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

As Pretty Level Headed.  We'll See."

There Was A Way And It Was Easy,  For,  In A Secret Session,  Rolf,

Pete,  And Van Cortlandt Together Sorted Out The Things Needed. A

Small Tent,  Blankets,  Extra Clothes,  Guns,  Ammunition,  Delicate

Food For Three Months,  A Few Medicines And Toilet Articles -- A

Pretty Good Load For One Canoe,  But A Trifle Compared With The

Mountain Of Stuff Piled Up On The Floor.

"Now,  Mr. Van Cortlandt," Said Rolf,  "Will You Explain To Your

Mother That We Are Going On With This So As To Travel Quickly,

And Will Send Back For The Rest As We Need It?"

A Quiet Chuckle Was Now Heard From Big Pete. "Good! I Wondered

How He'd Settle It."

The Governor And His Lady Saw Them Off; Therefore,  There Was A

Crowd. The Mother Never Before Had Noted What A Frail And

Dangerous Thing A Canoe Is. She Cautioned Her Son Never To

Venture Out Alone,  And To Be Sure That He Rubbed His Chest With

The Pectoral Balm She Had Made From Such And Such A Famous

Receipt,  The One That Saved The Life But Not The Limb Of Old

Governor Stuyvesant,  And Come Right Home If You Catch A Cold; And

Wait At The First Camp Till The Other Things Come,  And (In A

Whisper) Keep Away From That Horrid Red Indian With The Knife,

And Never Fail To Let Every One Know Who You Are,  And Write

Regularly,  And Don't Forget To Take Your Calomel Monday,

Wednesday,  And Friday,  Alternating With Peruvian Bark Tuesday,

Thursday,  And Saturday,  And Squills On Sunday,  Except Every Other

Week,  When He Should Devote Tuesdays,  Fridays,  And Sundays To

Rhubarb And Catnip Tea,  Except In The Full Moon,  When The Catnip

Was To Be Replaced With Graveyard Bergamot And The Squills With

Opodeldoc In Which An Iron Nail Had Been Left For A Week.

So Henry Was Embraced,  Rolf Was Hand-Shaken,  Quonab Was Nodded

At,  Skookum Was Wisely Let Alone,  And The Trim Canoe Swung From

The Dock. Amid Hearty Cheers,  Farewells,  And "God Speed Ye's" It

Breasted The Flood For The North.

And On The Dock,  With Kerchief To Her Eyes,  Stood The Mother,

Weeping To Think That Her Boy Was Going Far,  Far Away From His

Home And Friends In Dear,  Cultured,  Refined Albany,  Away,  Away,

To That Remote And Barbarous Inaccessible Region Almost To The

Shore Land Of Lake Champlain.

Young Van Cortlandt,  Six Feet Two In His Socks And Thirty- Four

Inches Around The Chest,  Was,  As Rolf Long Afterward Said,  "Awful

Good Raw Material,  But Awful Raw."  Two Years Out Of College,

Half Of Which Had Been Spent At The Law,  Had Done Little But

Launch Him As A Physical Weakling And A Social Star.  But His

Mental Make-Up Was More Than Good; It Was Of Large Promise.  He

Lacked Neither Courage Nor Sense,  And The Course He Now Followed

Was Surely The Best For Man-Making.

Rolf Never Realized How Much A Farmer-Woodman-

Canoeman-Hunter-Camper Had To Know,  Until Now He Met A Man Who

Did Not Know Anything,  Nor Dreamed How Many Wrong Ways There Were

Of Doing A Job,  Till He Saw His New Companion Try It.

There Is No Single Simple Thing That Is A More Complete Measure

Of One's Woodcraft Than The Lighting Of A Fire. There Are A Dozen

Good Ways And A Thousand Wrong Ones. A Man Who Can Light Thirty

Fires On Thirty Successive Days With Thirty Matches Or Thirty

Sparks From Flint And Steel Is A Graduated Woodman,  For The Feat

Presupposes Experience Of Many Years And The Skill That Belongs

To A Winner.

When Quonab And Rolf Came Back From Taking Each A Load Over The

First Little Portage,  They Found Van Cortlandt Getting Ready For

A Fire With A Great,  Solid Pile Of Small Logs,  Most Of Them Wet

And Green. He Knew How To Use Flint And Steel,  Because That Was

The Established Household Way Of The Times.  Since Childhood Had

He Lighted The Candle At Home By This Primitive Means.  When His

Pile Of Soggy Logs Was Ready,  He Struck His Flint,  Caught A Spark

On The Tinder That Is Always Kept On Hand,  Blew It To A Flame,

Thrust In Between Two Of The Wet Logs,  Waited For All To Blaze

Up,  And Wondered Why The Tiny Blaze Went Out At Once,  No Matter

How Often He Tried.

When The Others Came Back,  Van Cortlandt Remarked: "It Doesn't

Seem To Burn." The Indian Turned Away In Silent Contempt. Rolf

Had Hard Work To Keep The Forms Of Respect,  Until The Thought

Came: "I Suppose I Looked Just As Big A Fool In His World At

Albany."

"See," Said He,  "Green Wood And Wet Wood Won't Do,  But Yonder Is

Some Birch Bark And There's A Pine Root." He Took His Axe And Cut

A Few Sticks From The Root,  Then Used His Knife To Make A

Sliver-Fuzz Of Each; One Piece,  So Resinous That It Would Not

Whittle,  He Smashed With The Back Of The Axe Into A Lot Of

Matchwood. With A Handful Of Finely Shredded Birch Bark He Was

Now Quite Ready. A Crack Of The Flint A Blowing Of The Spark

Caught On The Tinder From The Box,  A Little Flame That At Once

Was Magnified By The Birch Bark,  And In A Minute The Pine

Splinters Made A Sputtering Fire. Quonab Did Not Even Pay Van

Cortlandt The Compliment Of Using One Of His Logs. He Cut A

Growing Poplar,  Built A Fireplace Of The Green Logs Around The

Blaze That Rolf Had Made,  And The Meal Was Ready In A Few

Minutes.

Van Cortlandt Was Not A Fool; Merely It Was All New To Him. But

His Attention Was Directed To Fire-Making Now,  And Long Before

They Reached Their Cabin He Had Learned This,  The First Of The

Woodman's Arts -- He Could Lay And Light A Fire. And When,  Weeks

Later,  He Not Only Made The Flint Fire,  But Learned In Emergency

To Make The Rubbing Stick Spark,  His Cup Of Joy Was Full. He Felt

He Was Learning.

Determined To Be In Everything,  Now He Paddled All Day; At First

With Vigour,  Then Mechanically,  At Last Feebly And Painfully.

Late In The Afternoon They Made The First Long Portage; It Was A

Quarter Mile. Rolf Took A Hundred Pounds,  Quonab Half As Much

More,  Van Cortlandt Tottered Slowly Behind With His Pill-Kit And

His Paddle. That Night,  On His Ample Mattress,  He Slept The Sleep

Of Utter Exhaustion. Next Day He Did Little And Said Nothing. It

Came On To Rain; He Raised A Huge Umbrella And Crouched Under It

Till The Storm Was Over. But The Third Day He Began To Show Signs

Of New Life,  And Before They Reached The Schroon's Mouth,  On The

Fifth Day,  His Young Frame Was Already Responding To The Elixir

Of The Hills.

It Was Very Clear That They Could Not Take Half Of The Stuff That

They Had Cached At The Schroon's Mouth,  So That A New Adjustment

Was Needed And Still A Cache To Await Another Trip.

That Night As They Sat By Their Sixth Camp Fire,  Van Cortlandt

Pondered Over The Recent Days,  And They Seemed Many Since He Had

Left Home. He Felt Much Older And Stronger. He Felt Not Only Less

Strange,  But Positively Intimate With The Life,  The River,  The

Canoe,  And His Comrades; And,  Pleased With His Winnings,  He Laid

His Hand On Skookum,  Slumbering Near,  Only To Arouse In Response

A Savage Growl,  As That Important Animal Arose And Moved To The

Other Side Of The Fire. Never Did Small Dog Give Tall Man A More

Deliberate Snub. "You Can't Do That With Skookum; You Must Wait

Till He's Ready," Said Rolf.

The Journey Up The Hudson With Its "Mean" Waters And Its

"Carries" Was Much As Before. Then They Came To The Eagle's Nest

And The Easy Waters Of Jesup's River,  And Without Important

Incident They Landed At The Cabin. The Feeling Of "Home Again"

Spread Over The Camp And Every One Was Gay.

Ain't Ye Feelin' All Right?" Said Rolf,  One Bright,  Calomel

Morning,  As He Saw Van Cortlandt Pre- Paring His Daily Physic.

"Why,  Yes; I'm Feeling Fine; I'm Better Every Day," Was The

Jovial Reply.

"Course I Don't Know,  But My Mother Used To Say: 'Med'cine's The

Stuff Makes A Sick Man Well,  An' A Well Man Sick."'

"My Mother And Your Mother Would Have Fought At Sight,  As You May

Judge.  B-U-T," He Added With Reflective Slowness,  And A Merry

Twinkle In His Eye,  "If Things Were To Be Judged By Their

Product,  I Am Afraid Your Mother Would Win Easily," And He Laid

His Long,  Thin,  Scrawny Hand Beside The Broad,  Strong Hand Of The

Growing Youth.

"Old Sylvanne Wasn't Far Astray When He Said: 'There Aren't Any

Sick,  'Cept Them As Thinks They Are,"' Said Rolf. "I Suppose I

Ought To Begin To Taper Off," Was The Reply.  But The Tapering

Was Very Sudden.  Before A Week Went By,  It Seemed Desirable To

Go Back For The Stuff Left In Cache On The Schroon,  Where,  Of

Course,  It Was Subject To Several Risks.  There Seemed No Object

In Taking Van Cortlandt Back,  But They Could Not Well Leave Him

Alone.  He Went.  He Had Kept Time With Fair Regularity --

Calomel,  Rhubarb; Calomel,  Rhubarb; Calomel,  Rhubarb,  Squills --

But Rolf's Remarks Had Sunk Into His Intelligence,  As A Red-Hot

Shot Will Sink Through Shingles,  Letting In Light And Creating

Revolution.

This Was A Rhubarb Morning.  He Drank His Potion,  Then,  Carefully

Stoppering The Bottle,  He Placed It With Its Companions In A Box

And Stowed That Near The Middle Of The Canoe.   "I'll Be Glad

When It's Finished," He Said Reflectively; "I Don't Believe I

Need It Now.  I Wish Sometimes I Could Run Short Of It All."

That Was What Rolf Had Been Hoping For.  Without Such A Remark,

He Would Not Have Dared Do As He Did. He Threw The Tent Cover

Over The Canoe Amidships,  Causing The Unstable Craft To Cant:

"That Won't Do," He Remarked,  And Took Out Several Articles,

Including The Medicine Chest,  Put Them Ashore Under The Bushes,

And,  When He Replaced Them,  Contrived That The Medicine Should Be

Forgotten.

Next Morning Van Cortlandt,  Rising To Prepare His Calomel,  Got A

Shock To Find It Not.

"It Strikes Me," Says Rolf,  "The Last Time I Saw That,  It Was On

The Bank When We Trimmed The Canoe." Yes,  There Could Be No Doubt

Of It.  Van Must Live His Life In Utter Druglessness For A Time.

It Gave Him Somewhat Of A Scare,  Much Like That A Young Swimmer

Gets When He Finds He Has Drifted Awav From His Floats; And,  Like

That Same Beginner,  It Braced Him To Help Himself. So Van Found

That He Could Swim Without Corks.

They Made A Rapid Journey Down,  And In A Week They Were Back With

The Load.

There Was The Potion Chest Where They Had Left It.  Van Cortlandt

Picked It Up With A Sheepish Smile,  And They Sat Down For Evening

Meal.  Presently Rolf Said: "I Mind Once I Seen Three Little

Hawks In A Nest Together.  The Mother Was Teaching Them To Fly.

Two Of Them Started Off All Right,  And Pretty Soon Were Scooting

Among The Treetops. The Other Was Scared.  He Says: 'No,  Mother,

I Never Did Fly,  And I'm