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
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
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