Rolf In The Woods by Ernest Thompson Seton (phonics story books .txt) 📕

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Several Unpublished Manuscripts For Guides,  And Heard From The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Kindly Allowing Me To See The Unpublished Manuscript Memoir Of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.

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.

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