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

They Speak Of It? If A Big Boy Bullies

A Smaller One And Gets An Unexpected Knockdown Blow,  It Is Not

Necessary To Have It All Set Forth In Terms Before They Shake Hands

That "I,  John,  Of The First Part,  To Wit,  The Bully,  Do Hereby

Agree,  Promise,  And Contract To Refrain In Future Forevermore From

Bullying You,  Jonathan,  Of The Second Part,  To Wit,  The Bullied.

"That Point Had Already Been Settled By The Logic Of Events. The

Right Of Search Was Dead Before The Peace Was Born,  And The Very

Place Of Its Bones Is Forgotten To-Day.

 

Rolf With Quonab Returned To The Trapping That Winter; And As Soon

As The Springtime Came And Seeding Was Over,  He And Van Trumper

Made Their Choice Of Farms. Every Dollar They Could Raise Was

Invested In The Beautiful Sloping Lands Of The Upper Hudson. Rolf

Urged The Largest Possible Purchase Now. Hendrick Looked Somewhat

Aghast At Such A Bridge-Burning Move. But A Purchaser For His

Farm Was Found With Unexpected Promptness,  One Who Was Not On

Farming Bent And The Way Kept Opening Up.

 

The Wedding Did Not Take Place Till Another Year,  When Annette Was

Nineteen And Rolf Twenty-One. And The Home They Moved To Was Not

Exactly A Castle,  But Much More Complete And Human.

 

This Was The Beginning Of A New Settlement. Given Good Land In Plenty,

And All The Rest Is Easy; Neighbours Came In Increasing Numbers; Every

Claim Was Taken Up; Rolf And Hendrik Saw Themselves Growing Rich,  And

At Length The Latter Was Thankful For The Policy That He Once Thought

So Rash,  Of Securing All The Land He Could. Now It Was His Making,  For

In Later Years His Grown-Up Sons Were Thus Provided For,  And Kept At Home.

 

The Falls Of The River Offered,  As Rolf Had Foreseen,  A Noble Chance

For Power.  Very Early He Had Started A Store And Traded For Fur. Now,

With The Careful Savings,  He Was Able To Build His Sawmill; And About

It Grew A Village With A Post- Office That Had Rolf's Name On The

Signboard.

 

Quonab Had Come,  Of Course,  With Rolf,  But He Shunned The House,  And

The More So As It Grew In Size. In A Remote And Sheltered Place He

Built A Wigwam Of His Own.

 

Skookum Was Divided In His Allegiance,  But He Solved The Puzzle By

Dividing His Time Between Them. He Did Not Change Much,  But He Did

Rise In A Measure To The Fundamental Zoological Fact That Hens Are

Not Partridges; And So Acquired A Haughty Toleration Of The Cackle-

Party Throng That Assembled In The Morning At Annette's Call.  Yes,

He Made Even Another Step Of Progress,  For On One Occasion He Valiantly

Routed The Unenlightened Dog Of A Neighbour,  A "Cur Of Low Degree,

"Whose Ideas Of Ornithology Were As Crude As His Own Had Been In The

Beginning.

 

All Of Which Was Greatly To His Credit,  For He Found It Hard To Learn

Now; He Was No Longer Young,  And Before He Had Seen Eight Springs

Dissolve The Snow,  He Was Called To The Land Of Happy Hunting,  Where

The Porcupine Is Not,  But Where Hens Abound On Every Side,  And There

Is No Man Near To Meddle With His Joy.

 

Yet,  When He Died,  He Lived. His Memory Was Kept Ever Green,  For

Skookum Number 2 Was There To Fill His Room,  And He Gave Place To

Skookum 3,  And So They Keep Their Line On To This Very Day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quonab Goes Home

 

The Public Has A Kind Of Crawlin' Common-Sense,  That Is Always

Right And Fair In The End,  Only It's Slow -- Sayings Of Si Sylvanne

 

Twenty Years Went By. Rolf Grew And Prospered. He Was A Man Of

Substance And Of Family Now; For Store And Mill Were Making Money

Fast,  And The Little Tow-Tops Came At Regular Intervals.

 

And When The Years Had Added Ripeness To His Thought,  And The Kind

Gods Of Gold Had Filled His Scrip,  It Was That His Ampler Life

Began To Bloom. His Was A Mind Of The Best Begetting,  Born And

Bred Of Ancient,  Clean-Blooded Stock; Inflexibly Principled,

Trained By A God-Fearing Mother,  Nurtured In A Cradle Of Adversity,

Schooled In A School Of Hardship,  Developed In The Big Outdoors,

Wise In The Ways Of The Woods,  Burnt In The Fire Of Affliction,

Forced Into Self- Reliance,  Inspired With The Lofty Inspiration

Of Sacrificial Patriotism -- The Good Stuff Of His Make-Up Shone,

As Shines The Gold In The Fervent Heat; The Hard Blows That Prove

Or Crush,  Had Proved; The Metal Had Rung True; And In The Great

Valley,  Rolf Kittering Was A Man Of Mark.

 

The Country's Need Of Such Is Ever Present And Ever Seeking. Those

In Power Who Know And Measure Men Soon Sought Him Out,  And Their

Messenger Was The Grisly Old Si Sylvanne.

 

Because He Was A Busy Man,  Rolf Feared To Add To His Activities.

Because He Was A Very Busy Man,  The Party New They Needed Him.

So At Length It Was Settled,  And In A Little While,  Rolf Stood

In The Halls Of Albany And Grasped The Hand Of The Ancient

Mill-Man As A Colleague,  Filling An Honoured Place In The

Councils Of The State.

 

Each Change Brought Him New Activities. Each Year He Was More

Of A Public Man,  And His Life Grew Larger. From Albany He Went

To New York,  In The World Of Business And Men's Affairs; And

At Last In Washington,  His Tall,  Manly Figure Was Well Known,

And His Good Common-Sense And Clean Business Ways Were Respected.

Yet Each Year During Hunting Time He Managed To Spend A Few Weeks

With Quonab In The Woods. Tramping On Their Ancient Trapping

Grounds,  Living Over The Days Of Their Early Hunts; And Double

Zest Was Added When Rolf The Second Joined Them And Lived And

Loved It All.

 

But This Was No Longer Kittering's Life,  Rather The Rare

Precarious Interval,  And More And More Old Quonab Realized That

They Were Meeting Only In The Past. When The Big House Went Up

On The River-Bank,  He Indeed Had Felt That They Were At The

Parting Of The Ways. His Respect For Nibowaka Had Grown To Be

Almost A Worship,  And Yet He Knew That Their Trails Had Yearly

Less In Common. Rolf Had Outgrown Him; He Was Alone Again,  As

On The Day Of Their Meeting. His Years Had Brought A Certain

Insight; And This He Grasped -- That The Times Were Changed,

And His Was The Way Of A Bygone Day.

 

"Mine Is The Wisdom Of The Woods," He Said,  "But The Woods Are

Going Fast; In A Few Years There Will Be No More Trees,  And My

Wisdom Will Be Foolishness. There Is In This Land Now A Big,

Strong Thing Called 'Trade,' That Will Eat Up All Things And

The People Themselves. You Are Wise Enough,  Nibowaka,  To Paddle

With The Stream,  You Have Turned So The Big Giant Is On Your

Side,  And His Power Is Making You Great. But This Is Not For Me;

So Only I Have Enough To Eat,  And Comfort To Sleep,  I Am Content

To Watch For The Light."

 

Across The Valley From The Big Store He Dwelt,  In A Lodge From

Which He Could Easily See The Sunrise. Twenty-Five Years Added

To The Fifty He Spent In The Land Of Mayn Mayano Had Dimmed His

Eye,  Had Robbed His Foot Of Its Spring,  And Sprinkled His Brow

With The Winter Rime; But They Had Not Changed His Spirit,  Nor

Taught Him Less To Love The Pine Woods And The Sunrise. Yes,

Even More Than In Former Days Did He Take His Song-Drum To The

Rock Of Worship,  To His Idaho -- As The Western Red Man Would

Have Called It. And There,  Because It Was High And The Wind

Blew Cold,  He Made A Little Eastward- Facing Lodge.

 

He Was Old And Hunting Was Too Hard For Him,  But There Was A

Strong Arm About Him Now; He Dimly Thought Of It At Times --

The Arm Of The Fifteen-Year-Old Boy That One Time He Had Shielded.

There Was No Lack Of Food Or Blankets In The Wigwam,  Or Of Freedom

In The Woods Under The Sun-Up Rock. But There Was A Hunger That

Not Farseeing Nibowaka Could Appease,  Not Even Talk About. And

Quonab Built Another Medicine Lodge To Watch The Sun Go Down

Over The Hill. Sitting By A Little Fire To Tune His Song-Drum,

He Often Crooned To The Blazing Skies. "I Am Of The Sunset Now,

I And My People," He Sang,  "The Night Is Closing Over Us."

 

One Day A Stranger Came To The Hills; His Clothes Were Those Of

A White Man,  But His Head,  His Feet,  And His Eyes -- His Blood,

His Walk,  And His Soul Were Those Of A Red Indian Of The West.

He Came From The Unknown With A Message To Those Who Knew Him

Not: "The Messiah Was Coming; The Deliverer That Hiawatha Bade

Them Look For. He Was Coming In Power To Deliver The Red Race,

And His People Must Sing The Song Of The Ghost-Dance Till The

Spirit Came,  And In A Vision Taught Them Wisdom And His Will!"

 

Not To The White Man,  But To The Lonely Indian In The Hill Cleft

He Came,  And The Song That He Brought And Taught Him Was Of A

Sorrowing People Seeking Their Father.

 

"Father Have Pity On Us! Our Souls Are Hungry For Thee. There

Is Nothing Here To Satisfy Us Father We Bow To Thy Will."

 

By The Fire That Night They Sang,  And Prayed As The Indian

Prays -- "Father Have Pity And Guide Us." So Quonab Sang The

New Song,  And Knew Its Message Was For Him.

 

The Stranger Went On,  For He Was A Messenger,  But Quonab Sang

Again And Again,  And Then The Vision Came,  As It Must,  And

The Knowledge That He Sought.

 

None Saw Him Go,  But Ten Miles Southward On The River He Met A

Hunter And Said: "Tell The Wise One That I Have Heard The New

Song. Tell Him I Have Seen The Vision. We Are Of The Sunset,

But The New Day Comes. I Must See The Land Of Mayn Mayano,

The Dawn-Land,  Where The Sun Rises Out Of The Sea."

 

They Saw No More Of Him. But A Day Later,  Rolf Heard Of It,

And Set Out In Haste Next Morning For Albany. Skookum The

Fourth Leaped Into The Canoe As He Pushed Off. Rolf Was Minded

To Send Him Back,  But The Dog Begged Hard With His Eyes And

Tail. It Seemed He Ought To Go,  When It Was The Old Man They

Sought. At Albany They Got News. "Yes,  The Indian Went On

The Steamboat A Few Days Ago." At New York,  Rolf Made No

Attempt To Track His Friend,  But Took The Stamford Boat And

Hurried To The Old Familiar Woods,  Where He Had Lived And

Suffered And Wakened As A Boy.

 

There Was A House Now Near The Rock That Is Yet Called "Quonab's."

From The Tenants He Learned That In The Stillest Hours Of The

Night Before,  They Had Heard The Beating Of An Indian Drum,  And

The Cadence Of A Chant That Came Not From Throat Of White Man's

Blood.

 

In The Morning When It Was Light Rolf Hastened To The Place,

Expecting To Find At Least An Indian Camp,  Where Once Had Stood

The Lodge. There Was No Camp; And As He Climbed For A Higher

View,  The Skookum Of To-Day Gave Bristling Proof Of Fear At

Some Strange Object There -- A Man That Moved Not. His Long

Straight Hair Was Nearly White,  And By His Side,  Forever Still,

Lay The Song-Drum Of His People.

 

And Those Who Heard The Mournful Strains The Night Before Knew

Now From Rolf That It Was Ouonab Come Back To His Rest,  And The

Song That He Sang Was The Song Of The Ghost Dance.

 

"Pity Me,  Wahkonda. My Soul Is Ever Hungry. There Is Nothing

Here To Satisfy Me,  I Walk In Darkness; Pity Me,  Wahkondal"

 

Imprint