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

Some Soda Were Discovered And Stirred In,  On General Principles,

And They Hastened To The Huge,  Helpless Creature In The Field.

Poor Buck Seemed Worse Than Ever. He Was Flat On His Side,  With

His Spine Humped Up,  Moaning And Straining At Intervals. But Now

Relief Was In Sight -- So Thought The Men. With A Tin Dipper They

Tried To Pour Some Relief Into The Open Mouth Of The Sufferer,

Who Had So Little Appreciation That He Simply Taxed His Remaining

Strength To Blow It Out In Their Faces. Several Attempts Ended

The Same Way. Then The Brute,  In What Looked Like Temper,  Swung

His Muzzle And Dashed The Whole Dipper Away. Next They Tried The

Usual Method,  Mixing It With A Bran Mash,  Considered A Delicacy

In The Bovine World,  But Buck Again Took Notice,  Under Pressure

Only,  To Dash It Away And Waste It All.

It Occurred To Them They Might Force It Down His Throat If They

Could Raise His Head. So They Used A Hand Lever And A Prop To

Elevate The Muzzle,  And Were About To Try Another Inpour,  When

Buck Leaped To His Feet,  And Behaving Like One Who Has Been

Shamming,  Made At Full Gallop For The Stable,  Nor Stopped Till

Safely In His Stall,  Where At Once He Dropped In All The Evident

Agony Of A New Spasm.

It Is A Common Thing For Oxen To Sham Sick,  But This Was The Real

Thing,  And It Seemed They Were Going To Lose The Ox,  Which Meant

Also Lose A Large Part Of The Harvest.

In The Stable,  Now,  They Had A Better Chance; They Tied Him,  Then

Raised His Head With A Lever Till His Snout Was High Above His

Shoulders. Now It Seemed Easy To Pour The Medicine Down That

Long,  Sloping Passage. But His Mouth Was Tightly Closed,  Any That

Entered His Nostrils Was Blown Afar,  And The Suffering Beast

Strained At The Rope Till He Seemed Likely To Strangle.

Both Men And Ox Were Worn Out With The Struggle; The Brute Was No

Better,  But Rather Worse.

"Wall," Said Rolf,  "I've Seen A Good Many Ornery Steers,  But

That's The Orneriest I Ever Did Handle,  An' I Reckon We'll Lose

Him If He Don't Get That Poison Into Him Pretty Soon."

Oxen Never Were Studied As Much As Horses,  For They Were

Considered A Temporary Shift,  And Every Farmer Looked Forward To

Replacing Them With The Latter. Oxen Were Enormously Strong,  And

They Could Flourish Without Grain When The Grass Was Good; They

Never Lost Their Head In A Swamp Hole,  And Ploughed Steadily

Among All Kinds Of Roots And Stumps; But They Were Exasperatingly

Slow And Eternally Tricky.  Bright,  Being The Trickier Of The

Two,  Was Made The Nigh Ox,  To Be More Under Control.  Ordinarily

Rolf Could Manage Buck Easily,  But The Present Situation Seemed

Hopeless. In His Memory He Harked Back To Redding Days,  And He

Recalled Old Eli Gooch,  The Ox Expert,  And Wondered What He Would

Have Done.  Then,  As He Sat,  He Caught Sight Of The Sick Ox

Reaching Out Its Head And Deftly Licking Up A Few Drops Of Bran

Mash That Had Fallen From His Yoke Fellow's Portion. A Smile

Spread Over Rolf's Face. "Just Like You; You Think Nothing's Good

Except It's Stolen. All Right; We'll See." He Mixed A Big Dose Of

Medicine,  With Bran,  As Before.  Then He Tied Bright's Head So

That He Could Not Reach The Ground,  And Set The Bucket Of Mash

Half Way Between The Two Oxen. "Here Ye Are,  Bright," He Said,  As

A Matter Of Form,  And Walked Out Of The Stable; But,  From A

Crack,  He Watched. Buck Saw A Chance To Steal Bright's Bran; He

Looked Around; Oh,  Joy! His Driver Was Away. He Reached Out

Cautiously; Sniffed; His Long Tongue Shot Forth For A First

Taste,  When Rolf Gave A Shout And Ran In. "Hi,  You Old Robber!

Let That Alone; That's For Bright."

The Sick Ox Was Very Much In His Own Stall Now,  And Stayed There

For Some Time After Rolf Went To Resume His Place At The

Peephole. But Encouraged By A Few Minutes Of Silence,  He Again

Reached Out,  And Hastily Gulped Down A Mouthful Of The Mixture

Before Rolf Shouted And Rushed In Armed With A Switch To Punish

The Thief. Poor Bright,  By His Efforts To Reach The Tempting

Mash,  Was Unwittingly Playing The Game,  For This Was Proof

Positive Of Its Desirableness.

After Giving Buck A Few Cuts With The Switch,  Rolf Retired,  As

Before. Again The Sick Ox Waited For Silence,  And Reaching Out

With Greedy Haste,  He Gulped Down The Rest And Emptied The

Bucket; Seeing Which,  Rolf Ran In And Gave The Rogue A Final

Trouncing For The Sake Of Consistency.

Any One Who Knows What Slippery Elm,  Peppermint,  Soda,  Sulphur,

Colic,  And Ox Do When Thoroughly Interincorporated Will Not Be

Surprised To Learn That In The Morning The Stable Needed Special

Treatment,  And Of All The Mixture The Ox Was The Only Ingredient

Left On The Active List. He Was All Right Again,  Very Thirsty,

And Not Quite Up To His Usual Standard,  But,  As Van Said,  After A

Careful Look,  "Ah,  Tell You Vot,  Dot You Vas A Veil Ox Again,  An'

I T'ink I Know Not Vot If You All Tricky Vas Like Bright."

The Red Moon (August) Follows The Thunder Moon,  And In The Early

Part Of Its Second Week Rolf And Van,  Hauling In The Barley And

Discussing The Fitness Of The Oats,  Were Startled By A Most

Outrageous Clatter Among The Hens.  Horrid Murder Evidently Was

Stalking Abroad,  And,  Hastening To The Rescue,  Rolf Heard Loud,

Angry Barks; Then A Savage Beast With A Defunct "Cackle Party"

Appeared,  But Dropped The Victim To Bark And Bound Upon The

"Relief Party" With Ecstatic Expressions Of Joy,  In Spite Of

Rolf's -- "Skookum! You Little Brute!"

Yes! Quonab Was Back; That Is,  He Was At The Lake Shore,  And

Skookum Had Made Haste To Plunge Into The Joys And Gayeties Of

This Social Centre,  Without Awaiting The Formalities Of Greeting

Or Even Of Dry-Shod Landing.

The Next Scene Was -- A Big,  High Post,  A Long,  Strong Chain And

A Small,  Sad Dog.

"Ho,  Quonab,  You Found Your People?  You Had A Good Time?"

"Ugh," Was The Answer,  The Whole Of It,  And All The Light Rolf

Got For Many A Day On The Old Man's Trip To The North. The

Prospect Of Going To Albany For Van Cortlandt Was Much More

Attractive To Quonab Than That Of The Harvest Field,  So A

Compromise Was Agreed On.  Callan's Barley Was In The Stock; If

All Three Helped Callan For Three Days,  Callan Would Owe Them For

Nine,  And So It Was Arranged.

Again "Good-Bye," And Rolf,  Quonab,  And Little Dog Skookum Went

Sailing Down The Schroon Toward The Junction,  Where They Left A

Cache Of Their Supplies,  And Down The Broadening Hudson Toward

Albany.

Rolf Had Been Over The Road Twice; Quonab Never Before,  Yet His

Nose For Water Was So Good And The Sense Of Rapid And Portage Was

So Strong In The Red Man,  That Many Times He Was The Pilot. "This

Is The Way,  Because It Must Be"; "There It Is Deep Because So

Narrow"; "That Rapid Is Dangerous,  Because There Is Such A

Well-Beaten Portage Trail"; "That We Can Run,  Because I See It,"

Or,  "Because There Is No Portage Trail," Etc.  The Eighty Miles

Were Covered In Three Sleeps,  And In The Mid-Moon Days Of The Red

Moon They Landed At The Dock In Front Of Peter Vandam's.  If

Quonab Had Any Especial Emotions For The Occasion,  He Cloaked

Them Perfectly Under A Calm And Copper-Coloured Exterior Of

Absolute Immobility.

Their Albany Experiences Included A Meeting With The Governor And

An Encounter With A Broad And Burly River Pirate,  Who,  Seeing A

Lone And Peaceable-Looking Red Man,  Went Out Of His Way To Insult

Him; And When Quonab's Knife Flashed Out At Last,  It Was Only His

Recently Established Relations With The Governor's Son That Saved

Him From Some Very Sad Results,  For There Were Many Loafers

About.  But Burly Vandam Appeared In The Nick Of Time To Halt The

Small Mob With The Warning: "Don't You Know That's Mr. Van

Cortlandt's Guide?"  With The Governor And Vandam To Back Him,

Quonab Soon Had The Mob On His Side,  And The Dock Loafer's Own

Friends Pelted Him With Mud As He Escaped. But Not A Little

Credit Is Due To Skookum,  For At The Critical Moment He Had

Sprung On The Ruffian's Bare And Abundant Leg With Such Toothsome

Effect That The Owner Fell Promptly Backward And The Knife Thrust

Missed.  It Was Quickly Over And Quonab Replaced His Knife,

Contemptuous Of The Whole Crowd Before,  During And After The

Incident.  Not At The Time,  But Days Later,  He Said Of His Foe:

"He Was A Talker; He Was Full Of Fear."

With The Backwoods Only Thirty Miles Away,  And The Unbroken

Wilderness One Hundred,  It Was Hard To Believe How Little Henry

Van Cortlandt Knew Of The Woods And Its Life.  He Belonged To The

Ultra-Fashionable Set,  And It Was Rather Their Pose To Affect

Ignorance Of The Savage World And Its Ways. But He Had Plenty Of

Common-Sense To Fan Back On,  And The Inspiring Example Of

Washington,  Equally At Home In The Nation's Parliament,  The Army

Intrenchment,  The Glittering Ball Room,  Or The Hunting Lodge Of

The Indian,  Was A Constant Reminder That The Perfect Man Is A

Harmonious Development Of Mind,  Morals,  And Physique.

His Training Had Been Somewhat Warped By The Ultraclassic Fashion

Of The Times,  So He Persisted In Seeing In Quonab A Sort Of

Discoloured,  Barbaric Clansman Of Alaric Or A Camp Follower Of

Xenophon's Host,  Rather Than An Actual Living,  Interesting,

Native American,  Exemplifying In The Highest Degree The Sinewy,

Alert Woodman,  And The Saturated Mystic And Pantheist Of An Age

Bygone And Out Of Date,  Combined With A Middle-Measure

Intelligence.  And Rolf,  Tall,  Blue-Eyed With Brown,  Curling

Hair,  Was Made To Pose As The Youthful Achilles,  Rather Than As A

Type Of America's Best Young Manhood,  Cleaner,  Saner,  And Of Far

Higher Ideals And Traditions Than Ever Were Ascribed To Achilles

By His Most Blinded Worshippers.  It Recalled The Case Of

Wordsworth And Southey Living Side By Side In England; Southey,

The Famous,  Must Needs Seek In Ancient India For Material To

Write His Twelve-Volume Romance That No One Ever Looks At;

Wordsworth,  The Unknown,  Wrote Of The Things Of His Own Time,

About His Own Door? And Produced Immortal Verse.

What Should We Think Of Homer,  Had He Sung His Impressions Of The

Ancient Egyptians? Or Of Thackeray,  Had He Novelized The Life Of

The Babylonians? It Is An Ancient Blindness,  With An Ancient Wall

To Bruise One's Head. It Is Only Those Who Seek Ointment Of The

Consecrated Clay That Gives Back Sight,  Who See The Shining Way

At Their Feet,  Who Beat Their Face Against No Wall,  Who Safely

Climb The Heights. Henry Van Cortlandt Was A Man Of Rare Parts,

Of Every Advantage,  But Still He Had Been Taught Steadfastly To

Live In The Past. His Eyes Were Yet To Be Opened. The Living

Present Was Not His -- But Yet To Be.

The Young Lawyer Had Been Assembling His Outfit At Vandam's

Warehouse,  For,  In Spite Of Scoffing Friends,  He Knew That Rolf

Was Coming Back To Him.

When Rolf Saw The Pile Of Stuff That Was Gathered For That

Outfit,  He Stared At It Aghast,  Then Looked At Vandam,  And

Together They Roared. There Was Everything For Light Housekeeping

And Heavy Doctoring,  Even Chairs,  A Wash Stand,  A Mirror,  A

Mortar,  And A Pestle.  Six Canoes Could Scarcely Have Carried The

Lot.

"'Tain't So Much The Young Man As His Mother," Explained Big

Pete; "At First I Tried To Make 'Em Understand,  But It Was No

Use; So I Says,  'All Right,  Go Ahead,  As Long As There's Room In

The Warehouse.' I Reckon I'll Set On The Fence And Have Some Fun

Seein' Rolf Ontangle The Affair."

"Phew,  Pheeeww -- Ph-E-E-E-E-W," Was All Rolf Could Say In

Answer.  But At Last,  "Wall,  There's Always A Way. I