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

Corrected His Course And Strode Along With Occasional Spells Of

Trotting. But Another Hour Wore Away Arid No Lake Appeared.

Then Rolf Knew He Was Off His Bearings. He Climbed A Tree And Got

A Partial View Of The Country. To The Right Was A Small Hill. He

Made For That. The Course Led Him Through A Hollow. In This He

Recognized Two Huge Basswood Trees,  That Gave Him A Reassuring

Sense. A Little Farther He Came On A Spring,  Strangely Like The

One He Had Left Some Hours Ago. As He Stooped To Drink,  He Saw

Deer  Tracks,  Then A Human Track. He Studied It. Assuredly It Was

His Own Track,  Though Now It Seemed On The South Side Instead Of

The North. He Stared At The Dead Gray Sky,  Hoping For Sign Of

Sun,  But It Gave No Hint. He Tramped Off Hastily Toward The Hill

That Promised A Lookout. He Went Faster And Faster. In Half An

Hour The Woods Opened A Little,  Then Dipped. He Hastened Down,

And At The Bottom Found Himself Standing By The Same Old Spring,

Though Again It Had Changed Its North Bearing.

He Was Stunned By This Succession Of Blows. He Knew Now He Was

Lost In The Woods; Had Been Tramping In A Circle.

The Spring Whirled Around Him; It Seemed Now North And Now South.

His First Impulse Was To Rush Madly Northwesterly,  As He

Understood It. He Looked At All The Trees For Guidance. Most Moss

Should Be On The North Side. It Would Be So,  If All Trees Were

Perfectly Straight And Evenly Exposed,  But Alas! None Are So. All

Lean One Way Or Another,  And By The Moss He Could Prove Any Given

Side To Be North. He Looked For The Hemlock Top Twigs. Tradition

Says They Always Point Easterly; But Now They Differed Among

Themselves As To Which Was East.

Rolf Got More And More Worried. He Was A Brave Boy,  But Grim Fear

Came Into His Mind As He Realized That He Was Too Far From Camp

To Be Heard; The Ground Was Too Leafy For Trailing Him; Without

Help He Could Not Get Away From That Awful Spring. His Head Began

To Swim,  When All At Once He Remembered A Bit Of Advice His Guide

Had Given Him Long Ago: "Don't Get Scared When You're Lost.

Hunger Don't Kill The Lost Man,  And It Ain't Cold That Does It;

It's Being Afraid. Don't Be Afraid,  And Everything Will Come Out

All Right."

So,  Instead Of Running,  Rolf Sat Down To Think It Over.

"Now," Said He,  "I Went Due Southeast All Day From The Canoe."

Then He Stopped; Like A Shock It Came To Him That He Had Not Seen

The Sun All Day. Had He Really Gone Southeast? It Was A

Devastating Thought,  Enough To Unhinge Some Men; But Again Rolf

Said To Himself "Never Mind,  Now; Don't Get Scared,  And It'll Be

All Right. In The Morning The Sky Will Be Clear."

As He Sat Pondering,  A Red Squirrel Chippered And Scolded From A

Near Tree; Closer And Closer The Impudent Creature Came To

Sputter At The Intruder.

Rolf Drew His Bow,  And When The Blunt Arrow Dropped To The

Ground,  There Also Dropped The Red Squirrel,  Turned Into

Acceptable Meat. Rolf Put This Small Game Into His Pocket,

Realizing That This Was His Supper.

It Would Soon Be Dark Now,  So He Prepared To Spend The Night.

While Yet He Could See,  He Gathered A Pile Of Dry Wood Into A

Sheltered Hollow. Then He Made A Wind-Break And A Bed Of Balsam

Boughs. Flint,  Steel,  Tinder,  And Birch Bark Soon Created A

Cheerful Fire,  And There Is No Better Comforter That The Lone

Lost Man Can Command.

The Squirrel Roasted In Its Hide Proved A Passable Supper,  And

Rolf Curled Up To Sleep. The Night Would Have Been Pleasant And

Uneventful,  But That It Turned Chilly,  And When The Fire Burnt

Low,  The Cold Awakened Him,  So He Had A Succession Of Naps And

Fire-Buildings.

Soon After Dawn,  He Heard A Tremendous Roaring,  And In A Few

Minutes The Wood Was Filled Again With Pigeons.

Rolf Was Living On The Country Now,  So He Sallied Forth With His

Bow. Luck Was With Him; At The First Shot He Downed A Big,  Fat

Cock. At The Second He Winged Another,  And As It Scrambled

Through The Brush,  He Rushed Headlong In Pursuit. It Fluttered

Away Beyond Reach,  Halfflying,  Half-Running,  And Rolf,  In

Reckless Pursuit,  Went Sliding And Tumbling Down A Bank To Land

At The Bottom With A Horrid Jar. One Leg Was Twisted Under Him;

He Thought It Was Broken,  For There Was A Fearful Pain In The

Lower Part. But When He Pulled Himself Together He Found No

Broken Bones,  Indeed,  But An Ankle Badly Sprained. Now His

Situation Was Truly Grave,  For He Was Crippled And Incapable Of

Travelling.

He Had Secured The Second Bird,  And Crawling Painfully And Slowly

Back To The Fire,  He Could Not But Feel More And More Despondent

And Gloomy As The Measure Of His Misfortune Was Realized.

"There Is Only One Thing That Can Shame A Man,  That Is To Be

Afraid." And Again,  "There's Always A Way Out." These Were The

Sayings That Came Ringing Through His Head To His Heart; One Was

From Quonab,  The Other From Old Sylvanne. Yes,  There's Always A

Way,  And The Stout Heart Can Always Find It.

Rolf Prepared And Cooked The Two Birds,  Made A Breakfast Of One

And Put The Other In His Pocket For Lunch,  Not Realizing At The

Time That His Lunch Would Be Eaten On This Same Spot. More Than

Once,  As He Sat,  Small Flocks Of Ducks Flew Over The Trees Due

Northward. At Length The Sky,  Now Clear,  Was Ablaze With The

Rising Sun,  And When It Came,  It Was In Rolf's Western Sky.

Now He Comprehended The Duck Flight. They Were Really Heading

Southeast For Their Feeding Grounds On The Indian Lake,  And Rolf,

Had He Been Able To Tramp,  Could Have Followed,  But His Foot Was

Growing Worse. It Was Badly Swollen,  And Not Likely To Be Of

Service For Many A Day - Perhaps Weeks -- And It Took All Of His

Fortitude Not To Lie Down And Weep Over This Last Misfortune.

Again Came The Figure Of That Grim,  Kindly,  Strong Old Pioneer,

With The Gray-Blue Eyes And His Voice Was Saying: "Jest When

Things Looks About As Black As They Can Look,  If Ye Hold Steady,

Keep Cool And Kind,  Something Sure Happens To Make It All Easy.

There's Always A Way And The Stout Heart Will Find It."

What Way Was There For Him? He Would Die Of Hunger And Cold

Before Quonab Could Find Him,  And Again Came The Spectre Of Fear.

If Only He Could Devise Some Way Of Letting His Comrade Know. He

Shouted Once Or Twice,  In The Faint Hope That The Still Air Might

Carry The Sound,  But The Silent Wood Was Silent When He Ceased.

Then One Of His Talks With Quonab Came To Mind. He Remembered How

The Indian,  As A Little Papoose,  Had Been Lost For Three Days.

Though,  Then But Ten Years Old,  He Had Built A Smoke Fire That

Brought Him Help. Yes,  That Was The Indian Way; Two Smokes Means

"I Am Lost"; "Double For Trouble."

Fired By This New Hope,  Rolf Crawled A Little Apart From His Camp

And Built A Bright Fire,  Then Smothered It With Rotten Wood And

Green Leaves. The Column Of Smoke It Sent Up Was Densely White

And Towered Above The Trees.

Then Painfully He Hobbled And Crawled To A Place One Hundred

Yards Away,  And Made Another Smoke. Now All He Could Do Was Wait.

A Fat Pigeon,  Strayed From Its Dock,  Sat On A Bough Above His

Camp,  In A Way To Tempt Providence. Rolf Drew A Blunt Arrow To

The Head And Speedily Had The Pigeon In Hand For Some Future Meal.

As He Prepared It,  He Noticed That Its Crop Was Crammed With The

Winged Seed Of The Slippery Elm,  So He Put Them All Back Again

Into The Body When It Was Cleaned,  Knowing Well That They Are A

Delicious Food And In This Case Would Furnish A Welcome Variant

To The Bird Itself.

An Hour Crawled By. Rolf Had To Go Out To The Far Fire,  For It

Was Nearly Dead. Instinctively He Sought A Stout Stick To Help

Him; Then Remembered How Hoag Had Managed With One Leg And Two

Crutches. "Ho!" He Exclaimed. "That Is The Answer -- This Is The

'Way."'

Now His Attention Was Fixed On All The Possible Crutches. The

Trees Seemed Full Of Them,  But All At Impossible Heights. It Was

Long Before He Found One That He Could Cut With His Knife.

Certainly He Was An Hour Working At It; Then He Heard A Sound

That Made His Blood Jump.

From Far Away In The North It Came,  Faint But Reaching;

"Ye-Hoo-O."

Rolf Dropped His Knife And Listened With The Instinctively Open

Mouth That Takes All Pressure From The Eardrums And Makes Them

Keen. It Came Again: " Ye-Hoo-O." No Mistake Now,  And Rolf Sent

The Ringing Answer Back:

"Ye-Hoo-O,  Ye-Hoo-O."

In Ten Minutes There Was A Sharp " Yap,  Yap," And Skookum Bounded

Out Of The Woods To Leap And Bark Around Rolf,  As Though He Knew

All About It; While A Few Minutes Later,  Came Quonab Striding.

"Ho,  Boy," He Said,  With A Quiet Smile,  And Took Rolf's Hand.

"Ugh! That Was Good," And He Nodded To The Smoke Fire. "I Knew

You Were In Trouble."

"Yes," And Rolf Pointed To The Swollen Ankle.

The Indian Picked Up The Lad In His Arms And Carried Him Back To

The Little Camp. Then,  From His Light Pack,  He Took Bread And Tea

And Made A Meal For Both. And,  As They Ate,  Each Heard The

Other's Tale.

"I Was Troubled When You Did Not Come Back Last Night,  For You

Had No Food Or Blanket. I Did Not Sleep. At Dawn I Went To The

Hill,  Where I Pray,  And Looked Away Southeast Where You Went In

The Canoe. I Saw Nothing. Then I Went To A Higher Hill,  Where I

Could See The Northeast,  And Even While I Watched,  I Saw The Two

Smokes,  So I Knew My Son Was Alive."

"You Mean To Tell Me I Am Northeast Of Camp? "

"About Four Miles. I Did Not Come Very Quickly,  Because I Had To

Go For The Canoe And Travel Here.

"How Do You Mean By Canoe?" Said Rolf,  In Surprise.

You Are Only Half A Mile From Jesup River," Was The Reply. "I

Soon Bring You Home."

It Was Incredible At First,  But Easy Of Proof. With The Hatchet

They Made A Couple Of Serviceable Crutches And Set Out Together.

 In Twenty Minutes They Were Afloat In The Canoe; In An Hour They

Were Safely Home Again.

And Rolf Pondered It Not A Little. At The Very Moment Of Blackest

Despair,  The Way Had Opened,  And It Had Been So Simple,  So Natural,

So Effectual. Surely,  As Long As He Lived,  He Would Remember Itä

"There Is Always A Way,  And The Stout Heart Will Find It."

If Rolf Had Been At Home With His Mother,  She Would Have Rubbed

His Black And Swollen Ankle With Goose Grease. The Medical Man At

Stamford Would Have Rubbed It With A Carefully Prepared And

Secret Ointment. His Indian Friend Sang A Little Crooning Song

And Rubbed It With Deer's Fat.  All Different,  And All Good,

Because Each Did Something To Reassure The Patient,  To Prove That

Big Things Were Doing On His Behalf,  And Each Helped The Process

Of Nature By Frequent Massage.

Three Times A Day,  Quonab Rubbed That Blackened Ankle. The Grease

Saved The Skin From Injury,  And In A Week Rolf Had Thrown His

Crutches Away.

The Month Of May Was Nearly Gone; June Was At Hand; That Is,  The

Spring Was Over. !

In All Ages,  Man Has Had The Impulse,  If Not The Habit,  Of Spring

Migration. Yielding To It He Either Migrated Or Made Some Radical

Change In His Life. Most