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

The Spirit Of The

Land That Spoke,  How Well They Might Have Asked: "What Boots It

If We Win A Few Battles,  And Burn A Few Towns; It Is A Little

Gain And Passing; For There Is One Thing That No Armies,  Ships,

Or Laws,  Or Power On Earth,  Or Hell Itself Can Down Or Crush --

That Alone Is The Thing That Counts Or Endures -- The Thing That

Permeates These Men,  That Finds Its Focal Centre In Such Souls As

That Of The Vermont Mother,  Steadfast,  Proud,  And Rejoicing In

Her Bereavement.

 

But These Were Forms That Came And Went; There Were Two That

Seldom Were Away -- The Tall And Supple One Of The Dark Face And

The Easy Tread,  And His Yellow Shadow -- The Ever Unpopular,

Snappish,  Prick-Eared Cur,  That Held By Force Of Arms All

Territories At Floor Level Contiguous To,  Under,  Comprised,  And

Bounded By,  The Four Square Legs And Corners Of The Bed.

 

Quonab's Nightly Couch Was A Blanket Not Far Away,  And His Daily,

Self-Given Task To Watch The Wounded And Try By Devious Ways And

Plots To Trick Him Into Eating Ever Larger Meals.

 

Garrison Duty Was Light Now,  So Quonab Sought The Woods Where The

Flocks Of Partridge Swarmed,  With Skookum As His Aid. It Was The

Latter's Joyful Duty To Find And Tree The Birds,  And "Yap" Below,

Till Quonab Came Up Quietly With Bow And Blunt Arrows,  To Fill

His Game-Bag; And Thus The Best Of Fare Was Ever By The Invalid's

Bed.

 

Rolf's Was Easily A Winning Fight From The First,  And In A Week

He Was Eating Well,  Sleeping Well,  And Growing Visibly Daily

Stronger.

 

Then On A Fleckless Dawn That Heralded A Sun Triumphant,  The

Indian Borrowed A Drum From The Bandsman,  And,  Standing On The

Highest Breastwork,  He Gazed Across The Dark Waters To The

Whitening Hills. There On A Tiny Fire He Laid Tobacco And

Kinnikinnik,  As Gisiss The Shining One Burnt The Rugged World Rim

At Vermont,  And,  Tapping Softly With One Stick,  He Gazed Upward,

After The Sacrificial Thread Of Smoke,  And Sang In His Own Tongue:

 

"Father,  I Burn Tobacco,  I Smoke To Thee. I Sing For My Heart Is Singing."

 

Pleasant Chatter Of The East Was Current By Rolf's Bedside.

Stories Of Homes In The Hills He Heard,  Tales Of Hearths By Far

Away Lakes And Streams,  Memories Of Golden Haired Children

Waiting For Father's Or Brother's Return From The Wars. Wives

Came To Claim Their Husbands,  Mothers To Bring Away Their Boys,

To Gain Again Their Strength At Home. And His Own Heart Went

Back,  And Ever Back,  To The Rugged Farm On The Shores Of The

Noble George.

 

In Two Weeks He Was Able To Sit Up. In Three He Could Hobble,  And

He Moved About The Town When The Days Were Warm.

 

And Now He Made The Acquaintance Of The Prisoners. They Were

Closely Guarded And Numbered Over A Hundred. It Gave Him A

Peculiar Sensation To See Them There. It Seemed Un- American To

Hold A Human Captive; But He Realized That It Was Necessary To

Keep Them For Use As Hostages And Exchanges.

 

Some Of Them He Found To Be Sullen Brutes,  But Many Were Kind And

Friendly,  And Proved To Be Jolly Good Fellows.

 

On The Occasion Of His Second Visit,  A Familiar Voice Saluted Him

With,  "Well,  Rolf! Comment Ca Va?" And He Had The Painful Joy Of

Greeting Francois La Colle.

 

"You'll Help Me Get Away,  Rolf,  Won't You?" And The Little

Frenchman Whispered And Winked. "I Have Seven Little Ones Now On

La Riviere,  Dat Have No Flour,  And Tinks Dere Pa Is Dead."

 

"I'll Do All I Can,  Francois," And The Picture Of The Desolate

Home,  Brought A Husk In His Voice And A Choke In His Throat. He

Remembered Too The Musket Ball That By Intent Had Whistled

Harmless Overhead. "But," He Added In A Shaky Voice,  "I Cannot

Help My Country's Enemy To Escape."

 

Then Rolf Took Counsel With Mcglassin,  Told Him All About The

Affair At The Mill,  And Mcglassin With A Heart Worthy Of His

Mighty Shoulders,  Entered Into The Spirit Of The Situation,  Went

To General Macomb Presenting Such A Tale And Petition That Six

Hours Later Francis Bearing A Passport Through The Lines Was

Trudging Away To Canada,  Paroled For The Rest Of The War.

 

There Was Another Face That Rolf Recognized -- Hollow- Cheeked,

Flabby-Jowled And Purplish-Gray. The Man Was One Of The Oldest Of

The Prisoners. He Wore A White Beard End Moustache. He Did Not

Recognize Rolf,  But Rolf Knew Him,  For This Was Micky Kittering.

How He Escaped From Jail And Joined The Enemy Was An Episode Of

The War's First Year. Rolf Was Shocked To See What A Miserable

Wreck His Uncle Was. He Could Not Do Him Any Good. To Identify

Him Would Have Resulted In His Being Treated As A Renegade,  So On

The Plea That He Was An Old Man,  Rolf Saw That The Prisoner Had

Extra Accommodation And Out Of His Own Pocket Kept Him Abundantly

Supplied With Tobacco. Then In His Heart He Forgave Him,  And Kept

Away. They Never Met Again.

 

The Bulk Of The Militia Had Been Disbanded After The Great

Battle. A Few Of The Scouts And Enough Men To Garrison The Fort

And Guard The Prisoners Were Retained. Each Day There Were Joyful

Partings -- The Men With Homes,  Going Home. And The Thought That

Ever Waxed In Rolf Came On In Strength. He Hobbled To Headquarters.

"General,  Can I Get Leave -- To Go -- He Hesitated -- "Home?"

 

"Why,  Kittering,  I Didn't Know You Had A Home. But,  Certainly,

I'll Give You A Month's Leave And Pay To Date."

 

Champlain Is The Lake Of The Two Winds; The North Wind Blows For

Six Months With A Few Variations,  And The South Wind For The

Other Six Months With Trifling.

 

Next Morning A Bark Canoe Was Seen Skimming Southward Before As

Much North Wind As It Could Stand,  With Rolf Reclining In The

Middle,  Quonab At The Stern,  And Skookum In The Bow.

 

In Two Days They Were At Ticonderoga. Here Help Was Easily Got At

The Portage And On The Evening Of The Third Day,  Quonab Put A

Rope On Skookum's Neck And They Landed At Hendrik's Farm.

 

The Hickory Logs Were Blazing Bright,  And The Evening Pot Was

Reeking As They Opened The Door And Found The Family Gathered For

The Meal.

 

"I Didn't Know You Had A Home," The General Had Said. He Should

Have Been Present Now To See The Wanderer's Welcome. If War

Breeds Such A Spirit In The Land,  It Is As Much A Blessing As A

Curse. The Air Was Full Of It,  And The Van Trumpers,  When They

Saw Their Hero Hobble In,  Were Melted. Love,  Pity,  Pride,  And

Tenderness Were Surging In Storms Through Every Heart That Knew.

"Their Brother,  Their Son Come Back,  Wounded,  But Proven And

Glorious." Yes,  Rolf Had A Home,  And In That Intoxicating

Realization He Kissed Them All,  Even Annette Of The Glowing

Cheeks And Eyes; Though In Truth He Paid For It,  For It Conjured

Up In Her A Shy Aloofness That Lasted Many Days.

 

Old Hendrik Sputtered Around. "Och,  I Am Smile; Dis Is Goood,

Yah. Vere Is That Tam Dog? Yah! Tie Him Not,  He Shall Dis Time

Von Chicken Have For Joy."

 

"Marta," Said Rolf,  "You Told Me To Come Here If I Got Hurt.

Well,  I've Come,  And I've Brought A Boat-Load Of Stuff In Case I

Cannot Do My Share In The Fields."

 

"Press You,  My Poy You Didn't Oughter Brung Dot Stuff; You Know

We Loff You Here,  And Effery Time It Is You Coom I Get Gladsomer,

And Dot Annette She Just Cried Ven You Vent To De War."

 

"Oh,  Mother,  I Did Not; It Was You And Little Hendrick!" And

Annette Turned Her Scarlet Cheeks Away.

 

October,  With Its Trees Of Flame And Gold,  Was On The Hills;

Purple And Orange,  The Oaks And The Birches; Blue Blocked With

White Was The Sky Above,  And The Blue,  Bright Lake Was Limpid.

 

"Oh,  God Of My Fathers," Quonab Used To Pray,  "When I Reach The

Happy Hunting,  Let It Be Ever The Leaf-Falling Moon,  For That Is

The Only Perfect Time." And In That Unmarred Month Of Sunny Sky

And Woodlands Purged Of Every Plague,  There Is But One Menace In

The Vales. For Who Can Bring The Glowing Coal To The Dry-Leafed

Woods Without These Two Begetting The Dread Red Fury That

Devastates The Hills?

 

Who Can Bring The Fire In Touch With Tow And Wonder At The Blaze?

Who,  Indeed? And Would Any But A Dreamer Expect Young Manhood In

Its Growing Strength,  And Girlhood Just Across The Blush-Line,  To

Meet In Daily Meals And Talk And Still Keep Up The Brother And

Sister Play? It Needs Only A Virginia On The Sea-Girt Island To

Turn The Comrade Into Paul.

 

"Marta,  I Tink Dot Rolf An Annette Don't Quarrel Bad,  Ain't It?"

 

"Hendrik,  You Vas Von Blind Old Bat-Mole," Said Marta,  "I Fink

Dat Farm Next Ours Purty Good,  But Rolf He Say 'No Lake George No

Good.' Better He Like All His Folk Move Over On Dat Hudson."

 

 

Chapter 85 (The New Era Of Prosperity)

As November Neared And His Leave Of Absence Ended,  Rolf Was Himself

Again; Had Been,  Indeed,  For Two Weeks,  And,  Swinging Fork Or Axe,

He Had Helped With Many An Urgent Job On The Farm.

 

A Fine Log Stable They Had Rolled Up Together,  With Corners

Dovetailed Like Cabinet Work,  And Roof Of Birch Bark Breadths

Above The Hay.

 

But There Was Another Building,  Too,  That Rolf Had Worked At Night

And Day. It Was No Frontier Shack,  But A Tall And Towering Castle,

Splendid And Roomy,  Filled With Loved Ones And Love. Not By The

Lake Near By,  Not By The River Of His Choice,  But Higher Up Than

The Tops Of The High Mountains It Loomed,  And He Built And Built

Until The Month Was Nearly Gone. Then Only Did He Venture To Ask

For Aid,  And Annette It Was Who Promised To Help Him Finish The

Building.

 

Yes,  The Lake George Shore Was A Land Of Hungry Farms. It Was Off

The Line Of Travel,  Too. It Was Neither Champlain Nor Hudson; And

Hendrik,  After Ten Years' Toil With Barely A Living To Show,  Was

Easily Convinced. Next Summer They Must Make A New Choice Of Home.

But Now It Was Back To Plattsburg.

 

On November 1st Rolf And Quonab Reported To General Macomb. There

Was Little Doing But Preparations For The Winter. There Were No

Prospects Of Further Trouble From Their Neighbours In The North. Most

Of The Militia Were Already Disbanded,  And The Two Returned To

Plattsburg,  Only To Receive Their Honourable Discharge,  To Be

Presented Each With The Medal Of War,  With An Extra Clasp On Rolf's

For That Dauntless Dash That Spiked The British Guns.

 

Wicked War With Its Wickedness Was Done At Last. "The Greatest Evil

That Can Befall A Country," Some Call It,  And Yet Out Of This End

Came Three Great Goods: The Interstate Distrust Had Died Away,  For

Now They Were Soldiers Who Had Camped Together,  Who Had "Drunk From

The Same Canteen"; Little Canada,  Until Then A Thing Of Shreds And

Scraps,  Had Been Fused In The Furnace,  Welded Into A Young Nation,

Already Capable Of Defending Her Own. England,  Arrogant With Long

Success At Sea,  Was Taught A Lesson Of Courtesy And Justice,  For

Now The Foe Whom She Had Despised And Insulted Had Shown Himself

Her Equal,  A King Of The Sea-King Stock. The Unnecessary Battle

Of New Orleans,  Fought Two Weeks After The War Was Officially Closed,

Showed That The Raw Riflemen Of Tennessee Were More Than A Match For

The Seasoned Veterans Who Had Overcome The Great Napoleon,  And Thus

On Land Redeemed The Stars And Stripes.

 

The War Brought Unmeasured Material Loss On All Concerned,  But Some

Weighty Lasting Gains To Two At Least. On December 24,  1814,  The

Treaty Of Ghent Was Signed And The Long Rides Were Hung Up On The

Cabin Walls. Nothing Was Said In The Treaty About The Cause Of War --

The Right Of Search. Why Should