times He Woke With A Start,  Fearing He Had Overslept,  But

Reassured By A Glance At The Low-Hung Moon,  He Had Slumbered

Again.

 

At Last The Moon Was Four Hours High,  And The Woods Were Plain In

The Soft Light. A Horned Owl "Hoo-Hoo-Ed," And A Far- Off Wolf

Uttered A Drawn-Out,  Soft,  Melancholy Cry,  As Rolf Finished His

Dried Meat,  Tightened His Belt,  And Set Out On A Long,  Hard Run

That,  In The Days Of Greece,  Would Have Furnished The Theme Of

Many A Noble Epic Poem.

 

No Need To Consult His Compass. The Blazing Lamp Of The Dark Sky

Was His Guide,  Straight East His Course,  Varied A Little By Hills

And Lakes,  But Nearly The Crow-Flight Line. At First His Pace Was

A Steady,  Swinging Stride; Then After A Mile He Came To An Open

Lake Shore Down Which He Went At A Six-Mile Trot; And Then An

Alder Thicket Through Which His Progress Was Very Slow; But That

Soon Passed,  And For Half A Mile He Splashed Through Swamps With

Water A Foot Deep: Nor Was He Surprised At Length To See It Open

Into A Little Lake With A Dozen Beaver Huts In View. "Splash,

Prong" Their Builders Went At His Approach,  But He Made For The

Hillside; The Woods Were Open,  The Moonlight Brilliant Now,  And

Here He Trotted At Full Swing As Long As The Way Was Level Or

Down,  But Always Walked On The Uphill. A Sudden Noise Ahead Was

Followed By A Tremendous Crashing And Crackling Of The Brush. For

A Moment It Continued,  And What It Meant,  Rolf Never Knew Or

Guessed.

 

"Trot,  Trot," He Went,  Reeling Off Six Miles In The Open,  Two Or

Perhaps Three In The Thickets,  But On And On,  Ever Eastward. Hill

After Hill,  Swamp After Swamp,  He Crossed,  Lake After Lake He

Skirted Round,  And,  When He Reached Some Little Stream,  He Sought

A Log Bridge Or Prodded With A Pole Till He Found A Ford And

Crossed,  Then Ran A Mile Or Two To Make Up Loss Of Time.

 

Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp,  And His Steady Breath And His Steady Heart

Kept Unremitting Rhythm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 72 (Rolf Makes A Record)

Twelve Miles Were Gone When The Foreglow -- The First Cold

Dawn-Light Showed,  And Shining Across His Path Ahead Was A Mighty

Rolling Stream. Guided By The Now Familiar Form Of Goodenow Peak

He Made For This,  The Hudson's Lordly Flood. There Was His Raft

Securely Held,  With Paddle And Pole Near By,  And He Pushed Off

With All The Force Of His Young Vigour. Jumping And Careening

With The Stream In Its Freshet Flood,  The Raft And Its Hardy

Pilot Were Served With Many A Whirl And Some Round Spins,  But The

Long Pole Found Bottom Nearly Everywhere,  And Not Ten Minutes

Passed Before The Traveller Sprang Ashore,  Tied Up His Craft,

Then Swung And Tramped And Swung.

 

Over The Hills Of Vanderwhacker,  Under The Woods Of Boreas.

Tramp,  Tramp,  Splash,  Tramp,  Wringing And Sopping,  But Strong And

Hot,  Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp. The Partridge Whirred From His

Path,  The Gray Deer Snorted,  And The Panther Sneaked Aside.

Tramp,  Tramp,  Trot,  Trot,  And The Washburn Ridge Was Blue Against

The Sunrise. Trot,  Trot,  Over The Low,  Level,  Mile-Long Slope He

Went,  And When The Day- God Burnt The Upper Hill-Rim He Was By

Brown Tahawus Flood And Had Covered Eighteen Miles.

 

By The Stream He Stopped To Drink. A Partridge Cock,  In The Pride

Of Spring,  Strutted Arrogantly On A Log. Rolf Drew His Pistol,

Fired,  Then Hung The Headless Body While He Made A Camper's

Blaze: An Oatcake,  The Partridge,  And River Water Were His Meal.

His Impulse Was To Go On At Once. His Reason,  Said "Go Slow." So

He Waited For Fifteen Minutes. Then Again,  Beginning With A Slow

Walk,  He Ere Long Added To His Pace. In Half An Hour He Was

Striding And In An Hour The Steady "Trot,  Trot," That Slackened

Only For The Hills Or Swamps. In An Hour More He Was On The

Washburn Ridge,  And Far Away In The East Saw Schroon Lake That

Empties In The River Schroon; And As He Strode Along,  Exulting In

His Strength,  He Sang In His Heart For Joy. Again A Gray Wolf

Cantered On His Trail,  And The Runner Laughed,  Without A Thought

Of Fear. He Seemed To Know The Creature Better Now; Knew It As A

Brother,  For It Gave No Hostile Sound,  But Only Seemed To Trot,

Trot,  For The Small Joy Of Running With A Runner,  As A Swallow Or

An Antelope Will Skim Along By A Speeding Train. For An Hour Or

More It Matched His Pace,  Then Left As Though Its Pleasant Stroll

Was Done,  And Rolf Kept On And On And On.

 

The Spring Sun Soared On High,  The Day Grew Warm At Noon. Schroon

River Just Above The Lake Was In His Path,  And Here He Stopped To

Rest. Here,  With The Last Of His Oatcake And A Little Tea,  He

Made His Final Meal; Thirty Eight Miles Had He Covered Since He

Rose; His Clothes Were Torn,  His Moccasins Worn,  But His Legs

Were Strong,  His Purpose Sure; Only Twenty-Two Miles Now,  And His

Duty Would Be Done; His Honours Won. What Should He Do,  Push On

At Once? No,  He Meant To Rest An Hour. He Made A Good Fire By A

Little Pool,  And Using A Great Mass Of Caribou Moss As A Sponge,

He Had A Thorough Rub-Down. He Got Out His Ever- Ready Needle And

Put His Moccasins In Good Shape; He Dried His Clothes And Lay On

His Back Till The Hour Was Nearly Gone. Then He Girded Himself

For This The Final Run. He Was Weary,  Indeed,  But He Was Far From

Spent,  And The Iron Will That Had Yearly Grown In Force Was There

With Its Unconquerable Support.

 

Slowly At Start,  Soon Striding,  And At Last In The Famous Jog

Trot Of The Scout He Went. The Sky Was Blackened With Clouds At

Length,  And The Jealous,  Howling East Wind Rolled Up In Rain; The

Spindrift Blurred The Way; The Heavy Showers Of Spring Came Down

And Drenched Him; But His Pack Was Safe And He Trotted On And On.

Then Long,  Deep Swamps Of Alder Barred His Path,  And,  Guided Only

By The Compass,  Rolf Pushed In And Through And Ever East. Barely

A Mile An Hour In The Thickest Part He Made,  But Lagged Not;

Drenched And Footsore,  Warm And Torn,  But Doggedly,  Steadily On.

At Three He Had Made A Scant Seven Miles; Then The Level,  Open

Wood Of Thunderbolt Was Reached And His Stride Became A Run;

Trot,  Trot,  Trot,  At Six-Mile Gait,  For But Fifteen Miles

Remained. Sustained,  Inspired,  The Bringer Of Good News,  He

Halted Not And Faltered Not,  But On And On.

 

Tramp Tramp,  Tramp Tramp -- Endless,  Tireless,  Hour By Hour. At

Five He Was On Thunder Creek,  Scarce Eight Miles More To The

Goal; His Limbs Were Sore,  His Feet Were Sore; Bone Tired Was He,

But His Heart Was Filled With Joy

 

"News Of Battle,  News Of Victory" He Was Bringing,  And The

Thought Lent Strength; The Five Mires Passed,  The Way Was Plain

With Good Roads Now,  But The Runner Was So Weary. He Was

Striding,  His Running Was Done,  The Sun Was Low In The West,  His

Feet Were Bleeding,  The Courier Was Brain Worn And Leg Worn,  But

He Strode And Strode. He Passed By Homes But Heeded Them Not.

 

"Come In And Rest," Called One Who Saw Nothing But A Weary

Traveller. Rolf Shook His Head,  But Gave No Word And Strode

Along. A Mile -- A Short Mile Now; He Must Hold Out; If He Sat

Down He Feared He Could Not Rise. He Came At Last In Sight Of The

Fort; Then,  Gathering All His Force,  He Broke Into A Trot,  Weak,

So Weak That Had He Fallen,  He Could Scarcely Have Got Up,  And

Slow,  But Faster Than A Walk: And So,  As The Red Sun Sank,  He

Passed The Gate. He Had No Right To Give Tidings To Any But The

General,  Yet They Read It In His Eyes. The Guard Broke Into A

Cheer,  And Trotting Still,  Though Reeling,  Rolf Had Kept His

Word,  Had Made His Run,  Had Brought The News,  And Had Safely

Reached His Goal.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 73 (Van Trumper's Again)

Why Should The Scout Bringing Good News Be Differently Received

From The One That Brings The Ill? He Did Not Make,  The News,  He

Simply Did His Duty; The Same In Both Cases. He Is Merely The

Telegraph Instrument. Yet It Is So Ever. King Pharaoh Slew The

Bearer Of Ill-Tidings; That Was Human Nature. And General Hampton

Brought In The Tall Stripling To His Table,