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

"It's Down; Hurrah!" Rolf Shouted,  For There,  Dead Under The Log,

Was An Exquisite Marten,  Dark,  Almost Black,  With A Great,  Broad,

Shining Breast Of Gold.

They Were Going Back Now Toward The Beaver Lake. The Next Trap

Was Sprung And Empty; The Next Held The Body Of A Red Squirrel,  A

Nuisance Always And Good Only To Rebait The Trap He Springs.  But

The Next Held A Marten,  And The Next A White Weasel.  Others Were

Unsprung,  But They Had Two Good Pelts When They Reached The

Beaver Lake.  They Were In High Spirits With Their Good Luck,  But

Not Prepared For The Marvellous Haul That Now Was Theirs.  Each

Of The Six Traps Held A Big Beaver,  Dead,  Drowned,  And Safe.

Each Skin Was Worth Five Dollars,  And The Hunters Felt Rich.  The

Incident Had,  Moreover,  This Pleasing Significance: It Showed

That These Beavers Were Unsophisticated,  So Had Not Been Hunted.

Fifty Pelts Might Easily Be Taken From These Ponds.

The Trappers Reset The Traps; Then Dividing The Load,  Sought A

Remote Place To Camp,  For It Does Not Do To Light A Fire Near

Your Beaver Pond.  One Hundred And Fifty Pounds Of Beaver,  In

Addition,  To Their Packs,  Was Not A Load To Be Taken Miles Away;

Within Half A Mile On A Lower Level They Selected A Warm Place,

Made A Fire,  And Skinned Their Catch.  The Bodies They Opened And

Hung In A Tree With A View To Future Use,  But The Pelts And Tails

They Carried On.

They Made A Long,  Hard Tramp That Day,  Baiting All The Traps And

Reached Home Late In The Night.

In The Man-World,  November Is The Month Of Gloom,  Despair,  And

Many Suicides. In The Wild World,  November Is The Mad Moon. Many

And Diverse The Madnesses Of The Time,  But None More Insane Than

The Rut Of The White-Tailed Deer.  Like Some Disease It Appears,

First In The Swollen Necks Of The Antler-Bearers,  And Then In The

Feverish Habits Of All. Long And Obstinate Combats Between The

Bucks Now,  Characterize The Time; Neglecting Even To Eat,  They

Spend Their Days And Nights In Rushing About And Seeking To Kill.

Their Horns,  Growing Steadily Since Spring,  Are Now Of Full Size,

Sharp,  Heavy,  And Cleaned Of The Velvet; In Perfection.  For

What?  Has Nature Made Them To Pierce,  Wound,  And Destroy?

Strange As It May Seem,  These Weapons Of Offence Are Used For

Little But Defence; Less As Spears Than As Bucklers They Serve

The Deer In  Battles With Its Kind.  And The Long,  Hard Combats

Are Little More Than Wrestling And Pushing Bouts; Almost Never Do

They End Fatally.  When A Mortal Thrust Is Given,  It Is Rarely A

Gaping Wound,  But A Sudden Springing And Locking Of The Antlers,

Whereby The Two Deer Are Bound Together,  Inextricably,

Hopelessly,  And So Suffer Death By Starvation.  The Records Of

Deer Killed By Their Rivals And Left On The Duel-Ground Are Few;

Very Few And Far Between.  The Records Of Those Killed By

Interlocking Are Numbered By The Scores.

There Were Hundreds Of Deer In This Country That Rolf And Quonab

Claimed.  Half Of Them Were Bucks,  And At Least Half Of These

Engaged In Combat Some Times Or Many Times A Day,  All Through

November; That Is To Say,  Probably  A Thousand Duels Were Fought

That Month Within Ten Miles Of The Cabin.  It Was Not Surprising

That Rolf Should Witness Some Of Them,  And Hear Many More In The

Distance.

They Were Living In The Cabin Now,  And During The Still,  Frosty

Nights,  When He Took A Last Look At The Stars,  Before Turning In,

Rolf Formed The Habit Of Listening  Intently For The Voices Of

The Gloom.  Sometimes It Was The "Hoo-Hoo" Of The Horned-Owl,

Once Or Twice It Was The Long,  Smooth Howl Of The Wolf; But Many

Times It Was The Rattle Of Antlers That Told Of Two Bucks Far Up

In The Hardwoods,  Trying Out The All-Important Question,  "Which

Is The Better Buck?"

One Morning He Heard Still An Occasional Rattle At The Same Place

As The Night Before.  He Set Out Alone,  After Breakfast,  And

Coming Cautiously Near,  Peered Into A Little,  Open Space To See

Two Bucks With Heads Joined,  Slowly,  Feebly Pushing This Way And

That.  Their Tongues Were Out; They Seemed Almost Exhausted,  And

The Trampled Snow For An Acre About Plainly Showed That They Had

Been Fighting For Hours; That Indeed These Were The Ones He Had

Heard In The Night.  Still They Were Evenly Matched,  And The

Green Light In Their Eyes Told Of The Ferocious Spirit In Each Of

These Gentle-Looking Deer.

Rolf Had No Difficulty In Walking Quite Near.  If They Saw Him,

They Gave Slight Heed To The Testimony Of Their Eyes,  For The

Unenergetic Struggle Went On Until,  Again Pausing For Breath,

They Separated,  Raised Their Heads A Little,  Sniffed,  Then

Trotted Away From The Dreaded Enemy So Near.  Fifty Yards Off,

They Turned,  Shook Their Horns,  Seemed In Doubt Whether To Run

Away,  Join Battle Again,  Or Attack The Man.  Fortunately The

First Was Their Choice,  And Rolf Returned To The Cabin.

Quonab Listened To His Account,  Then Said: "You Might Have Been

Killed.  Every Buck Is Crazy Now.  Often They Attack Man.  My

Father's Brother Was Killed By A Mad Moon Buck.  They Found Only

His Body,  Torn To Rags.  He Had Got A Little Way Up A Tree,  But

The Buck Had Pinned Him.  There Were The Marks,  And In The Snow

They Could See How He Held On To The Deer's Horns And Was Dragged

About Till His Strength Gave Out.  He Had No Gun.  The Buck Went

Off.  That Was All They Knew.  I Would Rather Trust A Bear Than A

Deer."

The Indian's Words Were Few,  But They Drew A Picture All Too

Realistic.  The Next Time Rolf Heard The Far Sound Of A Deer

Fight,  It Brought Back The Horror Of That Hopeless Fight In The

Snow,  And Gave Him A New And Different Feel- Ing For The

Antler-Bearer Of The Changing Mood.

It Was Two Weeks After This,  When He Was Coming In From A Trip

Alone On Part Of The Line,  When His Ear Caught Some Strange

Sounds In The Woods Ahead; Deep,  Sonorous,  Semi-Human They Were.

Strange And Weird Wood-Notes In Winter Are Nearly Sure To Be

Those Of A Raven Or A Jay; If Deep,  They Are Likely To Come From

A Raven.

"Quok,  Quok,  Ha,  Ha,  Ha-Hreww,  Hrrr,  Hooop,  Hooop," The Diabolic

Noises Came,  And Rolf,  Coming Gently Forward,  Caught A Glimpse Of

Sable Pinions  Swooping Through The Lower Pines.

"Ho,  Ho,  Ho Yah - Hew - W - W - W" Came The Demon Laughter Of The

Death Birds,  And Rolf Soon Glimpsed A Dozen Of Them In The

Branches,  Hopping Or Sometimes Flying To The Ground.  One

Alighted On A Brown Bump.  Then The Bump Began To Move A Little.

The Raven Was Pecking Away,  But Again The Brown Bump Heaved And

The Raven Leaped To A Near Perch.  "Wah -- Wah -- Wah - Wo - Hoo

-- Yow - Wow -- Rrrrrr-Rrrr-Rrrr" -- And The Other Ravens Joined

In.

Rolf Had No Weapons But His Bow,  His Pocket Knife,  And A Hatchet.

He Took The Latter In His Hand And Walked Gently Forward; The

Hollow-Voiced Ravens "Haw - Hawed," Then Flew To Safe Perches

Where They Chuckled Like Ghouls Over Some Extra-Ghoulish Joke.

The Lad,  Coming Closer,  Witnessed A Scene That Stirred Him With

Mingled Horror And Pity.  A Great,  Strong Buck -- Once Strong,  At

Least -- Was Standing,  Staggering,  Kneeling There; Sometimes On

His Hind Legs,  Spasmodically Heaving And Tugging At A Long Gray

Form On The Ground,  The Body Of Another Buck,  His Rival,  Dead

Now,  With A Broken Neck,  As It Proved,  But Bearing Big,  Strong

Antlers With Which The Antlers Of The Living Buck Were

Interlocked As Though Riveted With Iron,  Bolted With Clamps Of

Steel.  With All His Strength,  The Living Buck Could Barely Move

His Head,  Dragging His Adversary's Body With Him.  The Snow Marks

Showed That At First He Had Been Able To Haul The Carcass Many

Yards; Had Nibbled A Little At Shoots And Twigs; But That Was

When He Was Stronger,  Was Long Before.  How Long?  For Days,  At

Least,  Perhaps A Week,  That Wretched Buck Was Dying Hopelessly A

Death That Would Not Come. His Gaunt Sides,  His Parched And

Lolling Tongue,  Less Than A Foot From The Snow And Yet Beyond

Reach,  The Filmy Eye,  Whose Opaque Veil Of Death Was Illumined

Again With A Faint Fire Of Fighting Green As The New Foe Came.

The Ravens Had Picked The Eyes Out Of The Dead Buck And Eaten A

Hole In Its Back.  They Had Even Begun On The Living Buck,  But He

Had Been Able To Use One Front Foot To Defend His Eyes; Still His

Plight Could Scarce Have Been More Dreadful.  It Made The Most

Pitiful Spectacle Rolf Had Ever Seen In Wild Life; Yes,  In All

His Life.  He Was Full Of Compassion For The Poor Brute.  He

Forgot It As A Thing To Be Hunted For Food; Thought Of It Only As

A Harmless,  Beautiful Creature In Dire And Horrible Straits; A

Fellow-Being In Distress; And He At Once Set About Being Its

Helper.  With Hatchet In Hand He Came Gently In Front,  And

Selecting An Exposed Part At The Base Of The Dead Buck's Antler

He Gave A Sharp Blow With The Hatchet.  The Effect On The Living

Buck Was Surprising.  He Was Roused To Vigorous Action That

Showed Him Far From Death As Yet.  He Plunged,  Then Pulled

Backward,  Carrying With Him The Carcass And The Would-Be Rescuer.

Then Rolf Remembered The Indian's Words: "You Can Make Strong

Medicine With Your Mouth." He Spoke To The Deer,  Gently,  Softly.

Then Came Nearer,  And Tapped O'n The Horn He Wished To Cut;

Softly Speaking And Tapping He Increased His Force,  Until At Last

He Was Permitted To Chop Seriously At That Prison Bar.  It Took

Many Blows,  For The Antler Stuff Is Very Thick And Strong At This

Time,  But The Horn Was Loose At Last.  Rolf Gave It A Twist And

The Strong Buck Was Free.  Free For What?

Oh,  Tell It Not Among The Folk Who Have Been The Wild Deer's

Friend!  Hide It From All Who Blindly Believe That Gratitude Must

Always Follow Good-Will!  With Unexpected Energy,  With Pent-Up

Fury,  With Hellish Purpose,  The Ingrate Sprang On His Deliverer,

Aiming A Blow As Deadly As Was In His Power.

Wholly Taken By Surprise,  Rolf Barely Had Time To Seize The

Murderer's Horns And Ward Them Off His Vitals. The Buck Made A

Furious Lunge.  Oh! What Foul Fiend Was It Gave Him Then Such

Force? -- And Rolf Went Down. Clinging For Dear Life To Those

Wicked,  Shameful Horns,  He Yelled As He Never Yelled Before:

"Quonab,  Quonabi Help Me,  Oh,  Help Me!"  But He Was Pinned At

Once,  The Fierce Brute Above Him Pressing On His Chest,  Striving

To Bring Its Horns To Bear; His Only Salvation Had Been That

Their Wide Spread Gave His Body Room Between.  But The Weight On

His Chest Was Crushing Out His Force,  His Life; He Had No Breath

To Call Again.  How The Ravens Chuckled,  And "Haw-Hawed" In The

Tree!

The Buck's Eyes Gleamed Again With The Emerald Light Of Murderous

Hate,  And He Jerked His Strong Neck This Way And That With The

Power Of Madness.  It Could Not Last For Long.  The Boy's

Strength Was Going Fast; The Beast Was Crushing In His Chest.

"Oh,  God,  Help Me!" He Gasped,  As The Antlered Fiend Began Again

Struggling For The Freedom Of Those Murderous Horns.  The Brute

Was Almost Free,  When The Ravens Rose With Loud Croaks,  And Out

Of The Woods Dashed Another To Join The Fight.  A Smaller Deer?

No; What?  Rolf Knew Not,  Nor How,  But In A Moment There Was A

Savage Growl And Skookum Had The Murderer By The Hind Leg.

Worrying And Tearing He Had Not The Strength To Throw The Deer,

But His Teeth Were Sharp,  His Heart Was In His Work,  And When He

Transferred His Fierce Attack To Parts More Tender Still,