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

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."

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.

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