Rolf In The Woods - Ernest Thompson Seton (interesting books to read for teens .TXT) 📗
- Author: Ernest Thompson Seton
Book online «Rolf In The Woods - Ernest Thompson Seton (interesting books to read for teens .TXT) 📗». Author Ernest Thompson Seton
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Several Unpublished Manuscripts For Guides, And Heard From The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Kindly Allowing Me To See The Unpublished Manuscript Memoir Of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 Inidians 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. Le- Land's "
Kuloskap The Master."
The Ghost Dance Song Was Fumished 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)
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
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