ROLF IN THE WOODS

By Ernest Thompson Seton

[Chapters 10 and 60 not designated in the original file.]




Preface

In this story I have endeavoured to realize some of the influences that
surrounded the youth of America a hundred years ago, and made of them,
first, good citizens, and, later, in the day of peril, heroes that won
the battles of Lake Erie, Plattsburg, and New Orleans, and the great sea
fights of Porter, Bainbridge, Decatur, Lawrence, Perry, and MacDonough.

I have especially dwelt in detail on the woodland and peace scouting
in the hope that I may thus help other boys to follow the hard-climbing
trail that leads to the higher uplands.

For the historical events of 1812-14, I have consulted among books
chiefly, Theodore Roosevelt's "Naval War of 1812," Peter S. Palmer's
"History of Lake Champlain," and Walter Hill Crockett's "A History of
Lake Champlain," 1909. But I found another and more personal mine of
information. Through the kindness of my friend, Edmund Seymour, a native
of the Champlain region, now a resident of New York, I went over all the
historical ground with several unpublished manuscripts for guides, and
heard from the children of the sturdy frontiersmen new tales of the
war; and in getting more light and vivid personal memories, I was glad,
indeed, to realize that not only were there valour and heroism on both
sides, but also gentleness and courtesy. Histories written by either
party at the time should be laid aside. They breathe the rancourous
hate of the writers of the age--the fighters felt not so--and the
many incidents given here of chivalry and consideration were actual
happenings, related to me by the descendants of those who experienced
them; and all assure me that these were a true reflex of the feelings of
the day.

I am much indebted to Miss Katherine Palmer, of Plattsburg, for kindly
allowing me to see the unpublished manuscript memoir of her grandfather,
Peter Sailly, who was Collector of the Port of Plattsburg at the time of
the war.

Another purpose in this story was to picture the real Indian with his
message for good or for evil.

Those who know nothing of the race will scoff and say they never heard
of such a thing as a singing and religious red man. Those who know him
well will say, "Yes, but you have given to your eastern Indian songs
and ceremonies which belong to the western tribes, and which are of
different epochs." To the latter I reply:

"You know that the western Indians sang and prayed in this way. How do
you know that the eastern ones did not? We have no records, except
those by critics, savagely hostile, and contemptuous of all religious
observances but their own. The Ghost Dance Song belonged to a much more
recent time, no doubt, but it was purely Indian, and it is generally
admitted that the races of continental North America were of one stock,
and had no fundamentally different customs or modes of thought."

The Sunrise Song was given me by Frederick R. Burton, author of
"American Primitive Music." It is still in use among the Ojibwa.

The songs of the Wabanaki may be read in C. G. Leland's "Kuloskap the
Master."

The Ghost Dance Song was furnished by Alice C. Fletcher, whose "Indian
Song and Story" will prove a revelation to those who wish to follow
further.

ERNEST THOMPSON SETON.



Chapter 1. The Wigwam Under the Rock

The early springtime sunrise was near at hand as Quonab, the last of the
Myanos Sinawa, stepped from his sheltered wigwam under the cliff that
borders the Asamuk easterly, and, mounting to the lofty brow of the
great rock that is its highest pinnacle, he stood in silence, awaiting
the first ray of the sun over the sea water that stretches between
Connecticut and Seawanaky.

His silent prayer to the Great Spirit was ended as a golden beam shot
from a long, low cloud-bank over the sea, and Quonab sang a weird Indian
song for the rising sun, an invocation to the Day God:

     "O thou that risest from the low cloud
     To burn in the all above;
     I greet thee!  I adore thee!"

Again and again he sang to the tumming of a small tom-tom, till the
great refulgent one had cleared the cloud, and the red miracle of the
sunrise was complete. Back to his wigwam went the red man, down to his
home tucked dosed under the sheltering rock, and, after washing his
hands in a basswood bowl, began to prepare his simple meal.

A tin-lined copper pot hanging over the fire was partly filled with
water; then, when it was boiling, some samp or powdered corn and some
clams were stirred in. While these were cooking, he took his smooth-bore
flint-lock, crawled gently over the ridge that screened his wigwam from
the northwest wind, and peered with hawk-like eyes across the broad
sheet of water that, held by a high beaver-dam, filled the little valley
of Asamuk Brook.

The winter ice was still on the pond, but in all the warming shallows
there was open water, on which were likely to be ducks. None were to be
seen, but by the edge of the ice was a round object which, although so
far away, he knew at a glance for a muskrat.

By crawling around the pond, the Indian could easily have come within
shot, but he returned at once to his wigwam, where he exchanged his gun
for the weapons of his fathers, a bow and arrows, and a long fish-line.
A short, quick stalk, and the muskrat, still eating a flagroot, was
within thirty feet. The fish-line was coiled on the ground and then
attached to an arrow, the bow bent--zip--the arrow picked up the line,
coil after coil, and trans-fixed the muskrat. Splash! and the animal was
gone under the ice.

But the cord was in the hands of the hunter; a little gentle pulling and
the rat came to view, to be despatched with a stick and secured. Had he
shot it with a gun, it had surely been lost.

He returned to his camp, ate his frugal breakfast, and fed a small,
wolfish-looking yellow dog that was tied in the lodge.

He skinned the muskrat carefully, first cutting a slit across the rear
and then turning the skin back like a glove, till it was off to the
snout; a bent stick thrust into this held it stretched, till in a day,
it was dry and ready for market. The body, carefully cleaned, he hung in
the shade to furnish another meal.

As he worked, there were sounds of trampling in the woods, and
presently a tall, rough-looking man, with a red nose and a curling white
moustache, came striding through brush and leaves. He stopped when
he saw the Indian, stared contemptuously at the quarry of the morning
chase, made a scornful remark about "rat-eater," and went on toward the
wigwam, probably to peer in, but the Indian's slow, clear, "keep away!"
changed his plan. He grumbled something about "copper-coloured tramp,"
and started away in the direction of the nearest farmhouse.



Chapter 2. Rolf Kittering and the Soldier Uncle

     A feller that chatters all the time is bound to talk a
     certain amount of drivel.--The Sayings of Si Sylvanne

This was the Crow Moon, the white man's March. The Grass Moon was at
hand, and already the arrow bands of black-necked honkers were passing
northward from the coast, sending down as they flew the glad tidings
that the Hunger Moon was gone, that spring was come, yea, even now was
in the land. And the flicker clucked from a high, dry bough, the spotted
woodwale drummed on his chosen branch, the partridge drummed in the pine
woods, and in the sky the wild ducks, winging, drummed their way. What
wonder that the soul of the Indian should seek expression in the drum
and the drum song of his race?

Presently, as though remembering something, he went quietly to the
southward under the ridge, just where it breaks to let the brook go by,
along the edge of Strickland's Plain, and on that hill of sliding stone
he found, as he always had, the blue-eyed liver-leaf smiling, the first
sweet flower of spring! He did not gather it, he only sat down and
looked at it. He did not smile, or sing, or utter words, or give it
a name, but he sat beside it and looked hard at it, and, in the first
place, he went there knowingly to find it. Who shall say that its beauty
did not reach his soul?

He took out his pipe and tobacco bag, but was reminded of something
lacking--the bag was empty. He returned to his wigwam, and from their
safe hanger or swinging shelf overhead, he took the row of stretched
skins, ten muskrats and one mink, and set out along a path which led
southward through the woods to the broad, open place called Strickland's
Plain, across that, and over the next rock ridge to the little town and
port of Myanos.

               SILAS PECK
               Trading Store

was the sign over the door he entered. Men and women were buying and
selling, but the Indian stood aside shyly until all were served, and
Master Peck cried out:

"Ho, Quonab! what have ye got for trade to-day?"

Quonab produced his furs. The dealer looked at them narrowly and said:

"They are too late in the season for primes; I cannot allow you more
than seven cents each for the rats and seventy-five cents for the mink,
all trade."

The Indian gathered up the bundle with an air of "that settles it," when
Silas called out:

"Come now, I'll make it ten cents for the rats."

"Ten cents for rats, one dollar for mink, all cash, then I buy what I
like," was the reply.

It was very necessary to Silas's peace that no customer of his should
cross the street to the sign,

              SILAS MEAD
              Trading Store

So the bargain, a fair one now, was made, and the Indian went off with a
stock of tobacco, tea, and sugar.

His way lay up the Myanos River, as he had one or two traps set along
the banks for muskrats, although in constant danger of having them
robbed or stolen by boys, who considered this an encroachment on their
trapping grounds.

After an hour he came to Dumpling Pond, then set out for his home,
straight through the woods, till he reached the Catrock line, and
following that came to the farm and ramshackle house of Micky Kittering.
He had been told that the man at this farm had a fresh deer hide for
sale, and hoping to secure it, Quonab walked up toward the house. Micky
was coming from the barn when he saw the Indian. They recognized each
other at a glance. That was enough for Quonab; he turned away. The
farmer remembered that he had been "insulted." He vomited a few oaths,
and strode after the Indian, "To take it out of his hide"; his purpose
was very clear. The Indian turned quickly, stood, and looked calmly at
Michael.

Some men do not know the difference between shyness and cowardice, but
they are apt to find it out unexpectedly Something told the white man,
"Beware! this red man is dangerous." He muttered something about, "Get
out of that, or I'll send for a constable." The Indian stood gazing
coldly, till the farmer backed off out of sight, then he 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, trying 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 much trouble he got the noose around the coon's neck, then,
with some rather rough handling, the animal was dragged down, maneuvered
into the sack, and carried back to camp, where it was chained up to
serve in future lessons; the next two or three being to tree the coon,
as before; in the next, the coon was to be freed and allowed to get out
of sight, so that the dog might find it by trailing, and the last, in
which the coon was to be trailed, treed, and shot out of the tree, so
that the dog should have the final joy of killing a crippled coon, and
the reward of a coon-meat feast. But the last was not to be, for the
night before it should have taken place the coon managed to slip its
bonds, and nothing but the empty collar and idle chain were found in the
captive's place next morning.

These things were in the future however. Rolf was intensely excited over
all he had seen that day. His hunting instincts were aroused. There had
been no very obvious or repellant cruelty; the dog alone had suffered,
but he seemed happy. The whole affair was so exactly in the line of
his tastes that the boy was in a sort of ecstatic uplift, and already
anticipating a real coon hunt, when the dog should be properly trained.
The episode so contrasted with the sordid life he had left an hour
before that he was spellbound. The very animal smell of the coon seemed
to make his fibre tingle. His eyes were glowing with a wild light. He
was so absorbed that he did not notice a third party attracted by the
unusual noise of the chase, but the dog did. A sudden, loud challenge
called all attention to a stranger on the ridge behind the camp. There
was no mistaking the bloated face and white moustache of Rolf's uncle.

"So, you young scut! that is how you waste your time. I'll larn ye a
lesson."

The dog was tied, the Indian looked harmless, and the boy was cowed,
so the uncle's courage mounted high. He had been teaming in the nearby
woods, and the blacksnake whip was in his hands. In a minute its thong
was lapped, like a tongue of flame, around Rolf's legs. The boy gave a
shriek and ran, but the man followed and furiously plied the whip.
The Indian, supposing it was Rolf's father, marvelled at his method
of showing affection, but said nothing, for the Fifth Commandment is a
large one in the wigwam. Rolf dodged some of the cruel blows, but was
driven into a corner of the rock. One end of the lash crossed his face
like a red-hot wire.

"Now I've got you!" growled the bully.

Rolf was desperate. He seized two heavy stones and hurled the first with
deadly intent at his uncle's head. Mick dodged in time, but the second,
thrown lower, hit him on the thigh. Mick gave a roar of pain. Rolf
hastily seized more stones and shrieked out, "You come on one step and
I'll kill you!"

Then that purple visage turned a sort of ashen hue. Its owner mouthed in
speechless rage. He "knew it was the Indian had put Rolf up to it. He'd
see to it later," and muttering, blasting, frothing, the hoary-headed
sinner went limping off to his loaded wagon.


     * "Skookum" or "Skookum Chuck," in Chinook means "Troubled
     waters."



Chapter 5. Good-bye to Uncle Mike

     For counsel comes with the night, and action comes with the
     day; But the gray half light, neither dark nor bright, is a
     time to hide away.


Rolf had learned one thing at least--his uncle was a coward. But he also
knew that he himself was in the wrong, for he was neglecting his work
and he decided to go back at once and face the worst. He made little
reply to the storm of scolding that met him. He would have been
disappointed if it had not come. He was used to it; it made him feel at
home once more. He worked hard and silently.

Mick did not return till late. He had been drawing wood for Horton that
day, which was the reason he happened in Quonab's neighbourhood; but his
road lay by the tavern, and when he arrived home he was too helpless to
do more than mutter.

The next day there was an air of suspended thunder. Rolf overheard his
uncle cursing "that ungrateful young scut--not worth his salt." But
nothing further was said or done. His aunt did not strike at him once
for two days. The third night Micky disappeared. On the next he returned
with another man; they had a crate of fowls, and Rolf was told to keep
away from "that there little barn."

So he did all morning, but he peeped in from the hayloft when a chance
came, and saw a beautiful horse. Next day the "little barn" was open and
empty as before.

That night this worthy couple had a jollification with some callers, who
were strangers to Rolf. As he lay awake, listening to the carouse, he
overheard many disjointed allusions that he did not understand, and some
that he could guess at: "Night work pays better than day work any time,"
etc. Then he heard his own name and a voice, "Let's go up and settle it
with him now." Whatever their plan, it was clear that the drunken crowd,
inspired by the old ruffian, were intent on doing him bodily harm. He
heard them stumbling and reeling up the steep stairs. He heard, "Here,
gimme that whip," and knew he was in peril, maybe of his life, for they
were whiskey-mad. He rose quickly, locked the door, rolled up an old rag
carpet, and put it in his bed. Then he gathered his clothes on his arm,
opened the window, and lowered himself till his head only was above the
sill, and his foot found a resting place. Thus he awaited. The raucous
breathing of the revellers was loud on the stairs; then the door was
tried; there was some muttering; then the door was burst open and in
rushed two, or perhaps three, figures. Rolf could barely see in the
gloom, but he knew that his uncle was one of them. The attack they made
with whip and stick on that roll of rags in the bed would have broken
his bones and left him shapeless, had he been in its place. The men were
laughing and took it all as a joke, but Rolf had seen enough; he slipped
to the ground and hurried away, realizing perfectly well now that this
was "good-bye."

Which way? How naturally his steps turned northward toward Redding, the
only other place he knew. But he had not gone a mile before he stopped.
The yapping of a coon dog came to him from the near woods that lay to
the westward along Asamuk. He tramped toward it. To find the dog is one
thing, to find the owner another; but they drew near at last. Rolf gave
the three yelps and Quonab responded.

"I am done with that crowd," said the boy. "They tried to kill me
tonight. Have you got room for me in your wigwam for a couple of days?"

"Ugh, come," said the Indian.

That night, for the first time, Rolf slept in the outdoor air of a
wigwam. He slept late, and knew nothing of the world about him till
Quonab called him to breakfast.



Chapter 6. Skookum Accepts Rolf at Last

Rolf expected that Micky would soon hear of his hiding place and come
within a few days, backed by a constable, to claim his runaway ward. But
a week went by and Quonab, passing through Myanos, learned, first, that
Rolf had been seen tramping northward on the road to Dumpling Pond, and
was now supposed to be back in Redding; second, that Micky Kittering was
lodged in jail under charge of horse-stealing and would certainly get
a long sentence; third, that his wife had gone back to her own folks at
Norwalk, and the house was held by strangers.

All other doors were closed now, and each day that drifted by made it
the more clear that Rolf and Quonab were to continue together. What boy
would not exult at the thought of it? Here was freedom from a brutal
tyranny that was crushing out his young life; here was a dream of the
wild world coming true, with gratification of all the hunter instincts
that he had held in his heart for years, and nurtured in that single,
ragged volume of "Robinson Crusoe." The plunge was not a plunge, except
it be one when an eagle, pinion-bound, is freed and springs from a cliff
of the mountain to ride the mountain wind.

The memory of that fateful cooning day was deep and lasting. Never
afterward did smell of coon fail to bring it back; in spite of the many
evil incidents it was a smell of joy.

"Where are you going, Quonab?" he asked one morning, as he saw the
Indian rise at dawn and go forth with his song drum, after warming it at
the fire. He pointed up to the rock, and for the first time Rolf heard
the chant for the sunrise. Later he heard the Indian's song for "Good
Hunting," and another for "When His Heart Was Bad." They were prayers or
praise, all addressed to the Great Spirit, or the Great Father, and it
gave Rolf an entirely new idea of the red man, and a startling light
on himself. Here was the Indian, whom no one considered anything but a
hopeless pagan, praying to God for guidance at each step in life, while
he himself, supposed to be a Christian, had not prayed regularly for
months--was in danger of forgetting how.

Yet there was one religious observance that Rolf never forgot--that was
to keep the Sabbath, and on that day each week he did occasionally say
a little prayer his mother had taught him. He avoided being seen at such
times and did not speak of kindred doings. Whereas Quonab neither hid
nor advertised his religious practices, and it was only after many
Sundays had gone that Quonab remarked:

"Does your God come only one day of the week? Does He sneak in after
dark? Why is He ashamed that you only whisper to Him? Mine is here all
the time. I can always reach Him with my song; all days are my Sunday."

The evil memories of his late life were dimming quickly, and the joys of
the new one growing. Rolf learned early that, although one may talk of
the hardy savage, no Indian seeks for hardship. Everything is done that
he knows to make life pleasant, and of nothing is he more careful than
the comfort of his couch. On the second day, under guidance of his host,
Rolf set about making his own bed. Two logs, each four inches thick and
three feet long, were cut. Then two strong poles, each six feet long,
were laid into notches at the ends of the short logs. About seventy-five
straight sticks of willow were cut and woven with willow bark into a
lattice, three feet wide and six feet long. This, laid on the poles,
furnished a spring mattress, on which a couple of blankets made a most
comfortable couch, dry, warm, and off the ground. In addition to the
lodge cover, each bed had a dew cloth which gave perfect protection, no
matter how the storm might rage outdoors. There was no hardship in it,
only a new-found pleasure, to sleep and breathe the pure night air of
the woods.

The Grass Moon--April--had passed, and the Song Moon was waxing, with
its hosts of small birds, and one of Rolf's early discoveries was that
many of these love to sing by night. Again and again the familiar voice
of the song sparrow came from the dark shore of Asamuk, or the field
sparrow trilled from the top of some cedar, occasionally the painted
one, Aunakeu, the partridge, drummed in the upper woods, and nightly
there was the persistent chant of Muckawis, the whippoorwill, the myriad
voices of the little frogs called spring-peepers, and the peculiar,
"peent, peent," from the sky, followed by a twittering, that Quonab told
him was the love song of the swamp bird--the big snipe, with the fantail
and long, soft bill, and eyes like a deer.

"Do you mean the woodcock?" "Ugh, that's the name; Pah-dash-ka-anja we
call it."

The waning of the moon brought new songsters, with many a nightingale
among them. A low bush near the plain was vocal during the full moon
with the sweet but disconnected music of the yellow-breasted chat. The
forest rang again and again with a wild, torrential strain of music
that seemed to come from the stars. It sent peculiar thrill into Rolf's
heart, and gave him a lump his throat as he listened.

"What is that, Quonab?"

The Indian shook his head. Then, later, when it ended, he said: "That
is the mystery song of some one I never saw him."

There was a long silence, then the lad began, "There's no good hunting
here now, Quonab. Why don't you go to the north woods, where deer are
plentiful?"

The Indian gave a short shake of his head, and then to prevent further
talk, "Put up your dew cloth; the sea wind blows to-night."

He finished; both stood for a moment gazing into the fire. Then Rolf
felt something wet and cold thrust into his hand. It was Skookum's nose.
At last the little dog had made up his mind to accept the white boy as a
friend.



Chapter 7. Rolf Works Out with Many Results

     He is the dumbest kind of a dumb fool that ain't king in
     some little corner.--Sayings of Si Sylvanne

The man who has wronged you will never forgive you, and he who has
helped you will be forever grateful. Yes, there is nothing that draws
you to a man so much as the knowledge that you have helped him.

Quonab helped Rolf, and so was more drawn to him than to many of the
neighbours that he had known for years; he was ready to like him.
Their coming together was accidental, but it was soon very clear that a
friendship was springing up between them. Rolf was too much of a child
to think about the remote future; and so was Quonab. Most Indians are
merely tall children.

But there was one thing that Rolf did think of--he had no right to
live in Quonab's lodge without contributing a fair share of the things
needful. Quonab got his living partly by hunting, partly by fishing,
partly by selling baskets, and partly by doing odd jobs for the
neighbours. Rolf's training as a loafer had been wholly neglected,
and when he realized that he might be all summer with Quonab he said
bluntly:

"You let me stay here a couple of months. I'll work out odd days, and
buy enough stuff to keep myself any way." Quonab said nothing, but their
eyes met, and the boy knew it was agreed to.

Rolf went that very day to the farm of Obadiah Timpany, and offered to
work by the day, hoeing corn and root crops. What farmer is not glad of
help in planting time or in harvest? It was only a question of what did
he know and how much did he want? The first was soon made clear; two
dollars a week was the usual thing for boys in those times, and when he
offered to take it half in trade, he was really getting three dollars a
week and his board. Food was as low as wages, and at the end of a week,
Rolf brought back to camp a sack of oatmeal, a sack of cornmeal, a
bushel of potatoes, a lot of apples, and one dollar cash. The dollar
went for tea and sugar, and the total product was enough to last them
both a month; so Rolf could share the wigwam with a good conscience.

Of course, it was impossible to keep the gossipy little town of Myanos
from knowing, first, that the Indian had a white boy for partner; and,
later, that that boy was Rolf. This gave rise to great diversity of
opinion in the neighbourhood. Some thought it should not be allowed, but
Horton, who owned the land on which Quonab was camped, could not see any
reason for interfering.

Ketchura Peck, spinster, however, did see many most excellent reasons.
She was a maid with a mission, and maintained it to be an outrage that a
Christian boy should be brought up by a godless pagan. She worried over
it almost as much as she did over the heathen in Central Africa, where
there are no Sunday schools, and clothes are as scarce as churches.
Failing to move Parson Peck and Elder Knapp in the matter, and
despairing of an early answer to her personal prayers, she resolved on
a bold move, "An' it was only after many a sleepless, prayerful night,"
namely, to carry the Bible into the heathen's stronghold.

Thus it was that one bright morning in June she might have been seen,
prim and proper--almost glorified, she felt, as she set her lips just
right in the mirror--making for the Pipestave Pond, Bible in hand and
spectacles clean wiped, ready to read appropriate selections to the
unregenerate.

She was full of the missionary spirit when she left Myanos, and partly
full when she reached the Orchard Street Trail; but the spirit was
leaking badly, and the woods did appear so wild and lonely that she
wondered if women had any right to be missionaries. When she came in
sight of the pond, the place seemed unpleasantly different from Myanos
and where was the Indian camp? She did not dare to shout; indeed, she
began to wish she were home again, but the sense of duty carried her
fully fifty yards along the pond, and then she came to an impassable
rock, a sheer bank that plainly said, "Stop!" Now she must go back or up
the bank. Her Yankee pertinacity said, "Try first up the bank," and she
began a long, toilsome ascent, that did not end until she came out on a
high, open rock which, on its farther side, had a sheer drop and gave a
view of the village and of the sea.

Whatever joy she had on again seeing her home was speedily queued in the
fearsome discovery that she was right over the Indian camp, and the two
inmates looked so utterly, dreadfully savage that she was thankful
they had not seen her. At once she shrank back; but on recovering
sufficiently to again peer down, she saw something roasting before the
fire--"a tiny arm with a hand that bore five fingers," as she afterward
said, and "a sickening horror came over her." Yes, she had heard of
such things. If she could only get home in safety! Why had she tempted
Providence thus? She backed softly and prayed only to escape. What, and
never even deliver the Bible? "It would be wicked to return with it!" In
a cleft of the rock she placed it, and then, to prevent the wind blowing
off loose leaves, she placed a stone on top, and fled from the dreadful
place.

That night, when Quonab and Rolf had finished their meal of corn and
roasted coon, the old man climbed the rock to look at the sky. The book
caught his eye at once, evidently hidden there carefully, and therefore
in cache. A cache is a sacred thing to an Indian. He disturbed it not,
but later asked Rolf, "That yours?"

"No."

It was doubtless the property of some one who meant to return for it, so
they left it untouched. It rested there for many months, till the winter
storms came down, dismantling the covers, dissolving the pages, but
leaving such traces as, in the long afterward, served to identify the
book and give the rock the other name, the one it bears to-day--"Bible
Rock, where Quonab, the son of Cos Cob, used to live."



Chapter 8. The Law of Property Among Our Four-Footed Kin

Night came down on the Asamuk woods, and the two in the wigwam were
eating their supper of pork, beans, and tea, for the Indian did not, by
any means object to the white man's luxuries, when a strange "yap-yurr"
was heard out toward the plain. The dog was up at once with a growl.
Rolf looked inquiringly, and Quonab said, "Fox," then bade the dog be
still.

"Yap-yurr, yap-yurr," and then, "yurr, yeow," it came again and again.
"Can we get him?" said the eager young hunter. The Indian shook his
head.

"Fur no good now. An' that's a she-one, with young ones on the
hillside."

"How do you know?" was the amazed inquiry. "I know it's a she-one,
'cause she says:

"Yap-yurr" (high pitched)

If it was a he-one he'd say:

"Yap-yurr" (low pitched)

"And she has cubs, 'cause all have at this season. And they are on that
hillside, because that's the nearest place where any fox den is, and
they keep pretty much to their own hunting grounds. If another fox
should come hunting on the beat of this pair, he'd have to fight for it.
That is the way of the wild animals; each has his own run, and for that
he will fight an outsider that he would be afraid of at any other
place. One knows he is right--that braces him up; the other knows he is
wrong--and that weakens him." Those were the Indian's views, expressed
much less connectedly than here given, and they led Rolf on to a train
of thought. He remembered a case that was much to the point.

Their little dog Skookum several times had been worsted by the dog on
the Horton farm, when, following his master, he had come into the
house yard. There was no question that the Horton dog was stronger. But
Skookum had buried a bone under some brushes by the plain and next day
the hated Horton dog appeared. Skookum watched him with suspicion and
fear, until it was no longer doubtful that the enemy had smelled the
hidden food and was going for it. Then Skookum, braced up by some
instinctive feeling, rushed forward with bristling mane and gleaming
teeth, stood over his cache, and said in plainest dog, "You can't touch
that while I live!"

And the Horton dog--accustomed to domineer over the small yellow
cur--growled contemptuously, scratched with his hind feet, smelled
around an adjoining bush, and pretending not to see or notice, went off
in another direction.

What was it that robbed him of his courage, but the knowledge that he
was in the wrong?

Continuing with his host Rolf said, "Do you think they have any idea
that it is wrong to steal?"

"Yes, so long as it is one of their own tribe. A fox will take all he
can get from a bird or a rabbit or a woodchuck, but he won't go far on
the hunting grounds of another fox. He won't go into another fox's den
or touch one of its young ones, and if he finds a cache of food with
another fox's mark on it, he won't touch it unless he is near dead of
hunger."

"How do you mean they cache food and how do they mark it?"

"Generally they bury it under the leaves and soft earth, and the only
mark is to leave their body scent. But that is strong enough, and every
fox knows it."

"Do wolves make food caches?"

"Yes, wolves, cougars, weasels, squirrels, bluejays, crows, owls, mice,
all do, and all have their own way of marking a place."

"Suppose a fox finds a wolf cache, will he steal from it?"

"Yes, always. There is no law between fox and wolf. They are always at
war with each other. There is law only between fox and fox, or wolf and
wolf."

"That is like ourselves, ain't it? We say, 'Thou shalt not steal,' and
then when we steal the Indian's land or the Frenchman's ships, we say,
'Oh, that don't mean not steal from our enemies; they are fair game.'"

Quonab rose to throw some sticks on the fire, then went out to turn the
smoke flap of the wigwam, for the wind was changed and another set
was needed to draw the smoke. They heard several times again the
high-pitched "yap yurr," and once the deeper notes, which told that the
dog fox, too, was near the camp, and was doubtless seeking food to carry
home.



Chapter 9. Where the Bow Is Better Than the Gun

Of all popular errors about the Indians, the hardest to down is the idea
that their women do all the work. They do the housework, it is true, but
all the heavy labour beyond their strength is done by the men. Examples
of this are seen in the frightful toil of hunting, canoeing, and
portaging, besides a multitude of kindred small tasks, such as making
snowshoes, bows, arrows, and canoes.

Each warrior usually makes his own bow and arrows, and if, as often
happens, one of them proves more skilful and turns out better weapons,
it is a common thing for others to offer their own specialty in
exchange.

The advantages of the bow over the gun are chiefly its noiselessness,
its cheapness, and the fact that one can make its ammunition anywhere.
As the gun chiefly used in Quonab's time was the old-fashioned,
smooth-bore flint-lock, there was not much difference in the accuracy
of the two weapons. Quonab had always made a highclass bow, as well as
high-class arrows, and was a high-class shot. He could set up ten clam
shells at ten paces and break all in ten shots. For at least half of
his hunting he preferred the bow; the gun was useful to him chiefly
when flocks of wild pigeons or ducks were about, and a single charge of
scattering shot might bring down a dozen birds.

But there is a law in all shooting--to be expert, you must practise
continually--and when Rolf saw his host shoot nearly every day at some
mark, he tried to join in the sport.

It took not many trys to show that the bow was far too strong for him
to use, and Quonab was persuaded at length to make an outfit for his
visitor.

From the dry store hole under the rock, he produced a piece of common
red cedar. Some use hickory; it is less liable to break and will stand
more abuse, but it has not the sharp, clean action of cedar. The latter
will send the arrow much farther, and so swiftly does it leave the
string that it baffles the eye. But the cedar bow must be cared for like
a delicate machine; overstring it, and it breaks; twang it without an
arrow, and it sunders the cords; scratch it, and it may splinter; wet
it, and it is dead; let it lie on the ground, even, and it is weakened.
But guard it and it will serve you as a matchless servant, and as can no
other timber in these woods.

Just where the red heart and the white sap woods join is the bowman's
choice. A piece that reached from Rolf's chin to the ground was shaved
down till it was flat on the white side and round on the red side,
tapering from the middle, where it was one inch wide and one inch thick
to the ends, where it was three fourths of an inch wide and five eighths
of an inch thick, the red and white wood equal in all parts.

The string was made of sinew from the back of a cow, split from the
long, broad sheath that lies on each side the spine, and the bow strung
for trial. Now, on drawing it (flat or white side in front), it was
found that one arm bent more than the other, so a little more scraping
was done on the strong side, till both bent alike.

Quonab's arrows would answer, but Rolf needed a supply of his own. Again
there was great choice of material. The long, straight shoots ol' the
arrowwood (Viburnuin dentatum) supplied the ancient Indians, but
Quonab had adopted a better way, since the possession of an axe made it
possible. A 25-inch block of straight-grained ash was split and split
until it yielded enough pieces. These were shaved down to one fourth of
an inch thick, round, smooth, and perfectly straight. Each was notched
deeply at one end; three pieces of split goose feather were lashed on
the notched end, and three different kinds of arrows were made. All were
alike in shaft and in feathering, but differed in the head. First, the
target arrows: these were merely sharpened, and the points hardened by
roasting to a brown colour. They would have been better with conical
points of steel, but none of these were to be had. Second, the ordinary
hunting arrows with barbed steel heads, usually bought ready-made, or
filed out of a hoop: these were for use in securing such creatures as
muskrats, ducks close at hand, or deer. Third, the bird bolts: these
were left with a large, round, wooden head. They were intended for
quail, partridges, rabbits, and squirrels, but also served very often,
and most admirably, in punishing dogs, either the Indian's own when he
was not living up to the rules and was too far off for a cuff or kick,
or a farmer's dog that was threatening an attack.

Now the outfit was complete, Rolf thought, but one other touch was
necessary. Quonab painted the feather part of the shaft bright red, and
Rolf learned why. Not for ornament, not as an owner's mark, but as a
finding mark. Many a time that brilliant red, with the white feather
next it, was the means of saving the arrow from loss. An uncoloured
arrow among the sticks and leaves of the woods was usually hidden, but
the bright-coloured shaft could catch the eye 100 yards away.

It was very necessary to keep the bow and arrows from the wet. For this,
every hunter provides a case, usually of buckskin, but failing that they
made a good quiver of birch bark laced with spruce roots for the arrows,
and for the bow itself a long cover of tarpaulin.

Now came the slow drilling in archery; the arrow held and the bow
drawn with three fingers on the cord--the thumb and little finger doing
nothing. The target was a bag of hay set at twenty feet, until the
beginner could hit it every time: then by degrees it was moved away
until at the standard distance of forty yards he could do fair shooting,
although of course he never shot as well as the Indian, who had
practised since he was a baby.

There are three different kinds of archery tests: the first for aim: Can
you shoot so truly as to hit a three-inch mark, ten times in succession,
at ten paces?

Next for speed: Can you shoot so quickly and so far up, as to have five
arrows in the air at once? If so, you are good: Can you keep up six?
Then you are very good. Seven is wonderful. The record is said to be
eight. Last for power: Can you pull so strong a bow and let the arrow go
so clean that it will fly for 250 yards or will pass through a deer at
ten paces? There is a record of a Sioux who sent an arrow through three
antelopes at one shot, and it was not unusual to pierce the huge buffalo
through and through; on one occasion a warrior with one shot pierced the
buffalo and killed her calf running at the other side.